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NO.  43  MAIN  STREET. 

1  853. 


PREFACE. 


“  To  correct  the  vices,  ridicule  the  follies,  and  dissipate  the  ignorance,  which  too 
generally  prevailed  at  the  commencement  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,”  were,  it  has  been 
truly  observed,  “the  great  and  noble  objects  the  Spectator  ever  holds  in  view;”  and,  “by 
enlivening  morality  with  wit,  and  tempering  wit  with  morality,”  not  only  were  those 
objects  attained  in  an  eminent  degree,  but  the  authors  conferred  a  lasting  benefit  on 
their  country,  by  establishing  and  rendering  popular  a  species  of  writing,  which  has 
materially  tended  to  cultivate  the  understanding,  refine  the  taste,  and  augment  and 
purify  the  moral  feeling  of  successive  generations. 

The  high  and  universal  reputation  of  this  celebrated  work,  as  an  inexhaustible 
fund  of  amusement  and  instruction,  at  once  precludes  the  necessity  of  discussing  its 
various  excellencies,  and  of  offering  an  apology  for  submitting  the  present  Edition  to 
the  notice  of  the  Public.  We  give,  by  way  of  Preface,  short  biographical  notices  of 
the  Contributors. 

Joseph  Addison,  the  eldest  son  of  the  Rev.  Launcelot  Addison,  Dean  of  Lichfield,  was 
born  in  1672,  at  Milston,  in  Wiltshire,  of  which  place  his  father  was  then  Rector. 
Shortly  after  he  had  reached  his  twelfth  year,  he  was  placed  in  the  Charter-house, 
where  his  progress  was  so  rapid  that,  at  the  early  age  of  fifteen,  he  was  declared  qualified 
for  the  University.  He  was  entered  of  Queen’s  College,  Oxford,  in  1687;  but  a  copy  of 
Latin  verses  having  recommended  him  to  the  notice  of  Dr.  Laurence  (afterward  Provost), 
he  was  by  his  introduction  admitted  into  Magdalen  College,  where  he  took  the  degree 
of  Master  of  Arts,  in  1693.  Here  he  distinguished  himself  by  his  Latin  Poems,  pub¬ 
lished  in  the  Musse  Anglicanae  ;  and  it  is  said,  that  Boileau,  to  whom  he  sent  them  as  a 
present,  first  conceived  from  them  a  high  opinion  of  the  English  Genius  for  Poetry. 

In  his  twenty-second  year  Addison  first  appeared  before  the  Public  as  an  English 
Poet,  in  a  short  copy  of  Verses  addressed  to  Dry  den  ;  this  was  followed  by  aVersion 
of  the  Fourth  Georgic  of  Virgil,  and  various  Poems  published  in  the  Miscellanies  ;  the 
chief  of  which  are  one  addressed  to  King  William,  and  an  Account  of  the  English  Poets, 
in  an  Epistle  to  Henry  Sacheverell. 

His  original  intention  appears  to  have  been  to  enter  the  Church,  but  Charles  Mon¬ 
tague,  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  (to  whom  he  was  introduced  by  Congreve), 
advised  him  to  abandon  it ;  and,  through  the  friendship  of  Lord  Somers,  he  obtained  a 
pension  from  the  Crown,  of  £300  per  annum,  which  enabled  him  to  indulge  his  incli¬ 
nation  to  travel. 

During  his  tour  in  Italy,  he  wrote  his  celebrated  “  Epistle  to  Lord  Halifax,”  his 
“  Dialogues  on  Medals,”  and  the  greater  part  of  his  “  Cato.”  The  death  of  King  Wil¬ 
liam,  however,  annulling  his  pension,  caused  his  return  to  England  in  1702.  The 
publication  of  his  Travels,  and  more  especially  his  “  Campaign,”  speedily  introduced 
him  into  public  employment.  In  1705  he  accompanied  Lord  Halifax  to  Hanover,  and 
was  shortly  after  appointed  Under  Secretary  of  State.  He  now  produced  his  “Rosa¬ 
mond,”  a  very  pleasing  composition,  intended  to  unite  Nature,  Sense,  and  Harmony,  in 
opposition  to  the  absurdities  of  the  Italian  Opera;  but,  owing  to  the  very  inferior  charac¬ 
ter  of  the  accompanying  music,  it  failed  to  triumph  over  the  infatuation  of  the  Public, 
and  was  neglected,  if  not  actually  condemned. 

In  1709  Addison  went  to  Ireland,  as  Secretary  to  the  Marquis  of  Wharton  (Lord 
Lieutenant),  and  was  made  Keeper  of  the  Records  of  the  Kingdom,  with  an  augmented 
salary,  through  the  interest  of  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough  ;  and  gained  a  high  reputa¬ 
tion  for  unweared  assiduity  and  unblemished  integrity  in  his  official  capacity. 

It  was  during  his  residence  in  Ireland  that  Steele  (with  whom  he  had  contracted  a 
friendship  while  in  the  Charter-house),  commenced  publishing  the  “  Tatler.”  Addison 

(iii) 


IV 


PREFACE. 


quickly  discovered  the  anonymous  writer,  by  a  scrap  of  criticism  which  he  had  imparted 
to  Steele,  and  the  consequence  was,  he  soon  became  a  participator  in  the  work.  His  con¬ 
tributions  were  at  first  only  occasional,  but  after  Lord  Wharton’s  return  to  England  they 
became  more  frequent. 

To  the  “  Tatler”  succeeded  the  “Spectator,”  which  was  at  the  outset  so  popular  that 
often  20,000  copies  of  a  number  were  sold  in  one  day  ;  and  it  was  not  called  for  exten¬ 
sively  in  London  and  its  vicinity  merely,  but,  at  a  time  when  readers  were  compara¬ 
tively  few,  and  intercourse  difficult,  it  was  sought  for  with  avidity  in  the  remotest  parts 
of  the  Kingdom. 

The  papers  of  Addison  are  designated  by  the  letters  C.  L.  I.  0.,  which  some  have  sup¬ 
posed  he  adopted  as  composing  the  name  of  the  muse  Clio  ;  but  Mr.  Nichols  thinks, 
rather  as  being  the  initials  of  the  places  where  the  papers  were  written,  Chelsea,  Lon¬ 
don,  Islington,  and  the  Office.  The  publication  of  the  “Spectator”  began  March  1, 
1711,  and  continued  regularly  to  the  close  of  the  seventh  volume:  after  an  interval 
of  about  eighteen  months,  the  eighth  volume  commenced,  and  terminated  December 
20,  1714. 

In  a  letter  to  Edward  Wortley  Montague,  dated  July,  1711,  Addison  says,  “I  have, 
within  this  twelvemonth,  lost  a  place  of  £2000  per  annum,  and  an  estate  in  the  Indies 
of  £14,000.”  Nevertheless,  he  this,  year  found  the  means  to  purchase  a  pretty  large 
house  and  estate  at  Bilton,  in  Warwickshire. 

In  1713  he  produced  on  the  stage  his  tragedy  of  “  Cato,”  on  which  his  pretensions 
as  a  poet  are  principally  founded.  Its  reception  was  enthusiastic  ;  the  Whigs  applauded 
what  they  esteemed  a  satire  on  the  Tories,  and  the  Tories  reiterated  the  applause,  to 
show  the  satire  was  unfelt.  It  was  acted  thirty-five  successive  nights,  and  Cibber  says, 
“On  our  first  days  of  acting  it,  our  house  was  in  a  manner  invested,  and  entrance  de¬ 
manded  at  twelve  o’clock  at  noon  ;  the  same  continued  for  three  days  together.” 

During  the  run  of  “  Cato,”  the  “  Guardian”  made  its  appearance,  and  Addison  en¬ 
riched  it  with  several  very  excellent  papers. 

On  the  death  of  Queen  Anne,  in  1714,  he  was  appointed  Secretary  to  the  Regency  ; 
and  his  first  duty  in  that  office  (to  announce  the  vacancy  of  the  throne  to  the  Court  of 
Hanover),  is  said  to  have  seriously  perplexed  him  :  he  was  so  long  in  selecting  phrases, 
and  arranging  sentences,  that  the  Lords  Justices  became  impatient,  and  ordered  one  of 
the  clerks  to  state  the  event ;  who,  resorting  to  the  usual  official  common-place,  accom¬ 
plished  the  task  without  hesitation  or  difficulty. 

By  George  I,  Addison  was  appointed  a  Lord  of  Trade  ;  and,  upon  the  breaking  out 
of  the  Rebellion  in  1715,  he  seized  the  opportunity  of  evincing  his  attachment  to  the 
Hanoverian  Succession  by  publishing  the  “  Freeholder.” 

In  1716  he  married  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Warwick,  to  whom,  it  would  seem,  he 
had  been  long  attached,  but  who  slighted  his  addresses  until  he  had  risen  to  con¬ 
sequence  in  the  State ;  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  this  union  was  far  from  con¬ 
tributing  to  his  happiness  ;  and  it  is  also  probable  that  the  vexations  he  experienced  in 
his  domestic  circle,  from  the  caprice  and  ill -temper  of  an  ignorant  and  supercilious 
woman,  led  to  those  habits  of  occasional  intemperance  which  are  said  to  have  hastened 
his  dissolution. 

The  year  succeeding  his  marriage  he  was  appointed  one  of  the  principal  Secretaries 
of  State  ;  but  a  consciousness  of  his  inaptitude  for  affording  the  administration  the  neces¬ 
sary  support  as  a  Speaker  in  the  House  of  Commons,  together  with  a  declining  state  of 
health,  soon  induced  him  to  retire  with  a  pension  of  £1500  a  year. 

After  his  secession  from  public  life,  he  returned  to  a  “  Treatise  on  the  Evidences  of 
the  Christian  Religion”  (begun  many  years  previously),  which  he  continued,  but  did 
not  live  to  complete;  and  about  this  time  the  comedy  of  the  “  Drummer”  was  performed 
at  Drury  Lane  Theater;  which,  although  Addison  himself  never  acknowledged  it,  is  well 
known  by  internal  evidence,  and  also  by  the  testimony  of  Steele,  to  have  been  his  com¬ 
position.  It  is  likely  that  the  ill-success  it  met  with  on  the  stage  prevented  him  from 
avowing  himself  the  author. 

An  asthmatic  disorder,  to  which  he  had  been  subject,  terminated  in  dropsy.  On  the 
17th  June,  1719,  he  expired  at  Holland  House,  Kensington  ;  and  on  the  26th  of  the 
same  month  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

He  left  one  daughter ;  to  wdiom,  on  the  death  of  her  mother,  the  estate  at  Bilton  de¬ 
volved,  and  who  died  there  unmarried  in  1797. 

We  refrain  from  dilating  on  the  virtues  and  failings  of  this  great  man :  they  are  suffi- 


PREFACE. 


V 


T 


ciently  displayed  in  the  eulogy  of  Tickell,  and  the  satire  of  Pope.  His  merits  as  an 
author  need  no  other  testimony  than  the  emphatic  summary  of  Johnson. — “As  a  de- 
scriber  of  life  and  manners  he  must  be  allowed  to  stand,  perhaps  the  first,  of  the  first 
rank.  As  a  Teacher  of  Wisdom  he  ma}^  be  confidently  followed  ;  all  the  enchantment 
of  fancy,  and  all  the  cogency  of  argument  are  employed  (by  him)  to  recommend  to  the 
reader  his  real  interest,  the  care  of  pleasing  the  Author  of  his  Being.  Whoever  wishes 
to  attain  an  English  style,  familiar  but  not  coarse,  and  elegant  but  not  ostentatious,  must 
give  his  days  and  nights  to  the  volumes  of  Addison.” 

Richard  Steele  was  born  in  Dublin,  about  the  year  1675,  of  English  parents.  His 
father  was  a  Counselor,  and  Secretary  to  the  first  Duke  of  Ormond,  by  whose  patronage 
his  son  was,  while  yet  very  young,  placed  in  the  Charter-house.  In  1692  he  removed 
to  Merton  College,  Oxford,  where  his  taste  for  elegant  literature  was  improved  and  ex¬ 
panded,  and  he  obtained  considerable  celebrity  as  a  scholar  among  his  fellow-collegians. 
In  1695  he  published  the  “  Funeral  Procession,”  a  poem  on  the  death  of  Queen  Mary. 

He  had  unfortunately  imbibed  a  predilection  for  the  Army  ;  and,  failing  to  obtain  a 
commission  (his  friends  refusing  him  assistance  toward  his  promotion,  except  in  a  Civil 
line),  he  recklessly  entered  as  a  private  in  the  Horse  Guards  ;  and  the  consequence  of 
this  rash  step  was  his  being  struck  out  of  the  will  of  a  wealthy  relation  in  Wexford,  who 
had  originally  made  him  his  heir.  His  frankness,  vivacity,  and  wit,  soon  rendered  him 
a  general  favorite  ;  and  by  the  united  influence  of  the  officers  he  became  an  Ensign  of 
the  Guards.  In  1701,  Lord  Cutts,  whose  secretary  he  was,  procured  him  a  Company 
in  Lord  Lucas’s  Regiment  of  Fusileers. 

There  is  not,  perhaps,  on  record,  a  more  striking  instance  of  a  mind  strongly  imbued 
with  moral  and  religious  feelings,  waging  for  years  an  unsuccessful  war  with  overbear- 
ing  passions  and  corrupt  habits,  than  was  exhibited  in  Steele.  Plunged  in  dissipation 
and  intemperance,  he  was  constantly  agonized  by  shame  and  remorse  for  his  folly,  and 
his  waste  of  time  and  talent.  In  these  intervals  of  reviving  virtue,  he  composed,  as  a 
manual  for  his  own  private  use,  “  The  Christian  Hero  but  it  failed  to  work  the  de¬ 
sired  reformation,  and  day  after  day  still  continued  to  be  an  alternation  of  debauchery 
and  compunction.  He  then  determined  to  print  his  work,  impressed  with  the  idea  that, 
when  his  professions  were  before  the  public,  he  would  be  compelled  to  assimilate  his 
practice  to  them  ;  but  the  only  result  of  this  experiment  was  exciting  the  pity  of  the 
worthy,  and  the  derision  of  the  dissolute.  At  this  period  he  produced  his  first  comedy, 
“The  Funeral,”  “with  a  view,”  as  he  says,  “to  enliven  his  character,  and  repel  the 
sarcasms  of  those  who  abused  him  for  his  declaration  relative  to  Religion.”  In 
1703  his  second  successful  comedy,  “The  Tender  Husband,”  in  which  he  was  assisted 
by  Addison,  made  its  appearance.  In  1704  he  brought  forward  the  “Lying  Lover,” 
a  comedy  written  conformably  with  the  notions  of  the  celebrated  Collier,  who,  in  1698, 
had  raised  his  voice  boldly,  and  not  altogether  ineffectually,  against  the  immorality  and 
profaneness  of  the  stage.  This  play,  much  to  the  discomfiture  of  Steele,  was  con¬ 
demned  for  being  too  serious  and  pathetic  :  and  some  years  after,  in  allusion  to  it,  he 
termed  himself  a  “Martyr  for  the  Church  ;  his  play  having  been  damned  for  its  piety.” 
Probably  this  disappointment  was  the  cause  of  his  ceasing  for  eighteen  years  to  write 
for  the  stage  ;  for  it  was  not  until  1722  that  the  “Conscious  Lovers”  appeared  ;  which 
was  acted  with  singular  success,  and  was  productive  of  great  fame  and  profit  to  him. 
The  King,  to  whom  it  was  dedicated,  sent  him  a  purse  of  five  hundred  pounds. 

It  was  shortly  after  the  condemnation  of  the  “Lying  Lover,”  that  Steele  formed  the 
happy  project  of  writing  the  “  Tatler,”  in  which  he  was  joined  by  Addison  ;  a  most 
important  auxiliary,  who  contributed  greatly  to  the  popularity  and  utility  of  the  work. 
It  was  commenced  April  12,  1709,  published  thrice  a  week,  and  concluded  Jan.  2,  1710. 

Two  months  only  had  elapsed  from  the  close  of  the  “  Tatler,”  when  the  “  Spectator” 
appeared  ;  which,  from  the  confidence  of  the  writers  in  their  mental  resources,  was 
published  daily  to  the  end  of  the  seventh  volume.  The  eighth,  added  after  a  consider¬ 
able  interval,  was  published  thrice  a  week. 

“  Though  the  Essays  of  Steele,”  says  Dr.  Drake,  “have  been  in  general  esteemed 
inferior,  and  perhaps  not  unjustly  so,  to  the  admirable  compositions  of  Addison,  they 
will  be  found,  if  attentively  read,  and  the  comparison  be  withdrawn,  to  possess  much 
positive  and  sterling  merit.  From  a  predilection  for  the  style  and  manner  of  Addison, 
they  have  been  greatly  and  undeservedly  neglected ;  whereas,  had  they  been  published 
separately,  their  beauties,  which  are  now  somewhat  eclipsed  by  the  neighborhood  of 


VI 


PREFACE. 


superior  charms,  would  have  been  immediately  discovered,  and  the  admiration  which 
they  should  excite,  without  hesitation  bestowed.  They  display  a  minute  knowledge  of 
mankind,  are  written  with  great  spirit  and  vivacity,  and  breathe  the  purest  morality, 
and  the  most  engaging  benevolence  and  candor/’  On  March  12,  1713,  between  the 
close  of  the  seventh,  and  commencement  of  the  eighth,  volume  of  the  “  Spectator,” 
came  out  the  first  number  of  the  “Guardian,”  which  was  continued  daily  to  the  first 
of  the  following  October. 

The  “  Guardian”  terminated  abruptly,  in  consequence  of  Steele  becoming  immersed 
in  politics.  Queen  Anne,  although  attached  to  the  principles  of  the  Tories,  had  been 
completely  in  the  power  of  the  Whigs  ;  but,  toward  the  close  of  her  life,  the  injudicious 
prosecution  of  Sacheverell  by  Lord  Godolphin  afforded  her  an  opportunity  of  emanci¬ 
pating  herself  from  their  control,  of  which  she  readily  availed  herself;  and  in  1710  the 
Whigs  were  dismissed,  and  Harley,  afterward  Earl  of  Oxford,  was  appointed  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer,  and  Lord  High  Treasurer. 

Steele,  disappointed  of  promotion  by  the  death  of  King  William,  had  been  recom¬ 
mended  by  Addison  to  the  patronage  of  the  leaders  of  the  Whigs,  the  Earls  of  Halifax 
and  Sunderland,  who,  in  the  first  instance,  made  him  Gazetteer  (a  post  which  he  ludi¬ 
crously  styled  that  of  the  lowest  minister  of  state,  and  in  which  he  took  credit  to  him¬ 
self  “for  never  deviating  from  the  rule  observed  by  all  Ministries  ;  that  of  keeping  the 
Gazette  very  innocent  and  very  insipid”);  and  afterward  a  Commissioner  of  Stamps. 

The  Tory  Ministry  continued  him  in  these  offices,  Harley,  probably,  hoping  to  win 
him  over  to  his  interest ;  and  Steele  prudently  resolved  to  be  silent  on  political  matters  : 
a  resolution  to  which  for  some  time  he  adhered. 

But  the  suspicion  that  the  treaty  of  peace  with  France,  proclaimed  May  5,  1713,  in¬ 
cluded  secret  articles,  to  the  effect  that  on  the  Queen’s  death  the  Act  of  Settlement 
should  be  abolished,  and  the  Pretender  placed  on  the  throne,  spread  intense  alarm 
among  the  Whigs,  and  Steele,  rejecting  all  personal  and  interested  considerations,  in  a 
very  spirited  letter  to  the  Prime  Minister  resigned  his  Commissionership,  and  boldly 
stood  forward  as  the  champion  of  the  party  whose  principles  he  entertained.  He  was 
returned  Member  of  Parliament  for  Stockbridge  ;  and  in  the  “  Englishman,”  and  various 
occasional  publications,  combated  the  arguments,  reprobated  the  principles,  and  re¬ 
pelled  the  virulence  and  abuse  of  Swift,  Bolingbroke,  and  Atterbury.  While  yet  en¬ 
gaged  with  the  “  Englishman,”  he  printed  a  pamphlet  entitled  the  Crisis  ;”  which, 
although  it  had  been  submitted  to  the  judgment  and  reversion  of  Addison  and  Hoadly, 
was  declared  by  the  House  of  Commons  “a  scandalous  and  seditious  libel,”  and  Steele 
was  expelled  the  House.  Soon  after  his  expulsion  he  published  Proposals  for  a  History 
of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  which,  however,  he  never  executed,  and  in  1714  the 
“Lover,”  a  paper  written  in  imitation  of  the  “  Tatler,”  and  the  “  Reader,”  in  opposi¬ 
tion  to  the  “  Examiner ;”  in  both  of  which  he  was  assisted  by  Addison.  Steele’s  produc¬ 
tions  at  this  period  were  very  numerous,  they  all  evince  strong  attachment  to  the 
constitution,  and  the  Protestant  Establishment  of  the  Kingdom,  and  are  characterized 
by  a  candor  and  urbanity  widely  at  variance  with  the  bitter  and  violent  tone  of  his  lite¬ 
rary  antagonists. 

The  accession  of  George  I,  produced  an  alteration  in  his  circumstances,  which,  there 
is  reason  to  believe,  had  for  a  length  of  time  been  straitened  and  embarrassed.  He  was 
made  Surveyor  of  the  Royal  Stables  at  Hampton  Court,  and  placed  in  the  Commission 
of  the  Peace  for  the  county  of  Middlesex  ;  and  upon  his  application,  the  License  of 
Drury  Lane  Theater,  which  had  expired  on  the  Queen’s  death,  was  renewed.  For  the 
service  thus  rendered  them,  the  managers  agreed  that  his  name  should  be  inserted  in 
the  License,  and  that  he  should  be  allowed  £700  per  annum. 

In  1715  Steele  took  his  seat  for  Boroughbridge,  in  the  first  parliament  of  George  I; 
and,  upon  the  presentation  of  an  address,  received  the  honor  of  Knighthood.  On  this 
occasion  he  entertained  upward  of  two  hundred  gentlemen  and  ladies  at  his  house,  with 
a  splendid  collation,  succeeded  by  dances,  singing,  and  recitations.  It  is  to  be  regretted 
that  in  this  season  of  his  triumph  he  did  not  observe  that  forbearance  which  he  evinced 
at  a  time  when  its  absence  would  have  been  more  excusable.  He  now  did  not  hesitate 
to  revile  as  traitors  his  former  oppressors  and  calumniators,  who  were  crushed,  and 
trembling  under  impeachment.  He  re-published  his  tracts  against  the  late  ministry 
under  the  title  of  his  “Political  Writings,”  with  his  “Apology”  (now  printed  for  the 
first  time),  and  also  a  “Letter  from  the  Earl  of  Mar  to  the  King,”  the  “Town  Talk,” 
the  “Tea  Table,”  and  “Chit  Chat.” 


PREFACE. 


vu 


In  August  1715,  lie  received  from  Sir  Robert  Walpole  £ 500  for  special  services,  and 
in  1717,  upon  the  suppression  of  the  Rebellion,  was  sent  into  Scotland  as  one  of  the 
Commissioners  for  the  forfeited  estates. 

On  his  return  to  England  he  conceived  a  project  for  bringing  “live  salmon”  from  the 
coast  of  Ireland  to  London,  by  means  of  a  fish -pool,  viz:  a  well-boat,  supplying  the  fish 
with  a  continual  stream  of  fresh  water;  and  he  obtained  a  patent  in  June  1718.  In 
spite  of  the  ridicule  he  encountered,  at  considerable  expense,  he,  in  conjunction  with  a 
Mr.  Gilmore,  constructed  a  vessel  for  the  purpose  of  testing  the  utility  of  his  invention ; 
but  the  fish  arrived  so  bruised,  from  beating  against  the  sides  of  the  vessel,  as  to  be 
totally  unfit  for  use.  In  the  following  year  his  attachment  to  the  popular  cause  led  him 
to  attack  the  Peerage  Bill ;  which  (by  fixing  permanently  the  number  of  Peers,  and 
restraining  new  creations  except  upon  an  old  family  becoming  extinct)  would  have  in¬ 
troduced  a  complete  Aristocracy.  This  he  did  in  the  “  Plebeian,”  and  was  answered  by 
Addison  in  the  “  Old  Whig.”  Steele  replied,  avoiding  all  personalities :  but  Addison 
so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  adopt  an  acrimonious  and  contemptuous  tone,  designating  his 
old.  friend  and  co-adjutor  as  “Little  Dicky,  whose  trade  it  was  to  write  Pamphlets.” 
Steele  magnanimously  contented  himself  with  conveying  a  reproof  through  the  medium 
of  a  quotation  from  “  Cato.”  The  “  Peerage  Bill”  was  lost  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  the  consequence  to  Steele,  whose  writings  were  considered  to  have  been  in  a  great 
measure  the  cause,  was  the  revocation  of  his  Patent  as  “  Governor  of  the  Royal  Company 
of  Comedians ;”  by  which  he  was  a  loser,  according  to  his  own  estimate,  of  £9800. 

The  publication  of  the  “  Theater,”  a  periodical  paper,  in  vindication  of  himself  and 
his  brother  managers,  exposed  him  to  a  series  of  brutal  attacks  from  John  Dennis,  the 
critic  ;  who  was,  nevertheless,  under  deep  obligation  to  him  for  very  important  acts  of 
friendship.  In  1720,  although  oppressed  by  poverty,  and  its  attendant  evils,  he  entered 
with  lively  interest  into  the  question  of  the  South  Sea  Scheme,  which  he  opposed  most 
vigorously  in  the  “Theater,”  and  also  in  two  pamphlets  printed  in  the  month  of  Feb¬ 
ruary  in  that  year. 

In  1721  the  return  to  power  of  his  friend  and  patron  Walpole  restored  him  to  his 
office  at  Drury  Lane,  and  he  brought  out  there  his  comedy  the  “Conscious  Lovers.” 

It  is  lamentable  to  know  that  all  the  distresses  and  difficulties  he  experienced  in  his 
many  reverses  of  fortune  had  failed  to  teach  him  prudence.  With  an  ample  income 
from  the  Theater,  and  large  profits  from  his  play,  his  profusion  was  such  that  scarcely 
more  than  a  year  had  elapsed  before  he  was  obliged  to  sell  his  share  in  the  patent,  to 
relieve  his  emergencies.  He  afterward  commenced  a  law-suit  with  the  managers,  which 
lasted  three  years,  and  was  finally  determined  against  him.  There  is  little  doubt  that 
the  retrospect  of  his  past  improvidence  and  folly,  by  agitating  him  with  remorse  and 
sorrow,  produced  a  serious  effect  upon  his  constitution.  Early  in  1726  he  was  seized 
with  a  paralytic  stroke,  which  deprived  him  of  the  free  enjoyment  of  his  intellectual 
faculties ;  and,  surrendering  his  property  to  his  creditors,  he  retired,  first  to  Hereford, 
and  thence  into  Wales  :  where  (by  the  indulgence  of  the  Mortgagee),  he  took  up  his 
residence  at  his  seat  near  Carmarthen.  In  this  seclusion,  supported  by  the  benevolence 
of  his  creditors,  he  lingered  for  nearly  two  years.  He  died  Sept.  2’,  1729. 

His  first  wife  was  a  native  of  Barbadoes,  where  her  brother  was  a  wealthy  planter. 
On  his  death  Sir  Richard  Steele  came  into  the  possession  of  all  his  property.  By  her 
he  had  no  issue.  His  second  wife  was  the  daughter  of  Jonathan  Scurlock,  Esq.,  of 
Llangunnon,  in  Carmarthenshire  :  she  brought  him  an  estate  of  nearly  £400  per  annum. 
To  this  lady  he  was  most  strongly  attached,  and  his  epistolary  correspondence  bears 
ample  testimony  to  his  domestic  virtues  and  conjugal  affection. 

Lady  Steele  died  in  1718,  aged  40  years,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey.  She 
gave  birth  to  four  children,  two  of  whom  died  in  infancy ;  a  son,  Eugene,  of  consump¬ 
tion,  in  his  youth  ;  and  a  daughter,  Elizabeth,  married  in  1731  to  John  (afterward 
Baron)  Trevor,  of  Bromham.  Sir  Richard  Steele  left  also  a  natural  daughter,  who 
went  by  the  name  of  Miss  Ouseley.  At  one  time  he  had  purposed  uniting  her  to  the  ill- 
fated  Savage  ;  but  she  ultimately  married  Mr.  Aynston,  of  Amely,  near  Hereford. 

The  name  of  Steele  ranks  deservedly  high  in  the  literature  of  his  country ;  and  his 
amiable  character  (so  fairly  developed  by  the  late  venerable  John  Nicholls),  will  always 
command  the  esteem  of  his  readers :  nor  will  their  strongest  sympathy  be  denied  to  his 
errors,  his  distresses,  and  his  melancholy  end  : — the  consequence  of  the  want  of  the 
one  virtue,  Prudence,  averting  the  reward  due  to  the  possession  and  exercise  of  many 
others. 


PREFACE. 


•  •  • 
vm 

Eustace  Budgell  was  born  in  1685.  His  father  was  Gilbert  Budgell,  D.  D.,  and 
his  mother,  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Gulston,  Bishop  of  Bristol,  and  sister  to  the  wife  of 
Dean  Addison.  He  became  a  member  of  Christ- Church  College,  Oxford,  in  1700,  and 
remained  there  some  years  ;  quitting,  at  length,  by  his  father’s  wish,  to  be  entered  of 
the  Inner  Temple.  His  taste  for  elegant  literature,  however,  prevented  his  adopting 
the  profession  of  the  Law ;  and  Addison,  receiving  him  on  the  footing  of  a  near  rela¬ 
tion,  appointed  him  a  Clerk  in  his  office,  when  he  accompanied  the  Lord  Lieutenant 
Wharton  to  Ireland,  as  his  Secretary.  In  April,  1710,  Budgell  left  London  for  Dub¬ 
lin  :  he  was  then  about  twenty-five  years  of  age,  well  versed  in  the  Classics,  and 
familiar  with  French  and  Italian  ;  of  fashionable  exterior,  and  engaging  manners,  but 
irritable,  impetuous,  and  vain.  He  so  completely  acquired  the  esteem  and  affection  of 
Addison  that  during  his  stay  in  Ireland  they  constantly  lodged  and  associated  together. 
His  attention  to  his  official  duties  was  strict,  and  his  industry  great ;  his  chief  anxiety 
was  to  obtain  celebrity  as  an  author :  he  gave  considerable  assistance  to  the  “Tatler,” 
and  “  Spectator,”  furnished  a  humorous  epilogue  (which  some  have  since  ascribed  to 
Addison),  for  the  “Distressed  Mother,”  and  in  1714  published  a  translation  of  the 
“Characters  of  Theophrastus.”  His  father  died  in  1711,  leaving  him  an  annual  in¬ 
come  of  £950 ;  which,  although  somewhat  encumbered  by  debt,  was  still  more  than 
sufficient  to  fix  him  in  respectable  independence.  On  the  accession  of  George  I,  he  was 
appointed  Secretary  to  the  Lords  Justices  of  Ireland,  and  Deputy  Clerk  to  the  Council ; 
he  also  was  chosen  a  Member  of  the  Irish  Parliament,  and  Honorary  Bencher  of  the 
Dublin  Inns  of  Court.  On  the  Rebellion  breaking  out  he  was  intrusted  with  the  super¬ 
intendence  of  the  embarkation  of  troops  for  Scotland,  and  he  acquitted  himself  with 
such  ability  and  disinterestedness  as  to  gain  very  distinguished  marks  of  approbation. 
In  1717,  when  Addison  became  principal  Secretary  of  State,  he  appointed  Budgell 
Accountant  and  Comptroller  General  of  the  Irish  Revenue,  from  which  post  he  derived 
an  income  of  nearly  £400  per  annum. 

At  this  juncture,  while  standing  high  in  the  estimation  of  all  as  a  man  of  indepen¬ 
dence,  talents,  and  integrity,  he  suffered  his  vanity  and  angry  passions  to  master  his 
better  sense,  and  laid  the  train  of  those  events  which  terminated  so  disgracefully  and 
fatally  for  him. 

The  Duke  of  Bolton,  appointed  Lord  Lieutenant  in  1718,  brought  with  him  to  Ireland 
a  Mr.  Edward  Webster,  whom  he  made  Chief  Secretary  and  a  Privy  Counselor.  Bud¬ 
gell,  full  of  his  own  importance,  was  disgusted  at  the  preference  shown  by  the  Duke 
for  Webster,  and  affected  on  all  occasions  to  treat  him  with  the  greatest  contempt. 
Webster  was  not  long  in  retaliating;  and,  among  other  things,  insisted  upon  quartering 
one  of  his  friends  upon  Budgell,  which  he  indignantly  resisted  ;  and,  not  content  with 
overwhelming  his  adversary  with  the  most  violent  abuse,  he  indiscreetly  implicated  the 
Duke  in  the  controversy,  and  openly  charged  him  with  folly  and  imbecility.  The  con¬ 
sequences  were,  of  course,  his  removal  from  office,  and  his  being  obliged  to  quit  Ireland 
immediately,  to  avoid  the  storm  he  had  so  wantonly  raised. 

On  his  arrival  in  England,  Addison  obtained  for  him  a  promise  of  the  patronage  of 
the  Earl  of  Sunderland,  which  he  forfeited  by  writing  a  pamphlet  against  the  Peerage 
Bill ;  and  shortly  after,  the  death  of  Addison  annihilated  all  his  prospects  of  Ministerial 
preferment. 

In  1719,  he  traveled  through  part  of  France,  Flanders,  Brabant,  and  Holland;  and 
finally,  joining  the  court  at  Hanover,  returned  with  the  Royal  Suite  to  England.  His 
tour  failed  to  allay  the  irritation  of  his  mind,  which  had  become,  in  the  opinion  of  his 
friends,  an  actual  delirium.  Regardless  of  the  advantages  he  already  possessed  in  a 
creditable  name,  and  an  independent  fortune,  his  restless  ambition  spurred  him  forward 
in  the  vain  pursuit  of  Office  under  Government,  and  when,  at  length,  from  repeated  re¬ 
jections,  he  became  sensible  of  the  impossibility  of  his  succeeding,  drove  him  into 
the  still  more  desperate  scheme  of  Gambling  in  the  Stocks.  The  South  Sea  Bubble  at 
this  time  (1720)  presented  to  the  rash  and  infatuated  effectual  means  of  speedy  ruin, 
and  Budgell  in  a  very  short  time  lost,  it  is  said,  £20,000.  The  Duke  of  Portland,  a 
fellow-sufferer,  who  had  just  been  nominated  to  the  Governorship  of  Jamaica,  gener¬ 
ously  offered  to  take  Budgell  as  his  Secretary  :  but  previously  to  embarking  the  Duke 
was  visited  by  one  of  the  Ministers,  who  told  him  “that  he  might  take  any  man  in 
England  except  Mr.  Budgell,  but  that  he  must  not  take  him.” 

In  this  instance  Budgell,  certainly,  was  treated  with  injustice  and  cruelty.  His  rage 
knew  no  bounds  ;  and,  with  a  view  to  vindicate  and  avenge  himself,  he  spent  the 


PREFACE. 


IX 


remainder  of  his  fortune  (£5000),  in  fruitless  attempts  to  obtain  a  seat  in  Parliament. 
Under  the  pressure  of  poverty,  his  moral  virtues  and  energies  seem  to  have  entirely  de¬ 
serted  him  ;  he  now  became  a  pamphleteer,  indiscriminately  virulent  and  abusive,  and 
did  not  hesitate  to  use  every  possible  artifice  to  prey  upon  and  plunder  his  friends  and 
relations. 

In  1727  the  Duchess  Dowager  of  Marlborough,  from  hatred  to  the  existing  govern¬ 
ment,  assisted  him  by  a  present  of  £1000,  in  a  last  attempt  to  get  into  Parliament.  He 
failed,  and  again  resorting  to  his  pen  for  subsistence,  came  forward  as  the  advocate  of 
Infidelity,  by  taking  part  in  the  publication  of  “  Tindal’s  Christianity,  as  old  as  the  Crea¬ 
tion.”  He  also  about  this  time  was  one  of  the  conductors  of  the  “  Craftsman,”  wrote 
letters,  poems,  and  pamphlets,  upon  political  and  temporary  subjects,  and  a  work  of 
some  value  entitled,  “  Memoirs  of  the  Life  and  Character  of  the  late  Earl  of  Orrery,  and 
of  the  family  of  the  Boyles.”  Toward  the  end  of  the  year  1732  he  commenced  a 
weekly  magazine  called  the  “  Bee,”  which  extended  to  one  hundred  Numbers. 

During  the  publication  of  the  “  Bee,”  Dr.  Matthew  Tindal  died,  and  great  astonish¬ 
ment  was  created  by  the  production  of  a  Will,  in  which,  to  the  exclusion  of  a  favorite 
nephew,  whom  he  had  always  declared  should  be  his  heir,  he  bequeathed  £2100  (nearly 
his  whole  property),  to  Budgell.  It  was  soon  the  general  opinion  that  the  documents 
had  been  fabricated  by  Budgell,  and  Mr.  Nicholas  Tindal,  the  nephew,  instituting  a 
legal  inquiry  into  its  authenticity,  it  was  set  aside,  and  Budgell  stamped  with  indelible 
disgrace.  He  was  attacked  from  all  quarters  in  the  papers  of  the  day  ;  and,  judging 
some  very  severe  animadversions  in  the  “  Grub-street  Journal”  to  be  written  by  Pope, 
he  retorted  in  one  of  the  numbers  of  the  “  Bee”  with  such  scurrility,  that  the  Poet  was 
induced  to  immortalize  him  and  his  crime,  in  an  epigrammatic  couplet  of  the  Prologue 
to  his  Satires : 

u  Let  Budgell  charge  low  Grub-street  on  my  quill, 

And  write  whate’er  he  please, — except  my  Will.” 

Harassed  and  oppressed  by  poverty  and  infamy,  and  unsupported  by  the  consolations 
of  religion,  Budgell  determined  on  self  destruction.  On  the  4th  of  May,  1737,  having 
filled  his  pockets  with  stones,  he  hired  a  boat,  and  threw  himself  from  it,  as  it  passed 
under  London  Bridge,  into  the  Thames.  He  had  left  on  his  bureau  a  slip  of  paper,  with 
this  sentence  written  upon  it,  “What  Cato  did,  and  Addison  approved,  cannot  be 
wrong;”  a  strange  perversion  of  the  sentiments  expressed  by  Addison  in  his  Tragedy, 
regarding  suicide.  The  fate  of  this  wretched  man  presents  an  awful  lesson  to  those 
who,  blinded  by  self-importance,  can  brook  nothing  that  runs  counter  to  their  own 
notions  and  desires  ;  and  who,  to  satiate  hatred  and  revenge,  are  tempted  to  hazard 
wealth,  fame,  and  happiness. 

• 

John  Hughes  was  born  at  Marlborough,  on  January  20,  1677.  His  father  was  a 
citizen  of  London,  and  his  mother  the  daughter  of  Isaac  Burgess,  Esq.,  of  Wiltshire. 
Being  of  a  weakly  constitution,  he  was  placed  at  a  private  academy  conducted  by  Mr. 
Thomas  Rowe,  a  dissenting  minister,  where  he  had  for  school-fellows,  Dr.  Isaac  Watts, 
and  Mr.  Samuel  Say.  He  made  rapid  progress  in  his  classical  studies,  evincing  a  deci¬ 
ded  partiality  for  Music  and  Poetry.  While  yet  very  young,  he  obtained  a  situation  in 
the  Ordnance  Office,  and  he  acted  as  Secretary  to  several  Commissions  for  the  purchase 
of  land  for  the  Royal  Docks  at  Portsmouth  and  Chatham.  He  employed  his  leisure  in 
gaining  a  knowledge  of  the  French  and  Italian  Languages,  and  in  the  cultivation  of  his 
taste  for  poetry.  He  paraphrased  one  of  Horace’s  Odes,  formed  the  plan  of  a  Tragedy, 
and  in  1697  published  a  “  Poem  on  the  Peace  of  Ryswic.”  His  Poems,  although  often 
elegant  and  harmonious,  and  in  their  day  popular  (in  part,  probably,  from  their  being 
united  to  the  admirable  music  of  Purcell,  Pepusch,  and  Handel),  are  defective  in  the 
imagination,  spirit,  and  brilliancy,  so  essential  to  excellence  in  lyric  poetry.  His  princi¬ 
pal  productions  are  “An  Ode  on  Music,”  “Six  Cantatas,”  “  Calypso  and  Telemachus,” 
an  Opera,  performed  at  the  King’s  Theater  in  1712,  with  great  applause,  and  his  Tra¬ 
gedy  “  The  Siege  of  Damascus.”  This  play,  which  continued  occasionally  to  re-visit 
the  stage  to  the  end  of  the  last  century,  is,  perhaps,  the  only  one  of  his  writings  enti¬ 
tling  him  to  the  name  of  Poet.  Addison,  it  would  seem,  thought  highly  of  his  drama¬ 
tic  powers :  he  requested  Hughes  to  write  a  fifth  act  for  his  “  Cato,”  which  had  lain  by 
unfinished  for  several  years.  Hughes  began  the  task,  but  was  prevented  from  proceed¬ 
ing  by  Addison  suddenly  assuming  it  himself. 

The  prose  of  Hughes  is  of  a  superior  order  to  his  poetry  :  his  contributions  to  the 


X 


PREFACE. 


“Tatler,”  “  Spectator,’’  and  Guardian;’’  his  Essays  “  On  the  Pleasure  of  being  De¬ 
ceived,”  and  “  On  the  Properties  of  Style  “  Two  Dialogues  of  the  Dead  “Charon, 
a  Vision  his  Prefaces  to  a  translation  of  “  Boccalini,”  “  Kennett’s  History  of  Eng¬ 
land,”  and  the  “Lay  Monastery;”  and  his  “Discourse  on  Allegorical  Poetry;”  are  all 
valuable  for  the  perspicuity,  grace,  learning,  and  sense,  which  they  display. 

He  published  an  edition  of  the  Works  of  Spenser,  which,  until  the  appearance  of  the 
recent  more  important  and  elaborate  edition  of  Todd,  attached  mucb  reputation  to  his 
character  as  an  Editor. 

In  addition  to  the  works  already  mentioned,  he  translated  Ovid’s  “  Pyramus  and 
Thisbe,”  the  tenth  book  of  Lucan’s  “Pharsalia,”  and  some  fragments  from  Orpheus, 
Pindar,  and  Euripides;  also,  in  prose,  Fontenelle’s  “Dialogues  of  the  Dead,”  and  a 
“  Discourse  concerning  the  Ancients  and  Moderns,”  the  “  Misanthrope”  of  Moliere, 
Vertot’s  “History  of  the  Revolution  of  Portugal,”  and  the  “Letters  of  Abelard  and 
Heloise.” 

His  official  employment  and  literary  labors,  notwithstanding  his  expenses  and  desires 
were  singularly  moderate,  had  failed  to  place  him  in  easy  circumstances  ;  until  the  ac¬ 
cession  of  George  I,  when  Lord  Cowper,  on  resuming  the  Chancellorship,  made  Hughes 
Secretary  to  the  Commissioners  of  the  Peace,  a  very  profitable  appointment,  in  which 
he  was  continued  by  Lord  Macclesfield,  upon  Cowper’s  resignation.  But  he  was  des¬ 
tined  to  enjoy  affluence  but  for  a  very  short  period  :  his  appointment  took  place  in  1717, 
his  health  being  then  very  infirm,  and  on  February  17,  1719-20,  he  expired  of  pulmo¬ 
nary  consumption,  the  night  his  “  Siege  of  Damascus  ”  was  brought  on  the  stage.  He 
had  dedicated  his  Tragedy  to  Lord  Cowper  only  ten  days  previous,  and  he  had  just 
lived  to  receive  the  intelligence  of  its  success. 

Sir  Richard  Steele  has  described  him  with  all  the  ardor  of  friendship,  and  there  is  no 
reason  to  doubt  the  accuracy  of  his  description. 

“Mr.  Hughes  could  hardly  ever  be  said  to  have  enjoyed  health  :  if  those  who  are 
sparing  of  giving  praise  to  any  virtue  without  extenuation  of  it,  should  say  that  his 
youth  was  chastised  into  the  severity,  and  preserved  in  the  innocence,  for  which  he  was 
conspicuous,  from  the  infirmity  of  his  constitution,  they  will  be  under  new  difficulty 
when  they  hear  that  he  had  none  of  those  faults  to  which  an  ill  state  of  health  ordi¬ 
narily  subjects  the  rest  of  mankind.  His  incapacity  for  more  frolicsome  diversions  never 
made  him  peevish  or  sour  to  those  whom  he  saw  in  them  ;  but  his  humanity  was  such 
that  he  could  partake  of  those  pleasures  he  beheld  others  enjoy,  without  repining  that 
he  himself  could  not  join  in  them.  His  intervals  of  ease  were  employed  in  drawing, 
designing,  or  else  in  music  and  poetry  ;  for  he  had  not  only  a  taste,  but  an  ability  of 
performance  to  a  great  excellence,  in  those  arts  which  entertain  the  mind  within  the 
rules  of  the  severest  morality,  and  the  strictest  dictates  of  religion.  He  did  not  seem  to 
wish  for  more  than  he  possessed,  even  as  to  his  health,  but  to  contemn  sensuality  as  a 
sober  man  does  drunkenness ;  he  was  so  far  from  envying,  that  he  pitied  the  jollities  that 
were  enjoyed  by  a  more  happy  constitution.  He  could  converse  with  the  most 
sprightly  without  peevishness,  and  sickness  itself  had  no  other  effect  upon  him  than  to 
make  him  look  upon  all  violent  pleasures  as  evils  he  had  escaped  without  the  trouble 
of  avoiding.” 

Henry  Grove* was  born  on  the  4th  of  January,  1683,  at  Taunton,  Somerset.  He  was 
descended  from  families  of  high  respectability  in  Wiltshire  and  Devonshire,  conspicuous 
for  their  attachment  to  the  cause  of  religious  freedom.  His  parents  early  inculcated 
in  him  an  ardent  love  of  religion,  and  bestowed  on  him  the  valuable  addition  of  a  classi¬ 
cal  education.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  he  entered  upon  a  course  of  academical  study 
under  the  Rev.  Mr.  Warren,  of  Taunton;  and,  on  its  conclusion,  removed  to  London  to 
prosecute  his  literary  career  under  his  near  relation,  the  Rev.  Thomas  Rowe.  Here  he 
acquired  a  thorough  acquaintance  with  the  systems  of  Descartes  and  Newton,  and  a 
knowledge  of  the  Hebrew  Language,  which  enabled  him  to  peruse  the  Old  Testament 
in  the  original ;  he  likewise  contracted  a  friendship  with  Dr.  Watts,  which  continued 
during  his  life. 

After  two  years’  residence  in  London  he  returned  home,  and,  at  the  age  of  twenty  - 
two,  became  a  preacher.  For  this  office  he  was  well  qualified,  and  he  soon  obtained 
great  popularity: — attracting  the  notice  of  Mrs.  Singer  (afterward  Mrs.  Rowe),  she  ex¬ 
pressed  her  friendship  and  esteem  for  him  by  addressing  to  him,  “An  Ode  on  Death.” 

In  1706,  at  the  age  of  twenty-three  (being  then  married),  he  was  nominated  to  suc- 


i 


PREFACE.  zj 

ceed  Mr.  "W  arren,  as  l  titor  to  the  Academy  at  Taunton,  in  conjunction  with  two  other 
gentlemen  of  established  reputation.  Ilis  departments  were  Ethics  and  Pneumatolooy. 
He  removed  to  Taunton  in  order  to  fulfill  the  duties  of  this  appointment,  and  adopted 
two  small  congregations  in  the  neighborhood,  to  whom,  for  eighteen  years,  he  preached 
upon  a  salary  of  £20  per  annum. 

His  auditors  were  tew,  and  probably  of  the  lower  class;  nevertheless,  his  sermons 
were  carefully  composed,  and  emphatically  delivered,  and,  as  one  of  his  biographers 
says,  “were  adapted  to  the  improvement  of  the  meanest  understanding,  while  they 
were  calculated  to  please  and  edify  the  most  polite  and  judicious  hearers.” 

Mr.  Grove’s  first  published  production  was  “An  Essay  on  the  regulation  of  Diver¬ 
sions,”  written  for  his  pupils,  in  1708.  He  entered  into  a  controversy  with  Dr.  Clarke, 
upon  a  deduction  propounded  in  the  Doctor’s  “  Discourse  on  the  Being  and  Attributes 
of  God;”  which,  though  it  failed  to  convince  either  party,  terminated  in  (what  is  not 
very  usual  with  disputants)  mutual  expressions  of  respect  and  good-will.  In  1714  his 
first  paper  in  the  “Spectator”  appeared;  and  in  1718  he  published  “An  Essay  toward 
a  Demonstration  of  the  Soul’s  Immateriality.”  The  eloquence  he  displayed  in  the  pulpit 
excited  great  admiration  among  the  Dissenters,  and  he  received  many  invitations  from 
populous  and  important  places,  which  his  love  for  retirement  induced  him  to  decline. 
He  wisely  abstained  from  participating  in  the  disputes  relative  to  the  doctrine  of  the 
Trinity,  which  at  that  time  engendered  so  much  heat  and  animosity  among  his  brethren. 

In  1723  he  published  “A  Discourse  on  Secret  Prayer,  in  several  Sermons;”  a  pro¬ 
duction  highly  valuable  for  its  powerful  argument  and  persuasive  energy.  Two  years 
after,  on  the  death  of  Mr.  James,  his  associate  in  the  Academy,  he  undertook  his  duties 
as  Divinity  Tutor,  and  succeeded  to  his  pastoral  charge  at  Fulwood,  near  Taunton. 

Indefatigable  both  in  public  and  in  private,  he  continued  to  give  the  world  Sermons, 
and  various  other  productions,  all  useful  and  meritorious,  until  the  year  1736;  when 
the  loss  of  his  wife  (who  had  lingered  under  a  most  distressing  nervous  disorder,  at¬ 
tended  with  alienation  of  mind),  though  borne  with  fortitude  and  resignation,  deeply 
affected  his  health  and  spirits.  He  survived  her  little  more  than  a  year,  dying  of  fever 
on  the  27th  of  February,  1737-8. 

His  death  was  universally  lamented  by  all  who  knew  him  ;  and  one  of  his  congrega¬ 
tion  thus  expressed  himself.  “  Our  sorrow  for  Mr.  Grove’s  sickness  was  not  like  our 
concern  for  other  friends  when  dying, ^hom  we  pity  and  lament ;  but  a  sorrow  arising 
as  from  the  apprehension  of  the  removal  of  one  of  the  higher  order  of  beings  who  had 
condescended  to  live  on  earth  for  a  while  to  teach  us  the  way  to  heaven,  and  was  now 
about  to  return  to  his  native  place.” 

Alexander  Pope  was  born  m  Lombard-street,  London,  on  May  22,*  1688.  His 
parents  were  Roman  Catholics :  his  father  retired  from  his  business  of  a  Linen-draper, 
with  a  fortune  of  £20,000  ;  his  mother  was  the  daughter  of  William  Turner,  Esq.,  of 
York.  Two  of  her  brothers  died  in  the  service  of  Charles  I,  and  a  third  was  a  General 
in  the  Spanish  Army. — To  the  high  respectability  of  his  family  connections  he  alludes 
with  complacency  in  the  “Prologue  to  his  Satires:” — 

“  Of  gentle  blood  (part  shed  in  honor’s  cause), 

Each  Parent  sprung.” 

When  eight  years  of  age  he  was  placed  under  the  tuition  of  Taverner,  a  priest,  who 
taught  him  the  rudiments  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  Languages  at  the  same  time.  After 
having  made  considerable  progress,  he  was  sent  to  a  Catholic  Academy  at  Twyford, 
near  Winchester ;  where,  in  consequence  of  his  writing  a  lampoon  on  his  master,  he  did 
not  remain  long,  but.  was  removed  to  a  school  near  Hyde  Park.  By  this  time  he  had 
read  with  great  delight  “Ogilby’s  Homer,”  and  “Sandys’s  Ovid;”  and,  having  acquired 
a  partiality  for  theatrical  performances,  had  arranged  a  part  of  the  “Iliad”  as  a  drama, 
and  acted  it  in  conjunction  with  his  school-fellows.  He  was  about  twelve  years  old 
when  his  father  left  London,  and  took  up  his  residence  at  Binfield,  adjoining  Windsor 
Forest,  taking  his  son  with  him,  for  whom  a  second  private  tutor  was  procured.  But 
Pope  was  soon  sensible  that  his  improvement  was  by  no  means  equal  to  his  aspirations ; 
and,  throwing  off  all  restraint,  he  formed  for  himself  a  plan  of  study,  and  persevered 
in  it  with  great  diligence.  He  read  every  book  that  came  in  his  way  with  avidity, 
particularly  Poetry,  and  speedily  became  intimate  with,  and  capable  of  appreciating, 
the  writings  of  the  most  eminent  of  his  predecessors.  He  preferred  Dryden  before  all 


PREFACE. 


xii 

others,  and  made  him  his  model ;  and  his  enthusiastic  admiration  of  him  was  such  that 
he  persuaded  a  friend  to  take  him  to  Button’s  Coffee-house,  that  he  might,  even  though 
as  a  stranger,  have  the  gratification  of  beholding  that  illustrious  man.  “How  proud,” 
it  has  been  observed,  “  must  Dryden  have  felt,  could  he  have  known  the  value  of  the 
homage  thus  paid  him  !” 

Destined  to  neither  Trade  nor  Profession,  Pope  had  now  full  opportunity  of  improv¬ 
ing  and  maturing  his  genius,  which  was  already  rapidly  developing  itself.  He  had,  at 
twelve  years  of  age,  written  “An  Ode  to  Solitude  two  years  afterward  he  translated 
the  first  book  of  Statius’s  “Thebais,”  and  Ovid’s  “Epistle  of  Sappho  to  Phaon and 
had  modernized  Chaucer’s  “January  and  May,”  and  the  “Prologue  to  the  Wife  of 
Bath’s  Tale.”  These  were  followed  by  his  “Pastorals,”  which  were  not,  however, 
published  until  1709.  His  “Essay  on  Criticism,”  was  written  in  1709,  and  published  in 
1711: — it  was  advertised  in  No.  G5  of  the  “Spectator.”  In  1712  he  contributed  to  the 
“Spectator”  his  magnificent  Poem,  “The  Messiah;”  which  is,  perhaps,  the  only 
instance  that  can  be  referred  to  wherein  the  sublimity  of  the  Prophetic  Writings  has 
been  heightened,  rather  than  debased,  by  modern  transfusion.  The  “  Elegy  on  the 
death  of  an  Unfortunate  Lady,”  is  said  to  have  originated  in  circumstances  of  deep 
interest  to  the  Poet: —  a  lady  named  Withinbury,  amiable  and  beautiful  in  feature,  but, 
like  himself,  deformed  in  person,  had  conceived  a  strong  affection  for  him  ;  her  Guardian 
considering  such  a  union  degrading,  forcibly  carried  her  abroad,  and  placed  her  in 
a  convent ;  where,  abandoning  herself  to  despair,  she  put  an  end  to  her  life. 

The  “Rape  of  the  Lock,”  in  two  cantos,  was  published  in  1711  ;  it  then  possessed 
none  of  that  exquisite  machinery  which  now  adorns  and  constitutes  it  the  most  perfect 
and  fascinating  of  imaginative  poems.  In  its  original  form,  Addison  declared  it  to  be 
“  Merum  Sal and  strenuously  endeavored  to  deter  Pope  from  running  a  risk  of 
deteriorating  its  excellence  by  introducing  the  Gabalisian  Mythology  of  Sylphs  and 
Gnomes.  This  advice  Pope  fortunately  rejected  ;  and  in  1712  the  Poem  was  published 
as  it  is  now  read  and  admired,  astonishing  and  delighting  the  Public,  and  consummat¬ 
ing  the  fame  of  the  Author’ as  one  of  the  first  Poets  of  this  or  any  other  country.  In 
the  same  year  the  “Temple  of  Fame,”  founded  on  Chaucer’s  “  Vision,”  was  printed; 
and  soon  after,  “  Windsor  Forest,”  the  first  portion  of  which  had  been  written  nine 
}mars  previously.  Pope  also  wrote  several  papers  in  the  “  Guardian  ;”  the  most  inge¬ 
nious  are  those  in  which  he  draws,  with  inimitable  gravity,  an  ironical  comparison 
between  his  own  “  Pastorals,”  and  those  of  Ambrose  Phillips.  So  well  did  he  succeed 
in  vailing  his  satire  that  Steele  was  deceived,  and  hesitated  to  give  the  papers  insertion, 
out  of  tenderness  to  Pope  himself,  whom  he  judged  hardly  dealt  by  in  them  ;  but  Addi¬ 
son  detected  the  real  author  and  his  aim,  and  published  them. 

The  arbitrary  seclusion  of  the  heroine  of  his  “  Elegy”  probably  influenced  Pope’s 
choice  of  a  subject  in  his  “  Eloisa  to  Abelard  ;”  however  that  may  be,  this  Poem,  in 
intense  feeling  and  impressive  scenery,  and  in  highly-wrought  contrast  of  voluptuous 
passion  and  superstitious  devotion,  stands  without  a  parallel ;  and,  when  viewed  at  the 
same  time  with  the  “  Rape  of  the  Lock,”  proves  that,  with  equal  power  and  grace,  he 
could  agitate  and  overwhelm,  or  soothe  and  fascinate,  the  human  mind,  at  his  pleasure. 
Pope  had  now  established  his  reputation ;  and,  finding  the  allowance  he  received  from 
his  father  inadequate  to  his  expenses,  he  resolved  to  try  to  make  his  talents  available 
likewise,  for  the  establishment  of  his  fortune.  His  religion  precluded  him  from  every 
Civil  employment ;  and  his  father,  with  a  Jacobinical  distrust  of  the  Government  Secu¬ 
rities,  had  been  living  on  his  principal,  which  was  rapidly  decreasing.  He  probably, 
therefore,  saw  that,  while  yet  in  the  zenith  of  his  popularity,  it  behooved  him  to  make  a 
grand  effort  to  fix  himself  in  independence  ;  and  he  succeeded.  He  issued  Proposals 
for  a  translation  of  the  “  Iliad”  of  Homer,  in  six  volumes,  quarto,  at  six  guineas  a 
copy,  and  obtained  subscriptions  for  650  copies,  which  Lintot  the  Bookseller  delivered 
at  his  own  expense,  and  gave  him  £1200  additional  for  the  copyright.  By  this  arrange¬ 
ment  Pope  cleared  £5320.  45.,  and  very  prudently  invested  the  major  part  of  it  in  the 
purchase  of  annuities,  and  the  remainder  in  that  of  the  since  celebrated  house  at  Twick¬ 
enham  ;  to  which  he  immediately  removed,  having  persuaded  his  father  to  sell  the  pro¬ 
perty  at  Binfield,  and  accompany  him.  The  translation  of  the  “  Iliad”  was  begun  in 
1712  ;  the  first  four  books  were  published  in  1715,  and  the  work  was  completed  in  1718. 
Dr.  Johnson  says,  “It  is  certainly  the  noblest  version  of  poetry  which  the  world  has 
ever  seen  ;  and  its  publication  must  therefore  be  considered  as  one  of  the  great  events 
in  the  annals  of  learning.” 


PREFACE. 


Xlll 

Pope  had  entertained  a  sincere  respect  and  friendship  for  Addison  ;  he  had  written 
the  “Prologue”  to  his  “  Oato  had  outrageously  attacked  Dennis  for  his  “  horse  play” 
criticism  on  that  Tragedy  ;  and  had  made  the  “  Dialogue  on  Medals”  the  subject  of  a 
very  laudatory  epistle.  Nevertheless,  from  the  publication  of  the  Proposals  for  the 
“Iliad,”  Addison  appears  to  have  cherished  a  dislike  to  Pope,  which  the  latter  soon 
became  conscious  of,  and  reciprocated  ;  and  although  Jervas  the  Painter,  and  Steele 
(who  procured  an  interview  between  them),  exerted  themselves  to  the  utmost  to  effect 
a  reconciliation,  all  their  endeavors  failed,  and  the  parties  separated  in  mutual  disgust. 
Immediately  after  the  appearance  of  the  first  volume  of  Pope’s  “  Iliad,”  a  rival  version 
of  the  first  book  was  published  with  the  name  of  Tickell :  this,  concurrent  circumstances 
convinced  Pope,  was  the  work  of  Addison  himself ;  and  (according  to  Spence),  finding 
that  Phillips  and  Gildon  were  receiving  encouragement  and  reward  from  Addison,  for 
disparaging  and  abusing  him  in  the  Coffee-houses,  and  in  their  writings,  he  wrote  to 
Addison,  stating  that  he  was  aware  of  his  proceedings,  and  that,  if  he  retorted,  he 
should,  at  the  same  time  that  he  exposed  his  faults,  fairly  allow  his  good  qualities  ; 
inclosing  him  the  first  sketch  of  what  has  been  called  his  “  Satire  on  Addison.”  It 
has  been  much  the  fashion  to  exalt  the  character  of  Addison  to  the  disadvantage  of 
Pope,  in  this  affair ;  but  it  is  pretty  clear  that  Addison  was  the  aggressor  in  the  first 
instance,  and  did  not,  throughout,  evince  the  manly  candor  displayed  by  Pope  ;  and 
the  sincerity  of  Pope’s  conviction  that  he  had  received  unmerited  ill-treatment  is  suffi¬ 
ciently  proved  by  the  pains  he  took  in  correcting  and  finishing  the  Verses,  and  his  per¬ 
sisting  in  publishing  them  for  his  own  vindication. 

In  1717  his  father  died,  in  his  seventy-fifth  year, — in  1721  he  published  an  edition 
of  “  Shakspeare,”  which  was  attacked  with  insolent  severity  by  Theobald,  in  his 
“  Shakspeare  Restored.”  Shortly  after  the  completion  of  the  “Iliad,”  he  undertook 
(assisted  by  Broome  and  Fenton)  a  translation  of  the  “  Odyssey,”  of  which  he  fur¬ 
nished  twelve  books,  and  realized  a  considerable  sum,  after  paying  his  associates  for 
their  labors.  In  1723  he  appeared  before  the  House  of  Lords  at  the  trial  of  Atterbury, 
to  give  evidence  as  to  the  Bishop’s  domestic  life  and  occupations :  and  about  the  same 
time,  met  with  an  accident  which  very  nearly  proved  fatal  ;  for,  being  overturned  in  a 
coach  into  the  water,  he  was  with  much  difficulty  extricated  by  the  driver,  when  at  the 
point  of  suffocation.  In  1727  he  joined  Swift  in  three  volumes  of  “  Miscellanies,”  in 
which  he  inserted  the  “  Memoirs  of  P.  P.,  Parish  Clerk,”  in  ridicule  of  “  Burnet’s  His¬ 
tory  of  his  own  Time  and  “  The  art  of  Sinking  in  Poetry.”  In  1728,  he  printed  the 
“Dunciad;”  installing  Theobald  as  the  hero,  and  introduced  the  whole  herd  of  critics 
and  poetasters,  who,  through  malevolence,  or  for  hire,  had  for  some  years  continued 
to  exert  themselves  in  depreciating  and  abusing  him.  This  Poem,  as  might  have  been 
expected,  engaged  all  the  lower  grades  of  the  literary  world  in  active  hostility  against 
him  ;  but,  elated  with  the  triumph  he  had  achieved,  he  for  a  long  time  remained  cal¬ 
lous  to  their  virulence.  In  1731  appeared  his  poem  on  “  Taste,”  and  he  incurred 
very  general  blame  for  his  wanton  and  unprovoked  attack  upon  the  harmless  foibles  of 
the  Duke  of  Chandos  ;  a  nobleman  of  an  upright  character,  and  a  most  kind  heart:  he 
endeavored  to  exculpate  himself,  but  ineffectually  ;  and  the  odium  of  having  causelessly 
given  pain  to  a  worthy  man  unfortunately  still  attaches  to  his  memory.  In  the  follow¬ 
ing  year  he  lost  his  friend  Gay  ;  and  the  year  after  that,  his  mother  died,  having 
attained  to  the  great  age  of  ninety -three.  Dr.  Johnson,  in  alluding  to  this  event,  says, 
“  The  filial  piety  of  Pope  was  in  the  highest  degree  amiable  and  exemplary  ;  his  parents 
had  the  happiness  of  living  till  he  was  at  the  summit  of  poetical  reputation,  till  he  was 
at  ease  in  his  fortune,  and  without  a  rival  in  his  fame,  and  found  no  diminution  of  his 
respect  and  tenderness.  Whatever  was  his  pride,  to  them  he  was  obedient ;  and  what¬ 
ever  was  his  irritability,  to  them  he  was  gentle.  Life  has,  among  its  soothing  and  quiet 
comforts,  few  things  better  to  give  than  such  a  son. 

He  has,  himself,  beautifully  commemorated  his  reverence  and  affection  for  his  mother, 
in  the  Prologue  to  his  “  Satires — 

“  Me,  let  the  tender  office  long  engage, 

To  rock  the  cradle  of  reposing  age, 

With  lenient  arts  extend  a  mother’s  breath, 

Make  languor  smile,  and  smooth  the  bed  of  death, 

Explore  the  thought,  explain  the  asking  eye, 

And  keep  awhile  one  parent  from  the  sky.” 

Between  1730  and  1740  he  published  two  other  “Moral  Essays,”  “Imitations  of 
Horace,”  a  modernized  version  of  the  “Satires  of  Dr.  Donne,”  and  the  “Essay  on 


XIV 


PREFACE. 


Man  he  also  gave  to  the  world  a  quarto  volume  of  letters  between  himself  and  some 
of  his  friends.  It  is  supposed  that  he  was  anxious  to  introduce  this  Correspondence  to 
the  Public,  and  that  he  contrived,  by  a  maneuver,  to  place  a  portion  of  it  in  the  hands 
of  Curll,  the  Bookseller,  that  his  publishing  it  might  afford  a  pretext  for  issuing  a 
genuine  edition. 

In  the  composition  of  the  “Essay  on  Man/’  his  imperfect  acquaintance  with  Theology 
and  Metaphysics  had,  unfortunately,  thrown  him  under  the  guidance  of  Lord  Boling- 
broke  ;  a  man  whom  he  highly  esteemed,  of  great  genius,  learned  and  acute,  but  an 
Infidel.  The  consequence  was  that,  while  intent  upon  inculcating  religious  and  moral 
precepts,  he  was  unwittingly  promulgating  the  dogmas  of  the  Fatalist  and  the  Theist. 
This  brought  upon  him  a  severe  castigation  from  Crousaz,  a  Swiss  Professor  of  some 
note,  who  openly  denounced  the  Poem  as  tending  (to  set  aside  Revelation,  and  to  estab¬ 
lish  a  system  of  Natural  Religion.  In  the  dilemma  in  which  Pope  now  found  himself, 
Warburton  (then  just  rising  into  notice)  voluntarily  stepped  forward  as  his  champion, 
and  published,  in  the  “Republic  of  Letters,”  a  “Vindication  of  the  Essay  on  Man.” 

This  assistance  Pope  very  gratefully  acknowledged;  he  recommended  Warburton  to 
Mr.  Murray,  by  whose  influence  he  was  appointed  preacher  at  Lincoln’s  Inn ;  and,  by 
his  introduction  to  Mr.  Allen,  he  married  the  niece,  and  succeeded  to  the  estate,  of  that 
gentleman.  He  also  left  Warburton  the  property  of  his  Works,  which  Dr.  Johnson 
estimates  at  £4000. 

About  1740  Pope  printed  the  “Memoirs  of  Scriblerus,”  a  fragment  of  a  work  origin¬ 
ally  projected  by  himself,  Swift,  and  Arbuthnot,  which  was  never  completed  ;  and  in 
1742  a  new  edition  of  the  “Dunciad,”  enlarged  by  the  addition  of  a  fourth  book.  In 
this  he  attacked  Colley  Cibber  most  unmercifully,  for  no  evident  reason ;  unless,  as  Dr. 
Johnson  suggests,  he  thought  that,  in  ridiculing  the  Laureate,  he  was  bringing  into  con¬ 
tempt  the  bestowers  of  the  laurel.  Cibber,  who  had  on  several  previous  occasions 
manifested  great  forbearance,  now  lost  all  patience  ;  he  amused  the  town  with  a  pamph¬ 
let,  in  which  he  describes  Pope  as  a  “Wit  out  of  his  senses;”  and  attributes  his  ill-will 
to  his  ( Cibber’s)  having  made  a  ludicrous  allusion  to  the  damnation  of  the  farce  of 
“  Three  hours  after  Marriage,”  while  acting  Bays  in  the  Rehearsal ;  and  ascribes  the 
authorship  of  the  piece  to  Pope.  It  is  a  pity  that  Pope  suffered  his  vexation  to  subdue 
his  better  judgment :  he  should  have  remained  silent.  On  the  contrary,  in  1743,  he 
dethroned  Theobald,  and  constituted  Cibber  the  hero  of  his  “Dunciad  ;”  much  to  the 
deterioration  of  the  Poem,  and  certainly  inconsistently  with  fact.  Cibber  could  not  fairly 
be  classed  among  the  Dunces ;  if,  alternately  he  soared  and  groveled  in  Tragedy,  his 
Comedy  is  of  very  superior  excellence,  possessing  wit,  humor,  tenderness,  and  elegance  ; 
and,  if  his  practice  and  habits  were  anything  but  moral,  his  dramas  (during  a  season 
of  unrestrained  licentiousness)  were  strictly  so  :  he  seems  to  have  been  guided,  in  this 
respect,  by  the  feeling  he  expressed  to  Mrs.  Bracegirdle;  the  actress,  who,  upon  inquir¬ 
ing  of  him  “How  it  happened  that  his  writings  were  so  very  moral,  and  his  life  so  very 
immoral?”  received  for  answer,  that  “  Morality  in  the  one  was  absolutely  indispensable, 
but  not  exactly  so  in  the  other.”  Cibber,  who  had  declared  his  intention  to  “have  the 
last  word,”  quickly  published  another  pamphlet,  which  is  described  by  Richardson  (the 
son  of  the  Painter)  as  having  perfectly  agonized  Pope. 

The  health  of  Pope  now  began  to  fail,  and  he  contented  himself  with  occupying  his 
time  in  the  revisal  of  his  Works  for  a  collective  Edition  ;  in  this  he  was  assisted  by  War¬ 
burton.  He  lingered  some  months  under  an  accumulation  of  infirmity  and  disease,  and 
expired  on  the  30th  of  May,  1744. 

If  this  admirable  Poet  may  be  considered  fortunate  in  having  Warburton  for  the 
original  Editor  of  liis  Works,  he  has  been  peculiarly  unfortunate  with  respect  to  some 
who  have  succeeded  him  : — a  bevy  of  fifth-rate  authors,  also,  anxious  to  reduce  the 
standard  of  poetic  excellence  to  their  own  level,  have,  of  late  years,  done  their  utmost 
to  cloud  the  luster  of  his  fame  as  a  poet,  and  to  depreciate  his  character  as  a  man.  Lord 
Byron,  contemning  the  cant  of  criticism,  and  the  paltry  cavils  of  scandal,  thus  disposes 
of  the  one  and  the  other. 

“The  attempt  of  the  poetical  populace  of  the  present  day  to  obtain  an  ostracism 
against  Pope  is  as  easily  accounted  for  as  the  Athenians’  shell  against  Aristides ;  they 
are  tired  of  hearing  him  always  called  *  The  Just.’  They  are  also  fighting  for  life  ;  for, 
if  he  maintains  his  station,  they  will  reach  their  own  by  falling.  They  have  raised  a 
Mosque  by  the  side  of  a  Grecian  Temple  of  the  purest  architecture  :  I  have  been  among 
the  builders  of  this  ‘  Babel,’  but  never  among  the  envious  destroyers  of  the  Classic 


PREFACE. 


xv 


Temple  of  our  predecessor.  I  have  loved  and  honored  the  fame  and  name  of  that 
illustrious  and  unrivaled  man,  far  more  than  my  own  paltry  renown,  and  the  trashy  jin¬ 
gle  of  the  crowd  of  ‘  schools  *  and  upstarts  who  pretend  to  rival,  or  even  surpass,  him. 
Sooner  than  a  single  leaf  should  be  torn  from  his  laurel,  it  were  better  that  all  which 
these  men,  and  that  I,  as  one  of  their  set,  have  ever  written,  should 

1  Line  trunks,  clothe  spice,  or,  fluttering  in  a  row, 

Befringe  the  walls  of  Bedlam,  or  Soho.’ 

“In  society  he  seems  to  have  been  as  amiable  as  unassuming  :  he  was  adored  by  his 
friends  ;  friends  of  the  most  opposite  dispositions,  ages,  and  talents.  By  the  old  and 
wayward  Wycherley,  by  the  cynical  Swift,  the  rough  Atterbury,  the  gentle  Spence,  the 
stern  Warburton,  the  virtuous  Berkeley,  and  the  ‘cankered  Bolingbroke  — the  soldier 
Peterborough,  and  the  poet  Gay ;  the  witty  Congreve,  and  the  laughing  Rowe  ;  the  ec¬ 
centric  Cromwell,  and  the  steady  Bathurst,  were  all  his  associates.” 

Thomas  Parnell  was  born  in  Dublin,  1679.  His  father,  a  native  of  Cheshire,  had 
retired  to  Ireland  at  the  Restoration,  where  he  purchased  some  considerable  estates, 
which,  with  his  property  in  England,  were  inherited  by  his  son.  At  the  age  of  thirteen 
Parnell  entered  Dublin  College,  and  took  his  degree  of  Master  of  Arts  on  the  9th  of 
July,  1700.  He  was  ordained  Deacon  the  same  year,  and,  three  years  after,  entered 
into  priests’  orders:  in  1705  he  was  collated  to  the  Archdeaconry  of  Clogher.  He 
married  Miss  Anne  Minchin,  a  beautiful  and  amiable  lady,  to  whom  he  was  most  de- 

V 

votedly  attached.  Up  to  this  period  he  had  led  a  very  retired  life,  but  he  now  began 
to  make  periodical  visits  to  England,  and  quickly  formed  an  intimacy  with  the  first  lite¬ 
rary  characters  of  the  day  ;  more  particularly  with  Swift,  Pope,  Gay,  and  Arbuthnot. 
These,  with  himself,  formed  the  Scriblerus  Club:  to  the  “Memoirs”  of  which  he  con¬ 
tributed  the  “  Essay  concerning  the  Origin  of  Sciences.”  His  politics  had  been  those 
of  his  father,  who  was  a  stanch  Whig ;  but  his  connection  with  Swift  seems  to  have 
wrought  a  change  in  his  opinions,  and  he  attached  himself  to  the  party  of  Oxford  and 
Bolingbroke.  In  1711  his  wife  died,  and  he  received  a  shock  by  the  event  which  he 
never  recovered  ;  his  spirits,  always  unequal,  sunk  under  a  lasting  depression :  and, 
unable  to  raise  them  by  mental  effort,  he  desperately  sought  relief  in  intemperance,  and 
plunged  into  excesses  which  brought  him  to  a  premature  end.  It  is  probable  that  he 
from  time  to  time  endeavored  to  combat  this  infatuation,  for  the  year  after  his  wife’s 
death,  he  wrote  a  poem  on  “Queen  Anne’s  Peace,”  was  carried  to  the  Court,  and  in¬ 
troduced  to  the  ministers  by  Swift,  and  succeeded  in  gaining  the  esteem  of  Bolingbroke, 
and  the  ardent  friendship  of  Harley. 

The  dissolution  of  the  ministry  on  Queen  Anne’s  death,  prevented  Parnell  from 
attaining  preferment  through  that  channel ;  but  Swift,  having  recommended  him  to  the 
Archbishop  of  Dublin,  his  Grace  bestowed  on  him  a  Prebend,  and  afterward  the  vicar¬ 
age  of  Finglass,  worth  about  £400  per  annum.  He  died  at  Chester,  while  on  his  way 
to  Ireland,  in  July,  1718,  in  his  thirty -ninth  year,  and  was  buried  in  the  Trinity  Church 
of  that  city.  Parnell  was  endeared  to  his  friends  by  his  generous,  affable,  and  kind 
disposition  ;  he  displayed  much  eloquence  in  the  pulpit,  and  became  very  popular  in 
London,  where  he  frequently  preached  during  his  visits  ;  and  he  holds  a  very  respect¬ 
able  rank  as  a  Poet,  for  his  elegance,  simplicity,  and  perspicuity.  Little  of  his  poetry 
was  published  during  his  life  ;  but  shortly  after  his  death,  Pope,  with  friendly  solicitude 
for  his  fame,  made  a  careful  selection  of  it ;  which  he  dedicated,  in  a  splendid  copy  of 
verses,  to  the  Earl  of  Oxford. 

Parnell’s  principal  poems  are,  “  Hesiod,  or  the  Rise  of  Woman,”  “An  Allegory  on 
Man,”  a  “Night-piece,  on  Death,”  the  “Hymn  to  Contentment,”  a  “Fairy  Tale,”  and 
the  “Hermit.”  The  two  last  are  the  most  celebrated,  and,  in  their  several  styles,  are 
altogether,  admirable  :  he  also  translated  the  “  Pervigilium  Veneris  ”  of  Catullus,  and 
“  The  Battle  of  the  Frogs  and  Mice,”  printed  with  Pope’s  version  of  Homer. 

The  prose  of  Parnell  is  not  equal  to  his  poetry.  Pope  complained  that  the  “Life  of 
Homer,”  which  Parnell  wrote  for  him,  gave  him  more  trouble  in  correction  than  com¬ 
posing  an  original  one  would  have  done.  His  classical  learning,  however,  enabled  him 
to  render  great  assistance  to  Pope,  who  had  a  high  opinion  of  his  perfect  knowledge  of 
the  Greek  Language,  and  of  his  correct  critical  judgment.  His  other  prose  works  are, 
his  “  Life  of  Zoilus,”  a  cutting  satire  on  Dennis,  the  critic ;  and  his  papers  in  the  “  Spec¬ 
tator”  and  “  Guardian.” 


I 


XVI 


PREFACE. 


Zachary  Pearce,  the  son  of  a  wealthy  distiller,  was  born  in  Holborn,  1690.  He 
was  educated  at  Westminster,  where  he  was  chosen  one  of  the  King’s  scholars,  and 
was  elected  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  in  1710.  In  1713  and  1714,  while  at  the 
University,  he  wrote  his  papers  in  the  “  Guardian  ”  and  “  Spectator:”  and  in  1716  he 
acquired  great  reputation  and  powerful  patronage  by  an  edition  of  “  Cicero  de  Oratore,” 
which  he  dedicated  to  Lord  Chief  Justice  Parker ;  through  whose  recommendation  of 
him  to  Dr.  Bentley,  the  Master  of  Trinity  College,  he  obtained  a  fellowship. 

Pearce  entered  into  Holy  Orders  in  1717,  and  became  Lord  Parker’s  chaplain;  two 
years  after  he  was  appointed  to  the  rectory  of  Stapleford  Abbots,  in  Essex,  and  in  1720 
to  that  of  St.  Bartholomew,  by  the  Royal  Exchange,  London.  Through  the  interest 
of  his  patron  (then  Earl  of  Macclesfield)  he  was  presented  to  St.  Martin’s  in  the  Fields, 
in  1723,  and  received  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Divinity,  in  1724.  In  1739  he  was  made 
Dean  of  Winchester;  in  1748  Bishop  of  Bangor;  and  in  1756  Bishop  of  Rochester, 
and  Dean  of  Westminster.  He  had  held  these  dignities  about  seven  years,  when  the 
pressure  of  age  and  infirmity  induced  him  to  solicit  permission  to  resign  them  ;  but  his 
application  having  been  made  through  Lord  Bath,  the  jealousy  of  the  ministers,  who 
apprehended  his  Lordship  had  a  successor  ready  to  be  nominated,  embarrassed  the 
King,  and  prevented  him  from  allowing  the  see  to  be  vacated.  Five  years  afterward  he 
was  permitted  to  resign  the  Deanery.  In  1773  he  lost  his  wife,  after  a  union  of  fifty- 
two  years:  he  survived  her  but  a  short  time,  dying  on  January  29,  1774,  aged 
eighty-four. 

Beside  his  edition  of  “  Cicero  de  Oratore,”  he  published  “An  Account  of  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge  ;”  a  “Letter  to  the  Clergy  of  the  Church  of  England,  on  the  occa¬ 
sion  of  the  Bishop  of  Rochester’s  commitment  to  the  Tower ;”  an  edition  of  “  Longi¬ 
nus  ;”  an  “  Essay  on  the  Origin  and  progress  of  Temples,”  printed  with  a  “  Sermon 
preached  at  the  Consecration  of  St.  Martin’s  Church  ;”  the  “  Miracles  of  Jesus  vindi¬ 
cated,”  in  answer  to  Woolston ;  and  “  Two  Letters  against  Dr.  Conyers  Middleton, 
relating  to  his  attack  on  Waterland.”  He  also,  in  1733,  rescued  the  text  of  Milton 
from  the  absurdities  of  Bentley,  in  his  “Review  of  the  Text  of  Paradise  Lost,”  which 
Dr.  Newton  characterizes  as  “  a  pattern  to  all  future  critics  ;”  and  in  1745  he  published 
an  edition  of  “  Cicero  de  Officiis.” 

It  is  remarkable  that  Dr.  Pearce  is  the  only  person  from  whom  Johnson  acknowledges 
having  received  any  assistance  in  the  compilation  of  his  Dictionary  ;  this  assistance, 
however,  extended  only  to  about  twenty  etymologies,  which  Pearce  sent  to  him  anony¬ 
mously.  The  Posthumous  Works  of  Pearce  were  edited,  in  1777,  in  two  volumes,  4to, 
by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Derby,  and  dedicated  to  the  King.  The  dedication  was  written  by  John¬ 
son,  who  retained  a  respectful  and  grateful  remembrance  of  the  obligation,  though  a 
slight  one,  which  Pearce  had  conferred  upon  him.  These  volumes  consist  of  “A  Com¬ 
mentary,  with  notes,  on  the  four  Evangelists,  and  the  Acts  of  the  Aspotles,”  and  “A 
New  Translation  of  St.  Paul’s  first  Epistle  to  the  Corinthians,  and  a  paraphrase  and 
notes.”  Dr.  Pearce  was  a  profound  scholar,  an  acute  and  judicious  critic,  an  amiable 
man,  and  a  sincere  Christian :  he  lived  respected  and  beloved  ;  and  his  life  was  as  use¬ 
ful  and  as  honorable  as  it  was  protracted. 

Henry  Martyn  was  the  son  of  Edward  Martyn,  Esq.,  of  Melksham,  Wilts.  He  was  bred 
to  the  Bar,  but  bad  health  prevented  him  from  prosecuting  his  professional  duties.  In  1713 
he  took  a  prominent  part  in  writing  “  The  British  Merchant,  or  Commerce  preserved,” 
a  paper  opposing  the  ratification  of  the  Treaty  of  Commerce  made  with  France  at  the 
Peace  of  Utrecht ;  being  an  answer  to  Daniel  De  Foe’s  “  Mercator,  or  Commerce  Re¬ 
trieved.”  The  Treaty  was  rejected ;  and  Martyn  was  rewarded  by  being  made  Inspec¬ 
tor  General  of  the  Customs.  He  died  at  Blackheath,  March  25,  1721,  leaving  one  son, 
who  was  afterward  Secretary  to  the  Commissioners  of  Excise. 

It  is  probable  that  Martyn  contributed  many  papers  to  the  “  Spectator,”  although 
now  only  one  is  directly  ascribed  to  him.  Steele  (Spectator,  No.  555)  places  him  at 
the  head  of  his  correspondents,  and  pays  him  this  very  marked  compliment:  “  The  first 
I  am  going  to  name  can  hardly  be  mentioned  in  a  list  wherein  he  would  not  deserve 
the  precedence.”  We  have  no  other  record  of  Martyn,  except  the  interesting  portrait 
drawn  of  him  by  Steele  in  No.  143,  of  the  “Spectator.” — “Poor  Cottilus  (so  named, 
it  is  supposed,  from  his  house  at  Blackheath,  which  he  termed  his  ‘  Cot’),  among  so 
many  real  evils,  a  chronical  distemper,  and  a  narrow  fortune,  is  never  heard  to  com¬ 
plain.  That  equal  spirit  of  his,  which  any  man  may  have,  that,  like  him,  will  conquer 


pride,  vanity,  and  affectation,  and  follow  nature,  is  not  to  be  broken,  because  it  has  no 
points  to  contend  for.  To  be  anxious  for  nothing  but  what  nature  demands  as  necessa¬ 
ry,  if  it  is  not  the  way  to  an  estate,  is  the  way  to  what  men  aim  at  by  getting  an  estate. 
This  temper  will  preserve  health  in  the  body  as  well  as  tranquillity  in  the  mind.  Cot- 
tilus  sees  the  world  in  a  hurry  with  the  same  scorn  that  a  sober  person  sees  a  man 
drunk.”  • 

John  Byrom  was  the  younger  son  of  a  Linen-draper  at  Kersall,  near  Manchester, 
and  was  born  in  1691.  He  was  sent  to  Merchant  1?aylors’  School,  in  London :  and,  at 
the  age  of  sixteen,  being  found  qualified  for  the  University,  he  was  admitted  a  pen¬ 
sioner  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  He  took  his  degree  of  Master  of  Arts,  and  in 
1714  was  elected  Fellow,  and  became  a  great  favorite  with  the  master,  Dr.  Bentley. 

It  was  in  this  year  that  he  began  his  contributions  to  the  “  Spectator  ;”  all  composi¬ 
tions  of  decided  merit :  the  most  celebrated  of  them  is  the  pastoral  poem  of  “  Colin  to 
Phoebe,”  written,  it  is  said,  in  compliment  to  Joanna,  daughter  of  Dr.  Bentley,  which 
has  maintained  its  popularity  to  the  present  day.  Its  effect  is,  however,  somewhat 
marred  by  the  ludicrous  air  of  some  passages,  which  detract  from  the  simplicity  and 
elegance  of  the  whole.  In  1716  he  went  to  Montpelier  for  the  benefit  of  his  health, 
and  resided  there  some  time.  On  his  return  he  began  to  practice  as  a  physician  in 
London  ;  but  he  took  no  degree,  and  soon  abandoned  the  scheme,  in  consequence  of  his 
forming  a  strong  attachment  to  his  cousin,  Elizabeth  Byrom,  who,  with  her  sister,  had 
come  up  from  Manchester  on  some  business  of  their  father,  Mr.  Joseph  Byrom.  Byrom 
followed  the  lady  on  her  return  home,  and  married  her,  in  opposition  to  the  will  of  her 
parents,  who  objected  to  the  union  on  account  of  his  straitened  circumstances. 

His  ;unc]e  utterly  discarded  him  :  and  Byrom,  having  expended  all  his  little  store,  was 
thrown  entirely  upon  his  own  exertions  for  subsistence.  He  had,  while  at  Cambridge, 
invented  a  new  system  of  Short  Hand ;  and  this  he  now  began  to  teach  in  Manchester, 
with  signal  success.  Revisiting  London,  he  also  there  met  with  great  encouragement; 
and  (having  obtained  a  decided  victory  over  a  rival  professor,  named  Weston,  who  had 
challenged  him  to  a  trial  of  skill)  he  soon  was  enabled  to  derive  a  very  handsome  in¬ 
come  from  his  numerous  pupils ;  among  whom  was  the  celebrated  Earl  of  Chesterfield, 
and  many  other  persons  of  rank  and  eminence.  For  several  years  he  regularly  pursued 
his  avocations :  in  London  during  the  winter  months,  and  during  the  summer  in  Mam 
Chester,  where  his  wife  and  family  continued  to  res'ide.  In  1723  he  was  admitted  into 
the  Royal  Society  as  a  Fellow ;  and  No.  488  of  the  Transactions  contains  a  paper  of  his 
writing,  On  the  Elements  of  Short  Hand. 

His  elder  brother  dying  about  this  time,  without  issue,  Byrom  succeeded  to  the  family 
estate,  and  was  at  once  placed  in  ease  and  affluence.  He  fixed  his  residence  in  the 
country  ;  and,  from  occasionally  amusing  himself  in  writing  verses,  the  habit  seems  to 
have  grown  upon  him  almost  to  a  degree  of  mania ;  every  subject  he  took  in  hand, 
whether  tragic,  comic,  religious,  antiquarian,  controversial,  moral,  or  literary,  was  dealt 
with  in  rhyme  ;  the  general  quality  of  which  may  be  estimated  by  Mr.  Pegge’s  remark 
upon  Byrom’s  Metrical  Challenge,  respecting  the  identity  of  St.  George  of  Cappadocia 
with  the  patron  of  the  Order  of  the  Garter.  “  My  late  worthy  friend,  Mr.  Byrom,  has 
delivered  his  sentiments  on  this  subject  in  a  metrical  garb  ;  for,  I  presume,  we  can 
scarcely  call  it  a  ‘poetical  one.” 

Of  his  pieces,  the  best  are  his  poems  on  “Enthusiasm,”  and  on  the  “Immortality 
of  the  Soul ;”  his  “Careless  Content,”  and  the  popular  tale  of  “The  Three  Black 
Crows.”  He  died  September  28th,  1763,  in  the  72d  year  of  his  age,  having  lived  in 
general  estimation  as  a  man  of  respectable  talents,  and  great  industry :  humane,  virtu¬ 
ous,  and  devout. 

Jonathan  Swift  (the  posthumous  son  of  Jonathan  Swift,  an  Attorney,  and  Steward 
to  the  Society  of  King’s  Inns,  Dublin)  was  born  in  that  city  on  November  30,  1667. 
His  grandfather,  the  Rev.  Thomas  Swift,  Vicar  of  Goodrich,  in  Herefordshire,  had  suf¬ 
fered  severely  in  his  fortune  by  his  adherence  to  Charles  I,  and  left  a  family  of  twelve 
or  thirteen  children  very  slenderly  provided  for.  Four  of  his  sons  settled  in  Ireland ; 
the  eldest  of  whom,  Godwin  ( Attorney- General  for  the  Palatinate  of  Tipperary),  for 
some  years  supplied  the  means  of  subsistence  to  the  widow  and  orphan  children  of  his 
brother.  It  is  supposed,  however,  that  this  was  not  done  very  graciously;  for  Swift 
seems  to  have  entertained  little  respect  for  his  memory :  while,  on  the  contrary,  he 
2 


PREFACE. 


•  •  • 
xvm 

always  spoke  in  terms  of  reverence  and  affection  of  his  uncle  Dryden  Swift ;  who,  after 
Godwin’s  death,  took  upon  himself  the  maintenance  of  the  destitute  family. 

When  six  years  old,  Swift  was  sent  to  the  school  of  Kilkenny  ;  and,  when  fourteen, 
was  admitted  a  Pensioner  into  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  His  studies  and  pursuits  were 
not  of  a  kind  suited  to  forward  his  views  of  advancement  in  this  seat  of  learning ;  he 
had  conceived  a  strong  dislike  to  Logic,  and  entirely  disregarded  it,  although  it  was  at 
that  time  deemed  of  paramount  importance  :  and  this,  together  with  his  irregularities 
and  insubordination,  threw  great  difficulty  in  the  way  of  his  obtaining  a  Bachelor’s 
degree,  which  was  at  last  conferred  by  a  Special  Grace .  The  disgrace  he  had  thus  in¬ 
curred  seems  to  have  only  tended  to  exasperate  and  render  him  callous  :  for,  in  March, 
1686,  he  was  publicly  admonished  for  notorious  neglect  of  his  duties,  and  in  November, 
1688,  he  was  suspended  for  insolent  conduct  to  the  Junior  Dean,  and  for  exciting  dis¬ 
sension  in  the  College. 

In  1688  he  quitted  Dublin  ;  and,  coming  over  to  England,  visited  his  mother,  who 
was  then  residing  in  Leicestershire.  By  her  advice  he  addressed  himself  to  Sir  William 
Temple  (whose  wife  was  related  to  the  family),  and  succeeded  in  obtaining  his  patron¬ 
age  ;  the  immediate  advantage  of  which  was  the  opportunity  it  afforded  him  of  prosecut¬ 
ing  his  studies  upon  a  scale  which  he  seems  to  have  adopted  as  a  penance  for  his 
previous  dereliction  of  duty.  His  application  now  was  most  intense  and  severe,  and 
the  extensive  knowledge  he  thus  acquired  soon  raised  him  in  the  estimation,  and  gained 
him  the  confidence  of  his  patron.  He  was  admitted  to  the  private  interviews  of  King 
William  and  Temple,  when  the  former  honored  Moor  Park  with  his  presence ;  and 
frequently,  when  Sir  William  happened  to  be  confined  by  the  gout,  was  deputed  to  attend 
his  Majesty  in  his  walks  about  the  grounds.  It  was  on  these  occasions  that  the  King 
taught  Swift  the  Dutch  method  of  cutting  asparagus,  and  (Swift,  probably,  having 
hinted  at  his  precarious  circumstances),  offered  to  make  him  a  Captain  of  Horse. 
Swift’s  hopes  and  expectations,  however,  were  fixed  upon  Church  preferment ;  and  in 
1692  he  went  to  Oxford  to  take  his  degree  of  Master  of  Arts,  and  met  with  a  reception 
there  which  highly  gratified  him. 

It  is  possible  that  Sir  William  Temple,  anxious  to  retain  Swift  about  him,  thought  to 
accomplish  his  aim  by  keeping  him  in  a  state  of  dependence  :  but  it  is  certain  that  Swift 
became  impatient,  and  when,  after  frequent  application  and  remonstrance,  he  was  at  last 
offered  a  situation  in  the  Irish  Bolls  of  about  £100  a  year,  he  rejected  it  with  disdain, 
and  immediately  quitted  Moor  Park  for  Ireland,  with  the  intention  of  taking  Holy 
Orders.  To  this  end,  a  reference  to  Temple,  as  to  his  conduct,  was  necessary  ;  and  it 
has  been  thought  that  Sir  William,  feeling  that  he  had  dealt  ungenerously  by  him,  in 
addition  to  the  usual  testimonial,  forwarded  some  direct  recommendations  ;  for  Swift 
obtained  Deacons’  Orders  in  October,  1694,  Priests’  Orders  in  January,  1695,  and,  im¬ 
mediately  afterward,  the  Prebend  of  Kilroot,  worth  about  £100  a  year.  He  was 
scarcely  settled,  when  he  received  an  invitation  from  Temple  to  return  to  him  :  he  did 
return;  and  was  thenceforth  treated,  not  as  the  needy  dependent,  but  as  the  respected 
and  confidential  friend.  Four  years  passed  in  an  uninterrupted  intercourse  of  esteem  and 
friendship  between  them,  when  the  death  of  Temple,  in  January,  1698-9,  threw  Swift 
upon  the  world,  to  gain  by  his  own  energies  the  provision  which  patronage  had  failed  to 
bestow  on  him.  He  edited  the  literary  remaifis  of  Temple,  and  dedicated  them  to  the 
King,  reminding  him  at  the  same  time,  by  a  petition,  of  a  promise  he  had  made  him  of 
a  Prebend  at  Canterbury  or  Westminster:  but  his  efforts  were  unavailing,  and  he  re¬ 
linquished  his  attendance  upon  the  Court  in  disgust.  Further  disappointments  awaited 
him:  Lord  Berkeley  (one  of  the  Lords  Justices  of  Ireland)  had  invited  him  to  become 
his  Secretary  and  Chaplain,  and  he  had  accepted  the  invitation;  but  was  quickly  super¬ 
seded  in  the  former  office  by  a  Mr.  Bushe,  who  procured  it  for  himself.  Lord  Berkeley, 
by  way  of  amends,  promised  him  the  first  living  of  value  that  should  be  at  his  disposal; 
but,  when  the  Deanery  of  Derry  became  vacant,  Swift  found  that  Mr.  Bushe  had  again 
forestalled  him,  and  that  he  could  only  obtain  it  by  the  payment  of  £1000  to  Bushe. 
His  anger  toward  both  the  Judge  and  his  Secretary  was  extreme :  he  instantly  threw  up 
his  Chaplainship,  and  took  his  leave  of  them  in  these  words:  “God  confound  you  both 
for  a  couple  of  scoundrels.”  Lord  Berkeley  soon  became  apprehensive  of  the  con¬ 
sequences  which  might  arise  from  the  hatred  and  scorn  of  a  man  like  Swift,  who,  from 
time  to  time,  continued  to  attack  him  with  all  the  bitterness  of  satire ;  and  he  endeav¬ 
ored  to  pacify  him  by  presenting  him  with  the  Rectory  of  Agher,  and  the  Vicarages  of 
Laracor  and  Rathbiggan.  In  1700  the  Prebend  of  Dunlavin  was  added  to  these,  and 


PREFACE. 


xix 


the  whole  produced  an  income  of  £400  per  annum.  Having  taken  possession  of  his 
living  at  Laracor,  he  was  at  great  pains  in  repairing  and  improving  the  Vicarage  house 
and  grounds  ;  he  added  nineteen  acres  to  the  Glebe,  and  purchased  the  Tithes  of  Effer- 
nock,  with  which  he  endowed  the  living.  But  Swift  was  not  Iona*  to  remain  in  inactive 
obscurity  :  the  impeachment  of  Lords  Somers,  Oxford,  and  others,  on  account  of  the 
Partition  Treaty,  induced  him  to  come  forward  as  a  political  writer,  in  “A  Discourse 
upon  the  Dissensions  between  the  Nobles  and  Commons  in  Athens  and  Rome.”  The 
pamphlet  excited  much  attention;  and  Somers,  Halifax,  and  Sunderland  took  him  at 
once  into  familiarity  and  confidence.  He  now  made  frequent  journeys  to  London, 
associated  with  the  Wits  at  Button’s  Coffee-house,  and  formed  an  intimacy  and  friendship 
with  several  of  them,  more  particularly  with  Addison,  Steele,  and  Arbuthnot.  His  celeb¬ 
rity  was  greatly  enhanced  by  the  publication,  in  1694,  of  the  ‘‘Tale  of  a  Tub which, 
although  he  never  openly  acknowledged  it,  was  by  general  consent  attributed  to  him. 

In  the  summer  of  1709,  wearied  with  attendance  upon  the  Ministry,  having  been 
alternately  flattered  by  the  prospect  of  promotion,  and  irritated  and  disgusted  by  ne¬ 
glect  and  disappointment,  he  quitted  London,  and  resumed  his  retirement  at  Laracor. 
In  1710  he  was  united  with  the  Bishops  of  Ossory  and  Killaloe,  in  a  Commission  from 
the  Prelates  of  Ireland,  to  prosecute  their  suit  for  a  remission  of  the  first-fruits  and 
twentieths.  On  this  visit  he  separated  entirely  from  the  Whigs,  and  manifested  in  the 
strongest  manner  his  contempt  and  hatred  of  their  leaders,  Somers  and  Godolphin,  for 
having  insolently  considered  his  services  sufficiently  requited  by  mere  civilities.  By  his 
own  avowal,  he  had  been  a  Whig  in  general  politics  only ;  in  what  related  to  the  dignity 
and  influence  of  the  Church,  the  points  nearest  his  heart,  he  had  always  sided  with  the 
Tories:  and  now,  aggravated  as  he  was  by  the  neglect  and  ingratitude  of  the  opposite 
party,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  at  once  threw  himself  into  their  arms.  Harley,  who, 
smarting  under  similar  ill-treatment,  had  made  head  against  the  Whigs,  and  succeeded 
in  driving  them  from  power,  was  aware  of  the  value  of  such  an  adherent  as  Swift :  he 
and  his  colleague,  Bolingbroke,  received  him  most  cordially,  and  he  at  once  became  their 
associate  and  counselor.  Swift,  already  in  much  esteem  as  a  political  writer,  brought 
into  action  the  whole  artilleiy  of  his  eloquence,  wit,  and  sarcasm,  in  aid  of  his  new 
patrons:  he  wrote  a  large  portion  of  the  “Examiner”  (of  which  he  undertook  the 
Editorship),  and  published  numerous  poems,  papers,  and  pamphlets.  The  most 
remarkable  of  these  last  were  the  “Conduct  of  the  Allies”  (of  which  11,000  copies 
were  sold  in  less  than  a  month),  and  the  “Public  Spirit  of  the  Whigs,”  which  gave 
such  offense  to  the  Scotch  that,  through  the  interference  of  the  Lords,  a  proclamation 
was  issued,  offering  £300  reward,  for  the  discovery  of  the  author.  Notwithstanding  his 
important  and  influential  position,  Swift  received  no  recompense  until  April,  1713,  when 
he  was  promoted  to  the  Deanery  of  St.  Patrick’s,  Dublin. 

He  had  scarcely  taken  possession  of  his  new  dignity,  when  he  was  recalled  from 
Ireland,  for  the  purpose  of  allaying  the  dissensions  which  had  arisen  between  Harley 
and  Bolingbroke ;  his  efforts  to  effect  a  reconciliation  failed ;  and  he  retired  into 
Berkshire,  where  he  wrote  “  Some  Free  Thoughts  upon  the  present  State  of  Affairs 
and  shortly  after,  the  death  of  Queen  Anne  deprived  his  friends  of  their  power,  and 
him  of  his  political  influence.  He  immediately  quitted  England ;  and,  during  six  years, 
continued  in  retirement  and  comparative  obscurity. 

In  1720  he  published  “A  Proposal  for  the  universal  Use  of  Irish  Manufactures,”  in 
which  he  sought  to  persuade  his  countrymen  to  reject  English  manufactures,  and  to 
wear  none  but  their  own.  The  pamphlet  created  a  great  sensation,  and  the  Printer  was 
prosecuted :  the  Jury  having  declared  him  Not  Guilty ,  were  detained  eleven  hours,  and 
sent  out  of  court  to  reconsider  their  verdict  nine  times;  and  at  last  left  the  question  un¬ 
decided  by  giving  a  Special  Verdict.  The  farther  trial,  after  repeated  delays,  was  set 
aside  by  a  Noli  Prosequi ,  and  Swift  may  be  said  to  have  obtained  a  complete  victory. 
This  he  followed  up  by  persecuting  with  unremitting  zeal  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  Whits- 
head,  and  Judge  Boate,  by  Epigrams,  Lampoons,  and  Satires,  until  they  became  the 
objects  of  universal  scorn  and  disgust.  But  the  popularity  he  thus  obtained  in  Ireland 
was  trifling  compared  with  that  which  attended  the  publication  of  the  “  Drapier’s  Let¬ 
ters,”  four  years  afterward.  One  William  Wood  had  obtained  a  patent  for  coining 
half-pence  for  Ireland,  to  the  amount  of  108,000:  Swift,  indignant  at  the  iniquity  of  the 
scheme,  drew  up,  in  the  name  of  the  Irish  people,  a  petition  against  it ;  and,  by  way 
of  strengthening  the  appeal,  published  a  series  of  Letters,  with  the  signature  of  M.  B. 
Drapier.  Their  effect  was  instantaneous ;  the  nation  became  excited  and  clamorous, 


XX 


PREFACE. 


and  the  whole  population  formed  the  steady  resolution  never  to  receive  a  single  piece 
of  Wood’s  coin.  The  Printer  of  the  “Letters”  was  imprisoned;  but  the  Grand  Jury 
refused  to  find  an  indictment,  and  a  reward  of  £300  was  offered  in  vain  for  the  dis¬ 
covery  of  the  author.  The  result  was,  the  patent  was  annulled,  the  coin  withdrawn, 
and  Swift  constituted  the  Idol  and  the  Oracle  of  his  country,  to  the  hour  of  his  death. 
With  respect  to  the  merit  of  the  “  Drapier’s  Letters,”  it  will  suffice  to  quote  the  opinion 
of  Isaac  Hawkins  Browne,  who  designates  them  “  the  most  perfect  pieces  of  oratory 
ever  composed  since  the  days  of  Demosthenes.” 

Having  achieved  this  triumph  over  Wood  and  his  half-pence,  Swift  retired  to  Quilca, 
a  country  house,  belonging  to  his  friend,  Dr.  Sheridan,  and  for  some  time  amused  him 
in  projecting  and  executing  alterations  and  improvements  there,  and  also  in  finish¬ 
ing  and  revising  “Gulliver’s  Travels.”  In  1726  he  went  to  England,  where  he  was  re¬ 
ceived  with  open  arms  by  Bolingbroke,  Bathurst,  Arbuthnot,  Gay,  and  Pope.  He  took 
up  his  abode  at  the  house  of  the  latter,  and  assigned  to  him  the  task  of  selecting  and 
arranging  the  materials  for  three  volumes  of  Miscellanies,  their  joint  production.  Du¬ 
ring  this  visit  he  waited  upon  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  with  a  view  to  interest  him  in  the 
cause  of  Ireland  ;  and  (it  has  been  said)  to  endeavor  to  obtain  for  himself  Church  pre¬ 
ferment  in  England:  but  Walpole  had  been  prepossessed  against  him  and  his  views  of 
Irish  affairs  by  the  representations  of  Archbishop  Boulter,  and  they  parted  with  cool 
civility,  no  point  being  gained  by  either  party  in  the  conference. 

In  August,  Swift  returned  to  Dublin,  where  his  arrival  was  celebrated  with  the  most 
public  demonstrations  of  joy  and  respect :  and  in  November,  the  “Travels  of  Gulliver” 
were  published  anonymously.  This  celebrated  work  immediately  engrossed  the  atten¬ 
tion  of  the  whole  kingdom  :  it  was  read,  admired,  and  discussed,  by  all  ranks.  “  It 
offered,”  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  “personal  and  political  satire  to  the  readers  in  high  life, 
low  and  coarse  incident  to  the  vulgar,  marvels  to  the  romantic,  wit  to  the  young  and 
lively,  lessons  of  morality  and  policy  to  the  grave,  and  maxims  of  deep  and  bitter  mis¬ 
anthropy  to  neglected  age,  and  disappointed  ambition.” 

In  1727  Swift  visited  England  for  the  last  time,  and  spent  the  summer  among  his 
early  friends.  His  hopes  of  preferment,  and  his  prospects  of  reviving  political  influence, 
were  now  at  an  end  ;  and  when  he  returned  to  what  he  always  considered  his  land  of 
exile,  to  his  discontent  and  chagrin  was  added  severe  affliction,  by  the  death  of  the  being 
to  whom  he  was  most  attached.  His  health  became  affected,  and  his  temper  more  than 
ever  unequal  and  morose :  he  rallied  occasionally,  and  from  time  to  time  gratified  the 
animosity  he  cherished  against  Queen  Caroline  and  Walpole,  by  attacking  them,  and 
their  favorites  and  dependents,  with  the  same  wit  and  irony  that  distinguished  his  better 
days.  At  length,  the  disorders  under  which  he  had  suffered  at  intervals  all  his  life 
obtained  the  mastery,  and  he  sunk  into  a  state  of  mental  aberration,  pitiable  in  any  point 
of  view,  but  most  awful  when  contrasted  with  the  brilliant  genius  and  unusual  powers 
which  had  originally  adorned  his  comprehensive  mind.  He  died  on  the  29th  of  Octo¬ 
ber,  1745,  in  his  78th  year. 

The  domestic  history  of  Swift  has  been  the  subject  of  much  discussion,  from  the  ex¬ 
traordinary  circumstances  attending  his  connection  with  Mrs.  Esther  Johnson,  celebrated 
in  his  writings  under  the  name  of  Stella.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Sir  William  Tern- 
pie’s  Steward,  and  was  about  fourteen  years  old  when  Swift  undertook  the  office  of  her 
preceptor.  At  Sir  William’s  death,  she  resided  for  some  time  with  Mrs.  Dingley,  a  rela¬ 
tion  of  the  Temple  family,  and,  when  Swift  settled  at  Laracor,  accepted  his  invitation  to 
fix  her  abode  at  Trim,  a  village  in  the  vicinity  of  his  living.  She  was  then  eighteen,  of 
great  personal  attractions,  and  fervently  attached  to  him,  no  doubt  anticipated  the  speedy 
consummation  of  her  wishes.  But  Swift,  who  could  not  be  unconscious  of  the  feelings 
he  had  excited,  adapted  his  whole  conduct  toward  her  strictly  to  the  character  of  a 
friend,  and  never  met  her  but  in  the  presence  of  a  third  person.  When  he  left  home  for 
any  time,  she  and  her  companion  resided  at  his  house,  resuming  their  own  lodgings  im¬ 
mediately  on  his  return.  In  this  manner  passed  eight  years,  in  the  course  of  which  her 
affection  seemed  gradually  to  increase,  and  she  refused  a  very  eligible  offer  of  marriage 
from  a  Mr.  Tisdal.  When  Swift  went  to  London,  in  September,  1710,  he  was  almost 
agonized  at  leaving  her,  and  kept,  during  his  absence,  a  Journal  addressed  to  her, 
which  fully  evinces  how  completely  she  swayed  every  feeling  of  his  heart.  Neverthe¬ 
less,  an  event  took  place  which  was  every  way  calculated  to  distress  her,  and  bring  into 
question  the  sincerity  of  his  professions.  In  London,  Swift  became  acquainted  with  a 
widow  lady,  named  Vanhomrigh,  whose  eldest  daughter  interesting  him  greatly  by  her 


PREFACE. 


xxi 


temper  and  manners,  he  offered  his  assistance  in  completing  her  education.  The  pro¬ 
gress  of  his  pupil  was  astonishing :  but  at  the  end  of  two  years,  Swift  was  thrown  into 
the  greatest  embarrassment,  by  her  openly  declaring  her  love  for  him,  and  demanding  a 
return. 

He  was  at  this  time  in  his  47tli  year,  and  it  is  to  be  lamented  that  he  suffered  his 
vanity  to  overcome  his  sense  of  propriety,  and  encouraged  hopes  which  he  never  inten¬ 
ded  to  realize.  Vanessa  (as  he  called  her)  was  not  of  the  gentle  and  patient  temper  of 
Stella : — when  Swift  returned  to  Ireland,  on  the  Queen’s  death,  she  followed  him,  con¬ 
trary  to  his  wish  ;  and  their  meetings  (allowed  by  all  to  have  been  perfectly  platonic) 
caused  Stella  a  jealousy,  which  brought  on  a  severe  indisposition.  Swift,  to  soothe  her 
and  satisfy  her  scruples,  agreed  to  marry  her,  on  the  condition  of  their  living  separately, 
as  heretofore  ;  and  they  were  privately  married  (the  ceremony  being  performed  in  the 
garden  of  the  Deanery)  by  Dr.  Ashe,  Bishop  of  Clogher,  in  1716.  After  this  he  would 
willingly  have  estranged  himself  from  Vanessa,  but  found  it  impracticable.  She,  having 
some  suspicion  of  the  real  fact,  wrote  to  Mrs.  Johnson,  and  the  answer  she  received, 
together  with  Swift’s  resentment  upon  discovering  her  proceeding,  threw  her  into  a  fever 
which  terminated  her  existence  in  1723.  Her  scarcely  less  unfortunate  rival  did  not 
survive  her  many  years  ;  her  spirits  and  her  frame,  blighted  and  wasted,  by  “hope  de¬ 
ferred,”  and  bitter  disappointment,  she  died  prematurely  in  1728. 

The  conduct  of  Swift  toward  these  ill-fated  women,  however  it  may  be  accounted  for, 
or  extenuated,  will  always  remain  a  blot  upon  his  memory  :  in  spite  of  the  most  diligent 
research,  a  mystery  still  envelopes  it,  which  physical  and  philosophical  attempts  at  ex¬ 
planation  have  failed  to  disperse.  In  all  other  relations,  Swift  appears  to  have  been  a 
worthy  and  estimable  man.  His  works  (the  enumeration  of  which  would  carry  us  be¬ 
yond  our  prescribed  bounds)  are  all  examples  of  great  ingenuity,  and  intellectual  power: 
of  his  poems,  “  Cadenus  and  Vanessa,”  “Baucis  and  Philemon,”  and  his  “Imitations 
of  Horace,”  are  of  the  highest  order;  and  the  “Tale  of  a  Tub,”  the  “Drapier’s  Let¬ 
ters,”  and  “  Gulliver’s  Travels,”  have  conferred  immortality  on  his  name  by  merit  pecu¬ 
liar  to  themselves. 

Philip  Yorke,  Earl  of  Hardwicke,  was  born  at  Dover,  in  1690.  He  was  educated 
under  Mr.  Morland,  of  Bethnal  Green,  entered  of  the  Middle  Temple,  and  was  called 
to  the  Bar  in  1714. — In  1718  he  was  returned  Member  of  Parliament  for  Lewes  ;  and 
the  following  year  was  appointed  Solicitor-General.  In  1723  he  became  Attorney-Gen¬ 
eral,  and  in  1733  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  the  King’s  Bench,  shortly  after  which  he  re¬ 
ceived  the  title  of  Baron  Hardwicke.  He  succeeded  Lord  Talbot  in  1736  as  Lord  High 
Chancellor;  and  finally,  in  1754,  was  created  Earl  of  Hardwicke.  He  has  transmitted 
to  posterity  an  unblemished  name  as  a  Lawyer,  a  Judge,  and  a  Statesman.  In  private 
life  he  was  benevolent  and  pious  ;  and  his  gentle  and  engaging  manners  gained  him  the 
affection,  as  his  public  virtues  secured  him  the  esteem  of  all  who  knew  him.  As  an 
orator,  he  was  clear,  graceful,  and  impressive  :  cogent  in  argument,  and  perspicuous  in 
arrangement.  After  suffering  severely  for  some  months  from  dysentery,  lie  died,  at  the 
age  of  seventy-three,  on  the  6th  of  March,  1764. 

Thomas  Tickell,  son  of  the  Rev.  Richard  Tickell,  Vicar  of  Bridekirk,  near  Carlisle, 
was  born  in  1686.  He  entered  Queen’s  College,  Oxford,  in  1701,  was  made  Master  of 
Arts  in  1708,  and  chosen  Fellow  two  years  afterward.  A  copy  of  verses  in  praise 
of  the  Opera  of  “Rosamond,”  introduced  him  to  the  notice  of  Addison,  and  a  sincere 
and  lasting  friendship  between  them  was  the  result.  While  the  negotiations  which  pre¬ 
ceded  the  Peace  of  Utrecht  were  yet  pending,  Tickell  published  his  poem  “  On  the 
Prospect  of  Peace,”  with  the  view  to  reconcile  the  nation  to  the  sacrifice  of  some  im¬ 
mediate  advantages  rather  than  continue  the  war.  It  sold  rapidly,  reaching  in  a  very 
short  time  a  sixth  edition  ;  and  Addison,  who,  with  the  Whigs,  was  strongly  opposed 
to  such  a  measure,  however  he  might  disapprove  of  the  subject  of  the  Poem,  was  gen¬ 
erous  enough  to  give  high  praise  to  it  as  a  composition,  in  the  “Spectator.”  Tickell 
afterward  wrote  a  poem  addressed  “To  the  supposed  Author  of  the  Spectator,”  and 
another,  on  the  arrival  of  George  I,  entitled  the  “Royal  Progress.”  He  had  also  pre¬ 
viously,  attacked  the  Chevalier  and  his  adherents,  in  a  political  piece  called  “An  Epistle 
to  a  Gentleman  at  Avignon,”  which  was  much  read,  and  which  tended  to  mark  him 
out  for  favor  on  the  accession  of  the  House  of  Hanover. 

When  Addison  went  to  Ireland  as  Secretary  to  the  Earl  of  Sunderland,  he  took 


xxii  PREFA.CE. 

Tickell  with  him  as  an  assistant  in  his  official  duties ;  and  on  his  becoming  Secretary  of 
state  in  1717,  he  made  his  friend  Under  Secretary.  Upon  the  death  of  Addison,  in  1719, 
Ticked  edited  his  Collected  Works,  and  prefixed  to  them  an  Elegy  to  the  memory  of 
his  patron,  of  pre-eminent  beauty  and  pathos.  In  1725,  Tickell  was  made  Secretary  to 
the  Lords  Justices  of  Ireland,  and  the  following  year  he  married,  in  Dublin. 

He  held  his  official  appointment  until  his  death,  which  took  place  at  Bath,  in  April, 
1740.  Beside  the  pieces  already  noticed,  he  wrote  some  “Verses  on  Cato,”  an  “Imi¬ 
tation  of  the  Prophesy  of  Nereus,”  “  Kensington  Garden,”  and  a  very  pathetic  ballad, 
“  Colin  and  Lucy.”  He  was  also  (nominally)  the  author  of  a  translation  of  the  first 
Book  of  the  “  Iliad,”  published  in  opposition  to  Pope’s,  and  a  contributor  to  the 
“  Guardian.”  He  was  an  elegant,  if  not  a  powerful,  writer  ;  an  amiable  man,  convivial 
but  moderate ;  spirited  in  his  conversation,  and  of  a  kind  and  affectionate  heart. 

Ambrose  Philips  was  descended  from  a  respectable  family  in  Leicestershire.  While 
at  St.  John’s  College,  Cambridge,  he  published  his  “  Six  Pastorals,”  which  were  very 
popular ;  and,  it  is  supposed  caused  some  little  jealousy  to  Pope.  The  style  of  them,  how¬ 
ever  it  might  approach  the  true  Doric ,  was,  unluckily,  very  apt  for  ludicrous  associations, 
and  Pope  exerted  all  his  wit  and  irony  to  hold  them  up  to  ridicule  :  this  he  accomplished 
effectually  in  the  “  Guardian.”  The  attack  greatly  irritated  Philips,  and  he  sought 
revenge  in  insult,  by  suspending  a  rod  over  the  seat  which  Pope  usually  occupied  at 
Button’s  Coffee-house.  Pope  failed  not  to  retaliate ;  and,  in  the  “  Prologue”  to  his 
Satires,  describes  Philips  as  — 

44  The  Bard  whom  pilfer’d  Pastorals  renown, 

Who  turns  a  Persian  Tale  for  half-a-crown, 

Just  writes  to  make  his  barrenness  appear, 

And  strains,  from  hard-bound  brains,  eight  lines  a  year.” 

And  Swift  fixed  upon  him  the  nickname  of  “Namby-pamby,”  in  allusion  to  his  numerous 
short-line  verses.  Upon  Philips  leaving  the  University,  he  became  intimate  with  Addi¬ 
son  and  Steele,  and  he  printed,  in  the  “  Tatler,”  a  “  Poetical  Letter  from  Copenhagen;” 
a  piece  of  sterling  merit,  which  extorted  praise  even  from  Pope.  It  is  likely  that  at 
this  period  his  circumstances  were  rather  precarious,  since  he  undertook,  for  Tonson,  a 
translation  of  the  44  Persian  Tales,”  from  the  French,  at  (it  is  said)  a  very  low  price. 
His  Tragedy,  44  The  Distressed  Mother,”  (partly  a  translation  of  Racine’s  “Andro- 
maque,”)  brought  him  into  much  notice  :  Steele  had  highly  extolled  it  in  the  44  Spec¬ 
tator”  (No.  290)  before  it  appeared  ;  and  Addison  afterward  (in  No.  335)  carried  Sir 
Royer  de  Coverley  to  its  representation.  Philips  produced  two  other  Tragedies,  44  The 
Briton,”  and  “  Humphrey,  Duke  of  Gloucester,”  which  excited  little  attention,  and  are 
now  forgotten.  Although  from  his  zealous  support  of  the  Whigs,  he  was  justified  in 
anticipating  a  suitable  reward  upon  the  accession  of  George  I,  and  had  been  greatly 
disappointed  by  obtaining  merely  the  insignificant  situations  of  Justice  of  the  Peace,  and 
Commissioner  of  Lotteries,  he  did  not  relax  in  his  exertions,  but  commenced  the  44  Free¬ 
thinker,”  in  which  he  had,  for  one  of  his  co-adjutors,  Dr.  Boulter,  then  minister  of  a 
parish  church  in  Southwark.  This  circumstance  established  his  fortune.  Dr.  Boulter, 
on  his  elevation  to  the  see  of  Armagh,  took  his  former  associate  with  him  to  Ireland,  as 
his  Secretary,  and  obtained  for  him  a  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons.  In  1726  he  was 
appointed  Secretary  to  the  Lord  Chancellor,  and  in  1733  he  became  a  Judge  of  the  Pre¬ 
rogative  Court.  Philips  continued  in  Ireland  until  1748,  when  desirous  of  spending  the 
remainder  of  his  days  in  England,  he  purchased  an  annuity  of  £400,  and  returned  to 
London.  He  had  just  completed  a  republication  of  his  Poems,  when  he  was  seized  with 
paralysis,  and  died  June  18,  1749,  in  his  seventy-eighth  year.  Philips  is  reported  to 
have  been  a  worthy  man,  but  ludicrously  solemn  in  his  demeanor,  and  grandiloquent 
in  his  conversation.  Of  his  productions,  the  44  Winter  Scene,”  above  noticed,  the 
“  Hymn  to  Venus,”  and  the  “Fragment  of  Sappho,”  are,  perhaps,  all  that  can  be  con¬ 
sidered  above  mediocrity. 

Laurence  Eusden,  son  of  Dr.  Eusden,  Rector  of  Spalsworth,  Yorkshire,  was  educated 
at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  where  he  took  orders,  and  was  appointed  Chaplain  to 
Lord  Willoughby  de  Broke.  He  gained  the  patronage  of  Lord  Halifax,  by  a  Latin 
Version  of  his  Lordship’s  Poem  44  On  the  Battle  of  the  Boyne,”  and  he  appears  to  have 
been  anxious  to  prove  himself  worthy  of  it.  He  contributed  to  both  the  “Spectator” 
and  the  “  Guardian,”  wrote  some  verses  in  commendation  of  Addison’s  “  Cato.”  and 


PREFACE. 


XXlll 


„n  Epithalamium  on  the  marriage  of  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  with  Lady  Henrietta  Godol- 
phin.  This  last,  no  doubt,  procured  for  him  the  Laureateship,  which  the  Duke  (then 
Lord  Chamberlain)  gave  him  on  the  death  of  Rowe,  in  1718. 

Little  has  been  preserved,  concerning  Eusden,  beyond  the  numerous  satirical  allusions 
to  his  office,  to  be  found  in  the  writings  of  the  day :  with  him  the  title  of  Poet  Laureate 
began  to  fall  into  disesteem  :  nor  have  the  unquestionable  talents  of  some  who  suc¬ 
ceeded  him  tended  materially  to  retrieve  it.  The  eminent  man  *  who  at  present  holds 
the  appointment,  has,  however,  by  divesting  it  of  the  degrading  reiteration  of  adulatory 
Birth-day  Odes,  not  only  vindicated  the  independence  and  dignity  of  his  own  literary 
fame,  but  has  established  a  foundation  for  future  respectability  to  his  successors. 

Eusden  died  at  Coningsby,  in  Lincolnshire  (of  which  place  he  was  Rector),  in  Sep¬ 
tember,  1730,  his  faculties  and  health  falling  a  sacrifice  to  the  pernicious  habit  of 
intoxication.  His  poems,  a  few  of  which  are  printed  in  Nicholls’s  Collection,  are  not 
calculated  to  arrest  attention:  his  Versions  of  Claudian,  in  the  “Spectator,”  are  his 
happiest  efforts. 

William  Fleetwood  was  born  in  1656.  He  was  educated  at  Eton  school,  and  elected 
to  King’s  College,  Cambridge.  Having  taken  orders,  he  was  appointed  Chaplain  to 
King  William  and  Queen  Mary,  and  became  Fellow  of  Eton  College,  and  Rector  of  St. 
Austin’s,  London.  He  was  subsequently  chosen  Lecturer  of  St.  Dunstan’s,  Fleet-street, 
and  nominated  a  Canon  of  Windsor.  Desirous  of  literary  leisure,  he  resigned  his  living 
and  lectureship  in  1705,  and  retired  to  a  small  rectory  near  Eton,  where  he  engaged 
deeply  in  the  study  of  History  and  Antiquities.  From  this  he  was  unexpectedly  called, 
by  Queen  Anne  nominating  him  to  the  see  of  St.  Asaph ;  and,  on  the  accession  of 
George  I,  his  attachment  to  the  cause  of  Liberty,  and  the  Protestant  Religion,  was 
rewarded  by  the  valuable  bishopric  of  Ely.  During  his  whole  career,  his  labors  were 
unremitted ;  forty-two  of  his  publications  are  noticed  in  the  Biographia  Britannica, 
comprising  Antiquities,  History,  and  Theology :  in  all  of  which  are  displayed  profound 
classical  learning,  judicious  and  acute  criticism,  and  extensive  acquaintance  with 
Historical  and  Ecclesiastical  Antiquities. — When  his  friends,  the  Whigs,  went  out  of 
office  in  1710,  he  openly  avowed  his  dislike  of  the  measures  of  the  Tories,  by  publishing 
a  “  Fast  Sermon,”  containing  severe  reprobation  of  their  conduct;  and  in  1712  he 
published  four  other  sermons,  “  On  the  deaths  of  Queen  Mary,  the  Duke  of  Gloucester, 
and  King  William,  and  on  the  Queen’s  (Anne’s)  Accession,  with  a  Preface.”  The 
Sermons  had  been  previously  preached  with  much  approbation,  and  were  not  assailable ; 
but  the  Preface  was  condemned  by  the  House  of  Commons,  to  be  burnt  by  the  common 
hangman. 

This  injudicious  proceeding  only  made  the  Work  more  popular :  Steele  printed  the 
Preface  in  the  “  Spectator;”  and,  as  the  Bishop  remarked,  “conveyed  about  14,000  of 
them  into  people’s  hands  that  would  otherwise  never  have  seen  or  heard  of  it.”  This 
Preface,  with  some  introductory  observations  by  Steele,  form  No.  384  : — “  The  paper 
was  not  published  until  12  o’clock,  that  it  might  come  out  precisely  at  the  hour  of  the 
Queen’s  breakfast,  and  that  no  time  might  be  left  for  deliberating  about  serving  it  up 
with  that  meal  as  usual.” — Bishop  Fleetwood  died  at  Tottenham,  in  1723,  aged  67. 

His  biographer  (Morgan)  says,  “  His  various  merits  entitle  him  to  the  character  of  a 
great  and  good  man  :  as  a  Prelate,  he  did  honor  to  his  station,  by  his  dignified  and 
orudent  deportment :  to  the  poor  and  necessitous  he  was  a  generous  benefactor,  and 
was  a  liberal  encouTager  of  every  truly  charitable  design.  To  the  interest  of  Civil  and 
Religious  Liberty  he  was  ardently  attached.  He  was  modest,  humble,  uncensorious, 
and  calm  and  meek  in  his  temper ;  but  at  the  same  time  possessed  a  degree  of  cool  and 
sedate  courage,  which  he  did  not  fail  to  exhibit  on  proper  occasions:  and,  to  crown  the 
whole,  he  was  a  bright  pattern  of  innocence  of  life,  integrity  of  heart,  and  sanctity  of 
manners.”  '** 

John  Henley  was  born  in  1692,  at  Melton  Mowbray,  of  which  parish  his  father  was 
Vicar.  Having  prosecuted  his  studies  very  zealously  at  Cambridge,  he  returned  to  his 
native  town,  and  became  assistant,  and  afterward  master,  of  the  school  there,  which  he 
conducted  with  great  credit.  Having  taken  his  degree  of  Master  of  Arts,  and  obtained 
Priests’  Orders,  he  for  some  time  officiated  as  curate  at  Melton  ;  until  an  uncontroll- 


*  Southey. 


XXIV 


PREFACE 


able  desire  for  celebrity  induced  him  to  visit  the  metropolis.  In  London  he  published 
some  Translations  from  Pliny,  Vertot,  and  Montfaucon ;  and  was  presented  by  the  Earl 
of  Macclesfield  with  a  Benefice  of  £80  a  year.  He  also  had  a  Lectureship  in  the  city  ; 
acquired  much  popularity  as  a  preacher ;  assisted  Dr.  Burscough,  afterward  Bishop  of 
Limerick,  in  his  duties  ;  and  became  Chaplain  to  Lord  Molesworth.  Disappointed  in 
some  expectations  which  he  had  formed  of  advancement,  he  threw  up  his  benefice  and 
lectureship,  and  opened  an  Oratory  in  Portsmouth-street,  Lincoln’s  Inn  Fields  ;  where, 
on  Sundays  (according  to  his  own  account)  he  preached  on  Theology,  and  on  Wednes¬ 
days  on  all  other  Sciences ;  his  audience  paying  one  shilling  each  for  admission.  His 
orations  soon  degenerated  into  ribaldry,  buffoonery,  and  blasphemy,  and  he  resorted  to 
the  meanest  and  most  fraudulent  expedients  to  obtain  a  maintenance.  On  one  occasion, 
it  is  said,  he  collected  a  numerous  congregation  of  Shoemakers,  by  advertising  that  he 
would  show  them  how  to  make  a  pair  of  shoes  in  a  few  minutes ;  and  this  he  did  by 
cutting  off  the  tops  of  a  pair  of  boots.  Hogarth  caricatured  him  ;  and  the  celebrated 
George  Alexander  Steevens  was  a  constant  visitor  at  his  chapel  for  the  purpose  of  giv¬ 
ing  him  annoyance.  Pope  has  “damned  him  to  everlasting  fame”  in  his  “  Dunciad 

“  Imbrown’d  with  native  bronze,  lo  !  Henley  stands, 

Tuning  his  voice  and  balancing  his  hands. 

How  fluent  nonsense  trickles  from  his  tongue  ! 

How  sweet  the  periods  ;  neither  said  nor  sung  ! 

Still  break  the  benches,  Henley  !  with  thy  strain, 

While  Sherlock,  Hare,  and  Gibson  preach  in  vain. 

Oh  !  great  restorer  of  the  good  old  Stage, 

Preacher  at  once,  and  Zany  of  the  Age  ! 

Oh  !  worthy  thou  of  Egypt’s  wise  abodes  ! 

A  decent  Priest,  where  Monkeys  were  the  Gods.” 

He  died  October  14,  1756,  an  object  of  universal  contempt.  The  promise  of  his  early 
days  quickly  faded:  while  at  Melton,  he  wrote  a  poem  entitled  “Esther,”  and  com¬ 
menced  what  he  termed  his  “Universal  Grammar:”  of  which  he  completed  ten  lan¬ 
guages,  with  a  “proper  introduction  to  every  tongue.”  While  at  Cambridge  he  sent 
two  Letters  to  the  “  Spectator;”  and,  toward  the  close  of  his  career,  was  author  of  a 
political  paper  of  the  most  venal  and  worthless  character,  called  “  The  Hyp  Doctor.” 

James  Heywood  was  a  wholesale  Linen-draper  on  Fish-street  Hill,  and  a  man  of  high 
respectability  in  the  city  of  London.  He  paid  the  customary  fine  of  £500  upon  declin¬ 
ing  the  office  of  Alderman  of  Aldgate  Ward,  to  which  he  was  elected;  and,  having 
lived  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  faculties  and  health  until  his  ninetieth  year,  died  at  his 
house  in  Austin  Friars,  in  July,  1776. 

Mr.  Heywood  was  in  the  early  part  of  his  life  a  great  politician,  and  contracted  a 
habit,  singularly  inconvenient  to  persons  in  discourse  with  him,  for  which  he  is  com¬ 
memorated  with  much  humor  by  Steele,  in  the  “  Guardian.” 

“  There  is  a  silly  habit  among  many  of  our  minor  orators,  who  display  their  eloquence 
in  the  several  Coffee-houses,  to  the  no  small  annoyance  of  considerable  numbers  of  her 
Majesty’s  spruce  and  loving  subjects  :  and  that  is  a  humor  they  have  got  of  twisting 
off'  your  buttons.  These  ingenious  gentlemen  are  not  able  to  advance  three  words  until 
they  have  got  fast  hold  of  one  of  your  buttons  ;  but  as  soon  as  they  have  procured 
such  an  excellent  handle  for  discourse,  they  will  indeed  proceed  with  great  elocu¬ 
tion.  I  know  not  how  well  some  may  have  escaped,  but  for  my  part  I  have  often  met 
with  them  to  my  cost ;  having,  I  believe,  within  these  three  years  last  past  been  argued 
out  of  several  dozens,  insomuch  as  I  have  for  some  time  ordered  my  Tailor  to  bring  me 
home  with  every  suit  a  dozen,  at  least,  of  spare  ones,  to  supply  the  place  of  such  as 
from  time  to  time  are  detached,  as  a  help  to  discourse,  by  the  vehement  gentlemen 
before  mentioned.  I  remember,  upon  the  news  of  Dunkirk’s  being  delivered  into 
our  hands,  a  brisk  little  fellow,  a  politician  and  an  able  engineer,  had  got  into  the  mid¬ 
dle  of  Button’s  Coffee-house,  and  was  fortifying  Graveling  for  the  service  of  the  most 
Christian  King  with  all  imaginable  expedition.  The  work  was  carried  on  with  such 
success  that,  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour’s  time,  he  had  made  it  almost  impregna¬ 
ble  ;  and,  in  the  opinion  of  several  worthy  citizens  who  had  gathered  around,  full  as 
strong  both  by  sea  and  land  as  Dunkirk  ever  could  pretend  to  be.  I  happened,  how¬ 
ever,  unadvisedly,  to  attack  some  of  his  outworks,  upon  which,  to  show  his  great  skill 
likewise  in  the  offensive  part,  he  immediately  made  an  assault  upon  one  of  my  buttons, 
and  carried  it  in  less  than  two  minutes,  notwithstanding  I  made  as  handsome  a  defense 
as  was  possible.  He  had  likewise  invested  a  second,  and  would  certainly  have  been 


PREFACE. 


XXV 


master  of  that  too  in  a  very  little  time,  had  he  not  been  diverted  from  this  enterprise 
by  the  arrival  of  a  courier,  who  brought  advice  that  his  presence  was  absolutely  neces¬ 
sary  in  the  disposal  of  a  beaver ;  upon  which  he  raised  the  siege,  and,  indeed,  retreated 
with  precipitation.” 

It  was  Mr.  Heywood  himself,  that  (having  conquered  this  silly  habit),  in  after  years, 
pointed  out  his  own  identity  with  Steele’s  Politician. 

Isaac  Watts  was  born  at  Southampton,  on  July  17,  1674.  At  a  very  early  age  he 
began  to  study  the  Latin  and  Greek  Languages,  to  which  he  afterward  added  Hebrew ; 
and  had  acquired  a  very  competent  knowledge  of  them  by  the  time  he  attained  his  six¬ 
teenth  year.  In  1690  he  was  placed  at  the  academy  of  the  Rev.  Thomas  Rowe,  in 
London ;  and  in  1693  he  joined  the  communion  of  the  Independents,  of  which  sect  his 
preceptor  was  a  minister.  Having  completed  his  studies,  he  devoted  two  years  under 
liis  father’s  roof,  to  preparation  for  the  sacred  duties  of  the  pastoral  charge  ;  and,  at  the 
expiration  of  that  period,  he  accepted  an  invitation  from  Sir  John  Hartopp,  to  become 
the  domestic  tutor  of  his  son.  He  lived  with  Sir  John  five  years,  during  which  he  per¬ 
fected  himself  in  Biblical  learning ;  and  in  the  last  year,  1698,  preached  for  the  first 
time,  on  his  birth-day.  Shortly  after,  he  was  appointed  assistant  to  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Chauncey  ;  and  on  the  Doctor’s  death  in  1701-2,  became  his  successor.  He  had 
scarcely  entered  upon  his  new  office,  when  he  was  attacked  by  a  severe  illness,  which 
incapacitated  him  for  some  years.  He  recovered,  however,  sufficiently  to  resume  the 
duties  of  his  charge  ;  in  which  he  evinced  the  greatest  assiduity  and  solicitude  until  a 
second  time  he  was  afflicted  with  a  fever  so  violent  that  he  never  entirely  overcame  the 
effects  of  it.  At  this  period  he  met  with  the  true  Samaritan  in  Sir  Thomas  Abney,  who 
took  him  into  his  house,  and  exerted  himself  indefatigably  to  restore  his  health.  In 
this  he  succeeded  ;  and  though  Sir  Thomas  lived  but  eight  years  to  enjoy  the  society 
of  his  illustrious  friend,  Dr.  Watts  became  for  the  remainder  of  his  life  the  inmate  of 
that  hospitable  family  ;  where,  for  thirty-six  years,  he  received  every  demonstration  of 
affection,  esteem,  and  veneration. 

In  1716,  Dr.  Watts  returned  to  the  duties  of  his  ministry,  which  had  been  performed 
during  his  absence  by  Mr.  Samuel  Price,  as  joint  pastor.  In  1728  he  received,  totally 
unsolicited  and  unexpected,  the  degree  of  Doctor  in  Divinity,  from  the  Universities  of 
Edinburgh  and  Aberdeen. 

He  continued  to  officiate  in  his  congregation,  until  disabled  by  increasing  infirmity;  he 
then  wished  to  resign  his  appointment,  but  was  not  permitted  to  do  so  ;  his  flock  insisted 
upon  his  continuing  to  receive  the  accustomed  salary,  and  at  the  same  time  paid  another 
minister  to  act  in  his  stead.  Dr.  Watts  died  on  the  25th  of  November,  1748,  aged  74. 

The  virtues  and  piety  of  Dr.  Watts  are  strongly  reflected  in  his  writings,  and  spread 
over  them  an  imperishable  luster.  As  a  Theologian  and  a  Philosopher,  he  is  inferior 
to  none  ;  as  a  Poet,  he  is  spirited  and  elegant ;  but  all  distinctions,  perhaps,  ought  to 
give  way  before  that  to  which  he  has  a  primeval  claim,  and  which  is  so  freely  awarded 
him  by  Dr.  Johnson  : — 

“  For  children,  he  condescended  to  lay  aside  the  Scholar,  the  Philosopher,  and  the 
Wit,  to  write  little  poems  of  devotion,  and  systems  of  instruction,  adapted  to  their  wants 
and  capacities,  from  the  dawn  of  reason,  through  its  gradations  of  advance  in  the 
morning  of  life.  Every  man  acquainted  with  the  common  principles  of  human  action 
will  look  with  veneration  on  the  writer  who  is  at  one  time  combating  Locke,  and  at 
another  making  a  catechism  for  children  in  their  fourth  year.  A  voluntary  descent 
from  the  dignity  of  Science  is,  perhaps,  the  hardest  lesson  that  humility  can  teach.” 

John  Weaver  was  a  Dancing  master,  and  author  of  “An  Essay  toward  a  History  of 
Dancing  ;  in  which  the  whole  Art,  and  its  various  excellencies,  are  in  some  measure  ex¬ 
plained.  Containing  the  several  sorts  of  Dancing,  antique  and  modern,  serious,  sce- 
nical,  grotesque,  etc.  With  the  use  of  it  as  an  exercise,  qualification,  diversion,  etc.,” 
12mo.  In  a  letter  printed  in  the  “  Spectator,”  No.  334,  he  advertises  his  intention  of 
publishing  this  Work,  which  appeared  before  the  close  of  the  year.  Steele  spoke  ap¬ 
provingly  of  the  Book  in  the  “Spectator,”  No.  466,  and  certainly  not  undeservedly,  if 
it  be  written  Avitli  the  same  ease  and  spirit  as  his  Letter. 

Richard  Parker  Avas  the  friend  and  fellow-collegian  of  Steele,  at  Merton  College. 
He  took  his  degree  of  M.  A.  in  1697,  and  was  esteemed  a  very  accomplished  scholar. 


XXVI 


PREFACE. 


[t  is  said  that  Edmund  Smith  submitted  his  Translation  of  Longinus ,  to  his  judgment, 
from  his  exact  critical  knowledge  of  the  Greek  Tongue.  Mr.  Parker  was  presented  by 
his  College  to  the  Vicarage  of  Embleton,  in  Northumberland,  which  he  held  to  a  verj 
advanced  age:  it  would  appear,  however,  from  his  Letter  in  “Spectator,”  No.  474, 
that  his  tastes  were  very  dissimilar  to  those  of  the  country  gentlemen  around  him. 

Peter  Anthony  Motteux  was  born  at  Rouen  in  160(f.  On  the  revocation  of  the 
Edict  of  Nantz,  he  came  to  England,  and  lived  for  some  time  with  his  relative,  Paul  Domi¬ 
nique,  Esq.  Unlike  the  generality  of  his  countrymen,  he  attained  so  perfect  a  knowledge 
of  the  English  Language,  both  in  its  idiom  and  its  colloquial  expression,  that  his  Transla¬ 
tions  of  “Don  Quixote,”  and  “The  Works  of  Rabelais,”  have  been  esteemed,  the  for¬ 
mer  equal  to  any  before  or 'since  ;  and  the  latter,  “  one  of  the  most  perfect  specimens 
of  the  art  of  Translation.”  He  also  translated  several  plays,  which  were  acted  with 
success  ;  wrote  Prologues  and  Epilogues  ;  and  a  Poem  “  On  Tea,”  dedicated  to  the 
Spectator.  At  length,  deeming  Trade  a  more  lucrative  pursuit  than  Literature,  he 
opened  an  East  India  Warehouse  in  Leadenhall-street ;  and  obtained  an  appointment  in 
the  Post-office.  His  Letter  to  the  Spectator  (in  No.  288)  relates  to  this  change  in  his 
avocations,  and  is  an  advertisement  of  the  articles  in  which  he  dealt. — He  soon  was 
placed  in  easy  circumstances,  married  an  amiable  woman,  and  became  the  father  of  a 
family  :  but  these  blessings  were  insufficient  to  deter  him  from  vicious  habits.  He  was 
found  dead  on  the  morning  of  the  9th  of  February,  1717-18,  at  a  brothel  near  Temple  Bar, 
not  without  suspicions  that  he  had  been  murdered  by  the  wretches  who  surrounded  him. 

- Brome,  D.D.,  was  the  author  of  Spectator,  No.  302.  It  is  supposed  that  the 

Emilia  who  is  there  described,  was  “the  mother  of  Mrs.  Ascham,  of  Connington,  Cam¬ 
bridgeshire,”  and  the  wife  of  Dr.  Brome.  This  latter  supposition  is  founded  upon,  and, 
in  some  measure,  borne  out  by,  her  husband  being  termed  “Bromius.”  If  such  be 
the  fact,  we  learn  that  Brome  had  been  originally  a  man,  gay,  thoughtless,  and  extrava¬ 
gant  ;  and  that  he  owed  to  the  virtues  and  discreet  conduct  of  his  wife,  the  preservation 
of  his  paternal  estate,  as  well  as  of  his  moral  character. 

- Francham  was  a  resident  at  Norwich,  and  wrote  “  Spectator”  No.  520,  upon 

his  wife’s  death.  We  have  no  further  particulars  regarding  him  ;  and  it  is  a  pity,  for 
the  paper  in  question  is  of  oxtreme  beauty,  simplicity,  and  tenderness. 

Mr.  Dunlop  was  Greek  Professor  in  the  University  of  Glasgow,  and  joined  with 
Mr.  Montgomery,  in  writing  No.  524.  Mr.  Dunlop  published  a  Greek  Grammar  of 
some  repute. 

Mr.  Montgomery  was  a  Merchant  of  high  respectability,  and,  we  are  told,  “traded  to 
Sweden,  and  his  business  carrying  him  there,  it  is  said  that  in  consequence  of  something 
between  him  and  Queen  Christina,  he  was  obliged  to  leave  the  kingdom  abruptly.  This 
event  was  supposed  to  have  affected  his  intellect,  much  in  the  same  manner  as  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley  is  represented  to  have  been  injured  by  his  passion  for  the  beautiful  widow.” 

Miss  Shepheard,  and  her  sister,  Mrs.  Perry,  were  descended  from  Sir  Fleetwood 
Shepheard.  The  former  wrote  two  letters  in  the  “Spectator,”  one  signed  Parthenia,  in  No. 
140,  the  other  Leonora ,  in  No.  163:  and  the  latter,  one  in  No.  92,  reminding  Addison  of 
a  promise  he  had  made,  to  recommend  a  select  library  for  the  improvement  of  the  fair  sex. 

Robert  Harper  was  a  Conveyancer  of  Lincoln’s  Inn :  he  wrote  the  letter  in  No. 
480,  signed  M.  D.  The  original  draught,  communicated  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Harper,  of 
the  British  Museum,  shows  that  Steele  made  many  alterations  in  this  Letter  before 
printing  it. 

- Golding.  We  have  no  particulars  relative  to  the  life  and  character  of  Mr. 

Golding;  but  to  him  is  attributed  the  first  Letter  in  No.  250  of  the  “  Spectator.” 

Gilbert  Budgell,  the  second  brother  of  Eustace  Budgell,  was  the  author  of  the 
verses  at  the  close  of  No.  591  :  it  is  probable  that  the  paper  itself  is  the  production  of 
his  brother  Eustace. 


PREFACE. 


xxvil 

Henry  Bland  was  bead  master  of  Eton  School,  then  Provost  of  the  College,  and 
afterward  Dean  of  Durham.  He  was  author  of  the  Latin  Translation  of  Cato’s 
Soliloquy,  in  No.  628,  originally  attributed  to  Atterbury.  The  late  Horace  Walpole 
assured  Mr.  Nicliolls  that  he  had  heard  his  father,  Sir  Robert,  say  that  it  was  the  work 
of  Bland,  and  that  he  had  himself  given  it  to  Addison. 

Richard  Ince  was  educated  at  Westminster,  and  after  became  a  student  of  Christ¬ 
church,  Oxford.  Steele  testifies  to  his  having  been  a  contributor  to  the  “  Spectator, ” 
in  No.  555.  In  1740,  he  obtained,  through  Lord  Granville’s  interest,  the  office  of  Sec¬ 
retary  to  the  Comptroller  of  Army  Accounts,  the  duties  of  which  he  performed  with 
great  credit  for  twelve  years  ;  when,  by  the  death  of  his  brother,  he  inherited  an  afflu¬ 
ent  fortune.  He  died  in  1758. 

- Carey,  of  New  College,  Oxford,  was,  by  Steele’s  acknowledgment  (No.  555), 

a  contributor  to  the  “  Spectator his  productions,  however,  have  not  been  identified. 

Beside  the  Papers  ascribed,  by  ascertained  fact,  and  by  internal  evidence,  to  the 
foregoing,  a  considerable  number  marked  T.  (meaning,  it  is  judged,  Transcribed ),  as 
well  as  fifty-three  others,  remain  unappropriated.  Many  of  them,  it  is  probable,  are  the 
compositions  of  Budgell  and  Tickell ;  but  research  seems  to  have  done  its  utmost  and 
it  is  not  now  likely  that  further  information  will  be  elicited  respecting  them. 

H.  D. 


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A  LIST  OF  THE 

WRITERS  OF  THE  SPECTATOR, 

^  . 

AS  FAR  AS  IS  KNOWN. 


Those  marked  with  an  Asterisk  are  unknown.  Those  marked  with  more  than  one  Initial  Letter 
are  the  work  of  those  Writers  whose  names  are  indicated  by  the  Initial  Letters. 


1  Addison  ^ 

50  Addison 

96  Steele.  Signature  T. 

2  Steele 

51 

97  “  "  T. 

3  Addison 

52  Steele 

98  Addison 

4  Steele 

53  “  and  John  Hughes, 

99 

5  Addison 

Chalmers 

100  Steele.  Signature  T, 

6  Steele 

54  Steele 

101  Addison 

7  “ 

55  Addison 

102 

8  “ 

56 

103  Steele 

9  “ 

57 

104  “  and  John  Hughes.  T 

10  Addison 

58 

105  Addison 

11  Steele 

59 

106 

12  Addison 

60 

107  Steele 

13 

61 

108  Addison 

14  Steele 

62 

109  Steele 

15  Addison 

63 

110  Addison 

16 

64  Steele 

111 

17  Steele 

65  “ 

112 

18  Addison 

66  “  and  John  Hughes 

113  Steele 

19  Steele 

67  Eustace  Budgell 

114  “  T. 

20  “ 

68  Addison 

115  Addison 

21  Addison 

69 

116  Eustace  Budgell 

22  Steele 

70 

117  Addison 

23  Addison 

71  Steele 

118  Steele,  T. 

24  Steele 

72  Addison 

119  Addison 

25  Addison 

73 

120 

26 

74 

121 

27  Steele 

75  Steele 

122 

28  Addison 

76  “ 

123  “ 

29 

77  Eustace  Budgell 

124  “ 

30  Steele 

78  Steele 

125  “ 

31  Addison 

79  “ 

126  “ 

32  Steele 

80  “ 

127 

33  John  Hughes,  Chalmers 

81  Addison 

128  “ 

34  Addison 

82  Steele 

129  “ 

35 

83  Addison 

130  “ 

36  Steele 

84  Steele;  a  Letter  by  Eusden 

131 

37  Addison 

85  Addison 

132  Steele,  T. 

38  Steele 

86 

133  " 

39  Addison 

87  Steele 

134  “ 

40 

88  “ 

135  Addison 

41  Steele 

89  Addison 

136  Steele,  T. 

42  Addison 

90 

137  “ 

43  Steele 

91  Steele  and  John  Hughes  — 

138  “ 

44  Addison 

the  Letter  by  Miss  Shep- 

139  « 

45 

heard 

140  “  The  Letter  signed 

46  “ 

92  Addison 

Leonora,  Miss  Shepheard 

47 

93 

and  John  Hughes 

48  Steele 

94  “ 

141  Steele 

49  “ 

95  * 

142  “ 

/  _ \ 

/ 


XXX 


LIST  OF  WRITERS. 


143  Steele 

144  “ 

145  “ 

146  “ 

147  Steele,  T. 

148  “ 

149  “ 

150  Eustace  Budgell 

151  Steele,  T. 

152  “ 

153  “ 

154  “ 

155  “ 

156  “ 

157  “ 

158  “ 

159  Addison 

160 
161 
162 

163  “  The  Letter  Leonora, 
Miss  Shepheard 

164 

165 

166 

167  Steele,  T 

168  “ 

169  Addison 

170 

171  “ 

172  Steele 

173  Addison 

174  Steele,  T. 

175  Eustace  Budgell 

176  Steele,  T. 

177  Addison 

178  Steele,  T. 

179  Addison 

180  Steele,  T. — Letter  written  to 

the  king  of  France,  H. 
Martyn 

181  Addison 

182  * 

183  Addison 

184  « 

185 

186 

187  Steele,  T. 

188  “ 

189  Addison 

190  Steele 

191  Addison 

192  Steele,  T. 

193  “ 

194  “ 

195  Addison 

196  Steele 

197  Eustace  Budgell 

198  Addison 

199  Steele,  T. 

200  “  or  Henry  Martyn 

201  Addison 

202  Steele,  T. 

203  Addison 

204  Steele,  T. 

205  Addison 

206  Steele,  T. 

207  Addison 

208  Steele,  T. 

209  Addison 

210  John  Hughes 

211  Addison 

212  Steele,  T. 

213  Addison 

214  Steele,T. 

215  Addison 


216  Addison 

217  Eustace  Budgell 

218  Steele,  T. 

219  Addison 

220  Steele  and  John  Hughes 

221  Addison 

222  Steele,  T. 

223  Addison 

224  John  Hughes 

225  Addison 

226  Steele,  T. 

227  Addison 

228  Steele,  T. 

229  Addison 

230  John  Hughes:  last  Letter 

Steele 

231  Addison  and  John  Hughes: 

the  Letter  Chalmers 

232  Sig.  Z.  Eustace  Budgell, 

l2mo.  Ed.  Annotator  to 
Henry  Martyn* 

233  Addison 

234  Steele,  T. 

235  Addison 

236  Steele,  T. 

237  4to.  Bask.  Addison,  John 

Hughes,  Chalmers,  and 
Duncombe 

238  Steele,  T. 

239  Addison 

240  Steele,  T 

241  Addison 

242  Steele,  T. 

243  Addison 

244  Steele,  T. 

245  Addison 

246  Steele,  T. 

247  Addison 

248  Steele,  T. 

249  Addison 

250  * 

251  Addison 

252  Steele,  T.  —  The  Letter, 

John  Hughes 

253  Addison 

254  Steele,  T. 

255  Addison 

256 

257  “ 

258  Steele,  T. 

259  “ 

260  Addison 

261 
262 

263 

264  Steele,  T. 

265  Addison 

266  Steele,  T. 

267  Addison 

268  Steele. — The  Letter,  Janies 

Heywood* 

269  The  Baskerville  4to.  does 

not  assign  this  to  Addison. 
8vo.  1775.  has  Sig.  L 

270  Steele,  T. 

271  The  Baskerville  4to.  not  to. 

Addison;  8vo.  1775,  does. 

272  Steele,  T. 

273  Addison 

274  Steele 

275  This  Ho.  the  same  as  269 

and  271 

276  Steele,  T. 

277  Eustace  Budgell 

278  Steele,  T. 

279  Addison 


280  Steele,  T. 

281  The  same  as  269,  271,  and 

275 

282  Steele.  T. 

283  Eustace  Budgell 

284  Steele,  T. 

285  Addison 

286  * 

287  The  same  as  the  above,  281, 

etc. 

288  Steele,  T.  —  The  Letter 

Motteaux 

289  The  same  as  281,  etc.  Eus¬ 

tace  Budgell,  Chalmers 

290  Steele,  T. 

291  Addison 

292  * 

293  The  same  as  287,  etc. 

294  Steele 

295  The  same  as  293,  etc. 

296  Steele 

297  Addison 

298  Steele 

299  The  same  as  293,  etc. 

300  Steele,  T. 

301  Eustace  Budgell 

302  Steele.  The  Character  of 

Emilia,  Dr.  Brome 

303  Addison 

304  Steele,  T. 

305  The  same  as  295,  etc. 

306  Steele 

307  Eustace  Budgell 

308  * 

309  Addison 

310  Steele,  T. 

311  The  same  as  299;  and  the 

Letter  J.  Hughes 

312  Steele,  T 

313  Eustace  Budgell 

314  Steele 

315  Addison 

316  Eustace  Budgell 

317  The  same  as  311  etc. 

318  Steele 

319  Eustace  Budgell 

320  Steele,  T. 

321  Addison 

322  Steele 

323  The  same  as  317,  etc 

324  Steele 

325  Eustace  Budgell 

326  Steele,  T. 

327  Addison 

328  Steele,  T. 

329  The  same  as  317,  etc. 

330  Steele 

331  Eustace  Budgell 

332  Steele 

333  Addison 

334  Steele 

335  The  same  as  329,  etc. 

336  Steele 

337  Eustace  Budgell 

338  * 

339  Addison 

340  Stsele 

341  Eustace  Budgell 

342  Steele 

343  The  same  as  329,  etc. 

344  Steele,  T. 

345  Addison 

346  Steele,  T. 

347  Eustace  Budgell 

348  Steele 

349  The  same  as  343,  etc. 


OF  THE  SPECTATOR. 


XXXI 


350  Steele 

351  Addison 

352  Steele 

353  Eustace  Budgell 

354  Steele 

355  The  same  as  349,  etc. 

356  Steele 

357  Addison 

358  * 

359  Eustace  Budgell 

360  Steele,  T. 

361  Addison 

362  Steele,  T. 

363  Addison.  This  is  omitted 

in  the  4to.  Baskerville 

364  Philip  Yorke 

365  Eustace  Budgell 

366  Steele 

367  Addison 

368  Steele 

369  Addison  ;  omitted  in  4to. 

Baskerville 

370  Steele 

371  Addison 

372  Steele,  T. 

373  Eustace  Budgell 

374  Steele,  T. 

375  John  Hughes 

376  Steele,  T. 

377  Addison 

378  The  Messiah,  Pope 

379  Eustace  Budgell 

380  Steele,  T. 

381  Addison 

382  Steele,  T. 

383  Addison 

384  Steele,  T. 

38l>  Eustace  Budgell 

386  Steele,  T. 

387  Addison 

388  Steele,  T. 

389  Eustace  Budgell 

390  Steele 

391  Addison 

392  Steele,  T. 

393  Addison 

394  Steele,  T. 

395  Eustace  Budgell 

396  The  Letter,  Orator  Henley 

397  Addison 

398  Steele,  T. 

*399  Addison 

400  Steele 

401  Eustace  Budgell 

402  * 

403  Addison 

404  Sig.  Z.  Eustace  Budgell 

405  Addison 

406  Steele 

407  Addison  — 

408  Pope 

409  Addison 

410  Tickell 

411  Addison 

412 

413 

414  " 

415  “ 

416 

417 

418 

419  " 

420 

421 

422  Steele,  T. 

423  “ 


424  Steele 

425  Eustace  Budgell 

426  Steele 

427  « 

428  « 

429  « 

430  “ 

431  * 

432  * 

433  Addison 

434 

435 

436  Steele 

437  “ 

438  “ 

439  Addison 

440 

441  “ 

442  Steele 

443  “ 

444  “ 

445  Addison 

446  “ 

447  “ 

448  Steele 

449  “ 

450  “ 

451  Addison 

452  “ 

453  “ 

454  Steele 

455  “ 

456  « 

457  Addison 

458 

459 

460  Parnell 

461  Steele 

462  “ 

463  Addison 

464  “ 

465 

466  Steele 

467  John  Hughes 

468  Steele 

469  Addison 

470 

471 

472  Steele 

473  “ 

474  “ 

475  Addison 

476 

477 

478  Steele 

479  “ 

480  Letter,  Robert  Harper 

481  Addison 

482 

483 

484  Steele,  T. 

485  Steele 

486  “ 

487  Addison 

488 

489 

490  Steele,  T. 

491  “ 

492  “ 

493  “ 

494  Addison 

495  “ 

496  Steele,  T. 

497  “ 

498  " 

499  Addison 


500  Addison 

501  Parnell 

502  Steele,  T. 

503  “ 

504  “ 

505  Addison 

506  Eustace  Budgell 

507  Addison 

508  Steele 

509  “ 

510  « 

511  Addison 

512 

513 

514  Steele 

515  “ 

516  * 

517  Addison 

518  The  Letter,  Orator  Henley 

519  Addison 

520  Francham 

521  Steele,  T. 

522  “ 

523  Addison 

524  Dunlop  and  Montgomery 

525  John  Hughes 

526  Steele 

527  Addison  * 

528  Steele 

529  Addison 

530 

531  “ 

532  Steele,  T. 

533  “ 

534  “ 

535  Addison 

536 

537  John  Hughes 

538  Addison 

539  Eustace  Budgell 

540  Steele,  T. 

541  John  Hughes 

542  Addison 

543 

544  Steele 

545  “ 

546  “ 

547  Addison 

548  * 

549  Addison 

550 

551  * 

552  Steele,  T. 

553  * 

554  John  Hughes 

555  Henry  Martyn 

556  Addison 

557 

558 

559 

560  Addison;  8vo.  1775,  omitted 

in  4to.  Baskerville 

561  Addison 

562 

563  * 

564  * 

565  Addison 

566  * 

567  Addison 

568 

569 

570  * 

571  Addison 

572  Dr  Z.  Fearce 

573  * 

574  Addison 


xxxii  LIST  OF  WRITERS  OF  THE  SPECTATOR. 


575  Addison 

596  * 

616  * 

576 

597  John  Byrom  * 

617  * 

577  * 

598  Addison 

618  * 

578  * 

599  * 

619  * 

579  Addison 

600  Addison 

620  The  Poem,  Tickell 

580 

601  Henry  Grove 

621  * 

581  * 

602  Eustace  Budgell 

622  * 

582  Addison 

603  Verses,  John  Byrom 

623  * 

583 

604  * 

624  * 

584 

605  Eustace  Budgell 

625  * 

585 

606  * 

626  Henry  Grove 

586  John  Byrom  * 

607  * 

627  * 

587  * 

608  * 

628  * 

588  Henry  Grove  * 

609  * 

629  * 

589  * 

610  * 

630  * 

590  Addison 

611  * 

631  * 

591  Eustace  Budgell 

612  * 

632  * 

592  Addison 

613  *  - 

633  Dr.  Z.  Pearce  ** 

593  John  Byrom 

614  * 

634  * 

594  * 

595  * 

615  * 

635  John  Grove 

N 


THE 


SPECTATOR. 


ORIGINAL  DEDICATIONS  OF  THE  SUCCESSIVE  VOLUMES. 


TO  LORD  JOHN  SOMERS, 

BARON  OF  EVESHAM. 

My  Lord, 

I  should  not  act  the  part  of  an  impartial  Specta¬ 
tor,  if  I  dedicated  the  following  papers  to  one  who 
is  not  of  the  most  consummate  and  acknowledged 
merit. 

None  but  a  person  of  a  finished  character  can  be 
a  proper  patron  of  a  work  which  endeavors  to  cul¬ 
tivate  ana  polish  human  life,  by  promoting  virtue 
and  knowledge,  and  by  recommending  whatsoever 
may  be  either  useful  or  ornamental  to  society. 

1  know  that  the  homage  I  now  pay  you,  is  offer¬ 
ing  a  kind  of  violence  to  one  who  is  as  solicitous 
to  shun  applause,  as  he  is  assiduous  to  deserve  it. 
But,  my  Lord,  this  is  perhaps  the  only  particular 
in  which  your  prudence  will  be  always  disap¬ 
pointed. 

While  justice,  candor,  equanimity,  a  zeal  for  the 
good  of  your  country,  audthe  most  persuasive  elo- 
uence  in  bringing  over  others  to  it,  are  valuable 
istinctions:  you  are  not  to  expect  that  the  public 
will  so  far  comply  with  your  inclinations  as  to  for¬ 
bear  celebrating  such  extraordinary  qualities.  It 
is  in  vain  that  you  have  endeavored  to  conceal 
your  share  of  merit  in  the  many  national  services 
which  you  have  effected.  Do  what  you  will,  the 
present  age  will  be  talking  of  your  virtues,  though 
posterity  alone  will  do  them  justice. 

Other  men  pass  through  oppositions  and  contend¬ 
ing  interests  in  the  ways  of  ambition ;  but  your 
great  abilities  have  been  invited  to  power,  and  im¬ 
portuned  to  accept  of  advancement.  Nor  is  it 
strange  that  this  should  happen  to  your  Lordship, 
who  could  bring  into  the  service  of  your  sovereign 
the  arts  and  policies  of  ancient  Greece  and  Rome, 
as  well  as  the  most  exact  knowledge  of  our  own 
constitution  in  particular,  and  of  the  interests  of 
Europe  in  general ;  to  which  I  must  also  add,  a 
certain  dignity  in  yourself,  that  (to  say  the  least 
of  it)  has  been  always  equal  to  those  great  honors 
which  have  been  conferred  upon  you. 

It  is  very  well  known  how  much  the  church 
owed  to  you,  in  the  most  dangerous  day  it  ever  saw, 
that  of  the  arraignment  of  its  prelates;  and  how 
far  the  civil  power,  in  the  late  and  present  reign, 
has  been  indebted  to  your  counsels  and  wisdom. 

But  to  enumerate  the  great  advantages  which  the 
public  has  received  from  your  administration 
would  be  a  more  proper  work  for  a  history,  than 
for  an  address  of  this  nature. 

Your  Lordship  appears  as  great  in  your  private 
life,  as  in  the  most  important  offices  which  you 


have  borne.  I  would,  therefore,  rather  choose  to 
speak  of  the  pleasure  you  afford  all  who  are  ad¬ 
mitted  to  your  conversation,  of  your  elegant  taste 
in  all  the  polite  arts  of  learning,  of  your  great 
humanity  and  complacency  of  manners,  and  of 
the  surprising  influence  which  is  peculiar  to  you, 
in  making  every  one  who  converses  with  your 
Lordship  prefer  you  to  himself,  without  thinking 
the  less  meanly  of  his  own  talents.  But  if  I 
should  take  notice  of  all  that  might  be  observed 
in  your  Lordship,  I  should  have  nothing  new  to 
say  upon  any  other  character  of  distinction. 

I  am,  my  Lord, 

Your  Lordship’s  most  devoted, 

Most  obedient  humble  servant. 

The  Spectator. 


TO  CHARLES  LORD  HALIFAX. 

My  Lord, 

Similitude  of  manners  and  studies  is  usually 
mentioned  as  one  of  the  strongest  motives  to  affec¬ 
tion  and  esteem  ;  but  the  passionate  veneration  I 
have  for  your  Lordship,  I  think  flows  from  an  ad¬ 
miration  of  qualities  in  you,  of  which,  in  the  whole 
course  of  these  papers,  I  have  acknowledged  my¬ 
self  incapable.  While  I  busy  myself  as  a  stranger 
upon  earth,  and  can  pretend  to  no  other  than 
being  a  looker-on,  you  are  conspicuous  in  the  busy 
and  polite  world — both  in  the  world  of  men,  and 
that  of  letters.  While  I  am  silent  and  unobserved 
in  public  meetings,  you  are  admired  by  all  that 
approach  you,  as  the  life  and  genius  of  the  con¬ 
versation.  What  a  happy  conjunction  of  different 
talents  meets  in  him  whose  whole  discourse  is  at 
once  animated  by  the  strength  and  force  of  reason, 
and  adorned  with  all  the  graces  and  embellish¬ 
ments  of  wit!  When  learning  irradiates  common 
life,  it  is  then  in  its  highest  use  and  perfection ; 
and  it  is  to  such  as  your  Lordship,  that  the  sciences 
owe  the  esteem  which  they  have  with  the  active 
part  of  mankind.  Knowledge  of  books,  in  recluse 
men,  is  like  that  sort  of  lantern  which  hides  him 
who  carries  it,  and  serves  only  to  pass  through 
secret  and  gloomy  paths  of  his  own ;  but  in  the 
possession  of  a  man  of  business,  it  is  as  a  torch  in 
the  hand  of  one  who  is  willing  and  able  to  show 
those  who  were  bewildered  the  way  which  leads 
to  their  prosperity  and  welfare.  A  generous  con¬ 
cern  for  your  country,  and  a  passion  for  every¬ 
thing  that  is  truly  great  and  noble,  are  what  actu¬ 
ate  all  your  life  and  actions ;  and  I  hope  you  will 
forgive  me  when  I  have  an  ambition  this  book  may 
be  placed  in  the  library  of  so  good  a  judgo  of 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


34 


what  is  valuable — in  that  library  where  the  choice 
is  such,  that  it  will  not  be  a  disparagement  to  be 
the  meanest  author  in  it.  Forgive  me,  my  Lord, 
for  taking  this  occasion  of  telling  all  the  world 
how  ardently  I  love  and  honor  you;  and  that  I  am, 
with  the  utmost  gratitude  for  all  your  favors. 

My  Lord,  your  Lordship’s  most  obliged, 

Most  obedient,  and  most  humble  servant, 

The  Spectator. 


TO  THE  RIGHT  HON.  HENRY  BOYLE  * 
Sir,  1712. 

As  the  professed  design  of  this  work  is  to  enter¬ 
tain  its  readers  in  general,  without  giving  offense 
to  any  particular  person,  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find  out  so  proper  a  patron  for  it  as  yourself,  there 
being  none  whose  merit  is  more  universally  ac¬ 
knowledged  by  all  parties  and  who  has  made  him¬ 
self  more  friends,  and  fewer  enemies.  Your  great 
abilities  and  unquestioned  integrity  in  those  high 
employments  which  you  have  passed  through, 
would  not  have  been  able  to  have  raised  you  this 
general  approbation,  had  they  not  been  accompa¬ 
nied  with  that  moderation  in  a  high  fortune,  and 
that  affability  of  manners,  which  are  so  conspicu¬ 
ous  through  all  parts  of  your  life.  Your  aversion 
to  any  ostentatious  arts  of  setting  to  show  those 
reat  services  which  you  have  done  the  public, 
as  not  likewise  a  little  contributed  to  that  uni¬ 
versal  acknowledgment  which  is  paid  you  by  your 
country. 

The  consideration  of  this  part  of  your  character, 
is  that  which  hinders  me  from  enlarging  on  those 
extraordinary  talents,  which  have  given  you  so 
great  a  figure  in  the  British  senate,  as  well  as  on 
that  elegance  and  politeness  which  appear  in  your 
more  retired  conversation.  I  should  be  unpardon¬ 
able  if,  after  what  I  have  said,  I  should  longer 
detain  you  with  an  address  of  this  nature  :  I  can¬ 
not,  however,  conclude  it,  without  acknowledging 
those  great  obligations  which  you  have  laid  upon, 
Sir,  your  most  obedient,  humble  servant, 

The  Spectator. 


TO  THE  DUKE  OF  MARLBOROUGH. 

My  Lord,  1712. 

As  it  is  natural  for  us  to  have  fondness  for  what 
has  cost  us  much  time  and  attention  to  produce,  I 
hope  your  grace  will  forgive  my  endeavor  to  pre¬ 
serve  this  work  from  oblivion,  by  affixing  to  it 
your  memorable  name, 

I  shall  not  here  presume  to  mention  the  illus¬ 
trious  passages  of  your  life,  which  are  celebrated 
by  the  whole  age,  and  have  been  the  subject  of 
the  most  sublime  pens  ;  but  if  I  could  convey  you 
to  posterity  in  your  private  character,  and  de¬ 
scribed  the  stature,  the  behavior,  and  aspect,  of 
the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  I  question  not  but  it 
would  fill  the  reader  with  more  agreeable  images, 
and  give  him  a  more  delightful  entertainment, 
than  what  can  be  found  in  the  following,  or  any 
other  book. 

One  cannot  indeed  without  offense  to  yourself 
observe,  that  you  excel  the  rest  of  mankind  in  the 
least,  as  well  as  the  greatest  endowments.  Nor 
were  it  a  circumstance  to  be  mentioned,  if  the 
graces  and  attractions  of  your  person  were  not  the 
only  pre-eminence  you  have  above  others,  which  is 
left  almost  unobserved  by  greater  writers. 

Y et  how  pleasing  would  it  be  to  those  who  shall 
read  the  surprising  revolutions  in  your  story,  to 
be  made  acquainted  with  your  ordinary  life  and 


*  Youngest  son  of  Charles,  Lord  Clifford,  and  afterward 
Lord  Carleton. 


deportment!  How  pleasing  would  it  be  to  hear 
that  the  same  man  who  carried  fire  and  sword  into 
the  countries  of  all  that  had  opposed  the  cause  of 
liberty,  and  struck  a  terror  into  the  armies  of 
France,  had,  in  the  midst  of  his  high  station,  a 
behavior  as  gentle  as  is  usual  in  the  first  steps 
toward  greatness !  And  if  it  were  possible  to  ex¬ 
press  that  easy  grandeur,  which  did  at  once  per¬ 
suade  and  command  ;  it  would  appear  as  clearly  to 
those  to  come,  as  it  does  to  his  cotemporaries,  that 
all  the  great  events  which  were  brought  to  pass 
under  the  conduct  of  so  well-governed  a  spirit, 
were  the  blessings  of  heaven  upon  wisdom  and 
valor ;  and  all  which  seem  adverse  fell  out  by  di¬ 
vine  permission,  which  we  are  not  to  search  into. 

You  have  passed  that  year  of  life  wherein  the 
most  able  and  fortunate  captain,  before  your  time, 
declared  he  had  lived  long  enough  both  to  nature 
and  to  glory ;  and  your  Grace  may  make  that  re¬ 
flection  with  much  more  justice.  He  spoke  of  it 
after  he  had  arrived  at  empire  by  a  usurpation 
upon  those  whom  he  had  enslaved ;  but  the  Prince 
of  Mindelheim  may  rejoice  in  a  sovereignty  which 
was  the  gift  of  him  whose  dominions  he  had 
preserved. 

Glory  established  upon  the  uninterrupted  suc¬ 
cess  of  honorable  designs  and  actions,  is  not  sub¬ 
ject  to  diminution ;  nor  can  any  attempt  prevail 
against  it,  but  in  the  proportion  which  the  narrow 
circuit  of  rumor  bears  to  the  unlimited  extent  of 
fame. 

We  may  congratulate  your  Grace  not  only  upon 
your  high  achievements,  but  likewise  upon  the 
happy  expiration  of  your  command,  by  which 
your  glory  is  put  out  of  the  power  of  fortune:  and 
when  your  person  shall  be  so  too,  that  the  Author 
and  Disposer  of  all  things  may  place  you  in  that 
higher  mansion  of  bliss  and  immortality  which  is 
prepared  for  good  princes,  lawgivers,  and  heroes, 
when  he  in  his  due  time  removes  them  from  the 
envy  of  mankind,  is  the  hearty  prayer  of. 

My  Lord,  your  Grace’s  most  obedient, 

Most  devoted,  humble  servant, 

The  Spectator. 


TO  THE  EARL  OF  WHARTON. 

My  Lord,  1712-13 

The  author  of  the  Spectator,  having  prefixed 
before  each  of  his  volumes  the  names  of  some 
great  persons  to  whom  he  has  particular  obliga¬ 
tions,  lays  his  claim  to  your  Lordship’s  patronage 
upon  the  same  account.  I  must  confess,  my  Lord, 
had  not  I  already  received  great  instances  of  your 
favor,  I  should  have  been  afraid  of  submitting  a 
work  of  this  nature  to  your  perusal.  You  are  so 
thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  characters  of  men, 
and  all  the  parts  of  human  life,  that  it  is  impossible 
for  the  least  misrepresentation  of  them  to  escape 
your  notice.  It  is  your  Lordship’s  particular  dis¬ 
tinction  that  you  are  master  of  the  whole  compass 
of  business,  and  have  signalized  yourself  in  all 
the  different  scenes  of  it.  We  admire  some  for  the 
dignity,  others  for  the  popularity  of  their  beha¬ 
vior  ;  some  for  their  clearness  of  judgment,  others 
for  their  happiness  of  expression ;  some  for  the 
laying  of  schemes,  and  others  for  the  putting  of 
them  into  execution.  It  is  your  Lordship  only  who 
enjoys  these  several  talents  united,  and  that  too  in 
as  great  perfection  as  others  possess  them  singly. 
Your  enemies  acknowledge  this  great  extent  in 
your  Lordship’s  character,  at  the  same  time  that 
they  use  their  utmost  industry  and  invention  to 
derogate  from  it.  But  it  is  for  your  honor  that 
those  who  are  now  your  enemies  were  always  so. 
You  have  acted  in  so  much  consistency  with  your¬ 
self,  and  promoted  the  interest  of  your  country 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


in  so  uniform  a  manner,  that  those  who  would 
misrepresent  your  generous  designs  for  the  public 
good  cannot  but  approve  the  steadiness  and  intre- 
pedity  with  which  you  pursue  them.  It  is  a  most 
sensible  pleasure  to  me  that  I  have  this  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  professing  myself  one  of  your  great 
admirers,  and,  in  a  very  particular  manner. 

My  Lord,  your  Lordship’s  most  obliged, 

And  most  obedient,  humble  servant. 

The  Spectator. 


TO  THE  EARL  OF  SUNDERLAND. 

My  Lord,  1712-13. 

Yery  many  favors  and  civilities  (received  from 
you  in  a  private  capacity)  which  I  have  no  other 
way  to  acknowledge,  will,  I  hope,  excuse  this  pre¬ 
sumption  ;  but  the  justice  I,  as  a  Spectator,  owe 
your  character,  places  me  above  the  want  of  an 
excuse.  Candor  and  openness  of  heart,  which 
shine  in  all  your  words  and  actions,  exact  the 
highest  esteem  from  all  who  have  the  honor  to 
know  you  ;  and  a  winning  condescension  to  all 
subordinate  to  you,  made  business  a  pleasure  to 
those  who  executed  it  under  you,  at  the  same  time 
that  it  heightened  her  Majesty’s  favor  to  all  those 
who  had  the  happiness  of  having  it  conveyed 
through  your  hands.  A  secretary  of  state,  in  the 
interest  of  mankind,  joined  with  that  of  his  fel¬ 
low-subjects,  accomplished  with  a  great  facility 
and  elegance,  in  all  the  modern  as  well  as  ancient 
languages,  was  a  happy  and  proper  member  of  a 
ministry,  by  whose  services  your  sovereign  is  in 
so  high  and  flourishing  a  condition,  as  makes  all 
other  princes  and  potentates  powerful  or  incon¬ 
siderable  in  Europe,  as  they  are  friends  or  ene¬ 
mies  to  Great  Britain.  The  importance  of  those 
great  events  which  happened  during  that  admin¬ 
istration  in  which  your  Lordship  bore  so  impor¬ 
tant  a  charge,  will  be  acknowledged  as  long  as 
time  shall  endure.  I  shall  not  therefore  attempt 
to  rehearse  those  illustrious  passages,  but  give 
this  application  a  more  private  and  particular 
turn,  in  desiring  your  Lordship  would  continue 
your  favor  and  patronage  to  me,  as  you  are  a  gen¬ 
tleman  of  the  most  polite  literature,  and  perfectly 
accomplished  in  the  knowledge  of  books*  and 
men,  which  makes  it  necessary  to  beseech  your 
indulgence  to  the  following  leaves,  and  the  author 
of  them ;  who  is,  with  the  greatest  truth  and  re¬ 
spect, 

My  Lord,  your  Lordship’s  obliged, 

Obedient,  and  humble  servant, 

The  Spectator. 


TO  MR.  METHUEN. f 

Sir, 

It  is  with  great  pleasure  I  take  an  opportunity 
of  publishing  the  gratitude  I  owe  you  for  the 
place  you  allow  me  in  your  friendship  and  fa¬ 
miliarity.  I  will  not  acknowledge  to  you  that  I 
have  often  had  you  in  my  thoughts,  when  I  have 
endeavored  to  draw,  in  some  parts  of  these  dis¬ 
courses,  the  character  of  a  good-natured,  honest, 
and  accomplished  gentleman.  But  such  repre¬ 
sentations  give  my  readers  an  idea  of  a  person 
blameless  only,  or  only  laudable  for  such  perfec¬ 
tions  as  extend  no  farther  than  to  his  own  private 
advantage  and  reputation. 


*  His  lordship  was  the  founder  of  the  splendid  and  truly 
valuable  library  at  Althorp. 

t  Afterward  Sir  Paul  Methuen,  Knight  of  the  Bath.  This 
very  ingenious  gentleman,  while  ambassador  at  the  court  of 
Portugal,  concluded  the  famous  commercial  treaty  which 
bears  his  name ;  and  in  the  same  capacity,  at  the  court  of 
Savoy,  exerted  himself  nobly  as  a  military  hero. 


35 

But  when  I  speak  of  you,  I  celebrate  one  who 
has  had  the  happiness  of  possessing  also  those 
qualities  which  make  a  man  useful  to  society,  and 
of  having  had  opportunities  of  exerting  them  in 
the  most  conspicuous  manner. 

The  great  part  you  had,  as  British  ambassa¬ 
dor,  in  procuring  and  cultivating  the  advanta¬ 
geous  commerce  between  the  courts  of  England 
and  Portugal,  has  purchased  you  the  lasting  es¬ 
teem  of  all  who  understand  the  business  of  either 
nation. 

Those  personal  excellencies  which  are  overrated 
by  the  ordinary  world,  and  too  much  neglected 
by  wise  men,  you  have  applied  with  the  justest 
skill  and  judgment.  The  most  graceful  address 
in  horsemanship,  in  the  use  of  the  sword,  and  in 
dancing,  has  been  used  by  you  as  lower  arts;  and 
as  they  have  occasionally  served  to  cover  or  intro¬ 
duce  the  talents  of  a  skillful  minister. 

But  your  abilities  have  not  appeared  only  in  one 
nation.  When  it  was  your  province  to  act  as  her 
Majesty’s  minister  at  the  court  of  Savoy,  at  that 
time  encamped,  you  accompanied  that  gallant 
prince  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  his  fortune, 
and  shared  by  his  side  the  dangers  of  that  glori¬ 
ous  day  in  which  he  recovered  his  capital.  As 
far  as  it  regards  personal  qualities,  you  attained, 
in  that  one  hour,  the  highest  military  reputation. 
The  behavior  of  our  minister  in  the  action,  and 
the  good  offices  done  the  vanquished  in  the  name 
of  the  Queen  of  England,  gave  both  the  con¬ 
queror  and  the  captive  the  most  lively  examples 
of  the  courage  and  generosity  of  the  nation  he 
represented. 

Your  friends  and  companions  in  your  absence 
frequently  talk  these  things  of  you;  and  you  can¬ 
not  hide  from  us  (by  the  most  discreet  silence  in 
anything  which  regards  yourself)  that  the  frank 
entertainment  we  have  at  your  table,  your  easy 
condescension  in  little  incidents  of  mirth  and  di¬ 
version,  and  general  complacency  of  manners,  are 
far  from  being  the  greatest  obligations  we  have  to 
you.  I  do  assure  you,  there  is  not  one  of  your 
friends  has  a  greater  sense  of  your  merit  in  gen¬ 
eral,  and  of  the  favors  you  every  day  do  us,  than, 
Sir, 

Your  most  ob’t  and  most  humble  servant, 

Richard  Steele. 


TO  WILLIAM  HONEYCOMBE,  ESQ* 

The  seven  former  volumes  of  the  Spectator  hav¬ 
ing  been  dedicated  to  some  of  the  most  celebrated 
persons  of  the  age,  I  take  leave  to  inscribef  this 
eighth  and  last  to  you,  as  to  a  gentleman  who  hath 
ever  been  ambitious  of  appearing  in  the  best 
company. 

You  are  now  wholly  retired  from  the  busy  part 
of  mankind,  and  at  leisure  to  reflect  upon  your 
past  achievements  ;  for  which  reason  I  look  upon 
you  as  a  person  very  well  qualified  for  a  dedica¬ 
tion. 

I  may  possibly  disappoint  my  readers,  and 
yourself  too,  if  I  did  not  endeavor  on  this  occasion 
to  make  the  world  acquainted  with  your  virtues. 
And  here.  Sir,  I  shall  not  compliment  you  upon 
your  birth,  person,  or  fortune,  nor  on  any  other 
the  like  perfections  which  you  possess  whether 
you  will  or  no;  but  shall  only  touch  upon  those 
which  are  of  your  acquiring,  and  in  which  every 
one  must  allow  you  have  a  real  merit. 

Your  jaunty  air  and  easy  motion,  the  volubility 
of  your  discourse,  the  suddenness  of  your  laugh, 

*  Generally  supposed  to  be  Colonel  Cleland. 

f  This  dedication  is  supposed  to  have  been  written  by  Eus¬ 
tace  Budgell,  who  might  have  better  dedicated  it  to  Will 
Wimble. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


36 

the  management  of  your  snuff-box,  with  the  white¬ 
ness  of  your  hands  and  teeth  (which  have  justly 
gained  you  the  envy  of  the  most  polite  part  of  the 
male  world,  and  the  love  of  the  greatest  beauties 
in  the  female)  are  entirely  to  be  ascribed  to  your 
personal  genius  and  application. 

You  are  formed  for  these  accomplishments  by 
a  happy  turn  of  nature,  and  have  finished  your¬ 
self  in  them  by  the  utmost  improvements  of  art. 
A  man  that  is  defective  in  either  of  these  qualifi¬ 
cations  (whatever  may  be  the  secret  ambition  of 
his  heart)  must  never  hope  to  make  the  figure  you 
have  done,  among  the  fashionable  part  of  his  spe¬ 
cies.  It  is  therefore  no  wonder  we  see  such  mul¬ 
titudes  of  aspiring  young  men  fall  short  of  you  in 
all  these  beauties  ot  your  character,  notwithstand¬ 
ing  the  study  and  practice  of  them  is  the  whole 
business  of  their  lives.  But  I  need  not  tell  you, 
that  the  free  and  disengaged  behavior  of  a  fine 
gentleman  makes  as  many  awkward  beaux,  as 
the  easiness  of  your  favorite  hath  made  insipid 
poets. 

At  present  you  are  content  to  aim  all  your 
charms  at  your  own  spouse,  without  farther 
thought  of  mischief  to  any  others  of  the  sex.  I 
know  you  had  formerly  a  very  great  contempt  for 
that  pedantic  race  of  mortals  who  call  themselves 
philosophers;  and  yet,  to  your  honor  be  it  spoken, 
there  is  not  a  sage  of  them  all  could  have  better 
acted  up  to  their  precepts  in  one  of  the  most  im- 
ortant  points  of  life:  I  mean,  in  that  generous 
isregard  of  popular  opinion  which  you  showed 
some  years  ago,  when  you  chose  for  your  wife  an 
obscure  young  woman,  who  doth  not  indeed  pre¬ 
tend  to  an  ancient  family,  but  has  certainly  as 
many  forefathers  as  any  lady  in  the  land,  if  she 
but  reckons  up  their  names. 

I  must  own  I  conceived  very  extraordinary  hopes 
of  you  from  the  moment  that  you  confessed  your 
age,  and  from  eight-and-forty  (where  you  had 
stuck  so  many  years)  very  ingeniously  stepped 
into  your  grand  climacteric.  Your  deportment 
has  since  been  very  venerable  and  becoming.  If 


I  am  rightly  informed,  you  make  a  regular  ap¬ 
pearance  every  quarter-sessions  among  your  bro¬ 
thers  of  the  quorum;  and  if  things  go  on  as  they 
do,  stand  fair  for  being  a  colonel  of  the  militia.  I 
am  told  that  your  time  passes  away,  as  agreeably  in 
the  amusements  of  a  country  life,  as  it  ever  did  in 
the  gallantries  of  the  town;  and  that  you  now 
take  as  much  pleasure  in  the  planting  of  young 
trees,  as  you  did  formerly  in  the  cutting  down  of 
your  old  ones.  In  short,  we  hear  from  all  hands 
that  you  are  thoroughly  reconciled  to  your  dirty 
acres,  and  have  not  too  much  wit  to  look  into  your 
own  estate. 

After  having  spoken  thus  much  of  my  patron, 
I  must  take  the  privilege  of  an  author  in  saying 
something  of  myself.  I  shall  therefore  beg  leave 
to  add,  that  I  have  purposely  omitted  setting 
those  marks  to  the  end  of  every  paper,  which  ap¬ 
peared  in  my  former  volumes,  that  you  may  have 
an  opportunity  of  showing  Mrs.  Honeycombe  the 
shrewdness  of  your  conjectures,  by  ascribing 
every  speculation  to  its  proper  author  ;  though 
you  know  how  often  many  profound  critics  in 
style  and  sentiments  have  very  judiciously  erred 
in  this  particular,  before  they  were  let  into  the 
secret.  I  am,  Sir, 

Your  most  faithful,  humble  servant. 

The  Spectator. 


THE  BOOKSELLER  TO  THE  READER. 

In  the  six  hundred  and  thirty-second  Spectator, 
the  reader  will  find  an  account  of  the  rise  of  this 
eighth  and  last  volume. 

I  have  not  been  able  to  prevail  upon  the  several 
gentlemen  who  were  concerned  in  this  work  to  let 
me  acquaint  the  world  with  their  names. 

Perhaps  it  will  be  unnecessary  to  inform  the 
reader,  that  no  other  papers  which  have  appeared 
under  the  title  of  the  Spectator,  since  the  closing 
of  this  eighth  volume,  were  written  by  any  of 
those  gentlemen  who  had  a  hand  in  this  or  the 
former  volumes. 


cr 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


No,  1.]  THURSDAY,  MARCH  1, 1710-11. 

Non  fumum  ex  fulgore,  sed  ex  fumo  dare  lucem, 

Cogitat,  ut  speciosa  dehinc  miracula  promat, 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  143. 

One  with  a  flash  begins,  and  ends  in  smoke; 

Another  out  of  smoke  brings  glorious  light, 

And  (without  raising  expectation  high) 

Surprises  us  with  dazzling  miracles. — Roscommon. 

I  have  observed,  that  a  reader  seldom  peruses  a 
book  with  pleasure,  till  he  knows  whether  the 
writer  of  it  be  a  black  or  a  fair  man,  of  a  mild  or 
choleric  disposition,  married  or  a  bachelor,  with 
other  particulars  of  the  like  nature,  that  conduce 
very  much  to  the  right  understanding  of  an  au¬ 
thor.  To  gratify  this  curiosity,  which  is  so  natu¬ 
ral  in  a  reader,  I  design  this  paper  and  my  next 
as  prefatory  discourses  to  my  following  writings, 
and  shall  give  some  account  in  them  of  the  seve¬ 
ral  persons  that  are  engaged  in  this  work.  As 
the  chief  trouble  of  compiling,  digesting,  and  cor¬ 
recting,  will  fall  to  my  share,  I  must  do  my¬ 
self  the  justice  to  open  the  work  with  my  own 
history. 

I  was  born  to  a  small  hereditary  estate,  which, 
according  to  the  tradition  of  the  village  where  it 
lies,  was  bounded  by  the  same  hedges  and  ditches 
in  William  the  Conqueror’s  time  that  it  is  at  pre¬ 
sent,  and  has  been  delivered  down  from  father  to 
son,  whole  and  entire,  without  the  loss  or  acquisi¬ 
tion  of  a  single  field  or  meadow,  during  the  space 
of  six  hundred  years.  There  runs  a  story  in  the 
family,  that,  when  my  mother  was  gone  with  child 
of  me  about  three  months,  she  dreamed  that  she 
was  brought  to  bed  of  a  judge.  Whether  this 
might  proceed  from  a  law-suit  which  was  then  de¬ 
pending  in  the  family,  or  my  father’s  being  a  jus¬ 
tice  of  the  peace,  1  cannot  determine;  for  I  am  not 
so  vain  as  to  think  it  presaged  any  dignity  that  I 
should  arrive  at  in  future  life,  though  that  was  the 
interpretation  which  the  neighborhood  put  upon 
it.  The  gravity  of  my  behavior  at  my  first  ap¬ 
pearance  in  the  world,  and  at  the  time  that  I 
sucked,  seemed  to  favor  my  mother’s  dream  ;  for, 
as  she  has  often  told  me,  I  threw  away  my  rattle 
before  I  was  two  months  old,  and  would  not  make 
use  of  my  coral  until  they  had  taken  away  the 
bells  from  it. 

As  for  the  rest  of  my  infancy,  there  being  nothing 
in  it  remarkable,  I  shall  pass  over  it  in  silence.  I 
find  that  during  my  nonage,  I  had  the  reputation 
of  a  very  sullen  youth,  but  was  always  a  favorite 
of  my  schoolmaster,  who  used  to  say;  “  that  my 
arts  were  solid,  and  would  wear  well.”JKi  had  no£] 
een  long  at  the  university,  before  I  distinguished/ 
mvself  by  a  most  profound  silence  ;  for  during  thej 
space  of  eight  years,  excepting  in  the  public  exer-\ 
cises  of  the  college,  I  scarce  uttered  the  quantity! 
of  a  hundred  words  ;  and  indeed  do  not  remember 
that  I  ever  spoke  three  sentences  together  in  mf 
whole  life.  While  I  was  in  this  learned  body,  I 
applied  myself  with  so  much  diligence  to  my 
studies,  that  there  are  few  very  celebrated  books, 


either  in  the  learned  or  the  modern  tongues,  which 
I  am  not  acquainted  with. 

Upon  the  death  of  my  father,  I  was  resolved  to 
travel  into  foreign  countries,  and  therefore  left  the 
university  with  the  character  of  an  odd,  unac-  ^ 
countable  fellow,  that  had  a  great  deal  of  learn¬ 
ing,  if  I  would  but  show  it.  An  insatiable  thirst 
after  knowledge  carried  me  into  all  the  countries 
of  Europe  in  which  there  was  anything  new  or 
strange  to  be  seen  ;  nay,  to  such  a  degree  was  my 
curiosity  raised,  that  having  read  the  controversies 
of  some  great  men  concerning  the  antiquities  of 
Egypt,  I  made  a  voyage  to  Grand  Cairo  on  pur¬ 
pose  to  take  the  measure  of  a  pyramid  ;  and  as 
soon  as  I  had  set  myself  right  in  that  particular, 
returned  to  my  native  country  with  great  satis¬ 
faction.* 

I  have  passed  my  latter  years  in  this  city,  where 
I  am  frequently  seen  in  most  public  places,  though 
there  are  not  above  half-a-dozen  of  my  select 
friends  that  know  me  ;  of  whom  my  next  paper 
shall  give  a  more  particular  account.  There  is 
no  place  of  general  resort  wherein  I  do  not  often 
make  my  appearance. —  Sometimes  I  am  seen 
thrusting  my  head  into  a  round  of  politicians  at 
Will’s,  and  listening  with  great  attention  to  the 
narratives  that  are  made  in  those  little  circular 
audiences.  Sometimes  I  smoke  a  pipe  at.  Child’s,! 
and  while  I  seem  attentive  to  nothing  but^the  Post¬ 
man,  overhear  the  conversation  of  every  table  in 
the  room.  I  appear  on  Sunday  nights  at  St. 

J ames’s  coffee-house,  and  sometimes  join  the  little 
committee  of  politics  in  the  inner  room,  as  one 
who  comes  there  to  hear  and  improve.  My  face 
is  likewise  very  well  known  at  the  Grecian,  the 
Cocoa-tree,  and  in  the  theaters  both  of  Drury-lane 
and  the  Haymarket.  I  have  been  taken  for  a  mer¬ 
chant  upon  the  exchange  for  above  these  ten  years, 
and  sometimes  pass  for  a  Jew  in  the  assembly  of 
stock-jobbers  at  Jonathan’s.  In  short,  wherever  I 
see  a  cluster  of  people,  I  always  mix  with  them, 
though  I  never  open  my  lips  but  in  my  own  club. 

•K  Thus  I  live  in  the  world  rather  as  a  Spectator 
of  mankind  than  as  one  of  the  species,  by  which 
means  I  have  made  myself  a  speculative  statesman, 
soldier,  merchant,  and  artisan,  without  ever  med¬ 
dling  with  any  practical  part  in  life.  I  am  verA 
well  versed  in  the  theory  of  a  husband,  or  a  father, 
and  can  discern  the  errors  in  the  economy,  busi-j 
ness,  and  diversions  of  others,  better  than  those 
who  are  engaged  in  them  ;  as  standers-by  discover 
blots,  which  are  apt  to  escape  those  who  are  in  the 
game.  I  never  espoused  any  party  with  vio¬ 
lence,  and  am  resolved  to  observe  a  strict  neutrality 
between  the  Whigs  and  Tories,  unless  I  shall  be 
forced  to  declare  myself  by  the  hostilities  of  either 


*  A  sarcasm  on  Mr.  Greaves,  and  his  book  entitled  Pyrami- 
dographia. 

t  Child’s  coffee-house  was  in  St.  Paul’s  church-yard,  and  the 
resort  of  the  clergy;  St.  James’s  stood  then  where  it  does 
now;  Jonathan’s  was  in  Change-alley;  and  the  Rose  tavern 
was  on  the  outside  of  Temple-bar. 

(37) 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


38 

side.  In  short,  I  have  acted  in  all  the  parts  of 
my  life  as  a  looker-on,  which  is  the  character  I 
intend  to  preserve  in  this  paper. 

^  I  have  given  the  reader  just  so  much  of  my  his¬ 
tory  and  character,  as  to  let  him  see  I  am  not  alto¬ 
gether  unqualified  for  the  business  I  have  un¬ 
dertaken.  As  for  other  particulars  in  my  life 
and  adventures  I  shall  insert  them  in  following 
papers,  as  I  shall  see  occasion.  In  the  meantime, 
when  I  consider  how  much  I  have  seen,  read,  and 
heard,  I  begin  to  blame  my  own  taciturnity ;  and 
since  I  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  com¬ 
municate  the  fullness  of  my  heart  in  speech,  I  am  re¬ 
solved  to  do  it  in  writing,  and  to  print  myself  out, 
if  possible,  before  I  die.  I  have  been  often  told  by 
my  friends,  that  it  is  pity  so  many  useful  disco¬ 
veries  which  I  have  made  should  be  in  the  posses¬ 
sion  of  a  silent  man.  For  this  reason,  therefore, 
I  shall  publish  a  sheet-full  of  thoughts  every 
morning,  for  the  benefit  of  my  cotemporaries  ;  and 
if  I  can  in  any  way  contribute  to  the  diversion  or 
improvement  of  the  country  in  which  I  live,  I 
shall  leave  it  when  I  am  summoned  out  of  it,  with 
the  secret  satisfaction  of  thinking  that  I  have  not 
lived  in  vain. 

There  are  three  very  material  points  which  I 
have  not  spoken  to  in  this  paper  :  and  which,  for 
several  important  reasons,  I  must  keep  to  myself, 
at  least  for  some  time  :  I  mean  an  account  of  my 
name,  age,  and  lodgings.  I  must  confess,  I  would 
gratify  my  reader  in  anything  that  is  reasonable  ; 
but  as  for  these  three  particulars,  though  I  am 
sensible  they  might  tend  very  much  to  the  embel¬ 
lishment  of  my  paper,  I  cannot  yet  come  to  a 
resolution  of  communicating  them  to  the  public. 
They  would  indeed  draw  me  out  of  that  obscurity 
which  I  have  enjoyed  for  many  years,  and  expose 
me  in  public  places  to  several  salutes  and  civili¬ 
ties,  which  have  been  always  very  disagreeable  to 
me  ;  for  the  greatest  pain  I  can  suffer,  is  the  being 
talked  to,  and  being  stared  at.  It  is  for  this  rea¬ 
son,  likewise,  that  I  keep  my  complexion  and 
dress  as  very  great  secrets  ;  though  it  is  not  im¬ 
possible  but  I  may  make  discoveries  of  both  in 
the  progress  of  the  work  I  have  undertaken. 

After  having  been  thus  particular  upon  myself, 
I  shall  in  to-morrow’s  paper  give  an  account  of 
those  gentlemen  who  are  concerned  with  me  in 
this  work  :  for,  as  I  have  before  intimated,  a  plan 
of  it  is  laid  and  concerted  (as  all  other  matters 
of  importance  are)  in  a  club.  However,  as  my 
friends  have  engaged  me  to  stand  in  the  front,  those 
who  have  a  mind  to  correspond  with  me  may 
direct  their  letters  to  the  Spectator,  at  Mr.  Buck¬ 
ley’s,  in  Little  Britain.  For  I  must  further  ac¬ 
quaint  the  reader,  that  though  our  club  meets 
only  on  Tuesdays  and  Thursdays,  we  have  ap¬ 
pointed  a  committee  to  sit  every  night  for  the  in¬ 
spection  of  all  such  papers  as  may  contribute  to 
the  advancement  of  the  public  weal. — 0. 


No.  2.]  FRIDAY,  MARCH  2,  1710-11. 

- - Ast  alii  sex 

Et  plures,  uno  conclamant  ore. — Juv.,  Sat.  vii,  167. 

Six  more,  at  least,  join  their  consenting  voice. 

The  first  of  our  society  is  a  gentleman  of  Wor¬ 
cestershire,  of  an  ancient  descent,  a  baronet,  his 
name  Sir  Roger  de  Covei’ley.  His  great-grandfa¬ 
ther  was  inventor  of  that  famous  country-dance 
which  is  called  after  him.  All  who  know  that 
shire  are  very  well  acquainted  with  the  parts  and 
merits  of  Sir  Roger.  He  is  a  gentleman  that  is  very 
singular  in  his  behavior,  but  his  singularities 
proceed  from  his  good  sense,  and  are  contradictions 
to  the  manners  of  the  world  only  as  he  thinks  the 


world  is  in  the  wrong.  However,  this  humor 
creates  him  no  enemies,  for  he  does  nothing  with 
sourness  or  obstinacy ;  and  his  being  unconfined 
to  modes  and  forms  makes  him  but  the  readier 
and  more  capable  to  please  and  oblige  all  who 
know  him.  When  he  is  in  town  he  lives  in  Soho- 
square.*  It  is  said,  he  keeps  himself  a  bachelor 
by  reason  he  was  crossed  in  love  by  a  perverse 
beautiful  widow  of  the  next  county  to  him.  Be¬ 
fore  this  disappointment,  Sir  Roger  was  what  you 
call  a  fine  gentleman,  had  often  supped  with  my 
Lord  Rochester  and  Sir  George  Etheregc,  fought 
a  duel  upon  his  first  coming  to  town  and  kicked 
bully  Dawsonf  in  a  public  coffee-house  for  calling 
him  youngster.  But  being  ill-used  by  the  above^ 
mentioned  widow,  he  was  very  serious  for  a  year 
and  a-half ;  and  though,  his  temper  being  natu¬ 
rally  jovial,  he  at  last  got  over  it,  lie  grew  careless 
of  himself,  and  never  dressed  afterward.  He  con¬ 
tinues  to  wear  a  coat  and  doublet  of  the  same  cut 
that  were  in  fashion  at  the  time  of  his  repulse, 
which,  in  his  merry  humors,  he  tells  us,  has  been 
in  and  out  twelve  times,  since  he  first  wore  it.  It 
is  said  Sir  Roger  grew  humble  in  his  desires  after 
he  had  forgot  his  cruel  beauty,  insomuch  that  it  is 
reported  he  has  frequently  offended  in  point  of 
chastity  with  beggars  ana  gipsies  :  but  this  is 
looked  upon,  by  liis  friends,  rather  as  matter  of 
raillery  than  truth.  He  is  now  in  his  fifty-sixth 
ear,  cheerful,  gay  and  hearty  ;  keeps  a  good  house 
oth  in  town  and  country;  a  great  lover  of  man¬ 
kind  ;  but  there  is  such  a  mirthful  cast  in  his 
behavior,  that  he  is  rather  beloved  than  es¬ 
teemed. 

His  tenants  grow  rich,  his  servants  look  satis¬ 
fied,  all  the  young  women  profess  love  to  him, 
and  the  young  men  are  glad  of  his  company. 
When  he  comes  into  a  house  he  calls  the  servants 
by  their  names,  and  talks  all  the  way  up-stairs  to 
a  visit.  I  must  not  omit,  that  Sir  Roger  is  a  jus¬ 
tice  of  the  quorum ;  that  he  fills  the  chair  at  a 
quarter-session  with  great  abilities,  and  three 
months  ago  gained  universal  applause,  by  ex¬ 
plaining  a  passage  in  the  game  act. 

The  gentleman  next  in  esteem  and  authority 
among  us  is  another  bachelor,  who  is  a  member 
of  the  Inner  Temple,  a  man  of  great  probity,  wit, 
and  understanding  ;  but  he  has  chosen  his  place 
of  residence  rather  to  obey  the  direction  of  an  old 
humorsome  father,  than  in  pursuit  of  his  own  in¬ 
clinations.  He  was  placed  there  to  study  the  laws 
of  the  land,  and  is  the  most  learned  of  any  of  the 
house  in  those  of  the  stage.  Aristotle  and  Lon¬ 
ginus  are  much  better  understood  by  him  than 
Littleton  or  Coke.  The  father  sends  up  every 
post,  questions  relating  to  marriage-articles,  leases, 
and  tenures  in  the  neighborhood  ;  all  which 
questions  he  agrees  with  an  attorney  to  answer 
and  take  care  of  in  the  lump.  He  is  studying  the 
passions  themselves,  when  he  should  be  inquiring 
into  the  debates  among  men  which  arise  from 
them.  He  knows  the  argument  of  each  of  the 
orations  of  Demosthenes  and  Tully,  but  not  one 
case  in  the  reports  of  our  own  courts.  No  one 
ever  took  him  for  a  fool  ;  but  none,  except  his 
intimate  friends,  know  he  has  a  great  deal  of  wit. 
This  turn  makes  him  at  once  both  disinterested 
and  agreeable:  as  few  of  his  thoughts  are  drawn 
from  business,  they  are  most  of  them  fit  for  con¬ 
versation.  His  taste  for  books  is  a  little  too  just 
for  the  age  he  lives  in  ;  he  has  read  all,  but 
approves  of  very  few.  His  familiarity  with  the 
customs,  manners,  actions,  and  writings  of  the 

*  At  that  time  the  genteelest  part  of  the  town. 

fThis  fellow  was  a  noted  sharper,  swaggerer,  and  de¬ 
bauchee  about  town,  at  the  time  here  pointed  out :  he  wa3 
well  known  in  Blackfriars,  and  its  then  infamous  purlieus. 


T PI E  SPECTATOR. 


ancients,  makes  him  a  very  delicate  observer  of 
wliat  occurs  to  him  in  the  present  world.  He  is 
an  excellent  critic,  and  the  time  of  the  play  is  his 
hour  of  business  ;  exactly  at  five  he  passes  through 
New-Inn,  crosses  through  Russell-court,  and  takes 
a  turn  at  Will’s  till  the  play  begins ;  he  has  his 
shoes  rubbed  and  his  perriwig  powdered  at  the 
barber’s  as  you  go  into  the  Rose.  It  is  for  the 
good  of  the  audience  when  he  is  at  a  play,  for  the 
actors  have  an  ambition  to  please  him. 

The  person  of  next  consideration  is  Sir  Andrew 
Freeport,  a  merchant  of  great  eminence  in  the  city 
of  London.  A  person  of  indefatigable  industry, 
strong  reason,  and  great  experience.  His  notions 
of  trade  are  noble  and  generous,  and  (as  every  rich 
man  has  usually  some  sly  way  of  jesting,  which 
would  make  no  great  figure  were  he  not  a  rich 
man)  he  calls  the  sea  the  British  Common.  He  is 
acquainted  with  commerce  in  all  its  parts,  and 
will  tell  you  that  it  is  a  stupid  and  barbarous  way 
to  extend,  dominion  bv  arms :  for  true  power  is  to 
be  got  by  arts  and  industry.  He  will  often  argue, 
that  if  this  part  of  our  trade  were  well  cultivated, 
we  should  gain  from  one  nation  ;  and  if  another, 
from  another.  I  have  heard  him  prove,  that  dili¬ 
gence  makes  more  lasting  acquisitions  than  valor, 
and  that  sloth  has  ruined  more  nations  than  the 
sword.  He  abounds  in  several  frugal  maxims, 
among  which  the  greatest  favorite  fs,  “  A  penny 
saved  is  a  penny  got.”  A  general  trader  of  good 
sense  is  pleasanter  company  than  a  general 
scholar ;  and  Sir  Andrew  having  a  natural  unaf¬ 
fected  eloquence,  the  perspicuity  of  his  discourse 
gives  the  same  pleasure  that  wit  would  in  another 
man.  He  has  made  his  fortune  himself ;  and  says 
that  England  may  be  richer  than  other  kingdoms, 
bJ  as  plain  methods  as  he  himself  is  richer  than 
other  men:  though  at  the  same  time  I  can  say 
this  of  him,  that  there  is  not  a  point  in  the  com¬ 
pass,  but  blows  home  a  ship  in  which  he  is  an 
owner. 

Next  to  Sir  Andrew  in  the  club-room  sits  Cap¬ 
tain  Sentry,*  a  gentleman  of  great  courage,  good 
understanding,  but  invincible  modesty.  He  is 
one  of  those  that  deserve  very  well,  but  are  very 
awkward  at  putting  their  talents  within  the  ob¬ 
servation  of  such  as  should  take  notice  of  them. 
He  was  some  years  a  captain,  and  behaved  him¬ 
self  with  great  gallantry  in  several  engagements 
and  at  several  sieges ;  but  having  a  small  estate 
of  his  own,  and  being  next  heir  to  Sir  Roger,  he 
has  quitted  a  way  of  life  in  which  no  man  can 
rise  suitably  to  his  merit,  who  is  not  something 
of  a  courtier  as  well  as  a  soldier.  I  have  heard 
him  often  lament,  that  in  a  profession  where  merit 
is  placed  in  so  conspicuous  a  view,  impudence 
should  get  the  better  of  modesty.  When  he  had 
talked  to  this  purpose,  I  never  heard  him  make  a 
sour  expression,  but  frankly  confess  that  he  left 
the  world,  because  he  was  not  fit  for  it.  A  strict 
honesty,  and  an  even  regular  behavior,  are  in 
themselves  obstacles  to  him  that  must  press 
through  crowds,  who  endeavor  at  the  same  end 
with  himself,  the  favor  of  a  commander.  He  will, 
however,  in  his  way  of  talk  excuse  generals,  for 
not  disposing  according  to  men’s  desert,  or  in¬ 
quiring  into  it;  for,  says  he,  that  great  man  who 
has  a  mind  to  help  me,  has  as  many  to  break 
through  to  come  at  me,  as  I  have  to  come  at  him : 
therefore  he  will  conclude,  that  the  man  who 
would  make  a  figure,  especially  in  a  military  way, 
must  get  over  all  false  modesty,  and  assist  his 
patron  against  the  importunity  of  other  pretenders, 

*  It  has  been  said,  that  the  real  person  alluded  to  under 
this  name  was  C.  Kempenfelt,  father  of  the  Admiral  Kemp- 
enfelt  who  deplorably  lost  his  life,  when  the  lioyal  George  of 
100  guns  sank  at  Spithead,  Aug.  29,  1782. 


39 

by  a  proper  assurance  in  his  own  vindication. 
He  says  it  is  a  civil  cowardice  to  be  backward  in 
asserting  what  you  ought  to  expect,  as  it  is  a 
military  fear  to  be  slow  in  attacking  when  it  is 
your  duty.  With  this  candor  does  the  gentleman 
speak  of  himself  and  others.  The  same  frank¬ 
ness  runs  through  all  his  conversation.  The 
military  part  of  his  life  has  furnished  him  with 
many  adventures,  in  the  relation  of  which  he  is 
very  agreeable  to  the  company ;  for  he  is  never 
overbearing,  though  accustomed  to  command  men 
in  the  utmost  degree  below  him ;  nor  ever  too 
obsequious,  from  a  habit  of  obeying  men  highly 
above  him. 

But  that  our  society  may  not  appear  a  set  of  hu¬ 
morists,  unacquainted  with  the  gallantries  and 

fdeasures  of  the  age,  we  have  among  us  the  gal- 
ant  Will  Honeycomb,*  a  gentleman  who,  accord- 
ind  to  his  years,  should  be  in  the  decline  of  his 
life,  but  having  been  very  careful  of  his  person, 
and  always  had  a  veiy  easy  fortune,  time  has  made 
but  very  little  impression,  either  by  wrinkles  on 
his  forehead,  or  traces  on  his  brain.  His  person 
is  well  turned,  and  of  a  good  height.  He  is  very- 
ready  at  that  sort  of  discourse  with  which  men 
usually  entertain  women.  He  has  all  his  life 
dressed  very  well,  and  remembers  habits  as  others 
do  men.  He  can  smile  when  one  speaks  to  him, 
and  laughs  easily.  He  knows  the  history  of  every 
mode,  and  can  inform  you  from  which  of  the 
French  'king’s  wenches  our  wives  and  daughters 
had  this  'manner  of  curling  their  hair,  that  way  of 
placing  their  hoods — whose  frailty  was  covered 
by  such  a  sort  of  petticoat,  and  whose  vanity  to 
show  her  foot  made  that  part  of  the  dress  so  short 
in  such  a  year.  In  a  word,  all  his  conversation 
and  knowledge  has  been  in  the  female  world.  As 
other  men  of  his  age  will  take  notice  to  you  what 
such  a  minister  said  upon  such  an  occasion,  he 
will  tell  you,  when  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  danced 
at  court,  such  a  woman  was  then  smitten — another 
was  taken  with  him  at  the  head  of  his  troop  in 
the  Park.  In  all  these  important  relations,  he  has 
ever  about  the  same  time  received  a  kind  glance, 
or  a  blow  of  a  fan  from  some  celebrated  beauty, 
mother  of  the  present  Lord  Such  a-one.  If  you 
speak  of  a  young  commoner  that  said  a  lively 
thing  in  the  house,  he  starts  up,  “He  has  good 
blood  in  his  veins,  Tom  Mirable  begot  him ;  the 
rogue  cheated  me  in  that  affair;  that  young  fellow’s 
mother  used  me  more  like  a  dog  than  any  woman 
I  ever  made  advances  to.”  This  way  of  talking 
of  his  very  much  enlivens  the  conversation  among 
us  of  a  more  sedate  turn ;  and  I  find  there  is  not 
one  of  the  company,  but  myself,  who  rarely  speak 
at  all,  but  speaks  of  him  as  of  that  sort  of  man, 
who  is  usually  called  a  well-bred  fine  gentleman. 
To  conclude  his  character,  where  women  are  not 
concerned,  he  is  an  honest,  worthy  man. 

I  cannot  tell  whether  I  am  to  account  him  whom 
I  am  next  to  speak  of,  as  one  of  our  company ; 
for  he  visits  us  but  seldom  ;  but  when  he  does,  it 
adds  to  every  man  else  a  new  enjoyment  of  him¬ 
self.  He  is  a  clergyman,  a  very  philosophic  man, 
of  general  learning,  great  sanctity  of  life,  and  the 
most  exact  good  breeding.  He  has  the  misfortune 
to  be  of  a  very  weak  constitution,  and  conse¬ 
quently,  cannot  accept  of  such  cares  and  business 
as  preferments  in  his  function  would  oblige  him 
to  ;  he  is  therefore  among  divines  what  a  chamber- 
counselor  is  among  lawyers.  The  probity  of  his 
mind,  and  the  integrity  of  his  life,  create  him  fol¬ 
lowers,  as  being  eloquent  or  loud  advances  others. 
He  seldom  introduces  the  subject  he  speaks  upon ; 


*It  has  been  said  that  Colonel  Cleland  was  supposed  to 
I  have  been  the  real  person  alluded  to  under  this  character. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


40 

but  we  are  so  far  gone  in  years,  that  he  observes, 
when  he  is  among  us,  an  earnestness  to  have  him 
fall  on  some  divine  topic,  which  he  always  treats 
with  much  authority,  as  one  who  is  hastening  to 
the  object  of  all  his  wishes,  and  conceives  hope 
from  his  decays  and  infirmities.  These  are  my 
ordinary  companions. — R. 


Ho.  3.]  SATURDAY,  MARCH  3, 1710-11. 

Et  quo  quisque  fere  studio  devinctus  adhaeret, 

Aut  quibus  in  rebus  multum  sumus  ante  morati, 

Atque  in  qua  ratione  fuit  contenta  magis  mens, 

In  somnis  eadem  plerumque  videmur  obire. 

Lucr.,  1.  iv,  959. 

- - What  studies  please,  what  most  delight, 

And  fill  men’s  thoughts,  they  dream  them  o’er  at  night. 

Creech. 

In  one  of  my  rambles,  or  rather  speculations,  I 
looked  into  the  great  hall,  where  the  bank  is  kept, 
and  was  not  a  little  pleased  to  see  the  directors, 
secretaries,  and  clerks,  with  all  the  other  members 
of  that  wealthy  corporation,  ranged  in  their  several 
stations,  according  to  the  parts  they  act  in  that 
just  and  regular  economy.  This  revived  in  my 
memory  the  many  discourses  which  I  had  both 
read  and  heard  concerning  the  decay  of  public 
credit,  with  the  methods  of  restoring  it,  and  which, 
in  my  opinion,  have  always  been  defective,  be¬ 
cause  they  have  always  been  made  with  an  eye  to 
separate  interests  and  party  principles. 

The  thoughts  of  the  day  gave  my  mind  employ¬ 
ment  for  a  whole  night,  so  that  I  fell  insensibly 
into  a  kind  of  methodical  dream,  which  disposed 
all  my  contemplations  into  a  vision,  or  allegory, 
or  what  else  the  reader  shall  please  to  call  it. 

Methought  I  returned  to  the  great  hall,  where  I 
had  been  the  morning  before ;  but  to  my  surprise, 
instead  of  the  company  that  I  left  there,  I  saw  to¬ 
ward  the  upper  end  of  the  hall  a  beautiful  virgin, 
seated  on  a  throne  of  gold.  Her  name  (as  they 
told  me  was  Public  Credit.  The  walls,  instead 
of  being  adorned  with  pictures  and  maps,  were 
hung  with  many  acts  of  parliament  written  in 
golden  letters.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  hall  was 
the  magna  charta,  with  the  act  of  uniformity  on 
the  right  hand,  and  the  act  of  toleration  on  the  left. 
At  the  lower  end  of  the  hall  was  the  act  of  settle¬ 
ment,  which  was  placed  full  in  the  eye  of  the 
virgin  that  sat  upon  the  throne.  Both  the  sides 
of  the  hall  were  covered  with  such  acts  of  parlia¬ 
ment  as  had  been  made  for  the  establishment  of 
public  funds.  The  lady  seemed  to  set  an  un¬ 
speakable  value  upon  these  several  pieces  of  fur¬ 
niture,  insomuch  that  she  often  refreshed  her 
eye  with  them,  and  often  smiled  with  a  secret 
pleasure,  as  she  looked  upon  them ;  but,  at  the 
same  time,  showed  a  very  particular  uneasiness, 
if  she  saw  anything  approaching  that  might  hurt 
them.  She  appeared,  indeed,  infinitely  timorous 
in  all  her  behavior  ;  and  whether  it  was  from  the 
delicacy  of  her  constitution,  or  that  she  was  trou¬ 
bled  with  vapors,  as  I  was  afterward  told  by  one 
who  I  found  was  none  of  her  well-wishers,  she 
changed  color,  and  startled  at  everything  she 
heard.  She  was  likewise  (as  I  afterward  found) 
a  greater  valetudinarian  than  any  I  had  ever  met 
with  even  in  her  own  sex,  and  subject  to  such 
momentary  consumptions,  that,  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye,  she  should  fall  away  from  the  most 
florid  complexion,  and  most  healthful  state  of 
body,  and  wither  into  a  skeleton.  Her  recoveries 
were  often  as  sudden  as  her  decays,  insomuch  that 
she  would  revive  in  a  moment  out  of  a  wasting 
distemper,  into  a  habit  of  the  highest  health  and 
vigor. 

I  had  very  soon  an  opportunity  of  observing 


these  quick  turns  and  changes  in  her  constitution. 
There  sat  at  her  feet  a  couple  of  secretaries,  who 
received  every  hour  letters  from  all  parts  of  the 
world,  which  the  one  or  the  other  of  them  was 
perpetually  reading  to  hor ;  and  according  to  the 
news  she  heard,  to  which  she  was  exceedingly 
attentive,  she  changed  color,  and  discovered  many 
symptoms  of  health  or  sickness. 

Behind  the  throne  was  a  prodigious  heap  of 
bags  of  money,  which  were  piled  upon  one  another 
so  high  that  they  touched  the  ceiling.  The  floor, 
on  her  right  hand  and  on  her  left,  was  covered 
with  vast  sums  of  gold,  that  rose  up  in  pyramids 
on  either  side  of  her.  But  this  I  did  not  so  much 
wonder  at,  when  I  heard,  upon  inquiry,  that  she 
had  the  same  virtue  in  her  touch  which  the  poets 
tell  us  a  Lydian  king  was  formerly  possessed  of : 
and  that  she  could  convert  whatever  she  pleased 
into  that  precious  metal. 

After  a  little  dizziness,  and  confused  hurry  of 
thought,  which  a  man  often  meets  with  in  a  dream, 
methought  the  hall  was  alarmed,  the  doors  flew 
open,  and  there  entered  half  a  dozen  of  the  most 
hideous  phantoms  that  I  had  ever  seen  (even  in  a 
dream)  before  that  time.  They  came  in  two  by 
two,  though  matched  in  the  most  dissociable  man¬ 
ner,  and  mingled  together  in  a  kind  of  dance.  It 
would  be  too  tedious  to  describe  their  habits  and 
persons,  for  which  reason  I  shall  only  inform  my 
reader,  that  the  first  couple  were  Tyranny  and 
Anarchy,  the  second  were  Bigotry  and  Atheism, 
the  third  the  Genius  of  the  commonwealth,  a 
young  man  of  about  twenty-two  years  of  age,* 
whose  name  I  could  not  learn.  He  had  a  sword 
in  his  right  hand,  which  in  the  dance  he  often 
brandished  at  the  act  of  settlement ;  and  a  citizen, 
who  stood  by  me,  whispered  in  my  ear,  that  he 
saw  a  sponge  in  his  left  hand.f  The  dance  of  so 
many  jarring  natures  put  me  in  mind  of  the  sun, 
moon,  and  earth  in  the  Rehearsal,  that  danced  to¬ 
gether  for  no  other  end  but  to  eclipse  one  another. 

The  reader  will  easily  suppose,  by  what  has 
been  before  said,  that  the  lady  on  the  throne  would 
have  been  almost  frightened  to  distraction,  had  sha 
seen  but  any  one  of  these  specters;  what  then 
must  have  been  her  condition  when  she  saw  them 
all  in  a  body  ?  She  fainted  and  died  away  at  the 
sight, 

Et  neque  jam  color  est  misto  candore  rubori: 

Nec  vigor,  et  vires,  et  quae  modo  visa  placebant, 

Nec  corpus  remanet. - Ovid  Met.,  iii,  491. 

- Her  spirits  faint, 

Her  blooming  cheeks  assume  a  pallid  taint, 

And  scarce  her  form  remains. 

There  was  a  great  change  in  the  hill  of  money¬ 
bags,  and  the  heaps  of  money,  the  former  shrink¬ 
ing  and  falling  into  so  many  empty  bags,  that  I 
now  found  not  above  a  tenth  part  of  them  had 
been  filled  with  money. 

The  rest  that  took  up  the  same  space,  and  made 
the  same  figure,  as  the  bags  that  were  really  filled 
with  money,  had  been  blown  up  with  air,  and 
called  into  my  memory  the  bags  full  of  wind 
which  Homer  tells  us  his  hero  received  as  a  pre¬ 
sent  from  ^Eolus.  The  great  heaps  of  gold  on 
either  side  the  throne  now  appeared  to  be  only 
heaps  of  paper,  or  little  piles  of  notched  sticks, 
bound  up  together  in  bundles,  like  Bath  fagots. 

While  I  was  lamenting  this  sudden  desolation 
that  had  been  made  before  me,  the  whole  scene 
vanished.  In  the  room  of  the  frightful  specters, 
there  now  entered  a  second  dance  of  apparitions 
very  agreeably  matched  together,  and  made  up  of 


*  James  Stuart,  the  pretended  Prince  of  Wales,  born  June 
10,  1688.— See  Tat.,  No.  187. 
f  To  wipe  out  the  national  debt. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


very  amiable  phantoms.  The  first  pair  was  Liberty, 
with  Monarchy  at  her  right  hand.  The  second  was 
Moderation  leading  in  Religion  ;  and  the  third  a 
person  whom  I  had  never  seen,*  with  the  Genius 
of  Great  Britain.  At  the  first  entrance  the  lady 
revived,  the  bags  swelled  to  their  former  bulk,  the 
pile  of  fagots  and  heaps  of  paper  changed  into 
pyramids  of  guineas:  and  for  my  own  part  I  was  so 
transported  with  joy  that  I  awaked,  though  I  must 
confess  I  would  fain  have  fallen  asleep  again  to 
have  closed  my  vision,  if  I  could  have  done 
it.— C. 


No.  4.]  MONDAY,  MARCH  5,  1710-11. 

- Egregii  mortalem  altique  silentii  ? 

Hor.,  2  Sat.,  vi,  58. 

One  of  uncommon  silence  and  reserve. 

An  author,  when  he  first  appears  in  the  world, 
is  very  apt  to  believe  it  has  nothing  to  think  of 
but  his  performances.  With  a  good  share  of  this 
vanity  in  my  heart,  I  made  it  my  business  these 
three  days  to  listen  after  my  own  fame ;  and  as  I 
have  sometimes  met  with  circumstances  which 
did  not  displease  me,  I  have  been  encountered  by 
others  which  gave  me  much  mortification.  It  is 
incredible  to  think  how  empty  I  have  in  this  time 
observed  some  part  of  the  species  to  be,  what  mere 
blanks  they  are  when  they  first  come  abroad  in  the 
morning,  how  utterly  they  are  at  a  stand  until  they 
are  set  a-going  by  some  paragraph  in  a  newspaper. 

Such  persons  are  very  acceptable  to  a  young  au¬ 
thor,  for  they  desire  no  more  in  anything  but  to 
be  new,  to  be  agreeable.  If  I  found  consolation 
among  such,  I  was  as  much  disquieted  by  the  in¬ 
capacity  of  others.  These  are  mortals  who  have 
a  certain  curiosity  without  power  of  reflection, 
and  perused  my  papers  like  spectators  rather  than 
readers.  But  there  is  so  little  pleasure  in*  inqui¬ 
ries  that  so  nearly  concern  ourselves  (it  being  the 
worst  way  in  the  world  to  fame,  to  be  too  anxious 
about  it)  that  upon  the  whole  I  resolved  for  the 
future  to  go  on  in  my  ordinary  way ;  and  without 
too  much  fear  or  hope  about  the  business  of  repu¬ 
tation,  to  be  very  careful  of  the  design  of  my 
actions,  but  very  negligent  of  the  consequences 
of  them. 

It  is  an  endless  and  frivolous  pursuit  to  act  by 
any  other  rule,  than  the  care  of  satisfying  our 
own  minds  in  what  we  do.  One  would  think  a 
silent  man,  who  concerned  himself  with  no  one 
breathing,  should  be  very  little  liable  to  misrepre¬ 
sentations  ;  and  yet  I  remember  I  was  once  taken 
up  for  a  Jesuit,  for  no  other  reason  than  my  pro¬ 
found  taciturnity.  It  is  from  this  misfortune, 
that,  to  be  out  of  harm’s  way,  I  have  ever  since 
affected  crowds.  He  who  comes  into  assemblies 
only  to  gratify  his  curiosity,  and  not  to  make  a 
figure,  enjoys  the  pleasures  of  retirement  in  a 
more  exquisite  degree  than  he  possibly  could  in 
his  closet ;  the  lover,  the  ambitious,  and  the  miser, 
are  followed  thither  by  a  worse  crowd  than  any 
they  can  withdraw  from.  To  be  exempt  from  the 
passions  with  which  others  are  tormented,  is  the 
only  pleasing  solitude.  I  can  very  justly  say 
with  tne  sage,  “I  am  never  less  alone  than  when 
alone.” 

As  I  am  insignificant  to  the  company  in  public 
places,  and  as  it  is  visible  I  do  not  come  thither 
as  most  do,  to  show  myself,  I  gratify  the  vanity 
of  all  who  pretend  to  make  an  appearance,  and 
have  often  as  kind  looks  from  well  dressed  gen¬ 
tlemen  and  ladies,  as  a  poet  would  bestow  upon 
one  of  his  audience.  There  are  so  many  gratifi¬ 
cations  attend  this  public  sort  of  obscurity,  that 


41 

some  little  distastes  I  daily  receive  have  lost  their 
anguish  ;  and  I  did,  the  other  day,  without  the 
least  displeasure,  overhear  one  say  of  me,  “  that 
strange  fellow;”  and  another  answer,  “I  have 
known  the  fellow’s  face  these  twelve  years,  and 
so  must  you  ;  but  I  believe  you  are  the  first  ever 
asked  who  he  was.”  There  are,  I  must  confess, 
many  to  whom  my  person  is  as  well  known  as 
that  of  their  nearest  relations,  who  give  them¬ 
selves  no  further  trouble  about  calling  me  by  my 
name  or  quality,  but  speak  of  me  very  currently 
by  the  appellation  of  Mr.  What-d’ye-call-him. 

To  make  up  for  these  trivial  disadvantages,  I 
have  the  highest  satisfaction  of  beholding  all 
nature  with  an  unprejudiced  eye ;  and  having 
nothing  to  do  with  men’s  passions  or  interests,  I 
can,  with  the  greater  sagacity,  consider  their 
talents,  manners,  failings,  and  merits. 

It  is  remarkable,  that  those  who  want  any  one 
sense,  possess  the  others  with  greater  force  and 
vivacity.  Thus  my  want  of,  or  rather  resignation 
of  speech,  gives  me  the  advantages  of  a  dumb 
man.  I  have,  methinks,  a  more  than  ordinary 
enetration  in  seeing ;  and  flatter  myself  that  I 
ave  looked  into  the  highest  and  lowest  of  man¬ 
kind,  and  made  shrewd  guesses  without  being  ad¬ 
mitted  to  their  conversation,  at  the  inmost  thoughts 
and  reflections  of  all  whom  I  behold.  It  is  from 
hence  that  good  or  ill  fortune  has  no  manner  of 
force  toward  affecting  my  judgment.  I  see  men 
flourishing  in  courts,  and  languishing  in  jails, 
without  being  prejudiced,  from  their  circumstances, 
to  their  favor  or  disadvantage ;  but  from  their 
inward  manner  of  bearing  their  condition,  often 
pity  the  prosperous,  and  admire  the  unhappy. 

Those  who  converse  with  the  dumb,  know  from 
the  turn  of  their  eyes,  and  the  changes  of  their 
countenance,  their  sentiments  of  the  objects  be¬ 
fore  them.  I  have  indulged  my  silence  to  such 
an  extravagance  that  the  few  Avho  are  intimate 
with  me  answer  my  smiles  with  concurrent  sen¬ 
tences,  and  argue  to  the  very  point  I  sliaked  my 
head  at,  without  my  speaking.  Will  Honey¬ 
comb  was  very  entertaining  th^  other  night  at  a 
play,  to  a  gentleman  who  sat  on  his  right  hand, 
while  I  was  at  his  left.  The  gentleman  believed 
Will  was  talking  to  himself,  when  upon  my  look¬ 
ing  with  great  approbation  at  a  young  thing  in  a 
box  before  us,  he  said,  “I  am  quite  of  another 
opinion.  She  has,  I  will  allow,  a  very  pleasing 
aspect,  but,  methinks,  that  simplicity  in  her  coun¬ 
tenance  is  rather  childish  than  innocent.”  When 
I  observed  her  a  second  time,  he  said,  “  I  grant 
her  dress  is  very  becoming,  but  perhaps  the  merit 
of  that  choice  is  owing  to  her  mother;  for  though,” 
continued  he,  “  I  allow  a  beauty  to  be  as  much  to 
be  commended  for  the  elegance  of  her  dress,  as  a 
wit  for  that  of  his  language,  yet  if  she  has  stolen 
the  color  of  her  ribbons  from  another,  or  had  ad¬ 
vice  about  her  trimmings,  I  shall  not  allow  her 
the  praise  of  dress,  any  more  than  I  would  call  a 
plagiary  an  author.”  When  I  threw  my  eye 
toward  the  next  woman  to  her,  Will  spoke  what  I 
looked,  according  to  his  romantic  imagination,  in 
the  following  manner  : 

“  Behold, ^ou  who  dare,  that  charming  virgin  ; 
behold  the  beauty  of  her  person  chastized  by  the 
innocence  of  her  thoughts.  Chastity,  good-na¬ 
ture,  and  affability,  are  the  graces  that  play  in  her 
countenance ;  she  knows  she  is  handsome,  but 
she  knows  she  is  good.  Conscious  beauty  adorned 
with  conscious  virtue  !  What  a  spirit  is  there  in 
those  eyes  !  What  a  bloom  in  that  person  !  How 
is  the  whole  woman  expressed  in  her  appearance  ! 
Her  air  has  the  beauty  of  motion,  and  her  look 
the  force  of  language.” 

It  was  prudence  to  turn  my  eyes  away  from  this 


*  The  Elector  of  Hanover,  afterward  George  I. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


42 

object,  and  therefore  I  turned  them  to  the  thought¬ 
less  creatures  who  make  up  the  lump  of  that  sex, 
and  move  a  knowing  eye  no  more  than  the  por¬ 
traiture  of  insignificant  people  by  ordinary  paint¬ 
ers,  which  are  but  pictures  of  pictures. 

Thus  the  working  of  my  own  mind  is  the 
general  entertainment  of  my  life :  I  never  enter 
into  the  commerce  of  discourse  with  any  but  my 
particular  friends,  and  not  in  public  even  with 
them.  Such  a  habit  has  perhaps  raised  in  me 
uncommon  reflections  ;  but  this  effect  I  cannot 
communicate  but  by  my  writings.  As  my  pleas¬ 
ures  are  almost  wholly  confined  to  those  of  the 
sight,  I  take  it  for  a  peculiar  happiness  that  I 
have  always  had  an  easy  and  familiar  admittance 
to  the  fair  sex.  If  I  never  praised  or  flattered,  I 
never  belied  or  contradicted  them.  As  these  com¬ 
pose  half  the  world,  anfl.  are,  by  the  just  com¬ 
plaisance  and  gallantry  of  our  nation,  the  more 
powerful  part  of  our  people,  I  shall  dedicate  a 
considerable  share  of  these,  my  speculations,  to 
their  service,  and  shall  lead  the  young  through 
all  the  becoming  duties  of  virginity,  marriage, 
and  widowhood.  When  it  is  a  woman’s  day,  in 
my  works,  I  shall  endeavor  at  a  style  and  air 
suitable  to  their  understanding.  When  I  say  this, 
I  must  be  understood  to  mean,  that  I  shall  not 
lower  but  exalt  the  subjects  I  treat  upon.  Dis¬ 
course  for  their  entertainment  is  not  to  be  debased, 
but  refined.  A  man  may  appear  learned  without 
talking  sentences,  as  in  his  ordinary  gesture  he 
discovers  he  can  dance,  though  he  does  not  cut 
capers.  In  a  word,  I  shall  take  it  for  the  greatest 
glory  of  my  work,  if  among  reasonable  women 
this  paper  may  furnish  tea-table  talk.  In  order  to 
it,  I  shall  treat  on  matters  which  relate  to  females, 
as  they  are  concerned  to  approach  or  fly  from  the 
other  sex,  or  as  they  are  tied  to  them  by  blood, 
interest,  or  affection.  Upon  this  occasion  I  think 
it  but  reasonable  to  declare,  that  whatever  skill  I 
may  have  in  speculation,  I  shall  never  betray  what 
the  eyes  of  lovers  say  to  each  other  in  my  pres¬ 
ence.  At  the  same  time  I  shall  not  think  myself 
obliged  by  this  promise  to  conceal  any  false  pro¬ 
testations  which  I  observe  made  by  glances  in 
public  assemblies  :  but  endeavor  to  make  both 
sexes  appear  in  their  conduct  what  they  are  in 
their  hearts.  By  this  means,  love,  during  the 
time  of  my  speculations,  shall  be  carried  on  with 
the  same  sincerity  as  any  other  affair  of  less  con¬ 
sideration.  As  this  is  the  greatest  concern,  men 
shall  be  from  henceforth  liable  to  the  greatest  re¬ 
proach  for  misbehavior  in  it.  Falsehood  in  love 
shall  hereafter  bear  a  blacker  aspect  than  infidelity 
in  friendship,  or  villany  in  business.  For  this 
reat  and  good  end,  all  breaches  against  that  no- 
le  passion,  the  cement  of  society,  shall  be  se¬ 
verely  examined.  But  this,  and  all  other  matters 
loosely  hinted  at  now,  and  in  my  former  papers, 
shall  have  their  proper  place  in  my  following  dis¬ 
courses.  The  present  writing  is  only  to  admon¬ 
ish  the  world,  that  they  shall  not  find  in  me  an 
idle  but  a  busy  Spectator. — R. 


Uo.  5.]  TUESDAY,  MARCH  6,  1710-11. 

Spectatum  admissi  rLsimi  teneatis? — Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  v.  5. 

Admitted  to  the  sight,  would  you  not  laugh  ? 

An  opera  may  be  allowed  to  be  extravagantly 
lavish  in  its  decorations,  as  its  only  design  is  to 
gratify  the  senses,  and  keep  up  an  indolent  atten¬ 
tion  in  the  audience.  Common  sense  however 
requires,  that  there  should  be  nothing  in  the 
scenes  and  machines  which  may  appear  child¬ 
ish  and  absurd.  How  would  the  wits  of  King 
Charles’s  time  have  laughed  to  have  seen  Nieolini 


exposed  to  a  tempest  in  robes  of  ermine,  and  sail 
ing  in  an  open  boat  upon  a  sea  of  pasteboard? 
What  a  field  of  raillery  would  they  have  been  led 
into,  had  they  been  entertained  with  painted  dra- 
ons  spitting  wildfire,  enchanted  chariots  drawn 
y  Flanders’  mares,  and  real  cascades  in  artificial 
landscapes?  A  little  skill  in  criticism  would  in¬ 
form  us,  that  shadows  and  realities  ought  not  to  be 
mixed  together  in  the  same  piece ;  and  that  the 
scenes  which  are  designed  as  the  representations 
of  nature  should  be  filled  with  resemblances,  and 
not  with  the  things  themselves.  If  one  would 
represent  a  wide  champaign  country  filled  with 
herds  and  flocks,  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  draw 
the  country  only  upon  the  scenes,  and  to  crowd 
several  parts  of  the  stage  with  sheep  and  oxen. 
This  is  joining  together  inconsistencies,  and  ma¬ 
king  the  decoration  partly  real  and  partly  ima¬ 
ginary.  I  would  recommend  what  I  have  here 
said  to  the  directors,  as  well  as  to  the  admirers,  of 
our  modern  opera. 

As  I  was  walking  in  the  streets,  about  a  fort¬ 
night  ago,  I  saw  an  ordinary  fellow  carrying  a 
cage  full  of  little  birds  upon  his  shoulder  ;  and, 
as  I  was  wondering  with  myself  what  use  he 
would  put  them  to,  he  was  met  very  luckily  by 
an  acquaintance,  who  had  the  same  curiosity. 
Upon  his  asking  what  he  had  upon  his  shoulder, 
he  told  him  that  he  had  been  buying  sparrows 
for  the  opera.  “  Sparrows  for  the  opera,”  says 
his  friend,  licking  his  lips  ;  “  what !  are  they  to 
be  roasted?” — “No,  no,”  says  the  other,  “they 
are  to  enter  toward  the  end  of  the  first  act,  and  to 
fly  about  the  stage.” 

This  strange  dialogue  awakened  my  curiosity 
so  far,  that  I  immediately  bought  the  opera,  by 
which  means  I  perceived  the  sparrows  were  to 
act  the  part  of  singing  birds  in  a  delightful  grove; 
though  upon  a  nearer  inquiry  I  found  the  spar¬ 
rows  put  the  same  trick  upon  the  audience  that 
Sir  Martin  Mar-all*  practiced  upon  his  mistress  ; 
for  though  they  flew  in  sight,  the  music  pro¬ 
ceeded  from  a  concert  of  flageolets  and  bird-calls, 
which  were  planted  behind  the  scenes.  At  the 
same  time  I  made  this  discovery,  I  found  by  the 
discourse  of  the  actors,  that  there  were  great  de¬ 
signs  on  foot  for  the  improvement  of  the  opera  ; 
that  it  had  been  proposed  to  break  down  a  part 
of  the  wall,  and  to  surprise  the  audience  with  a 
party  of  a  hundred  horse,  and  that  there  was 
actually  a  project  of  bringing  the  New-river  into 
the  house,  to  be  employed  in  jets-d’eau  and  water¬ 
works.  This  project,  as  I  have  since  heard,  is 
postponed  till  the  summer  season,  when  it  is 
thought  the  coolness  that  proceeds  from  fountains 
and  cascades  will  be  more  acceptable  and  refresh¬ 
ing  to  people  of  quality.  In  the  meantime,  to 
find  out  a  more  agreeable  entertainment  for  the 
winter  season,  the  opera  of  Rinaldo  is  filled  with 
thunder  and  lightning,  illuminations  and  fire¬ 
works,  which  the  audience  may  look  upon  with¬ 
out  catching  cold,  and  indeed  without  much  dan¬ 
ger  of  being  burnt ;  for  there  are  several  engines 
filled  with  water,  and  ready  to  play  at  a  minute’s 
warning,  in  case  any  such  accident  should  hap¬ 
pen.  However,  as  I  have  a  very  great  friendship 
for  the  owner  of  this  theater,  I  hope  that  he  has 
been  wise  enough  to  insure  his  house  before  he 
would  let  this  opera  be  acted  in  it. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  those  scenes  should  be  very 
surprising,  which  were  contrived  by  two  poets  of 
different  nations,  and  raised  by  two  magicians  of 
different  sexes.  Armida  (as  we  are  told  in  the 
argument)  was  an  Amazonian  enchantress,  and 


*  A  comedy  by  J.  Dryden,  borrowed  from  Quinault’s  A  man 
Indiscret,  and  the  Etourdi  of  Moliere. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


43 


poor  Sgnior  Cassini  (as  we  learn  from  the  persons 
represented)  a  Christian  conjurer  ( Mago  Chris- 
tiano ).  I  must  confess  I  am  very  much  puzzled 
to  find  how  an  Amazon  should  be  versed  in  the 
black  art,  or  how  a  good  Christian,  for  such  is  the 
part  of  the  magician,  should  deal  with  the  devil. 

To  consider  the  poet  after  the  conjurers,  I  shall 
give  you  a  taste  of  the  Italian,  from  the  first  lines 
of  his  preface :  “  Eccoti,  benigno  lettore,  un  parto 
di  poche  sere,  che  se  ben  nato  di  notte,  non  t  per 6 
aborto  di  tenebre,  ma  si  fard  conoscere  Jiglio  d' Apol¬ 
lo  con  qualche  raggio  di  Parnasse  “  Behold,  gen¬ 
tle  reader,  the  birth  of  a  few  evenings,  which, 
though  it  be  the  offspring  of  the  night,  is  not  the 
abortive  of  darkness,  but  will  make  itself  known 
to  be  the  son  of  Apollo,  with  a  certain  ray  of  Par¬ 
nassus.”  He  afterward  proceeds  to  call  Mynheer 
Handel  the  Orpheus  of  our  age,  and  to  acquaint 
us,  in  the  same  sublimity  of  style,  that  he  com 
posed  this  opera  in  a  fortnight.  Such  are  the 
wits  to  whose  tastes  we  so  ambitiously  conform 
ourselves.  The  truth  of  it  is,  the  finest  writers 
among  the  modern  Italians  express  themselves  in 
such  a  florid  form  of  words,  and  such  tedious 
circumlocutions,  as  are  used  by  none  but  pedants 
in  our  country;  and  at  the  same  time  fill  their 
writings  with  such  poor  imaginations  and  con¬ 
ceits.  as  our  youths  are  ashamed  of  before  they 
have  been  two  years  at  the  university.  Some  may 
be  apt  to  think  that  it  is  the  difference  of  genius 
which  produces  this  difference  in  the  works  of  the 
two  nations  ;  but  to  show  that  there  is  nothing  in 
this,  if  we  look  into  the  writings  of  the  old  Ital¬ 
ians,  such  as  Cicero  and  Virgil,  we  shall  find 
that  the  English  writers,  in  their  way  of  thinking 
and  expressing  themselves,  resemble  those  authors 
much  more  than  the  modern  Italians  pretend  to 
do.  And  as  for  the  poet  himself,  from  whom  the 
dreams  of  this  opera*  are  taken,  I  must  entirely 
agree  with  Monsieur  Boileau,  that  one  verse  in 
Virgil  is  worth  all  the  clinquant  or  tinsel  of 
Tasso. 

But  to  return  to  the  sparrows  :  there  have  been 
so  many  flights  of  them  let  loose  in  this  opera, 
that  it  is  feared  the  house  will  never  get  rid  of 
them;  and  that  in  other  plays  they  may  make 
their  entrance  in  very  wrong  and  improper  scenes, 
so  as  to  be  seen  flying  in  a  lady’s  bed-chamber,  or 
perching  upon  a  king’s  throne — beside  the  incon¬ 
veniences  which  the  heads  of  the  audience  may 
sometimes  suffer  from  them.  I  am  credibly  in¬ 
formed,  that  there  was  once  a  design  of  casting 
into  an  opera  the  story  of  Whittington  and  his 
Cat,  and  that,  in  order  to  it,  there  had  been  got 
together  a  great  quantity  of  mice;  but  Mr.  Rich, 
the  proprietor  of  the  playhouse,  very  prudently 
considered  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  the  cat 
to  kill  them  all,  and  that  consequently  the  princes 
of  the  stage  might  be  as  much  infested  with  mice, 
as  the  prince  of  the  island  was  before  the  cat’s  ar¬ 
rival  upon  it;  for  which  reason  he  would  not  per¬ 
mit  it  to  be  acted  in  his  house.  And  indeed  I 
cannot  blame  him;  for,  as  he  said  very  well  upon 
that  occasion,  I  do  not  hear  that  any  of  the  per¬ 
formers  in  our  opera  pretend  to  equal  the  famous 
pied  piperf,  who  made  all  the  mice  of  a  great 
town  in  Germany  follow  his  music,  and  by  that 
means  cleared  the  place  of  those  little  noxious 
animals. 

Before  I  dismiss  this  paper,  I  must  inform  my 
reader,  that  I  hear  there  is  a  treaty  on  foot  be¬ 


*  Rinaldo,  an  opera,  8  vo.,  1711.  The  plan  of  Aaron  Hill ; 
the  Italian  words  by  Sig.  G. Rossi;  and  the  music  by  Handel. 

f  June  26,  1284,  the  rats  and  mice  by  which  Hamelen  was 
infested,  were  allured,  it  is  said,  by  a  piper,  to  a  contiguous 
river,  in  which  they  were  all  drowned. 


tween  London  and  Wise*  (who  will  be  appointed 
gardeners  of  the  playhouse)  to  furnish  the  opera 
of  Rinaldo  and  Arnnda  with  an  orange-grove;  and 
that  the  next  time  it  is  acted,  the  singing-birds 
will  be  personated  by  tom-tits,  the  undertakers 
being  resolved  to  spare  neither  pains  nor  money 
for  the  gratification  of  the  audience. — C. 


No.  6.]  WEDNESDAY,  MARCH  7,  1710-11. 

Credebant  hoc  grande  nefas,  et  morte  piandum, 

Si  juvenis  vetulo  non  assurrexerat - - —  Juv.,  Sat.,  xiii,  54. 

’  Twas  impious  then  (so  much  was  age  rever’d) 

For  youth  to  keep  their  seats  when  an  old  man  appear’d. 

I  know  no  evil  under  the  sun  so  great  as  the 
abuse  of  the  understanding,  and  yet  there  is  no 
one  vice  more  common.  It  has  diffused  itself 
through  both  sexes,  and  all  qualities  of  mankind, 
and  there  is  hardly  that  person  to  be  found,  who 
is  not  more  concerned  for  the  reputation  of  wit 
and  sense,  than  of  honesty  and  virtue.  But  this 
unhappy  affectation  of  being  wise  rather  than 
honest,  witty  than  good-natured,  is  the  source  of 
most  of  the  ill  habits  of  life.  Such  false  impres¬ 
sions  are  owing  to  the  abandoned  writings  of  men 
of  wit,  and  the  awkward  imitation  of  the  rest  of 
mankind. 

For  this  reason  Sir  Roger  was  saying  last  night, 
that  he  was  of  opinion  none  but  men  of  fine  parts 
deserved  to  be  hanged.  The  reflections  of  such 
men  are  so  delicate  upon  all  occurrences  which 
they  are  concerned  in,  that  they  should  be  ex¬ 
posed  to  more  than  ordinary  infamy  and  punish¬ 
ment,  for  offending  against  such  quick  admoni¬ 
tions  as  their  own  souls  give  them,  and  blunting 
the  fine  edge  of  their  minds  in  such  a  manner,  that 
they  are  no  more  shocked  at  vice  and  folly  than 
men  of  slower  capacities.  There  is  no  greater 
monster  in  being,  than  a  very  ill  man  of  great 
parts.  He  lives  like  a  man  in  a  palsy,  with  one 
side  of  him  dead.  While  perhaps  he  enjoys  the 
satisfaction  of  luxury,  of  wealth,  of  ambition,  he 
has  lost  the  taste  of  good-will,  of  friendship,  of 
innocence.  Scarecrow,  the  beggar  in  Lincoln’ s- 
inn- fields,  who  disabled  himself  in  his  right  leg, 
and  asks  alms  all  day  to  get  himself  a  warm  sup¬ 
per  and  a  trull  at  night,  is  not  half  so  despicable 
a  wretch  as  such  a  man  of  sense.  The  beggar  has 
no  relish  above  sensations  ;  he  finds  rest  more 
agreeable  than  motion  ;  and  while  he  has  a  warm 
fire  and  his  doxy,  never  reflects  that  he  deserves  to 
be  whipped.  Every  man  who  terminates  his  satis¬ 
factions  and  enjoyments  within  the  supply  of  his 
own  necessities  and  passions  is,  says  Sir  Roger, 
in  my  eye,  as  poor  a  rogue  as  Scarecrow.  ‘'But,” 
continued  he,  “  for  the  loss  of  public  and  private 
virtue,  we  are  beholden  to  your  men  of  fine  parts 
forsooth;  it  is  with  them  no  matter  what  is  done, 
so  it  be  done  with  an  air.  But  to  me,  who  am  so 
whimsical  in  a  corrupt  age  as  to  act  according  to 
nature  and  reason,  a  selfish  man,  in  the  most  shin¬ 
ing  circumstance  and  equipage,  appears  in  the 
same  condition  with  the  fellow  above  mentioned, 
but  more  contemptible  in  proportion  to  what  more 
he  robs  the  public  of,  and  enjoys  above  him.  I 
lay  it  down  therefore  for  a  rule,  that  the  whole 
man  is  to  move  together;  that  every  action  of  any 
importance  is  to  have  a  prospect  for  the  pub¬ 
lic  good;  and  that  the  general  tendency  of  our  in¬ 
different  actions  ought  to  be  agreeable  to  the 
dictates  of  reason,  of  religion,  of  good-breeding ; 
without  this,  a  man,  as  I  have  before  hinted,  is 
hopping  instead  of  walking  ;  he  is  not  in  his  en¬ 
tire  and  proper  motion.” 

*  London  and  Wise  were  the  Queen’s  gardeners  at  this 
time. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


44 

While  the  honest  lcniglit  was  thus  bewildering 
himself  in  good  starts,  I  looked  attentively  upon 
him,  which  made  him,  I  thought,  collect  his  mind 
a  little.  “  What  I  aim  at,”  says  he,  “  is  to  repre¬ 
sent,  that  I  am  of  opinion,  to  polish  our  under¬ 
standings,  and  neglect  our  manners,  is  of  all  things 
the  most  inexcusable.  Reason  should  govern 
passion,  but  instead  of  that,  you  see,  it  is  often 
subservient  to  it;  and  as  unaccountable  as  one 
would  think  it,  a  wise  man  is  not  always  a  good 
man.”  This  degeneracy  is  not  only  the  guilt  of 
particular  persons,  but  also  at  some  times  of  a 
whole  people;  and  perhaps  it  may  appear  upon 
examination,  that  the  most  polite  ages  are  the 
least  virtuous.  This  may  be  attributed  to  the 
folly  of  admitting  wit  and  learning  as  merit  in 
themselves,  without  considering  the  application 
of  them.  By  this  means  it  becomes  a  rule,  not  so 
much  to  regard  what  we  do,  as  how  we  do  it. 
But  this  false  beauty  will  not  pass  upon  men  of 
honest  minds,  and  true  taste.  Sir  Richard  Black- 
more  says,  with  as  much  good  sense  as  virtue,  “  It 
is  a  mighty  shame  and  dishonor  to  employ  excel¬ 
lent  faculties  and  abundance  of  wit,  to  humor  and 
please  men  in  their  vices  and  follies.  The  great 
enemy  of  mankind,  notwithstanding  his  wit  and 
angelic  faculties,  is  the  most  odious  being  in  the 
whole  creation.”  He  goes  on  soon  after  to  say,  very 
generously,  that  he  undertook  the  writing  of  his 
poem  “  to  rescue  the  muses  out  of  the  hands  of  ra- 
vishers,  to  restore  them  to  their  sweet  and  chaste 
mansions,  and  to  engage  them  in  an  employment 
suitable  to  their  dignity.”  This  certainly  ought 
to  be  the  purpose  of  every  man  who  appears  in 
public,  and  whoever  does  not  proceed  upon  that 
foundation,  injures  his  country  as  far  as  he  suc¬ 
ceeds  in  his  studies.  When  modesty  ceases  to  be 
the  chief  ornament  of  one  sex,  and  integrity  of  the 
other,  society  is  upon  a  wrong  basis,  and  we  shall 
be  ever  after  without  rules  to  guide  our  judgment 
in  what  is  really  becoming  and  ornamental.  Na¬ 
ture  and  reason  direct  one  thing,  passion  and 
humor  another.  To  follow  the  dictates  of  these 
two  latter,  is  going  into  a  road  that  is  both  end¬ 
less  and  intricate  ;  when  we  pursue  the  other,  our 
passage  is  delightful,  and  what  we  aim  at  easily 
attainable. 

I  do  not  doubt  but  England  is  at  present  as  po¬ 
lite  a  nation  as  any  in  the  world;  but  any  man 
who  thinks,  can  easily  see,  that  the  affectation  of 
being  gay  and  in  fashion,  has  very  near  eaten  up 
our  good  sense,  and  our  religion.  Is  there  any¬ 
thing  so  just  as  that  mode  and  gallantry  should  be 
built  upon  our  exerting  ourselves  in  what  is  pro¬ 
per  and  agreeable  to  the  institutions  of  justice  and 
piety  among  us  ?  And  yet  is  there  anything  more 
common,  than  that  we  run  in  perfect  contradiction 
to  them  ?  All  which  is  supported  by  no  other 
pretension,  than  that  it  is  done  with  what  we  call 
a  good  grace. 

Nothing  ought  to  be  held  laudable  or  becoming, 
but  what  nature  itself  should  prompt  us  to  think 
so.  Respect  to  all  kind  of  superiors  is  founded,  I 
think,  upon  instinct;  and  yet  what  is  so  ridiculous 
as  age?  I  make  this  abrupt  transition  to  the  men¬ 
tion  of  this  vice  more  than  any  other,  in  order  to 
introduce  a  little  story,  which  I  think  a  pretty  in¬ 
stance,  that  the  most  polite  age  is  in  danger  of 
being  the  most  vicious. 

“  It  happened  at  Athens,  during  a  public  repre¬ 
sentation  of  some  play  exhibited  in  honor  of  the 
commonwealth,  that  an  old  gentleman  came  too 
late  for  a  place  suitable  to  his  age  and  quality. 
Many  of  the  young  gentlemen,  who  observed  the 
difficulty  and  confusion  he  was  in,  made  signs  to 
him  that  they  wbuld  accommodate  him  if  he  came 
where  they  sat.  The  good  man  bustled  through 


the  crowd  accordingly;  but  when  he  came  to  the 
seats  to  which  he  was  invited,  the  jest  was  to  sit 
close  and  expose  him,  as  he  stood,  out  of  counte¬ 
nance,  to  the  whole  audience.  The  frolic  went 
round  the  Athenian  benches.  But  on  those  occa¬ 
sions  there  were  also  particular  places  assigned 
for  foreigners.  When  the  good  man  skulked  to¬ 
ward  the  boxes  appointed  for  the  Lacedemonians, 
that  honest  people,  more  virtuous  than  polite,  rose 
up  all  to  a  man,  and  with  the  greatest  respect  re¬ 
ceived  him  among  them.  The  Athenians  being 
suddenly  touched  with  a  sense  of  the  Spartan  vir¬ 
tue  and  their  own  degeneracy,  gave  a  thunder  of 
applause;  and  the  old  man  cried  out,  ‘The  Athe¬ 
nians  understand  what  is  good,  but  the  Lacedemo¬ 
nians  practice  it.’” — R. 


No.  7.]  THURSDAY,  MARCH  8,  1710-11. 

Somnia,  terrores  magicos,  miracula,  sagas, 

Nocturnes  lemures,  portentaque  Thessala  rides? 

Hob.,  2  Ep.,  ii,  208. 

Visions  and  magic  spells  can  you  despise, 

.And  laugh  at  witches,  ghosts,  and  prodigies? 

Going  yesterday  to  dine  with  an  old  acquaint¬ 
ance,  I  had  the  misfortune  to  find  his  whole  fami¬ 
ly  very  much  dejected.  Upon  asking  him  the 
occasion  of  it,  he  told  me  that  his  wife  had 
dreampt  a  strange  dream  the  night  before,  which 
they  were  afraid  portended  some  misfortune  to 
themselves  or  to  their  children.  At  her  coming 
into  the  room,  I  observed  a  settled  melancholy  in 
her  countenance,  which  I  should  have  been  trou¬ 
bled  for,  had  I  not  heard  from  whence  it  pro¬ 
ceeded.  We  were  no  sooner  sat  down,  but  after 
having  looked  upon  me  a  little  while,  “My  dear,” 
says  she,  turning  to  her  husband,  “you  may  now 
see  the  stranger  that  was  in  the  candle  last  night.” 
Soon  after  this,  as  they  began  to  talk  of  family 
affairs,  a  little  boy  at  the  lower  end  of  the  table 
told  her,  that  he  was  to  go  into  join-hand  on 
Thursday.  “Thursday!”  says  she,  “No,  child, 
if  it  please  God,  you  shall  not  begin  upon  Childer- 
mas-day;  tell  your  writing-master  that  Friday  will 
be  soon  enough.”  I  was  reflecting  with  myself 
on  the  oddness  of  her  fancy,  and  wondering  that 
anybody  would  establish  it  as  a  rule,  to  lose  a 
day  in  every  week.  In  the  midst  of  these  my 
musings,  she  desired  me  to  reach  her  a  little  salt 
upon  the  point  of  my  knife,  which  I  did  in  such 
a  trepidation  and  hurry  of  obedience,  that  I  let  it 
drop  by  the  way ;  at  which  she  immediately 
startled,  and  said  it  fell  toward  her.  Upon  this  I 
looked  very  blank;  and  observing  the  concern  of 
the  whole  table,  began  to  consider  myself,  with, 
some  confusion,  as  a  person  that  had  brought  a 
disaster  upon  the  family.  The  lady,  however,  re¬ 
covering  herself  after  a  little  space,  said  to  her 
husband  with  a  sigh,  “My  dear,  misfortunes  never 
come  single.”  My  friend,  I  found,  acted  but  an 
under  part  at  his  table,  and  being  a  man  of  more 
good-nature  than  understanding,  thinks  himself 
obliged  to  fall  in  with  all  the  passions  and  humors 
of  his  yoke-fellow.  “Do  not  you  remember, 
child,”  says  she,  “that  the  pigeon-house  fell  the 
very  afternoon  that  our  careless  wench  spilt  the 
salt  upon  the  table  ?”  “Yes,”  says  he,  “  my  dear, 
and  the  next  post  brought  us  an  account  of  the 
battle  of  Almanza.”  The  reader  may  guess  at  the 
figure  I  made,  after  having  done  all  this  mischief. 
I  dispatched  my  dinner  as  rapidly  as  I  could,  with 
my  usual  taciturnity;  when,  to  my  utter  confu¬ 
sion,  the  lady  seeing  me  quitting  my  knife  and 
fork,  and  laying  them  across  one  another  on  my 
plate,  desired  me  that  I  would  humor  her  so  far 
as  to  take  them  out  of  that  figure,  and  place  them 
side  by  side.  "What  the  absurdity  was  which  I 


THE  SPE 

had  committed  I  did  not  know,  but  I  suppose 
there  was  somo  traditionary  superstition  in  it;  and 
therefore,  in  obedience  to  the  lady  of  the  house,  I 
disposed  of  my  knife  and  fork  in  two  parallel 
lines,  which  is  the  figure  I  shall  always  lay  them 
in  for  the  future,  though  I  do  not  know  any  reason 
for  it. 

It  is  not  difficult  for  a  man  to  see  that  a  person 
has  conceived  an  aversion  to  him.  For  my  own 
part,  I  quickly  found,  by  the  lady’s  looks,  that 
she  regarded  me  as  a  very  odd  kind  of  fellow, 
with  an  unfortunate  aspect.  For  which  reason  I 
took  my  leave  immediately  after  dinner,  and  with¬ 
drew  to  my  own  lodgings.  Upon  my  return  home, 
I  fell  into  a  profound  contemplation  on  the  evils 
that  attend  these  superstitious  follies  of  mankind; 
how  they  subject  us  to  imaginary  afflictions,  and 
additional  sorrows,  that  do  not  properly  come 
within  our  lot.  As  if  the  natural  calamities  of 
life  were  not  sufficient  for  it,  we  turn  the  most  in¬ 
different  circumstances  into  misfortunes,  and  suf¬ 
fer  as  much  from  trifling  accidents  as  from  real 
evils.  I  have  known  the  shooting  of  a  star  spoil 
a  night’s  rest;  and  have  seen  a  man  in  love  grow 
pale,  and  lose  his  appetite,  upon  the  plucking  of 
a  merry-thought.  A  screech-owl  at  midnight  has 
alarmed  a  family  more  than  a  band  of  robbers; 
nay,  the  voice  of  a  cricket  hath  struck  more  terror 
than  the  roaring  of  a  lion.  There  is  nothing  so 
inconsiderable,  which  may  not  appear  dreadful  to 
an  imagination  that  is  filled  with  omens  and  prog¬ 
nostics.  A  rusty  nail,  or  a  crooked  pin,  shoot  up 
into  prodigies. 

I  remember  I  was  once  in  a  mixed  assembly, 
that  was  full  of  noise  and  mirth,  when  on  a  sud¬ 
den  an  old  woman  unluckily  observed,  there 
were  thirteen  of  us  in  company.  This  remark 
struck  a  panic  into  several  wTho  were  present,  in¬ 
somuch  that  one  or  two  of  the  ladies  were  going 
to  leave  the  room;  but  a  friend  of  mine  taking 
notice  that  one  of  our  female  companions  was  big 
with  child,  affirmed  there  were  fourteen  in  the 
room,  and  that,  instead  of  portending  one  of  the 
company  should  die,  it  plainly  foretold  one  of 
them  should  be  born.  Had  not  my  friend  found 
this  expedient  to  break  the  omen,  I  question  not 
but  half  the  women  in  the  company  would  have 
fallen  sick  that  very  night. 

An  old  maid  that  is  troubled  with  the  vapors 
roduces  infinite  disturbances  of  this  kind  among 
er  friends  and  neighbors.  I  know  a  maiden  aunt 
of  a  great  family,  who  is  one  of  these  antiquated 
sybils,  that  forebodes  and  prophesies  from  one  end 
of  the  year  to  the  other.  She  is  always  seeing  ap¬ 
paritions,  and  hearing  death-watches;  and  was  the 
other  day  almost  frightened  out  of  her  wits  by  the 
great  house-dog  that  howled  in  the  stable,  at  a  time 
when  she  lay  ill  with  the  tooth-ache.  Such  an  ex¬ 
travagant  cast  of  mind  engages  multitudes  of  peo¬ 
ple,  not  only  in  impertinent  terrors,  but  in  su¬ 
pernumerary  duties  of  life;  and  arises  from  that 
fear  and  ignorance  which  are  natural  to  the  soul 
of  man.  The  horror  with  which  we  entertain  the 
thoughts  of  death  (or  indeed  of  any  future  evil), 
and  the  uncertainty  of  its  approach,  fill  a  melan¬ 
choly  mind  with  innumerable  apprehensions  and 
suspicions,  and  consequently  dispose  it  to  the 
observation  of  such  groundless  prodigies  and  pre¬ 
dictions.  For  as  it  is  the  chief  concern  of  wise 
men  to  retrench  the  evils  of  life  by  the  reasonings 
of  philosophy ;  it  is  the  employment  of  fools  to 
.multiply  them  by  the  sentiments  of  supersti¬ 
tion. 

For  my  own  part.  I  should  be  very  much 
troubled  were  I  endowed  with  this  divining 
quality,  though  it  should  inform  me  truly  of  every¬ 
thing  that  can  befall  me.  I  would  not  anticipate 


CTATOR.  45 

the  relish  of  any  happiness,  nor  feel  the  weight 
of  any  misery,  before  it  actually  arrives. 

I  know  but  one  way  of  fortifying  my  soul  against 
these  gloomy  presages  and  terrors  of  mind,  and 
that  is,  by  securing  to  myself  the  friendship  and 
protection  of  that  Being,  who  disposes  of  events, 
and  governs  futurity.  He  sees,  at  one  view,  the 
whole  thread  of  my  existence,  not  only  that  part 
of  it  which  I  have  already  passed  through,  but 
that  which  runs  forward  into  all  the  depths  of  eter¬ 
nity.  When  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep,  I  recommend 
myself  to  his  care;  when  I  awake,  I  give  myself  up 
to  his  direction.  Amidst  all  the  evils  that  threaten 
me,  I  will  look  up  to  him  for  help,  and  question 
not  but  he  will  either  avert  them,  or  turn  them  to 
my  advantage.  Though  I  know  neither  the  time 
nor  the  manner  of  the  death  I  am  to  die,  I  am  not 
at  all  solicitous  about  it;  because  I  am  sure  that 
he  knows  them  both,  and  that  he  will  not  fail  to 
comfort  and  support  me  under  them. 


N o.  8.]  FRIDAY,  MARCH  9,  1710-11. 

At  Venus  obscuro  gradientes  aere  sepsit, 

Et  inulto  nebulae  circum  Dea  fudit  amictu, 

Cernere  ne  quis  eos - Virg.,  2En.,  i,  415. 

They  march  obscure,  for  Venus  kindly  shrouds, 

With  mists  their  persons,  and  involves  in  clouds. 

Dryden. 

I  shall  here  communicate  to  the  world  a  couple 
of  letters,  which  I  believe  will  give  the  reader  as 
good  an  entertainment  as  any  that  I  am  able  to 
furnish  him  with,  and  therefore  shall  make  no 
apology  for  them  : — 

“To  the  Spectator,  etc. 

“Sir, — I  am  one  of  the  directors  of  the  society 
for  the  reformation  of  manners,  and  therefore  think 
myself  a  proper  person  for  your  correspondence. 
I  have  thoroughly  examined  the  present  state  of 
religion  in  Great  Britain,  and  am  able  to  acquaint 
you  with  the  predominant  vice  of  every  market- 
town  in  the  whole  island.  I  can  tell  you  the  pro¬ 
gress  that  virtue  has  made  in  all  our  cities, 
boroughs,  and  corporations;  and  know  as  well  the 
evil  practices  that  are  committed  in  Berwick  or 
Exeter,  as  what  is  done  in  my  own  family.  In  a 
word,  Sir,  I  have  my  correspondents  in  the  remo- 
tests  parts  of  the  nation,  who  send  me  up  punctual 
accounts  from  time  to  time  of  all  the  little  irregu¬ 
larities  that  fall  under  their  notice  in  their  several 
districts  and  divisions. 

“I  am  no  less  acquainted  with  the  particular 
quarters  and  regions  of  this  great  town,  than  with 
the  different  parts  and  distributions  of  the  whole 
nation.  I  can  describe  every  parish  by  its  impie¬ 
ties,  and  can  tell  you  in  which  of  our  streets  lewd¬ 
ness  prevails;  which  gaming  has  taken  the  posses¬ 
sion  of;  and  where  drunkenness  has  got  the  better 
of  them  both.  When  I  am  disposed  to  raise  a  fine 
for  the  poor,  I  know  the  lanes  and  alleys  that  are 
inhabited  by  common  swearers.  When  I  would 
encourage  the  hospital  of  Bridewell,  and  improve 
the  hempen  manufacture,  I  am  very  well  acquaint¬ 
ed  with  all  the  haunts  and  resorts  of  female  night- 
walkers. 

“After  this  short  account  of  myself,  I  must  let 
you  know,  that  the  design  of  this  paper  is  to  give 
you  information  of  a  certain  irregular  assembly, 
which  I  think  falls  very  properly  under  your  ob¬ 
servation,  especially  since  the  persons  it  is  com¬ 
posed  of  are  criminals  too  considerable  for  the 
animadversions  of  our  society.  I  mean,  Sir,  the 
Midnight  Mask,  which  has  of  late  been  frequently 
held  in  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  parts  of  the 
town,  and  which,  I  hear,  will  be  continued  with 
additions  and  improvements :  as  all  the  persona 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


46 

who  compose  this  lawless  assembly  are  masked, 
we  dare  not  attack  any  of  them  in  our  way,  lest 
we  should  send  a  woman  of  quality  to  Bridewell,  j 
or  a  peer  of  Great  Britain  to  the  Compter:  beside,  : 
their  numbers  are  so  very  great,  that  I  am  afraid 
they  would  be  able  to  rout  our  whole  fraternity,  ; 
though  we  were  accompanied  with  our  guard  of  | 
constables.  Both  these  reasons,  which  secure  them 
from  our  authority,  make  them  obnoxious  to  yours; 
as  both  their  disguise  and  their  numbers  will  give 
no  particular  person  reason  to  think  himself 
affronted  by  you. 

“If  we  are  rightly  informed,  the  rules  that  are 
observed  by  this  new  society  are  wonderfully  con¬ 
trived  for  the  advancement  of  cuckoldom.  The 
women  either  come  by  themselves,  or  are  intro¬ 
duced  by  friends  who  are  obliged  to  quit  them, 
upon  their  first  entrance,  to  the  conversation  of 
anybody  that  addresses  himself  to  them.  There 
are  several  rooms  where  the  parties  may  retire,  and, 
if  they  please,  show  their  faces  by  consent. 
Whispers,  squeezes,  nods,  and  embraces,  are  the 
innocent  freedoms  of  the  place.  In  short,  the 
whole  design  of  this  libidinous  assembly  seems  to 
terminate  in  assignations  and  intrigues ;  and  I 
hope  you  will  take  effectual  methods,  by  your 
public  advice  and  admonitions,  to  prevent  such  a 
promiscuous  multitude  of  both  sexes  from  meet¬ 
ing  together  in  so  clandestine  a  manner. 

“  I  am  your  humble  servant,  and  fellow-laborer, 

“T.  B.” 

Hot  long  after  the  perusal  of  this  letter,  I  re- 
received  another  upon  the  same  subject ;  which,  by 
the  date  and  style  of  it,  I  take  to  be  written  by 
some  young  Templar : 

“Sir,  Middle  Temple,  1710-11. 

“  When  a  man  has  been  guilty  of  any  vice  or 
folly,  I  think  the  best  atonement  he  can  make  for 
it,  is  to  warn  others  not  to  fall  into  the  like.  In 
order  to  this,  I  must  acquaint  you,  that  some  time 
in  February  last,  I  went  to  the  Tuesday’s  mas¬ 
querade.  Upon  my  first  going  in  I  was  attacked 
by  half-a-dozen  female  Quakers,  who  seemed  wil¬ 
ling  to  adopt  me  for  a  brother ;  but  upon  a  nearer 
examination  I  found  they  were  a  sisterhood  of 
coquettes,  disguised  in  that  precise  habit.  I  was 
soon  after  taken  out  to  dance,  and,  as  I  fancied, 
by  a  woman  of  the  first  quality,  for  she  was  very 
tall,  and  moved  gracefully.  As  soon  as  the  min¬ 
uet  was  over,  we  ogled  one  another  through  our 
masks;  and  as  I  am  very  well  read  in  Waller,  I 
repeated  to  her  the  four  following  verses  out  of  his 
poem  to  Y andyke : 

The  heedless  lover  does  not  know 

Whose  eyes  they  are  that  wound  him  so ; 

But  confounded  with  thy  art, 

Inquires  her  name  that  has  his  heart. 

I  pronounced  these  words  with  such  a  languishing 
air,  that  I  had  some  reason  to  conclude  I  had  made 
a  conquest.  She  told  me  that  she  hoped  my  face 
was  not  akin  to  my  tongue,  and  looking  upon  her 
watch,  I  accidentally  discovered  the  figure  of  a 
coronet  on  the  back  part  of  it.  I  was  so  trans¬ 
ported  with  the  thought  of  such  an  amour,  that  I 
plied  her  from  one  room  to  another  with  all  the 
gallantries  I  could  invent :  and  at  length  brought 
things  to  so  happy  an  issue,  that  she  gave  me  a 
private  meeting  the  next  day,  without  page  or 
footman,  coach  or  equipage.  My  heart  danced  in 
raptures,  but  I  had  not  lived  in  this  golden  dream 
above  three  days,  before  I  found  a  good  reason  to 
wish  that  I  had  continued  true  to  my  laundress.  I 
have  since  heard,  by  a  very  great  accident,  that 
this  fine  lady  does  not  live  far  from  Covcnt-garden, 


and  that  I  am  not  the  first  cully  whom  she  has 
passed  herself  upon  for  a  countess. 

“  Thus,  Sir,  you  see  how  I  have  mistaken  a 
cloud  for  a  J uno  ;  and  if  you  can  make  any  use  of 
this  adventure  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  may 
possibly  be  as  vain  young  coxcombs  as  myself,  I 
do  most  heartily  give  you  leave. 

“  I  am,  Sir, 

“Your  most  humble  admirer,  B.  L. 

I  design  to  visit  the  next  masquerade  myself,  in 
the  same  habit  I  wore  at  Grand  Cairo ;  and  till 
then  shall  suspend  my  judgment  of  this  midnight 
entertainment. — C . 

***  Letters  for  the  Spectator,  to  be  left  with  Mr.  Buckley, 
at  the  Dolphin,  in  Little  Britain. — Spect.  in  folio. 


Ho.  9.]  SATURDAY,  MARCH  10,  1710-11. 

- Tigris  agit  rabida  cum  tigride  paoem 

Perpetuam,  ssevis  inter  se  convenit  ur&is. 

Juv.,  Sat.  xv,  103. 

Tiger  with  tiger,  bear  with  bear,  you’ll  fnd 
In  leagues  offensive  and  defensive  join’d. — Tate. 

Man  is  said  to  be  a  sociable  animal,  and,  as  an 
instance  of  it,  we  may  observe  that  we  take  all 
occasions  and  pretenses  of  forming  ourselves  into 
those  little  nocturnal  assemblies,  which  are  com¬ 
monly  known  by  the  name  of  clubs.  When  a  set 
of  men  find  themselves  agree  in  any  particular, 
though  never  so  trivial,  they  establish  themselves 
into  a  kind  of  fraternity,  and  meet  once  or  twice  a 
week,  upon  the  account  of  such  a  fantastic  re¬ 
semblance.  I  know  a  considerable  market-town, 
in  which  there  was  a  club  of  fat  men,  that  did  not 
come  together  (as  you  may  well  suppose)  to  en¬ 
tertain  one  another  with  sprightliness  and  wit  but 
to  keep  one  another  in  countenance.  The  room 
where  the  club  met  was  something  of  the  largest, 
and  had  two  entrances,  the  one  by  a  door  of  mod¬ 
erate  size,  and  the  other  by  a  pair  of  folding- 
doors.  If  a  candidate  for  this  corpulent  club  could 
make  his  entrance  through  the  first,  he  was  looked 
upon  as  unqualified ;  but  if  he  stuck  in  the  pas¬ 
sage,  and  could  not  force  his  way  through  it,  the 
folding  doors  were  immediately  thrown  open  for 
his  reception,  and  he  was  saluted  as  a  brother.  I 
have  heard  that  this  club,  though  it  consisted  but 
of  fifteen  persons,  weighed  above  three  ton. 

In  opposition  to  this  society,  there  sprung  up 
another  composed  of  scarecrows  and  skeletons, 
wrho,  being  very  meager  and  envious,  did  all  they 
could  to  thwart  the  designs  of  their  bulky  breth¬ 
ren,  whom  they  represented  as  men  of  dangerous 
principles ;  till  at  length  they  worked  them  out  of 
the  favor  of  the  people,  and  consequently  out  of 
the  magistracy.  These  factions  tore  the  corpora¬ 
tion  in  pieces  for  several  years,  till  at  length  they 
came  to  this  accommodation ;  that  the  two  bailiffs 
of  the  town  should  be  annually  chosen  out  of  the 
two  clubs  ;  by  which  means  the  principal  magis¬ 
trates  are  at  this  day  coupled  like  rabbits,  one  fat 
and  one  lean. 

Every  one  has  heard  of  the  club,  or  rather  the 
confederacy,  of  the  kings.  This  grand  alliance 
was  formed  a  little  after  the  return  of  King  Charles 
the  Second,  and  admitted  into  it  men  of  all  quali¬ 
ties  and  professions,  provided  they  agreed  in  the 
surname  of  King,  which,  as  they  imagined,  suffi- 
|  ciently  declared  the  owners  of  it  to  be  altogether 
i  untainted  with  republican  and  anti-monarchical 
principles. 

A  Christian  name  has  likewise  been  often  used 
as  a  badge  of  distinction,  and  made  the  occasion 
of  a  club.  That  of  the  George’s,  which  used  to 
meet  at  the  sign  of  the  George,  on  St.  George’s-day, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


and  swear  "Before  George,”  is  still  fresh  in  every¬ 
one’s  memory. 

There  are"  at  present,  in  several  parts  of  this 
city,  what  the^-  call  street-clubs,  in  which  the  chief 
inhabitants  of  the  street  converse  together  every 
night.  I  remember,  upon  my  inquiring  after  lodg¬ 
ings  in  Ormond  street,  the  landlord,  to  recom¬ 
mend  that  quarter  of  the  town,  told  me  there  was 
at  that  time  a  very  good  club  in  it ;  he  also  told 
me,  upon  farther  discourse  with  him,  that  two  or 
three  noisy  country  ’squires,  who  were  settled  there 
the  year  before,  had  considerably  sunk  the  price 
of  house-rent ;  aad  that  the  club  (to  prevent  the 
like  inconveniences  for  the  future)  had  thoughts 
of  taking  every  house  that  became  vacant  into 
their  own  hands,  till  they  had  found  a  tenant  for 
it,  of  a  sociable  nature  and  good  conversation. 

The  Hum-drum  club,  of  which  I  was  formerly 
an  unworthy  member,  was  made  up  of  very  honest 
gentlemen  of  peaceable  dispositions,  that  used  to 
sit  together,  smoke  their  pipes,  and  say  nothing 
until  midnight.  The  Mum  club  (as  I  am  informed) 
is  an  institution  of  the  same  nature,  and  as  great 
an  enemy  to  noise. 

After  these  two  innocent  societies,  I  cannot  for¬ 
bear  mentioning  a  very  mischievous  one,  that  was 
erected  in  the  reign  of  King  Charles  the  Second  ; 
I  mean  the  club  of  Duelists,  in  which  none  was 
to  be  admitted  that  had  not  fought  his  man.  The 
president  of  it  was  said  to  have  killed  half  a 
dozen  in  single  combat ;  and  as  for  the  other  mem¬ 
bers,  they  took  their  seats  according  to  the  num¬ 
ber  of  their  slain.  There  was  likewise  a  side-ta¬ 
ble,  for  such  as  had  only  drawn  blood,  and  shown 
a  laudable  ambition  of  taking  the  first  opportunity 
to  qualify  themselves  for  the  first  table.  This 
club,  consisting  only  of  men  of  honor,  did  not 
continue  long,  most  of  the  members  of  it  being 
put  to  the  sword,  or  hanged,  a  little  after  its  insti¬ 
tution. 

Our  modern  celebrated  clubs  are  founded  upon 
eating  and  drinking,  which  are  points  wherein 
most  men  agree,  and  in  which  the  learned  and  the 
illiterate,  the  dull  and  the  airy,  the  philosopher  and 
the  buffoon,  can  all  of  them  bear  a  part.  The  Kit- 
cat*  itself  is  said  to  have  taken  its  original  from 
a  mutton-pie.  The  beef-steakf  and  October  clubs 
are  neither  of  them  averse  to  eating  and  drinking, 
if  we  may  form  a  judgment  of  them  from  their 
respective  titles. 

When  men  are  thus  knit  together,  by  a  love  of 
society,  not  a  spirit  of  faction,  and  do  not  meet  to 
censure  or  annoy  those  that  are  absent,  but  to  en¬ 
joy  one  another;  when  they  are  thus  combined 
for  their  own  improvement,  or  for  the  good  of 
others,  or  at  least  to  relax  themselves  from  the 
business  of  the  day  by  an  innocent  and  cheerful 
conversation,  there  may  be  something  very  useful 
in  these  little  institutions  and  establishments. 

I  cannot  forbear  concluding  this  paper  with  a 
scheme  of  laws  that  I  met  with  upon  a  wall  in  a 

*  An  account  of  this  club,  which  took  its  name  from  Chris¬ 
topher  Cat,  the  maker  of  their  mutton-pies,  has  been  given 
in  tho  new  edition  of  the  Tatler,  with  notes,  in  0  vols.  The 
portraits  of  its  members  were  drawn  by  Kneller,  who  was 
himself  one  of  their  number,  and  all  portraits  of  the  same 
dimensions  and  form,  are  at  this  time  called  kit-cat  pictures. 
The  original  portraits  are  now  the  property  of  William  Ba¬ 
ker,  Esq.,  to  whom  they  came  by  inheritance  from  J.  Tonson, 
^ho  was  secretary  to  the  club.  It  was  originally  formed  in 
Shire-lane,  about  the  time  of  the  trial  of  the  seven  bishops, 
for  a  little  free  evening  conversation ;  but  in  Queen  Anne’s 
reign  comprehended  above  forty  noblemen  and  gentlemen  of 
the  first  rank  for  quality,  merit,  and  fortune,  firm  friends  of 
the  Hanoverian  succession. 

f  Of  this  club,  it  is  said,  that  Mrs.  Woffington,  the  only 
woman  in  it,  was  president ;  Richard  Estcourt,  the  comedian 
was  their  providore;  and  as  an  honorable  badge  of  his  office’ 
wore  a  small  gridiron  of  gold  hung  round  his  neck  with  a 
green  silk  ribbon. 


47 


little  alehouse.  How  I  came  thither  I  may  inform 
my  reader  at  a  more  convenient  time.  These  laws 
wore  enacted  by  a  knot  of  artisans  and  mechanics, 
who  used  to  meet  every  night ;  and  as  there  is 
something  in  them  which  gives  us  a  pretty  pic¬ 
ture  of  low  life,  I  shall  transcribe  them  word  for 
word. 

I  Rules  to  be  observed  in  the  Two-penny  Club,  erected 

in  this  place  for  the  preservation  of  friendship  and 
'  good  neighborhood. 

1.  Every  member  at  his  first  coming  in  shall 
lay  down  his  two-pence. 

2.  Every  member  shall  fill  his  pipe  out  of  his 
own  box. 

3.  If  any  member  absents  himself,  he  shall  for¬ 
feit  a  penny  for  the  use  of  the  club,  unless  in  case 
of  sickness  or  imprisonment. 

4.  If  any  member  curses  or  swears,  his  neigh¬ 
bor  may  give  him  a  kick  upon  the  shins. 

5.  If  any  member  tells  stories  in  the  club  that 
are  not  true,  he  shall  forfeit  for  every  third  lie  a 
half-penny. 

6.  If  any  member  strikes  another  wrongfully, 
he  shall  pay  his  club  for  him. 

7.  If  any  member  brings  his  wife  into  the  club, 
he  shall  pay  for  whatever  she  drinks  or  smokes. 

8.  If  any  member’s  wife  comes  to  fetch  him 
home  from  the  club,  she  shall  speak  to  him  with¬ 
out  the  door. 

9.  If  any  member  calls  another  a  cuckold,  he 
shall  be  turned  out  of  the  club. 

10.  None  shall  be  admitted  into  the  club  that 
is  of  the  same  trade  with  any  member  of  it. 

11.  None  of  the  club  shall  have  his  clothes  or 
shoes  made  or  mended,  but  by  a  brother  member. 

12.  No  non-juror  shall  be  capable  of  being  a 
member. 

3  he  morality  of  this  little  club  is  guarded  by 
such  wholesome  laws  and  penalties,  that  I  ques¬ 
tion  not  but  my  reader  will  be  as  well  pleased  with 
them  as  he  would  have  been  with  the  Leges  Convi- 
vales  of  Ben  Jonson,  the  regulations  of  an  old 
Roman  club  cited  by  Lipsius,  or  the  rules  of  a 
Symposium  in  an  ancient  Greek  author. 


No.  10.]  MONDAY,  MARCH  12,  1710-11. 

Non  aliter  quam  qui  adverso  vix  flumine  lembum 
Remigiis  subigit;  si  brachia  forte  remisit, 

Atque  ilium  in  prajeeps  prono  rap  it  alveus  amni. 

Virg.,  Georg.,  i,  201. 

So  the  boat’s  brawny  crew  the  current  stem, 

And,  slow  advancing,  struggle  with  the  stream : 

But  if  they  slack  their  hands,  or  cease  to  strive, 

TheD  down  the  flood  with  headlong  haste  they  drive. 

Brides. 

It  is  with  much  satisfaction  that  I  hear  this 
great  city  inquiring  day  by  day  after  these  my  pa¬ 
pers,  and  receiving  my  morning  lectures  with  a 
becoming  seriousness  and  attention.  My  publisher 
tells  me,  that  there  are  already  three  thousand  of 
them  distributed  every  day :  so  that  if  I  allow 
twenty  readers  to  every  paper,  which  I  look  upon 
as  a  modest  computation,  I  may  reckon  about 
threescore  thousand  disciples  in  London  and 
Westminster,  who  I  hope  will  take  care  to  distin¬ 
guish  themselves  from  the  thoughtless  herd  of 
their  ignorant  and  inattentive  brethren.  Since  I 
have  raised  to  myself  so  great  an  audience,  I  shall 
spare  no  pains  to  make  their  instruction  agreeable, 
and  their  diversion  useful.  For  which  reasons  I 
shall  endeavor  to  enliven  morality  with  wit,  and  to 
temper  wit  with  morality,  that  my  readers  may,  if 
possible,  both  ways  find  their  account  in  the  spec¬ 
ulation  of  the  day.  And  to  the  end  that  their  vir¬ 
tue  and  discretion  may  not  be  short,  transient, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


48 

intermitting  starts  of  thought,  I  have  resolved  to  re¬ 
fresh  their,  memories  from  day  to  day,  till  I  have 
recovered  them  out  of  that  desperate  state  of  vice 
and  folly,  into  which  the  age  is  fallen.  The  mind 
that  lies  fallow  for  a  single  day,  sprouts  up  in  fol¬ 
lies  that  are  only  to  be  killed  by  a  constant  and 
assiduous  culture.  It  was  said  of  Socrates,  that 
he  brought  Philosophy  down  from  heaven,  to  in¬ 
habit  among  men ;  and  I  shall  be  ambitious  to  have 
it  said  of  me,  that  I  have  brought  Philosophy  out 
of  closets  and  libraries,  schools  and  colleges,  to 
dwell  in  clubs  and  assemblies,  at  tea-tables  and  in 
coffee-houses. 

I  would  therefore  in  a  very  particular  manner 
recommend  these  my  speculations  to  all  well  regu¬ 
lated  families,  that  set  apart  an  hour  every  morn¬ 
ing  for  tea  and  bread  and  butter  ;  and  would  ear¬ 
nestly  advise  them  for  their  good  to  order  this 
paper  to  be  punctually  served  up,  and  to  be  looked 
upon  as  a  part  of  the  tea-equipage. 

Sir  Francis  Bacon  observes,  that  a  well  written 
book,  compared  with  its  rivals  and  antagonists,  is 
like  Moses’  serpent,  that  immediately  swallowed 
up  and  devoured  those  of  the  Egyptians.  I  shall 
not  be  so  vain  as  to  think,  that  where  the  Specta¬ 
tor  appears,  the  other  public  prints  will  vanish ; 
but  shall  leave  it  to  my  reader’s  consideration, 
whether  it  is  not  much  better  to  be  let  into  the 
knowledge  of  one’s  self,  than  to  hear  what  passes 
in  Muscovy  or  Poland ;  and  to  amuse  ourselves 
with  such  writings  as  tend  to  the  wearing  out  of 
ignorance,  passion,  and  prejudice,  than  such  as 
naturally  conduce  to  inflame  hatreds,  and  make 
enmities  irreconcilable. 

In  the  next  place  I  would  recommend  this  paper 
to  the  daily  perusal  of  those  gentlemen  whom  I 
cannot  but  consider  as  my  good  brothers  and  allies, 
I  mean  the  fraternity  of  Spectators,  who  live  in 
the  world  without  having  anything  to  do  in  it  ; 
and  either  by  the  affluence  of  their  fortunes,  or 
laziness  of  their  dispositions,  have  no  other  busi¬ 
ness  with  the  rest  of  mankind,  but  to  look  upon 
them.  Under  this  class  of  men  are  comprehended 
all  contemplative  tradesmen,  titular  physicians, 
fellows  of  the  royal  society,  Templars  that  are 
not  given  to  be  conteutious,  and  statesmen  that 
are  out  of  business ;  in  short,  every  one  that  con¬ 
siders  the  world  as  a  theater,  and  desires  to  form 
a  right  judgment  of  those  who  are  the  actors  on  it. 

There  is  another  set  of  men  that  I  must  like¬ 
wise  lay  a  claim  to,  whom  I  have  lately  called  the 
blanks  of  society,  as  being  altogether  unfurnished 
with  ideas,  till  the  business  and  conversation  of 
the  day  has  supplied  them.  I  have  often  con¬ 
sidered  these  poor  souls  with  an  eye  of  great  com¬ 
miseration,  when  I  have  heard  them  asking  the 
first  man  they  have  met  with,  whether  there  was 
any  news  stirring?  and  by  that  means  gathering 
together  materials  for  thinking.  These  needy 
persons  do  not  know  what  to  talk  of,  till  about 
twelve  o’clock  in  the  morning ;  for  by  that  time 
they  are  pretty  good  judges  of  the  weather,  know 
which  way  the  wind  sets,  and  whether  the  Dutch 
mail  be  come  in.  As  they  lie  at  the  mercy  of  the 
first  man  they  meet,  and  are  grave  or  impertinent 
all  the  day  long,  according  to  the  notions  which 
they  have  imbibed  in  the  morning,  I  would  ear¬ 
nestly  entreat  of  them  not  to  stir  out  of  their 
chambers  till  they  have  read  this  paper,  and  do 
promise  them  that  I  will  daily  instill  into  them 
such  sound  and  wholesome  sentiments,  as  shall 
have  a  good  effect  on  their  conversation  for  the 
ensuing  twelve  hours. 

But  there  are  none  to  whom  this  paper  will  be 
more  useful  than  to  the  female  world.  I  have  often 
thought  there  has  not  been  sufficient  pains  taken 
in  finding  out  proper  employment  and  diversions 


for  the  fair  ones.  Their  amusements  seem  con¬ 
trived  for  them,  rather  as  they  are  women,  than  as 
they  are  reasonable  creatures  ;  and  are  more  adap¬ 
ted  to  the  sex  than  to  the  species.  The  toilet  is 
their  great  scene  of  business,  and  the  right  ad¬ 
justing  of  their  hair  the  principal  employment  of 
their  lives.  The  sorting  of  a  suit  of  ribbons  is 
reckoned  a  very  good  morning’s  work ;  and  if  they 
make  an  excursion  to  a  mercer’s  or  a  toy-shop,  so 
great  a  fatigue  makes  them  unfit  for  anything  else 
all  the  day  after.  Their  more  serious  occupations 
are  sewing  and  embroidery,  and  their  greatest 
drudgery  the  preparation  of  jellies  and  sweet¬ 
meats.  This,  I  say,  is  the  state  of  ordinary  wo¬ 
men  ;  though  I  know  there  are  multitudes  of  those 
of  a  more  elevated  life  and  conversation,  that 
move  in  an  exalted  sphere  of  knowledge  and  vir¬ 
tue,  that  join  all  the  beauties  of  the  mind  to  the 
ornaments  of  dress,  and  inspire  a  kind  of  awe  and 
respect,  as  well  as  love,  into  their  male  beholders. 
I  hope  to  increase  the  number  of  these  by  publish¬ 
ing  this  daily  paper,  which  I  shall  always  endeavor 
to  make  an  innocent  if  not  an  improving  enter¬ 
tainment,  and  by  that  means,  at  least,  divert  the 
minds  of  my  female  readers  from  greater  trifles. 
At  the  same  time,  as  I  would  fain  give  some  fin¬ 
ishing  touches  to  those  which  are  already  the 
most  beautiful  pieces  in  human  nature,  I  shall  en¬ 
deavor  to  point  out  all  those  imperfections  that 
are  the  blemishes,  as  well  as  those  virtues  which 
are  the  embellishments  of  the  sex.  In  the  mean¬ 
while,  I  hope  these  my  gentle  readers,  who  have 
so  much  time  on  their  hands,  will  not  grudge 
throwing  away  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  a  day  upon 
this  paper,  since  they  may  do  it  without  any  hin- 
derance  to  business. 

I  know  several  of  my  friends  and  well-wishers 
are  in  great  pain  for  me,  lesj^  I  should  not  be  able 
to  keep  up  the  spirit  of  a  paper  which  I  oblige 
myself  to  furnish  every  day ;  but  to  make  them 
easy  in  this  particular,  I  will  promise  them  faith¬ 
fully  to  give  it  over  as  soon  as  I  grow  dull.  This 
I  know  will  be  matter  of  great  raillery  to  the  small 
wits,  who  will  frequently  put  me  in  mind  of  my 
promise,  desire  me  to  keep  my  word,  assure  me 
that  it  is  high  time  to  give  over,  with  many  other 
little  pleasantries  of  the  like  nature,  which  men 
of  a  little  smart  genius  cannot  forbear  throwing 
out  against  their  best  friends,  when  they  have  such 
a  handle  given  them  of  being  witty.  But  let 
them  remember,  that  I  do  hereby  enter  my  caveat 
against  this  piece  of  raillery. — C. 

Ho.  11.]  TUESDAY,  MARCH,  13,  1710-11. 

Dat  veniam  corvis,  vexat  censura  columbas. — Jdv.,  Sat.  ii,  63. 
The  doves  are  censur’d,  while  the  crows  are  spar’d. 

Arietta  is  visited  by  all  persons  of  botli  sexes, 
who  have  any  pretense  to  wit  and  gallantry.  She 
is  in  that  time  of  life  which  is  neither  affected 
with  the  follies  of  youth,  nor  infirmities  of  age ; 
and  her  conversation  is  so  mixed  with  gayety  and 
prudence,  that  she  is  agreeable  both  to  the  old  and 
the  young.  Her  behavior  is  very  frank,  without 
being  in  the  least  blamable :  and  as  she  is  out  of 
the  track  of  any  amorous  or  ambitious  pursuits  of 
her  own,  her  visitants  entertain  her  with  accounts 
of  themselves  very  freely,  whether  they  concern 
their  passions  or  their  interests.  I  made  her  a 
visit  this  afternoon,  having  been  formerly  intro¬ 
duced  to  the  honor  of  her  acquaintance  by  my 
friend  Will  Honeycomb,  who  has  prevailed  upon 
her  to  admit  me  sometimes  into  her  assembly,  as 
a  civil,  inoffensive  man.  I  found  her  accompanied 
with  one  person  only,  a  common-place  talker,  who, 
upon  my  entrance,  arose,  and  after  a  very  slight 
civility  sat  down  again ;  then  turning  to  Arietta, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


pursued  his  discourse,  which  I  found  was  upon 
the  old  topic  of  constancy  in  love.  He  went  on 
with  great  facility  in  repeating  what  he  talks 
every  day  of  his  life ;  and  with  the  ornaments  of 
insignificant  laughs  and  gestures,  enforced  his  ar¬ 
guments  bv  quotations  out  of  plays  and  songs, 
which  allude  to  the  perjuries  of  the  fair,  and  the 
general  levity  of  women.  Methouglit  he  strove 
to  shine  more  than  ordinarily  in  his  talkative 
way,  that  he  might  insult  my  silence,  and  distin¬ 
guish  himself  before  a  woman  of  Arietta’s  taste 
and  understanding.  She  had  often  an  inclination 
to  interrupt  him,  but  could  find  no  opportunity, 
till  the  larum  ceased  of  itself,  which  it  did  not  till 
he  had  repeated  and  murdered  the  celebrated  story 
of  the  Ephesian  Matron. 

Arietta  seemed  to  regard  this  piece  of  raillery 
as  an  outrage  done  to  her  sex ;  as  indeed  I  have 
always  observed  that  women,  whether  out  of  a 
nicer  regard  to  their  honor,  or  what  other  reason  I 
cannot  tell,  are  more  sensibly  touched  with  those 
general  aspersions  which  are  cast  upon  their  sex, 
than  men  are  by  what  is  said  of  theirs. 

When  she  had  a  little  recovered  herself  from  the 
serious  anger  she  was  in,  she  replied  in  the  fol¬ 
lowing  manner : 

“  Sir,  when  I  consider  how  perfectly  new  all 
you  have  said  on  this  subject  is,  and  that  the 
story  you  have  given  us  is  not  quite  two  thousand 
years  old,  I  cannot  but  think  it  a  piece  of  presump¬ 
tion  to  dispute  it  with  you ;  but  your  quotations 
put  me  in  mind  of  the  fable  of  the  lion  and  the 
man.  The  man  walking  with  that  noble  animal, 
showed  him,  in  the  ostentation  of  human  superi¬ 
ority,  a  sign  of  a  man  killing  a  lion.  Upon  which, 
the  lion  said  very  justly,  ‘We  lions  are  none  of 
ns  painters,  else  we  could  show  a  hundred  men 
killed  by  lions  for  one  lion  killed  by  a  man.’  You 
men  are  writers,  and  can  represent  us  women  as 
unbecoming  as  you  please  in  your  works,  while 
we  are  unable  to  return  the  injury.  You  have 
twice  or  thrice  observed  in  your  discourse,  that 
hypocrisy  is  the  very  foundation  of  our  education  ; 
and  that  an  ability  to  dissemble  our  affections  is 
a  professed  part  of  our  breeding.  These  and  such 
other  reflections  are  sprinkled  up  and  down  the 
writings  of  all  ages,  by  authors,  who  leave  behind 
them  memorials  of  their  resentment  against  the 
scorn  ot  particular  women,  in  invectives  against 
the  whole  sex.  Such  a  writer,  I  doubt  not,  was 
the  celebrated  Petronius,  who  invented  the  pleas- 
ant  aggravations  of  the  Ephesian  lady ;  but  when 
we  consider  this  question  between  the  sexes, 
which  has  been  either  a  point  of  dispute  or  rail¬ 
lery  ever  since  there  were  men  and  women,  let  us 
take  facts  from  plain  people,  and  from  such  as 
have  not  either  ambition  or  capacity  to  embellish 
their  narrations  with  any  beauties  of  imagination. 

1  was  the  other  day  amusing  myself  with  Lig- 
non  s  Account  of  Barbadoes  ;  and,  in  answer  to 
your  well-wrought  tale,  I  "will  give  you  (as  it 
dwells  upon  my  memory),  out  of  that  honest  trav¬ 
eler,  in  his  fifty-fifth  page,  the  history  of  Inkle 
and  Yarico. 

“  Mr.  Thomas  Inkle,  of  London,  aged  twenty 
years,  embarked  in  the  Downes,  in  the  good  ship 
called  the  Achilles,  bound  for  the  West  Indies,  on 
the  16th  of  June,  1647,  in  order  to  improve  his 
lortune  by  trade  and  merchandise.  Our  adven¬ 
turer  was  the  third  son  of  an  eminent  citizep,  who 
had  taken  particular  care  to  instill  into  his  mind 
an  early  love  of  gain,  by  making  him  a  perfect 
master  of  numbers,  and  consequently  giving  him 
a  quick  view  of  loss  and  advantage,  and  prevent¬ 
ing  the  natural  impulses  of  his  passions,  by  pre¬ 
possession  toward  his  interests.  With  a  mind 
thus  turned;  young  Inkle  had  a  person  evtyy  way  j 


49 

agreeable,  a  ruddy  vigor  in  his  countenance, 
strength  in  his  limbs,  with  ringlets  of  fair  hair 
loosely  flowing  on  his  shoulders.  It  happened, 
in  the  course  of  the  voyage,  that  the  Achilles,  in 
some  distress,  put  into  a  creek  on  the  main  of 
America,  in  search  of  provisions.  The  youth, 
who  is  the  hero  of  my  story,  among  others  went 
on  shore  on  this  occasion.  From  their  first  land¬ 
ing  they  were  observed  by  a  party  of  Indians,  who 
hid  themselves  in  the  woods  for  that  ^purpose. 
The  English  unadvisedly  marched  a  great  dis¬ 
tance  from  the  shore  into  the  country,  and  were 
intercepted  by  the  natives,  who  slew  the  greatest 
number  of  them.  Our  adventurer  escaped  among 
others,  by  flying  into  a  forest.  Upon  his  com¬ 
ing  into  a  remote  and  pathless  part  of  the  wood, 
lie  threw  himself,  tired  and  breathless,  on  a  little 
hillock,  when  an  Indian  maid  rushed  from  a 
thicket  behind  him.  After  the  first  surprise  they 
appeared  mutually  agreeable  to  each  other.  If  the 
European  was  highly  charmed  with  the  limbs, 
features,  and  wild  graces  of  the  naked  American; 
the  American  was  no  less  taken  with  the  dress, 
complexion,  and  shape  of  a  European,  covered 
from  head  to  foot.  The  Indian  grew  immediately 
enamored  of  him,  and  consequently  solicitous  for 
his  preservation.  She  therefore  conveyed  him  to 
a  cave,  where  she  gave  him  a  delicious  repast  of 
fruits,  and  led  him  to  a  stream  to  slake  his  thirst.  In 
the  midst  of  these  good  offices,  she  would  some¬ 
times  play  with  his  liair,  and  delight  in  the  opposi¬ 
tion  of  its  color  to  that  of  her  fingers  :  then  open 
his  bosom,  then  laugh  at  him  for  covering  it.  She 
was,  it  seems,  a  person  of  distinction,  for  she 
every  day  came  to  him  in  a  different  dress,  of  the 
most  beautiful  shells,  bugles,  and  beads.  She 
likewise  brought  him  a  great  many  spoils,  which 
her  other  lovers  had  presented  to  her,  so  that  his 
cave  was  richly  adorned  with  all  the  spotted  skins 
of  beasts,  and  most  party-colored  feathers  of  fowls, 
which  that  world  afforded.  To  make  his  confine¬ 
ment  more  tolerable,  she  would  carry  him  in  the 
dusk  of  the  evening,  or  by  the  favor  of  moonlight, 
to  unfrequented  groves  and  solitudes,  and  show 
him  where  to  lie  down  in  safety,  and  sleep  amidst 
the  falls  of  waters  and  melody  of  nightingales. — 
Her  part  was  to  watch  and  hold  him  awake  in  her 
arms,  for  fear  of  her  countrymen,  and  wake  him 
on  occasions  to  consult  his  safety.  In  this  man¬ 
ner  did  the  lovers  pass  away  their  time,  till  they 
had  learned  a  language  of  their  own,  in  which  the 
voyager  communicated  to  his  mistress  how  happy 
he  should  be  to  have  her  in  his  country,  where  she 
should  be  clothed  in  such  silks  as  his  waistcoat 
was  made  of,  and  be  carried  in  houses  drawn  by 
horses,  without  being  exposed  to  wind  or  weather. 
All  this  he  promised  her  the  enjoyment  of,  with¬ 
out  such  fears  and  alarms  as  they  were  there  tor¬ 
mented  with.  In  this  tender  correspondence  these 
lovers  lived  for  several  months,  when  Yarico,  in¬ 
structed  by  her  lover,  discovered  a  vessel  on  the 
coast,  to  which  she  made  signals ;  and  in  the 
night,  with  the  utmost  joy  and  satisfaction,  ac¬ 
companied  him  to  a  ship’s  crew  of  his  countrymen 
bound  to  Barbadoes.  When  a  vessel  from  the 
main  arrives  in  that  island,  it  seems  the  planters 
come  down  to  the  shore,  where  there  is  an  imme¬ 
diate  market  of  the  Indians  and  other  slaves,  as 
with  us  of  horses  and  oxen. 

“  ‘  To  be  short,  Mr.  Thomas  Inkle,  now  coming 
into  English  territories,  began  seriously  to  reflect 
upon  his  loss  of  time,  and  to  weigh  with  himself 
how  many  days’  interest  of  his  money  he  had  lost 
during  his  stay  with  Yarico.  This  thought  made 
the  young  man  pensive,  and  careful  what  account 
he  should  be  able  to  give  his  friends  of  his  voy¬ 
age.  Upon  which  consideration,  the  prudent  and 


50 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


frugal  young  man  sold  Yarico  to  a  Barbadian  mer¬ 
chant;  notwithstanding  that  the  poor  girl,  to  in¬ 
cline  him  to  commiserate  her  condition,  told  him 
that  she  was  with  child  by  him:  but  he  only  made 
use  of  that  information,  to  rise  in  his  demands 
upon  the  purchaser.’  ” 

I  was  so  touched  with  this  story  (which  I  think 
should  be  always  a  counterpart  to  the  Ephesian 
matron)  that  I  left  the  room  with  tears  in  my  eyes, 
which  a  woman  of  Arietta’s  good  sense  did,  I  am 
sure,  take  for  greater  applause  than  any  compli¬ 
ments  I  could  make  her. — R. 


Ho.  12.]  WEDNESDAY,  MARCH  14,  1710-11. 

- Veteres  avias  tibi  de  pulmone  revello. 

Pers.,  Sat.  y,  92. 

I  root  th’  old  woman  from  thy  trembling  heart. 

At  my  coming  to  London,  it  was  some  time  be¬ 
fore  I  could  settle  myself  in  a  house  to  my  liking. 

I  was  forced  to  quit  my  first  lodgings,  by  reason 
of  an  officious  landlady,  that  would  be  asking  me 
every  morning  how  I  had  slept.  I  then  fell  into 
an  honest  family,  and  lived  very  happily  for  above 
a  week;  when  my  landlord,  who  was  a  jolly,  good- 
natured  man,  took  it  into  his  head  that  I  wanted 
company,  and  therefore  would  frequently  come 
into  my  chamber,  to  keep  me  from  being  alone. 
This  I  bore  for  two  or  three  days;  but  telling  me 
one  day  that  he  was  afraid  I  was  melancholy,  I 
thought  it  was  high  time  for  me  to  be  gone,  and 
accordingly  took  new  lodgings  that  very  night. 
About  a  week  after,  I  found  my  jolly  landlord, 
who,  as  I  said  before,  was  an  honest,  hearty  man, 
had  put  me  into  an  advertisement  in  the  Daily 
Courant,  in  the  following  words:  “Whereas  a  mel¬ 
ancholy  man  left  his  lodgings  on  Thursday  last, 
in  the  afternoon,  and  was  afterward  seen  going  to¬ 
ward  Islington:  if  any  one  can  givg  notice  of  him 
to  R.  B.,  fishmonger  in  the  Strand,  he  shall  be  very 
well  rewarded  for  his  pains.”  As  I  am  the  best 
man  in  the  world  to  keep  my  own  counsel,  and 
my  landlord  the  fishmonger  not  knowing  my 
name,  this  accident  of  my  life  was  never  discover¬ 
ed  to  this  very  day. 

I  am  now  settled  with  a  widow  woman,  who 
has  a  great  many  children,  and  complies  with  my 
humor  in  everything.  I  do  not  remember  that  we 
have  exchanged  a  word  together  these  five  years  ; 
my  coffee  comes  into  my  chamber  every  morning 
without  asking  for  it ;  if  I  want  fire  I  point  to 
my  chimney,  if  water,  to  my  basin ;  upon  which 
my  landlady  nods,  as  much  as  to  say,  she  takes 
my  meaning,  and  immediately  obeys  my  signals. 
She  has  likewise  modeled  her  family  so  well,  that 
when  her  little  boy  offers  to  pull  me  by  the  coat 
or  prattle  in  my  face,  his  eldest  sister  immediately 
calls  him  off,  and  bids  him  not  to  disturb  the.  gen¬ 
tleman.  At  my  first  entering  into  the  family,  I 
was  troubled  with  the  civility  of  their  rising  up 
to  me  every  time  I  came  into  the  room ;  but  my 
landlady  observing  that  upon  these  occasions  I 
always  cried  Pish,  and  went  out  a^ain,  has  for¬ 
bidden  any  such  ceremony  to  be  used  in  the  house; 
so  that  at  present  I  walk  into  the  kitchen  or  par¬ 
lor,  without  being  taken  notice  of,  or  giving  any 
interruption  to  the  business  or  discourse  of  the 
family.  The  maid  will  ask  her  mistress  (though 
.  I  am  by)  whether  the  gentleman  is  ready  to  go  to 
.  dinner,  as  the  mistress  (who  is  indeed  an  excellent 
housewife)  scolds  at  the  servants  as  heartily  be¬ 
fore  my  face  as  behind  my  back.  In  short,  I  move 
up  and  down  the  house,  and  enter  into  all  compa- 
:  nies  with  the  same  liberty  as  a  cat,  or  any  other 
domestic  animal,  and  am  as  little  suspected  of 
tolling  anything  that  I  hear  or  see. 


I  remember  last  winter  there  were  several  young 
girls  of  the  neighborhood  sitting  about  the  fire 
with  my  landlady’s  daughters,  and  telling  stories 
of  spirits  and  apparitions.  Upon  my  opening  the 
door  the  young  women  broke  off  their  discourse, 
but  my  landlady’s  daughters  telling  them  that  it 
was  nobody  but  the  gentleman  (for  that  is  the  name 
which  I  go  by  in  the  neighborhood,  as  well  as  in 
the  family),  they  went  on  without  minding  me. 

I  seated  myself  by  the  candle  that  stood  on  a  table 
at  one  end  of  the  room ;  and  pretending  to  read  a 
book  that  I  took  out  of  my  pocket,  heard  several 
dreadful  stories  of  ghosts,  as  pale  as  ashes,  that 
had  stood  at  the  feet  of  a  bed,  or  walked  over  a 
churcli-yard  by  moonlight ;  and  of  others  that  had 
been  conjured  into  the  Red  sea  for  disturbing  peo¬ 
ple’s  rest,  and  drawing  their  curtains  at  midnight — 
with  many  other  old  women’s  fables  of  the  like 
nature.  As  one  spirit  raised  another,  I  observed 
that  at  the  end  of  every  story  the  whole  company 
closed  their  ranks,  and  crowded  about  the  fire.  I 
took  notice  in  particular  of  a  little  bov,  who  was 
so  attentive  to  every  story,  that  I  am  mistaken  if 
he  ventures  to  go  to  bed  bv  himself  this  twelve- 
month.  Indeed  they  talked  so  long,  that  the  ima¬ 
ginations  of  the  whole  assembly  were  manifestly 
crazed,  and,  I  am  sure,  will  be  the  worse  for  it  as 
long  as  they  live.  I  heard  one  of  the  girls,  that 
had  looked  upon  me  over  her  shoulder,  asking  the 
company  how  long  I  had  been  in  the  room,  and 
whether  1  did  not  look  paler  than  I  used  to  do. 
This  put  me  under  some  apprehension  that  I  should 
be  forced  to  explain  myself,  if  I  did  not  retire ;  for 
which  reason  I  took  the  candle  into  my  hand,  and 
went  up  into  my  chamber,  not  without  wondering 
at  this  unaccountable  weakness  in  reasonable  crea¬ 
tures,  that  they  should  love  to  astonish  and  ter¬ 
rify  one  another.  Were  I  a  father,  I  should  take 
a  particular  care  to  preserve  my  children  from 
these  little  horrors  of  imagination,  which  they  are 
apt  to  contract  when  they  are  young,  and  are  not 
able  to  shake  off  when  they  are  in  years.  I  have 
known  a  soldier  that  has  entered  a  breach,  af¬ 
frighted  at  his  oAvn  shadow,  and  look  pale  upon  a 
little  scratching  at  his  door,  who  the  day  before 
had  marched  up  against  a  battery  of  cannon. 
There  are  instances  of  persons  who  have  been  ter¬ 
rified  even  to  distraction  at  the  figure  of  a  tree,  or 
the  shaking  of  a  bulrush.  The  truth  of  it  is,  I 
look  upon  a  sound  imagination  as  the  greatest 
blessing  of  life,  next  to  a  clear  judgment  and  a 
good  conscience.  In  the  meantime,  since  there 
are  very  few  whose  minds  are  not  more  or  less  sub¬ 
ject  to  these  dreadful  thoughts  and  apprehensions, 
we  ought  to  arm  ourselves  against  them  by  the 
dictates  of  reason  and  religion,  “to  pull  the  old 
woman  out  of  our  hearts”  (as  Persius  expresses  it 
in  the  motto  of  my  paper),  and  extinguish  those 
impertinent  notions  which  we  imbibed  at  a  time 
that  we  were  not  able  to  judge  of  their  absurdity. 
Or,  if  we  believe,  as  many  wise  and  good  men 
have  done,  that  there  are  such  phantoms  and  ap¬ 
paritions  as  those  I  have  been  speaking  of,  let  us 
endeavor  to  establish  to  ourselves  an  interest  in  him 
who  holds  the  reins  of  the  whole  creation  in  his 
hands,  and  moderates  them  after  such  a  manner, 
that  it  is  impossible  for  one  being  to  break  loose 
upon  another,  without  his  knowledge  and  per¬ 
mission. 

For  my  own  part,  I  am  apt  to  join  in  the  opinion 
with  those  who  believe  that  all  the  regions  of  na¬ 
ture  swarm  with  spirits  ;  and  that  we  have  multi¬ 
tudes  of  spectators  on  all  our  actions,  when  we 
think  ourselves  most  alone  ;  but  instead  of  terri¬ 
fying  myself  with  such  a  notion,  I  am  wonderfully 
pleased  to  think  that  I  am  always  engaged  with 
such  an  innumerable  society  in  searching  out  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


wonders  of  the  creation,  and  joining  in  the  same 
concert  of  praise  and  adoration. 

Milton  has  finely  described  this  mixed  commu¬ 
nion  of  men  and  spirits  in  Paradise  ;  and  had 
doubtless  his  eye  upon  a  verse  in  old  Hesiod, 
which  is  almost  word  for  word  the  same  with  his 
third  line  in  the  following  passage  : 

- Nor  think,  though  men  were  none, 

That  heav'n  would  want  spectators,  God  want  praise; 
Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep; 

All  these  with  ceaseless  praise  his  works  behold 
Both  day  and  night.  IIow  often  from  the  steep 
Of  echoing  hill  or  thicket  have  we  heard 
Celestial  voices,  to  the  midnight  air, 

Sole,  or  responsive  each  to  other’s  note, 

Singing  their  great  Creator  ?  Oft  in  bands, 

While  they  keep  watch,  or  nightly  rounding  walk, 

With  heavenly  touch  of  instrumental  sounds, 

In  full  harmonic  number  join’d,  their  songs 
Divide  the  night,  and  lift  our  thoughts  to  heaven. 

C.  Parad.  Lost,  iv,  675. 


No.  13.]  THURSDAY,  MARCH  15,  1710-11. 

Die  mihi,  si  fueris  tu  leo,  qualis  eris  ? — Mart. 

Were  you  a  lion,  how  would  you  behave? 

There  is  nothing  that  of  late  years  has  afford¬ 
ed  matter  of  greater  amusement  to  the  town  than 
Signior  Nicolini’s  combat  with  a  lion  in  the  Hay- 
market,  which  has  been  very  often  exhibited  to 
the  general  satisfaction  of  most  of  the  nobility 
and  gentry  in  the  kingdom  of  Great  Britain. 
Upon  the  first  rumor  of  this  intended  combat,  it 
was  confidently  affirmed,  and  is  still  believed  by 
many  in  both  galleries,  that  there  would  be  a  tame 
lion  sent  from  the  tower  every  opera  night,  in 
order  to  be  killed  by  Hydaspes :  this  report,  though 
altogether  groundless,  so  universally  prevailed  in 
the  upper  regions  of  the  play-house,  that  some  of 
the  most  refined  politicians  in  these  parts  of  the 
audience  gave  it  out  in  a  whisper,  that  the  lion 
was  a  cousin-german  of  the  tiger  who  made  his  ap¬ 
pearance  in  King  William’s  days,  and  that  the 
stage  would  be  supplied  with  lions  at  the  publ.ic 
expense  during  the  whole  session.  Many  likewise 
were  the  conjectures  of  the  treatment  which  this 
lion  was  to  meet  with  from  the  hands  of  Signior 
Nicolini ;  some  supposed  that  he  was  to  subdue 
him  in  recitativo,  as  Orpheus  used  to  serve  the 
wild  beasts  in  his  time,  and  afterward  to  knock 
him  on  the  head;  some  fancied  that  the  lion  would 
not  pretend  to  lay  his  paws  upon  the  hero,  by 
reason  of  the  received  opinion,  that  a  lion  will  not 
hurt  a  virgin.  Several,  who  pretended  to  have  seen 
the  opera  in  Italy,  had  informed  their  friends,  that 
the  lion  was  to  act  a  part  in  high  Dutch,  and  roar 
twice  or  thrice  to  a  thorough  bass,  before  he  fell  at 
the  feet  of  Hydaspes.  To  clear  up  a  matter  that 
was  so  variously  reported,  I  have  made  it  my 
business  to  examine  whether  this  pretended  lion 
is  really  the  savage  he  appears  to  be,  or  only  a 
counterfeit. 

But  before  I  communicate  my  discoveries,  I 
must  acquaint  the  reader,  that  upon  my  walking 
^behind  the  scenes  last  winter,  as  I  was  thinking 
on  something  else,  I  accidentally  jostled  against  a 
monstrous  animal  that  extremely  startled  me,  and 
upon  my  nearer  survey  of  it,  appeared  to  be  a  lion 
rampant.  The  lion,  seeing  me  very  much  surprised, 
told  me,  in  a  gentle  voice,  that  I  might  come  by 
him  if  I  pleased;  “for,”  says  he,  “I  do  not  intend 
to  hurt  anybody.”  I  thanked  him  very  kindly, 
and  passed  by  him ;  and  in  a  little  time  after,  saw 
him  leap  upon  the  stage,  and  act  his  part  with 
very  great  applause.  It  has  been  observed  by 
several,  that  the  lion  has  changed  his  manner  of 
acting  twice  or  thrice  since  his  first  appearance ; 


51 

which  will  not  seem  strange,  wnen  I  acquaint  my 
reader  that  the  lion  has  been  changed  upon  the 
audience  three  several  times.  The  first  lion  was  a 
candle-snuffer,  who  being  a  fellow  of  a  testy,  chol¬ 
eric  temper,  overdid  his  part,  and  would  not  suffer 
himself  to  be  killed  so  easily  as  he  ought  to  have 
done ;  beside,  it  was  observed  of  him,  that  he  grew 
more  surly  every  time  that  he  came  out  of  the 
lion ;  and  having  dropped  some  words  in  ordinary 
conversation,  as  if  he  had  not  fought  his  best,  that 
he  suffered  himself  to  be  thrown  upon  his  back  in 
the  scuffle,  and  that  he  would  wrestle  with  Mr. 
Nicolini  for  what  he  pleased  out  of  his  lion’s  skin, 
it  was  thought  proper  to  discard  him :  and  it  is 
verily  believed  to  this  day,  that  had  he  been 
brought  upon  the  stage  another  time,  he  would 
certainly  have  done  mischief.  Beside,  it  was  ob¬ 
jected  against  the  first  lion,  that,  he  reared  himself 
so  high  upon  his  hinder  paws,  and  walked  in  so 
erect  a  posture,  that  he  looked  more  like  an  old 
man  than  a  lion. 

The  second  lion  was  a  tailor  by  trade,  who  be¬ 
longed  to  the  play-house,  and  had  the  character  of 
a  mild  and  peaceable  man  in  his  profession.  If 
the  former  was  too  furious,  this  was  too  sheepish 
for  his  part ;  inasmuch,  that  after  a  short  modest 
walk  upon  the  stage,  he  would  fall  at  the  first 
touch  of  Hydaspes,  without  grappling  with  him, 
and  giving  him  an  opportunity  of  showing  his 
variety  of  Italian  trips.  It  is  said,  indeed,  that 
he  once  gave  him  a  rip  in  his  flesh-color  doublet : 
but  this  was  only  to  make  work  for  himself,  in 
his  private  character  of  a  tailor.  I  must  not  omit, 
that  it  was  this  second  lion  who  treated  me  with 
so  much  humanity  behind  the  scenes. 

The  acting  lion  at  present  is,  as  I  am  informed, 
a  country  gentleman,  who  does  it  for  his  diversion, 
but  desires  his  name  may  be  concealed.  He  says 
very  handsomely  in  his  own  excuse,  that  he  does 
not  act  from  gain,  that  he  indulges  an  innocent 
pleasure  in  it;  and  that  it  is  better  to  pass  away 
an  evening  in  this  manner,  than  in  gaming  and  in 
drinking  :  but  at  the  same  time  says,  with  a  very 
agreeable  raillery  upon  himself,  that  if  his  name 
should  be  known,  the  ill-natured  world  might  call 
him,  “  the  ass  in  the  lion’s  skin.”  This  gentle¬ 
man’s  temper  is  made  out  of  such  a  happy  mix¬ 
ture  of  the  mild  and  the  choleric,  that  he  outdoes 
both  his  predecessors,  and  has  drawn  together 
greater  audiences  than  have  been  known  in  the 
memory  of  man. 

I  must  not  conclude  my  narrative,  without  tak¬ 
ing  notice  of  a  groundless  report  that  has  been 
raised  to  a  gentleman’s  disadvantage,  of  whom  I 
must  declare  myself  an  admirer ;  namely,  that 
Signior  Nicolini  and  the  lion  have  been  seen  sit¬ 
ting  peaceably  by  one  another,  and  smoking  a 
pipe  together  behind  the  scenes  ;  by  which  their 
common  enemies  would  insinuate,  that  it  is  but  a 
sham  combat  which  they  represent  upon  the  stage: 
but  upon  inquiry  I  find,  that  if  any  such  cor¬ 
respondence  has  passed  between  them,  it  was  not 
till  the  combat  was  over,  when  the  lion  was  to  be 
looked  upon  as  dead,  according  to  the  received! 
rules  of  the  drama.  Beside,  this  is  what  is  prac¬ 
ticed  every  day  in  Westminster-hall,  where  nothing 
is  more  usual  than  to  see  a  couple  of  lawyers,  who 
have  been  tearing  each  other  to  pieces  in  the 
court,  embracing  one  another  as  soon  as  they  are 
out  of  it. 

I  would  not  be  thought,  in  any  part  of  this  rela¬ 
tion,  to  reflect  upon  Signior  Nicolini,  who  in 
acting  this  part  only  complies  with  the  wretched 
taste  of  his  audience  ;  he  knows  very  well,  that 
the  lion  has  many  more  admirers  than  himself;  as 
they  say  of  the  famous  equestrian  statue  on  the 
Pont  Nouf  at  Paris,  that  more  people  go  to  see 


’  ■  nr  ILL  t  in 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


52 

the  horse,  than  the  king  "who  sits  upon  it.  On  the 
contrary,  it  gives  me  a  jnst  indignation  to  see  a 
person  whose  action  gives  new  majesty  to  kings, 
resolution  to  heroes,  and  softness  to  lovers,  thus 
sinking  from  the  greatness  of  his  behavior,  and 
degraded  into  the  character  of  the  London  ’Pren¬ 
tice.  I  have  often  wished,  that  our  tragedians 
would  copy  after  this  great  master  of  action. 
Could  they  make  the  same  use  of  their  arms  and 
legs,  and  inform  their  faces  with  as  significant 
looks  and  passions,  how  glorious  would  an  Eng¬ 
lish  tragedy  appear  with  that  action  which  is 
capable  of  giving  dignity  to  the  forced  thoughts, 
oold  conceits,  and  unnatural  expressions  of  an 
Italian  opera !  In  the  meantime,  I  have  related 
this  combat  of  the  lion,  to  show  what  are  at  pre¬ 
sent  the  reigning  entertainments  of  the  politer 
part  of  Great  Britain. 

Audiences  have  often  been  reproached  by  writers 
for  the  coarseness  of  their  taste,  but  our  present 
grievance  does  not  seem  to  be  the  want  of  a  good 
taste,  but  of  common  sense. — C. 


Ho.  14.]  FRIDAY,  MARCH  16,  1710-11. 

- Teaue  his,  infelix,  exue  monstris. 

Ovid,  Met.  iv,  590. 

Wretch  that  thou  art!  put  off  this  monstrous  shape. 

I  was  reflecting  this  morning  upon  the  spirit 
and  humor  of  the  public  diversions  five-and- 
twenty  years  ago,  and  those  of  the  present  time ; 
and  lamented  to  myself,  that  though  in  those  days 
they  neglected  their  morality,  they  kept  up  their 
good  sense  ;  but  that  the  beau  monde,  at  present, 
is  only  grown  more  childish,  not  more  innocent, 
than  the  former.  While  I  was  in  this  train  of 
thought,  an  odd  fellow,  whose  face  I  have  often 
seen  at  the  playhouse,  gave  me  the  following  let¬ 
ter  with  these  words  :  “  Sir,  the  Lion  presents  his 
humble  service  to  you,  and  desired  me  to  give  this 
into  your  hands.” 

“From  my  Den  in  the  Haymarket,  March  15. 

“  Sir, 

“  I  have  read  all  your  papers,  and  have  stifled 
my  resentment  against  your  reflections  upon  op¬ 
eras,  until  that  of  this  day,  wherein  you  plainly 
insinuate,  that  Signior  Nicolini  and  myself  have 
a  correspondence  more  familiar  than  is  consistent 
with  the  valor  of  his  character,  or  the  fierceness 
of  mine.  I  desire  you  would,  for  your  own  sake, 
forbear  such  intimations  for  the  future  ;  and  must 
say  it  is  a  great  piece  of  ill-nature  in  you,  to  show 
so  great  an  esteem  for  a  foreigner,  and  to  dis¬ 
courage  a  Lion  that  is  your  own  countryman. 

“I  take  notice  of  your  fable  of  the  lion  and  man, 
but  am  so  equally  concerned  in  that  matter,  that  I 
shall  not  be  offended  to  whichsoever  of  the  ani¬ 
mals  the  superiority  is  given.  You  have  misre¬ 
presented  me,  in  saying  that  I  am  a  country 
gentleman,  who  act  only  for  my  diversion;  whereas, 
had  I  still  the  same  woods  to  range  in  which  I 
once  had  when  I  was  a  fox-liunter,  I  should  not 
resign  my  manhood  for  a  maintenance  ;  and  assure 
you,  as  low  as  my  circumstances  are  at  present,  I 
am  so  much  a  man  of  honor,  that  I  would  scorn 
to  be  any  beast  for  bread,  but  a  lion. 

“Yours,  etc.” 

I  had  no  sooner  ended  this,  than  one  of  my 
landlady’s  children  brought  me  in  several  others, 
with  some  of  which  I  shall  make  up  my  present 
paper,  they  all  having  a  tendency  to  the  same 
subject,  viz:  the  elegance  of  our  present  diversions. 

«  Sir,  “  Covent-garden,  March  13. 

“  I  have  been  for  twenty  years  under-sexton  of 


this  parish  of  St.  Paul’s  Covent-garden,  and  have 
not  missed  tolling  in  to  prayers  six  times  in  all 
those  years  ;  which  office  I  have  performed  to  my 
great  satisfaction,  until  this  fortnight  last  past, 
during  which  time  I  find  my  congregation  take  the 
warning  of  my  bell,  morning  and  evening,  to  go 
to  a  puppet-show  set  forth  by  one  Powell,  under 
the  Piazzas.  By  this  means  I  have  not  only  lost 
my  two  customers,  whom  I  used  to  place  for  six- 
ence  a-piece  over  against  Mrs.  Rachael  Eye- 
right,  but  Mrs.  Rachael  herself  is  gone  thither 
also.  There  now  appear  among  us  none  but  a 
few  ordinary  people,  who  come  to  church  only  to 
say  their  prayers,  so  that.  I  have  no  work  worth 
speaking  of  but  on  Sundays.  I  have  placed  my 
son  at  the  Piazzas,  to  acquaint  the  ladies  that  the 
bell  rings  for  the  church,  and  that  it  stands  on  the 
other  side  of  the  garden  I  but  they  only  laugh  at 
the  child. 

“I  desire  you  would  la\  this  before  all  the  whole 
world,  that  I  may  not  be  made  such  a  tool  for  the 
future,  and  that  Punchinello  may  choose  hours 
less  canonical.  As  things  are  now,  Mr.  Powell  has 
a  full  congregation,  while  we  have  a  very  thin 
house ;  which  if  you  can  remedy,  you  will  very 
much  oblige,  “  Sir,  yours,  etc.” 

The  following  epistle,  I  find,  is  from  the  under¬ 
taker  of  the  masquerade: 

“  Sir, 

“  I  have  observed  the  rules  of  my  mask  so  care¬ 
fully  (in  not  inquiring  into  persons)  that  I  cannot 
tell  whether  you  were  one  of  the  company  or  not 
last  Tuesday  ;  but  if  you  were  not,  and  still  de¬ 
sign  to  come,  I  desire  you  would,  for  your  own 
entertainment,  please  to  admonish  the  town,  that 
all  persons  indifferently  are  not  fit  for  this  sort  of 
diversion.  I  could  wish,  Sir,  you  could  make 
them  understand  that  it  is  a  kind  of  acting  to  go 
in  masquerade,  and  a  man  should  be  able  to  say 
or  do  things  proper  for  the  dress  in  which  he  ap¬ 
pears.  We  have  now  and  then  rakes  in  the  habit 
of  Roman  senators,  and  grave  politicians  in  the 
dress  of  rakes.  The  misfortune  of  the  thing  is, 
that  people  dress  themselves  in  what  they  have  a 
mind  to  be,  and  not  what  they  are  fit  for.  There 
is  not  a  girl  in  town,  but  let  her  have  her  will  in 
going  to  a  mask,  and  she  shall  dress  as  a  shepherd¬ 
ess.  But  let  me  beg  of  them  to  read  the  Arcadia, 
or  some  other  good  romance,  before  they  appear 
in  any  such  character  at  my  house.  The  last  day 
we  presented,  everybody  was  so  rashly  habited, 
that  when  they  came  to  speak  to  each  other,  a 
nymph  with  a  crook  had  not  a  word  to  say  but  in 
the  pert  style  of  the  pit  bawdry  ;  and  a  man  in  the 
habit  of  a  philosopher  was  speechless,  till  an  oc¬ 
casion  offered  of  expressing  himself  in  the  refuse 
of  the  tyring  rooms.  We  had  a  judge  that  danced 
a  minuet  with  a  quaker  for  his  partner,  while  half- 
a-dozen  harlequins  stood  by  as  spectators  ;  a  Turk 
drank  me  off  two  bottles  of  wine,  and  a  Jew  eat 
me  up  half  a  ham  of  bacon.  If  I  can  bring  my 
design  to  bear,  and  make  the  maskers  preserve 
their  character  in  my  assemblies,  I  hope  you  will 
allow  there  is  a  foundation  laid  for  more  elegant 
and  improving  gallantries  than  any  the  town  at 
present  affords,  and  consequently,  that  you  will 
give  your  approbation  to  the  endeavors  of,  Sir, 
“Your  most  obedient,  humble  servant.” 

I  am  very  glad  the  following  epistle  obliges  me 
to  mention  Mr.  Powell  a  second  time  in  the  same 
paper  ;  for  indeed  there  cannot  be  too  great  en¬ 
couragement  given  to  his  skill  in  motions*,  pro¬ 
vided  he  is  under  proper  restrictions. 


♦Puppet-shows  were  formerly  called  motions. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


“  Sir, 

“  The  opera  at  the  Haymarket,  and  that  under 
the  little  Piazza  in  Covent-garden,  being  at  pre¬ 
sent  the  two  leading  diversions  of  the  town,  and 
Mr.  Powell  professing  in  his  advertisements  to  set 
up  Whittington  and  his  Cat  against  Rinaldo  and 
Armida,  my  curiosity  led  me  the  beginning  of 
last  week  to  view  both  these  performances,  and 
make  my  observations  upon  them. 

“First,  therefore,  I  cannot  but  observe  that  Mr. 
Powell  wisely  forbearing  to  give  his  company  a 
bill  of  fare  beforehand,  every  scene  is  new  and 
unexpected  ;  whereas  it  is  certain,  that  the  under¬ 
takers  of  the  Haymarket,  having  raised  too  great 
an  expectation  in  their  printed  opera,  very  much 
disappoint  their  audience  on  the  stage. 

“  The  King  of  Jerusalem  is  obliged  to  come 
from  the  city  on  foot,  instead  of  being  drawn  in 
a  triumphant  chariot  by  white  horses,  as  my  opera- 
book  had  promised  me  ;  and  thus  while  I  expected 
Armida’s  dragons  should  rush  forward  toward 
Argentes,  I  found  the  hero  was  obliged  to  go 
to  Armida,  and  hand  her  out  of  her  coach.  We 
had  also  but  a  veiy  short  allowance  of  thunder 
and  lightning  ;  though  I  cannot  in  this  place  omit 
doing  justice  to  the  boy  who  had  the  direction  of 
the  two  painted  dragons,  and  made  them  spit  fire 
and  smoke.  He  flashed  out  his  rosin  in  such  just 
proportions,  and  in  such  due  time,  that  I  could 
not  forbear  conceiving  hopes  of  his  being  one  day 
a  most  excellent  player.  I  saw,  indeed,  but  two 
things  wanting  to  render  his  whole  action  com¬ 
plete,  I  mean  the  keeping  his  head  a  little  lower, 
and  hiding  his  candle. 

“  I  observe  that  Mr.  Powell  and  the  undertakers 
of  the  opera  had  both  the  same  thought,  and  I 
think  much  about  the  same  time,  of  introducing 
animals  on  their  several  stages — though  indeed, 
with  very  different  success.  The  sparrows  and 
chaffinches  at  the  Haymarket  fly  as  yet  very  irreg¬ 
ularly  over  the  stage  ;  and  instead  of  perching  on 
the  trees,  and  performing  their  parts,  these  young 
actors  either  get  into  the  galleries,  or  put  out  the 
candles ;  whereas  Mr.  Powell  has  so  well  disci- 
lined  his  pig,  that  in  the  first  scene  he  and  Punch 
ance  a  minuet  together.  I  am  informed,  how¬ 
ever  that  Mr.  Powell  resolves  to  excel  his  adver¬ 
saries  in  their  own  way ;  and  introduces  larks  in 
his  next  opera  of  Susannah,  or  Innocence  Be¬ 
trayed,  which  will  be  exhibited  next  week,  with  a 
pair  of  new  Elders. 

“  The  moral  of  Mr.  Powell’s  drama  is  violated, 
I  confess,  by  Punch’s  national  reflections  on  the 
French,  and  King  Harry’s  laying  his  leg  upon  the 
Queen’s  lap,  in  too  ludicrous  a  manner,  before  so 
great  an  assembly. 

“  As  to  the  mechanism  and  scenery,  everything, 
indeed,  was  uniform,  and  of  a  piece,  and  the 
scenes  were  managed  very  dextrously;  which 
calls  on  me  to  take  notice,  that  at  the  Haymarket, 
the  undertakers  forgetting  to  change  the  side- 
scenes,  we  were  presented  with  the  prospect  of 
the  ocean  in  the  midst  of  a  delightful  grove  ;  and 
though  the  gentlemen  on  the  stage  had  very  much 
contributed  to  the  beauty  of  the  grove,  by  walk¬ 
ing  up  and  down  between  the  trees,  I  must  own  I 
was  not  a  little  astonished  to  see  a  well-dressed 
young  fellow  i.n  a  full-bottomed  wig,  appear  in 
the  midst  of  the  sea,  and  without  any  visible  con¬ 
cern  taking  snuff. 

“I  shall  only  observe  one  thing  farther,  in 
which  both  dramas  agree ;  which  is,  that  by  the 
squeak  of  their  voices  the  heroes  of  each  are 
eunuchs ;  and  as  the  wit  in  both  pieces  is  equal, 

I  must  prefer  the  performance  of  Mr.  Powell,  be¬ 
cause  it  is  in  our  own  language. 

“  I  am,  etc.” 


53 

No.  15.]  SATURDAY,  MARCH  11,  1710-11 

Parva  leves  capiunt  animos - Ovid,  Ars.  Am.,  i,  159. 

Light  minds  are  pleased  with  trifles. 

Wiiex  I  was  in  France,  I  used  to  gaze  with  great 
astonishment  at  the  splendid  equipages  and  party- 
colored  habits  of  that  fantastic  nation.  I  was  one 
day  in  particular  contemplating  a  lady  that  sat  in 
a  coach  adorned  with  gilded  Cupids,  and  finely 
painted  with  the  loves  of  Venus  and  Adonis. 
The  coach  was  drawn  by  six  milk-white  horses,  and 
loaded  behind  with  the  same  number  of  powdered 
footmen.  J ust  before  the  lady  were  a  couple  of 
beautiful  pages,  that  were  stuck  among  the  har¬ 
ness,  and  by  their  gay  dresses  and  smiling  fea¬ 
tures,  looked  like  the  elder  brothers  of  the  little 
boys  that  were  carved  and  painted  in  every  corner 
of  the  coach. 

The  lady  was  the  unfortunate  Cleanthe,  who  af¬ 
terward  gave  an  occasion  to  a  pretty  melancholy 
novel.  She  had,  for  several  years,  received  the 
addresses  of  a  gentleman,  whom,  after  a  long  and 
intimate  acquaintance,  she  forsook,  upon  the  ac¬ 
count  of  this  shining  equipage,  which  had  been 
offered  to  her  by  one  of  great  riches,  but  a  crazy 
constitution.  The  circumstances  in  which  I  saw 
her,  were,  it  seems,  the  disguises  only  of  a  bro¬ 
ken  heart,  and  a  kind  of  pageantry  to  cover  dis¬ 
tress — for  in  two  months  after  she  was  carried  to 
her  grave  with  the  same  pomp  and  magnificence, 
being  sent  thither  partly  by  the  loss  of  one  lover, 
and  partly  by  the  possession  of  another. 

I  have  often  reflected  with  myself  on  this  unac¬ 
countable  humor  in  womankind,  of  ■  being  smitten 
with  everything  that  is  showy  and  superficial ; 
and  on  the  numberless  evils  that  befall  the  sex, 
from  this  light  fantastical  disposition.  I  myself 
remember  a  young  lady  that  was  very  warmly 
solicited  by  a  couple  of  importunate  rivals,  who, 
for  several  months  together,  did  all  they  could  to 
recommend  themselves,  by  complacency  of  beha¬ 
vior  and  agreeableness  of  conversation.  At  length, 
when  the  competition  was  doubtful,  and  the  lady 
undetermined  in  her  choice,  one  of  the  young 
lovers  very  luckily  bethought  himself  of  adding 
a  supernumerary  lace  to  his  liveries,  which  had  so 
good  an  effect,  that  he  married  her  the  very  week 
after. 

The  usual  conversation  of  ordinary  women  very 
much  cherishes  this  natural  weakness  of  being 
taken  with  outside  and  appearance.  Talk  of  a 
new-married  couple,  and  you  immediately  hear 
whether  they  keep  their  coach  and  six,  or  eat  in 
plate.  Mention  the  name  of  an  absent  lady,  and 
it  is  ten  to  one  but  you  learn  something  of  her 
gown  and  petticoat.  A  ball  is  a  great  help  to  dis¬ 
course,  and  a  birth-day  furnishes  conversation  for 
a  twelvemonth  after.  A  furbelow  of  precious 
stones,  a  hat  buttoned  with  a  diamond,  a  brocade 
waistcoat  or  petticoat,  are  standing  topics.  In 
short,  they  consider  only  the  drapery  of  the  spe¬ 
cies,  and  never  cast  away  a  thought  on  those  orna¬ 
ments  of  the  mind  that  make  persons  illustrious 
in  themselves,  and  useful  to  others.  When  wo¬ 
men  are  thus  perpetually  dazzling  one  another’s 
imaginations,  and  filling  their  heads  with  nothing 
but  colors,  it  is  no  wonder  that  they  are  more 
attentive  to  the  superficial  parts  of  life  than  the 
solid  and  substantial  blessings  of  it.  A  girl 
who  has  been  trained  up  in  this  kind  of  con¬ 
versation  is  in  danger  of  every  embroidered  coat 
that  comes  in  her  way.  A  pair  of  fringed  gloves 
may  be  her  ruin.  In  a  word,  lace  and  ribbons,  sil¬ 
ver  and  gold  galloons,  with  the  like  glittering 
gewgaws,  are  so  many  lures  to  women  of  weak 
minds  and  low  education,  and,  when  artificially 
displayed,  are  able  to  fetch  down  the  most  airy 


R. 


THE  SPE  CTATOR. 


54 

coquette  from  the  wildest  of  her  flights  and  ram¬ 
bles. 

True  happiness  is  of  a  retired  nature,  and  an 
enemy  to  pomp  and  noise  ;  it  arises,  in  the  first 
place  from  the  enjoyment  of  one’s  self ;  and  in  the 
next,  from  the  friendship  and  conversation  of  a 
few  select  companions :  it  loves  shade  and  soli¬ 
tude,  and  naturally  haunts  groves  and  fountains, 
fields  and  meadows  :  in  short,  it  feels  everything 
it  wants  within  itself,  and  receives  no  addition 
from  multitudes  of  witnesses  and  spectators.  On 
the  contrary  false  happiness  loves  to  be  in  a 
crowd,  and  to  draw  the  eyes  of  the  world  upon 
her.  She  does  not  receive  any  satisfaction  from 
the  applauses  which  she  gives  herself,  but  from 
the  admiration  which  she  raises  in  others.  She 
flourishes  in  courts  and  palaces,  theaters  and  as¬ 
semblies,  and  has  no  existence  but  when  she  is 
looked  upon. 

Aurelia,  though  a  woman  of  great  quality,  de¬ 
lights  in  the  privacy  of  a  country  life,  and  passes 
away  a  great  part  of  her  time  in  her  own  walks 
and  gardens.  Her  husband,  who  is  her  bosom 
friend  and  companion  in  her  solitudes,  has  been 
in  love  with  her  ever  since  he  knew  her.  They 
both  abound  with  good  sense,  consummate  virtue 
and  a  mutual  esteem  ;  and  are  a  perpetual  enter¬ 
tainment  to  one  another.  Their  family  is  under 
so  regular  an  economy,  in  its  hours  of  devotion 
and  repast,  employment  and  diversion,  that  it 
Looks  like  a  little  commonwealth  within  itself. 
They  often  go  into  company,  that  they  may  return 
with  the  greater  delight  to  one  another ;  and  some¬ 
times  live  in  town,  not  to  enjoy  it  so  properly,  as 
to  grow  weary  of  it,  that  they  may  renew  in  them¬ 
selves  the  relish  of  a  country  life.  By  this  means 
they  are  happy  in  each  other,  beloved  by  their 
children,  adored  by  their  servants,  and  are  be¬ 
come  the  envy,  or  rather  the  delight  of  all  that 
Know  them. 

How  different  to  this  is  the  life  of  Fulvia !  She 
considers  her  husband  as  her  steward,  and  looks 
upon  discretion  and  good  housewifery  as  little 
domestic  virtues,  unbecoming  a  woman  of  quality. 
She  thinks  life  lost  in  her  own  family,  and  fancies 
herself  out  of  the  world  when  she  is  not  in  the 
ring,  the  playhouse,  or  the  drawing-room.  She 
lives  in  a  perpetual  motion  of  body  and  restless¬ 
ness  of  thought,  and  is  never  easy  in  any  one 
place,  when  she  thinks  there  is  more  company  in 
another.  The  missing  of  an  opera  the  first  night, 
would  be  more  afflicting  to  her  than  the  death  of 
a  child.  She  pities  all  the  valuable  part  of  her 
own  sex,  and  calls  every  woman  of  a  prudent, 
modest,  and  retired  life,  a  poor-spirited,  unpol¬ 
ished  creature.  What  a  mortification  would  it  be 
to  Fulvia,  if  she  knew  that  her  setting  herself  to 
view  is  but  exposing  herself,  and  that  she  grows 
contemptible  by  being  conspicuous ! 

I  cannot  conclude  my  paper  without  observing, 
that  Virgil  lias  very  finely  touched  upon  this  fe¬ 
male  passion  for  dress  and  show,  in  the  character 
of  Camilla ;  who,  though  she  seems  to  have  sha¬ 
ken  off  all  the  other  weaknesses  of  her  sex,  is 
still  described  as  a  woman  in  this  particular. 
The  poets  tell  us,  that  after  having  made  a  great 
slaughter  of  the  enemy,  she  unfortunately  cast 
her  eye  on  a  Trojan,  who  wore  an  embroidered 
tunic,  a  beautiful  coat  of  mail,  with  a  mantle  of 
the  finest  purple.  “A  golden  bow,”  says  he, 
“  hung  upon  his  shoulder;  his  garment  was  buck¬ 
led  with  a  golden  clasp,  and  his  head  covered 
with  a  helmet  of  the  same  shining  metal.”  The 
Amazon  immediately  singled  out  this  well-dressed 
warrior,  being  seized  with  a  woman’s  longing 
for  the  pretty  trappings  that  he  was  adorned 
with : 


- Totumque  incauta  per  agmen 

Foemineo  prsedae  et  spoliorum  ardebat  amore. 

J2n.,  xi,  782. 

This  heedless  pursuit  after  these  glittering  tri 
fles,  the  poet  (by  a  nice  concealed  moral),  repre¬ 
sents  to  have  been  the  destruction  of  his  female 
hero. — C. 


No.  16.  j  MONDAY,  MARCH  19,  1710-11. 

Quid  verum  atque  decens  euro  et  rogo,  et  omnis  in  hoc  sum. 

Hor.,  1  Ep.,  i,  11. 

What  right,  what  true,  what  fit  we  justly  call, 

Let  this  be  all  my  care — for  this  is  all. — Pope. 

I  have  received  a  letter,  desiring  me  to  be  very 
satirical  upon  the  little  muff  that  is  now  in  fash¬ 
ion  ;  another  informs  me  of  a  pair  of  silver  gar¬ 
ters  buckled  below  the  knee,  that  have  been  late¬ 
ly  seen  at  the  Rainbow  coffee-house  in  Fleet- 
street  ;  a  third  sends  me  a  heavy  complaint  against 
fringed  gloves.  To  be  brief,  there  is  scarce  an  or¬ 
nament  of  either  sex  which  one  or  other  of  mv 
correspondents  has  not  inveighed  against  with 
some  bitterness,  and  recommended  to  my  observa¬ 
tion.  I  must,  therefore,  once  for  all,  inform  my 
readers,  that  it  is  not  my  intention  to  sink  the 
dignity  of  this,  my  paper,  with  reflections  upon 
red  heels  or  top-knots,  but  rather  to  enter  into  the 
passions  of  mankind,  and  to  correct  those  de¬ 
praved  sentiments  that  give  birth  to  all  those  lit¬ 
tle  extravagances  which  appear  in  their  outward 
dress  and  behavior.  Foppish  and  fantastic  orna¬ 
ments  are  only  indications  of  vice,  not  criminal 
in  themselves.  Extinguish  vanity  in  the  mind, 
and  you  naturally  retrench  the  little  superfluities 
of  garniture  and  equipage.  The  blossoms  will 
fall  of  themselves  when  the  root  that  nourishes 
them  is  destroyed. 

I  shall  therefore,  as  I  have  said,  apply  my  reme¬ 
dies  to  the  first  seeds  and  principles  of  an  affected 
dress,  without  descending  to  the  dress  itself ; 
though  at  the  same  time  I  must  own  that  I  have 
thoughts  of  creating  an  officer  under  me,  to  be 
entitled  the  Censor  of  Small  Wares,  and  of  al¬ 
lotting  him  one  day  in  the  week  for  the  execution 
of  such  his  office.  An  operator  of  this  nature 
might  act  under  me,  with  the  same  regard  as  a 
surgeon  to  a  physician ;  the  one  might  be  em¬ 
ployed  in  healing  those  blotches  and  tumors 
which  break  out  in  the  body,  while  the  other  is 
sweetening  the  blood,  and  rectifying  the  constitu¬ 
tion.  To  speak  truly,  the  young  people  of  both 
sexes  are  so  wonderfully  apt  to  shoot  out  into 
long  swords  or  sweeping  trains,  bushy  head¬ 
dresses  or  full-bottomed  periwigs,  with  several 
other  incumbrances  of  dress,  that  they  stand  in 
need  of  being  pruned  very  frequently,  lest  they 
should  be  oppressed  with  ornaments,  and  overrun 
with  the  luxuriancy  of  their  habits.  I  am  much 
in  doubt  whether  1  should  give  the  preference  to 
a  Quaker  that  is  trimmed  close,  and  almost  cut  to 
the  quick,  or  to  a  beau  that  is  loaden  with  such  a 
redundance  of  excrescences.  I  must  therefore  de¬ 
sire  my  correspondents  to  let  me  know  how  they 
approve  my  project,  and  whether  they  think  the 
erecting  of  such  a  petty  censorship  may  not  turn 
to  the  emolument  of  the  public  ;  for  I  would  not 
do  anything  of  this  nature  l'ashly  and  without 
advice. 

There  is  another  set  of  correspondents  to  whom 
I  must  address  myself  in  the  second  place  ;  I 
mean  such  as  fill  their  letters  with  private  scan¬ 
dal,  and  black  accounts  of  particular  persons  and 
families.  The  world  is  so  full  of  ill-nature,  that 
I  have  lampoons  sent  me  by  people  who  cannot 
spell,  and  satires  composed  by  those  who  scarce 
know  how  to  write.  By  the  last  post  in  particular, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


55 


I  received  a  packet  of  scandal  which  is  not 
legible  ;  and  have  a  whole  bundle  of  letters  in 
women’s  hands,  that  are  full  of  blots  and  calum¬ 
nies  ;  insomuch,  that  when  I  see  the  name  of  Cae- 
lia,  Phillis,  Pastora,  or  the  like,  at  the  bottom  of 
a  scrawl,  1  conclude  of  course  that  it  brings  me 
some  account  of  a  fallen  virgin,  a  faithless  wife, 
or  an  amorous  widow.  I  must  therefore  inform 
these  my  correspondents,  that  it  is  not  my  design 
to  be  a  publisher  of  intrigues  and  cuckoldoms,  or 
to  bring  little  infamous  stories  out  of  their  pres¬ 
ent  lurking-holes  into  broad  day-light.  If  I  at¬ 
tack  the  vicious,  I  shall  only  set  upon  them  in  a 
body:  and  will  not  be  provoked  by  the  worst 
usage  I  can  receive  from  others  to  make  an  exam¬ 
ple  of  any  particular  criminal.  In  short,  I  have 
so  much  of  a  Drawcansir  in  me,  that  I  shall  pass 
over  a  single  foe  to  charge  Avliole  armies.  It  is 
not  Lais  or  Silenus,  but  the  harlot  and  the  drunk¬ 
ard,  whom  I  shall  endeavor  to  expose ;  and  shall 
consider  the  crime  as  it  appears  in  the  species, 
not  as  it  is  circumstanced  in  an  individual.  I 
think  it  was  Caligula,  who  wished  the  whole  city 
of  Rome  had  but  one  neck,  that  he  might  behead 
them  at  a  blow.  I  shall  do,  out  of  humanity, 
what  that  emperor  would  have  done  in  the  cruel¬ 
ty  of  his  temper,  and  aim  every  stroke  at  a  col¬ 
lective  body  of  offenders.  At  the  same  time  I  am 
very  sensible  that  nothing  spreads  a  paper  like 
private  calumny  and  defamation  ;  but  as  my  spec¬ 
ulations  are  not  under  this  necessity,  they  are  not 
exposed  to  this  temptation. 

In  the  next  place  I  must  apply  myself  to  my 
party  correspondents,  who  are  continually  teasing 
me  to  take  notice  of  one  another’s  proceedings. 
How  often  am  I  asked  by  both  sides,  if  it  is  possi¬ 
ble  for  me  to  be  an  unconcerned  spectator  of  the 
rogueries  that  are  committed  by  the  party  which 
is  opposite  to  him  that  writes  the  letter.  About 
two  days  since,  I  was  reproached  with  an  old 
Grecian  law,  that  forbids  any  man  to  stand  as  a 
neuter,  or  a  looker-on,  in  the  divisions  of  his 
country.  However,  as  I  am  very  sensible  my 
paper  would  lose  its  whole  effect,  should  it  run 
into  the  outrages  of  a  party,  I  shall  take  care  to 
keep  clear  of  everything  which  looks  that  way. 
If  I  can  any  way  assuage  private  inflammations, 
or  allay  public  ferments,  I  shall  apply  myself  to  it 
with  my  utmost  endeavors  ;  but  will  never  let  my 
heart  reproach  me  with  having  done  anything  to¬ 
ward  increasing  those  feuds  and  animosities  that 
extinguish  religion,  deface  government,  and  make 
a  nation  miserable. 

What  1  have  said  under  the  three  foregoing 
heads  will,  I  am  afraid,  very  much  retrench  the 
number  of  my  correspondents.  I  shall  therefore 
acquaint  my  reader,  that  if  he  has  started  any  hint 
which  he  is  not  able  to  pursue,  if  he  has  met  with 
any  surprising  story  which  he  does  not  know  how 
to  tell,  if  he  has  discovered  any  epidemical  vice 
which  has  escaped  my  observation,  or  has  heard  of 
any  uncommon  virtue  which  he  would  desire  to 
publish  ;  in  short,  if  he  has  any  materials  that  can 
furnish  out  an  innocent  diversion,  I  shall  promise 
him  my  best  assistance  in  the  working  of  them  up 
for  a  public  entertainment. 

This  paper  my  reader  wrill  find  was  intended  for 
an  answer  to  a  multitude  of  correspondents  ;  but 
I  hope  he  will  pardon  me  if  I  single  out  one  of 
them  in  particular,  who  has  made  me  so  very  hum¬ 
ble  a  request,  that  I  cannot  forbear  complying 
with  it. 

“To  the  Spectator. 

“Sir.  “March  15,  1710-11. 

“I  am  at  present  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  no¬ 
thing  to  do  but  to  mind  my  own  business ;  and 


therefore  beg  of  you  that  you  will  be  pleased  to 
put  me  into  some  small  post  under  you.  I  ob¬ 
serve  that  you  have  appointed  your  printer  and 
publisher  to  receive  letters  and  advertisements  for 
the  city  of  London,  and  shall  think  myself  very 
much  honored  by  you,  if  you  will  appoint  me  to 
take  in  letters  and  advertisements  for  the  city  of 
Westminster  and  the  duchy  of  Lancaster.  Though 
I  cannot  promise  to  fill  such  an  employment  with 
sufficient  abilities,  I  will  endeavor  to  make  up 
with  industry  and  fidelity  what  I  want  in  parth 
and  genius. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  most  obedient  servant, 

C.  “  Charles  Lillie.” 


Ho.  17.]  TUESDAY,  MARCH,  20,  1710-11. 

Tetrum  ante  omnia  vultum. — Juv.,  x,  191. 

-  A  visage  rough, 

Deformed,  unfeatured. 

Since  our  persons  are  not  of  our  own  making 
when  they  are  such  as  appear  defective  or  un¬ 
comely,  it  is,  methinks,  an  honest  and  laudable 
fortitude  to  dare  to  be  ugly ;  at  least  to  keep  our¬ 
selves  from  being  abashed  with  a  consciousness  of 
imperfections  which  we  cannot  help,  and  in  which 
there  is  no  guilt.  I  would  not  defend  a  haggard 
beau  for  passing  away  much  time  at  a  glass  and 
giving  softness  and  languishing  graces  to  defor¬ 
mity  :  all  I  intend  is,  that  we  ought  to  be  con¬ 
tented  with  our  countenance  and  shape,  so  far,  as 
never  to  give  ourselves  an  uneasy  reflection  on 
that  subject.  It  is  to  the  ordinary  people  who  are 
not  accustomed  to  make  very  proper  remarks  on 
any  occasion,  matter  of  great  jest,  if  a  man  enters 
with  a  prominent  pair  of  shoulders  into  an  assem¬ 
bly,  or  is  distinguished  by  an  expansion  of  mouth, 
or  obliquity  of  aspect.  It  is  happy  for  a  man  that 
has  any  of  these  oddnesses  about  him,  if  he  can  be 
as  merry  upon  himself,  as  others  are  apt  to  be  upon 
that  occasion.  When  he  can  possess  himself  with 
such  a  cheerfulness,  women  and  children,  wlio  are 
at  first  frightened  at  him,  will  afterward  be  as  much 
pleased  with  him.  As  it  is  barbarous  in  others  to 
rally  him  for  natural  defects,  it  is  extremely  agree¬ 
able  when  he  can  jest  upon  himself  for  them. 

Madam  Maintenon’s  first  husband  was  a  hero 
in  this  kind,  and  has  drawn  many  pleasantries 
from  the  irregularity  of  his  shape,  which  he  de¬ 
scribes  as  very  much  resembling  the  letter  Z.  He 
diverts  himself  likewise  by  representing  to  his 
reader  the  make  of  an  engine  and  pulley,  with 
which  he  used  to  take  off  his  hat.  When  there 
happens  to  be  anything  ridiculous  in  a  visage, 
and  the  owner  of  it  thinks  it  an  aspect  of  dignity, 
he  must  be  of  very  great  quality  to  be  exempt 
from  raillery.  The  best  expedient,  therefore,  is  to 
be  pleasant  upon  himself.  Prince  Harry  and  Fal- 
statf,  in  Shakspeare,  have  carried  the  ridicule  upon 
fat  and  lean  as  far  as  it  will  go.  Falstaff  is  hu¬ 
morously  called  woolsack,  bedpresser,  and  hill  of 
flesh ;  Harry,  a  starveling,  an  elve-skin,  a  sheath, 
a  bow-case,  and  a  tuck.  There  is,  in  several  inci¬ 
dents  of  the  conversation  between  them,  the  jest 
still  kept  up  upon  the  person.  Great  tenderness 
and  sensibility  in  this  point  is  one  of  the  greatest 
weaknesses  of  self-love.  For  my  own  part,  I  am 
a  little  unhappy  in  the  mould  of  my  face,  wrhich  is 
not  quite  so  long  as  it  is  broad.  Whether  this 
might  not  partly  arise  from  my  opening  my  mouth 
much  seldomer  than  other  people,  and  by  conse¬ 
quence  not  so  much  lengthening  the  fibers  of  my 
visage,  I  am  not  at  leisure  to  determine.  How¬ 
ever  it  be,  I  have  been  often  put  out  of  counte¬ 
nance  by  the  shortness  of  my  face,  and  was  for¬ 
merly  at  great  pains  in  concealing  it  by  wearing  a 


56 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


periwig  with  a  high  fore-top,  and  letting  my 
beard  grow .  But  now  I  have  thoroughly  got  over 
this  delicacy,  and  could  be  contented  with  a  m  uch 
shorter,  provided  it  might  qualify  me  for  a  mem¬ 
ber  of  the  merry  club,  which  the  following  letter 
gives  me  an  account  of.  I  have  received  it  from 
Oxford,  and  as  it  abounds  with  the  spirit  of  mirth 
and  good  humor,  which  is  natural  to  that  place,  I 
shall  set  it  down  word  for  word  as  it  came  to  me. 

“  Most  Profound  Sir, 

“  Having  been  very  well  entertained,  in  the  last 
of  your  speculations  that  I  have  yet  seen,  by  your 
specimen  upon  clubs,  which  I  therefore  hope  you 
will  continue,  I  shall  take  the  liberty  to  furnish 
you  with  a  brief  account  of  such  a  one  as,  per¬ 
haps,  you  have  not  seen  in  your  travels,  unless  it 
was  your  fortune  to  touch  upon  some  of  the  woody 
parts  of  the  African  continent,  in  your  voyage  to 
or  from  Grand  Cairo.  There  have  arisen  in  this 
university  (long  since  you  left  us  without  saying 
anything)  several  of  these  inferior  hebdomadal  so¬ 
cieties,  as  the  Punning  club,  the  Witty  club,  and 
among  the  rest,  the  Handsome  club  :  as  a  bur¬ 
lesque  upon  which,  a  certain  merry  species,  that 
seem  to  have  come  into  the  world  in  masquerade, 
for  some  years  last  past  have  associated  themselves 
together,  and  assumed  the  name  of  the  Ugly  club. 
This  ill-favored  fraternity  consists  of  a  president 
and  twelve  fellows;  the  choice  of  which  is  not 
confined  by  patent  to  any  particular  foundation 
(as  St.  John’s  men  would  have  the  world  believe, 
and  have  therefore  erected  a  separate  society  with¬ 
in  themselves),  but  liberty  is  left  to  elect  from  any 
school  in  Great  Britain,  provided  the  candidates 
be  within  the  rules  of  the  club,  as  set  forth  in  a 
table,  entitled,  The  Act  of  Deformity  :  a  clause  or 
two  of  which  I  shall  transmit  to  you. 

“1.  That  no  person  whatsoever  shall  be  ad¬ 
mitted  without  a  visible  quearity  in  his  aspect,  or 
peculiar  cast  of  countenance ;  of  which  the  presi¬ 
dent  and  officers  for  the  time  being  are  to  deter¬ 
mine,  and  the  president  to  have  the  casting  voice. 

“  2.  That  a  singular  regard  be  had  upon  exam¬ 
ination,  to  the  gibbosity  of  the  gentlemen  that 
offer  themselves  as  founder’s  kinsmen  ;  or  to  the 
obliquitv  of  their  figure,  in  what  sort  soever. 

“  3.  That  if  the  quantity  of  any  man’s  nose  be 
eminently  miscalculated,  whether  as  to  length  or 
breadth,  he  shall  have  a  just  pretense  to  be  elected. 

“  Lastly,  That  if  there  shall  be  two  or  more 
competitors  for  the  same  vacancy,  cceteris  paribus, 
he  that  has  the  thickest  skin  to  have  the  prefer¬ 
ence. 

“  Every  fresh  member,  upon  his  first  night,  is  to 
entertain  the  company  with  a  dish  of  codfish,  and 
a  speech  in  praise  of  vEsop,  whose  portraiture 
they  have  in  full  proportion,  or  rather  dispropor¬ 
tion,  over  the  chimney  ;  and  their  design  is,  as 
soon  as  their  funds  are  sufficient,  to  purchase  the 
heads  of  Thersites,  Duns  Scotus,  Scarron,  Hudi- 
bras,  and  the  old  gentleman  in  Oldham,  with  all 
the  celebrated  ill  faces  of  antiquity,  as  furniture 
for  the  club-room. 

“  As  they  have  always  been  professed  admirers 
of  the  other  sex,  so  they  unanimously  declare  that 
they  will  give  all  possible  encouragement  to  such 
as  will  take  the  benefit  of  the  statute,  though 
none  yet  have  appeared  to  do  it. 

“The  worthy  president,  who  is  their  most  de¬ 
voted  champion,  has  lately  shown  me  two  copies 
of  verses,  composed  by  a  gentleman  of  his  society; 
the  first,  a  congratulatory  ode,  inscribed  to  Mrs. 
Touchwood,  upon  the  loss  of  her  two  fore  teeth ; 
the  other,  a  panegyric  upon  Mrs.  Andiron’s  left 
shoulder.  Mrs.  Vizard  (he  says),  since  the  small¬ 
pox,  has  growu  tolerably  ugly,  and  a  top  toast  in 


the  club ;  but  I  never  heard  him  so  lavish  of  his 
fine  things,  as  upon  old  Hell  Trott,  who  continu¬ 
ally  officiates  at  their  table ;  her  he  even  adores 
and  extols  as  the  very  counterpart  of  Mother  Ship- 
ton  ;  in  short,  Nell  (says  he)  is  one  of  the  extra¬ 
ordinary  works  of  nature ;  but  as  for  complexion, 
shape,  and  features,  so  valued  by  others,  they  are 
all  mere  outside  and  symmetry,  which  is  his 
aversion.  Give  me  leave  to  add,  that  the  presi¬ 
dent  is  a  facetious,  pleasant  gentleman,  and  never 
more  so,  than  when  he  has  got  (as  he  calls  them) 
his  dear  mummers  about  him ;  and  he  often  pro-' 
tests  it  does  him  good  to  meet  a  fellow  with  a  right 
genuine  grimace  in  his  air  (which  is  so  agreeable 
in  the  generality  of  the  French  nation) ;  and,  as  an 
instance  of  his  sincerity  in  this  particular,  he  gave 
me  a  sight  of  a  list  in  his  pocket-book  of  all  this 
class,  who  for  these  five  years  have  fallen  under 
his  observation,  with  himself  at  the  head  of  them, 
and  in  the  rear  (as  one  of  a  promising  and  improv¬ 
ing  aspect). 

“  Sir,  your  obliged  and  humble  servant, 

“Alexander  Carbuncle.” 

Oxford,  March  12,  1710.  R. 


No.  18.]  WEDNESDAY,  MARCH  21,  1710-11. 

- Equitis  quoque  jam  migravit  ab  aure  voluptas, 

Omnis  ad  incertos  oculos,  et  gauda  vana. 

Hor.,  2  Ep.  i,  187. 

But  now  our  nobles  too  are  fops  and  Tain, 

Neglect  the  sense,  but  love  the  painted  scene. — Creech. 

It  is  my  design  in  this  paper  to  deliver  down  to 
posterity  a  faithful  account  of  the  Italian  opera, 
and  of  the  gradual  progress  which  it  has  made 
upon  tl\e  English  stage ;  for  there  is  no  question 
but  our  great-grand-children  will  be  curious  to 
know  the  reason  why  their  forefathers  used  to  sit 
together  like  an  audience  of  foreigners  in  their 
own  country,  and  to  hear  whole  plays  acted  before 
them  in  a  tongue  which  they  did  not  understand. 

Arsinoe  was  the  first  opera  that  gave  us  a  taste 
of  Italian  music.  The  great  success  this  opera 
met  with  produced  some  attempts  of  forming 
pieces  upon  Italian  plans,  which  should  give  a 
more  natural  and  reasonable  entertainment  than 
what  can  be  met  with  in  the  elaborate  trifles  of 
that  nation.  This  alarmed  the  poetasters  and 
fiddlers  of  the  town,  who  were  used  to  deal  in  a 
more  ordinary  kind  of  ware;  and  therefore  laid 
down  an  established  rule,  which  is  received  as 
such  to  this  day,  “That  nothing  is  capable  of  being 
well  set  to  music,  that  is  not  nonsense.” 

This  maxim  was  no  sooner  received,  but  we  im¬ 
mediately  fell  to  translating  the  Italian  operas ; 
and  as  there  was  no  great  danger  of  hurting  the 
sense  of  those  extraordinary  pieces,  our  authors 
would  often  make  words  of  their  own  which  were 
entirely  foreign  to  the  meaning  of  the  passages 
they  pretended  to  translate ;  their  chief  care  bemg 
to  make  the  numbers  of  the  English  verse  to  an¬ 
swer  to  those  of  the  Italian,  that  both  of  them 
might  go  to  the  same  tune.  Thus  the  famous  song 
in  Camilla: 

Barbara,  si,  t’  intendo,  etc. 

Barbarous  woman,  yes,  I  know  your  meaning. 

which  expresses  the  resentments  of  an  angry  lover, 
was  translated  into  that  English  lamentation  : 

Frail  are  a  lover’s  hopes,  etc. 

And  it  was  pleasant  enough  to  see  the  most  refined 
persons  of  the  British  nation  dying  away  and 
languishing  to  notes  that  were  filled  with  a  spirit 
of  rage  and  indignation.  It  happened  also  very 
frequently,  where  the  sense  was  rightly  translated, 
the  necessary  transposition  of  words,  which  were 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


drawn  out  of  the  phrase  of  one  tongue  into  that  of 
another,  made  the  music  appear  very  absurd  in  one 
tongue  that  was  very  natural  in  the  other.  I  remem¬ 
ber  an  Italian  verse  that  ran  thus,  word  for  word : 

And  turn’d  my  rage  into  pity. 

which  the  English,  for  rhyme-sake,  translated, 

And  into  pity  turned  my  rage. 

By  this  means  the  soft  notes  that  were  adapted  to 
pity  in  the  Italian,  fell  upon  the  word  rage  in  the 
English ;  and  the  angry  sounds  that  were  turned 
to  rage  in  the  original,  were  made  to  express  pity 
in  the  translation.  It  oftentimes  happened  like¬ 
wise,  that  the  finest  notes  in  the  air  fell  upon  the 
most  insignificant  words  in  the  sentence.  I  have 
known  the  word  “and”  pursued  through  the 
whole  gamut,  have  been  entertained  with  many  a 
melodious  “the,”  and  have  heard  the  most  beau¬ 
tiful  graces,  quavers,  and  divisions  bestowed  upon 
“then,”  “for,”  and  “from;”  to  the  eternal  honor 
of  our  English  particles. 

The  next  step  to  our  refinement  was  the  intro¬ 
ducing  ot  Italian  actors  into  our  opera  ;  who  sang 
their  parts  in  their  own  language,  at  the  same  time 
that  our  countrymen  performed  theirs  in  our  native 
tongue.  The  king  or  hero  of  the  play  generally 
spoke  in  Italian,  and  his  slaves  answered  him  in 
English.  The  lover  frequently  made  liis  court, 
and  gained  the  heart  of  his  princess,  in  a  language 
which  she  did  not  understand.  One  would  have 
thought  it  very  difficult  to  have  carried  on  di¬ 
alogues  after  this  manner,  without  an  interpreter 
between  the  persons  that  conversed  together  ;  but 
this  was  the  state  of  the  English  stage  for  about 
three  years. 

At  length  the  audience  grew  tired  of  under¬ 
standing  half  the  opera  ;  and  therefore,  to  ease 
themselves  entirely  of  the  fatigue  of  thinking, 
have  so  ordered  it  at  present,  that  the  whole  opera 
is  performed  in  an  unknown  tongue.  We  no 
longer  understand  the  language  of  our  own  stage; 
insomuch  that  I  have  often  been  afraid,  when  I 
have  seen  our  Italian  performers  chattering  in  the 
vehemence  of  action,  that  they  have  been  calling 
us  names,  and  abusing  us  among  themselves  ;  but 
I  hope,  since  we  put  such  an  entire  confidence  in 
them,  they  will  not  talk  against  us  before  our  faces, 
though  they  may  do  it  with  the  same  safety  as  if 
it  were  behind  our  backs.  In  the  meantime,  I 
cannot  forbear  thinking  how  naturally  a  historian 
who  writes  two  or  three  hundred  years  hence,  and 
does  not  know  the  taste  of  his  wise  forefathers,  will 
make  the  following  reflections:  “  In  the  beginning 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  Italian  tongue  was 
so  well  understood  in  England,  that  operas  were 
acted  on  the  public  stage  in  that  language.” 

One  scarce  knows  how  to  be  serious  in  the  con¬ 
futation  of  an  absurdity  that  shows  itself  at  first 
sight.  It  does  not  want  any  great  measure  of  sense 
to  see  the  ridicule  of  this  monstrous  practice  ;  but 
what  makes  it  the  more  astonishing,  it  is  not  the 
taste  of  the  rabble,  but  of  persons  of  the  greatest 
politeness,  which  has  established  it. 

If  the  Italians  have  a  genius  for  music  above 
the  English,  the  English  have  a  genius  for  other 
performances  of  a  much  higher  nature,  and  capable 
ot  giving  the  mind  a  much  nobler  entertainment. 
Would  one  think  it  was  possible  (at  a  time  when 
an  author  lived  that  was  able  to  write  the  Pined ra 
and  Hippolitus),  for  a  people  to  be  so  stupidly 
ond  of  the  Italian  opera,  as  scarce  to  give  a  third 
day’s  hearing  to  that  admirable  tragedy  ?  Music 
is  certainly  a  very  agreeable  entertainment:  but  if 
it  would  take  the  entire  possession  of  our  ears,  if 
it  would  make  us  incapable  of  hearing  sense]  if 
it  would  exclude  arts  that  have  a  much  greater 


57 

tendency  to  the  refinement  of  human  nature  ;  I 
must  confess  I  would  allow  it  no  better  quarter 
than  Plato  has  done,  who  banishes  it  out  of  his 
commonwealth. 

At  present  our  notions  of  music  are  so  very  un¬ 
certain,  that  we  do  not  know  what  it  is  we  like  ; 
only,  in  general,  we  are  transported  with  anything 
that  is  not  English  :  so  it  be  of  a  foreign  growth, 
let  it  be  Italian,  French,  or  High  Dutch,  it  is  the 
same  thing.  In  short,  our  English  music  is  quite 
rooted  out,  and  nothing  yet  planted  in  its  stead. 

When  a  royal  palace  is  burnt  to  the  ground, 
every  man  is  at  liberty  to  present  his  plan  for  a 
new  one  ;  and  though  it  be  but  indifferently  put 
together,  it  may  furnish  several  hints  that  may  be 
of  use  to  a  good  architect.  I  shall  take  the  same 
liberty,  in  a  following  paper,  of  giving  my  opinion 
upon  the  subject  of  music;  whicli  I  shall  lay  down 
only  in  a  problematical  manner,  to  be  considered 
by  those  who  are  masters  in  the  art. — C. 


Ho.  19.]  THURSDAY,  MARCH  22,  1710-11. 

Di  bene  fecerunt,  inopis  me  quodque  pusilli 

Finxerunt  animi,  raro  et  perpauca  loquentis. 

Hor.,  1  Sat.,  iv,  17. 

Thank  Heaven,  that  made  me  of  an  humble  mind ; 

To  action  little,  less  to  words  inclined ! 

Observing  one  person  behold  another,  who  was 
an  utter  stranger  to  him,  with  a  cast  of  his  eye, 
which  methought  expressed  an  emotion  of  heart 
very  different  from  what  could  be  raised  by  an 
object  so  agreeable  as  the  gentleman  lie  looked 
at,  I  began  to  consider,  not  without  some  secret 
sorrow,  the  condition  of  an  envious  man.  Some 
have  fancied  that  envy  has  a  certain  magical  force 
in  it,  and  that  the  eyes  of  the  envious  have,  by 
their  fascination,  blasted  the  enjoyments  of  the 
happy.  Sir  Francis  Bacon  says,  some  have  been 
so  curious  as  to  remark  the  times  and  seasons 
when  the  stroke  of  an  envious  eye  is  most  effectu- 
ally  pernicious,  and  have  observed  that  it  has 
been  when  the  person  envied  has  been  in  any  cir¬ 
cumstance  of  glory  and  triumph.  At  such  a  time 
the  mind  of  the  prosperous  man  goes,  as  it  were, 
abroad,  among  things  without  him,  and  is  more 
exposed  to  the  malignity.  But  I  shall  not  dwell 
upon  speculations  so  abstracted  as  this,  or  repeat 
the  many  excellent  things  which  one  might  col¬ 
lect  out  ot  authors  upon  this  miserable  affection  ; 
but  keeping  the  common  road  of  life,  consider  the' 
envious  man  with  relation  to  these  three  heads, 
his  pains,  his  reliefs,  and  his  happiness. 

The  envious  man  is  in  pain  upon  all  occasions 
which  ought  to  give  him  pleasure.  The  relish  of 
his  life  is  inverted ;  and  the  objects  which  admin¬ 
ister  the  higher  satisfaction  to  those  who  are  ex¬ 
empt  from  this  passion,  give  the  quickest  pangs 
to  persons  who  are  subject  to  it.  All  the  per¬ 
fections  of  their  fellow-creatures  are  odious.  Youth, 
beauty,  valor,  and  wisdom,  are  provocations  of 
their  displeasure.  What  a  wretched  and  apostate 
state  is  this  :  to  be  offended  with  excellence,  and 
to  hate  a  man  because  we  approve  him  !  The 
condition  of  the  envious  man  is  the  most  emphati¬ 
cally  miserable  ;  he  is  not  only  incapable  of  re¬ 
joicing  in  another’s  merit  or  success,  but  lives  in 
a  world  wherein  all  mankind  are  in  a  plot  against 
his  quiet,  by  studying  their  own  happiness  and 
advantage.  Will  Prosper  is  an  honest  tale-bearer; 
he  makes  it  his  business  to  join  in  conversation 
with  envious  men.  He  points  to  such  a  handsome 
young  fellow,  and  whispers  that  he  is  secretly 
married  to  a  great  fortune.  When  they  doubt,  he 
adds  circumstances  to  prove  it ;  and  never  fails  to 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


58 

aggravate  their  distress  by  assuring  them,  that,  to 
his  knowledge,  he  has  an  uncle  will  leave  hirn 
some  thousands.  Will  has  many  arts  of  this  kind 
to  torture  this  sort  of  temper,  and  delights  in  it. 
When  he  finds  them  change  color,  and  say  faintly 
they  wish  such  a  piece  of  news  is  true,  he  has  the 
malice  to  speak  some  good  or  other  of  every  man 
of  their  acquaintance. 

The  reliefs  of  the  envious  man,  are  those  little 
blemishes  and  imperfections  that  discover  them¬ 
selves  in  an  illustrious  character.  It  is  matter  of 
great  consolation  to  an  envious  person,  when  a 
man  of  known  honor  does  a  thing  unworthy  of 
himself,  or  when  any  action  which  was  well  ex¬ 
ecuted,  upon  better  information  appears  so  altered 
in  its  circumstances,  that  the  fame  of  it  is  divided 
among  many,  instead  of  being  attributed  to  one. 
This  is  a  secret  satisfaction  to  these  malignants : 
for  the  person  whom  they  could  not  but  admire,  they 
fancy  is  nearer  their  own  condition  as  soon  as  his 
merit  is  shared  among  others.  I  remember  some 
years  ago,  there  came  out  an  excellent  poem  with¬ 
out  the  name  of  the  author.  The  little  wits,  who 
were  incapable  of  writing  it,  began  to  pull  in 
pieces  the  supposed  writer.  When  that  would  not 
do,  they  took  great  pains  to  suppress  the  opinion 
that  it  was  his.  That  again  failed.  The  next 
refuge  was,  to  say  it  was  overlooked  by  one  man, 
and  many  pages  wholly  written  by  another.  An 
honest  fellow,  who  sat  among  a  cluster  of  them  in 
debate  on  this  subject,  cried  out,  “  Gentlemen, 
if  you  are  sure  none  of  you  yourselves  had  a  hand 
in  it,  you  are  but  where  you  were,  whoever  wrote 
it.”  But  the  most  usual  succor  to  the  envious,  in 
cases  of  nameless  merit  in  this  kind,  is  to  keep 
the  property,  if  possible,  unfixed,  and  by  that 
means  to  hinder  the  reputation  of  it  from  falling 
upon  any  particular  person.  You  see  an  envious 
man  clear  up  his  countenance,  if,  in  the  relation 
of  any  man’s  great  happiness  in  one  point,  you 
mention  his  uneasiness  in  another.  When  he 
hears  such  a  one  is  very  rich,  he  turns  pale,  but 
recovers  when  you  add  that  he  has  many  children. 
In  a  word,  the  only  sure  way  to  an  envious  man’s 
favor  is  not  to  deserve  it. 

But  if  we  consider  the  envious  man  in  delight, 
it  is  like  reading  of  the  seat  of  a  giant  in  romance; 
the  magnificence  of  his  house  consists  in  the  many 
limbs  of  men  whom  he  has  slain.  If  any  who 
promised  themselves  success  in  any  uncommon 
undertaking  miscarry  in  the  attempt,  or  he  that 
aimed  at  what  would  have  been  useful  and  laud¬ 
able,  meets  with  contempt  and  derision,  the  envi¬ 
ous  man,  under  the  color  of  hating  vain-glory,  can 
smile  with  an  inward  wantonness  of  heart  at  the 
ill  effect  it  may  have  upon  an  honest  ambition  for 
the  future. 

Having  thoroughly  considered  the  nature  of  this 
passion,  I  have  made  it  my  study  how  to  avoid 
the  envy  that  may  accrue  to  me  from  these  my 
speculations  ;  and  if  I  am  not  mistaken  in  myself, 
I  think  I  have  a  genius  to  escape  it.  Upon  hear¬ 
ing  in  a  coffee-house  one  of  my  papers  commended, 
I  immediately  apprehended  the  envy  that  would 
spring  from  that  applause  ;  and  therefore  gave  a 
description  of  my  face  the  next  day ;  being  re¬ 
solved,  as  I  grow  in  reputation  for  wit,  to  resign 
my  pretensions  to  beauty.  This,  I  hope,  may  give 
some  ease  to  those  unhappy  gentlemen  who  do  me 
the  honor  to  torment  themselves  upon  the  account 
of  this  my  paper.  As  their  case  is  very  deplorable, 
and  deserves  compassion,  I  shall  sometimes  be 
dull  in  pity  to  them,  and  will,  from  time  to  time, 
administer  consolations  to  them  by  farther  dis¬ 
coveries  of  my  person.  In  the  meanwhile,  if  any 
one  says  the  Spectator  has  wit,  it  may  be  some 
relief  to  them  to  think  that  he  does  not  show  it  in 


company.  And  if  any  one  praises  his  morality, 
they  may  comfort  themselves  by  considering  that 
his  face  is  none  of  the  longest. — R. 


Ho.  20.]  FRIDAY,  MARCH  23,  1710-11. 

Tliou  dog  in  forehead. — Pope,  IIom. 

Among  the  other  hardy  undertakings  which  I 
have  proposed  to  myself,  that  of  the  correction  of 
impudence  is  what  I  have  very  much  at  heart. 
This  in  a  particular  manner  is  my  province  as 
Spectator  ;  for  it  is  generally  an  offense  committed 
by  the  eyes,  and  that  against  such  as  the  offenders 
would  perhaps  never  have  an  opportunity  of  in¬ 
juring  any  other  way.  The  following  letter  is  a 
complaint  of  a  young  lady,  who  sets  forth  a  tres¬ 
pass  of  this  kind,  with  that  command  of  herself 
as  befits  beauty  and  innocence,  and  yet  with  so 
much  spirit  as  sufficiently  expresses  her  indigna¬ 
tion.  The  whole  transaction  is  performed  with 
the  eyes ;  and  the  crime  is  no  less  than  employing 
them  in  such  a  manner,  as  to  divert  the  eyes  of 
others  from  the  best  use  they  can  make  of  them, 
even  looking  up  to  heaven. 

“  Sir. 

“  There  never  was  (I  believe)  an  acceptable  man 
but  had  some  awkward  imitators.  Even  since  the 
Spectator  appeared,  have  I  remarked  a  kind  of 
men  whom  1  choose  to  call  Starers  ;  that  without 
any  regard  to  time,  place,  or  modesty,  disturb  a 
large  company  with  their  impertinent  eyes.  Spec¬ 
tators  make  up  a  proper  assembly  for  a  puppet- 
show  or  a  bear-garden  ;  but  devout  supplicants 
and  attentive  hearers  are  the  audience  one  ought 
to  expect  in  churches.  I  am,  Sir,  a  member  of  a 
small  pious  congregation  near  one  of  the  north 
gates  of  this  city  ;  much  the  greater  part  of  us 
indeed  are  females,  and  used  to  behave  ourselves 
in  a  regular  attentive  manner,  till  very  lately  one 
whole  aisle  has  been  disturbed  by  one  of  these 
monstrous  starers  ;  he  is  the  head  taller  than  any 
one  in  the  church  ;  but  for  the  greater  advantage 
of  exposing  himself,  stands  upon  a  hassock,  and 
commands  the  whole  congregation,  to  the  great 
annoyance  of  the  devoutest  part  of  the  auditory ; 
for  what  with  blushing,  confusion,  and  vexation, 
we  can  neither  mind  the  prayers  nor  sermon.  Your 
animadversion  upon  this  insolence  would  be  a 
great  favor  to, 

“  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant,  S.  C.” 

I  have  frequently  seen  this  sort  of  fellows,  and 
do  think  there  cannot  be  a  greater  aggravation  of 
an  offense  than  that  it  is  committed  where  the  cri¬ 
minal  is  protected  by  the  sacredness  of  the  place 
which  he  violates.  Many  reflections  of  this  sort  might 
be  very  justly  made  upon  this  kind  of  behavior, 
but  a  starer  is  not  usually  a  person  to  be  convinced 
by  the  reason  of  the  thing  ;  and  a  fellow  that  is 
capable  of  showing  an  impudent  front  before  a 
whole  congregation,  and  can  bear  being  a  public 
spectacle,  is  not  so  easily  rebuked  as  to  amend  by 
admonitions.  If,  therefore,  my  correspondent  does 
not  inform  me,  that  within  seven  days  after  this 
date  the  barbarian  does  at  least  stand  upon  his 
own  legs  only,  without  an  eminence,  my  friend 
Will  Prosper*  has  promised  to  take  a  hassock  op¬ 
posite  to  him,  and  stare  against  him  in  defense  of 
the  ladies.  I  have  given  him  directions,  according 
to  the  most  exact  rules  of  optics,  to  place  himself 
in  such  a  manner,  that  he  shall  meet  his  eyes 
wherever  he  throws  them.  I  have  hopes,  that 
when  Will  confronts  him,  and  all  the  ladies,  in 


*  See  Spect.  No.  19,  W.  Prosper,  an  honest  tale-bearer,  etc. 


THE  SPE 

whose  behalf  he  engages  him,  cast  kind  looks  and 
wishes  of  success  at  their  champion,  he  will  have 
gome  shame,  and  feel  a  little  of  the  pain  he  has  so 
often  put  others  to,  of  being  out  of  countenance. 

It  has,  indeed,  been  time  out  of  mind  generally 
remarked,  and  as  often  lamented,  that  this  family 
of  Starers  have  infested  public  assemblies.  I  know 
no  other  way  to  obviate  so  great  an  evil,  except, 
in  the  case  of  fixing  their  eyes  upon  women,  some 
male  friend  will  take  the  part  of  such  as  are  under 
the  oppression  of  impudence,  and  encounter  the 
eyes  of  the  Starers  wherever  they  meet  them. 
While  we  suffer  our  women  to  be  thus  impudently 
attacked,  they  have  no  defense,  but  in  the  end  to 
cast  yielding  glances  at  the  Starers.  In  this  case 
a  man  who  has  no  sense  of  shame,  has  the  same 
advantage  over  his  mistress,  as  he  who  has  no  re¬ 
gard  for  his  own  life  has  over  his  adversary. — 
WhikTthe  generality  of  the  'world  are  fettered  by 
rules,  and  move  by  proper  and  just  methods, 
he  who  has  no  respect  to  any  of  them  carries  away 
the  reward  due  to  that  propriety  of  behavior,  with 
no  other  merit,  but  that  of  having  neglected  it. 

I  take  an  impudent  fellow  to  be  a  sort  of  outlaw 
in  good  breeding,  and  therefore  what  is  said  of  him 
no  nation  or  person  can  be  concerned  for.  For 
this  reason  one  may  be  free  upon  him.  I  have 
put  myself  to  great  pains  in  considering  this  pre¬ 
vailing  quality,  which  we  call  impudence,  and 
have  taken  notice  that  it  exerts  itself  in  a  different 
manner,  according  to  the  different  soils  wherein 
such  subjects  of  these  dominions  as  are  masters  of  it 
were  born.  Impudence  in  an  Englishman  is  sullen 
and  insolent ;  in  a  Scotchman  it  is  untractable  and 
rapacious  ;  in  an  Irishman  absurd  and  fawning  : 
as  the  course  of  the  world  now  runs,  the  impudent 
Englishman  behaves  like  a  surly  landlord,  the 
Scot  like  an  ill-received  guest,  and  the  Irishman 
like  a  stranger,  who  knows  he  is  not  welcome. 
There  is  seldom  anything  entertaining  either  in 
the  impudence  of  a  South  or  North  Briton ;  but 
that  of  an  Irishman  is  always  comic.  A  true  and 
genuine  impudence  is  ever  the  effect  of  ignorance 
without  the  least  sense  of  it.  The  best  and  most 
successful  starers  now  in  this  town  are  of  that 
nation  ;  they  have  usually  the  advantage  of  the 
stature  mentioned  in  the  above  letter  of  my  cor¬ 
respondent,  and  generally  take  their  stands  in  the 
eye  of  women  of  fortune  :  insomuch  that  I  have 
known  one  of  them,  three  months  after  he  came 
from  the  plow,  with  a  tolerable  good  air,  lead 
out  a  woman  from  a  play,  which  one  of  our  own 
breed,  after  four  years  at  Oxford,  and  two  at  the 
Temple,  would  have  been  afraid  to  look  at. 

I  cannot  tell  how  to  account  for  it,  but  these 
people  have  usually  the  preference  to  our  own 
tools,  in  the  opinion  of  the  sillier  part  of  woman¬ 
kind.  Perhaps  it  is  that  an  English  coxcomb  is 
seldom  so  obsequious  as  an  Irish  one ;  and  when 
the  design  of  pleasing  is  visible,  an  absurdity  in 
the  way  toward  it  is  easily  forgiven. 

But  those  who  are  downright  impudent,  and  go 
on  without  reflection  that  they  are  such,  are  more 
to  be  tolerated,  than  a  set  of  fellows  among  us 
who  profess  impudence  with  an  air  of  humor,  and 
think  to  carry  off  the  most  inexcusable  of  all  faults 
in  the  world,  with  no  other  apology  than  saying 
in  a  gay  tone,  “  I  put  an  impudent  face  upon  the 
matter.”  No:  no  man  shall  be  allowed  the  ad¬ 
vantages  of  impudence,  who  is  conscious  that  he 
is  such.  If  he  knows  he  is  impudent,  he  may 
as  well  be  otherwise  ;  and  it  shall  be  expected 
that  he  blush,  when  he  sees  he  makes  another  do 
it.  For  nothing  can  atone  for  the  want  of  mo¬ 
desty  :  without  which  beauty  is  ungraceful,  and 
wit  detestable. — 11. 


CTATOR.  59 

No.  21.]  SATURDAY,  MARCH  24,  1710-11. 

- Locus  est  pluribus  umbris. — IIor.,  1  Ep.,  v,  28. 

There’s  room  enough,  and  each  may  bring  his  friend. 

Creech. 

I  am  sometimes  very  much  troubled,  when  I 
reflect  upon  the  three  great  professions  of  divinity, 
law,  and  physic  ;  how  they  are  each  of  them  over¬ 
burdened  with  practitioners,  and  filled  with  mul¬ 
titudes  of  ingenious  gentlemen  that  starve  one 
another. 

We  may  divide  the  clergy,  into  generals,  field- 
officers,  and  subalterns.  Among  the  first  we  may 
reckon  bishops,  deans,  and  archdeacons.  Among 
the  second  are  doctors  of  divinity,  prebendaries, 
and  all  that  wear  scarfs.  The  rest  are  compre¬ 
hended  under  the  subalterns.  As  for  the  first  class, 
our  constitution  preserves  it  from  any  redundancy 
of  incumbents,  notwithstanding  competitors  are 
numberless.  Upon  a  strict  calculation,  it  is  found 
that  there  has  been  a  great  exceeding  of  late  years 
in  the  second  division,  several  brevets  having  been 
granted  for  the  converting  subalterns  into  scarf-of¬ 
ficers  ;  insomuch,  that  within  my  memory  the 
price  of  lutestring  is  raised  above  two-pence  in  a 
yard.  As  for  the  subalterns,  they  are  not  to  be 
numbered.  Should  our  clergy  once  enter  into  the 
corrupt  practice  of  the  laity  by  the  splitting  of 
their  freeholds,  they  would  be  able  to  carry  most 
of  the  elections  in  England. 

The  body  of  the  law  is  no  less  incumbered  with 
superfluous  members,  that  are  like  Virgil’s  army, 
which  he  tells  us  was  so  crowded,  many  of  them 
had  not  room  to  use  their  weapons.  This  pro¬ 
digious  society  of  men  may  be  divided  into  the 
litigious  and  peaceable.  Under  the  first  are  com¬ 
prehended  all  those  who  are  carried  down  in 
coach-fulls  to  Westminster-hall,  every  morning  in 
term  time.  Martial’s  description  of  this  species 
of  lawyers  is  full  of  humor  : 

Iras  et  verba  locant. 

“  Men  that  hire  out  their  words  and  anger that 
are  more  or  less  passionate  according  as  they  are 
paid  for  it,  and  allow  their  client  a  quantity  of 
wrath  proportionable  to  the  fee  which  they  receive 
from  him.  I  must,  however,  observe  to  the  reader, 
that  above  three  parts  of  those  whom  I  reckon 
among  the  litigious  are  such  as  are  only  quarrel¬ 
some  in  their  hearts,  and  have  no  opportunity  of 
showing  their  passion  at  the  bar.  Nevertheless, 
as  they  do  not  know  what  strifes  may  arise,  they 
appear  at  the  hall  every  day,  that  they  may  show 
themselves  in  readiness  to  enter  the  lists,  when¬ 
ever  there  shall  be  occasion  for  them. 

The  peaceable  lawyers  are,  in  the  first  place, 
many  of  the  benchers  of  the  several  inns  of  court, 
who  seem  to  be  the  dignitaries  of  the  law,  and 
are  endowed  with  those  qualifications  of  mind 
that  accomplish  a  man  rather  for  a  ruler  than  a 
pleader.  These  men  live  peaceably  in  their  ha¬ 
bitations,  eating  once  a-day,  and  dancing  once  a 
year,*  for  the  honor  of  their  respective  societies. 

Another  numberless  branch  of  peaceable  law¬ 
yers,  are  those  young  men  who,  being  placed  at 
the  inns  of  court  in  order  to  study  the  laws  of 
their  country,  frequent  the  playhouse  more  than 
Westminster-hall,  and  are  seen  in  all  public  as¬ 
semblies  except  in  a  court  of  justice.  I  shall  say 
nothing  of  those  silent  and  busy  multitudes  that 
are  employed  within  doors  in  the  drawing  up  of 
writings  and  conveyances ;  nor  of  those  greater 
numbers  that’palliate  their  want  of  business  with 
a  pretense  to  such  chamber  practice. 

If,  in  the  third  plape,  we  look  into  the  profes 


/ 


I 


*  See  Dugdale’a  Originea  Juridiciales. 


00  the  spe 

sion  of  physic,  we  shall  find  a  most  formidable 
body  of  inert.  The  sight  of  them  is  enough  to 
make  a  man  serious,  for  we  may  lay  it  down  as  a 
maxim,  that  when  a  nation  abounds  in  physicians 
it  grows  thin  of  people.  Sir  William  Temple  is 
very  much  puzzled  to  find  out  a  reason  why  the 
Northern  Hive,  as  he  calls  it,  does  not  send  out 
such  prodigious  swarms,  and  overrun  the  world 
with  Goths  and  Vandals,  as  it  did  formerly ;  but 
had  that  excellent  author  observed  that  there  were 
no  students  in  physic  among  the  subjects  of  Thor 
and  Woden,  and  that  this  science  very  much 
flourishes  in  the  north  at  present,  he  might  have 
found  a  better  solution  for  this  difficulty  than  any 
of  those  he  has  made  use  of.  This  body  of  men 
in  our  own  country  may  be  described  like  the 
British  army  in  Ccesar’s  time.  Some  of  them  slay 
in  chariots,  and  some  on  foot.  If  the  infantry  do 
less  execution  than  the  charioteers,  it  is  because 
they  cannot  be  carried  so  soon  into  all  quarters 
of  the  town,  and  dispatch  so  much  business  in  so 
short  a  time.  Beside  this  body  of  regular  troops, 
there  are  stragglers,  who,  without  being  duly 
listed  and  enrolled,  do  infinite  mischief  to  those 
who  are  so  unlucky  as  to  fall  into  their  hands. 

There  are  beside  the  above-mentioned,  innu¬ 
merable  retainers  to  physic  who,  for  want  of  other 
patients,  amuse  themselves  with  the  stifling  of 
cats  in  an  air-pump,  cutting  up  dogs  alive,  or 
impaling  of  insects  upon  the  point  of  a  needle  for 
microscopical  observations ;  beside  those  that 
are  employed  in  the  gathering  of  weeds,  and  the 
chase  of  butterflies :  not  to  mention  the  cockle¬ 
shell-merchants  and  spider-catchers. 

When  I  consider  how  each  of  these  professions 
are  crowded  with  multitudes  that  seek  their  live¬ 
lihood  in  them,  and  how  many  men  of  merit  there 
are  in  each  of  them,  who  may  be  rather  said  to  be 
of  the  science,  than  the  profession ;  I  very  much 
wonder  at  the  humor  of  parents,  who  will  not 
rather  choose  to  place  their  sons  in  a  way  of  life 
where  an  honest  industry  cannot  brft  thrive,  than 
in  stations  where  the  greatest  probity,  learning, 
and  good  sense  may  miscarry.  How  many  men 
are  country  curates,  that  might  have  made  them¬ 
selves  aldermen  of  London,  by  a  right  improve¬ 
ment  of  a  smaller  sum  of  money  than  what  is 
usually  laid  out  upon  a  learned  education  ?  A 
sober,  frugal  person,  of  slender  parts  and  a  slow 
apprehension,  might  have  thrived  in  trade,  though 
he  starves  upon  physic;  as  a  man  would  be  well 
enough  pleased  to  buy  silks  of  one  whom  lie 
would  not  venture  to  feel  his  pulse.  Vagellius  is 
careful,  studious,  and  obliging,  but  withal  a  little 
thick-skulled;  he  has  not  a  single  client,  but 
might  have  had  abundance  of  customers.  The 
misfortune  is,  that  parents  take  a  liking  to  a  par¬ 
ticular  profession,  and  therefore  desire  their  sons 
may  be  of  it :  whereas,  in  so  great  an  affair  of  life, 
they  should  consider  the  genius  and  abilities  of 
their  children  more  than  their  own  inclinations. 

It  is  the  great  advantage  of  a  trading  nation, 
that  there  are  very  few  in  it  so  dull  and  heavy, 
who  may  not  be  placed  in  stations  of  life,  which 
may  give  them  an  opportuity  of  making  tlieir 
fortunes.  A  well-regulated  commerce  is  not,  like 
law,  physic,  or  divinity,  to  be  overstocked  with 
hands  ;  but  on  the  contrary  flourishes  by  multi¬ 
tudes,  and  gives  employment  to  all  its  professors. 
Fleets  of  merchant-men  are  so  many  squadrons  of 
floating  shops,  that  vend  our  wares  and  manu¬ 
factures  in  all  the  markets  of  the  world,  and  find 
out  chapmen  under  both  the  tropics. — C. 


CTATOR. 

No.  22.]  MONDAY,  MARCH  26,  1711. 

Quodcunque  ostendis  mihi  sic,  incredulus  odi. 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  5. 

- Whatever  contradicts  my  sense 

I  hate  to  see, and  never  can  believe— Roscommon. 

The  word  Spectator  being  most  usually  under* 
stood  as  one  of  the  audience  at  public  representa¬ 
tions  in  our  theaters,  I  seldom  fail  of  many  letters 
relating  to  plays  and  operas.  But  indeed  there  are 
such  monstrous  things  done  in  both,  that  if  one 
had  not  been  an  eye-witness  of  them,  one  could  not 
believe  that  such  matters  had  really  been  exhi¬ 
bited.  There  is  very  little  which  concerns  human 
life,  or  is  a  picture  of  nature,  that  is  regarded  by 
the  greater  part  of  the  company.  The  under¬ 
standing  is  dismissed  from  our  entertainments. 
Our  mirth  is  the  laughter  of  fools,  and  our  admi¬ 
ration  the  wonder  ot  idiots  ;  else  such  improba¬ 
ble,  monstrous,  and  incoherent  dreams  could  not 
go  off  as  they  do,  not  only  without  the  utmost 
scorn  and  contempt,  but  even  with  the  loudest 
applause  and  approbation.  But  the  letters  of  my 
correspondents  will  represent  this  affair  in  a  more 
lively  manner  than  any  discourse  of  my  own ;  X 
shall  therefore  give  them  to  my  reader  with  only 
this  preparation,  that  they  all  come  from  players, 
and  that  the  business  of  playing  is  now  so  mana¬ 
ged,  that  you  are  not  to  be  surprised  when  I  say 
one  or  two  of  them  are  rational,  others  sensitive 
and  vegetative  actors,  and  others  wholly  inanimate. 

I  shall  not  place  these  as  I  have  named  them,  but 
as  they  have  precedence  in  the  opinion  of  their 
audiences. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Your  having  been  so  humble  as  to  take  notice 
of  the  epistles  of  other  animals,  emboldens  me, 
who  am  the  wild  boar  that  was  killed  by  Mrs. 
Tofts,  to  represent  to  you,  that  I  think  I  was 
hardly  used  in  not  having  the  part  of  the  lion  in 
Hydaspes  given  to  me.  It  would  have  been  but 
a  natural  step  for  me  to  have  personated  that 
noble  creature,  after  having  behaved  myself  to 
satisfaction  in  the  part  above-mentioned.  That 
of  a  lion  is  too  great  a  character  for  one  that  never 
trod  the  stage  before  but  upon  two  legs.  As  to 
the  little  resistance  which  I  made,  I  hope  it  may 
be  excused,  when  it  is  considered  that  the  dart 
was  thrown  at  me  by  so  fair  a  hand;  I  must  con¬ 
fess  I  had  but  just  put  on  my  brutality  ;  and  Ca¬ 
milla’s  charms  were  such,  that  beholding  her  erect 
mien,  hearing  her  charming  voice,  and  astonished 
with  her  graceful  motion,  I  could  not  keep  up 
my  assumed  fierceness,  but  died  like  a  man. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  admirer, 

“  Thomas  Prone.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  This  is  to  let  you  understand,  that  the  play 
house  is  a  representation  of  the  world  in  nothing 
so  much  as  in  this  particular,  that  no  one  rises  in 
it  according  to  his  merit.  I  have  acted  several 
parts  of  household-stuff  with  great  applause  foi 
many  years  \  I  am  one  of  the  men  in  the  hangings 
in  The  Emperor  of  the  Moon ;  I  have  twice  per 
formed  the  third  chair  in  an  English  opera  :  and 
have  rehearsed  the  pump  in  The  Fortune-Hunters. 
I  am  now  grown  old,  and  hope  you  will  recom¬ 
mend  me  so  effectually,  as  that  I  may  say  some¬ 
thing  before  I  go  off  the  stage  ;  in  which  you  will 

do  a  great  act  of  charity  to 

Your  most  humble  servant, 

“William  Screene.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Understanding  that  Mr.  Screene  has  written  to 
you,  and  desired  to  be  raised  from  dumb  and  still 


61 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


parts  ;  I  desire,  if  you  give  him  motion  or  speech, 
that  you  would  advance  me  in  my  way,  and  let 
me  keep  on  in  what  I  humbly  presume  1  am  mas¬ 
ter,  to  wit,  in  representing  human  and  still  life 
together.  I  have  several  "times  acted  one  of  the 
finest  flower-pots  in  the  same  opera  wherein  Mr. 
Screene  is  a  chair ;  therefore,  upon  his  promotion, 
request  that  I  may  succeed  him  in  the  hangings, 
with  my  hand  in  the  orange-trees. 

“  Your  humble  servant, 

“  Ralph  Simple.” 

“  Sir,  “  Drury-lane,  March  24,  1710-11. 

“  I  saw  your  friend  the  Templar  this  evening  in 
the  pit,  and  thought  he  looked  very  little  pleased 
with  the  representation  of  the  mad  scene  of  The 
Pilgrim.  I  wish,  Sir,  you  would  do  us  the  favor 
to  animadvert  frequently  upon  the  false  taste  the 
town  is  in, 'with  relation  to  plays  as  well  as 
operas.  It  certainly  requires  a  degree  of  under¬ 
standing  to  play  justly:  but  such  is  our  condi¬ 
tion,  that  we  are  to  suspend  our  reason  to  perform 
our  parts.  As  to  scenes  of  madness,  you  know, 
Sir,  there  are  noble  instances  of  this  kind  in 
Sliakspeare  :  but  then  it  is  the  disturbance  of  a 
noble  mind,  from  generous  and  humane  resent¬ 
ments.  It  is  like  that  grief  winch  we  have  for 
the  decease  of  our  friends.  It  is  no  diminution, 
but  a  recommendation  of  human  nature,  that  in 
such  incidents,  passion  gets  the  better  of  reason  ; 
and  all  we  can  think  to  combat  ourselves,  is  im¬ 
potent  against  half  what  we  feel.  I  will  not 
mention  that  we  had  an  idiot  in  the  scene,  and  all 
the  sense  it  is  represented  to  have  is  that  of 
lust.  As  for  myself,  who  have  long  taken  pains 
in  personating  the  passions,  I  have  to-night  acted 
only  an  appetite.  The  part  I  played  is  Thirst, 
but  it  is  represented  as  written  rather  by  a  dray¬ 
man  than  a  poet.  I  come  in  with  a  tub  about  me, 
that  tub  hung  with  quart  pots,  with  a  full  gallon 
at  my  mouth.  I  am  ashamed  to  tell  you  that  I 
pleased  very  much,  and  this  was  introduced  as  a 
madness  ;  but  sure  it  was  not  human  madness, 
for  a  mule  or  an  ass  may  have  been  as  dry  as  ever 
I  was  in  my  life. 

“  I  am  Sir,  your  most  obedient 

“  and  humble  servant.” 

From  the  Savoy,  in  the  Strand. 

Mr.  Spectator, 

“  If  you  can  read  this  with  dry  eyes,  I  give  you 
this  trouble  to  acquaint  you,  that  1  am  the  unfor¬ 
tunate  King  Latinus,  and  I  believe  I  am  the  first 
prince  that  dated  from  this  palace  since  John  of 
Gaunt.  Such  is  the  uncertainty  of  all  human 
greatness,  that  I,  who  lately  never  moved  without 
a  guard,  am  now  pressed  as  a  common  soldier, 
and  am  to  sail  with  the  first  fair  wind  against  my 
brother  Louis  of  France.  It  is  a  very  hard  thing 
to  put  off  a  character  which  one  has  appeared  in 
with  applause.  This  I  experienced  since  the  loss 
of  my  diadem  ;  for,  upon  quarreling  with  another 
recruit,  I  spoke  my  indignation  out  of  my  part 
in  recitativo; 

- Most  audacious  slave, 

Dar’st  thou  an  angry  monarch’s  fury  brave  ? 

The  words  were  no  sooner  out  of  my  mouth, 
when  a  sergeant  knocked  me  down,  and  asked  me 
if  I  had  a  mind  to  mutiny,  in  talking  things 
nobody  understood.  You  see,  Sir,  my  unhappy 
circumstances  ;  and  if  by  your  mediation  you  can 
procure  a  subsidy  for  a  prince  (who  never  failed 
to  make  all  that  beheld  him  merry  at  his  appear¬ 
ance),  you  will  merit  the  thanks  of 

“  Your  friend,  The  King  ok  Latium.” 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

For  the  good  of  the  Public. 

Within  two  doors  of  the  masquerade  lives  an 
eminent  Italian  chirurgeon,  arrived  from  the  car¬ 
nival  of  Venice,  of  great  experience  in  private 
cures.  Accommodations  are  provided,  and  per¬ 
sons  admitted  in  their  masking  habits. 

He  has  cured  since  his  coming  hither,  in  less 
than  a  fortnight,  four  scaramouches,  a  mountebank 
doctor,  two  Turkish  bassas,  three,  nuns,  and  a 
morris-dancer. 

N.  B.  Any  person  may  agree  by  the  great,  and 
be  kept  in  repair  by  the  year.  The  doctor  draws 
teeth  without  pulling  off  your  mask. — R. 


No.  23.]  TUESDAY,  MARCH  27,  1711. 

Saevit  atrox  Yolscens,  nee  teli  conspicit  usquam. 

Auctorem,  nec  quo  se  ardens  immittere  possit. 

Yirg.,  JEn.,  ix,  420. 

Fierce  Yolscens  foams  with  rage,  and  gazing  round, 

Descry’d  not  him  who  gave  the  fatal  wound ; 

Nor  knew  to  fix  revenge.* -  Dryden. 

There  is  nothing  that  more  betrays  a  base  un¬ 
generous  spirit  than  the  giving  of  secret  stabs  to  a 
man’s  reputation  ;  lampoons  and  satires,  that  are 
written  with  wit  and  spirit,  are  like  poisoned 
darts,  which  not  only  inflict  a  wound,  but  make  it 
incurable.  For  this  reason  I  am  very  much 
troubled  when  I  see  the  talents  of  humor  and  ridi¬ 
cule  in  the  possession  of  an  ill-natured  man. 
There  cannot  be  a  greater  gratification  to  a  bar¬ 
barous  and  inhuman  wit,  than  to  stir  up  sorrow  in 
the  heart  of  a  private  person,  to  raise  uneasiness 
among  near  relations,  and  to  expose  whole  families 
to  derision,  at  the  same  time  that  he  remains  un¬ 
seen  and  undiscovered.  If  beside  the  accomplish¬ 
ments  of  being  witty  and  ill-natured,  a  man  is 
vicious  into  the  bargain,  he  is  one  of  the  most 
mischievous  creatures  that  can  enter  into  a  civil 
society.  His  satire  will  then  chiefly  fall  upon  those 
who  ought  to  be  the  most  exempt  from  it.  Virtue, 
merit,  and  everything  that  is  praiseworthy,  will 
be  made  the  subject  of  ridicule  and  buffoonery. 
It  is  impossible  to  enumerate  the  evils  which  arise 
from  these  arrows  that  fly  in  the  dark  ;  and  I 
know  no  other  excuse  that  is  or  can  be  made  for 
them,  than  that  the  wounds  they  give  are  only 
imaginary,  and  produce  nothing  more  than  a  se¬ 
cret  shame  or  sorrow  in  the  mind  of  the  suffering 
person.  It  must  indeed  be  confessed,  that  a  lam¬ 
poon  or  a  satire  do  not  carry  in  them  robbery  or 
murder  ;  but  at  the  same  time  how  many  are  there 
that  would  not  rather  lose  a  considerable  sum  of 
money,  or  even  life  itself,  than  be  set  up  as  a 
mark  of  infamy  and  derision?  and  in  this  case  a 
man  should  consider,  that  an  injury  is  not  to  be 
measured  by  the  notions  of  him  that  gives,  but  of 
him  that  receives  it. 

Those  who  can  put  the  best  countenance  upon 
the  outrages  of  this  nature  which  are  offered  them, 
are  not  without  their  secret  anguish.  I  have  of¬ 
ten  observed  a  passage  in  Socrates’s  behavior  at 
his  death,  in  a  light  vdierein  none  of  the  critics 
have  considered  it.  That  excellent  man  enter- 


*  The  following  indorsement  at  the  top  of  this  paper,  No. 
23,  is  in  a  set  of  the  Spectator,  in  12mo,  of  the  edition  in 
1712,  which  contains  some  MS.  notes  by  a  Spanish  merchant, 
who  lived  at  the  time  of  the  original  publication : 

“  The  character  of  Dr.  Swift.” 

This  was  Mr.  Blundell’s  opinion ;  and  whether  it  was  well- 
grounded,  ill-grounded,  or  ungrounded,  probably  he  was  not 
singular  in  the  thought.  The  intimacy  between  Swift,  Steele, 
and  Addison,  was  now  over;  and  that  they  were  about  this 
time  estranged,  appears,  from  Swift’s  own  testimony,  dated 
March  16, 1710-11. 


62 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


taining  Pis  friends,  a  little  befoie  lie  drank  the 
bowl  of  poison,  with  a  discourse  on  the  immor¬ 
tality  of  the  soul,  at  his  entering  upon  it  says  that 
he  does  not  believe  any,  the  most  comic  genius, 
can  censure  him  for  talking  upon  such  a  subject 
at  such  a  time.  This  passage,  I  think,  evidently 
glances  upon  Aristophanes,  who  wrote  a  comedy  on 
purpose  to  ridicule  the  discourses  of  that  divine 
philosopher.  It  has  been  observed  by  many  wri¬ 
ters,  that  Socrates  was  so  little  moved  at  this 
piece  of  buffoonery,  that  he  was  several  times  pre¬ 
sent  on  its  being  acted  upon  the  stage,  and  never 
expressed  the  ieast  resentment  of  it.  But  with 
submission,  I  think  the  remark  I  have  here  made 
shows  us,  that  this  unworthy  treatment  made  an 
impression  upon  his  mind,  though  he  had  been 
too  wise  to  discover  it. 

When  Julius  Caesar  was  lampooned  by  Catullus, 
he  invited  him  to  supper,  and  treated  him  with 
such  a  generous  civility,  that  he  made  the  poet 
his  friend  ever  after.  Cardinal  Mazarine  gave  the 
same  kind  of  treatment  to  the  learned  Quillet, 
who  had  reflected  upon  his  eminence  in  a  famous 
Latin  poem.  The  cardinal  sent  for  him,  and,  af¬ 
ter  some  kind  expostulations  upon  what  he.  had 
written,  assured  him  of  his  esteem,  and  dismissed 
him  with  a  promise  of  the  next  good  abbey  that 
should  fall,  which  he  accordingly  conferred  upon 
him  in  a  few  months  after.  This  had  so  good  an 
effect  upon  the  author,  that  he  dedicated  the  sec¬ 
ond  edition  of  his  book  to  the  cardinal,  after  hav¬ 
ing  expunged  the  passages  which  had  given  him 
offense. 

Sextus  Quintus  was  not  of  so  generous  and  for¬ 
giving  a  temper.  Upon  his  being  made  pope, 
the  statue  of  Pasquin  was  one  night  dressed  in  a 
very  dirty  shirt,  with  an  excuse  written  under  it, 
that  he  was  forced  to  wear  foul  linen,  because  his 
laundress  was  made  a  princess.  This  was  a  re¬ 
flection  upon  the  pope’s  sister,  who  before  the 
promotion  of  her  brother,  was  in  those  mean  cir¬ 
cumstances  that  Pasquin  represented  her.  As 
this  pasquinade  made  a  great  noise  in  Rome,  the 
pope  offered  a  considerable  sum  of  money  to  any 
person  that  should  discover  the  author  of  it.  Ihe 
author,  relying  upon  his  holiness’s  generosity,  as 
also  some  private  overtures  which  he  had  received 
from  him,  made  the  discovery  himself;  upon 
which  the  pope  gave  him  the  reward  he  had 
promised,  but  at  the  same  time  to  disable  the 
satirist  for  the  future,  ordered  his  tongue  to  be  cut 
out,  and  both  his  hands  to  be  chopped  off.  Are- 
tine*  is  too  trite  an  instance.  Every  one  knows 
that  all  the’  kings  of  Europe  were  his  tributaries. 
Nay,  there  is  a  letter  of  his  extant,  in.  which  he 
makes  his  boast  that  he  laid  the  Sophi  of  Persia 
under  contribution. 

Though,  in  the  various  examples  which  I  have 
here  drawn  together,  these  several  great  men  be¬ 
haved  themselves  very  differently  toward  the  wits 
of  the  age  who  had  reproached  them  ;  they  all  of 
them  plainly  showed  that  they  were  very  sensible 
of  their  reproaches,  and  consequently  that  they 
received  them  as  very  great  injuries.  For  my  own 
part,  I  would  never  trust  a  man  that  I  thought 
was  capable  of  giving  these  secret  wounds  ;  and 
cannot  but  think  that  he  would  hurt  the  person 
whose  reputation  he  thus  assaults,  in  his  body  or 
in  his  fortune,  could  he  do  it  with  the  same  secu¬ 
rity.  There  is,  indeed,  something  very  barbar¬ 
ous  and  inhuman  in  the  ordinary  scribblers  of 
lampoons.  An  innocent  young  lady  shall  be  ex¬ 
posed  for  an  unhappy  feature  ;  a  father  of  a  fami¬ 
ly  turned  to  ridicule  for  some  domestic  calamity; 
a  wife  made  uneasy  all  her  life  for  a  misrepresented 


word  or  action ;  nay,  a  gooa,  a  temperate,  and  a 
just  man  shall  be  put  out  of  countenance  by  the 
representation  of  those  qualities  that  should  do 
him  honor.  So  pernicious  a  thing  is  wit,  when 
it  is  not  tempered  with  virtue  and  humanity. 

I  have  indeed  heard  of  heedless,  inconsiderate 
writers,  that  without  any  malice  have  sacrificed 
the  reputation  of  their  friends  and  acquaintances 
to  a  certain  levity  of  temper,  and  a  silly  ambition 
of  distinguishing  themselves  by  a  spirit  of  raillery 
and  satire  :  as  if  it  were  not  infinitely  more  hon¬ 
orable  to  be  a  good  natured  man  than  a  wit. 
Where  there  is  this  little  petulant  humor  in  an 
author,  he  is  often  very  mischievous  without  de¬ 
signing  to  be  so.  For  which  reason,  I  always 
lay  it  down  as  a  rule,  that  an  indiscreet  man  is 
more  hurtful  than  an  ill-natured  one  ;  for  as  the 
latter  will  only  attack  his  enemies,  and  those  he 
wishes  ill  to  ;  the  other  injures  indifferently  both 
friends  and  foes.  I  cannot  forbear  on  this  occa¬ 
sion  transcribing  a  fable  out  of  Sir  Robert  l’Es- 
trange,  which  accidentally  lies  before  me.  “A 
company  of  waggish  boys  were  watching  of  frogs 
at  the  side  of  a  pond,  and  still  as  any  of  them 
put  up  their  heads,  they  would  be  pelting  them 
down  again  with  stones.  ‘  Children,’  says  one  of 
the  frogs,  *  you  never  consider,  that  though  this 
may  be  play  to  you,  it  is  death  to  us.’  ” 

As  this  week  is  in  a  manner  set  apart  and  dedi¬ 
cated  to  serious  thoughts,  I  shall  indulge  myself 
in  such  speculations  as  may  not  be  altogether  un¬ 
suitable  to  the  season  ;  and  in  the  meantime,  as 
the  settling  in  ourselves  a  charitable  frame  of  mind 
is  a  work  very  proper  for  the  time,  I  have  in  this 
paper  endeavored  to  expose  that  particular  breach 
of  charity  which  has  been  generally  overlooked 
bv  divines,  because  they  are  but  few  who  can  be 
guilty  of  it. — C. 


No.  24.]  WEDNESDAY,  MARCH  28,  1711. 

Accurrit  quidam  notus  mibi  nomine  tantrum 
Arreptaque  manu,  Quid  agis,  dulcissime  rerum? 

F  Hob.,  1,  Sat.  ix,  3. 

Comes  up  a  fop  (I  knew  him  but  by  fame), 

And  seiz’d  my  hand,  and  called  me  by  name — 

- My  dear! — how  dost? 

There  are  in  this  town  a  great  number  of  in¬ 
significant  people,  who  are  by  no  means  fit  for  the 
better  sort  of  conversation,  and  yet  have  an  im¬ 
pertinent  ambition  of  appearing  with  those  to 
whom  they  are  not  welcome.  If  you  walk  in  the 
park,  one  of  them  will  certainly  join  with  you, 
though  you  are  in  company  with  ladies  ;  if  you 
drink  a  bottle,  they  will  find  your  haunts.  What 
makes  such  fellows  the  more  burdensome  is,  that 
they  neither  offend  nor  please  so  far  as  to  be  taken 
notice  of  for  either.  It  is,  I  presume,  for  this 
reason,  that  my  correspondents  are  willing  by  my 
means  to  be  rid  of  them.  The  two  following  let¬ 
ters  are  written  by  persons  who  suffer  by  such  im¬ 
pertinence.  A  worthy  old  bachelor,  who  sets  in 
for  his  dose  of  claret  every  night,  at  such  an  hour, 
is  teased  by  a  swarm  of  them  ;  who,  because  they 
are  sure  of  room  and  good  fire,  have  taken  it  in 
their  heads  to  keep  a  sort  of  club  in  his  company, 
though  the  sober  gentleman  himself  is  an  utter 
enemy  to  such  meetings. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  aversion  I  for  some  years  have  had  to 
clubs  in  general,  gave  me  a  perfect  relish  for  your 
speculation  on  that  subject ;  but  I .  have  since 
been  extremely  mortified  by  the  malicious  world  s 
ranking  me  among  the  supporters  of  such  imper¬ 
tinent  assemblies.  I  beg  leave  to  state  my  case 


*  Peter  Aretine,  infamous  for  his  writings,  died  in  1556. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


63 


fairly ;  and  that  done,  I  shall  expect  redress  from 
your  judicious  pen. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  a  bachelor  of  some  standing,  and  a 
traveler  ;  my  business,  to  consult  my  own  good 
humor,  which  I  gratify  without  controlling  other 
people’s :  I  have  a  room  and  a  whole  bed  to 
myself :  and  I  have  a  dog,  a  fiddle,  and  a  gun  : 
they  please  me,  and  injure  no  creature  alive.  My 
chief  meal  is  a  supper,  which  I  always  make  at  a 
tavern.  I  am  constant  to  an  hour,  and  not  ill- 
humored  ;  for  which  reasons,  though  I  invite  no¬ 
body,  I  have  no  sooner  supped, than  I  have  a 
crowd  about  me  of  that  sort  of  good  company 
that  know  not  whither  else  to  go.  It  is  true, 
every  man  pays  his  share  ;  yet  as  they  are  intru¬ 
ders,  I  have  an  undoubted  right  to  be  the  only 
speaker,  or  at  least  the  loudest ;  which  I  main¬ 
tain,  and  that  to  the  great  emolument  of  my  au¬ 
dience.  I  sometimes  tell  them  their  own  in  pretty 
free  language  ;  and  sometimes  divert  them  with 
merry  tales,* according  as  I  am  in  humor.  I 
am  one  of  those  who  live  in  taverns  to  a  great 
age,  by  a  sort  of  regular  intemperance ;  I  never 
go  to  bed  drunk,  but  always  flustered ;  I  wear 
away  very  gently ;  am  apt  to  be  peevish,  but  never 
angry.  Mr.  Spectator,  if  you  have  kept  various 
company,  you  know  there  is  in  every  tavern  in 
town  some  old  humorist  or  other,  who  is  master 
of  the  house  as  much  as  he  that  keeps  it.  The 
drawers  are  all  in  awe  of  him  ;  and  all  the  custom¬ 
ers  who  frequent  his  company,  yield  him  a  sort 
of  comical  obedience.  I  ao  not  know  but  I  may 
be  such  a  fellow  as  this  myself.  But  I  appeal 
to  you,  whether  this  is  to  be  called  a  club,  be¬ 
cause  so  many  impertinents  will  break  in  upon 
me,  and  come  without  appointment  ?  Clinch  of 
Barnet  has  a  nightly  meeting,  and  shows  to  every 
one  that  will  come  in  and  pay ;  but  then  he  is  the 
only  actor.  Why  should  people  miscall  things  ? 
If  his  is  allowed  to  be  a  concert,  why  may  not 
mine  be  a  lecture  ?  However,  Sir,  I  submit  it  to 
you,  and  am.  Sir,  your  most  obedient  servant,  etc. 

“  Thomas  Kimbow.” 

“  Goon  Sir, 

“You  and  I  were  pressed  against  each  other 
last  winter  in  a  crowd,  in  which  uneasy  posture 
we  suffered  together  for  almost  half  an  hour.  I 
thank  you  for  all  your  civilities  ever  since,  in 
being  of  my  acquaintance  wherever  you  meet  me. 
But  the  other  day  you  pulled  your  hat  off  to  me 
in  the  Park,  when  I  was  walking  with  my  mistress. 
She  did  not  like  your  air,  and  said  she  wondered 
what  strange  fellows  I  was  acquainted  with.  Dear 
Sir,  consider  it  as  much  as  my  life  is  worth,  if 
she  should  think  we  were  intimate :  therefore  I 
earnestly  entreat  you  for  the  future  to  take  no 
manner  of  notice  of, 

“Sir,  your  obliged,  humble  servant, 

.  “Will  Fashion.” 

A  like  impertinence  is  also  very  troublesome  to 
the  superior  and  more  intelligent  part  of  the  fair 
sex.  It  is,  it  seems,  a  great  inconvenience,  that 
those  of  the  meanest  capacities  will  pretend  to 
make  visits,  though  indeed  they  are  qualified 
rather  to  add  to  the  furniture  of  the  house  (by  fill¬ 
ing  an  empty  chair),  than  to  the  conversation  they 
enter  into  when  they  visit.  A  friend  of  mine 
hopes  for  redress  in  tnis  case,  by  the  publication 
of  her  letter  in  ray  paper  ;  which  she  thinks  those 
she  would  be  rid  of  will  take  to  themselves.  It 
seenw  to  be  written  with  an  eye  to  one  of  those  pert, 
giddv,  unthinking  girls;  who,  upon  the  recom¬ 
mendation  only  of  an  agreeable  person  and  a 
fashionable  air,  take  themselves  to  be  upon  a  level 
with  women  of  the  greatest  merit: 


“  Madam, 

“  I  take  this  way  to  acquaint  you  with  what 
common  rules  and  forms  would  never  permit  me 
to  tell  you  otherwise ;  to  wit,  that  you  and  I, 
though  equals  in  quality  ard  fortune,  are  by  no 
means  suitable  companions.  You  are,  it  is  true, 
very  pretty,  can  dance,  and  make  a  very  good 
figure  in  a  public  assembly  ;  but,  alas,  Madam,  you 
must  go  no  farther ;  distance  and  silence  are  your 
best  recommendations;  therefore  let  me  beg  of  you 
never  to  make  me  any  more  visits.  You  come  in 
a  literal  sense  to  see  one,  for  you  have  nothing  to 
say.  I  do  not  say  this,  that  I  would  by  any  means 
lose  your  acquaintance  ;  but  I  would  keep  it  up 
with  the  strictest  forms  of  good  breeding.  Let  us 
pay  visits,  but  never  see  one  another.  If  you  will 
be  so  good  as  to  deny  yourself  always  to  me,  I 
shall  return  the  obligation  by  giving  the  same 
orders  to  my  servants.  When  accident  makes  us 
meet  at  a  third  place,  we  may  mutually  lament  the 
misfortune  of  never  finding  one  another  at  home, 
go  in  the  same  party  to  a  benefit  play,  and  smile 
at  each  other,  and  put  down  glasses  as  we  pass 
in  our  coaches.  Tims  we  may  enjoy  as  much  of 
each  other’s  friendship  as  we  are  capable  of :  for 
there  are  some  people  who  are  to  be  known  only 
by  sight,  with  which  sort  of  friendship  I  hope 
you  will  always  honor,  Madam, 

“Your  most  obedient,  humble  servant, 

“Mary  Tuesday.” 

“  P.  S.  I  suscribe  myself  by  the  name  of  the 
day  I  keep,  that  my  supernumerary  friends  may 
know  who  I  am.” 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

To  prevent  all  mistakes  that  may  happen  among 
gentlemen  of  the  other  end  of  the  town,  who  come 
but  once  a  week  to  St.  James’s  coffee-house,  either 
by  miscalling  the  servants,  or  requiring  such  things 
from  them  as  are  not  properly  within  their  re¬ 
spective  provinces  ;  this  is  to  give  notice,  that 
Kidney,  keeper  of  the  book-debts  of  the  outlying 
customers,  and  observer  of  those  who  go  off  with¬ 
out  paying,  having  resigned  that  employment,  is 
succeeded  by  John  Sowton  ;  to  whose  place  of 
enterer  of  messages  and  first  coffee-grinder,  Wil¬ 
liam  Bird  is  promoted;  and  Samuel  Burdock  comes 
as  shoe-cleaner  in  the  room  of  the  said  Bird. — R. 


Ho.  25.]  THURSDAY,  MARCH  29,  1711. 

- iEgrescitque  medendo. — Virol,  iEn.,  xii,  46. 

And  sickens  by  the  very  means  of  health. 

The  following  letter  will  explain  itself,  and 
needs  no  apology. 

“  Sin, 

“I  am  one  of  that  sickly  tribe  who  are  com¬ 
monly  known  by  the  name  of  valetudinarians;  and 
!  do  confess  to  you,  that  I  first  contracted  this  ill 
habit  of  body,  or  rather  of  mind,  by  the  study  of 
physic.  I  no  sooner  began  to  peruse  books  of  this 
|  nature,  but  I  found  my  pulse  was  irregular;  and 
!  scarce  ever  read  the  account  of  any  disease  that 
'  I  did  not  fancy  myself  afflicted  with.*  Dr.  Sy¬ 
denham’s  learned  treatise  of  fever  threw  me  into 
|  a  lingering  hectic,  which  hung  upon  me  all  the 
while  I  was  reading  that  excellent  piece.  I  then 
applied  myself  to  the  study  of  several  authors 
who  have  written  upon  phthisical  distempers,  and 
by  that  means  fell  into  a  consumption ;  till  at 
length,  growing  very  fat,  I  was  in  a  manner 
:  shamed  out  of  that  imagination.  Hot  long  after 
this  I  found  in  myself  all  the  symptoms  of  the 

*  Mr.  Tickell,  in  his  preface  to  Addison’s  Works,  says,  that 
|  “Addison  never  had  a  regular  pulse,”  which  Steele  questions 
I  in  bis  dedication  of  The  Drummer  to  Mr.  Congreve. 


THE  SPE  CTATOR. 


64 

gout,  except  pain;  but  was  cured  of  it  by  a  treatise 
upon  the  gravel,  written  by  a  very  ingenious 
author,  who  (as  it  is  usual  for  physicians  to  con¬ 
vert  one  distemper  into  another)  eased  me  of  the 
gout  by  giving  me  the  stone.  I  at  length  studied 
myself  into  a  complication  of  distempers ;  but, 
accidentally  taking  into  my  hand  that  ingenious 
discourse  written  by  Sanctorius,  I  was  resolved 
to  direct  myself  by  a  scheme  of  rules,  which  I 
had  collected,  from  his  observations.  The  learned 
world  are  very  well  acquainted  with  that  gentle¬ 
man’s  invention ;  who,  for  the  better  carrying  on 
his  experiments,  contrived  a  certain  mathematical 
chair,  which  was  so  artificially  hung  upon  springs, 
that  it  would  weigh  anything  as  well  as  a  pair  of 
scales.  By  this  means  he  discovered  how  many 
ounces  of  his  food  passed  by  perspiration,  what 
quantity  of  it  was  turned  into  nourishment,  and 
how  much  went  away  by  the  other  channels  and 
distributions  of  nature. 

“  Having  provided  myself  with  this  chair,  I  used 
to  study,  eat,  drink,  and  sleep  in  it;  insomuch  that 
I  may  be  said,  for  these  last  three  years,  to  have 
lived  in  a  pair  of  scales.  I  compute  myself,  when 
I  am  in  full  health,  to  be  precisely  two  hundred 
weight,  falling  short  of  it  about  a  pound  after  a 
day’s  fast,  and  exceeding  it  as  much  after  a  very 
full  meal ;  so  that  it  is  my  continual  employment 
to  trim  the  balance  between  these  two  volatile 
ounds  in  my  constitution.  In  my  ordinary  meals 
fetch  myself  up  to  two  hundred  weight  and  half 
a  pound ;  and  if,  after  having  dined,  I  find  my¬ 
self  fall  short  of  it,  I  drink  so  much  small  beer, 
or  eat  such  a  quantity  of  bread,  as  is  sufficient  to 
make  me  weight.  In  my  greatest  excesses,  I  do 
not  transgress  more  than  the  other  half-pound  ; 
which,  for  my  health’s  sake,  I  do  the  first  Monday 
in  every  month.  As  soon  as  I  find  myself  duly 
poised  after  dinner,  I  walk  till  I  have  perspired 
five  ounces  and  four  scruples;  and  when  I  discover, 
by. my  chair,  that  I  am  so  far  reduced,  I  fall  to  my 
books,  and  study  away  three  ounces  more.  As  for 
the  remaining  parts  of  the  pound,  I  keep  no  ac¬ 
count  of  them.  I  do  not  dine  and  sup  by  the 
clock,  but  by  my  chair  ;  for  when  that  informs  me 
my  pound  of  food  is  exhausted,  I  conclude  my¬ 
self  to  be  hungry,  and  lay  in  another  with  all  dili¬ 
gence.  In  my  days  of  abstinence  I  lose  a  pound 
and  a  half,  and  on  solemn  fasts  am  two  pounds 
lighter  than  on  the  other  days  of  the  year. 

“  I  allow  myself,  one  night  with  another,  a 
quarter  of  a  pound  of  sleep,  within  a  few  grains 
more  or  less  ;  a.nd  if,  upon  my  rising,  I  find  that  I 
have  not  consumed  my  whole  quantity,  I  take  out 
the  rest  in  my  chair.  Upon  an  exact  calculation  of 
what  I  expended  and  received  the  last  year,  which 
I  always  register  in  a  book,  I  find  the  medium  to 
be  two  hundred  weight,  so  that  I  cannot  discover 
that  I  am  impaired  one  ounce  in  my  health  during 
a  whole  twelvemonth.  And  yet.  Sir,  notwith¬ 
standing  this  my  great  care  to  ballast  myself 
equally  every  day,  and  to  keep  my  body  in 
its  proper  poise,  so  it  is,  that  I  find  myself 
in  a  sick  and  languishing  condition.  My  com¬ 
plexion  is  grown  very  sallow,  my  pulse  low,  and 
my  body  liydropical.  Let  me  therefore  beg  you, 
Sir,  to  consider  me  as  your  patient,  and  to  give  me 
more  certain  rules  to  walk  by  than  those  I  have 
already  observed,  and  you  will  very  much  oblige 

“Your  humble  servant.” 

This  letter  puts  me  in  mind  of  an  Italian  epi-  j 
taph  written  on  the  monument  of  a  valetudinarian:  | 
“ Stavo  hen,  ma.  per  star  meglio,  sto  qui:”  which  it 
is  impossible  to  translate.*  The  fear  of  death 


*  The  following  translation,  however,  may  give  an  English 


often  proves  mortal,  and  sets  people  on  methods 
to  save  their  lives  which  infallibly  destroy  them. 
This  is  a  reflection  made  by  some  historians,  upon 
observing  that  there  are  many  more  thousands 
killed  in  a  flight,  than  in  a  battle ;  and  may  be 
applied  to  those  multitudes  of  imaginary  sick 
persons  that  break  their  constitutions  by  physic, 
and  throw  themselves  into  the  arms  of  death  by 
endeavoring  to  escape  it.  This  method  is  not 
only  dangerous,  but  Below  the  practice  of  a  rea¬ 
sonable  creature.  To  consult  the  preservation  of 
life,  as  the  only  end  of  it — to  make  our  health  our 
business — to  engage  in  no  action  that  is  not  part 
of  a  regimen,  or  course  of  physic — are  purposes 
so  abject,  so  mean,  so  unworthy  human  nature, 
that  a  generous  soul  would  rather  die  than  submit 
to  them.  Beside,  that  a  continual  anxiety  for  life 
vitiates  all  the  relishes  of  it,  and  casts  a  gloom 
over  the  whole  face  of  nature ;  as  it  is  impossible 
we  shoidd  take  delight  in  anything  that  we  are 
every  moment  afraid  of  losing. 

I  do  not  mean,  by  what  I  have  here  said,  that  I 
think  any  one  to  blame  for  taking  due  care  of  their 
health.  On  the  contrary,  as  cheerfulness  of  mind, 
and  capacity  for  business  are  in  a  great  measure 
the  effects  of  a  well-tempered  constitution,  a  man 
cannot  be  at  too  much  pains  to  cultivate  and  pre¬ 
serve  it.  But  this  care,  which  we  are  prompted  to, 
not  only  by  common  sense,  but  by  duty  and  in¬ 
stinct,  should  never  engage  us  in  groundless  fears, 
melancholy  apprehensions,  and  imaginary  dis¬ 
tempers,  which  are  natural  to  every  man  who  is 
more  anxious  to  live,  than  how  to  live.  In  short, 
the  preservation  of  life  should  be  only  a  secondary 
concern,  and  the  direction  of  it  our  principal.  If 
we  have  this  frame  of  mind,  we  shall  take  the 
best  means  to  preserve  life,  without  being  over- 
solicitous  about  the  event ;  and  shall  arrive  at  that 
point  of  felicity  which  Martial  has  mentioned  as 
the  perfection  of  happiness,  of  neither  fearing  nor 
wishing  for  death. 

In  answer  to  the  gentleman,  who  tempers  his 
health  by  ounces  and  by  scruples,  and  instead  of 
complying  with  those  natural  solicitations  of 
hunger  and  thirst,  drowsiness,  or  love  of  exercise, 
governs  himself  by  the  prescriptions  of  his  chair,  I 
shall  tell  him  a  short  fable.  Jupiter,  says  the  my- 
thologist,  to  reward  the  piety  of  a  certain  country¬ 
man,  promised  to  give  him  whatever  he  would  ask. 
The  countryman  desired  that  he  might  have  the 
management  of  the  weather  in  his  own  estate. 
He  obtained  his  request,  and  immediately  dis¬ 
tributed  rain,  snow,  and  sunshine,  among  his 
several  fields,  as  he  thought  the  nature  of  the  soil 
required.  At  the  end  of  the  year,  when  he  expect¬ 
ed  to  see  a  more  than  ordinary  crop,  his  harvest 
fell  infinitely  short  of  that  of  his  neighbors. 
Upon  which  (says  the  fable)  he  desired  Jupiter 
to  take  the  weather  again  into  his  own  hands,  or 
that  otherwise  he  should  utterly  ruin  himself. — C. 


Ho.  26.]  FRIDAY,  MARCH  30,  1711. 

Pallida  mors  a2quo  pulsat  pede  pauperum  tabernaa 
Regumque  turres.  0  beate  Sexti, 

Vito  sum rn a  brevis  spem  nos  vetat  inchoare  longam. 

Jam  te  premet  nox,  fabulaeque  manes, 

Et  domus  exilis  Plutonia. -  Hor.,  1,  Od.  iv,  13. 

With  equal  foot,  rich  friend,  impartial  fate 
Knocks  at  the  cottage  and  the  palace  gate : 

Life’s  span  forbids  thee  to  extend  thy  cares, 

And  stretch  thy  hopes  beyond  thy  years ; 

Night  soon  will  seize,  and  you  must  quickly  go 
To  storied  ghosts,  and  Pluto’s  house  below. — Creech. 

When  I  am  in  a  serious  humor,  I  very  often 
walk  by  myself  in  Westminster-abbey  :  where  the 


reader  some  idea  of  the  Italian  epitaph :  “  I  was  well,  but 
trying  to  be  better,  I  am  here.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


gloominess  of  the  place,  and  the  use  to  which  it 
is  applied,  with  the  solemnity  of  the  building, 
and  the  condition  of  the  people  who  lie  in  it,  are 
apt  to  fill  the  mind  with  a  kind  of  melancholy,  or 
rather  thoughtfulness  that  is  not  disagreeable.  I 
yesterday  passed  a  whole  afternoon  in  the  church¬ 
yard,  the  cloisters,  and  the  church,  amusing  my¬ 
self  with  the  tombstones  and  inscriptions  that  I  met 
with  in  those  several  regions  of  the  dead.  Most 
of  them  recorded  nothing  else  of  the  buried  per¬ 
son,  but  that  he  was  born  upon  one  day,  and  died 
upon  another  ;  the  whole  history  of  his  life  being 
comprehended  in  those  two  circumstances  that  are 
common  to  all  mankind.  I  could  not  but  look 
upon  these  registers  of  existence,  whether  of  brass 
or  marble,  as  a  kind  of  satire  upon  the  departed  per¬ 
sons;  who  had  left  no  other  memorial  of  them,  but 
that  they  were  born,  and  that  they  died.  They 
put  me  in  mind  of  several  persons  mentioned  in 
the  battles  of  heroic  poems,  who  have  sounding 
names  given  them,  for  no  other  reason  but  that 
they  may  be  killed,  and  are  celebrated  for  nothing 
but  being  knocked  on  the  head. 

Glaucumque,  Medontaque,  Thersilochumque.— Virg. 

Glaucus,  and  Melon,  and  Thersilochus. 

The  life  of  these  men  is  finely  described  in  holy 
writ  by  “  the  path  of  an  arrow,”  which  is  imme¬ 
diately  closed  up  and  lost. 

Upon  my  going  into  the  church,  I  entertained 
myself  with  the  digging  of  a  grave ;  and  saw  in 
every  shovel-full  of  it  that  was  thrown  up,  the 
fragment  of  a  bone  or  skull  intermixed  with  a  kind 
of  fresh  mouldering  earth  that  some  time  or  other 
had  a  place  in  the  composition  of  a  human  body. 
Upon  this  I  began  to  consider  with  myself  what 
innumerable  multitudes  of  people  lay  confused 
together  under  the  pavement  of  that  ancient  cathe¬ 
dral  ;  how  men  and  women,  friends  and  enemies, 
priests  and  soldiers,  monks  and  prebendaries, 
were  crumbled  among  one  another,  and  blended 
together  in  the  same  common  mass ;  how  beauty, 
strength,  and  youth,  with  old  age,  weakness,  and 
deformity,  lay  undistinguished  in  the  same  pro¬ 
miscuous  heap  of  matter. 

After  having  thus  surveyed  the  great  magazine 
of  mortality,  as  it  were,  in  the  lump,  I  examined 
it  more  particularly  by  the  accounts  which  I  found 
on  several  of  the  monuments  which  are  raised  in 
every  quarter  of  that  ancient  fabric.  Some  of  them 
were  covered  with  such  extravagant  epitaphs,  that 
if  it  were  possible  for  the  dead  person  to  be  ac¬ 
quainted  with  them,  he  would  blush  at  the  praises 
which  his  friends  have  bestowed  upon  him.  There 
are  others  so  excessively  modest,  that  they  deliver 
the  character  of  the  person  departed  in  Greek  or 
Hebrew,  and  by  that  means  are  not  understood 
once  in  a  twelvemonth.  In  the  poetical  quarter, 

I  found  there  were  poets  who  had  no  monuments, 
and  monuments  which  had  no  poets.  I  observed, 
indeed,  that  the  present  war  has  filled  the  church 
with  many  of  these  uninhabited  monuments, 
which  had  been  erected  to  the  memory  of  persons 
whose  bodies  were  perhaps  buried  in  the  plains 
of  Blenheim,  or  in  the  bosom  of  the  ocean. 

I  could  not  but  be  very  much  delighted  with 
several  modern  epitaphs,  which  are  written  with 
?reat  elegance  of  expression  and  justness  of 
mought,  and  therefore  do  honor  to  the  living  as 
W'ell  as  the  dead.  As  a  foreigner  is  very  apt  to 
conceive  an  idea  of  the  ignorance  or  politeness  of 
i  nation  from  the  turn  of  their  public  monuments 
md  inscriptions,  they  should  be  submitted  to  the 
lerusal  of  men  of  learning  and  genius  before  they 
ire  put  in  execution.  Sir  Cloudesly  Shovel's 
nonument  has  very  often  given  me  great  offense, 
nstead  of  the  brave  rough  English  admiral,  which 

•  5 


65 

was  the  distinguishing  character  of  that  plain,  gal¬ 
lant  man,  he  is  represented  on  his  tomb  by  the  figure 
of  a  beau,  dressed  in  a  long  periwig,  and  reposing 
himself  upon  velvet  cushions,  under  a  canopy 
of  state.  The  inscription  is  answerable  to  the 
monument ;  for  instead  of  celebrating  the  many 
remarkable  actions  he  had  performed  in  the  service 
of  his  country,  it  acquaints  us  only  with  the  man¬ 
ner  of  his  death,  in  which  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  reap  any  honor.  The  Dutch,  whom  we  are 
apt  to  despise  for  want  of  genius,  show  an  infi- 
nitely  greater  taste  of  antiquity  and  politeness  in 
their  buildings  and  works  of  this  nature  than 
w  hat  we  meet  with  in  those  of  our  own  country. 
The  monuments  of  their  admirals,  which  have 
been  erected  at  the  public  expense,  represent  them 
like  themselves,  and  are  adorned  with  rostral 
crowns  and  naval  ornaments,  with  beautiful  fes¬ 
toons  of  sea-weed,  shells,  and  coral. 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.  I  have  left  the 
repository  of  our  English  kings  for  the  contempla¬ 
tion  of  another  day,  when  I  shall  find  my  mind 
disposed  for  so  serious  an  amusement.  I  know 
that  entertainments  of  this  nature  are  apt  to  raise 
dark  and  dismal  thoughts  in  timorous  minds  and 
gloomy  imaginations ;  but  for  my  own  part, 
though  I  am  always  serious,  I  do  not  know  what 
it  is  to  be  melancholy;  and  can  therefore  take  a 
view  of  nature  in  her  deep  and  solemn  scenes  with 
the  same  pleasure  as  in  her  most  gay  and  delight¬ 
ful  ones.  By  this  means  I  can  improve  myself 
with  those  objects  which  others  consider  with  ter¬ 
ror.  When  I  look  upon  the  tombs  of  the  great, 
every  emotion  of  envy  dies  within  me ;  when  I  read 
the  epitaphs  of  the  beautiful,  every  inordinate 
desire  goes  out ;  when  I  meet  with  the  grief  of 
parents  upon  a  tombstone,  my  heart  melts  with 
compassion ;  when  I  see  the  tomb  of  the  parents 
themselves,  I  consider  the  vanity  of  grieving  for 
those  whom  we  must  quickly  follow.  When  I 
see  kings  lying  by  those  who  deposed  them,  when 
I  consider  rival  wits  placed  side  by  side,  or  the 
holy  men  that  divided  the  world  with  their  con¬ 
tests  and  disputes,  I  reflect  with  sorrow  and  aston¬ 
ishment  on  the  little  competitions,  factions,  and 
debates  of  mankind.  When  I  read  the  several 
dates  of  the  tombs,  of  some  that  died  yesterday, 
and  some  six  hundred  years  ago,  I  consider  that 
great  day  when  we  shall  all  of  us  be  cotemporaries, 
and  make  our  appearance  together. —  C. 


No.  27.]  SATURDAY,  MARCH  31,  1711. 

Ut  nox  longa  quibus  mentitur  arnica,  diesque 
Longa  videtur  opus  debentibus ;  ut  piger  annus 
Pupillis,  quos  dura  premit  custodia  matrum : 

Sic  milii  tarda  fluunt  ingrataque  tempora,  qufe  spem 
Consiliumque  morantur  agendi  gnaviter  id,  quod 
-®que  pauperibus  prodest,  locupletibus  seque, 

-®que  neglectum  pueris  senibusque  nocebit. 

Hor.,  1  Ep.,  1,  20. 

IMITATED. 

Long  as  to  him,  who  works  for  debt,  the  day; 

Long  as  the  night  to  her,  whose  love’s  away; 

Long  as  the  year’s  dull  circle  seems  to  run 
When  the  brisk  minor  pants  for  twenty-one : 

So  slow  th’  unprofitable  moments  roll, 

That  lock  up  all  the  functions  of  my  soul; 

That  keep  me  from  myself,  and  still  delay 
Life’s  instant  business  to  a  future  day : 

That  task,  which  as  we  follow,  or  despise, 

The  eldest  is  a  fool,  the  youngest  wise ; 

Which  done,  the  poorest  can  no  wants  endure, 

And  which  not  done  the  richest  must  be  poor. — Pope. 

There  is  scarce  a  thinking  man  in  the  world, 
who  is  involved  in  the  business  of  it,  but  lives 
under  a  secret  impatience  of  the  hurry  and  fatigue 
he  suffers,  and  has  formed  a  resolution  to  "fix 
I  himself,  one  time  or  other,  in  such  a  state  as  is 
i  suitable  to  the  end  of  his  being.  You  hear  men 


66 


THE  SPEI 

every  day  iu  conversation  profess,  that  all  the 
honor,  power,  and  riches,  which  they  propose  to 
themselves,  cannot  give  satisfaction  enough  to  re¬ 
ward  them  for  half  the  anxiety  they  undergo  m  the 
pursuit  or  the  possession  of  them.  While  men  are 
in  this  temper  (which  happens  very  frequently), 
how  inconsistent  are  they  with  themselves !  1  hey 

are  wearied  with  the  toil  they  bear,  but  cannot  find 
in  their  hearts  to  relinquish  it :  retirement  is  what 
they  want,  but  they  cannot  betake  themselves  to 
it.  While  they  pant  after  shade  and  covert,  they 
still  affect  to  appear  in  the  most  glittering  scenes 
of  life.  Sure  this  is  but  just  as  reasonable  as  if  a 
man  should  call  for  more  light,  when  he  has  a 
mind  to  go  to  sleep. 

Since  then  it  is  certain  that  our  own  hearts  de¬ 
ceive  us  in  the  love  of  the  world,  and  that  we  can- 
not  command  ourselves  enough  to  resign  it,  though 
we  every  day  wish  ourselves  disengaged  from  its 
allurements  ;  let  us  not  stand  upon  a  formal  taking 
of  leave,  but  wean  ourselves  from  them  while  we 

are  in  the  midst  of  them. 

It  is  certainly  the  general  intention  of  the  greater 
part  of  mankind  to  accomplish  this  work,  and  live 
according  to  their  own  approbation,  as  soon  as 
they  possibly  can.  But  since  the  duration  of  life 
is  so  uncertain  (and  that  has  been  a  common  topic 
of  discourse  ever  since  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
life  itself),  how  is  it  possible  that  we  should  defer 
a  moment  the  beginning  to  live  according  to  the 
rules  of  reason? 

The  man  of  business  has  ever  some  one  point  to 
carry,  and  then  he  tells  himself  he  will  bid  adieu 
to  all  the  vanity  of  ambition.  The  man  of  plea¬ 
sure  resolves  to  take  his  leave  at  least,  and  pait 
civilly  with  his  mistress ;  but  the  ambitious  man 
is  entangled  every  moment  in  a  fresh  pursuit,  and 
the  lover  sees  new  charms  in  the  object  he  fancied 
he  could  abandon.  It  is  therefore  a  fantastical 
way  of  thinking,  when  we  promise  ourselves  an 
alteration  in  our  conduct  from  change  of  place  and 
difference  of  circumstances ;  the  same  passions 
will  attend  us  wherever  we  are,  until  they  are  con¬ 
quered  ;  and  we  can  never  live  to  our  satisfaction 
in  the  deepest  retirement,  unless  we  are  capable 
of  living  so,  in  some  measure,  amidst  the  noise  and 
business  of  the  world. 

I  have  ever  thought  men  were  better  known  by 
what  could  be  observed  of  them  from  a  perusal  of 
their  private  letters,  than  any  other  way.  My 
friend  the  clergyman,  the  other  day,  upon  serious 
discourse  with  him  concerning  the  danger  of  pro¬ 
crastination,  gave  me  the  following  letters  fiom 
persons  with  whom  he  lives  in  great  friendship 
and  intimacy,  according  to  the  good  breeding  and 
good  sense  of  his  character.  The  first  is  from  a 
man  of  business,  who  is  his  convert:  the  second 
from  one  who  is  in  no  state  at  all,  but  carried  one 
way  and  another  by  starts. 

“  Sir, 

“I  know  not  with  what  words  to  express  to  you 
the  sense  I  have  of  the  high  obligation  you  have 
laid  upon  me,  in  the  penance  you  enjoined  me,  of 
doing  some  good  or  other  to  a  person  of  worth 
every  day  I  live.  The  station  I  am  in  furnishes 
me  with  daily  opportunities  of  this  kind ;  and  the 
noble  principle  with  which  you  have  inspired  me, 
of  benevolence  to  all  I  have  to  deal  with,  quickens 
my  application  in  everything  I  undertake.  When 
I  relieve  merit  from  discountenance,  when  I  assist 
a  friendless  person,  when  I  produce  concealed 
worth,  I  am  displeased  with  myself,  for  haying 
designed  to  leave  the  world  in  order  to  be  virtu¬ 
ous.  I  am  sorry  you  decline  the  occasions  which 
the  condition  I  am  in  might  afford  me  of  enlarging 
your  fortunes ;  but  know  I  contribute  more  to  your 


3TATOR. 

satisfaction,  when  I  acknowledge  I  am  the  better 
man,  from  the  influence  and  authority  you  have 
over,  Sir, 

“  Your  most  obliged  and  most  humble  servant. 

“R.  0.” 

“  Sir, 

“I  am  entirely  convinced  of  the  truth  of  what 
you  were  pleased  to  say  to  me,  when  I  was  last 
with  you  alone.  You  told  me  then  of  the  silly 
way  I  was  in ;  but  you  told  me  so  as  I  saw  you 
loved  me,  otherwise  I  could  not  obey  your  com¬ 
mands  in  letting  you  know  my  thoughts  so  sin¬ 
cerely  as  I  do  at  present.  I  know  ‘  the  crea.ture, 
for  whom  I  resign  so  much  of  my  character,  is  all 
that  you  said  of  her  ;  but  then  the  trifler  has  some¬ 
thing  in  her  so  undesigning  and  harmless,  that 
her  guilt  in  one  kind  disappears  by  the  compari¬ 
son  of  her  innocence  in  another.  Will  you,  vir¬ 
tuous  man,  allow  no  alteration  of  offenses  f  Must 
dear  Chloe  be  called  by  the  hard  name  you  pious 
people  give  to  common  women  ?  I  keep  the 
solemn  promise  I  made  you,  in  writing  to  you  the 
state  of  my  mind,  after  your  kind  admonition  ;  and 
will  endeavor  to  get  the  better  of  this  fondness, 
which  makes  me  so  much  her  humble  servant,  that 
I  am  almost  ashamed  to  subscribe  myself  yours, 

“T.  D.” 

“Sir, 

“  There  is  no  state  of  life  so  anxious  as  that  of 
a  man  who  does  not  live  according  to  the  dictates 
of  his  own-reason.  It  will  seem  odd  to  you,  'vv'ie“ 

I  assure  you  that  my  love  of  retirement  first  of  all 
brought  me  to  court;  but  this  will  be  no  riddle 
when  I  acquaint  you,  that  I  placed  myself  here 
with  a  design  of  getting  so  much  money  as  might 
enable  me  to  purchase  a  handsome  retreat  in  the 
country.  At  present  my  circumstances  enable  me, 
and  my  duty  prompts  me,  to  pass  away  the  re¬ 
maining  part  of  my  life  in  such  a  retirement  as  1 1 
at  first  proposed  to  myself ;  but  to  my  great  mis- 1 
fortune  I  have  entirely  lost  the  relish  of  it,  and 
should  now  return  to  the  country  with  greater 
reluctance  than  I  at  first  came  to  court.  I  am  so 
unhappy,  as  to  know  that  what  I  am  fond  of  are 
trifles,  and  that  what  I  neglect  is  of  the  greatest 
importance :  in  short,  I  find  a  contest  in  my  own 
mind  between  reason  and  fashion.  I  remember 
you  once  told  me,  that  I  might  live  in  the  world, 
and  out  of  it,  at  the  same  time.  Let  me  beg  of  you 
to  explain  this  paradox  more  at  large  to  me,  that 
I  may  conform  my  life,  if  possible,  both  to  my 
duty  and  my  inclination.  I  am  yours,  etc. 

R.  “RB” 

Letters  are  directed  “For  the  Spectator,  to  be 
left  at  Mr.  Buckley’s,  in  Little  Britain,  post  paid.” 
N.  B.  In  the  form  of  a  direction,  this  makes  a 
figure  in  the  last  column  of  the  Spectator  in  folio. 


No.  28.]  MONDAY,  APRIL  2,  1711. 

- Neque  semper  arcum 

Tendit  Apollo. - Hor.,  2  Od.,  x,  19. 

Nor  does  Apollo  always  bend  his  bow. 

I  shall  here  present  my  reader  with  a  letter 
from  a  projector,  concerning  a  new  office  which  he 
thinks  may  very  much  contribute  to  the  embellish¬ 
ments  of  the  city,  and  to  the  driving  barbarity  out 
of  our  streets.  I  consider  it  as  a  satire  upon  pro¬ 
jectors  in  general,  and  a  lively  picture  of  the  whole 
art  of  modern  criticism. 

“  Sir, 

“Observing  that  you  have  thoughts  of  creating 
certain  officers  under  you,  for  the  inspection  of 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


several  petty  enormities  you  yourself  cannot  attend 
to ;  and  finding  daily  absurdities  hung  out  upon 
the  sign-posts  of  this  city,  to  the  great  scandal  of 
foreigners,  as  well  as  those  of  our  own  country, 
who  are  curious  spectators  of  the  same  :  I  do  hum¬ 
bly  propose  that  you  would  be  pleased  to  make 
me  your  superintendent  of  all  such  figures  and 
devices  as  are  or  shall  be  made  use  of  on  this  occa¬ 
sion  ;  with  full  powers  to  rectify  or  expunge  what¬ 
ever  I  shall  find  irregular  or  defective.  For  want 
of  such  an  officer,  there  is  nothing  like  sound  lite¬ 
rature  and  good  sense  to  be  met  with  in  those 
objects  that  are  everywhere  thrusting  thenjSfelves 
out  to  the  eye,  and  endeavoring  to  become  visible. 
Our  streets  are  filled  with  blue  boars,  black  swans, 
and  red  lions ;  not  to  mention  flying  pigs,  and 
hogs  in  armor,  with  many  other  creatures  more 
extraordinary  than  any  in  the  deserts  of  Africa. 
Strange !  that  one  who  has  all  the  birds  and  beasts 
in  nature  to  choose  out  of,  should  live  at  the  sign 
of  an  Ens  Ratio  nis! 

“  My  first  task  therefore  should  be,  like  that  of 
Hercules,  to  clear  the  city  from  monsters.  In  the 
second  place,  I  would  forbid  that  creatures  of  jar¬ 
ring  and  incongruous  natures  should  be  joined 
together  in  the  same  sign  ;  such  as  the  bell  and 
the  neat’s  tongue,  the  dog  and  the  gridiron.  The 
fox  and  the  goose  may  be  supposed  to  have  met, 
but  what  has  the  fox  and  the  seven  stars  to  do 
together  ?  And  when  did  the  lamb  and  the  dol¬ 
phin  ever  meet,  except  upon  a  sign-post?  As  for 
the  cat  and  fiddle,  there  is  a  conceit  in  it ;  and 
therefore  I  do  not  intend  that  anything  I  have  here 
said  should  affect  it.  I  must,  however,  observe  to 
you  upon  this  subject,  that  it  is  usual  for  a  young 
tradesman,  at  his  first  setting  up,  to  add  to  his 
own  sign  that  of  the  master  whom  he  served ;  as 
the  husband,  after  marriage,  gives  a  place  to  his 
mistress’s  arms  in  his  own  coat.  This  I  take  to 
have  given  rise  to  many  of  those  absurdities  which 
are  committed  over  our  heads  ;  and,  as  I  am  in¬ 
formed,  first  occasioned  the  three  nuns  and  a  hare, 
which  we  see  so  frequently  joined  together.  I 
would  therefore  establish  certain  rules,  for  the 
determining  how  far  one  tradesman  may  give  the 
sign  of  another,  and  in  what  cases  he  may  be 
allowed  to  quarter  it  with  his  own. 

“In  the  third  place,  I  would  enjoin  every  shop 
to  make  use  of  a  sign  which  bears  some  affinity 
to  the  wares  in  which  it  deals.  What  can  be  more 
inconsistent  than  to  see  a  bawd  at  the  sign  of  the 
angel,  or  a  tailor  at  the  lion  ?  A  cook  should  not 
live  at  the  boot,  nor  a  shoemaker  at  the  roasted 
pig;  and  yet  for  want  of  this  regulation,  I  have 
seen  a  goat  set  up  before  the  door  of  a  perfumer, 
and  the  French  king’s  head  at  a  sword-cutler’s. 

“An  ingenious  foreigner  observes,  that  several 
of  those  gentlemen  who  value  themselves  upon 
their  families,  and  overlook  such  as  are  bred  to 
trade,  bear  the  tools  of  their  forefathers  in  their 
coats  of  arms.  I  will  not  examine  how  true  this 
is  in  fact.  But  though  it  may  not  be  necessary  for 
posterity  thus  to  set  up  the  sign  of  their  fore¬ 
fathers,  I  think  it  highly  proper  for  those  who 
actually  profess  the  trade  to  show  some  such 
marks  of  it  before  their  doors. 

,  “  When  the  name  gives  an  occasion  for  an  inge¬ 
nious  sign-post,  I  would  likewise  advise  the  owner 
to  take  that  opportunity  of  letting  the  world  know 
who  he  is.  It  would  have  been  ridiculous  for  the 
ingenious  Mrs.  Salmon  to  have  lived  at  the  sign 
of  the  trout;  for  which  reason  she  has  erected  be¬ 
fore  her  house  the  figure  of  the  fish  that  is  her 
namesake.  Mr.  Bell  has  likewise  distinguished 
himself  by  a  device  of  the  same  nature :  and  here. 
Sir,  I  must  beg  leave  to  observe  to  you,  that  this 
particular  figure  of  a  bell  has  given  occasion  to 


67 

several  pieces  of  wit  in  this  kind.  A  man  of  your 
reading  must  know,  that  Abel  Drugger  gained 
great  applause  by  it  in  the  time  of  Ben  Jonson. 
Our  apocryphal  heathen  god*  is  also  represented 
by  this  figure ;  which  in  conjunction  with  the 
dragon,  makes  a  very  handsome  picture  in  several 
of  our  streets.  As  for  the  bell-savage,  which  is 
the  sign  of  a  savage  man  standing  by  a  bell,  I  was 
formerly  very  much  puzzled  upon  the  conceit  of 
it,  till  I  accidentally  fell  into  the  reading  of  an 
old  romance  translated  out  of  the  French  ;  which 
gives  an  account  of  a  very  beautiful  woman  who  was 
tound  in  a  wilderness,  and  is  called  in  the  French 
La  belle  Sauvage;  and  is  everywhere  translated  by 
our  countrymen  the  bell-savage.  This  piece  of 
philosophy  will,  I  hope,  convince  you  that  I  have 
made  sign-posts  my  study,  and  consequently 
qualified  myself  for  the  employment  which  I 
solicit  at  your  hands.  But  before  I  conclude  my 
letter,  I  must  communicate  to  you  another  remark, 
which  I  have  made  upon  the  subject  with  which  I 
am  now  entertaining  you,  namely,  that  I  can  give 
a  shrewd  guess  at  the  humor  of  the  inhabitant  by 
the  sign  that  hangs  before  his  door.  A  surly  choleric 
fellow  g  enerally  makes  choice  of  a  bear;  as  men 
of  milder  dispositions  frequently  live  at  the  sign 
of  the  lamb.  Seeing  a  punch-bowl  painted  upon 
a  sign  near  Charing-cross,  and  very  curiously  gar¬ 
nished  with  a  couple  of  angels  hovering  over  it, 
and  squeezing  a  lemon  into  it,  I  had  the  curios¬ 
ity  to  ask  after  the  master  of  the  house,  and  found 
upon  inquiry,  as  I  had  guessed  by  the  little  agrtmens 
upon  his  sign,  that  he  was  a  Frenchman.  I  know, 
Sir,  it  is  not  requisite  for  me  to  enlarge  upon  these 
hints  to  a  gentleman  of  your  great  abilities;  so, 
humbly  recommending  myself  to  your  favor  and 
patronage,  “  I  remain,  etc.” 

I  shall  add  to  the  foregoing  letter  another,  which 
came  to  me  by  the  penny-post. 

“From  my  own  apartment  near  Charing-cross. 
“Honored  Sir, 

“  Having  heard  that  this  nation  is  a  great  en- 
courager  of  ingenuity,  I  have  brought  with  me  a 
rope-dancer  that  was  caught  in  one  of  the  woods 
belonging  to  the  Great  Mogul.  He  is  by  birth  a 
monkey;  but  swings  upon  a  rope,  takes  a  pipe  of 
tobacco,  and  drinks  a  glass  of  ale  like  any  reason¬ 
able  creature.  He  gives  great  satisfaction  to  the 
quality;  and  if  they  will  make  a  subscription  for 
him,  I  will  send  for  a  brother  of  his  out  of  Hol¬ 
land,  that  is  a  very  good  tumbler;  and  also  for  an¬ 
other  of  the  same  family  whom  I  design  for  my 
merry-andrew,  as  being  an  excellent  mimic,  ana 
the  greatest  droll  in  the  country  where  he  now  is. 

I  hope  to  have  this  entertainment  in  readiness  for 
the  next  winter;  and  doubt  not  but  it  will  please 
more  than  the  opera  or  puppet-show.  I  will  not 
say  that  a  monkey  is  a  better  man  than  some  of 
the  opera  heroes;  but  certainly  he  is  a  better  re¬ 
presentative  of  a  man  than  the  most  artificial  com¬ 
position  of  wood  and  wire.  If  you  will  be  pleased 
to  give  me  a  good  word  in  your  paper,  you  shall 
be  every  night  a  spectator  at  my  show  for  nothing. 
C.  “  I  am,  etc.” 


No.  29.]  TUESDAY,  APRIL  3,  1711. 

- Sermo  lingua  concinnus  utraquo 

Suavior :  ut  Chio  nota  si  commista  Falerni  est. 

Hor.,  1,  Sat.  x,  23. 

Both  tongues  united,  sweeter  sounds  produce, 

Like  Chian  mixed  with  Falernian  juice. 

There  is  nothing  that  has  more  startled  our 
English  audience,  than  the  Italian  recitativo  at  its 


*  St.  George. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


68 

first  entrance  upon  the  stage.  People  were  won¬ 
derfully  surprised  to  hear  generals  singing  the 
word  of  command,  and  ladies  delivering  messages 
in  music.  Our  countrymen  could  not  forbear 
laughing  when  they  heard  a  lover  chanting  out  a 
billet-doux,  and  even  the  superscription  of  a  letter 
set  to  a  tune.  The  famous  blunder  in  an  old  play 
of  “  Enter  a  king  and  two  fiddlers  solus,”  was 
now  no  longer  an  absurdity,  when  it  was  impossi¬ 
ble  for  a  hero  in  a  desert,  or  a  princess  in  her 
closet,  to  speak  anything  unaccompanied  with  mu¬ 
sical  instruments. 

But  however  this  Italian  method  of  acting  in 
recitativo  might  appear  at  first  hearing,  I  cannot 
but  think  it  much  more  just  than  that  which  pre¬ 
vailed  in  our  English  opera  before  this  innovation; 
the  transition  from  an  air  to  recitative  music  being 
more  natural  than  the  passing  from  a  song  to 
plain  and  ordinary  speaking,  which  was  the  com¬ 
mon  method  in  Purcell’s  operas. 

The  only  fault  I  find  in  our  present  practice,  is 
the  making  use  of  the  Italian  recitativo  with  Eng¬ 
lish  words. 

To  go  to  the  bottom  of  this  matter,  I  must  ob¬ 
serve  that  the  tone,  or  (as  the  French  call  it)  the 
accent  of  every  nation  in  their  ordinary  speech, 
is  altogether  different  from  that  of  every  other 
people;  as  we  may  see  even  in  the  Welsh  and  Scotch 
who  border  so  near  upon  us.  By  the  tone  or  ac¬ 
cent,  I  do  not  mean  the  pronunciation  of  each 
particular  word,  but  the  sound  of  the  whole  sen¬ 
tence.  Thus  it  is  very  common  for  an  English 
gentleman  when  he  hears  a  French  tragedy,  to 
complain  that  the  actors  all  of  them  speak  in  one 
tone:  and  therefore  he  very  wisely  prefers  his  own 
countrymen,  not  considering  that  a  foreigner  com¬ 
plains  of  the  same  tone  in  an  English  actor. 

For  this  reason,  the  recitative  music,  in  every 
language,  should  be  as  different  as  the  tone  or  ac¬ 
cent  of  each  language ;  for  otherwise,  what  may 
properly  express  a  passion  in  one  language  will 
not  do  it  in  another.  Every  one  who  has  been 
long  in  Italy,  knows  very  well  that  the  cadences 
in  the  recitativo  bear  a  remote  affinity  to  the  tone 
of  their  voices  in  ordinary  conversation  or,  to 
speak  more  properly,  are  only  the  accents  of  their 
language  made  more  musical  and  tuneful. 

Thus  the  notes  of  interrogation,  or  admiration, 
in  the  Italian  music  (if  one  may  so  call  them) 
which  resemble  their  accents  in  discourse  on  such 
occasions,  are  not  unlike  the  ordinary  tones  of  an 
English  voice  when  we  are  angry ;  insomuch  that 
I  have  often  seen  our  audiences  extremely  mis¬ 
taken  as  to  what  has  been  doing  on  the  stage,  and 
expecting  to  see  the  hero  knock  down  his  messen¬ 
ger,  when  he  has  been  asking  him  a.  question;  or 
fancying  that  he  quarrels  with  his  friend  when  he 
only  bids  him  good  morrow. 

For  this  reason  the  Italian  artists  cannot  agree 
with  our  English  musicians  in  admiring  Purcell  s 
compositions,  and  thinking  his  tunes  so  wonder¬ 
fully  adapted  to  his  words;  because  both  nations 
do  not  always  express  the  same  passions  by  the 
same  sounds. 

I  am  therefore  humbly  of  opinion,  that  an  Eng¬ 
lish  composer  should  not  follow  the  Italian  recita¬ 
tive  too  servilely,  but  make  use  of  many  gentle 
deviations  from  it,  in  compliance  with  his  own 
native  language.  He  may  copy  out  of  it  all  the 
lulling  softness  and  “ dying  falls”  (as  Shakspeare 
calls  them),  but  should  still  remember  that  he 
ought  to  accommodate  himself  to  an  English  au¬ 
dience;  and  by  humoring  the  tone  of  our  voices  in 
ordinary  conversation,  have  the  same  regard  to  the 
accent  of  his  own  language,  as  those  persons  had 
to  theirs  whom  he  professes  to  imitate.  It  is  ob¬ 
served,  that  several  of  the  singing  birds  of  our 


own  country  learn  to  sweeten  their  voices  and 
mellow  the  harshness  of  their  natural  notes,  by 
practicing  under  those  that  come  from  warmer 
climates.  In  the  same  manner  I  would  allow  the 
Italian  opera  to  lend  our  English  music  as  much 
as  may  grace  and  soften  it,  but  never  entirely  to 
annihilate  and  destroy  it.  Let  the  infusion  be  as 
strong  as  you  please,  but  still  let  the  subject  mat¬ 
ter  of  it  be  English. 

A  composer  should  fit  his  music  to  the  genius 
of  the  people,  and  consider  that  the  delicacy  of 
hearing  and  taste  of  harmony,  has  been  formed 
upon  those  sounds  which  every  country  abounds 
with.  In  short,  that  music  is  of  a  relative  nature, 
and  what  is  harmony  to  one  ear,  may  be  disso 
nance  to  another. 

The  same  observations  which  I  have  made  upon 
the  recitative  part  of  music,  may  be  applied  to  all 
our  songs  and  airs  in  general. 

Sio-nior  Baptist  Lully  acted  like  a  man  of  sense 
in  this  particular.  He  found  the  French  music  ex¬ 
tremely  defective,  and  very  often  barbarous.  How¬ 
ever,  knowing  the  genius  of  the  people,  the  humor 
of  their  language,  and  the  predjudiced  ears  he  had 
to  deal  with,  he  did  not  pretend  to  extirpate  the 
French  music  and  plant  the  Italian  in  its  stead  ; 
but  only  to  cultivate  and  civilize  it  with  innume¬ 
rable  graces  and  modulations  which  he  borrowed 
from  the  Italians.  By  this  means  the  French  mu¬ 
sic  is  now  perfect  in  its  kind';  and  when  you  say 
it  is  not  so  good  as  the  Italian,  you  only  mean  that 
it  does  not  please  you  so  well;  for  there  is  scarce  a 
Frenchman  Avho  would  not  wonder  to  hear  you 
give  the  Italian  such  a  preference.  The  music  of 
the  French  is  indeed  very  properly  adapted  to  their 
pronunciation  and  accent,  as  their  whole  opera 
wonderfully  favors  the  genius  of  such  a  gay,  airy 
people.  The  chorus,  in  which  that  opera  abounds, 
gives  the  parterre  frequent  opportunities  of  joining 
in  concert  with  the  stage.  This  inclination  of  the 
audience  to  sing  along  with  the  actors,  so  prevails 
with  them,  that  I  have  sometimes  known  the  per¬ 
former  on  the  stage  do  no  more  in  a  celebrated 
song  than  the  clerk  of  a  parish  church,  who  serves 
only  to  raise  the  psalm,  and  is  afterward  drowned 
in  the  music  of  the  congregation.  Every  actor 
that  comes  on  the  stage  is  a  beau.  The  queens 
and  heroines  are  so  painted,  that  they  appear  as 
ruddy  and  cherry-cheeked  as  milk-maids.  The 
shepherds  are  all  embroidered,  and  acquit  them¬ 
selves  in  a  ball  better  than  our  English  dancing- 
masters.  I  have  seen  a  couple  of  rivers  appear  in 
red  stockings;  and  Alpheus,  instead  of  having  his 
head  covered  with  sedge  and  bulrushes,  making 
love  in  a  full-bottom  periwig  and  a  plume  of  feath¬ 
ers;  but  with  a  voice  so  full  of  shakes  and  qua¬ 
vers,  that  I  should  have  thought  the  murmurs 
of  a  country  brook  the  much  more  agreeable 
music. 

I  remember  the  last  opera  I  saw  in  that  merry 
nation  was  the  Rape  of  Proserpine,  where  Pluto, 
to  make  the  more  tempting  figure,  puts  himself  in 
a  French  equipage,  and  brings  Ascalaphus  along 
with  him  as  his  valet  de  chambre.  This  is  what 
we  call  folly  and  impertinence;  but  what  the 
French  look  upon  as  gay  and  polite. 

I  shall  add  no  more  to  what  I  have  here  offered, 
than  that  music,  architecture,  and  painting,  as 
well  as  poetry  and  oratory,  are  to  deduce  their  laws 
and  rules  from  the  general  sense  and  taste  of  man¬ 
kind,  and  not  from  the  principles  of  those  arts 
themselves;  or,  in  other  words,  the  taste  is  not  tc 
conform  to  the  art,  but  the  art  to  the  taste.  Music 
is  not  designed  to  please  only  chromatic  ears,  bill 
all  that  are  capable  of  distinguishing  harsh  fronc 
disagreeable  notes.  A  man  of  an  ordinary  ear  is 
a  judge  whether  a  passion  is  expressed  in  propel 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


69 


sounds,  and  whether  the  melody  of  those  sounds 
be  more  or  less  pleasing. —  *  C. 

***  Complete  sets  of  this  paper  for  the  month 
of  March,  are  sold  by  Mr.  Greaves,  in  St.  James’s- 
street;  Mr.  Lillie,  perfumer,  the  corner  of  Beaufort- 
buildings;  Messrs.  Sanger,  Knapton,  Round,  and 
Mrs.  Baldwin. — Spect.  in  folio. 


No.  30.]  WEDNESDAY,  APRIL  4,  1711. 

Si,  Mimnermus  uti  censet,  sine  amore  jocisque 
Nil  est  jucundum;  vivas  in  amore  jocisque. 

Hor.,  1  Ep.,  vi,  65. 

If  nothing,  as  Mimnermus  strives  to  prove, 

Can  e’er  be  pleasant  without  mirth  and  love, 

Then  live  in  mirth  and  love,  thy  sports  pursue. 

Creech. 

One  common  calamity  makes  men  extremely  af¬ 
fect  each  other,  though  they  differ  in  every  other 
particular.  The  passion  of  love  is  the  most  gene¬ 
ral  concern  among  men;  and  I  am  glad  to  hear  by 
my  last  advices  from  Oxford,  that  there  are  a  set 
of  sighers  in  that  university,  who  have  erected 
themselves  into  a  society  in  honor  of  that  tender 
passion.  These  gentlemen  are  of  that  sort  of  ina¬ 
moratos,  who  are  not  so  very  much  lost  to  common 
sense,  but  that  they  understand  the  folly  they  are 
guilty  of ;  and  for  that  reason  separate  themselves 
from  all  other  company,  because  they  will  enjoy 
the  pleasure  of  talking  incoherently,  without  being 
ridiculous  to  any  but  each  other.  When  a  man 
comes  into  the  club,  he  is  not  obliged  to  make  any 
introduction  to  his  discourse,  but  at  once,  as  he  is 
seating  himself  in  his  chair,  speaks  in  the  thread 
of  his  own  thoughts:  “She  gave  me  a  very  oblig¬ 
ing  glance,  she  never  looked  so  well  in  her  life  as 
this  evening;”  or  the  like  reflection,  without  re¬ 
gard  to  aDV  other  member  of  the  society;  for  in 
this  assembly  they  do  not  meet  to  talk  to  each 
Other,  but  every  man  claims  the  full  liberty  of  talk¬ 
ing  to  himself.  Instead  of  snuff-boxes  and  canes, 
which  are  the  usual  helps  to  discourse  with  other 
young  fellows,  these  have  each  some  piece  of  rib¬ 
bon,  a  broken  fan,  or  an  old  girdle,  which  they 
play  with  while  they  talk  of  the  fair  person  remem¬ 
bered  by  each  respective  token.  According  to  the 
representation  of  the  matter  from  my  letters,  the 
company  appear  like  so  many  players  rehearsing 
behind  the  scenes;  one  is  sighing  and  lamenting 
his  destiny  in  beseeching  terms,  another  declaim¬ 
ing  he  will  break  his  chain,  and  another,  in  dumb- 
show,  striving  to  express  his  passion  by  his  ges¬ 
ture.  It  is  very  ordinary  in  the  assembly  for  one 
of  a  sudden  to  rise  and  make  a  discourse  concern¬ 
ing  his  passion  in  general,  and  describe  the  temper 
of  his  mind  in  such  a  manner,  as  that  the  whole 
company  shall  join  in  the  description,  and  feel  the 
force  of  it.  In  this  case,  if  any  man  has  declared 
the  violence  of  his  flame  in  more  pathetic  terms, 
he  is  made  president  for  that  night,  out  of  respect 
to  his  superior  passion. 

We  had  some  years  ago  in  this  town,  a  set  of 
people  who  met  and  dressed  like  lovers,  and  were 
distinguished  by  the  name  of  the  Fringe-glove 
club;  but  they  were  persons  of  such  moderate  in¬ 
tellects,  even  before  they  were  impaired  by  their 
passion,  that  their  irregularities  could  not  furnish 
sufficient  variety  of  folly  to  afford  daily  new  im¬ 
pertinences  ;  by  which  means  that  institution 
dropped.  1  liese  fellows  could  express  their  pas¬ 
sion  by  nothing  but  their  dress,  but  the  Oxoni¬ 
ans  are  fantastical  now  thev  are  lovers,  in  propor¬ 
tion  to  their  learning  ancl  understanding  before 
they  became  such.  The  thoughts  of  the  ancient 
poets  on  this  agreeable  frenzy  are  translated  in 
honor  of  some  modern  beauty;  and  Chloris  is  won 
to-day  by  the  same  compliment  that  was  made  to 


Lesbia  a  thousand  years  ago.  But  as  far  as  I  can 
learn,  the  patron  of  the  club  is  the  renowned  Don 
Quixote.  The  adventures  of  that  gentle  knight 
are  frequently  mentioned  in  the  society,  under  the 
color  of  laughing  at  the  passion  and  themselves  : 
but  at  the  same  time,  though  they  are  sensible  of 
the  extravagances  of  that  unhappy  warrior,  they 
do  not  observe,  that  to  turn  all  the  reading  of  the 
best  and  wisest  writings  into  rhapsodies  of  love, 
is  a  frenzy  no  less  diverting  than  that  of  the  afore¬ 
said  accomplished  Spaniard.  A  gentleman,  who, 
I  hope,  will  continue  his  correspondence,  is  lately 
admitted  into  the  fraternity,  and  sent  me  the  fol¬ 
lowing  letter: 

“Sir, 

“Since  I  find  you  take  notice  of  clubs,  I  beg 
leave  to  give  you  an  account  of  one  in  Oxford, 
which  you  have  nowhere  mentioned,  and  perhaps 
never  heard  of.  We  distinguish  ourselves  by  the 
title  of  the  Amorous  Club,  are  all  votaries  of  Cu¬ 
pid,  and  admirers  of  the  fair  sex.  The  reason  that 
we  are  so  little  known  in  the  world,  is  the  secrecy 
which  we  are  obliged  to  live  under  in  the  univer¬ 
sity.  Our  constitution  runs  counter  to  that  of  the 
place  wherein  we  live :  for  in  love  there  are  no 
doctors,  and  we  all  profess  so  high  a  passion,  that 
we  admit  of  no  graduates  in  it.  Our  presidentship 
is  bestowed  according  to  the  dignity  of  passion ; 
our  number  is  unlimited;  and  our  statutes  are  like 
those  of  the  Druids,  recorded  in  our  own  breasts 
only,  and  explained  by  the  majority  of  the  com¬ 
pany.  A  mistress,  and  a  poem  in  her  praise,  will 
introduce  any  candidate.  Without  the  latter  no 
one  can  be  admitted ;  for  he  that  is  not  in  love 
enough  to  rhyme,  is  unqualified  for  our  society. 
To  speak  disrespectfully  of  a  woman  is  expulsion 
from  our  gentle  society.  As  we  are  at  present  all 
of  us  gownsmen,  instead  of  dueling  when  we  are 
rivals,  we  drink  together  the  health  of  our  mis¬ 
tress.  The  manner  of  doing  this,  sometimes  in¬ 
deed  creates  debates ;  on  such  occasions  we  have 
recourse  to  the  rules  of  love  among  the  ancients. 

Naevia  sex  cyathis,  septem  Justina  bibatur. 

Mart.,  Epig.  i,  72. 

Six  cups  to  Naevia,  to  Justina  seven. 

This  method  of  a  glass  to  every  letter  of  her 
name,  occasioned  the  other  night  a  dispute  of  some 
warmth.  A  young  student  who  is  in  love  with 
Mrs.  Elizabeth  Dimple,  was  so  unreasonable  as  to 
begin  her  health  under  the  name  of  Elizabethea  ; 
which  so  exasperated  the  club,  that  by  common 
consent  we  retrenched  it  to  Betty.  We  look  upon 
a  man  as  no  company  that  does  not  sigh  five  times 
in  a  quarter  of  an  hour;  and  look  upon  a  member 
as  very  absurd,  that  is  so  much  himself  as  to  make 
a  direct  answer  to  a  question.  In  fine,  the  whole 
assembly  is  made  up  of  absent  men  —  that  is,  of 
such  persons  as  have  lost  their  locality,  and  whose 
minds  and  bodies  never  keep  company  with  one 
another.  As  I  am  an  unfortunate  member  of  this 
distracted  society,  you  cannot  expect  a  very  regu¬ 
lar  account  of  it ;  for  which  reason  I  hope  you  will 
pardon  me  that  I  so  abruptly  subscribe  myself, 

“  Sir,  your  most  obedient  humble  servant, 

“T.  B. 

“I  forgot  to  tell  you,  that  Albina,  who  has  six 
votaries  in  this  club,  is  one  of  your  readers.” —  R. 


No.  31.]  THURSDAY,  APRIL  5,  1711. 

Sit  mihi  fas  audita  loqui -  Virg.,  2En.  vi,  266 

What  I  have  heard,  permit  me  to  relate. 

Last  night,  upon  my  going  into  a  coffee-house 
not  far  from  the  Haymarket  Theater,  I  diverted 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


70 

myself  for  above  half-an-hour  with  overhearing 
the  discourse  of  one,  who,  by  the  shabbiness  of 
his  dress,  the  extravagance  of  his  conceptions,  and 
the  hurry  of  his  speech,  I  discovered  to  be  of  that 
species  who  are  generally  distinguished  by  the 
title  of  projectors.  This  gentleman,  for  I  found  he 
was  treated  as  such  by  his  audience,  was  enter¬ 
taining  a  whole  table  of  listeners  with  the  project 
of  an  opera,  which  he  told  us  had  not  cost  him 
above  two  or  three  mornings  in  the  contrivance, 
and  which  he  was  ready  to  put  in  execution  pro¬ 
vided  he  might  find  his  account  in  it.  He  said, 
that  he  had  observed  the  great  trouble  and  incon¬ 
venience  which  ladies  were  at,  in  traveling  up  and 
down  the  several  shows  that  are  exhibited  in  dif¬ 
ferent  quarters  of  the  town.  The  dancing  mon¬ 
keys  are  in  one  place;  the  puppet-show  in  another; 
the  opera  in  a  third;  not  to  mention  the  lions,  that 
are  almost  a  whole  day’s  journey  from  the  politei 
part  of  the  town.  By  this  means  people  of  figure 
are  forced  to  lose  hall  the  winter  alter  their  coming 
to  town,  before  they  have  seen  all  the  strange 
sights  about  it.  In  order  to  remedy  this  great  in¬ 
convenience,  our  projector  drew  out  of  his  pocket 
the  scheme  of  an  opera,  entitled,  The  Expedition 
of  Alexander  the  Great;  in  which  he  had  disposed 
all  the  remarkable  shows  about  town  among  the 
scenes  and  decorations  of  his  piece,  the  thought, 
he  confessed,  was  not  originally  his  own,  but  that 
he  had  taken  the  hint  of  it  from  several  perform¬ 
ances  which  he  had  seen  upon  our  stage;  in  one 
of  which  there  was  a  raree-show;  in  another  a 
ladder-dance  ;  and  in  others  a  posture-man,  a 
moving  picture,  with  many  curiosities  of  the  like 

nature.  . 

This  expedition  of  Alexander  opens  with  his 
consulting  the  oracle  of  Delplios,  in  which  the 
dumb  conjurer  who  has  been  visited  by  so  many 
persons  of  quality  of  late  years,  is  to  be  intro¬ 
duced  as  telling  his  fortune.  At  the  same  time 
Clinch  of  Barnet  is  represented  in  another  corner 
of  the  temple,  as  ringing  the  bells  of  Delphos,  for 
joy  of  his  arrival.  The  tent  of  Darius  is  to  be 
peopled  by  the  ingenious  Mrs.  Salmon,  where 
Alexander  is  to  fall  in  love  with  a  piece  of  wax- 
work,  that  represents  the  beautiful  Statira.  When 
Alexander  comes  into  that  country,  in  which 
Quintus  Curtius  tells  us  the  dogs  were  so  exceed¬ 
ing  fierce  that  they  would  not  lose  their  hold, 
though  they  were  cut  to  pieces  limb  by  limb,  and 
that  they  would  hang  upon  their  prey  by  their  teeth 
when  they  had  nothing  but  a  mouth  left,  there  is 
to  be  a  scene  of  Hockley  in  the  Hole,  in  which  is 
to  be  represented  all  the  diversions  of  that  place, 
the  bull-baiting  only  excepted,  which  cannot 
possibly  be  exhibited  in  the  theater,  by  reason  of 
the  lowness  of  the  roof.  The  several  woods  in 
Asia,  which  Alexander  must  be  supposed  to  pass 
through,  will  give  the  audience  a  sight  of  mon¬ 
keys  dancing  upon  ropes,  with  many  other  plea¬ 
santries  of  that  ludicrous  species.  At  the  same 
time,  if  there  chance  to  be  any  strange  animals  in 
town,  whether  birds  or  beasts,  they  may  be  either 
let  loose  among  the  woods,  or  driven  across  the 
stage  by  some  of  the  country  people  of  Asia.  In 
the  last  great  battle,  Pinkethman  is  to  personate 
King  Porus  upon  an  elephant,  and  is  to  be  encoun¬ 
tered  by  Powell,  representing  Alexander  the  Great, 
upon  a  dromedary,  which  nevertheless  Mr.  Powell 
is  desired  to  call  by  the  name  of  Bucephalus. 
Upon  the  close  of  this  great  decisive  battle,  when 
the  two  kings  are  thoroughly  reconciled,  to  show 
the  mutual  friendship  and  good  correspondence 
that  reigns  between  them,  they  both  of  them  go 
together  to  a  puppet-show,  in  which  the  ingenious 
Mr.  Powell,  junior,  may  have  an  opportunity  of 
displaying  his  whole  art  of  machinery,  for  the  di 


version  of  two  monarchs.  Some  at  the  table 
urged,  that  aNpuppet-show  was  not  a  suitable  en¬ 
tertainment  for  Alexander  the  Great;  and  that  it 
might  be  introduced  more  properly,  if  we  suppose 
the  conqueror  touched  upon  that  part  of  India 
which  is  said  to  be  inhabited  by  the  pigmies. 
But  this  objection  was  looked  upon  as  frivolous, 
and  the  proposal  immediately  overruled.  Our 
projector  farther  added,  that  after  the  reconcilia¬ 
tion  of  these  two  kings,  they  might  invite  one 
another  to  dinner,  and  either  of  them  entertain  his 
o-uest  with  the  German  artist,  Mr.  Pinkethman’s 
heathen  gods,  or  any  of  the  like  diversions  which 
shall  then  chance  to  be  in  vogue. 

This  project  was  received  with  very  great  ap 
plause  by  the  whole  table.  Upon  which  the 
undertaker  told  us,  that  he  had  not  yet  communi¬ 
cated  to  us  above  half  his  design ;  for  that  Alex¬ 
ander  being  a  Greek,  it  was  his  intention  that  the 
whole  opera  should  be  acted  in  that  language, 
which  was  a  tongue  he  was  sure  would  wonderfully 
please  the  ladies,  especially  when  it  was  a  little 
raised  and  rounded  by  the  Ionic  dialect;  and  could 
not  but  be  acceptable  to  the  whole  audience,  because 
there  are  fewer  of  them  who  understand  Greek 
than  Italian.  The  only  difficulty  that  remained, 
was  how  to  get  performers,  unless  we  could  per¬ 
suade  some  gentlemen  of  the  universities  to  learn 
to  sing,  in  order  to  qualify  themselves  for  the  stage; 
but  this  objection  soon  vanished  when  the  projec¬ 
tor  informed  us  that  the  Greeks  were  at  present 
the  only  musicians  in  the  Turkish  empire,  and 
that  it  would  be  very  easy  for  our  factory  at 
Smyrna  to  furnish  us  every  year  with  a  colony  of 
musicians,  by  the  opportunity  of  the  Turkey  fleet; 
beside,  says  he,  if  we  want  any  single  voice  for 
any  lower  part  in  the  opera,  Lawrence  can  learn 
to  speak  Greek,  as  well  as  he  does  Italian,  in  a 
fortnight’s  time. 

The  projector  having  thus  settled  matters  to  the 
good-liking  of  all  that  heard  him,  he  left  his  seat 
at  the  table,  and  planted  himself  before  the  fire, 
where  I  had  unluckily  taken  my  stand  for  the  con¬ 
venience  of  overhearing  what  he  said.  Whether 
he  had  observed  me  to  be  more  attentive  than  ordi¬ 
nary,  I  cannot  tell,  but  he  had  not  stood  by  me 
above  a  quarter  of  a  minute,  but  he  turned  short 
upon  me  on  a  sudden,  and  catching  me  by  a  but¬ 
ton  of  my  coat,  attacked  me  very  abruptly  after 
the  following  manner. 

“Beside,  Sir,  I  have  heard  of  a  very  extraordi¬ 
nary  genius  for  music  that  lives  in  Switzerland, 
who  has  so  strong  a  spring  in  his  fingers,  that  he 
can  make  the  board  of  an  organ  sound  like  a 
drum,  and  if  I  could  but  procure  a  subscription 
of  about  ten  thousand  pounds  every  winter  I 
would  undertake  to  fetch  him  over,  and  oblige 
him  by  articles  to  set  everything  that  should  be 
sung  upon  the  English  stage.”  After  this  he 
looked  full  in  my  face,  expecting  I  would  make 
an  answer,  when,  by  good  luck,  a  gentleman  that 
had  entered  the  coffee-house  since  the  projector 
applied  himself  to  me,  hearing  him  talk  of  his 
Swiss  compositions,  cried  out  in  a  kind  of  laugh, 
“Is  our  music  then  to  receive  farther  improve¬ 
ments  from  Switzerland?”  This  alarmed  the  pro¬ 
jector,  who  immediately  let  go  my  button,  and 
turned  about  to  answer  him.  I  took  the  opportu¬ 
nity  of  diversion  which  seemed  to  be  made  in 
favor  of  me,  and  laying  down  my  penny  upon  the 
bar,  retired  with  some  precipitation. — C. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


No.  32.]  FRIDAY,  APRIL  6,  1711. 

Nil  illi  larva  aut  tragicis  opus  esse  cothurnis. 

Hor.,  Sat.  v,  64. 

He  wants  no  tragic  vizor  to  increase 

His  natural  deformity  of  face. 

The  late  discourse  concerning  the  statutes  of 
the  Ugly  Club,  having  been  so  well  received  at 
Oxford,  that,  contrary  to  the  strict  rules  of  the 
society,  they  have  been  so  partial  as  to  take  my 
own  testimonial,  and  admit  me  into  that  select 
body ;  I  could  not  restrain  my  vanity  of  publish¬ 
ing  to  the  world  the  honor  which  is  done  me.  It 
is  no  small  satisfaction  that  I  have  given  occasion 
for  the  President’s  showing  both  his  invention 
and  reading  to  such  advantage  as  my  correspon¬ 
dent  reports  he  did :  but  it  is  not  to  be  doubted 
there  were  many  very  proper  hums  and  pauses  in 
his  harangue,  which  lose  their  ugliness  in  the 
narration,  and  which  my  correspondent  (begging 
his  pardon)  has  no  very  good  talent  at  represent¬ 
ing.  I  very  much  approve  of  the  contempt  the 
society  has  of  beauty.  N othing  ought  to  be  laud¬ 
able  in  a  man,  in  which  his  will  is  not  concerned  ; 
therefore  our  society  can  follow  nature,  and  where 
she  has  thought  fit,  as  it  were,  to  mock  herself, 
we  can  do  so  too,  and  be  merry  upon  the  occa¬ 
sion. 

“  Me.  Spectator, 

“Your  making  public  the  late  trouble  I  gave 
you,  you  will  find  to  have  been  the  occasion  of 
this.  Who  should  I  meet  at  the  coffee-house  door 
the  other  night,  but  my  old  friend  Mr.  President? 
I  saw  somewhat  had  pleased  him  ;  and  as  soon  as 
he  had  cast  his  eye  upon  me,  ‘  Oho,  doctor,  rare 
news  from  London,’  says  he ;  ‘  the  Spectator  has 
made  honorable  mention  of  the  club  (man),  and 
published  to  the  world  his  sincere  desire  to  be  a 
member,  with  a  recommendatory  description  of 
his  phiz ;  and  though  our  constitution  has  made 
no  particular  provision  for  short  faces,  yet  his 
being  an  extraordinary  case,  I  believe  we  shall 
find  a  hole  for  him  to  creep  in  at ;  for  I  assure  you 
he  is  not  against  the  cannon  :  and  if  his  sides  are 
as  compact  as  his  joles,  he  need  not  disguise  him¬ 
self  to  make  one  of  us.’  I  presently  called  for  the 
paper  to  see  how  you  looked  in  print ;  and  after 
we  had  regaled  ourselves  awhile  upon  the  plea¬ 
sant  image  of  our  proselyte,  Mr.  President  told  me 
I  should  be  his  stranger  at  the  next  night’s  club ; 
where  we  were  no  sooner  come,  and  pipes  brought, 
but  Mr.  President  began  an  harangue  upon  your 
introduction  to  my  epistle,  setting  forth  with  no 
less  volubility  of  speech  than  strength  of  reasonj 
*  That  a  speculation  of  this  nature  was  what  had 
been  long  and  much  wanted  !  and  that  he  doubted 
not  but  it  would  be  of  inestimable  value  to  the 
public,  in  reconciling  even  of  bodies  and  souls  ; 
in  composing  and  quieting  the  minds  of  men 
under  all  corporeal  redundancies,  deficiencies,  and 
irregularities  whatsoever  ;  and  making  every  one 
sit  down  content  in  his  own  carcass,  though  it 
were  not  perhaps  so  mathematically  put  together 
as  he  could  wish.’  And  again,  ‘  How  that  for  want  of 
a  due  consideration  of  what  you  first  advance,  viz: 
That  our  faces  are  not  of  our  own  choosing,  peo¬ 
ple  had  been  transported  beyond  all  good  breed¬ 
ing,  and  hurried  themselves  into  unaccountable 
and  fatal  extravagances  ;  as  how  many  impartial 
looking-glasses  had  been  censured  and  calum¬ 
niated,  nay,  and  sometimes  shivered  into  ten  thou¬ 
sand  splinters,  only  for  a  fair  representation  of 
the  truth  ?  How  many  bead-strings  and  garters 
had  been  made  accessory  and  actually  forfeited, 
only  because  folks  must  needs  quarrel  with  their 
own  shadows  ?  And  who,’  continues  he,  ‘  but  is 
deeply  sensible,  that  one  great  source  of  the  unea¬ 


71 

siness  and  misery  of  human  life,  especially  among 
those  of  distinction,  arises  from  nothing  in  the 
world  else,  but  too  severe  a  contemplation  of  an 
indefeasible  contexture  of  our  external  parts,  or 
certain  natural  and  invincible  dispositions  to  be  fat 
or  lean  ? — when  a  little  more  of  Mr.  Spectator’s 
philosophy  would  take  off  all  this.  In  the  mean¬ 
time  let  them  observe,  that  there  is  not  one  of  their 
sort,  but  perhaps,  in  some  age  of  the  world,  has 
been  highly  in  vogue,  and  may  be  so  again  ;  nay, 
in  some  country  or  another,  ten  to  one,  is  so  at 
this  day.  My  Lady  Ample  is  the  most  miserable 
woman  in  the  world,  purely  of  her  own  making. 
She  even  grudges  herself  meat  and  drink  for  fear 
she  should  thrive  by  them  ;  and  is  constantly 
crying  out,  *  In  a  quarter  of  a  year  more  I  shall  be 
quite  out  of  all  manner  of  shape  !’  Now  the  lady’s 
misfortune  seems  to  be  only  this,  that  she  is 
planted  in  a  wrong  soil ;  for  go  but  to  the  other 
side  of  the  water,  it  is  a  jest  at  Haerlem  to  talk  of 
a  shape  under  eighteen  stone.  These  wise  traders 
regulate  their  beauties  as  they  do  their  butter,  by 
the  pound  ;  and  Miss  Cross,  when  she  first  arrived 
in  the  Low  Countries,  was  not  computed  to  be  so 
handsome  as  Madam  Van  Brisket  by  near  half  a 
ton.  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  ’Squire  Lath,  a 
proper  gentleman  of  1,500Z.  per  annum,  as  well  as 
of  unblamable  life  and  conversation;  yet  would  I 
not  be  the  esquire  for  half  his  estate  ;  for  if  it  was 
as  much  more,  he  would  freely  part  with  it  all  for 
a  pair  of  legs  to  his  mind.  Whereas,  in  the  reign 
of  our  first  Edward  of  glorious  memory,  nothing 
more  modish  than  a  brace  of  your  fine  taper  sup¬ 
porters  ;  and  his  majesty,  without  an  inch  of  calf, 
managed  affairs  in  peace  or  war  as  laudably  as 
the  bravest  and  most  politic  of  his  ancestors  ;  and 
was  as  terrible  to  his  neighbors  under  the  royal 
name  of  Longshanks,  as  Coeur  de  Lion  to  the 
Saracens  before  him.  If  we  look  farther  back  into 
history,  we  shall  find  that  Alexander  the  Great 
wore  his  head  a  little  over  his  left  shoulder,  and 
then  not  a  soul  stirred  out  till  he  had  adjusted  his 
neck-bone ;  the  whole  nobility  addressed  the 
prince  and  each  other  obliquely,  and  all  matters 
of  importance  were  concerted  and  carried  on  in 
the  Macedonian  court,  with  their  polls  on  one 
side.  For  about  the  first  century  nothing  made 
more  noise  in  the  world  than  Roman  noses, 
and  then  not  a  word  of  them  till  they  revived 
again  in  eighty-eight.*  N or  is  it  so  very  long  since 
Richard  the  Third  set  up  half  the  backs  of  the 
nation ;  and  high  shoulders,  as  well  as  high 
noses,  were  the  top  of  the  fashion.  But  to  come 
to  ourselves,  gentlemen,  though  I  find  by  my 
quinquennial  observations,  that  we  shall  never 
get  ladies  enough  to  make  a  party  in  our  own 
country,  yet  might  we  meet  with  better  success 
among  some  of  our  allies.  And  what  think  you 
if  our  board  sat  for  a  Dutch  piece  ?  Truly  I  am 
of  opinion,  that  as  odd  as  we  appear  in  flesh  and 
blood,  we  should  be  no  such  strange  things  in 
mezzotinto.  But  this  project  may  rest  till  our 
number  is  complete  ;  and  this  being  our  election 
night,  give  me  leave  to  propose  Mr.  Spectator. 
You  see  his  inclinations,  and  perhaps  we  may 
not  have  his  fellow.’ 

“I  found  most  of  them  (as  is  usual  in  all  such 
cases)  were  prepared ;  but  one  of  the  seniors 
(whom  by-the-bye,  Mr.  President  had  taken  all 
this  pains  to  bring  over)  sat  still,  and  cocking  his 
chin,  which  seemed  only  to  be  leveled  at  his 
nose,  very  gravely  declared,  ‘  That  in  case  he  had 
had  sufficient  knowledge  of  you,  no  man  should 
have  been  more  willing  to  have  served  you  ;  but 

♦On  the  accession  of  King  William  III,  in  compliment  to 
whom  Dryden,  in  the  plates  to  the  translation  of  Virgil,  had 
jEne&s  always  represented  with  a  Roman  nose. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


72 

that  he,  for  his  own  part,  had  always  had  regard  to 
his  own  conscience,  as  well  as  other  people  s  meiit , 
and  that  he  did  not  know  but  that  you  might  be  a 
handsome  fellow  ;  for,  as  for  your  own  certificate, 
it  was  everybody’s  business  to  speak  for  themselves.’ 
Mr.  President  immediately  retorted,  ‘  A  handsome 
fellow  !  why  he  is  a  wit,  Sir,  and  you  know  the  pro¬ 
verb  :’  and  to  ease  the  old  gentleman  of  his  scru¬ 
ples  cried,  ‘  That  for  matter  of  merit  it  was  all  one, 
you  might  wear  a  mask.’  This  threw  him  into  a 
pause,  and  he  looked  desirous  of  three  days  to 
consider  on  it ;  but  Mr.  President  improved  the 
thought,  and  followed  him  up  with  an  old  story, 

<  That  wits  were  privileged  to  wear  what  masks 
they  pleased  in  all  ages  ;  and  that  a  wizard  had 
been  the  constant  crown  of  their  labors,  which 
was  generally  presented  them  by  the  hand  of 
gome  satyr,  and  sometimes  by  Apollo  himself : 
for  the  truth  of  which  he  appealed  to  the  frontis¬ 
piece  of  several  books,  and  particularly  to  the 
English  Juvenal,  to  which  he  referred  him;  and 
only  added,  ‘  That  such  authors  were  the  Larvati 
or  Larva  donali  of  the  ancients.’  Jhis  cleared  up 
all,  and  in  the  conclusion  you  were  chosen  proba¬ 
tioner  ;  and,  Mr.  President,  put  round  your  health 
as  such,  protesting,  ‘  That  though  indeed  he  talk¬ 
ed  of  a  wizard,  he  did  not  believe  all  the  while 
you  had  anv  more  occasion  for  it  than  the  cat-a- 
inountain  ;’  so  that  all  you  have  to  do  now  is  to 
pay  your  fees,  which  are  here  very  reasonable, 
if  you  are  not  imposed  upon ;  and  you  may  style 
yourself  Jnfonnis  Societatis  Socius :  which  I  am 
desired  to  acquaint  you  with  ;  and  upon  the  same 
X  beg  you  to  accept  ot  the  congratulations  of, 

“  Sir  your  obliged  humble  servant, 

“  Oxford,  March  21.  “  A.  C. 


Ho.  33.]  SATURDAY,  APRIL  7,  1711. 

Fervid  us  tecum  puer,  et  solutis 

Gratiae  zonis,  properentque  nymphae, 

Ft  parum  comis  sine  te  juventus, 

Mercuriusque. — IIor.  1  Od.,  xxx,  5. 

The  graces  with  their  zones  unloos’d; 

The  nymphs,  with  beauties  all  expos’d, 

From  every  spring,  and  every  plain; 

Thy  powerful,  hot,  and  winged  hoy; 

And  youth,  that’s  dull  without  thy  joy; 

And  Mercury,  compose  thy  train. — Creech. 

A  Friend  of  mine  has  two  daughters,  whom  I 
will  call  Laetitia  and  Daphne ;  the  former  is  one 
of  the  greatest  beauties  of  the  age  in  which  she 
lives,  the  latter  no  way  remarkable  for  any  charms 
in  her  person.  Upon  this  one  circumstance  of 
their  outward  form,  the  good  and  ill  of  their  life 
seems  to  turn.  Laetitia  has  not,  from  hei  veiy 
childhood,  heard  anything  else  but  commenda¬ 
tions  of  her  features  and  complexion,  by  which 
means  she  is  no  other  than  nature  made  her,  a 
very  beautiful  outside.  The  consciousness  of  her 
charms  has  rendered  her  insupportably  vain  and 
insolent  toward  all  who  have  to  do  with  her. 
Daphne,  who  was  almost  twenty  before  one  civil 
thing  had  ever  been  said  to  her,  found  herself  ob¬ 
liged  to  acquire  some  accomplishments  to  make  up 
for  the  want  of  those  attractions  which  she  saw  in 
her  sister.  Poor  Daphne  was  seldom  submitted 
to  in  a  debate  wherein  she  was  concerned;  her  dis¬ 
course  had  nothing  to  recommend  it  but  the  good 
sense  of  it,  and  she  was  always  under  a  necessity 
to  have  very  well  considered  what  she  was  to  say 
before  she  uttered  it;  while  Laetitia  was  listened 
to  with  partiality,  and  approbation  sat  on  the 
countenances  of  those  she  conversed  with,  before 
she  communicated  what  she  had  to  say.  These 
causes  have  produced  suitable  effects,  and  Laetitia 
is  as  insipid  a  companion  as  Daphne  is  an  agree¬ 


able  one.  Laetitia,  confident  of  favor,  has  studied 
no  arts  to  please;  Daphne,  despairing  of  any  incli¬ 
nation  toward  her  person,  has  depended  only  on 
her  merit.  Laetitia  has  always  something  in  her 
air  that  is  sullen,  grave,  and  disconsolate.  Daphne 
has  a  countenance  that  is  cheerful,  open,  and  un¬ 
concerned.  A  young  gentleman  saw  Laetitia  this 
winter  at  a  play,  and  became  her  captive.  _  His 
fortune  was  such,  that  he  wanted  very  little  intro¬ 
duction  to  speak  his  sentiments  to  her  father.  The 
lover  was  admitted  with  the  utmost  freedom  into 
the  family,  where  a  constrained  behavior,  severe 
looks,  and  distant  civilities,  were  the  highest  fa¬ 
vors  he  could  obtain  of  Laetitia;  while  Daphne 
used  him  with  the  good  humor,  familiarity,  and 
innocence  of  a  sister:  insomuch  that  he  would 
often  say  to  her,  “  Dear  Daphne,  wert  thou  but  as 
handsome  as  Laetitia—”  She  received  such  lan¬ 
guage  with  that  ingenuousness  and  pleasing  mirth 
which  is  natural  to  a  woman  without  design.  He 
still  sighed  in  vain  for  Laetitia,  but  found  certain 
relief  in  the  agreeable  conversation  of  Daphne. 
At  length,  heartily  tired  with  the  haughty  imper¬ 
tinence  of  Laetitia,  and  charmed  with  the  repeated 
instances  of  good  humor  he  had  observed  in 
Daphne,  he  one  day  told  the  latter  that  he  had  some¬ 
thing  to  say  to  her  he  hoped  she  would  be  pleased 
with — “Faith,  Daphne,”  continued  he,  “1  am  in 
love  with  thee,  ana  despise  thy  sister  sincerely. 
The  manner  of  his  declaring  himself  gave  his  mis¬ 
tress  occasion  for  a  very  hearty  laughter. — “  Nay ,” 
says  he,  “I  knew  you  would  laugh  at  me,  but  I 
will  ask  your  father.”  He  did  so;  the  father  re¬ 
ceived  this  intelligence  with  no  less  joy  than  sur¬ 
prise,  and  was  very  glad  he  had  now  no  care  left 
but  for  his  beauty,  which  he  thought  he  could 
carry  to  market  at  his  leisure.  I  do  not  know 
anything  that  has  pleased  me  so  much  for  a  great 
while,  as  this  conquest  of  my  friend  Daphne  s. 
All  her  acquaintance  congratulate  her  upon  her 
chance-medley,  and  laugh  at  that  premeditating 
murderer  her  sister.  As  it  is  an  argument  of  a 
light  mind,  to  think  the  worse  of  ourselves  for  the 
imperfections  of  our  person,  it  is  equally  below  us 
to  value  ourselves  upon  the  advantages  of  them. 
The  female  world  seem  to  be  almost  incorrigibly 
gone  astray  in  this  particular;  for  which  reason  I 
shall  recommend  the  following  extract  out  of  a 
friend’s  letter  to  the  professed  beauties,  who  are  a 
people  almost  as  insufferable  as  tfie  professed 

wits.  ,  ,  . 

“  Monsieur  St.  Evremond  has  concluded  one  ot 
his  essays  with  affirming,  that  the  last  sighs  of  a 
handsome  woman  are  not  so  much  for  the  loss  of 
her  life,  as  of  her  beauty.  Perhaps  this  raillery  is 
pursued  too  far,  yet  it  is  turned  upon  a  very  obvi¬ 
ous  remark,  that  woman’s  strongest  passion  is  for 
her  own  beauty,  and  that  she  values  it  as  her  fa¬ 
vorite  distinction.  From  hence  it  is  that  all  arts 
which  pretend  to  improve  or  preserve  it,  meet  with 
so  general  a  reception  among  the  sex.  To  say 
nothing  of  many  false  helps  and  contraband  wares 
of  beauty  which  are  daily  vended  in  this  great 
mart,  there  is  not  a  maiden  gentlewoman  of  good 
family  in  any  county  of  South  Britain,  who  has 
not  heard  of  the  virtues  of  May-dew,  or  is  unfur¬ 
nished  with  some  receipt  or  other  in  favor  of  her 
complexion  ;  and  I  have  known  a  physician  of 
learning  and  sense,  after  eight  years’  study  in  the 
university,  and  a  course  of  travels  into  most  coun¬ 
tries  of  Europe,  owe  the  first  raising  of  his  fortunes 
to  a  cosmetic  wash. 

“  This  has  given  me  occasion  to  consider  how  so 
universal  a  disposition  in  womankind,  which 
springs  from  a  laudable  motive  the  desire  of 
pleasing — and  proceeds  upon  an  opinion  not  alto¬ 
gether  groundless — that  nature  may  be  helped  by 


73 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


art — may  bo  turned  to  their  advantage.  And,  me- 
thinks,  it  would  be  an  acceptable  service  to  take 
them  out  of  the  hands  of  quacks  and  pretenders, 
and  to  prevent  their  imposing  upon  themselves, 
by  discovering  to  them  the  true  secret  and  art  of 
improving  beauty. 

“  In  order  to  do  this,  before  I  touch  upon  it  di¬ 
rectly,  it  will  be  necessary  to  lay  down  a  few  pre¬ 
liminary  maxims,  viz: — 

“  That  no  woman  can  be  handsome  by  the  force 
of  features  alone,  any  more  than  she  can  be  witty 
only  by  the  help  of  speech. 

“  That  pride  destroys  all  symmetry  and  grace, 
and  affectation  is  a  more  terrible  enemy  to  fine 
faces  than  the  small-pox. 

“  That  no  woman  is  capable  of  being  beautiful, 
who  is  not  incapable  of  being  false. 

“And,  That  what  would  be  odious  in  a  friend  is 
deformity  in  a  mistress. 

“From  these  few  principles,  thus  laid  down,  it 
will  be  easy  to  prove,  that  the  true  art  of  assisting 
beauty  consists  in  embellishing  the  whole  person 
by  the  proper  ornaments  of  virtuous  and  commend¬ 
able  qualities.  By  this  help  alone  it  is,  that 
those  who  are  the  favorite  work  of  nature,  or,  as 
Mr.  Dryden  expresses  it,  the  porcelain  clay  of  hu¬ 
man  kind,  become  animated,  and  are  in  a  capacity 
of  exerting  their  charms  ;  and  those  who  seem  to 
have  been  neglected  by  her,  like  models  wrought 
in  haste,  are  capable  in  a  great  measure  of  finish¬ 
ing  what  she  has  left  imperfect. 

“  It  is,  methinks,  a  low  and  degrading  idea  of 
that  sex,  which  was  created  to  refine  the  joys  and 
soften  the  cares  of  humanity  by  the  most  agreea¬ 
ble  participation,  to  consider  them  merely  as  ob¬ 
jects  of  sight.  This  is  abridging  them  of  their 
natural  extent  of  power,  to  put  them  upon  a  level 
with  their  pictures  at  Kneller’s.  How  much  nobler 
is  the  contemplation  of  beauty  heightened  by  vir¬ 
tue,  and  commanding  our  esteem  and  love  while 
it  draws  our  observation !  How  faint  and  spirit¬ 
less  are  the  charms  of  a  coquette,  when  com¬ 
pared  with  the  real  loveliness  of  Sophronia’s 
innocence,  piety,  good  humor,  and  truth  ;  virtues 
which  add  a  new  softness  to  her  sex,  and  even 
beautify  her  beauty!  That  agreeableness  which 
must  otherwise  have  appeared  no  longer  in  the 
modest  virgin,  is  now  preserved  in  the  tender 
mother,  the  prudent  friend,  and  the  faithful  wife. 
Colors  artfully  spread  upon  canvas  may  entertain 
the  eye,  but  not  affect  the  heart ;  and  she  who 
takes  no  care  to  add  to  the  natural  graces  of  her 
person  any  excellent  qualities,  may  be  allowed 
still  to  amuse,  as  a  picture,  but  not  to  triumph  as 
a  beauty. 

“When  Adam  is  introduced  by  Milton,  describ¬ 
ing  Eve  in  Paradise,  and  relating  to  the  angel 
the  impressions  he  felt  upon  seeing  her  at  her  first 
creation,  he  does  not  represent  her  like  a  Grecian 
Venus,  by  her  shape  or  features,  but  by  the  luster 
of  her  mind  which  shone  in  them,  and  gave  them 
their  power  of  charming : 

Grace  was  in  all  her  steps,  hcav'n  in  her  eye, 

In  all  her  gestures  dignity  and  love! 

“Without  this  irradiating  power,  the  proudest 
fair  one  ought  to  know,  whatever  her  glass  may 
tell  her  to  the  contrary,  that  her  most  perfect  fea¬ 
tures  are  uninformed  and  dead. 

“  I  cannot  better  close  this  moral  than  by  a  short 
epitaph  written  by  Ben  Jonson  with  a  spirit  which 
nothing  could  inspire  but  such  an  object  as  I  have 
been  describing: 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lie 
As  much  virtue  as  could  die ; 


Which  when  alive  did  vigor  give 
To  as  much  beauty  as  could  live. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant, 

“  R.  B.” 


No.  34.]  MONDAY,  APRIL  9,  1711. 

- parcit 

Cognatis  maculis  similis  fera - Juv.,  Sat.  xv,  159. 

Iroin  spotted  skins  the  leopard  does  refrain. — Tate. 

The  club  of  which  I  am  a  member,  is  very  luck¬ 
ily  composed  of  such  persons  as  are  engaged  in 
different  ways  of  life,  and  deputed  as  it  were  out 
of  the  most  conspicuous  classes  of  mankind.  By 
this  means  I  am  furnished  with  the  greatest  va¬ 
riety  of  hints  and  materials,  and  know  everything 
that  passes  in  the  different  quarters  and  divisions 
not  only  of  this  great  city,  but  of  the  whole  king¬ 
dom.  My  readers  too  have  the  satisfaction  to  find 
that  there  is  no  rank  or  degree  among  them  who 
have  not  their  representative  in  this  club,  and  that 
there  is  always  somebody  present  who  will  take 
care  of  their  respective  interests,  that  nothing  may 
be  written  or  published  to  the  prejudice  or  infringe¬ 
ment  of  their  just  rights  and  privileges. 

I  last  night  sat  very  late  in  company  with  this 
select  body  of  friends,  who  entertained  me  with 
several  remarks  which  they  and  others,  had  made 
upon  these  my  speculations,  as  also  with  the  va¬ 
rious  success  which  they  had  met  with  among 
their  several  ranks  and  degrees  of  readers.  Will 
Honeycomb  told  me  in  the  softest  manner  he 
could,  that  there  were  some  ladies  (but  for  your 
comfort,  says  Will,  they  are  not  those  of  the  most 
wit)  that  were  offended  at  the  liberties  I  had  taken 
with  the  opera  and  the  puppet-show ;  that  some 
of  them  were  likewise  very  much  surprised,  that  I 
should  think  such  serious  points  as  the  dress  and 
equipage  of  persons  of  quality  proper  subjects  for 
raillery. 

He  was  going  on,  when  Sir  Andrew  Freeport 
took  him  up  short,  and  told  him,  that  the  papers 
he  hinted  at,  had  done  great  good  in  the  city,  and 
that  all  their  wives  and  daughters  were  the  better 
for  them  ;  and  farther  added,  that  the  whole  city 
thought  themselves  very  much  obliged  to  me  for 
declaring  my  generous  intentions  to  scourge  vice 
and  folly  as  they  appear  in  a  multitude,  without 
condescending  to  be  a  publisher  of  particular  in¬ 
trigues  and  cuckoldoms.  “In  short,”  says  Sir 
Andrfew,  “if  you  avoid  that  foolish  beaten  road 
of  falling  upon  aldermen  and  citizens,  and  employ 
your  pen  upon  the  vanity  and  luxury  of  courts, 
your  paper  must  needs  be  of  general  use.” 

Upon  this  my  friend  the  Templar  told  Sir  An¬ 
drew,  that  he  wondered  to  hear  a  man  of  his  sense 
talk  after  that  manner,  that  the  city  had  always 
been  the  province  for  satire ;  and  that  the  wits  of 
king  Charles’  time  jested  upon  nothing  else  during 
his  whole  reign.  He'  then  showed,  by  the  exam¬ 
ples  of  Horace,  Juvenal,  Boileau,  and  the  best 
writers  of  every  age,  that  the  follies  of  the  stage 
and  court  had  never  been  accounted  too  sacred 
for  ridicule,  how  great  soever  the  persons  might 
be  that  patronized  them.  “  But  after  all,”  says 
he,  “I  think  your  raillery  has  made  too  great  an 
excursion,  in  attacking  several  persons  of  the  inns 
of  court ;  and  I  do  not  believe  you  can  show  me 
any  precedent  for  your  behavior  in  that  par¬ 
ticular.” 

My  good  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  who  had 
said  nothing  all  this  while,  began  his  speech  with 
a  pish !  and  told  us,  that  he  wondered  to  see  so 
many  men  of  sense  so  very  serious  upon  fooler¬ 
ies.  “Let  our  good  friend,”  says  he,  “attack  every 
one  that  deserves  it ;  I  would  only  advise  you, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


74 

Mr.  Spectator,”  applying  liimself  to  me,  “to  take 
care  how  you  meddle  with  country  ’squires.  They 
are  the  ornaments  of  the  English  nation ;  men  of 
good  heads  and  sound  bodies!  and,  let  me  tell 
you,  some  of  them  take  it  ill  of  you,  that  you  men¬ 
tion  fox-hunters  with  so  little  respect. 

Captain  Sentry  spoke  very  sparingly  on  this  oc¬ 
casion.  What  he  said  was  only  to  commend  my 
prudence  in  not  touching  upon  the  army,  and  ad¬ 
vised  me  to  continue  to  act  discreetly  in  that 
point. 

By  this  time  I  found  every  subject  of  my  specu¬ 
lations  was  taken  away  from  me,  by  one  or  other 
of  the  club :  and  began  to  think  myself  in  the 
condition  of  the  good  man  that  had  one  wife  who 
took  a  dislike  to  his  gray  hair,  and  another  to  his 
black,  till  by  their  picking  out  what  each  of  them 
had  an  aversion  to,  they  left  his  head  altogether 
bald  and  naked. 

While  I  was  thus  musing  with  myself,  my  wor¬ 
thy  friend  the  clergyman,  who,  very  luckily  for 
me,  was  at  the  club  that  night,  undertook  my 
cause.  He  told  us,  that  he  wondered  any  order  of 
persons  should  think  themselves  too  considerable 
to  be  advised.  That  it  was  not  quality,  but  inno¬ 
cence,  which  exempted  men  from  reproof.  That 
vice  and  folly  ought  to  be  attacked  wherever  they 
could  be  met  with,  and  especially  when  they  were 
placed  in  high  and  conspicuous  stations  of  life. 
He  farther  added,  that  my  paper  would  only  serve 
to  aggravate  the  pains  of  poverty,  if  it  chiefly 
exposed  those  who  are  already  depressed,  and  in 
some  measure  turned  into  ridicule,  by  the  mean¬ 
ness  of  their  conditions  and  circumstances.  He 
afterward  proceeded  to  take  notice  of  the  great  use 
this  paper  might  be  of  to  the  public,  by  repre¬ 
hending  those  vices  which  are  too  trivial  for  the 
chastisement  of  the  law,  and  too  fantastical  for 
the  cognizance  of  the  pulpit.  He  then  advised 
me  to  prosecute  my  undertaking  with  cheerfulness, 
and  assured  me,  that  whoever  might  be  displeased 
with  me,  I  should  be  approved  by  all  those  whose 
raises  do  honor  to  the  persons  on  whom  they  are 
esfOwed. 

The  whole  club  pay  a  particular  deference  to  the 
discourse  of  this  gentleman,  and  are  drawn  into 
what  he  says  as  much  by  the  candid,  ingenuous 
manner  with  which  he  delivers  himself,  .as  by  the 
strength  of  argument  and  force  of  reason  which 
he  makes  use  of.  Will  Honeycomb  immediately 
agreed,  that  what  he  had  said  was  right ;  and 
that,  for  his  part,  he  would  not  insist  upon  the 
uarter  which  he  had  demanded  for  the  ladies, 
ir  Andrew  gave  up  the  city  with  the  same  frank¬ 
ness.  The  Templar  would  not  stand  out,  and  was 
followed  by  Sir  Roger  and  the  Captain  ;  who  all 
agreed  that  I  should  be  at  liberty  to  carry  the  war 
into  what  quarter  I  pleased  ;  provided  I  continued 
to  combat  with  criminals  in  a  body,  and  to  assault 
the  vice  without  hurting  the  person. 

This  debate,  which  was  held  for  the  good  of 
mankind,  put  me  in  mind  of  that  which  the  Ro¬ 
man  triumvirate  were  formerly  engaged  in  for  their 
destruction.  Every  man  at  first  stood  hard  for  his 
friend,  till  they  found  that  by  this  means  they 
should  spoil  their  proscription  ;  and  at  length, 
making  a  sacrifice  of  all  their  acquaintance  and 
relations,  furnished  out  a  very  decent  execution. 

Having  thus  taken  my  resolutions  to  march  on 
boldly  in  the  cause  of  virtue  and  good  sense,  and 
to  annoy  their  adversaries  in  whatever  degree  or 
rank  of  men  they  may  be  found  ;  I  shall  be  deaf 
for  the  future  to  all  the  remonstrances  that  shall 
be  made  to  me  on  this  account.  If  Punch  grows 
extravagant,  I  shall  reprimand  him  veiy  freely. 
If  the  stage  becomes  a  nursery  of  folly  and  im¬ 
pertinence,  I  shall  not  be  afraid  to  animadvert 


upon  it.  In  short,  if  I  meet  with  anything  in 
city,'  court,  or  country,  that  shocks  modesty  or 
good  manners,  I  shall  use  my  utmost  endeavors  to 
make  an  example  of  it.  I  must,  however,  entreat 
every  particular  person,  who  does  me  the  honor 
to  be  a  reader  of  this  paper,  never  to  think  him¬ 
self,  or  any  one  of  his  friends  or  enemies,  aimed 
at  in  what  is  said  ;  for  I  promise  him,  never  to 
draw  a  faulty  character  which  does  not  fit  at  least 
a  thousand  people  ;  or  to  publish  a  single  paper, 
that  is  not  written  in  the  spirit  of  benevolence, 
and  with  a  love  of  mankind. — C. 


No.  35.]  TUESDAY,  APRIL  10,  1711. 

Risu  inepto  res  ineptior  nulla  est. 

Catull.  Carm.,  39,  in  Enat. 

Nothing  so  foolish  as  the  laugh  of  fools. 

Among  all  kinds  of  writing,  there  is  none  in 
which  authors  are  more  apt  to  miscarry  than  in 
works  of  humor,  as  there  is  none  in  which  they 
are  more  ambitious  to  excel.  It  is  not  an  imagina¬ 
tion  that  teems  with  monsters,  a  head  that  is  filled 
with  extravagant  conceptions,  which  is  capable 
of  furnishing  the  world  with  diversions  of  this 
nature  :  and  yet  if  we  look  into  the  production  of 
several  writers,  who  set  up  for  men  of  humor, 
what  wild  irregular  fancies,  what  unnatural  dis¬ 
tortions  of  thought  do  we  meet  with  ?  If  they 
speak  nonsense,  they  believe  they  are  talking  hu¬ 
mor  ;  and  when  they  have  drawn  together  a  scheme 
of  absurd,  inconsistent  ideas,  they  are  not  able  to 
read  it  over  to  themselves  without  laughing.  These 
poor  gentlemen  endeavor  to  gain  themselves  the 
reputation  of  wits  and  humorists,  by  such  mon¬ 
strous  conceits  as  almost  qualify  them  for  Bedlam  ; 
not  considering  that  humor  should  always  lie  under 
the  check  of  reason,  and  that  it  requires  the  direc¬ 
tion  of  the  nicest  judgment,  by  so  much  the  more  as 
it  indulges  itself  in  the  most  boundless  freedoms. 
There  is  a  kind  of  nature  that  is  to  be  observed  in 
this  sort  of  compositions,  as  well  as  in  all  other;  and 
a  certain  regularity  of  thought  which  must  disco¬ 
ver  the  writer  to  be  a  man  of  sense,  at  the  same 
time  that  he  appears  altogether  given  up  to  caprice. 
For  my  part,  when  I  read  the  delirious  mirth  of 
an  unskillful  author,  I  cannot  be  so  barbarous  as  t® 
divert  myself  with  it,  but  am  rather  apt  to  pity  the 
man,  than  laugh  at  anything  he  writes. 

The  deceased  Mr.  Shadwell,  who  had  himself  a 
great  deal  of  the  talent  which  I  am  treating  of, 
represents  an  empty  rake,  in  one  of  his  plays,  as 
very  much  surprised  to  hear  one  say,  that  break¬ 
ing  of  windows  was  not  humor  ;  and  I  question 
not  but  several  English  readers  will  be  as  much 
startled  to  hear  me  affirm,  that  many  of  those  ra¬ 
ving  incoherent  pieces  which  are  often  spread 
among  us  under  odd  chimerical  titles,  are  rather 
the  offsprings  of  a  distempered  brain,  than  works 
of  humor. 

It  is  indeed  much  easier  to  describe  what  is  not 
humor,  than  what  is ;  and  very  difficult  to  define 
it  otherwise  than  as  Cowley  has  done  wit,  by  nega¬ 
tives.  Were  I  to  give  my  own  notions  of  it,  I 
would  deliver  them  after  Plato’s  manner,  in  a  kind 
of  allegory — and  by  supposing  Humor  to  be  a 
person,  deduce  to  him  all  his  qualifications,  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  following  genealogy.  Truth  was 
the  founder  of  the  family,  and  the  father  of  Good 
Sense.  Good  Sense  was  the  father  of  Wit,  who 
married  a  lady  of  collateral  line  called  Mirth,  by 
whom  he  haa  issue  Humor.  Humor  therefore 
being  the  youngest  of  this  illustrious  family,  and 
descended  from  parents  of  such  different  disposi¬ 
tions,  is  very  various  and  unequal  in  his  temper; 
sometimes  you  see  him  putting  on  grave  looks 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


and  a  solemn  habit,  sometimes  airy  in  his  behavior 
and  fantastic  in  his  dress  ;  insomuch  that  at  dif¬ 
ferent  times  he  appears  as  serious  as  a  judge,  and 
as  jocular  as  a  merry-andrew.  But  as  lie  has  a 
great  deal  of  the  mother  in  his  constitution,  what¬ 
ever  mood  he  is  in,  he  never  fails  to  make  his  com¬ 
pany  laugh. 

But  since  there  is  an  impostor  abroad,  who  takes 
upon  him  the  name  of  this  young  gentleman,  and 
would  willingly  pass  for  him  in  the  world ;  to  the 
end  that  well-meaning  persons  may  not  be  im¬ 
posed  upon  by  cheats,  I  would  desire  my  readers, 
when  they  meet  with  this  pretender,  to  look  into 
his  parentage,  and  to  examine  him  strictly,  whether 
or  no  he  be  remotely  allied  to  Truth,  and  lineally 
descended  from  Good  Sense;  if  not,  they  may  con¬ 
clude  him  a  counterfeit.  They  may  likewise  dis¬ 
tinguish  him  by  a  loud  and  excessive  laughter,  in 
which  he  seldom  gets  his  company  to  join  with 
him.  For  as  True  Humor  generally  looks  serious 
while  everybody  laughs  about  him;  False  Humor  is 
always  laughing,  while  everybody  about  him  looks 
serious.  I  shall  only  add,  if  he  has  not  in  him 
a  mixture  of  both  parents,  that  is,  if  he  would 
pass  for  the  offspring  of  Wit  without  Mirth,  or 
Mirth  without  Wit,  you  may  conclude  him  to  be 
altogether  spurious  and  a  cheat. 

The  impostor  of  whom  I  am  speaking,  descends 
originally  from  Falsehood,  who  was  the  mother  of 
Nonsense,  who  was  brought  to  bed  of  a  son  called 
Frenzy,  who  married  one  of  the  daughters  of 
Folly,  commonly  known  by  the  name  of  Laughter, 
on  whom  he  begot  that  monstrous  infant  of  which 
I  have  here  been  speaking.  I  shall  set  down  at 
length  the  genealogical  table  of  False  Humor,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  place  under  the  genealogy  of 
True  Humor,  that  the  reader  may  at  one  view  be¬ 
hold  their  different  pedigree  and  relations : — 

Falsehood. 

Nonsense. 

Frenzy - Laughter. 

False  Humor. 

Truth. 

Good  Sense. 

Wit - Mirth. 

Humor. 

I  might  extend  the  allegory,  by  mentioning  several 
of  the  children  of  false  humor,  who  are  more  in 
number  than  the  sands  of  the  sea,  and  might  in 
particular  enumerate  the  many  sons  and  daughters 
which  he  has  begot  in  this  island.  But  as  this 
would  be  a  very  invidious  task,  I  shall  only  ob¬ 
serve  in  general,  that  False  Humor  differs  from  the 
True,  as  a  monkey  does  from  a  man. 

First  of  all,  He  is  exceedingly  given  to  little 
apish  tricks  and  buffooneries. 

Secondly,  He  so  much  delights  in  mimiciy,  that 
it  is  all  one  to  him  whether  he  exposes  by  it  vice 
and  folly,  luxury  and  avarice  ;  or,  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  virtue  and  wisdom,  pain  and  poverty. 

Thirdly,  He  is  Avonderfully  unlucky,  insomuch 
that  he  will  bite  the  hand  that  feeds  him,  and 
endeavor  to  ridicule  both  friends  and  foes  indiffer¬ 
ently.  For  having  but  small  talents,  he  must  be 
merry  where  he  can,  not  where  he  should. 

Fourthly,  Being  entirely  void  of  reason,  he  pur¬ 
sues  no  point  either  of  morality  or  instruction, 
but  is  ludicrous  only  for  the  sake  of  being  so. 

Fifthly,  Being  incapable  of  anything  but  mock 
representations,  his  ridicule  is  always  personal, 
and  aimed  at  the  vicious  man  or  the  writer — not 
at  the  vice  or  the  writing. 

I  have  here  only  pointed  at  the  whole  species  of 
false  humorists  ;  but  as  one  of  my  principal  de¬ 


75 

signs  in  this  paper  is  to  beat  down  that  malignant 
spirit  which  discovers  itself  in  the  writings  of  the 
present  age,  I  shall  not  scruple,  for  the  future,  to 
single  out  any  of  the  small  wits  that  infest  the 
world  with  such  compositions  as  are  ill-natured, 
immoral,  and  absurd.  This  is  the  only  exception 
which  I  shall  make  to  the  general  rule  I  have  pre¬ 
scribed  myself,  of  attacking  multitudes,  since 
every  honest  man  ought  to  look  upon  himself  as 
in  a  natural  state  of  war  with  the  libeler  and 
lampooner,  and  to  annoy  them  wherever  they  fall 
in  his  way.  This  is  but  retaliating  upon  them 
and  treating  them  as  they  treat  others. — 0. 


No.  36.]  WEDNESDAY,  APRIL  11,  1711. 

- Immania  monstra 

Perferimus - .  Virg.  iEn.,  iii,  583. 

Things  the  most  out  of  nature  we  endure. 

I  shall  not  put  myself  to  any  farther  pains  for 
this  day’s  entertainment,  than  barely  to  publish 
the  letters  and  titles  of  petitions  from  the  play¬ 
house,  with  the  minutes  I  have  made  upon  the 
latter  for  my  conduct  in  relation  to  them. 

Drury-lane,  April  the  9th. 

“  Upon  reading  the  project  which  is  set  forth  in 
one  of  your  late  papers,  of  making  an  alliance  be¬ 
tween  all  the  bulls,  bears  elephants,  and  lions 
which  are  separately  exposed  to  public  view  in 
the  cities  of  London  and  Westminster;  together 
with  the  other  wonders,  shows,  and  monsters 
whereof  you  made  respective  mention  in  the 
said  speculation  —  we,  the  chief  actors  of  this 
play-house,  met  and  sat  upon  the  said  design.  It 
is  with  great  delight  that  we  expect  the  execu¬ 
tion  of  this  work:  and  in  order  to  contribute  to  it, 
we  have  given  warning  to  all  our  ghosts  to  get 
their  livelihoods  where  they  can,  and  not  to  ap¬ 
pear  among  us  after  day-break  of  the  16th  instant. 
We  are  resolved  to  take  this  opportunity  to  part 
with  everything  which  does  not  contribute  to  the 
representation  of  human  life  ;  and  shall  make  a 
free  gift  of  all  animated  utensils  to  your  projector. 
The  hangings  you  formerly  mentioned  are  run 
away  ;  as  are  likewise  a  set  of  chairs,  each  of 
which  was  met  upon  two  legs  going  through  the 
Rose  tavern  at  two  this  morning.  We  hope. 
Sir,  you  will  give  proper  notice  to  the  town 
that  we  are  endeavoring  at  these  regulations ; 
and  that  we  intend  for  the  future  to  show  no 
monsters,  but  men  who  are  converted  into  such  by 
their  own  industry  and  affectation.  If  you  will 
please  be  at  the  house  to-night,  you  will  see  me 
do  my  endeavor  to  show  some  unnatural  appear¬ 
ances  which  are  in  vogue  among  the  polite  and 
well-bred.  I  am  to  represent,  in  the  character  of 
a  fine  lady  dancing,  all  the  distortions  which  are 
frequently  taken  for  graces  in  mien  and  gesture. 
This,  Sir,  is  a  specimen  of  the  methods  we  shall 
take  to  expose  the  monsters  which  come  within 
the  notice  of  a  regular  theater ;  and  we  desire 
nothing  more  gross  may  be  admitted  by  you  Spec¬ 
tators  for  the  future.  We  have  cashiered  three 
companies  of  theatrical  guards,  and  design  our 
kings  shall  for  the  future  make  love  and  sit  in 
council  without  an  army  ;  and  wait  only  your  di¬ 
rection,  whether  you  will  have  them  reinforce 
King  Porus,  or  join  the  troops  of  Macedon.  Mr. 
Pinkethman  resolves  to  consult  his  pantheon  of 
heathen  gods  in  opposition  to  the  oracle  of  Del- 
plios,  and  doubts  not  but  he  shall  turn  the  fortune 
of  Porus,  when  he  personates  him.  I  am  desired 
by  the  company  to  inform  you,  that  they  submit 
to  your  censures ;  and  shall  have  you  in  greater 
veneration  than  Hercules  was  of  old,  if  you  can 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


76 

drive  monsters  from  the  theater  ;  and  think  your 
merit  will  be  as  much  greater  than  his,  as  to  con¬ 
vince  is  more  than  to  conquer. 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  most  obedient  servant,  T.  D.” 

Sir, 

“  When  I  acquaint  you  with  the  great  and  unex- 

fected  vicissitudes  of  my  fortune.  I  doubt  not  but 
shall  obtain  your  pity  and  favor.  I  have  for 
many  years  past  been  Thunderer  to  the  play-house 
and  have  not  only  made  as  much  noise  out  of  the 
clouds  as  any  predecessor  of  mine  in  the  theater 
that  ever  bore  that  character,  but  also  have  de¬ 
scended  and  spoken  on  the  stage  as  the  bold 
Thunderer  in  The  Rehearsal.  When  they  got  me 
down  thus  low,  they  thought  fit  to  degrade  me 
farther,  and  make  me  a  ghost.  I  was  contented 
with  this  for  these  two  last  winters;  but  they  carry 
their  tyranny  still  farther,  and  not  satisfied  that  I 
am  banished  from  above  ground,  they  have  given 
me  to  understand  that  I  am  wholly  to  depart  their 
dominions,  and  taken  from  me  even  my  subter¬ 
raneous  employment.  Now,  Sir,  what  I  desire  of 
you  is,  that  if  your  undertaker  thinks  fit  to  use 
fire-arms  (as  other  authors  have  done)  in  the  time 
of  Alexander,  I  may  be  a  cannon  against  Porus, 
or  else  provide  for  me  in  the  burning  of  Perse- 
polis,  or  what  other  method  you  shall  think  fit. 

“  Salmoneus  of  Covent-garden.” 

The  petition  of  all  the  Devils  of  the  play-house 
in  behalf  of  themselves  and  families,  setting  forth 
their  expulsion  from  thence,  with  certificates  of 
their  good  life  and  conversation,  and  praying 
relief. 

The  merit  of  this  petition  referred  to  Mr.  Chr. 
Rich,  who  made  them  devils. 

-  The  petition  of  the  Grave-digger  in  Hamlet,  to 
command  the  pioneers  in  the  Expedition  of  Alex¬ 
ander. 

Granted 

The  petition  of  William  Bullock,  to  be  Hephes- 
tion  to  Pinkethman  the  Great. 

Granted. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

A  widow  gentlewoman,  well  born  both  by  father 
and  mother’s  side,  being  the  daughter  of  Thomas 
Prater,  once  an  eminent  practitioner  in  the  law, 
and  of  Laetitia  Tattle,  a  family  well  known  in  all 
parts  of  this  kingdom,  having  been  reduced  by 
misfortunes  to  wait  on  several  great  persons,  and 
for  some  time  to  be  a  teacher  at  a  boarding-school 
of  young  ladies,  giveth  notice  to  the  public,  that 
she  hath  lately  taken  a  house  near  Bloomsbury- 
square,  commodiously  situated  next  the  fields,  in 
a  good  air;  where  she  teaches  all  sorts  of  birds  of 
the  loquacious  kind,  as  parrots,  starlings,  magpies, 
and  others,  to  imitate  human  voices  in  greater 
perfection  than  ever  was  yet  practiced.  They  are 
not  only  instructed  to  pronounce  words  distinctly, 
and  in  a  proper  tone  and  accent,  but  to  speak  the 
language  with  great  purity  and  volubility  of  tongue, 
together  with  all  the  fashionable  phrases  and  com¬ 
pliments  now  in  use  either  at  tea  tables,  or  on  visit¬ 
ing-days.  Those  that  have  good  voices  may  be 
taught  to  sing  the  newest  opera-airs,  and,  if  required 
to  speak  either  Italian  or  French,  paying  something 
extraordinary  above  the  common  rates.  They 
whose  friends  are  not  able  to  pay  the  full  prices, 
may  be  taken  as  half-boarders.  She  teaches  such 
as  are  designed  for  the  diversion  of  the  public,  and 
to  act  in  enchanted  woods  on  the  theaters,  by  the 
great.  As  she  had  often  observed  with  much  con¬ 
cern  how  indecent  an  education  is  usually  given 
these  innocent  creatures,  which  in  some  measure 
is  owing  to  their  being  placed  in  rooms  next  the 


street,  where,  to  the  great  offense  of  chaste  and 
tender  ears,  they  learn  ribaldry,  obscene  songs, 
and  immodest  expressions  from  passengers  and 
idle  people,  as  also  to  cry  fish  and  card-matches, 
with  other  useless  parts  of  learning  to  birds  who 
have  rich  friends,  she  has  fitted  up  proper  and 
neat  apartments  for  them  in  the  back  part  of  her 
said  house  :  where  she  suffers  none  to  approach 
them  but  herself,  and  a  servant-maid  who  is  deaf 
and  dumb,  and  whom  she  provided  on  purpose  to 
prepare  their  food,  and  cleanse  their  cages;  haying 
found  by  long  experience,  how  hard  a  thing  it  is 
for  those  to  keep  silence  who  have  the  use  of 
speech,  and  the  dangers  her  scholars  are  exposed 
to,  by  the  strong  impressions  that  are  made  by 
harsh  sounds  and  vulgar  dialects.  In  short,  if 
thev  are  birds  of  any  parts  or  capacity,  she  will 
undertake  to  render  them  so  accomplished  in  the 
compass  of  a  twelvemonth,  that  they  shall  be  fit 
conversation  for  such  ladies  as  love  to  choose  their 
friends  and  companions  out  of  this  species. — R. 


No.  37.]  THURSDAY,  APRIL  12,  1711. 

- Non  ilia  colo  calathisve  Minervae 

Foemineas  assueta  manus - Virg.  iEn.,  vii,  805. 

Unbred  to  spinning,  in  the  loom  unskill’d. — Dryden. 

Some  months  ago,  my  friend  Sir  Roger,  being  in 
the  country,  inclosed  a  letter  to  me,  directed  to  a 
certain  lady  whom  I  shall  here  call  by  the  name 
of  Leonora — and  as  it  contained  matters  of  con¬ 
sequence,  desired  me  to  deliver  it  to  her  with  my 
own  hand.  Accordingly  I  waited  upon  her  lady¬ 
ship  pretty  early  in  the  morning,  and  was  de¬ 
sired  by  her  woman  to  walk  into  her  lady’s  library, 
till  such  time  as  she  was  in  readiness  to  receive 
me.  The  very  sound  of  a  lady’s  library  gave  me 
a  great  curiosity  to  see  it ;  and  as  it  was  some 
time  before  the  lady  came  to  me,  I  had  an  op¬ 
portunity  of  turning  over  a  great  many  of  her 
books,  which  were  ranged  together  in  a  very  beau¬ 
tiful  order.  At  the  end  of  the  folios  (which  were 
finely  bound  in  gilt)  were  great  jars  of  china, 
placed  one  above  another  in  a  very  noble  piece  of 
architecture.  The  quartos  were  separated  from 
the  octavos  by  a  pile  of  smaller  vessels,  which 
rose  in  a  delightful  pyramid.  The  octavos  were 
bounded  by  tea-dishes  of  all  shapes,  colors  and 
sizes,  which  were  so  disposed  on  a  wooden  frame, 
that  they  looked  like  one  continued  pillar  in¬ 
dented  with  the  finest  strokes  of  sculpture,  and 
stained  with  the  greatest  variety  of  dyes.  That 
part  of  the  library  which  was  designed  for  the  re¬ 
ception  of  plays  and  pamphlets,  and  other  loose 
papers,  was  inclosed  in  a  kind  of  square,  consisting 
of  one  of  the  prettiest  grotesque  works  that  I 
ever  saw,  and  made  up  of  scaramouches,  lions, 
monkeys,  mandarins,  trees,  shells,  and  a  thou¬ 
sand  other  odd  figures  in  china-ware.  In  the 
midst  of  the  room  was  a  little  japan  table,  with  a 
quire  of  gilt  paper  upon  it,  ana  on  the  paper  a 
silver  snuff-box  made  in  the  shape  of  a  little  book. 
I  found  there  were  several  other  counterfeit  books 
upon  the  upper  shelves,  which  were  carved  in 
wood,  and  served  only  to  fill  up  the  numbers  like 
fagots  in  the  muster  of  a  regiment.  I  was  wonder¬ 
fully  pleased  with  such  a  mixed  kind  of  furniture, 
as  seemed  very  suitable  both  to  the  lady  and  the 
scholar,  and  did  not  know  at  first  whether  I  should 
fancy  myself  in  a  grotto  or  in  a  library. 

Upon  my  looking  into  the  books,  I  found  there 
were  some  few  which  the  lady  had  bought  for 
her  own  use,  but  that  most  of  them  had  been 
got  together,  either  because  she  had  heard  them 
praised,  or  because  she  had  seen  the  authors  of 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


them.  Among  several  that  I  examined,  I  very 
well  remember  these  that  follow : 

Ogleby’s  Yirgil. 

Dry  den’s  Juvenal. 

Cassandra. 

Cleopatra. 

Astrsea. 

Sir  Isaac  Newton’s  "Works. 

The  Grand  Cyrus ;  with  a  pin  stuck  in  one  of 
the  middle  leaves. 

Pembroke’s  Arcadia. 

Locke  on  Human  Understanding,  with  a  paper 
of  patches  in  it. 

A  Spelling-book. 

A  Dictionary  for  the  explanation  of  hard  words. 

Sherlock  upon  Death. 

The  fifteen  comforts  of  matrimony. 

Sir  William  Temple’s  Essays. 

Father  Malebranche’s  Search  after  Truth,  trans¬ 
lated  into  English. 

A  book  of  Novels. 

The  Academy  of  Compliments. 

Culpepper’s  Midwifery. 

The  Ladies’  Calling. 

Tales  in  Yerse  by  Mr.  Durfey:  bound  in  red 
leather,  gilt  on  the  back,  and  doubled  down 
in  several  places. 

All  the  Classic  Authors  in  Wood. 

A  set  of  Elzevirs  by  the  same  Hand. 

Clelia :  which  opened  of  itself  in  the  place  that 
describes  two  lovers  in  a  bower. 

Baker’s  Chronicle. 

Advice  to  a  Daughter. 

The  New  Atlantis,  with  a  Key  to  it. 

Mr.  Steele’s  Christian  Hero. 

A  Prayer-book  :  with  a  bottle  of  Hungary  Wa¬ 
ter  by  the  side  of  it. 

Dr.  Sacheverell’s  Speech. 

Fielding’s  Trial. 

Seneca’s  Morals. 

T aylor’s  Holy  Living  and  Dying. 

La  Ferte’s  Instructions  for  Country  Dances. 

I  was  taking  a  catalogue  in  my  pocket-book  of 
these  and  several  other  authors,  when  Leonora 
entered,  and  upon  mv  presenting  her  with  a  letter 
for  the  knight,  told  me,  with  an  unspeakable 
race,  that  she  hoped  Sir  Roger  was  in  good 
ealth  ;  I  answered  yes,  for  I  hate  long  speeches, 
and  after  a  bow  or  two  retired. 

Leonora  was  formerly  a  celebrated  beauty,  and 
is  still  a  very  lovely  woman.  She  has  been  a 
widow  for  two  or  three  years,  and  being  unfortu¬ 
nate  in  her  first  marriage,  has  taken  a  resolution 
never  to  venture  upon  a  second.  She  has  no 
children  to  take  care  of,  and  leaves  the  manage¬ 
ment  ot  her  estate  to  my  good  friend  Sir  Roger. 
But  as  the  mind  naturally  sinks  into  a  kind  of 
lethargy,  and  falls  asleep,  that  is  not  agitated  by 
some  favorite  pleasures  and  pursuits,  Leonora  has 
turned  all  the  passion  of  her  sex  into  a  love  of 
books  and  retirement.  She  converses  chiefly 
with  men  (as  she  has  often  said  herself),  but  it 
is  only  in  their  writings,  and  admits  of  very  few 
male  visitants,  except  my  friend  Sir  Roger,  whom 
she  hears  with  great  pleasure,  and  without  scan¬ 
dal.  As  her  reading  has  lain  very  much  among 
romances,  it  has  given  her  a  very  particular  turn 
ot  thinking,  and  discovers  itself  even  in  her 
house,  her  gardens,  find  her  furniture.  Sir  Roger 
has  entertained  me  an  hour  together  with  a  de¬ 
scription  of  her  country-seat,  which  is  situated 
in  a  kind  of  wilderness,  about  a  hundred  miles 
distant  from  London,  and  looks  like  a  little  en¬ 
chanted  palace.  The  rocks  about  her  are  shaped 
into  artificial  grottos  covered  with  woodbines  and 
jessamines.  The  woods  are  cut  into  shady  walks, 
twisted  into  bowers,  and  filled  with  cages  of  turtles. 


77 

The  springs  are  made  to  run  among  pebbles,  and 
by  that  means  taught  to  murmur  very  agreeably. 
They  are  likewise  collected  into  a  beautiful  lake 
that  is  inhabited  by  a  couple  of  swans,  and  emp¬ 
ties  itself  by  a  little  rivulet  which  runs  through  a 
green  meadow,  and  is  known  in  the  family  by  the 
name  of  The  Purling  Stream.  The  knight  like¬ 
wise  tells  me,  that  this  lady  preserves  her  game 
better  than  any  of  the  gentlemen  in  the  country, 
not  (says  Sir  Roger)  that  she  sets  so  great  a  value 
upon  her  partridges  and  pheasants,  as  upon  her 
larks  and  nightingales.  For  she  says  that  every 
bird  which  is  killed  in  her  ground,  will  spoil  a 
concert,  and  that  she  shall  certainly  miss  him  the 
next  year. 

When  I  think  how  oddly  this  lady  is  improved 
by  learning,  I  look  upon  her  with  a  mixture  of 
admiration  and  pity.  Amidst  these  innocent  en¬ 
tertainments  which  she  has  formed  to  herself, 
how  much  more  valuable  does  she  appear  than 
those  of  her  sex,  who  employ  themselves  in  di¬ 
versions  that  are  less  reasonable,  though  more  in 
fashion?  What  improvements  would  a  woman 
have  made,  who  is  so  susceptible  of  impressions 
from  what  she  reads,  had  she  been  guided  by 
such  books  as  have  a  tendency  to  enlighten  the 
understanding  and  rectify  the  passions,  as  well 
as  to  those  which  are  of  little  more  use  than  to 
divert  the  imagination? 

But  the  manner  of  a  lady’s  employing  herself 
usefully  in  reading,  shall  be  the  subject  of  another 
paper  in  which  I  design  to  recommend  such  par¬ 
ticular  books  as  may  be  proper  for  the  improve¬ 
ment  of  the  sex.  And  as  this  is  a  subject  of  very 
nice  nature,  I  shall  desire  my  correspondents  to 
give  me  their  thoughts  upon  it. — 0. 


No.  38.]  FRIDAY,  APRIL  13,  1711. 

- Cupias  non  placuisse  nimis. — Mart. 

One  would  not  please  too  much. 

A  late  conversation  which  I  fell  into,  gave  me 
an  opportunity  of  observing  a  great  deal  of  beauty 
in  a  very  handsome  woman,  and  as  much  wit  in 
an  ingenious  man,  turned  into  deformity  in  the 
one,  and  absurdity  in  the  other,  by  the  mere  force 
of  affectation.  The  fair  one  had  something  in 
her  person  (upon  which  her  thoughts  were  fixed) 
that  she  attempted  to  show  to  advantage  in  every 
look,  word,  and  gesture.  The  gentleman  was  as 
diligent  to  do  justice  to  his  fine  parts  as  the  lady 
to  her  beauteous  form.  You  might  see  his  ima¬ 
gination  on  the  stretch  to  find  out  something  un¬ 
common,  and  what  they  call  bright,  to  entertain 
her,  while  she  writhed  herself  into  as  many  dif¬ 
ferent  postures  to  engage  him.  When  she  laughed, 
her  lips  were  to  sever  at  a  greater  distance  than 
ordinary,  to  show  her  teeth ;  her  fan  was  to  point 
to  something  at  a  distance,  that  in  the  reach  she 
may  discover  the  roundness  of  her  arm  ;  then  she 
is  utterly  mistaken  in  what  she  saw,  falls  back, 
smiles  at  her  own  folly,  and  is  so  wholly  discom¬ 
posed,  that  her  tucker  is  to  be  adjusted,  her  bosom 
exposed,  and  the  whole  woman  put  into  new  airs 
and  graces.  While  she  was  doing  all  this,  the 
gallant  had  time  to  think  of  something  very  pleas¬ 
ant  to  say  next  to  her,  or  to  make  some  unkind 
observation  on  some  other  lady  to  feed  her  vanity. 
These  unhappy  effects  of  affectation  naturally  led 
me  to  look  into  that  strange  state  of  mind  which 
so  generally  discolors  the  behavior  of  most  people 
we  meet  with. 

The  learned  Dr.  Burnet,  in  his  Theory  of  the 
Earth,  takes  occasion  to  observe,  that  every  thought 
is  attended  with  a  consciousness  and  representa¬ 
tiveness  ;  the  mind  has  nothing  presented  to  it 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


78 

but  what  is  immediately  followed  by  a  reflection 
of  conscience,  which  tells  you  whether  that  which 
was  so  presented  is  graceful  or  unbecoming.  This 
act  of  the  mind  discovers  itself  in  the  gesture, 
by  a  proper  behavior  in  those  whose  consciousness 
goes  no  farther  than  to  direct  them  in  the  just 
progress  of  their  present  state  or  action  ;  but  be¬ 
trays  an  interruption  in  every  second  thought, 
when  the  consciousness  is  employed  in  too  fondly 
approving  a  man’s  own  conceptions  ;  which  sort 
of  consciousness  is  what  we  call  affectation. 

As  the  love  of  praise  is  implanted  in  our  bosoms 
as  a  strong  incentive  to  worthy  actions,  it  is  a  very 
difficult  task  to  get  above  a  desire  of  it  for  things 
that  should  be  wholly  indifferent.  Women,  whose 
hearts  are  fixed  upon  the  pleasure  they  have  in 
the  consciousness  that  they  are  the  objects  of  love 
and  admiration,  are  ever  changing  the  air  of  their 
countenances,  and  altering  the  attitude  of  their 
bodies,  to  strike  the  hearts  of  their  beholders  with 
new  sense  of  their  beauty.  The  dressing  part  of 
our  sex,  whose  minds  are  the  same  with  the  sillier 
part  of  the  other,  are  exactly  in  the  like  uneasy 
condition  to  be  regarded  for  a  well-tied  cravat,  a 
hat  cocked  with  an  uncommon  briskness,  a  very 
well  chosen  coat,  or  other  instances  of  merit, 
which  they  are  impatient  to  see  unobserved. 

This  apparent  affectation,  arising  from  an  ill- 
governed  consciousness,  is  not  so  much  to  be 
wondered  at  in  such  loose  and  trivial  minds  as 
these  :  but  when  we  see  it  reign  in  characters  of 
worth  and  distinction,  it  is  what  you  cannot  but 
lament,  not  without  some  indignation.  It  creeps 
into  the  heart  of  the  wise  man  as  well  as  that  of 
the  coxcomb.  When  you  see  a  man  of  sense  look 
about  for  applause,  and  discover  an  itching  inclin¬ 
ation  to  be  commended  ;  lay  traps  for  a  little  in¬ 
cense,  even  from  those  whose  opinion  he  values  in 
nothing  but  his  own  favor ;  who  is  safe  against 
this  weakness  ?  or  who  knows  whether  he  is  guil¬ 
ty  of  it  or  not  ?  The  best  way  to  get  clear  of  such 
a  light  fondness  for  applause,  is  to  take  all  possi¬ 
ble  care  to  throw  off  the  love  of  it  upon  occasions 
that  are  not  in  themselves  laudable,  but  as  it  ap¬ 
pears  we  hope  for  no  praise  from  them.  Of  this 
nature  are  all  graces  in  men’s  persons,  dress,  and 
bodily  deportment,  which  will  naturally  be  win¬ 
ning  and  attractive  if  we  think  not  of  them,  but 
lose  their  force  in  proportion  to  our  endeavor  to 
make  them  such. 

,  When  our  consciousness  turns  upon  the  main 
design  of  life,  and  our  thoughts  are  employed 
upon  the  chief  purpose  either  in  business  or  pleas¬ 
ure,  we  shall  never  betray  an  affectation,  for  we 
cannot  be  guilty  of  it :  but  when  we  give  the  pas¬ 
sion  for  praise  an  unbridled  liberty,  our  pleasure  in 
little  perfections  robs  us  of  what  is  due  to  us  for 
great  virtues,  and  worthy  qualities.  How  many 
excellent  speeches  and  honest  actions  are  lost,  for 
want  of  being  indifferent  where  we  ought  ?  Men 
are  oppressed  with  regard  to  their  way  of  speak¬ 
ing  and  acting,  instead  of  having  their  thoughts 
bent  upon  what  they  should  do  or  say ;  and  by 
that  means  bury  a  capacity  for  great  things,  by 
their  fear  of  failing  in  indifferent  things.  This, 
perhaps,  cannot  be  called  affectation  ;  but  it  has 
some  tincture  of  it,  at  least  so  far,  as  that  their 
fear  of  erring  in  a  thing  of  no  consequence, 
argues  they  would  be  too  much  pleased  in  per¬ 
forming  it. 

It  is  only  from  a  thorough  disregard  to  himself 
in  such  particulars,  that  a  man  can  act  with  a 
laudable  sufficiency ;  his  heart  is  fixed  upon  one 
oint  in  view  ;  and  he  commits  no  errors,  because 
e  thinks  nothing  an  error  but  what  deviates 
from  that  intention. 

The  wild  havoc  affectation  makes  in  that  part 


of  the  world  which  should  be  most  polite,  is  visi¬ 
ble  wherever  we  turn  our  eyes  :  it  pushes  men  not 
only  into  impertinencies  in  conversation,  but  also 
in  their  premeditated  speeches.  At  the  bar  it  tor¬ 
ments  the  bench,  whose  business  it  is  to  cut  off  all 
superfluities  in  what  is  spoken  before  it  by  the 
practitioner  ;  as  well  as  several  little  pieces  of  in¬ 
justice  which  arise  from  the  law  itself.  I  have 
seen  it  make  a  man  run  from  the  purpose  before 
a  judge,  who  was,  when  at  the  bar  himself,  so 
close  and  logical  a  pleader,  that  with  all  the  pomp 
of  eloquence  in  his  power,  he  never  spoke  a  word 
too  much.* 

It  might  be  borne  even  here,  but  it  often  ascends 
the  pulpit  itself ;  and  the  declaimer  in  that  sacred 
place  is  frequently  so  impertinently  witty,  speaks 
of  the  last  day  itself  with  so  many  quaint  phrases, 
that  there  is  no  man  who  understands  raillery, 
but  must  resolve  to  sin  no  more.  Nay,  you  may 
behold  him  sometimes  in  prayer,  for  a  proper  de¬ 
livery  of  the  great  truths  he  is  to  utter,  humble 
himself  with  so  very  well-turned  phrase,  and 
mention  his  own  unworthiness  in  a  way  so  very 
becoming,  that  the  air  of  the  pretty  gentleman  is 
preserved  under  the  lowliness  of  the  preacher. 

I  shall  end  this  with  a  short  letter  I  wrote  the 
other  day  to  a  very  witty  man,  overrun  with  the 
fault  I  am  speaking  of : 

“  Dear  Sir, 

“  I  spent  some  time  with  you  the  other  day,  and 
must  take  the  liberty  of  a  friend  to  tell  you  of  the 
insufferable  affectation  you  are  guilty  of  in  all 
you  say  and  do.  When  I  gave  you  a  hint  of  it, 
you  asked  me  whether  a  man  is  to  be  cold  to  what 
his  friends  think  of  him?  No,  but  praise  is  not 
to  be  the  entertainment  of  every  moment.  He 
that  hopes  for  it  must  be  able  to  suspend  the  pos¬ 
session  of  it  till  proper  periods  of  life,  or  death 
itself.  If  you  would  not  rather  be  commended 
than  be  praiseworthy,  contemn  little  merits  ;  and 
allow  no  man  to  be  so  free  with  you,  as  to  praise 
you  to  your  face.  Your  vanity  by  this  means  will 
want  its  food.  At  the  same  time  your  passion  for 
esteem  will  be  more  fully  gratified ;  men  will 
praise  you  in  their  actions  :  where  you  now  re¬ 
ceive  one  compliment,  you  will  then  receive  twen¬ 
ty  civilities.  Till  then  you  will  never  have  of 
either,  farther  than, 

“Sir,  your  humble  servant.”  T. 


No.  39.]  SATURDAY,  APRIL  14,  1711. 

Multa  fero,  ut  placem  genus  irritabile  vatum, 

Cum  scribo - .  Hor.,  2  Ep.,  ii,  102. 

IMITATED. 

Much  do  I  suffer,  much,  to  keep  in  peace 

This  jealous,  waspish,  wrong-headed  rhyming  race. 

Pope. 

As  a  perfect  tragedy  is  the  noblest  production 
of  human  nature,  so  it  is  capable  of  giving  the 
mind  one  of  the  most  delightful  and  most  improv¬ 
ing  entertainments.  A  virtuous  man  (says  Seneca) 
struggling  with  misfortunes,  is  such  a  spectacle  as 
gods  might  look  upon  with  pleasure ;  and  such  a 
pleasure  it  is  which  one  meets  with  in  the  repre¬ 
sentation  of  a  well-written  tragedy.  Diversions 
of  this  kind  wear  out  of  our  thoughts  everything 
that  is  mean  and  little.  They  cherish  and  culti¬ 
vate  that  humanity  which  is  the  ornament  of  our 
nature.  They  soften  insolence,  soothe  affliction, 
and  subdue  the  mind  to  the  dispensations  of  Pro¬ 
vidence. 


*  This  seems  to  be  intended  as  a  compliment  to  Chancellor 
Cowper. 


THE  SPECTATOR 


79 


It  is  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  in  all  the  polite 
nations  of  the  world,  this  part  of  the  drama  has 
met  with  public  encouragement. 

The  modern  tragedy  excels  that  of  Greece  and 
Rome  in  the  intricacy  and  disposition  of  the  fable; 
but,  what  a  Christian  writer  would  be  ashamed  to 
own,  falls  infinitely  short  of  it  in  the  moral  part 
of  the  performance. 

This  I  may  show  more  at  large  hereafter :  and 
in  the  meantime,  that  I  may  contribute  something 
toward  the  improvement  of  the  English  tragedy, 
I  shall  take  notice,  in  this  and  in  other  following 
papers,  of  some  particular  parts  in  it  that  seem 
liable  to  exception. 

Aristotle  observes,  that  the  Iambic  verse  in 
the  Greek  tongue  was  the  most  proper  for  tra¬ 
gedy;  because  at  the  same  time  that  it  lifted  up 
i  the  discourse  from  prose,  it  was  that  which  ap¬ 
proached  nearer  to  it  than  any  other  kind  of  verse. 
“For,”  says  he,  “we  may  observe  that  men  in  or¬ 
dinary  discourse  very  often  speak  iambics  without 
taking  notice  of  it.”  We  may  make  the  same  ob¬ 
servation  of  our  English  blank  verse,  which  often 
enters  into  our  common  discourse,  though  we  do,- 
not  attend  to  it,  and  is  such  a  due  medium  between 
rhyme  and  prose,  that  it  seems  wonderfully  adapt¬ 
ed  to  tragedy.  I  am  therefore  very  much  offended 
when  I  see  a  play  in  rhyme ;  which  is  as  absurd 
in  English,  as  a  tragedy  of  hexameters  would 
have  been  in  Greek  or  Latin.  The  solecism  is,  I 
think,  still  greater  in  those  plays  that  have  some 
scenes  in  rhyme  and  some  in  blank  verse,  which 
are  to  be  looked  upon  as  two  several  languages  ; 
or  where  we  see  some  particular  similes  dignified 
with  rhyme  at  the  same  time  that  everything 
about  them  lies  in  blank  verse.  I  would  not  how¬ 
ever  debar  the  poet  from  concluding  his  tragedy, 
or,  if  he  pleases,  every  act  of  it,  with  two  or  three 
couplets,  which  may  have  the  same  effect  as  an 
air  in  the  Italian  opera  after  a  long  recitativo,  and 
give  the  actor  a  graceful  exit.  Beside  that,  we  see 
a  diversity  of  numbers  in  some  parts  of  the  old 
tragedy  in  order  to  hinder  the  ear  from  being  tired 
with  the  same  continued  modulation  of  voice. 
For  the  same  reason  I  do  not  dislike  the  speeches 
in  our  English  tragedy  that  close  with  a  hemistich, 
or  half  verse,  notwithstanding  the  person  who 
speaks  after  it  begins  a  new  verse,  without  filling 
up  the  preceding  one;  nor  with  abrupt  pauses  and 
breakings  off  in  the  middle  of  a  verse,  Avhen  they 
humor  any  passion  that  is  expressed  by  it. 

Since  I  am  upon  this  subject,  I  must  observe 
that  our  English  poets  have  succeeded  much  better 
in  the  style  than  in  the  sentiment  of  their  trage¬ 
dies.  Their  language  is  very  often  noble  and  sono¬ 
rous,  but  the  sense  either  very  trifling  or  very  com¬ 
mon.  On  the  contrary,  in  the  ancient  tragedies,  and 
indeed  in  those  of  Corneille  and  Racine,  though 
the  expressions  are  very  great,  it  is  the  thought 
that  bears  them  up  and  swells  them.  For  my  own 
part.,  I  prefer  a  noble  sentiment  that  is  depressed 
with  homely  language,  infinitely  before  a  vulgar 
one  that  is  blown  up  with  all  the  sound  and  energy 
of  expression.  Whether  this  defect  in  our  trage¬ 
dies  may  arise  from  want  of  genius,  knowledge, 
or  experience  in  the  writers,  or  from  their  compli¬ 
ance  with  the  vicious  taste  of  their  renders,  who 
are  better  judges  of  the  language  than  of  the  sen¬ 
timents,  and  consequently  relish  the  one  more  than 
the  other,  I  cannot  determine.  But  I  believe  it 
might  rectify  the  conduct  both  of  the  one  and  of 
the  other,  if  the  writer  laid  down  the  whole  con¬ 
texture  of  his  dialogue  in  plain  English,  before  he 
turned  it  into  blank  verse:  and  if  tke  reader,  after 
the  perusal  of  a  scene,  would  consider  the  naked 
thought  of  every  speech  in  it,  when  divested  of 
all  its  tragic  ornaments.  By  this  means,  without 


being  imposed  upon  bv  words,  we  may  judge  im¬ 
partially  of  the  thought,  and  consider  whether  it 
be  natural  or  great  enough  for  the  person  that  ut¬ 
ters  it,  whether  it  deserves  to  shine  in  such  a  blaze 
of  eloquence,  or  show  itself  in  such  a  variety  of 
lights  as  are  generally  made  use  of  by  the  writers 
of  our  English  tragedy. 

I  must  in  the  next  place  observe,  that  when  our 
thoughts  are  great  and  just,  they  are  often  obscured 
by  the  sounding  phrases,  hard  metaphors,  and 
forced  expressions  in  which  they  are  clothed. 
Shakspeare  is  often  very  faulty  in  this  particular. 
There  is  a  fine  observation  in  Aristotle  to  this  pur¬ 
pose,  which  I  have  never  seen  quoted.  The  ex¬ 
pression,  says  he,  ought  to  be  very  much  labored 
m  the  inactive  parts  of  the  fable,  as  in  descrip¬ 
tions,  similitudes,  narrations,  and  the  like ;  in 
which  the  opinions,  manners,  and  passions  of 
men  are  not  represented;  for  these  (namely,  the 
opinions,  manners,  and  passions)  are  apt  to  be 
obscured  by  pompous  phrases  and  elaborate 
expressions.  Horace,  who  copied  most  of  his 
criticisms  after  Aristotle,  seems  to  have  had 
his  eye  on  the  foregoing  rule,  in  the  following 
verses: — 

Et  tragicus  plerumque  dolet  sermone  pedestri : 

Telepkus  et  Peleus,  cum  pauper  et  exul  uterque. 

I’rojicit  ampullas  et  sesquiped&lia  verba, 

Si  curat  cor  spectantis  tetigisse  querela. 

IIor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  95. 

Tragedians,  too,  lay  by  their  state  to  grieve : 

Peleus  and  Telephus,  exil’d  and  poor, 

Forget  their  swelling  and  gigantic  words. — Roscommon. 

Among  our  modern  English  poets,  there  is  none 
who  has  a  better  turn  for  tragedy  than  Lee;  if,  in¬ 
stead  of  favoring  the  impetuosity  of  his  genius, 
he  had  restrained  it,  and  kept  it  within  its  proper 
bounds.  His  thoughts  are  wonderfully  suited  to 
tragedy,  but  frequently  lost  in  such  a  cloud  of 
words  that  it  is  hard  to  see  the  beauty  of  them. 
There  is  an  infinite  fire  in  his  works,  but  so  in¬ 
volved  in  smoke  that  it  does  not  appear  in  half  its 
luster.  He  frequently  succeeds  in  the  passionate 

Earts  of  the  tragedy,  but  more  particularly  where 
e  slackens  his  efforts,  and  eases  his  style  of  those 
epithets  and  metaphors  in  which  he  so  much 
abounds.  What  can  be  more  natural,  more  soft, 
or  more  passionate,  than  that  line  in  Statira’s 
speech  where  she  describes  the  charms  of  Alexan¬ 
der’s  conversation  ? 

Then  he  would  talk — Good  gods!  how  he  would  talk! 

That  unexpected  break  in  the  line,  and  turning 
the  description  of  his  manner  of  talking  into  an 
admiration  of  it,  is  inexpressibly  beautiful,  and 
wonderfully  suited  to  the  fond  character  of  the 
person  that  speaks  it.  There  is  a  simplicity  in 
the  words  that  outshines  the  utmost  pride  of  ex¬ 
pression. 

Otway  has  followed  nature  in  the  language  of 
his  tragedy,  and  therefore  shines  in  the  passionate 
parts  more  than  any  of  our  English  poets.  As 
there  is  something  familiar  and  domestic  in  the 
fable  of  his  tragedy,  more  than  in  those  of  any  other 
poet,  he  has  little  pomp,  but  great  force  in  his  ex¬ 
pressions.  For  which  reason,  though  he  has  admi¬ 
rably  succeeded  in  the  tender  and  melting  part  of 
his  tragedies,  he  sometimes  falls  into  too  great 
familiarity  of  phrase  in  those  parts,  which,  by 
Aristotle’s  rule,  ought  to  have  been  raised  and 
supported  by  the  dignity  of  expression. 

It  has  been  observed  by  others,  that  this  poet 
has  founded  his  tragedy  of  Venice  Preserved  on  so 
wrong  a  plot,  that  the  greatest  characters  in  it  are 
those  of  rebels  and  traitors.  Had  the  hero  of  this 
play  discovered  the  same  good  qualities  in  the 
defense  of  his  country  that  he  showed  for  its  ruin 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


80 

and  subversion,  the  audience  could  not  enough 
pity  and  admire  him ;  but  as  he  is  now  represented, 
we  can  only  say  of  him  what  the  Roman  historian 
says  of  Catiline,  that  his  fall  would  have  been 
glorious  (si  pro  patria  sic  concidissct) ,  had  he  so 
fallen  in  the  service  of  his  country. — 0. 


No.  40.]  MONDAY,  APRIL  16,  1711. 

Ac  ne  forte  putes  me  quae  facere  ipse  recusem, 

Cum  recte  tractant  alii,  laudare  maligne ; 

Ille  per  extentum  funem  mihi  posse  videtur 
Ire  poeta,  meum  qui  pectus  inaniter  angit, 

Irritat,  mulcet,  falsis  terroribus  implet, 

Ut  magus;  et  modo  me  Thebis,  modo  ponit  Athenis. 

Hor.,  2  Ep.,  i,  208. 

IMITATED. 

Yet  lest  you  think  I  rally  more  than  teach, 

Or  praise,  malignant,  arts  I  cannot  reach, 

Let  me  for  once  presume  t’  instruct  the  times, 

To  know  the  poet  from  the  man  of  rhymes ; 

’T  is  he,  who  gives  my  breast  a  thousand  pains, 

Can  make  me  feel  each  passion  that  he  feigns ; 

Enrage,  compose,  with  more  than  magic  art, 

With  pity,  and  with  terror,  tear  my  heart ; 

And  snatch  me  o’er  the  earth,  or  through  the  air, 

To  Thebes,  to  Athens,  when  he  will,  and  where.— Pope. 

The  English  writers  of  tragedy  are  possessed 
with  a  notion,  that  when  they  represent  a  virtuous 
or  innocent  person  in  distress,  they  ought  not  to 
leave  him  till  they  have  delivered  him  out  of  his 
troubles,  or  made  him  triumph  over  his  enemies. 
This  error  they  have  been  lea  into  by  a  ridiculous 
doctrine  in  modern  criticism,  that  they  are  obliged 
to  an  equal  distribution  of  rewards  and  punish¬ 
ments,  and  an  impartial  execution  of  poetical  jus¬ 
tice.  Who  were  the  first  that  established  this  rule 
I  know  not;  but  I  am  sure  it  has  no  foundation  in 
nature,  in  reason.,  or  in  the  practice  of  the  ancients. 
We  find  that  good  and  evil  happen  alike,  to  all 
men  on  this  side  the  grave;  and  as  the  principal 
design  of  tragedy  is  to  raise  commiseration  and 
terror  in  the  minds  of  the  audience,  we  shall  de¬ 
feat  this  great  end,  if  we  always  make  virtue  and 
innocence  happy  and  successful.  Whatever  crosses 
and  disappointments  a  good  man  suffers  in  the 
body  of  the  tragedy,  they  will  make  but  a  small 
impression  on  our  minds,  when  we  know  that  in 
the  last  act  he  is  to  arrive  at  the  end  of  his  wishes 
and  desires.  When  we  see  him  engaged  in  the 
depth  of  his  afflictions,  we  are  apt  to  comfort  our¬ 
selves,  because  we  are  sure  he  will  find  his  way 
out  of  them;  and  that  his  grief,  how  great  soever 
it  may  be  at  present,  will  soon  terminate  in  glad¬ 
ness.  For  this  reason,  the  ancient  writers  of  tra¬ 
gedy  treated  men  in  their  plays,  as  they  are  dealt 
with  in  the  world,  by  making  virtue  sometimes 
happy  and  sometimes  miserable,  as  they  found  it 
in  the  fable  which  they  made  choice  of,  or  as  it 
might  affect  the  audience  in  the  most  agreeable 
manner.  Aristotle  considers  the  tragedies  that 
were  written  in  either  of  these  kinds,  and  observes, 
that  those  which  ended  unhappily  had  always 
pleased  the  people,  and  carried  away  the  prize  in 
the  public  disputes  of  the  stage,  from  those  that 
ended  happily.  Terror  and  commiseration  leave 
a  pleasing  anguish  on  the  mind,  and  fix  the  audi¬ 
ence  in  such  a  serious  composure  of  thought,  as 
is  much  more  lasting  and  delightful  than  any  little 
transient  starts  of  joy  and  satisfaction.  Accord¬ 
ingly  we  find,  that  more  of  our  English  tragedies 
liaVe  succeeded,  in  which  the  favorites  of  the  au¬ 
dience  sink  under  their  calamities,  than  those  in 
which  they  recover  themselves  out  of  them.  The 
best  plays  of  this  kind  are,  The  Orphan,  Venice 
Preserved ,  Alexander  the  Great,  Theodosius,  All  for 
Love,  CEdipus,  Oroonoko,  Othello,  etc.  King  Lear 
is  an  admirable  tragedy  of  the  same  kind,  as  Shak- 
speare  wrote  it;  but  as  it  is  reformed  according  to 


the  chimerical  notion  of  poetical  justice,  in  my 
humble  opinion  it  has  lost  half  its  beauty.  At  the 
same  time  I  must  allow,  that  there  are  very  noble 
tragedies  which  have  been  framed  upon  the  other 
plan,  and  have  ended  happily;  as  indeed  most  of 
the  good  tragedies,  which  have  been  written  since 
the  starting  of  the  above-mentioned  criticism,  have 
taken  this  turn  ;  as  The  Mourning  Bride,  Tamer¬ 
lane,  Ulysses,  Phcedra  and  Hippolytus,  with  most 
of  Mr.  Dryden’s.  I  must  also  allow,  that  many 
of  Shakspeare’s,  and  several  of  the  celebrated  tra¬ 
gedies  of  antiquity,  are  in  the  same  form.  I  do 
not  therefore  dispute  against  this  way  of  writing 
tragedies,  but  against  the  criticism  that  would 
establish  this  as  the  only  method ;  and  by  that 
means  would  very  much  cramp  the  English  tra¬ 
gedy,  and  perhaps  give  a  wrong  bent  to  the  genius 
of  our  writers. 

The  tragi  comedy,  which  is  the  product  of  the 
English  theater,  is  one  of  the  most  monstrous 
inventions  that  ever  entered  in  a  poet’s  thoughts. 
An  author  might  as  well  think  of  weaving  the 
adventures  of  H5neas  and  Hudibras  into  one  poem, 
as  of  writing  such  a  piece  of  motley  sorrow.  But 
the  absurdity  of  these  performances  is  so  very 
visible,  that  I  shall  not  insist  upon  it. 

The  same  objections  which  are  made  to  tragi¬ 
comedy,  may  in  some  measure  be  applied  to  all, 
tragedies  that  have  a  double  plot  in  them;  which 
are  likewise  more  frequent  upon  the  English  stage, 
than  upon  any  other;  for  though  the  grief  of  the 
audience,  in  such  performances,  be  not  changed 
into  another  passion,  as  in  tragi-comedies ;  it  is 
diverted  upon  another  object,  which  weakens  their 
concern  for  the  principal  action,  and  breaks  the 
tide  of  sorrow,  by  throwing  it  into  different  chan¬ 
nels.  This  inconvenience,  however,  may  in  a 
great  measure  be  cured,  if  not  wholly  removed, 
by  the  skillful  choice  of  an  under  plot,  which  may 
bear  such  a  near  relation  to  the  principal  design, 
as  to  contribute  toward  the-  completion  of  it,  and 
be  concluded  by  the  same  catastrophe. 

■'--.There  is  also  another  particular,  which  may  be 
reckoned  among  the  blemishes,  or  rather  the  false 
beauties  of  our  English  tragedy:  I  mean  those 
articular  speeches  which  are  commonly  known 
y  the  name  of  Rants.  The  warm  and  passionate 
parts  of  a  tragedy  are  always  the  most  taking  with 
the  audience ;  for  which  reason  we  often  see  the 
players  pronouncing,  in  all  the  violence  of  action, 
several  parts  of  the  tragedy  which  the  author  wrote 
with  great  temper,  and  designed  that  they  should 
have  been  so  acted.  I  have  seen  Powell  very  often 
raise  himself  a  loud  clap  by  this  artifice.  The 
poets  that  were  acquainted  with  this  secret,  have 
given  frequent  occasion  for  such  emotions  in 
the  actor,  by  adding  vehemence  to  words  where 
there  was  no  passion,  or  inflaming  a  real  passion 
into  fustian.  This  hath  filled  the  mouths  of  our 
heroes  with  bombast ;  and  given  them  such  senti¬ 
ments  as  proceed  rather  from  a  swelling  than 
a  greatness  of  mind.  Unnatural  exclamations, 
curses,  vows,  blasphemies,  a  defiance  of  mankind, 
and  an  outraging  of  the  gods,  frequently  pass 
upon  the  audience  for  towering  thoughts,  and 
have  accordingly  met  with  infinite  applause. 

I  shall  here  add  a  remark,  which  I  am  afraid 
our  tragic  writers  may  make  an  ill  use  of.  As  our 
heroes  are  generally  lovers,  their  swelling  and 
blustering  upon  the  stage  very  much  recommends 
them  to  the  fair  pai't  of  the  audience.  The  ladies 
are  wonderfully  pleased  to  see  a  man  insulting 
kings,  or  affronting  the  gods,  in  one  scene,  and 
throwing  himself  at  the  feet  of  his  mistress  in 
another.  Let  him  behave  himself  insolently  to¬ 
ward  the  men,  and  abjectly  before  the  fair  one, 
and  it  is  ten  to  one  but  he  proves  a  favorite  with 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


the  boxes.  Dryden  and  Lee,  in  several  of  their 
tragedies,  have  practiced  this  secret  with  good 
success. 

But  to  show  how  a  rant  pleases  beyond  the  most 
just  and  natural  thought  that  is  not  pronounced 
with  vehemence,  I  would  desire  the  reader,  when 
he  sees  the  tragedy  of  (Edipus,  to  observe  how 
auietly  the  hero  is  dismissed  at  the  end  of  the 
third  act,  after  having  pronounced  the  following 
lines,  in  which  the  thought  is  very  natural,  and 
apt  to  move  compassion  : 

To  you,  good  gods,  I  make  my  last  appeal ; 

Or  clear  my  virtues,  or  my  crimes  reveal. 

If  in  the  maze  of  fate  I  blindly  run, 

And  backward  tread  those  paths  I  sought  to  shun ; 

Impute  my  errors  to  your  own  decree! 

My  hands  are  guilty,  but  my  heart  is  free. 

Let  us  then  observe  with  what  thunder-claps  of 
applause  he  leaves  the  stage,  after  the  impieties 
and  execrations  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  act ;  and 
you  will  wonder  to  see  an  audience  so  cursed  and 
so  pleased  at  the  same  time. 

0  that,  as  oft  I  have  at  Athens  seen 

[  Where,  by  the  way,  there  was  no  stage  till  many 
years  after  (Edipus. ] 

The  stage  arise,  and  the  big  clouds  descend ; 

So  now,  in  every  deed,  I  might  behold 

This  pon’drous  globe,  and  all  yon  marble  roof, 

Meet,  like  the  hands  of  Jove,  and  crush  mankind; 

For  all  the  elements,  etc. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

Having  spoken  of  Mr.  Powell,  as  sometimes 
raising  himself  applause  from  the  ill  taste  of  an 
audience,  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  own,  that 
he  is  excellently  formed  for  a  tragedian,  and, 
when  he  pleases,  deserves  the  admiration  of  the 
best  judges;  as  I  doubt  not  but  he  will  in  the 
Conquest  of  Mexico,  which  is  acted  for  his  own 
benefit  to-morrow  night.  C. 


No.  41.]  TUESDAY,  APRIL  17,  1711. 

• - Tu  non  inventa  reperta  es.— Ovid.  Met.  i,  654. 

So  found,  is  worse  than  lost. — Addison. 

Compassion  for  the  gentleman  who  writes  the 
following  letter  should  not  prevail  upon  me  to 
all  upon  the  fair  sex,  if  it  were  not  that  I  find 
hey  are  frequently  fairer  than  they  ought  to  be. 
such  impostures  are  not  to  be  tolerated  in  civil 
society,  and  I  think  his  misfortune  ought  to  be 
nade  public,  as  a  warning  for  other  men  to 
jxamine  into  what  they  admire. 

‘Sir, 

“Supposing  you  to  be  a  person  of  general 
:nowledge,  I  make  my  application  to  you  on  a 
'ery  particular  occasion.  I  have  a  great  mind  to 
>3  rid  of  my  wife,  and  hope,  when  you  consider 
ay  case,  you  will  be  of  opinion  I  have  very  just 
•retensions  to  a  divorce.  I  am  a  mere  man  of 
he  town,  and  have  very  little  improvement  but 
rtiat  I  have  got  from  plays.  I  remember  in  the 
nleut  Woman,  the  learned  Dr.  Cutberd,  or  Dr. 
Hter  (I  forget  which),  makes  one  of  the  causes 
i  separation  to  be  Error  Personal — when  a  man 
iarries  a  woman,  and  finds  her  not  to  be  the 
ame  woman  whom  he  intended  to  marry,  but 
nother.  If  that  be  law,  it  is,  I  presume,  exactly 
jy  case.  For  you  are  to  know,  Mr.  Spectator,  that 
aere  are  women  who  do  not  let  their  husbands 
ce  their  faces  till  they  are  married. 

“Not  to  keep  you  in  suspense,  I  mean  plainly 
iat  part  of  the  sex  who  paint.  They  are  some  of 
leia  so  exquisitely  skillful  in  this  way,  that  give 


81 

them  but  a  tolerable  pair  of  eyes  to  set  up  with, 
and  they  will  make  bosom,  lips,  cheeks  and  eye¬ 
brows,  by  their  own  industry.  As  for  my  dear, 
never  was  a  man  so  enamored  as  I  was  of  her  fair 
ioiehead,  neck,  and  arms,  as  well  as  the  bright 
jet  of  her  hair ;  but  to  my  great  astonishment  I 
find  they  were  all  the  effect  of  art.  Her  skin  is  so 
tarnished  with  this  practice,  that  when  she  first 
w  akes  in  a  morning,  she  scarce  seems  young 
enough  to  be  the  mother  of  her  whom  I  carried  to 
bed  the  night  before.  I  shall  take  the  liberty  to 
part  with  her  by  the  first  opportunity,  unless  her 
lather  will  make  her  portion  suitable  to  her  real, 
not  her  assumed,  countenance.  This  I  thought 
fit  to  let  him  and  her  know  by  your  means.  & 

“I  am,  Sir, 

“Your  most  obedient,  humble  servant. 

I  cannot  tell  what  the  law  or  the  parents  of  the 
lady  will  do  for  this  injured  gentleman,  but  must 
allow  he  has  very  much  justice  on  his  side.  I 
have  indeed  very  long  observed  this  evil,  and 
distinguished  those  of  our  women  who  wear  their 
own,  from  those  in  borrowed  complexions,  by  the 
Piets  and  the  British.  There  does  not  need  any 
great  discernment  to  judge  which  are  which. 
The  British  have  a  lively  animated  aspect ;  the 
Piets,  though  never  so  beautiful,  have  dead  unin¬ 
formed  countenances.  The  muscles  of  a  real 
face  sometimes  swell  with  soft  passion,  sudden 
surprise,  and  are  flushed  with  agreeable  confu¬ 
sions,  according  as  the  objects  before  them,  or  the 
ideas  presented  to  them,  affect  their  imagination. 
But  the  Piets  behold  all  things  with  the  same  air, 
whether  they  are  joyful  or  sad ;  the  same  fixed 
insensibility  appears  upon  all  occasions.  A  Piet, 
though  she  takes  all  that  pains  to  invite  the  ap¬ 
proach  of  lovers,  is  obliged  to  keep  them  at  a 
certain  distance ;  a  sigh  in  a  languishing  lover, 
if  fetched  too  near  her,  would  dissolve  a  feature* 
and  a  kiss  snatched  by  a  forward  one,  might 
transfer  the  complexion  of  the  mistress  to  the  ad¬ 
mirer.  It  is  hard  to  speak  of  these  false  fair  ones, 
without  saying  something  uncomplaisant,  but  I 
would  only  recommend  to  them  to  consider  how 
they  like  to  come  into  a  room  new  painted ;  they 
may  assure  themselves  the  near  approach  of  a 
lady  who  uses  this  practice  is  much  more  offen¬ 
sive. 

Will  Honeycomb  told  us  one  day,  an  adventure 
he  once  had  with  a  Piet.  This  lady  had  wit,  as 
well  as  beauty,  at  will ;  and  made  it  her  business 
to  gain  hearts,  for  no  other  reason  but  to  rally  the 
torments  of  her  lovers.  She  would  make  great 
advances  to  insnare  men,  but  without  any  manner 
of  scruple  break  off  when  there  was  no  provoca¬ 
tion.  Her  ill-nature  and  vanity  made  my  friend 
very  easily  proof  against  the  charms  of  her  wit 
and  conversation ;  but  her  beauteous  form,  instead 
of  being  blemished  by  her  falsehood  and  incon¬ 
stancy,  every  day  increased  upon  him,  and  she 
had  new  attractions  every  time  he  saw  her.  When 
she  observed  Will  irrevocably  her  slave,  she 
began  to  use  him  as  such,  and  after  many  steps 
toward  such  a  cruelty,  she  at  last  utterly  ban¬ 
ished  him.  The  unhappy  lover  strove  in  vain, 
by  servile  epistles,  to  revoke  his  doom ;  till  at 
length  he  was  forced  to  the  last  refuge,  a  round 
sum  of  money  to  her  maid.  This  corrupt  atten¬ 
dant  placed  him  early  in  the  morning  behind  the 
hangings  in  her  mistress’s  dressing-room.  He 
stood  very  conveniently  to  observe,  wdthout  being 
seen.  The  Piet  begins  the  face  she  designed  to 
wear  that  day,  and  I  have  heard  him  protest  she 
had  worked  a  full  half  hour  before  he  knew  her 
to  be  the  same  woman.  As  soon  as  he  saw  the 
dawn  of  that  complexion,  for  which  he  had  so 


82 


THE  SPECTATOR, 


long  languished,  he  thought  fit  to  break  from  his 
concealment,  repeating  that  verse  of  Cowley . 

Th’  adorning  theo  with  so  much  art 
Is  but  a  barbarous  skill; 

’T  is  like  the  poisoning  of  a  dart, 

Too  apt  before  to  kill. 

The  Piet  stood  before  him  in  the  utmost  confu¬ 
sion,  with  the  prettiest  smirk  imaginable  on  the 
finished  side  of  her  face,  pale  as  ashes  on  the 
other.  Honeycomb  seized  all  her  gallipots  and 
washes,  and  carried  off  his  handkerchief  full  oi 
brushes,  scraps  of  Spanish  wool,  and  vials  oi  un¬ 
guents.  The  lady  went  into  the  country,  the 
lover  was  cured. 

It  is  certain  no  faith  ought  to  be  kept  with 
cheats,  and  an  oath  made  to  a  Piet  is  ol  itseli 
void.  I  would  therefore  exhort  all  the  Britisii 
ladies  to  single  them  out,  nor  do  I  know  any  bin, 
Lindamira  who  should  be  exempt  from  discovery: 
for  her  own  complexion  is  so  delicate,  that  she 
ought  to  be  allowed  the  covering  it  with  paint,  as 
a  punishment  for  choosing  to  be  the  worst  piece 
of  art  extant,  instead  of  the  master-piece  ol  na¬ 
ture.  As  for  my  part,  who  have  no  expectations 
from  women,  and  consider  them  only  as  they  are 
part  of  the  species,  I  do  not  half  so  much  tear 
offending  a  beauty,  as  a  woman  of  sense ;  I  shall 
therefore  produce  several  faces  which  have  been 
in  public  these  many  years,  and  never  appeared. 
It  will  be  a  very  pretty  entertainment  in  the  play¬ 
house  (when  I  have  abolished  this  custom)  to 
see  so  many  ladies,  when  they  first  lay  it  down, 
incog,  in  their  own  faces. 

In  the  meantime,  as  a  pattern  for  improving 
their  charms,  let  the  sex  study  the  agreeable  >~ta- 
tira.  Her  features  are  enlivened  with  the  cheerlul- 
ness  of  her  mind,  and  good-humor  gives  an 
alacrity  to  her  eyes.  She  is  graceful  without  af¬ 
fecting  an  air,  and  unconcerned  without  appear¬ 
ing  careless.  Her  having  no  manner  of  art  in  her 
mind,  makes  her  wTant  none  in  her  person. 

How  like  is  this  lady,  and  how  unlike  is  a 
Piet,  to  that  description  Dr.  Donne  gives  of  his 
mistress : 

-Her  pure  and  eloquent  blood 


Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  distinctly  wrought, 

That  one  would  almost  say  her  body  thought. 

ADVERTISEMENT . 

A  young  gentlewoman  of  about  nineteen  years 
of  age  (  bred  in  the  family  of  a  person  of  quality,  ,  . 

lately  deceased),  who  paints  the  finest  flesh-color,  Pe^0d;: 
wants  a  place,  and  is  to  be  heard  of  at  the  house 


audience,  not  by  proper  sentiments  and  expres¬ 
sions,  but  by  the  dresses  and  decorations  ol  the 
sta<re.  There  is  something  of  this  kind  very  ridi¬ 
culous  in  the  English  theater.  When  the  author 
has  a  mind  to  terrify  us,  it  thunders  ;  when  he 
would  make  us  melancholy,  the  stage  is  darkened. 
But  among  all  our  tragic  artifices,  I  am  the  most 
offended  at  those  which  are  made  use  of  to  inspire 
us  with  magnificent  ideas  of  the  persons  that 
speak.  The  ordinary  method  of  making  a  hero, 
is  to  clap  a  huge  plume  of  feathers  upon  his  head, 
which  rises  so  very  high  that  there  is  often  a 
Greater  length  from  his  chin  to  the  top  of  his  head 
than  to  the  sole  of  his  foot.  One  would  believe 
that  we  thought  a  great  man  and  a  tall  man  the 
same  thing.  This  very  much  embarrasses  the 
actor  wTho  is  forced  to  hold  his  neck  extremely 
stiff  and  steady  all  the  while  he  speaks;  and  not¬ 
withstanding  any  anxieties  which  he  pretends  for 
his  mistress,  his  country,  or  his  friends,  one  may 
see  by  his  action  that  his  greatest  care  and  concern 
is  to  keep  the  plume  of  feathers  from  falling  off  his 
head.  For  my  own  part,  when  I  see  a  man  utter 
ino-  his  complaints  under  such  a  mountain  of  feath¬ 
ers,  I  am  apt  to  look  upon  him  rather  as  an  unfor¬ 
tunate  lunatic  than  a  distressed  hero.  As  these 
superfluous  ornaments  upon  the  head  make  a  great 
man,  a  princess  generally  receives  her  grandeur 
from  those  additional  incumbrances  that  fall  into 
her  tail— I  mean  the  broad  sweeping  train  that 
follows  her  in  all  her  motions,  and  finds  constant 
employment  for  a  boy  who  stands  behind  her  to 
open  and  spread  it  to  advantage.  _  I  do  not  know 
how  others  are  affected  at  this  sight,  but  I  must 
confess  my  eyes  are  wholly  taken  up  with  the 
page’s  part :  and,  as  for  the  queen,  I  am  not  so 
attentive  to  anything  she  speaks,  as  to  the  right 
adjusting  of  her  train,  lest  it  should  chance  to  trip 
up  her  heels,  or  incommode  her,  as  she  walks  to 
and  fro  upon  the  stage.  It  is,  in  my  opinion,  a 
very  odd  spectacle,  to  see  a  queen  venting  her 
passions  in  a  disordered  motion,  and  a  little  boy 
taking  care  all  the  while  that  they  do  not  ruffle 
the  tail  of  her  gown.  The  parts  that  the  two  per¬ 
sons  act  on  the  stage  at  the  same  time  are  very 
different.  The  princess  is  afraid  lest  she  should 
incur  the  displeasure  of  the  king  her  father,  or 
lose  the  hero  her  lover,  while  her  attendant  is  only 
concerned  lest  she  should  entangle  her  feet  in  her 


xmcoat. 

We  are  told,  that  an  ancient  tragic  poet,  to  move 


wants  a  place,  and  is  to  be  heard  of  at  the  house  .  of  audience  for  his  exiled  kings  and 

of  Mynheer  Grotesque,  a  Dutch  painter  m  Bar-  j  heroes,  used  to  make  the  actors  repre¬ 

sent  them  in  dresses  and  clothes  that  were  thread- 


bican.  _ _ „ _ 

N.  B.  She  is  also  well  skilled  in  the  drapery  I  and* decayed.  This  artifice  for  moving  pity 
part,  and  puts  on  hoods,  and  mixes  ribbons  so  as  jp  contrived  as  that  we  have  been  speak 

“  1  —  of  the  face,  with  1  -  -  ■  -  -  ’  -  - 


to  suit  the  colors 
success. — It. 


great 


No.  42.]  WEDNESDAY,  APRIL  18,  1711. 


Garganum  mugire  putes  nemus,  aut  mare  Thuscum ; 
Tantum  cum  strepitu  ludi  spectantur,  et  artes, 
Divitiseque  peregrin* ;  quibus  oblitus  actor 
Cum  stetit  in  scena,  concurrit  dextera  lasv* 

Dixit  adhuc  aliquid?  Nil  sane.  Quid  placet  ergo  ? 
Lana  Tarentino  violas  imitata  veneno. 

Hor..  2  Ep.,  i,  202. 

IMITATED. 

Loud  as  the  wolves  on  Orca’s  stormy  steep, 

Howl  to  the  roarings  of  the  northern  deep : 

Such  is  the  shout,  the  long  applauding  note, 

At  Quin’s  high  plume,  or  Oldfield’s  petticoat: 

Or  when  from  court  a  birth-day  suit  bestow’d 
Sinks  the  lost  actor  in  the  tawdry  load. 

Booth  enters— hark!  the  universal  peal!— 

But  has  he  spoken?— Not  a  syllable - 

What  shook  the  stage,  and  made  the  people  stare? 
Cato’s  long  wig,  flower’d  gown,  and  lacker’d  chair. 

Pope. 


Aristotle  has  observed,  that  ordinary  writers  in 
tragedy  endeavor  to  raise  terror  and  pity  in  their 


seems  as  ill  contrived  as  that  we  have  been  speak 
ing  of  to  inspire  us  with  a  great  idea  of  the  per 
sons  introduced  upon  the  stage.  In  short,  1 
would  have  our  conceptions  raised  by  the  dignity 
of  thought  and  sublimity  of  expression,  rathe; 
than  by  a  train  of  robes  or  a  plume  of  feathers. 

Another  mechanical  method  of  making  grea 
men,  and  adding  dignity  to  queens,  is  to  accom 
pany  them  with  halberts  and  battle-axes.  Twi 
or  three  shifters  of  scenes,  with  the  two  candle 
snuffers,  make  up  a  complete  body  of  guards  upoi 
the  English  stage  ;  and  by  the  addition  of  a  fev 
porters  dressed  "in  red  coats  can  represent  above  ; 
dozen  legions.  I  have  sometimes  seen  a  couple  oi 
armies  drawn  up  together  upon  the  stage,  whei 
the  poet  has  been  disposed  to  do  honor  to  hi 
generals.  It  is  impossible  for  the  reader’s  imag 
ination  to  multiply  twenty  men  into  such  pro 
digious  multitudes,  or  to  fancy  that  .  two  o 
three  hundred  thousand  soldiers  are  fighting  in 
room  of  forty  or  fifty  yards  in  compass.  Incident 
of  such  nature  should  be  told,  not  represented 


the  spectator. 


Non  tamen  intus 


83 


Digna  gori  promes  in  scenara :  multaque  tolles 
Ex  oculis,  qua;  mox  uarret  fecundia  prsesans. 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  182. 
Yet  there  are  things  improper  for  a  scene 
Which  men  of  judgment  only  will  relate.’ 

Roscommon. 

I  should,  therefore,  in  this  particular,  recommend 
to  my  countrymen  the  example  of  the  French 
stage,  where  the  kings  and  queens  always  appear 
unattended,  and  leave  their  guards  behind  the 
scenes.  I  should  likewise  be  glad  if  we  imitated 
the  French  in  banishing  from  our  stage  the  noise 
of  drums,  trumpets,  and  huzzas,  which  is  some¬ 
times  so  very  great,  that  when  there  is  a  battle  in 
the  Haymarket  theater,  one  may  hear  it  as  far  as 
Charing-cross. 

I  have  here  only  touched  upon  those  particulars 
which  are  made  use  of  to  raise  and  aggrandize 
the  persons  of  a  tragedy ;  and  shall  show,  in 
another  paper,  the  several  expedients  which  are 
practiced  by  authors  of  a  vulgar  genius  to  move 
terroi ,  pity,  or  admiration  in  their  hearers. 

The  tailor  and  the  painter  often  contribute  to 
uie  success  of  a  tragedy  more  than  the  poet. 
Scenes  affect  ordinary  minds  as  much  as  speeches  • 
and  our  actors  are  very  sensible  that  a  well- 
dressed  play  has  sometimes  brought  them  as  full 
audiences  as  a  well-written  one.  The  Italians 
have  a  very  good  phrase  to  express  this  art  of  im- 
posmg  upon  the  spectators  by  appearances  :  they 
call  it  the  “  Fourberia  della  scena,”  “  The  knavery 
or  tnckish  part  of  the  drama/’  But  however  the 
show  and  outside  of  the  tragedy  may  work  upon 
the  vulgar,  the  more  understanding  part  of  the 
audience  immediately  see  through  it,  and  de¬ 
spise  it. 

A  good  poet  will  give  the  reader  a  more  lively 
idea  of  an  army  or  a  battle,  in  a  description,  than 
if  he  actually  saw  them  drawn  up  in  squadrons 
and  battalions,  or  engaged  in  the  confusion  of  a 
nght.  Our  minds  should  be  opened  to  great  con¬ 
ceptions,  and  inflamed  with  glorious  sentiments 
by  what  the  actor  speaks,  more  than  by  what  he 
appears.  Can  all  the  trappings  or  equipage  of  a 
king  or  hero,  give  Brutus  half  that  pomp  and 
majesty  which  he  receives  from  a  few  lines  in 
bhakspeare  ? — C. 


No.  43.]  THURSDAY,  APRIL  19,  1711. 

Has  tibi  erunt  artes ;  pacisque  imponere  morem. 
Jrarcere  subjectis,  et  debellare  superbos. 

Virg.  iEn.,  vi,  854. 

Be  these  thy  arts;  to  bid  contention  cease, 

Chain  up  stern  wars,  and  give  the  nations  peace; 

0  er  subject  lands  extend  thy  gentle  sway. 

And  teach  with  iron  rod  the  haughty  to  obey. 

There  are  crowds  of  men,  whose  great  misfor- 
tune  it  is  that  they  were  not  bound  to  mechanic 
iv,  °'f  \d<  i  •’  iJt  bemS  absolutely  necessary  for 
t0+be^ld  by  some  continual  task  or  em- 
'  These  are  such  as  we  commonly  call 
11  fellows;  persons  who  for  want  of  something 
to  do,  out  of  a  certain  vacancy  of  thought  rather 
wWh  th  7’  are  ever  meddling  with  things  for 
nf  th  ^l7  1  cannot  give  you  a  notion 

lederT  better’  !  ian  hy  Presenting  you  with  a 
of  ft;/ ?  a  !entleman;  who  belongs  to  a  society 
ot  this  order  of  men,  residing  at  Oxford.  * 

,  Oxford,  April  13,  1711. 

Four  o  clock  in  the  morning 

.krfSjUT  °f  lat0.  sPecu>^ions.  I  find  some 
sketches  toward  a  history  of  clubs;  but  you 

,eem  to  me  to  show  them  in  somewhat  too  ludi¬ 
crous  a  light.  I  have  well  weighed  that  matter. 


nrfv  b^W1^  the  .niost .  important  negotiations 
S  p  camod  on  111  such  assemblies.  I 

T  t™Uheref°re’  the  Sood  of  mankind  (which 
1  tiust  you  and  I  are  equally  concerned  for), 

sake0^  ^  lnStltutlon  of  that  nature  for  example 

“  I  must  confess  the  design  and  transactions  of 
too  many  clubs  are  trifling,  and  manifestly  of  no 
consequence  to  the  nation  or  public  weal.  "  Those 
I  will  give  you  up.  But  you  must  do  me  then 
the  justice  to  own,  that  nothing  can  be  more  use- 
tul  oi  laudable,  than  the  scheme  we  go  upon 

l\vZ°T, he  H^TeS  we8callSu“ 

selves  1  he  Hebdomadal  Meeting.  Our  president 

continues  for  a  year  at  least,  &d  someSmes  for 

four  or  five  ;  we  are  all  grave,  serious,  designing 

men  in  our  way;  we  think  it  our  duty,  as  far  as 

in  us  lies,  to  take  care  the  constitution  receives 

no  harm  Ne  quid  delrimenti  res  capiat  publica _ To 

censure  doctrine.  or  facts,  persons  or  things! 

which  we  do  not  like;  to  settle  the  nation  ^at 

home,  and  to  carry  on  the  war  abroad,  where  and 

m  what  manner  we  think  fit.  If  other  people 

are  not  of  our  opinion,  we  cannot  help  that.  It 

were  better  they  were.  Moreover,  we  now  and 

then  condescend  to  direct  in  some  measure  the 

little  aiiairs  of  our  own  university. 

“Verily  Mr.  Spectator,  we  are  much  offended 
at  the  act  for  importing  French  wines.  A  bottle 

^  of  S°]od  sol.ld  edifying  port  at  honest 
George  s,  made  a  night  cheerful,  and  threw  off 
reserve.  But  this  plaguy  French  claret  will  not 
only  cost  us  more  money,  but  do  us  less  good. 
Had  wm  been  aware  of  it  before  it  had  gone  too 
far,  I  must  tell  you,  we  would  have  petitioned  to 
be  beard  upon  that  subject.  But  let  that  pass. 

1  must  let  you  know  likewise,  good  Sir,  that 
we  look  upon  a  certain  northern  prince’s  march 
in  connection  with  infidels,  to  be  palpably  against' 
our  good-will  and  iking ;  and  for  all  Monsieur 
ralmquist,  a  most  dangerous  innovation  ;  and  we 
are  by  no  means  yet  sure,  that  some  people  are 
not  at  the  bottom  of  it.  At  least,  my  own  private 
letters  leave  room  for  a  politician,  well  versed  in 
matters  of  this  nature,  to  suspect  as  much,  as  a 
penetrating  friend,  of  mine  tells  me. 

■“yWJ  think  have  at  last  done  the  business 
with  the  malcontents  in  Hungary,  and  shall  clap 
up  a  peace  there.  F 

“  What  the  neutrality  army  is  to  do,  or  what 
the  army,  in  Flanders,  and  what  two  or  three  other 
princes,  is  not  yet  fully  determined  among  us  • 
and  we  wait  impatiently  for  the  coming  in  of  the’ 
next  Dyer  s,  who  you  must  know  is  our  authen¬ 
tic  intelligence,  our  Aristotle  in  politics.  And 
indeed,  it  is  but  fit  there  should  be  some  dernier 
resort,  the  absolute  decider  of  controversies. 

“We  were  lately  informed,  that  the  gallant 
trained-bands  had  patrolled  all  night  long  about 
the  streets  of  London.  We  indeed,  could  not 
imagine  any  occasion  for  it,  we  guessed  not  a 
tittle  on  it  aforehand,  we  were  in  nothing  of  the 
secret ;  and  that  city  tradesmen,  or  their  appren¬ 
tices  should  do  duty  or  work  during  the  holidays, 
we  thought  absolutely  impossible.  But  Dyer 
eing  positive  in  it,  and  some  letters  from  other 
people  who  had  talked  with  some  who  had  it 
from  those  who  should  know,  giving  some  coun¬ 
tenance  to  it,  the  chairman  reported  from  the 
committee  appointed  to  examine  into  that  affair 
that  it  was  possible  there  might  be  something  in 

jL  J  A  Sa7  to  JOU,  but  my  tWO* 

good  fi lends  and  neighbors,  Dominic  and  Sly¬ 
boots  are  just  come  in,  and  the  coffee  is  ready  L 
am,  in  the  meantime,  “  Mr.  Spectator, ' 

Your  admirer  and  humble  servant, 

“  Abeaham  Feoxh.’” 


84 


the  spectator 


You  may  observe  the  turn  of  tlieir  minds  tends 
only  to  novelty,  and  not  satisfaction  in  anything. 

?t  iould  be  disappointment  to  them  to  come  to 
certain  y  in  anything,  for  that  would  gravel  them 
and  put  an  end  to  their  inquiries  which  dull 
fellows  do  not  make  for  information,  but  tor  exer 
cise  I  do  not  know  but  this  may  be  a  very  go 
way  of  accounting  for  what  we  frequently  see 
to  wit  that  dull  fellows  prove  very  good  men  of 
business.  Business  relieves  them  from  their  own 
natural  heaviness,  by  furnishing  them  with  what 
to  do  •  whereas  business  to  mercurial  men  is  an 
interruption  from  their  real  existence  and  hap¬ 
piness"  Though  the  dull  part  of  mankind  are 
harmless  in  their  amusements,  it  were  to  be 
wished  they  had  no  vacant  time,  because  they 
usually  undertake  something  that  makes  thei 
wants  conspicuous,  by  their  manner  of  sugptym g 
them  You  shall  seldom  find  a  dull  fellow  ot 
good  education,  but,  if  he  happens  to  have  any 
feisure  upon  his  hands,  will  turn  his  head  to  one 
of  those  two  amusements  for  ali  fools  of  eminen 
politics  or  poetry.  The  former  of  these  arts  is 

the’study  of’all  Al  people  in  general  i  but  ^ 

dullness  is  lodged  m  a  person  of ‘  a  qmck  am  1 
life  it  generally  exerts  itself  m  poetry.  One  mignt 
here  Sion  a  few  military  writers,  who  give 
great  entertainment  to  the  age,  by  reason  that  *e 
stupidity  of  their  heads  is  quickened  by  the  ala 
crity  of  their  hearts.  This  constitution  in  a  dull 
fellow  gives  vigor  to  nonsense,  and  makes  the 
puddle  boil  which  would  otherwise  stagnate.  T  1 
British  Prince,  that  celebrated  poem,  which  wa 
written  In  the  reign  of  King  Charles  the  second, 
and  deservedly  called  by  the  wits  of  that  age  m 
comparable,  was  the  effect  of  such  a  happy  genius 
as  we  me  speaking  of.  From  among  many  other 
distichs  no  less  to  be  quoted  on  this  account,  I 
cannot  but  recite  the  two  following  lines  . 


tyrant.  I  have  known  a  bell  introduced  into 
several  tragedies  with  good  effect ;  and  have  seen 
the  whole  assembly  in  a  very  great  alarm  all  the 
while  it  has  been  ringing.  But  there  is  nothing 
which  delights  ail'd  terrifies  our  English  theater 
so  much  as  a  ghost,  especially  when  lie  appears 
in  a  bloody  shirt.  A  specter  has  very  often  saved 
a  play,  though  he  has  done  nothing  but  stalked 
across  the  stage,  or  rose  through  a  cleft  of  it,  and 
sunk  again  without  speaking  one  word.  1  here 
may  be  a  proper  season  for  these  several  terrors  ; 
and  when  they  only  come  in  as  aids  and  assist¬ 
ances  to  the  poet,  they  are  not  only  to  be  excused, 
but  to  be  applauded.  Thus  the  sounding  of  the 
clock  in  Venice  Preserved  makes  the  hearts  ot  the 
whole  audience  quake;  and  conveys  a  stronger 
terror  to  the  mind  than  it  is  possible  for  words  to 
do  The  appearance  of  the  ghost  in  Hamlet  is 
a  master-piece  in  its  kind  and  wrought  up  with 
all  the  circumstances  that  can  create  either 
attention  or  horror.  The  mind  of  the  reader  is 
wonderfully  prepared  for  his  reception  by  the  dis¬ 
courses  that  precede  it.  His  dumb  behaviour  at 
his  first  entrance  strikes  the  imagination  very 
strongly;  but  every  time  he  enters,  he  is  still 
more  terrifying.  Who  can  read  the  Bpeech  with 
which  young  Hamlet  accosts  him  without  trem¬ 
bling? 


A  nainted  vest  Prince  Voltiger  had  on, 
Which  from  a  naked  Piet  his  grandsire  won. 


IIor.  Look,  my  Lord,  it  comes! 

Ham.  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us! 

Be  thou  a  spirit  of  health,  or  goblin  damn  d .  # 

Bring’ st  with  thee  airs  from  heav  n,  or  blasts  from  hell, 
Be  thy  events*  wicked  or  charitable ; 

Thou  com’st  in  such  a  questionable  shape 
That  I  will  speak  to  thee.  1 11  call  thee  Hamlet, 

King,  Father,  Royal  Dane.  Oh!  answer  me. 

Let  me  not  hurst  in  ignorance;  but  tell 
Whv  thy  canoniz’d  bones,  hearsed  in  death, 

Have  burst  their  cerements?  Why  the  sepulcher 
Wherein  we  saw  thee  quietly  inurn  d. 

Hath  op’d  his  ponderous  and  marble  jaws 
To  cast  thee  up  again?  What  may  this  mean? 

That  thou,  dead  corse,  again  in  complete  steel 
Revisit’st  thus  the  glimpses  of  the  moon, 

Making  night  hideous? 


Here,  if  the  poet  had  not  been  vivacious  as  well 
as  stupid  he  could  not,  in  the  warmth  and  hurry] 
of  nonsense,  have  been  capable  of  fo^teng  tha 
neither  Prince  Voltiger  nor  his  f  f®  f  a 

strip  a  naked  man  ot  his  doublet  ;  but  a  tool  ot  a 
colder  constitution  would  have  staid  to  have  flaye 
the  Piet,  and  made  buff  of  his  skin,  for  the  wea  - 

observations  to  some  useful  nor- 
poses  of  life— what  I  would  propose  should  be, 
that  we  imitated  those  wise  nations,  therein 
every  man  learns  some  handicraft  work.— Would 
it  not  employ  a  beau  prettily  enough,  if,  instead  of 
eternally  playing  with  a  snuff-box,  he  spent  some 
part  of  ins  time  in  making  one  ?  Such  a  method 
as  this  would  very  much  conduce  to  the  public 
emolument,  by  making  every  man  living  good  for 
something;  for  there  would  then  be  no  one 
member  of  human  society  but  would  have  some 
little  pretension  for  some  degree  m  it  like  him 
who  came  to  Will’s  coffee-house,  upon  the  ment 
of  having  written  a  posy  of  a  ring.— R. 


Ho.  44.]  FRIDAY,  APRIL,  20,  1711. 

Tu,  quid  ego  et  populus  m 

Now  hear  what  every  auditor  expects.— Roscommon. 

Among  the  several  artifices  which  are  put  in 
practice  by  the  poets  to  fill  the  minds  of  an  au- 
Sience  witS  terror,  the  first  place  is  due  to  thunder 
and  lightning,  which  are  often  made  use  of  at  the 
descending  of  a  god,  or  the  rising  of  a  ghost,  at 
the  vanishing  of  a  devil,  or  at  the  death  of  a 


I  do  not  therefore  find  fault  with  the  artifices 
above  mentioned,  when  they  are  introduced  with 
skill,  and  accompanied  by  proportionable  senti¬ 
ments  and  expressions  in  the  writing. 

For  the  moving  of  pity,  our  principal  machine 
is  the  handkerchief  ;  and  indeed,  m  our  common 
tragedies,  as  we  should  not  know  very  often  that 
the  persons  are  in  distress  by  anything  they  say, 
if  they  did  not  from  time  to  time  apply  their 
handkerchiefs  to  their  eyes.  Far  be  it  fromme  to 
think  of  banishing  this  instrument  of  sorrow  from 
the  stage ;  I  know  a  tragedy  could  not  subsist 
without  it;  all  that  I  would  contend  for,  is  to 
keep  it  from  being  misapplied.  In  a  word,  1 
would  have  the  actor’s  tongue  sympathize  with  his 

eJA ’disconsolate  mother  with  a  child  in  her  hand, 
has  frequently  drawn  compassion  from  the  au¬ 
dience,  and  has  therefore  gained  a  place  in  several 
tragedies.  A  modern  writer,  that  observed  how 
this  had  took  in  other  plays,  being  resolved  to 
double  the  distress,  and  melt  his  audience  twice  as 
much  as  those  before  him  had  done,  brought  a 
princess  upon  the  stage  with  a  little  boy  in  one 
hand,  and  a  girl  in  the  other.  This  too  had  a  very 
good  effect.  A  third  poet  being  resolved  to  out- 
write  all  his  predecessors,  a  few  years  ago  intro¬ 
duced  three  children  with  great  success  :  and  as  J 
am  informed,  a  young  gentleman,  who  is  fully  de¬ 
termined  to  break  the  most  obdurate  hearts,  has  , 
tragedy  by  him,  where  the  first  person  that  appea 
upon  the  stage  is  an  afflicted  widow  m  her  mourn 


*  Events  for  advents,  comings,  or  visits.  We  read  in  othe, 
copies,  intents. 


85 


THE  SPE 

ing  weeds,  with  lialf-a-dozen  fatherless  children 
attending  her,  like  those  that  usually  hang  about 
the  figure  of  Charity.  Thus  several  incidents 
that  are  beautiful  in  a  good  writer,  become  ridicu- 
lous  by  falling  into  the  hands  of  a  bad  one. 

But  among  all  our  methods  of  moving  pity  or 
terror,  there  is  none  so  absurd  and  barbarous,  and 
which  more  exposes  us  to  the  contempt  and  ridi¬ 
cule  of  our  neighbors  than  that  dreadful  butcher¬ 
ing  of  one  another,  which  is  so  very  frequent  upon 
the  English  stage.  To  delight  m  seeing  men 
stabbed,  poisoned,  racked,  or  impaled,  is  certainly 
the  sign  of  a  cruel  temper :  and  as  this  is  often 
racticed  before  the  British  audience,  several 
rench  critics,  who  think  these  are  grateful  spec¬ 
tacles  to  us,  take  occasion  from  them  to  represent 
us  as  a  people  that  delight  in  blood.  It  is  indeed 
very  odd,  to  see  our  stage  strewed  with  carcasses 
in  the  last  scenes  of  a  tragedy,  and  to  observe  in  the 
wardrobe  of  the  playhouse  several  daggers,  po¬ 
niards,  wheels,  bowls  for  poison,  and  many  other 
instruments  of  death.  Murder  and  executions  are 
always  transacted  behind  the  scenes  in  the  French 
theater ;  which  in  general  is  very  agreeable  to  the 
manners  of  a  polite  and  civilized  people  :  but  as 
there  are  no  exceptions  to  this  rule  on  the  French 
stage,  it  leads  them  into  absurdities  almost  as  ri¬ 
diculous  as  that  which  falls  under  our  present 
censure.  I  remember  in  the  famous  play  of  Cor¬ 
neille,  written  upon  the  subject  of  the  Horatii  and 
Curiatii ;  the  fierce  young  hero  who  had  overcome 
the  Curiatii  one  after  another  (instead  of  beino- 
congratulated  by  his  sister  for  his  victory,  beinS 
upbraided  by  her  for  having  slain  her  lover),  in 
the  height  of  his  passion  and  resentment  kills 
her.  If  anything  could  extenuate  so  brutal  an 
action,  it  would  be  the  doing  of  it  on  a  sudden, 
before  the  sentiments  of  nature,  reason,  or  man¬ 
hood,  could  take  place  in  him.  However,  to  avoid 
public  bloodshed,  as  soon  as  his  passion  is  wrought 
to  its  height,  he  follows  his  sister  the  whole  length 
of  the  stage,  and  forbears  killing  her  till  they  are 
both  withdrawn  behind  the  scenes.  I  must  con¬ 
fess,  had  he  murdered  her  before  the  audience,  the 
indecency  might  have  been  greater  ;  but  as  it  is, 
it  appears  very  unnatural,  and  looks  like  killing 
in  cold  blood.  To  give  my  opinion  upon  this 
case,  the  fact  ought  not  to  have  been  represented, 
but  to  have  been  told,  if  there  was  any  occasion 
for  it. 

It  may  not  be  unacceptable  to  the  reader  to  see 
how  Sophocles  has  conducted  a  tragedy  under  the 
like  delicate  circumstances.  Orestes  was  under 
the  same  condition  with  Hamlet  in  Shakspeare, 
his  mother  having  murdered  his  father,  and  taken 
possession  of  his  kingdom  in  conspiracy  with  her 
adulterer.  That  young  prince,  therefore,  being 
determined  to  revenge  his  father’s  death  upon  those 
who  filled  his  throne,  conveys  himself  by  a  beau¬ 
tiful  stratagem  info  his  mother’s  apartment,  with 
a  resolution  to  kill  her.  But  because  such  a  spec¬ 
tacle  would  have  been  too  shocking  to  the  au¬ 
dience,  this  dreadful  resolution  is  executed  behind 
the  scenes  ;  the  mother  is  heard  calling  out  to  her 
son  for  mercy  ;  and  the  son  answering  her,  that 
she  showed  no  mercy  to  his  father ;  after  which 
she  shrieks  out  that  she  is  wounded,  and  by  what 
follows  we  find  that  she  is  slain.  I  do  not  re¬ 
member  that  in  any  of  our  plays  there  are  speeches 
made  behind  the  scenes,  though  there  are  other 
instances  of  this  nature  to  be  met  with  in  those  of 
the  ancients  :  and  I  believe  my  reader  will  a«ree 
with  me,  that  there  is  something  infinitely  more 
affecting  in  this  dreadful  dialogue  between  the 
mother  and  her  son  behind  the  scenes,  than  could 
have  been  in  anything  transacted  before  the  au- 


CTATOR. 

dience.  Orestes  immediately  after  meets  the  usur¬ 
per  at  the  entrance  of  his  palace  ;  and  by  a  very 
happy  thought  of  the  poet,  avoids  killing  him 
before  the  audience,  by  telling  him  that  he  should 
live  some  time  in  his  present  bitterness  of  soul 
before  he  would  dispatch  him,  and  by  ordering 
him  to  retire  into  that  part  of  the  palace  where  he 
had  slain  his  father,  whose  murder  he  would  re¬ 
venge  in  the  very  same  place  where  it  was  com¬ 
mitted.  By  this  means  the  poet  observes  that  de¬ 
cency,  which  Horace  afterward  established  by  a 
rule,  of  forbearing  to  commit  parricides  or  unnatu¬ 
ral  murders  before  the  audience. 

Nec  pueros  coram  populo  Medea  trueidet. 

Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  185. 

Let  not  Medea  draw  her  murd’ring  knife. 

And  spill  her  children’s  blood  upon  the  stage. 

Roscommon, 
i 

The  French  have  therefore  refined  too  much  upon 
Horace’s  rule,  who  never  designed  to  banish  all 
kinds  of  death  from  the  stage ;  but  only  such  as 
had  too  much  horror  in  them,  and  which  would 
have  a  better  effect  upon  the  audience  when  trans¬ 
acted  behind  the  scenes.  I  would  therefore  re¬ 
commend  to  my  countrymen  the  practice  of  the 
ancient  poets,  who  were  very  sparing  of  their  pub¬ 
lic  executions,  and  _  rather  chose  to  perform  them 
behind  the  scenes,  if  it  could  be  done  with  as  great 
an  effect  upon  the  audience.  At  the  same  time  I 
must  observe,  that  though  the  devoted  persons  of 
the  tragedy  were  seldom  slain  before  the  audience, 
which  has  generally  something  ridiculous  in  it, 
their  bodies  were  often  produced  after  their  death, 
which  has  always  something  melancholy  or  terri¬ 
fying  >'  so  that  the  killing  on  the  stage  does  not 
seem  to  have  been  avoided  only  as  an  indecency, 
but  also  as  an  improbability. 

Nec  pueros  coram  populo  Medea  trueidet; 

Aut  humana  palam  coquat  exta  nefarius  Atreus ; 

Aut  in  avem  Progne  vertatur,  Cadmus  in  anguem; 

Quodcunque  ostendis  mihi  sic,  incredulus  odi. 

Hor.  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  185. 

Medea  must  not  draw  her  murd’ring  knife, 

Nor  Atreus  there  his  horrid  feast  prepare; 

Cadmus  and  Progne’s  metamorphoses, 

(She  to  a  swallow  turn’d,  he  to  a  snake) ; 

And  whatsoever  contradicts  my  sense, 

I  hate  to  see,  and  never  can  believe. — Roscommon. 

I  have  now  gone  through  the  several  dramatic 
inventions  which  are  made  use  of  by  the  ignorant 
poets  to  supply  the  place  of  tragedy,  and'  by  the 
skillful  to  improve  it ;  some  of  which  I  would 
wish  entirely  rejected,  and  the  rest  to  be  used  with 
caution.  It  would  be  an  endless  task  to  consider 
comedy  in  the  same  light,  and  to  mention  the  in¬ 
numerable  shifts  that  small  wits  put  in  practice  to 
raise  a  laugh.  Bullock  in  a  short  coat,  and  Nor¬ 
ris  in  a  long  one,  seldom  fail  of  this  effect.  In 
ordinary  comedies,  a  broad  and  narrow-brimmed 
hat  are  different  characters.  Sometimes  the  wit 
of  the  scene  lies  in  a  shoulder-belt,  and  sometimes 
in  a  pair  of  whiskers.  A  lover  running  about  the 
stage  with  his  head  peeping  out  of  a  barrel*,  was 
thought  a  very  good  jest  in  King  Charles  the 
Second’s  time;  and  invented  by  one  of  the  first 
wits  of  that  age.  But  because  ridicule  is  not  so 
delicate  as  compassion,  and  because  the  objects 
that  make  us  laugh  are  infinitely  more  numerous 
than  those  that  make  us  weep,  there  is  a  much 
greater  latitude  for  comic  than  tragic  artifices,  and 
by  consequence  a  much  greater  indulgence  to  be 
allowed  them. — C. 


*  The  comedy  of  “The  Comical  Revemge;  or.  Love  in  a 
ab,”  by  Sir  George  Etheridge,  1064. 


86 


THE  SPE 

Ho.  45,]  SATURDAY,  APRIL  21,  1711. 

Natio  comoeda  est. — Juv.,  Sat.  iii,  100. 

The  nation  is  a  company  of  players. 

There  is  nothing  which  I  desire  more  than  a 
safe  and  honorable  peace,  though  at  the  same  time 
1  am  very  apprehensive  of  many  ill  consequences 
that  may  attend  it.  I  do  not  mean  in  regard  to 
our  politics,  but  to  our  manners.  What  an  inun¬ 
dation  of  ribbons  and  brocades  will  break  in  upon 
us!  What  peals  of  laughter  and  impertinence 
shall  we  be  exposed  to !  For  the  prevention 
of  these  great  evils  I  could  heartily  wish  that 
there  was  an  act  of  parliament  prohibiting  the 
importation  of  French  fopperies. 

The  female  inhabitants  of  our  island  have  al¬ 
ready  received  very  strong  impressions  from  this 
ludicrous  nation,  though  by  the  length  of  the  war 
(as  there  is  no  evil  which  has  not  some  good  at¬ 
tending  it)  they  are  pretty  well  worn  out  and  for- 
gottenr  I  remember  the  time  when  some  of  our 
well-bred  country-women  kept  their  valet  de 
chambre,  because,  forsooth,  a  man  was  much  moie 
handy  about  them  than  one  of  their  own  sex.  I  my¬ 
self  have  seen  one  of  these  male  Abigails  tripping 
about  the  room  with  a  looking-glass  in  his  hand, 
and  combing  his  lady’s  hair  a  whole  morning  to¬ 
gether.  Whether  or  no  there  was  any  truth  in  the 
story  of  a  lady’s  being  got  with  child  by  one  of 
these  her  handmaids,  I  cannot  tell :  but  I  think  at 
present  the  whole  race  of  them  is  extinct  in  our 
own  country. 

About  the  time  that  several  of  our  sex  were  ta¬ 
ken  into  this  kind  of  service,  the  ladies  likewise 
brought  up  the  fashion  of  receiving  visits  in  their 
beds.  It  was  then  looked  upon  as  a  piece  of  ill- 
breeding  for  a  woman  to  refuse  to  see  a  man  be¬ 
cause  she  was  not  stirring  ;  and  a  porter  would 
have  been  thought  unfit  for  his  place,  that  could 
have  made  so  awkward  an  excuse.  As  I  love  to 
see  everything  that  is  new,  I  once  prevailed  upon 
my  friend  Will  Honeycomb  to  carry  me  along  with 
him  to  one  of  these  traveled  ladies,  desiring  him, 
at  the  same  time,  to  present  me  as  a  foreigner  who 
could  not  speak  English,  that  so  I  might  not  be 
obliged  to  bear  a  part  in  the  discourse.  The  lady, 
though  willing  to  appear  undrest,  had  put  on  her 
best  looks,  and  painted  herself  for  our  reception. 
Her  hair  appeared  in  a  very  nice  disorder,  as  the 
night-gown  which  was  thrown  upon  her  shoulders 
was  ruffled  with  great  care.  For  my  part,  I  am  so 
shocked  with  everything  which  looks  immodest  in 
the  fair  sex,  that  I  could  not  forbear  taking  off  my 
eye  from  her  when  she  moved  in  bed,  and  was  in 
the  greatest  confusion  imaginable  every  time  she 
stirred  a  leg  or  an  arm.  As  the  coquettes  who  in¬ 
troduced  this  custom  grew  old,  they  left  it  off  by 
degrees,  well  knowing  that  a  woman  of  threescore 
may  kick  and  tumble  her  heart  out  without  making 
any  impression. 

Seinpronia  is  at  present  the  most  professed  ad¬ 
mirer  of  the  French  nation,  but  is  so  modest  as  to 
admit  her  visitants  no  farther  than  her  toilet.  It 
is  a  very  odd  sight  that  beautiful  creature  makes, 
when  she  is  talking  politics  with  her  tresses  flow¬ 
ing  about  her  shoulders,  and  examining  that  face 
in  the  glass  which  does  such  execution  upon  all 
the  male  standers-by.  How  prettily  does  she 
divide  her  discourse  between  her  woman  and  her 
visitants!  What  sprightly  transitions  does  she 
make  from  an  opera  or  a  sermon  to  an  ivory  comb 
or  a  pincushion  !  How  have  I  been  pleased  to  see 
her  interrupted  in  an  account  of  her  travels,  by  a 
message  to  her  footman  ;  and  holding  her  tongue 
in  the  midst  of  a  moral  reflection,  by  applying  the 
tip  of  it  to  a  patch  ! 

There  is  nothing  which  exposes  a  woman  to 


C  T  A  T  0  R  . 

greater  dangers,  than  that  gayety  and  airiness  of 
temper  which  are  natural  to  most  of  the  sex.  It 
should  therefore  be  the  concern  of  every  wise  and 
virtuous  woman  to  keep  this  sprightliness  from 
degenerating  into  levity.  On  the  contrary, .  the 
whole  discourse  and  behavior  of  the  French  is  to 
make  the  sex  more  fantastical,  or  (as  they  are 
pleased  to  term  it)  more  awakened,  than  is  consis¬ 
tent  either  with  virtue  or  discretion.  T o  speak 
loud  in  public  assemblies,  to  let  every  one  hear 
you  talk  of  things  that  should  only  be  mentioned 
in  private  or  in  whisper,  are  looked  upon  as  parts 
of  a  refined  education.  At  the  same  time  a  blush 
is  unfashionable,  and  silence  more  ill-bred  than 
anything  that  can  be  spoken.  In  short,  discretion 
and  modesty,  which  in  all  other  ages  and  coun¬ 
tries  have  been  regarded  as  the  greatest  ornaments 
of  the  fair  sex,  are  considered  as  the  ingredients 
of  a  narrow  conversation,  and  family  behavior. 

Some  years  ago  I  was  at  the  tragedy  of  Macbeth, 
and  unfortunately  placed  myself  under  a  woman 
of  quality  that  is  since  dead,  who,  as  I  found  by 
the  noise  she  made,  was  newly  returned  from 
France.  A  little  before  the  rising  of  the  curtain, 
she  broke  out  into  a  loud  soliloquy,  “When  will 
the  dear  witches  enter  ?”  and  immediately  upon 
their  first  appearance,  asked  a  lady  that  sat  three 
boxes  from  her  on  her  right  hand,  if  those  witches 
were  not  charming  creatures.  A  little  after,  as 
Betterton  was  in  one  of  the  finest  speeches  of  the 
play,  she  shook  her  fan  at  another  lady  who  sat  as 
far  on  her  left  hand,  and  told  her  with  a  whisper 
that  might  be  heard  all  over  the  pit,  “We  must 
not  expect  to  see  Balloon  to-night.”  Not  long 
after,  calling  out  to  a  young  baronet  by  his  name, 
who  sat  three  seats  before  me,  she  asked  him 
whether  Macbeth’s  wife  was  still  alive  ;  and  be¬ 
fore  he  could  give  an  answer,  fell  a  talking  of  the 
ghost  of  Banquo.  She  had  by  this  time  formed  a 
little  audience  to  herself,  and  fixed  the  attention 
of  all  about  her.  But  as  I  had  a  mind  to  hear  the 
play,  I  got  out  of  the  sphere  of  her  impertinence, 
and  planted  myself  in  one  of  the  remotest  corners 
of  the  pit. 

This  pretty  childishness  of  behavior  is  one  ot 
the  most  refined  parts  of  coquetry,  and  is  not  to 
be  attained  in  perfection  by  ladies  that  do  not 
travel  for  their  improvement.  A  natural  and  uncon¬ 
strained  behavior  has  something  in  it  so  agree¬ 
able,  that  it  is  no  wonder  to  see  people  endeavoring 
after  it.  But  at  the  same  time  it  is  so  very  hard 
to  hit,  when  it  is  not  born  with  us,  that  people 
often  make  themselves  ridiculous  in  attempting  it. 

A  very  ingenious  French  author  tells  us,  that 
the  ladies  of  the  court  of  France  in  his  time 
thought  it  ill-breeding,  and  a  kind  of  female  ped¬ 
antry,  to  pronounce  a  hard  word  right ;  for  which 
reason  they  took  frequent  occasion  to  use  hard 
words,  that  they  might  show  a  politeness  in  mur¬ 
dering  them.  He  farther  adds,  that  a  lady  of 
some  quality  at  court  having  accidentally  made 
use  of  a  hard  word  in  a  proper  place,  and  pro¬ 
nounced  it  right,  the  whole  assembly  was  out  of 
countenance  for  her. 

I  must  however  be  so  just  to  own,  that  there  are 
many  ladies  who  have  traveled  several  thousands 
of  miles  without  being  the  worse  for  it,  and  have 
brought  home  with  them  all  the  modesty,  discre¬ 
tion,  and  good  sense  that  they  went  abroad  with. 
As,  on  the  contrary,  there  are  great  numbers  of 
traveled  ladies  who  have  lived  all  their  days 
within  the  smoke  of  London.  I  have  known  a 
woman  that  never  was  out  of  the  parish  of  St. 
James’s,  betray  as  many  foreign  fopperies  in  her 
carriage,  as  she  could  have  gleaned  in  half  the 
countries  of  Europe. — C. 


THE  SPE 

No.  46.]  MONDAY,  APRIL  23,  1711. 

Non  bene  junctarum  discordia  semina  rerum. 

Ovid.  Met.,  1,  i,  ver.  9. 

The  jarring  seeds  of  ill-concerted  things. 

When  I  want  materials  for  this  paper,  it  is  my 
custom  to  go  abroad  in  quest  of  game ;  and  when 
I  meet  any  proper  subject,  I  take  the  first  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  setting  down  a  hint  of  it  upon  paper. 
At  the  same  time,  I  look  into  the  letters  of  my 
correspondents,  and  if  I  find  anything  suggested  in 
them  that  may  afford  matter  of  speculation,  I 
likewise  enter  a  minute  of  it  in  my  collection  of 
materials.  By  this  means  I  frequently  carry  about 
me  a  whole  sheetful  of  hints,  that  would  look  like 
a  rhapsody  of  nonsense  to  anybody  but  myself. 
There  is  nothing  in  them  bat  obscurity  and  con¬ 
fusion,  raving  and  inconsistency.  In  short,  they 
are  my  speculations  in  the  first  principles,  that 
(like  tne  world  in  its  chaos)  are  void  of  all  light, 
distinction,  and  order. 

About  a  week  since  there  happened  to  me  a  very 
odd  accident,  by  reason  of  one  of  these  my  papers 
of  minutes  which  I  had  accidentally  dropped  at 
Lloyd’s  coffee-house,  where  the  auctions  are  usu¬ 
ally  kept.  Before  I  missed  it,  there  was  a  cluster 
of  people  who  had  found  it,  and  were  diverting 
themselves  with  it  at  one  end  of  the  coffee-house. 
It  had  raised  so  much  laughter  among  them  before 
I  had  observed  what  they  were  about,  that  I  had 
not  the  courage  to  own  it.  The  boy  of  the  coffee¬ 
house,  when  they  had  done  with  it,  carried  it 
about  in  his  hand,  asking  everybody  if  they  had 
dropped  a  written  paper ;  but  nobody  challenging 
it,  he  was  ordered  by  those  merry  gentlemen  who 
had  before  perused  it,  to  get  up  into  the  auction 
pulpit,  and  read  it  to  the  whole  room,  that  if  any 
one  would  own  it,  they  might.  The  boy  accora- 
ingly  mounted  the  pulpit,  and  with  a  very  audible 
voice  read  as  follows : 

MINUTES. 

Sir  Roger  de  Coverly’s  country  seat — Yes,  for  I 
hate  long  speeches  —  Query,  if  a  good  Christian 
may  be  a  conjurer  —  Childermas-day,  saltcellar, 
house-dog,  screech-owl,  cricket — Mr.  Thomas  Incle 
of  London,  in  the  good  ship  called  the  Achilles — 

Yarico - JEgrescitque  medendo  —  Ghosts  —  The 

Lady’s  Library — Lion  by  trade  a  tailor — Drome¬ 
dary  called  Bucephalus  —  Equipage  the  lady’s 
summum  bonum — Charles  Lillie  to  be  taken  notice 
of — Short  face  a  relief  to  envy — Redundancies  in 
three  professions — King  Latinus  a  recruit — Jew 
devouring  a  ham  of  bacon — Westminster-abbey — 
Grand  Cario — Procrastination — April  fools — Blue 
boars,  red  lions,  hogs  in  armor — Enter  a  king  and 
two  fiddlers  solus — Admission  into  the  Ugly  club — 
J3eauty  how  improvable  —  Families  of  true  and 
false  humor — The  parrot’s  school-mistress — Face 
half  Piet  half  British — No  man  to  be  a  hero  of  a 
tragedy  under  six  foot — Club  of  sighers — Letters 
from  flower-pots,  elbow-chairs,  tapestry-figures, 

lion,  thunder - The  bell-rings  to  the  puppet- 

show —  Old  woman  with  a  beard  married  to  a 
smock-faced  boy — My  next  coat  to  be  turned  up 
with  blue — Fable  of  tongs  and  gridiron — Flower 
dyers — The  soldier’s  prayer — Thank  ye  for  no¬ 
thing,  says  the  gallipot — Pactolus  in  stockings 
with  golden  clocks  to  them — Bamboos,  cudgels, 
drum-sticks — Slip  of  my  landlady’s  eldest  daugh¬ 
ter — The  black  mare  with  a  star  in  her  forehead — 
The  barber’s  pole — Will  Honeycomb’s  coat-pocket 
— Csesar’s  behavior  and  my  own  in  parallel  circum¬ 
stances — Poem  in  patch-work - Nulli  gram  est 

pcrcussus  Achilles — The  female  conventicler — The 
ogle-master. 

The  reading  of  this  paper  made  the  whole  coffee- 


CTATOR.  87 

house  very  merry;  some  of  them  concluded  it  was 
written  bv  a  madman,  and  others  by  somebody 
that  had  been  taking  notes  out  of  the  Spectator. 
One  who  had  the  appearance  of  a  very  substantial 
citizen,  told  us,  with  several  political  winks  and 
nods,  that  he  wished  there  was  no  more  in  tho 
paper  than  what  was  expressed  in  it:  that  for  his 
part,  he  looked  upon  the  dromedary,  the  gridiron, 
and  the  barber’s  pole,  to  signify  more  than  was 
usually  meant  by  those  words:  and  that  he  thought 
the  coffee-man  could  not  do  better  than  to  carry 
the  paper  to  one  of  the  secretaries  of  state.  He 
farther  added,  that  he  did  not  like  the  name  of  the 
outlandish  man  with  the  golden  clock  in  his 
stockings.  A  young  Oxford  scholar,  who  chanced 
to  be  with  his  uncle  at  the  coffee-house,  discovered 
to  us  who  this  Pactolus  was :  and  by  that  means 
turned  the  whole  scheme  of  this  worthy  citizen  into 
ridicule.  While  they  were  making  their  several 
conjectures  upon  this  innocent  paper,  I  reached 
out  my  arm  to  the  boy  as  he  was  coming  out  of 
the  pulpit,  to  give  it  me;  which  he  did  accordingly. 
This  drew  the  eyes  of  the  whole  company  upon 
me ;  but  after  having  cast  a  cursory  glance  over  it, 
and  shook  my  head  twice  or  thrice  at  the  reading 
of  it,  I  twisted  it  into  a  kind  of  match,  and  lighted 
my  pipe  with  it.  My  profound  silence,  together 
with  the  steadiness  of  my  countenance,  and  the 
gravity  of  my  behavior  during  this  whole  trans¬ 
action,  raised  a  very  loud  laugh  on  all  sides  of  me; 
but  as  I  had  escaped  all  suspicion  of  being  the 
author,  I  was  very  well  satisfied,  and  applying 
myself  to  my  pipe  and  the  Postman,  took  no 
farther  notice  of  anything  that  had  passed  about 
me. 

My  reader  will  find,  that  I  have  already  made 
use  of  above  half  the  contents  of  the  foregoing 
paper ;  and  will  easily  suppose,  that  those  sub¬ 
jects  which  are  yet  untouched  were  such  provisions 
as  I  had  made  for  his  future  entertainment.  But 
as  I  have  been  unluckily  prevented  by  this  acci¬ 
dent,  I  shall  only  give  him  the  letters  which  re¬ 
lated  to  the  two  last  hints.  The  first  of  them  1 
should  not  have  published,  were  I  not  informed  that 
there  is  many  a  husband  who  suffers  very  much 
in  his  private  affairs  by  the  indiscreet  zeal  of  such 
a  partner  as  is  hereafter  mentioned ;  to  whom  I 
may  apply  the  barbarous  inscription  quoted  by 
the  Bishop  of  Salisbury  in  his  travels:  Dum  nimia 
pia  est  facta  est  impia.  “Through  too  much  piety 
she  became  impious.” 

“  Sir, 

“I  am  one  of  those  unhappy  men  that  are 
plagued  with  a  gospel  gossip,  so  common  among 
dissenters  (especially  friends).  Lectures  in  the 
morning,  church-meetings  at  noon,  and  prepara¬ 
tion-sermons  at  night,  take  up  60  much  of  her 
time,  it  is  very  rare  she  knows  what  we  have  for 
dinner,  unless  when  the  preacher  is  to  be  at  it. 
With  him  come  a  tribe,  all  brothers  and  sisters  it 
seems;  while  others,  really  such,  are  deemed  no 
relations.  If  at  any  time  I  have  her  company 
alone,  she  is  a  mere  sermon  pop-gun,  repeating 
aud  discharging  texts,  proofs,  and  applications  so 
perpetually,  that  however  weary  I  may  go  to  bed, 
the  noise  in  my  head  will  not  let  me  sleep  till 
toward  morning.  The  misery  of  my  case,  and 
great  numbers  of  such  sufferers,  plead  your  pity 
and  speedy  relief ;  otherwise  I  must  expect,  in  a 
little  time,  to  be  lectured,  preached,  and  prayed 
into  want,  unless  the  happiness  of  being  sooner 
talked  to  death  prevent  it. 

“I  am,  etc. 

“R.  G” 

The  second  letter,  relative  to  the  ogling-master, 
runs  thus: 


88 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


“Mr.  Spectator,  ,  ,  , 

Rm  an  Irisli  gGiitlGni8.ii  tliat  have  traveled 

many  years  for  my  improvement ;  during  which 
time  1  have  accomplished  myself  in  the  whole  art 
of  oo-lino-,  as  it  is  at  present  practiced  in  the 
polite  nations  of  Europe.  Being  thus  qualified, 
I  intend,  by  the  advice  of  my  friends,  to  set  up 
for  an  ogling-master.  I  teach  the  church  ogle  in 
the  mbrning,  and  the  play-house  ogle  by  candle¬ 
light.  I  have  also  brought  over  with  me  a  new 
flying  ogle  fit  for  the  ring ;  which  I  teach  in  the 
dusk  of  the  evening,  or  in  any  hour  of  the  day, 
by  darkening  one  of  my  windows.  I  have  a 
manuscript  by  me  called  The  Complete  Ogler, 
which  I  shall  make  ready  to  show  on  any  oc¬ 
casion.  In  the  meantime,  I  beg  you  will  publish 
the  substance  of  this  letter  in  an  advertisement, 
and  you  will  very  much  oblige, 

“Your,  etc.” 

< 

No.  47.]  TUESDAY,  APRIL  24,  1711. 


Ride,  si  sapis- 


Mart. 


Laugh,  if  you  are  wise. 

Mr.  Hobbs,  in  his  Discourse  of  Human  Nature, 
which,  in  my  humble  opinion,  is  much  the  best  of 
all  his  works,  after  some  very  curious  observations 
upon  laughter,  concludes  thus:  “  The  passion  of 
laughter  is  nothing  else  but  sudden  glory  aiising 
from  some  sudden  conception  of  some  eminency  in 
ourselves,  bv  comparison  with  the  infirmities  of 
others,  or  with  our  own  formerly  :  for  men  laugh 
at  the  follies  of  themselves  past,  when  they  come 
suddenly  to  remembrance,  except  they  bring  with 
them  any  present  dishonor.” 

According  to  this  author,  therefore,  when  we 
hear  a  man  laugh  excessively,  instead  of  saying 
he  is  very  merry,  we  ought  to  tell  him  he  is  very 
proud.  And  indeed,  if  we  look  into  the  bottom 
of  this  matter,  we  shall  meet  with  many  observa¬ 
tions  to  confirm  us  in  this  opinion.  Every  one 
laughs  at  somebody  that  is  in  an  inferior  state  of 
folly  to  himself.  It  was  formerly  the  custom  for 
every  °Teat  house  in  England  to  keep  a  tame  fool 
dressecl  in  petticoats,  that  the  heir  of  the  family 
might  have  an  opportunity  of  joking  upon  him, 
and  diverting  himself  with  his  absurdities.  For 
the  same  reason,  idiots  are  still  in  request  in  most 
of  the  courts  of  Germany,  where  there  is  not  a 
prince  of  any  great  magnificence,  who  has  not  two 
or  three  dressed,  distinguished,  undisputed  fools 
in  his  retinue,  whom  the  rest  of  the  courtiers  are 
always  breaking  their  jests  upon.  >  t 

The  Dutch,  who  are  more  famous  for  their  in¬ 
dustry  and  application  than  for  wit  and  humor, 
hang  up  in  several  of  their  streets  what  they,  call 
the  sign  of  the  Gaper,  that  is,  the  head  of  an  idiot 
dressed  in  a  cap  and  bells,  and  gaping  in  a  most 
immoderate  manner.  This  is  a  standing  jest  at 
Amsterdam. 

Thus  every  one  diverts  himself  with  some  per¬ 
son  or  other  that  is  below  him  in  point  of  under¬ 
standing,  and  triumphs  in  the  superiority  of  his 
genius,  while  he  has  such  objects  of  derisiou  before 
his  eyes.  Mr.  Dennis  has  very  well  expressed  this 
in  a  couple  of  humorous  lines,  which  are  part  of  a 
translation  of  a  satire  in  Monsieur  Boileau: 

Thus  one  fool  lolls  his  tongue  out.  at  another, 

And  shakes  his  empty  noddle  at  his  brother. 

Mr.  Hobbs’s  reflection  gives  us  the  reason  why 
the  insignificant  people  above-mentioned  are  stir¬ 
rers  up  of  laughter  among  men  of  a  gross  taste:  but 
as  the  more  understanding  part  of  mankind  do 
not  find  their  risibility  affected  by  such  ordinary 
objects,  it  may  be  worth  the  while  to  examine  into 


the  several  provocatives  of  laughter  in  men  of 
superior  sense  and  knowledge. 

In  the  first  place  I  must  observe,  that  there  is 
a  set  of  merry  drolls,  whom  the  common  people  of 
all  countries  admire,  and  seem  to  love  so  well, 
“that  they  could  eat  them,”  according  to  the  old 
proverb:  I  mean  those  circumforaneous  wits  whom 
every  nation  calls  by  the  name  of  that  dish  of 
meat  which  it  loves  best :  in  Holland  they  are 
termed  Pickled  Herrings  ;  in  France,  J ean  Pot¬ 
tages  ;  in  Italy,  Macaronies  ;  and  in  Great  Britain, 
Jack  Puddings.  These  merry  wags,  from  what¬ 
soever  food  they  receive  their  titles,  that  they  may 
make  their  audiences  laugh,  always  appear  in  a 
fool’s  coat,  and  commit  such  blunders  and  mis¬ 
takes  in  every  step  they  take,  and  every  word  they 
utter,  as  those  who  listen  to  them  would  be 
ashamed  of. 

But  this  little  triumph  of  the  understanding, 
under  the  disguise  of  laughter,  is  nowhere  more 
visible  than  in  that  custom  which  prevails  every¬ 
where  among  us  on  the  first  day  of  the  present 
month,  when  everybody  takes  it  into  his  head  to 
make  as  many  fools  as  he  can.  In  proportion  as 
there  are  more  follies  discovered,  so  there  is.  more 
laughter  on  this  day  than  on  any  other  in.  the 
whole  year.  A  neighbor  of  mine,  who  is  a 
haberdasher  by  trade,  and  a  very  shallow  con¬ 
ceited  fellow,  makes  his  boast  that  for  these  ten 
years  successively  he  has  not  made  less  than  a 
hundred  April  fools.  My  landlady  had  a  falling 
out  with  him  about  a  fortnight  ago,  for  sending 
every  one  of  her  children  upon  some  sleeveless 
errand,  as  she  terms  it.  Her  eldest  son  went  to 
buy  a  halfpenny-worth  of  inkle  at  a  shoemaker  s; 
the  eldest  daughter  was  dispatched  half  a  mile  to 
see  a  monster  ;  and  in  short  the  whole  family  of 
innocent  children  made  April  fools.  Nay,  my 
landlady  herself  did  not  escape  him. .  This  empty 
fellow  has  laughed  upon  these  conceits  ever  since. 

This  art  of  wit  is  well  enough,  when  confined 
to  one  day  in  a  twelvemonth;  but  there  is  an  inge¬ 
nious  tribe  of  men  sprung  up  of  .  late  years,  who 
are  for  making  April  fools  every  day  in  the  year. 
These  gentlemen  are  commonly  distinguished  by 
the  name  of  Biters ;  a  race  of  men  that  are. perpe¬ 
tually  employed  in  laughing  at  those  mistakes 
which  are  of  their  own  production. 

Thus  we  see,  in  proportion  as  one  man  is  more 
refined  than  another,  he  chooses  his  fool  out  of  .  a 
lower  or  higher  class  of  mankind ;  or  to  speak,  in 
a  more  philosophical  language,  that  secret  elation 
or  pride  of  heart  which  is  generally  called  laugh¬ 
ter,  arises  in  him,  from  his  comparing  himself  with 
an  object  below  him,  whether  it  so  happens  that  it 
be  a  natural  or  an  artificial  fool.  It  is,  indeed, 
very  possible  that  the  persons  we  laugh  at  may  in 
the  main  of  their  characters  be  much  wiser  men 
than  ourselves  ;  but  if  they  would  have  us  laugh’ 
at  them,  they  must  fall  short  of  us  in  those  re¬ 
spects  which  stir  up  this  passion. 

I  am  afraid  I  shall  appear  too  abstracted  m  my 
speculations,  if  I  show,  that  when  a  man  of  wit 
makes  us  laugh,  it  is  by  betraying  some  oddness 
or  infirmity  in  his  own  character,  or  in  the  repre¬ 
sentation  which  he  makes  of  others  ;  and  that 
when  we  laugh  at  a  brute,  or  even  at  an  inanimate 
thing,  it  is  at  some  action  or  incident  that  bears 
a  remote  analogy  to  any  blunder  or  absurdity  in 
reasonable  creatures. 

But  to  come  into  common  life ;  I  shall  pass  by 
the  consideration  of  those  stage  coxcombs  that  are 
able  to  shake  a  whole  audience,  and  take  notice 
of  a  particular  sort  of  men  who  are  such  provokers 
of  mirth  in  conversation,  that  it  is  impossible  for 
a  club  or  merry  meeting  to  subsist  without  them 
I  mean  those  honest  gentlemen  that  are  always 


•  THE  S  P  E 

exposed  to  the  wit  and  raillery  of  their  well- 
wishers  and  companions-  that  are  pelted  by  men, 
women,  and  children,  friends  and  foes,  and  in  a 
word,  stand  as  butts  in  conversation,  for  every  one 
to  shoot  at  that  pleases.  I  know  several  of  these 
butts  who  are  men  of  wit  and  sense,  though  by 
some  odd  turn  of  humor,  some  unlucky  cast  in 
their  person  or  behavior,  they  have  always  the 
misfortune  to  make  the  company  merry.  The 
truth  of  it  is,  a  man  is  not  qualified  for  a  butt, 
who  has  not  a  good  deal  of  wit  and  vivacity,  even 
in  the  ridiculous  side  of  his  character.  A  stupid 
butt  is  only  fit  for  the  conversation  of  ordinary 
people:  men  of  wit  require  one  that  vfill  give  them 
play,  and  bestir  himself  in  the  absurd  part  of  his 
behavior.  A  butt  with  these  accomplishments 
frequently  gets  the  laugh  on  his  side  and  turns  the 
ridicule  upon  him  that  attacks  him.  Sir  John 
Falstaff  was  a  hero  of  this  species,  and  gives  a 
good  description  of  himself  in  his  capacity  of  a 
butt,  after  the  following  manner:  “Men  of  all 
sorts,”  says  that  merry  knight,  “take  a  pride  to 
gird  at  me.  The  brain  of  man  is  not  able  to  in¬ 
vent  anything  that  tends  to  laughter  more  than  I 
invent,  or  is  invented  on  me.  I  am  not  only  witty 
in  myself,  but  the  cause  that  wit  is  in  other  men.” 

G. 


No.  48.]  WEDNESDAY,  APRIL  25,  1711. 

- Per  multas  aditum  sibi  ssepe  figuras 

Kepperit -  Ovid,  Met.  xiv,  652. 

Through  various  shapes  he  often  finds  access. 

>  My  correspondents  take  it  ill  if  I  do  not,  from 
time  to  time,  let  them  know  I  have  received  their 
letters.  The  most  effectual  way  will  be  to  publish 
some  of  them  that  are  upon  important  subjects; 
which  I  shall  introduce  with  a  letter  of  my  own 
that  I  wrote  a  fortnight  ago  to  a  fraternity  who 
thought  fit  to  make  me  an  honorary  member. 

To  the  President  and  Fellows  of  the  Ugly  Club. 

“  May  it  please  your  Deformities. 

“I  have  received  the  notification  of  the  honor 
you  have  done  me,  in  admitting  me  into  your 
society.  I  acknowledge  my  want  of  merit,  and 
for  that  reason  shall  endeavor  at  all  times  to  make 
up  my  own  failures,  by  introducing  and  recom¬ 
mending  to  the  club  persons  of  more  undoubted 
qualifications  than  I  can  pretend  to.  I  shall  next 
week  come  down  in  the  stage-coach,  in  order  to 
take  my  seat  at  the  board ;  and  shall  bring  with 
me  a  candidate  of  each  sex.  The  persons  1  shall 
present  to  you,  are  an  old  beau  and  a  modern  Piet, 
if  they  are  not  so  eminently  gifted  by  nature  as 
our  assembly  expects,  give  me  leave  to  say  their 
acquired  ugliness  is  greater  than  any  that  has  ever 
yet  appeared  before  you.  The  beau  has  varied  his 
dress  every  day  in  his  life  for  these  thirty  years 
past,  and  still  added  to  the  deformity  he  was  born 
with.  The  Piet  lias  still  greater  merit  toward  us, 
and  has,  ever  since  she  came  to  years  of  discre¬ 
tion,  deserted  the  handsome  party,  and  taken  all 
possible  pains  to  acquire  the  face  in  which  I  shall 
present  her  to  your  consideration  and  favor. 

“I  am,  Gentlemen, 

“Your  most  obliged  humble  servant, 

“  The  Spectator.” 

“P.  S.  I  desire  to  know  whether  you  admit 
people  of  quality.” 

“Mr.  Spectator.  April  17. 

“To  show  you  there  are  among  us  of  the  vain 
weak  sex,  some  that  have  honesty  and  fortitude 
enough  to  dare  to  be  uglv,  and  willing  to  be 
thought  so,  I  apply  myself  to  you,  to  beg  your 


CTATOR.  39 

interest  and  recommendation  to  the  Ugly  club.  If 
my  own  word  will  not  be  taken  (though  in  this 
case  a  woman’s  may),  I  can  bring  credible  wit¬ 
nesses  of  my  qualifications  for  their  company, 
whether  they  insist  upon  hair,  forehead,  eyes, 
cheeks,  or  chin ;  to  which  I  must  add,  that  I  find 
it  easier  to  lean  to  my  left  side  than  to  my  right. 
I  hope  I  am  in  all  respects  agreeable;  and  for 
humor  and  mirth,  I  will  keep  up  to  the  president 
himself.  All  the  favor  I  will  pretend  to  is,  that  as 
I  am  the  first  woman  who  has  appeared  desirous 
of  good  company  and  agreeable  conversation,  I 
may  take,  and  keep,  the  upper  end  of  the  table. 
And  indeed  I  think  they  want  a  carver,  which  I 
can  be,  after  as  ugly  a  manner  as  they  could  wish. 
I  desire  your  thoughts  of  my  claim  as  soon  as  you 
can.  Add  to  my  features  the  length  of  my  face, 
which  is  a  full  half-yard;  though  I  never  knew  the 
reason  of  it  till  you  gave  one  for  the  shortness  of 
yours.  If  I  knew  a  name  ugly  enough  to  belong 
to  the  above  described  face,  I  would  feign  one ; 
but,  to  my  unspeakable  misfortune,  my  name  is 
the  only  disagreeable  prettiness  about  me ;  so 
prithee  make  one  for  me  that  signifies  all  the  de¬ 
formity  in  the  world.  You  understand  Latin,  but 
be  sure  bring  it  in  with'my  being,  in  the  sincerity 
of  my  heart, 

“Your  most  frightful  admirer  and  servant, 

“Hecatissa.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  read  your  discourse  upon  affectation,  and 
from  the  remarks  made  in  it,  examined  my  own 
heart  so  strictly,  that  I  thought  I  had  found  out 
its  most  secret  avenues,  with  a  resolution  to  be 
aware  of  them  for  the  future.  But  alas !  to  my 
sorrow  I  now  understand  that  I  have  several  follies 
which  I  do  not  know  the  root  of.  I  am  an  old 
fellow,  and  extremely  troubled  with  the  gout ;  but 
having  always  a  strong  vanity  toward  being  pleas¬ 
ing  in  the  eyes  of  women,  I  never  have  a  moment’s 
ease,  but  I  am  mounted  in  high  heeled  shoes,  with 
a  glazed  wax-leather  instep.  Two  days  after  a 
severe  fit,  I  was  invited  to  a  friend’s  house  in  the 
city,  where  I  believed  I  should  see  ladies;  and 
with  my  usual  complaisance,  crippled  myself  to 
wait  upon  them.  A  very  sumptuous  table,  agree¬ 
able  company,  and  kind  reception,  were  but  so 
many  importunate  additions  to  the  torment  I  was 
in.  A  gentleman  of  the  family  observed  my  con¬ 
dition;  and  soon  after  the  queen’s  health,  he  in 
the  presence  of  the  Avhole  company,  with  his  own 
hands,  degraded  me  into  an  old  pair  of  his  own 
shoes.  This  operation,  before  fine  ladies,  to  me 
(who  am  by  nature  a  coxcomb)  was  suffered  with 
the  same  reluctance  as  they  admit  the  help  of  men 
in  the  greatest  extremity.  The  return  of  ease  made 
me  forgive  the  rough  obligation  laid  upon  me, 
which  at  that  time  relieved  my  body  from  a  dis¬ 
temper,  and  will  my  mind  forever  from  a  folly. 
For  the  charity  received,  I  return  my  thanks  this 
way.  Your  most  humble  servant. 

“Sir,  Epping,  April  18. 

“We  have  your  papers  here  the  morning  they 
come  out,  and  we  have  been  very  well  entertained 
with  your  last,  upon  the  false  ornaments  of  per¬ 
sons  who  represent  heroes  in  a  tragedy.  What 
made  your  speculation  come  very  seasonably 
among  us  is,  that  we  have  now  at  this  place  a 
company  of  strollers,  who  are  far  from  offending 
in  the  impertinent  splendor  of  the  drama.  They 
are  so  far  from  falling  into  these  false  gallantries, 
that  the  stage  is  here  in  its  original  situation  of  a 
cart.  Alexander  the  Great  was  acted  by  a  fellow 
in  a  paper  cravat.  The  next  day  the  Earl  of  Essex 
seemed  to  have  no  distress  but  his  poverty;  and 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


90 

my  Lord  Foppington  the  same  morning  wanted 
any  better  means  to  show  himself  a  fop,  than  by 
wearing  stockings  of  different  colors.  In  a  word, 
though  they  have  had  a  full  barn  for  many  days 
together,  our  itinerants  are  still  so  wretchedly 
poor,  that  without  you  can  prevail  to  send  us  the 
furniture  you  forbid  at  the  play-house,  the  heroes 
appear  only  like  sturdy  beggars,  and  the  heroines 
gipsies.  We  have  had  but  one  part  which  was 
performed  and  dressed  with  propriety,  and  that 
was  Justice  Clodpate.  This  was  so  well  done, 
that  it  offended  Mr.  Justice  Overdo,  who,  in  the 
midst  of  our  whole  audience,  was  (like  Quixote  in 
the  puppet-show)  so  highly  provoked,  that  he  told 
them,  if  they  would  move  compassion,  it  should 
be  in  their  own  persons,  and  not  in  the  characters 
of  distressed  princes  and  potentates.  He  told  them, 
if  they  were  so  good  at  finding  the  way  to  people’s 
hearts,  they  should  do  it  at  the  end  of  bridges  or 
church  porches,  in  their  proper  vocation  of  beg¬ 
gars.  This,  the  justice  says,  they  must  expect, 
since  they  could  not  be  contented  to  act  heathen 
warriors,  and  such  fellows  as  Alexander,  but  must 
presume  to  make  a  mockery  of  one  of  the  quorum. 

R.  “Your  servant.” 


No.  49.]  THURSDAY,  APRIL  26,  1711. 

- Hominem  pagina  nostra  sapit. — Mart. 

Men  and  manners  I  describe. 

It  is  very  natural  for  a  man  who  is  not  turned 
for  mirthful  meetings  of  men,  or  assemblies  of  the 
fair  sex,  to  delight  in  that  sort  of  conversation 
which  we  find  in  coffee-houses.  Here  a  man  of  my 
temper  is  in  his  element;  for  if  he  cannot  talk,  he 
can  still  be  more  agreeable  to  his  company,  as  well 
as  pleased  in  himself,  in  being  only  a  hearer.  It 
is  a  secret  known  but  to  few,  yet  of  no  small  use 
in  the  conduct  of  life,  that  when  you  fall  into  a 
man’s  conversation,  the  first  thing  you  should 
consider  is,  whether  he  has  a  greater  inclination 
to  hear  you,  or  that  you  should  hear  him.  1  he 
latter  is  the  more  general  desire,  and  I  know  very 
able  flatterers  that  never  speak  a  word  in  praise 
of  the  persons  from  whom  they  obtain  daily  favors, 
but  still  practice  a  skillful  attention  to  whatever 
is  uttered  by  those  with  whom  they  converse.  "We 
are  very  curious  to  observe  the  behavior  of  great 
men  and  their  clients;  but  the  same  passions  and 
interests  move  men  in  lower  spheres;  and  I  (that 
have  nothing  else  to  do  but  make  observations) 
see  in  every  parish,  street,  lane,  and  alley,  of  this 
populous  city,  a  little  potentate  that  has  his  court 
and  his  flatterers,  who  lay  snares  fo^  his  affection 
and  favor  by  the  same  arts  that  are  practiced  upon 
men  in  higher  stations. 

In  the  place  I  most  usually  frequent,  men  differ 
rather  in  the  time  of  day  in  which  they  make  a 
figure,  than  in  any  real  greatness  above  one  an¬ 
other.  I,  who  am  at  the  coffee-house  at  six  in  the 
morning,  know  that  my  friend  Beaver,  the  haber¬ 
dasher,  has  a  levee  of  more  undissembled  friends 
and  admirers  than  most  of  the  courtiers  or  gene¬ 
rals  of  Great  Britain.  Every  man  about  him  has, 
perhaps,  a  newspaper  in  his  hand ;  but  none  can 
pretend  to  guess  what  step  will  be  taken  in  any 
one  court  of  Europe,  till  Mr.  Beaver  has  thrown 
down  his  pipe,  and  declares  what  measures  the 
allies  must  enter  into  upon  this  new  posture  of  af¬ 
fairs.  Our  coffee-house  is  near  one  of  the  inns  of 
court,  and  Beaver  has  the  audience  and  admira¬ 
tion  of  his  neighbors  from  six  till  within  a  quarter 
of  eight,  at  which  time  lie  is  interrupted  by  the 
students  of  the  house ;  some  of  whom  are  ready 
dressed  for  Westminster  at  eight  in  a  morning, 
with  faces  as  busy  as  if  they  were  retained  in 


every  cause  there;  and  others  come  in  their  night¬ 
gowns  to  saunter  away  their  time,  as  if  they  never 
designed  to  go  thither.  I  do  not  know  that  I  meet 
in  any  of  my  walks,  objects  which  move  both  my 
spleen  and  laughter  so  effectually,  as  those  young 
fellows  at  the  Grecian,  Squire’s,  Searle’s,  and  all 
other  coffee-houses  adjacent  to  the  law,  who  rise 
early  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  publish  their 
laziness.  One  would  think  these  young  virtuosos 
take  a  gay  cap  and  slippers,  with  a  scarf  and  party- 
colored  gown,  to  be  the  ensigns  of  dignity;  for  the 
vain  things  approach  each  other  with  an  air,  which 
shows  they  regard  one  another  for  their  vestments. 

I  have  observed,  that  the  superiority  among  these 
proceeds  from  an  opinion  of  gallantry  and  fashion. 
The  gentleman  in  the  strawberry  sash,  who  pre¬ 
sides  so  much  over  the  rest,  has,  it  seems,  sub¬ 
scribed  to  every  opera  this  last  winter,  and  is 
supposed  to  receive  favors  from  one  of  the 
actresses. 

When  the  day  grows  too  busy  for  these  gentle¬ 
men  to  enjoy  any  longer  the  pleasures  of  their 
dishabille  with  any  manner  of  confidence,  they 
give  place  to  men  who  have  business  or  good  sense 
in  their  faces,  and  come  to  the  coffee-house  either 
to  transact  affairs,  or  enjoy  conversation.  The 
persons  to  whose  behavior  and  discourse  I  have 
most  regard,  are  such  as  are  between  these  two 
sorts  of  men  ;  such  as  have  not  spirits  too  active 
to  be  happy  and  well  pleased  in  a  private  condi¬ 
tion,  nor  complexions  too  warm  to  make  them  ne¬ 
glect  the  duties  and  relations  of  life.  Of  these 
sort  of  men  consist  the  worthier  part  of  mankind; 
of  these  are  all  good  fathers,  generous  brothers, 
sincere  friends,  and  faithful  subjects.  Their  en¬ 
tertainments  are  derived  rather  from  reason  than 
imagination  :  which  is  the  cause  that  there  is  no 
impatience  or  instability  in  their  speech  or  action. 
You  see  in  their  countenances  they  are  at  home, 
and  in  quiet  possession  of  the  present  instant  as 
it  passes,  without  desiring  to  quicken  it  by  grati¬ 
fying  any  passion,  or  prosecuting  any  new  design. 
These  are  the  men  formed  for  society,  and  those 
little  communities  which  we  express  by  the  word 
neighborhood. 

The  coffee-house  is  the  place  of  rendezvous  to 
all  that  live  near  it,  who  are  thus  turned  to  relish 
calm  and  ordinary  life.  Eubulus  presides  over 
the  middle  hours  of  the  day,  when  this  assembly 
of  men  meet  together.  He  enjoys  a  great  fortune 
handsomely,  without  launching  into  expense  ;  and 
exerts  many  noble  and  useful  qualities,  without 
appearing  in  any  public  employment.  His  wis¬ 
dom  and  knowledge  are  serviceable  to  all  that 
think  fit  to  make  use  of  them ;  and  he  does  the 
office  of  a  counsel,  a  judge,  an  executor,  and  a 
friend,  to  all  his  acquaintance,  not  only  without 
the  profits  which  attend  such  offices,  but  also 
without  the  deference  and  homage  which  are 
usually  paid  to  them.  The  giving  of  thanks  is 
displeasing  to  him.  The  greatest  gratitude  you 
can  show  him  is,  to  let  him  see  that  you  are  a 
better  man  for  his  services  ;  and  that  you  are  as 
ready  to  oblige  others,  as  he  is  to  oblige  you. 

In  the  private  exigencies  of  his  friends,  he 
lends  at  legal  value  considerable  sums  which  he 
might  highly  increase  by  rolling  in  the  public 
stocks.  He  does  not  consider  in  whose  hands  his 
money  will  improve  most,  but  where  it  will  do 
most  good. 

Eubulus  has  so  great  an  authority  in  his  little 
diurnal  audience,  that  when  he  -shakes  his  head 
at  any  piece  of  public  news,  they  all  of  them  ap¬ 
pear  dejected  ;  and  on  the  contrary,  go  home  to 
their  dinners  with  a  good  stomach  and  cheerful 
aspect  when  Eubulus  seems  to  intimate  that  things 
go  well.  Nay,  their  veneration  toward  him  is  so 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


91 


great,  tliat  when  they  are  in  other  company  they 
speak  and  act  after  him ;  are  wise  in  his  sen¬ 
tences,  and  are  no  sooner  sat  down  at  their  own 
tables,  but  they  hope  or  fear,  rejoice  or  despond, 
as  they  saw  him  do  at  the  cotfee-house.  In  a 
word,  every  man  is  Eubulus  as  soon  as  his  back 
is  turned. 

Having  here  given  an  account  of  the  several 
reigns  that  succeed  each  other  from  day-break  till 
dinner-time,  I  shall  mention  the  monarchs  of  the 
afternoon  on  another  occasion,  and  shut  up  the 
whole  series  of  them  with  the  history  of  Tom  the 
Tyrant  ;*  who,  as  the  first  minister  of  the  coffee¬ 
house,  takes  the  government  upon  him  between 
the  hours  of  eleven  and  twelve  at  night,  and  gives 
his  orders  in  the  most  arbitrary  manner  to  the 
servants  below  him,  as  to  the  disposition  of 
liquors,  coal,  and  cinders. — R. 


No.  50.]  FRIDAY,  APRIL  27,  1711. 

Nunquam  aliud  natura,  aliud  sapientia  dixit. 

Juv.,  Sat.  xix,  321. 

Good  taste  and  nature  always  speak  the  same. 

When  the  four  Indian  kings  were  in  this  coun¬ 
ty  about  a  twelvemonth  ago,  I  often  mixed  with 
the  rabble,  and  followed  them  a  whole  day  to¬ 
gether,  being  wonderfully  struck  with  the  sight  of 
everything  that  is  new  or  uncommon.  I  have 
since  their  departure,  employed  a  friend  to  make 
many  inquiries  of  their  landlord  the  upholsterer, 
relating  to  their  manners  and  conversation,  as  also 
concerning  the  remarks  which  they  made  in  this 
country  ;  for  next  to  the  forming  a  right  notion  of 
such  strangers,  I  should  be  desirous  of  learning 
what  ideas  they  have  conceived  of  us. 

The  upholsterer  finding  my  friend  very  inquisi¬ 
tive  about  these  his  lodgers,  brought  him  some 
time  since  a  little  bundle  of  papers,  which  he  as¬ 
sured  him  were  written  by  king  Sa  Ga  Yean  Qua 
Rash  Tow,  and,  as  he  supposes,  left  behind  by 
some  mistake.  These  papers  are  now  translated, 
and  contain  abundance  of  very  odd  observations, 
which  I  find  this  little  fraternity  of  kings  made 
during  their  stay  in  the  isle  of  Great  Britain.  I 
shall  present  my  reader  with  a  short  specimen  of 
them  m  this  paper,  and  may  perhaps  communicate 
more  to  him  hereafter.  In  the  article  of  London 
are  the  following  -words,  which,  without  doubt 
are  meant  of  the  church  of  St.  Paul : 

“  On  the  most  rising  part  of  the  town  there 
stands  a  huge  house,  big  enough  to  contain  the 
whole  nation  of  which  I  am  king.  Our  good 
brother  E  Tow  0  Koam,  king  of  the  Rivers,  is  of 
opinion  it  was  made  by  the  hands  of  that  great 
God  to  whom  it  is  consecrated.  The  kings  of 
Granajali  and  of  the  Six  Nations  believe  that  it 
was  created  with  the  earth,  and  produced  on  the 
same  day  with  the  sun  and  moon.  But  for  my 
own  part,  by  the  best  information  that  I  could  get 
of  this  matter,  I  am  apt  to  think  that  this  prodi¬ 
gious  pile  was  fashioned  into  the  shape  it  now 
Dears  by  several  tools  and  instruments,  of  which 
they  have  a  wonderful  variety  in  this  country.  It 
was  probably  at  first  a  huge  misshapen  rock  that 
grew  upon  the  top  of  the  hill,  which  the  natives 
of  the  country  (after  having  cut  into  a  kind  of 
regular  figure)  bored  and  hollowed  with  incredible 
pains  and  industry,  till  they  had  wrought  in  it  all 
those  beautiful  vaults  and  caverns  into  which  it  is 
divided  at  this  day.  As  soon  as  this  rock  was 
thus  curiously  scooped  to  their  liking,  a  prodigious 
number  of  hands  must  have  been  employed  in 


*The  waiter  of  that  coffee-house,  frequently  nick-named  Sir 
Thomas. 


chipping  the  outside  of  it,  which  is  now  as  smooth 
as  the  surface  of  a  pebble  ;  and  is  in  several 
places  hewn  out  into  pillars  that  stand  like  the 
trunks  of  so  many  trees  bound  about  the  top  with 
garlands  of  leaves.  It  is  probable  that  when  this 
great  work  was  begun,  which  must  have  been 
many  hundred  years  ago,  there  was  some  religion 
among  this  people ;  for  they  give  it  the  name  of  a 
temple,  and  have  a  tradition  that  it  was  designed 
for  men  to  pay  their  devotion  in.  And  indeed 
there  are  several  reasons  which  make  us  think 
that  the  natives  of  this  country  had  formerly  among 
them  some  sort  of  worship,  for  they  set  apart  every 
seventh  day  as  sacred;  but  upon  my  going  into 
one  of  these  holy  houses  on  that  day,  I  could  not 
observe  any  circumstance  of  devotion  in  their  beha¬ 
vior.  There  was  indeed  a  man  in  black,  who  was 
mounted  ^.bove  the  rest,  aud  seemed  to  utter  some¬ 
thing  •with  a  great  deal  of  vehemence ;  but  as  for 
those  underneath  him,  instead  of  paying  their 
worship  to  the  deity  of  the  place,  they  were  most 
of  them  bowing  and  curtseying  to  one  another, 
and  a  considerable  number  of  them  fast  asleep. 

“  The  queen  of  the  country  appointed  two  men 
to  attend  us,  that  had  enough  of  our  language  to 
make  themselves  understood  in  some  few  particu¬ 
lars.  But  we  soon  perceived  that  these  two  were 
very  great  enemies  to  one  another,  and  did  not 
always  agree  in  the  same  story.  We  could  make 
shift  to  gather  out  of  one  of  them,  that  this  island 
was  very  much  infested  with  a  monstrous  kind  of 
animals,  in  the  shape  of  men,  called  whigs  ;  and 
he  often  told  us,  that  he  hoped  we  should  meet 
with  none  of  them  in  our  way,  for  that  if  we  did, 
they  would  be  apt  to  knock  us  down  for  being 
kings. 

“Our  other  interpreter  used  to  talk  very  much 
of  a  kind  of  animal  called  a  tory,  that  was  as 
great  a  monster  as  the  whig,  and  would  treat  us  as 
ill  for  being  foreigners.  These  two  creatures,  it 
seems,  are  born  with  a  secret  antipathy  to  one 
another,  and  engage  when  they  meet  as  naturally 
as  the  elephant  and  the  rhinoceros.*  But  as  we 
saw  none  of  either  of  these  species,  we  are  apt  to 
think  that  our  guides  deceived  us  with  misrepre¬ 
sentations  and  fictions,  and  amused  us  with  an 
account  of  such  monsters  as  are  not  really  in  their 
country. 

“  These  particulars  we  made  a  shift  to  pick  out 
from  the  discourse  of  our  interpreters,  which  we 
put  together  as  well  as  we  could,  being  able  to 
understand  but  here  and  there  a  word  of  what 
they  said,  and  afterward  making  up  the  meaning 
of  it  among  ourselves.  The  men  of  the  country 
are  very  cunning  and  ingenious  in  handicraft 
works,  but  withal  so  very  idle,  that  we  often  saw 
young  lusty  raw-boned  fellows  carried  up  and 
down  the  streets  in  little  covered  rooms,  by  a 
couple  of  porters  who  are  hired  for  that  service. 
Their  dress  is  likewise  very  barbarous,  for  they 
almost  strangle  themselves  about  the  neck,  and 
bind  their  bodies  with  several  ligatures,  that  we 
are  apt  to  think  are  the  occasion  of  several  dis¬ 
tempers  among  them,  which  our  country  is  en¬ 
tirely  free  from.  Instead  of  those  beautiful  feath¬ 
ers  with  which  we  adorn  our  heads,  they  often 
buy  up  a  monstrous  bush  of  hair,  which  covers 
their  heads  and  falls  down  in  a  large  fleece  below 
the  middle  of  their  backs ;  and  with  which  they 
walk  up  and  down  the  streets,  and  are  as  proud 
of  it  as  if  it  was  of  their  own  growth. 

“We  were  invited  to  one  of  their  public  diver- 


*  Of  these  two  animals  the  Indian  kings  could  have  no 
ideas,  and  therefore  seem  here  to  be  illustrating  “  obscurtun 
per  obscurius,”  and  explaining  the  monsters  spoken  of  here 
by  animals  that  were  not  really  in  their  country. 


92  the  spe< 

sions,  where  we  hoped  to  have  seen  the  great  men  j 
of  their  country  running  down  a  stag,  or  pitching  . 
a  bar,  that  we  might  have  discovered  who  were  j 
the  persons  of  the  greatest  abilities  among  them  ; 
but  instead  of  that,  they  conveyed  us  into  a  huge 
room  lighted  up  with  abundance  of  candles, 
where  this  lazy  people  sat  still  above  three  hours 
to  see  several  feats  of  ingenuity  performed  by 
others,  who  it  seems  were  paid  for  it. 

“As  for  the  women  of  the  country,  not  being 
able  to  talk  with  them,  we  could  only  make  our 
remarks  upon  them  at  a  distance.  They  let  the 
hair  of  their  heads  grow  to  a  great  length  ;  but 
as  the  men  make  a  great  show  with  heads  of  hair 
that  are  none  of  their  own,  the  women,  who  they 
say  have  very  fine  heads  of  hair,  tie  it  up  in  a  knot, 
and  cover  it  from  being  seen.  The  women  look 
like  angels,  and  would  be  more  beautiful  than  the 
su4,  were  it  not  for  little  black  spots  that  are  apt 
to  break  out  in  their  faces,  and  sometimes  rise  in 
very  odd  figures.  I  have  observed  that  those  little 
blemishes  wear  off  very  soon  ;  but  when  they  dis¬ 
appear  in  one  part  of  the  face,  they  are  very  apt 
to  break  out  in  another,  insomuch  that  I  have  seen 
a  spot  upon  the  forehead  in  the  afternoon,  which 
was  upon  the  chin  in  the  morning.” 

The  author  then  proceeds  to  show  the  absurdity 
of  breeches  and  petticoats,  with  many  other  curi¬ 
ous  observations  which  I  shall  reserve  for  another 
occasion.  I  cannot,  however,  conclude  this  paper 
without  taking  notice,  that  amidst  these  wild  re¬ 
marks  there  now  and  then  appears  something  very 
reasonable.  I  cannot  likewise  forbear  observing, 
that  we  are  all  guilty  in  some  measure  of  the  same 
narrow  way  of  thinking  which  we  meet  with  in 
this  abstract  of  the  Indian  journal,  when  we  fancy 
the  customs,  dresses,  and  manners  of  other  coun¬ 
tries  are  ridiculous  and  extravagant,  if  they  do 
not  resemble  those  of  our  own. — 0. 


Ho.  51.]  SATURDAY,  APRIL  28,  1711. 

Torquet  ab  obscenis  jam  nunc  sermonibus  aurem. 

Hob.,  1  Ep.,  ii,  127. 

He  from  the  taste  obscene  reclaims  our  youth. 

Pope. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“My  fortune,  quality,  and  person,  are  such  as 
render  me  as  conspicuous  as  any  young  woman  in 
town.  It  is  in  my  power  to  enjoy  it  in  all  its  va¬ 
nities,  but  I  have  from  a  very  careful  education, 
contracted  a  great  aversion  to  the  forward  air  and 
fashion  which  is  practiced  in  all  public  places  and 
assemblies.  I  attribute  this  very  much  to  the 
style  and  manner  of  our  plays.  I  was  last,  night 
at  the  Funeral,  where  a  confident  lover  in  the 
play,  speaking  of  his  mistress,  cries  out — ‘  Oh 
that  Harriet !  to  fold  these  arms  about  the  waist 
of  that  beauteous,  struggling,  and  at  last  yielding 
fair  F  Such  an  image  as  this  ought  by  no  means 
to  be  presented  to  a  chaste  and  regular  audience. 
I  expect  your  opinion  of  this  sentence,  and  re¬ 
commend  to  your  consideration,  as  a  Spectator, 
the  conduct  of  the  stage  at  present  with  relation  to 
chastity  and  modesty. 

“  I  am,  Sir, 

“  Your  constant  reader  and  well-wisher.” 

I 

The  complaint  of  this  young  lady  is  so  just,  that 
the  offense  is  gross  enough  to  have  displeased  per¬ 
sons  who  cannot  pretend  to  that  delicacy  and  mo¬ 
desty  of  which  she  is  mistress.  But  there  is  a 
great  deal  to  be  said  in  behalf  of  an  author.  If 
the  audience  would  but  consider  the  difficulty  of 
keeping  up  a  sprightly  dialogue  for  five  acts  to- 


)T  ATOR. 

gether,  they  would  allow  a  writer,  when  he  wants 
wit,  and  cannot  please  any  otherwise,  to  help  it 
out  with  a  little  smuttiness.  I  will  answer  for  the 
poets,  that  no  one  ever  wrote  bawdry,  for  any  other 
reason  but  dearth  of  invention.  When  the  author 
cannot  strike  out  of  himself  any  more  of  that 
which  he  has  superior  to  those  who  make  up  the 
bulk  of  his  audience,  his  natural  recourse  is  to 
that  which  he  has  in  common  with  them  ;  and  a 
description  which  gratifies  a  sensual  appetite  will 
please,  when  the  author  has  nothing  about  him  to 
delight  a  refined  imagination.  It  is  to  such  a 
poverty  we  must  impute  this  and  all  other  sen¬ 
tences  in  plays,  which  are  of  this  kind,  and  which 
are  commonly  termed  luscious  expressions.* 

This  expedient  to  supply  the  deficiencies  of  wit 
has  been  used  more  or  less  by  most  of  the  authois 
who  have  succeeded  on  the  stage  ;  though  I  know 
but  one  who  has  professedly  written  a  play  upon 
the  basis  of  the  desire  of  multiplying  our  spe¬ 
cies,  and  that  is  the  polite  Sir  George  Ethe¬ 
ridge  ;  if  I  understand  what  the  lady  would  be  at, 
in  the  play  called  She  would  if  she  could. .  Other 
poets  have  here  and  there  given  an  intimation 
that  there  is  this  design,  under  all  the  disguises 
and  affectations  which  a  lady  may  put  on  ;  but 
no  author,  except  this,  has  made  sure  work  of  it, 
and  put  the  imaginations  of  the  audience  upon.this 
one  purpose  from  the  beginning  to  end  of  the 
comedy.  It  has  always  fared  accordingly  ;  for 
whether  it  be  that  all  who  go  to  this  piece  would 
if  they  could,  or  that  the  innocents  go  to  it,  to 
guess  only  what  she  would  if  she  could,  the  play 
has  always  been  well  received. 

It  lifts  a  heavy  empty  sentence,  when  there  is 
added  to  it  a  lascivious  gesture  of  body  ;  and 
when  it  is  too  low  to  be  raised  even  by  that,  a 
flat  meaning  is  enlivened  by  making  it  a  double 
one.  Writers  who  want  genius,  never  fail  of  keep¬ 
ing  this  secret  in  reserve,  to  create  a  laugh  or  raise 
a  clap.  I,  who  know  nothing  of  women  but  from 
seeing  plays,  can  give  great  guesses  at. the  whole 
structure  of  the  fair  sex,  by  being  innocently 
placed  in  the  pit,  and  insulted  by  the  petticoats 
of  their  dancers  ;  the  advantages  of  whose  pretty 
persons  are  a  great  help  to  a  dull  play.  When  a 
poet  flags  in  writing  lusciously,  a  pretty  girl  can 
move  lasciviously,  and  have  the  same  good  con¬ 
sequence  for  the  author.  Dull  poets  in  this  case 
use  their  audiences  as  dull  parasites  do  their 
patrons  ;  when  they  cannot  longer  divert  them 
with  their  wit  or  humor,  they  bait  their  ears  with 
something  which  is  agreeaule  to  their  temper, 
though  below  their  understanding.  Apicius 
cannot  resist  being  pleased,  if  you  give  him  an 
account  of  a  delicious  meal :  or  Clodius,  if  you 
describe  a  wanton  beauty  \  though,  at  the  same 
time,  if  you  do  not  awake  those  inclinations  in 
them,  no  men  are  better  judges  of  what  is  just 
and  delicate  in  conversation.  But  as  I  have  be¬ 
fore  observed,  it  is  easier  to  talk  to  the  man  than 
to  the  man  of  sense. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  writers  of  least  learn¬ 
ing  are  best  skilled  in  the  luscious  way.  The 
poetesses  of  the  age  have  done  wonders  in  this 
kind  ;  and  we  are  obliged  to  the  lady  who  wrote 
Ibrahimf,  for  introducing  a  preparatory  scene  to 
the  very  action,  when  the  emperor  throws  his 
handkerchief  as  a  signal  for  his  mistress  to  follow 


*  Be  it  said  here,  to  the  honor  of  the  author  of  this  paper, 
that  he  practiced  the  lessons  which  he  taught,,  and  did  not 
reject  good  advice  from  what  quarter  soever  it  came.  He 
published  this  lady’s  letter,  and  approved  her  indignation. 
He  submitted  to  her  censure,  condemned  .himself  publicly, 
and  corrected  the  obnoxious  passage  of  his  play,  in  a  new 
edition  which  was  published  in  1712. 
j  Mrs.  Mary  Pix. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


him  into  the  most  retired  part  of  the  seraglio.  It 
must  be  confessed  his  Turkish  Majesty  went  off 
with  a  good  air,  but  methought  we  made  but  a 
sad  figure  who  waited  without.  This  ingenious 
gentlewoman,  in  this  piece  of  bawdry  refined 
upon  an  author  of  the  same  sex*,  who,  in  the 
Rover,  makes  a  country  ’squire  strip  to  his  Hol¬ 
land  drawers.  For  Brunt  is  disappointed,  and 
the  emperor  is  understood  to  go  on  to  the  utmost. 
The  pleasantry  of  stripping  almost  naked  has 
been  since  practiced  (where  indeed  it  should' have 
been  begun)  very  successfully  at  Bartholomew 
fair.f 

It  is  not  to  be  here  omitted,  that  in  one  of  the 
above-mentioned  female  compositions,  the  Rover 
is  very  frequently  sent  on  the  same  errand ;  as  I 
take  it,  above  once  every  act.  This  is  not  wholly 
unnatural ;  for,  they  say,  the  men  authors  draw 
themselves  in  their  chief  characters,  and  the 
women  writers  may  be  allowed  the  same  liberty. 
Thus,  as  the  male  wit  gives  his  hero  a  great  for¬ 
tune,  the  female  gives  her  heroine  a  good  gallant 
at  the  end  of  the  play.  But,  indeed,  there  is 
hardly  a  play  one  can  go  to,  but  the  hero  or  fine 
gentleman  of  it  struts  off  upon  the  same  account, 
and  leaves  us  to  consider  what  good  office  he  has 
put  us  to,  or  to  employ  ourselves  as  we  please. 
To  be  plain,  a  man  who  frequents  plays  would 
have  a  very  respectful  notion  of  himself,  were  he 
o  recollect  how  often  he  has  been  used  as  pimp 
to  ravishing  tyrants,  or  successful  rakes.  When 
the  actors  make  their  exit  on  this  good  occasion, 
the  ladies  are  sure  to  have  an  examining  glance 
from  the  pit  to  see  how  they  relish  what  passes  ; 
and  a  few  lewd  fools  are  very  ready  to  employ 
their  talents  upon  the  composure  or  freedom  of 
their  looks.  Such  incidents  as  these  make  some 
ladies  wholly  absent  themselves  from  the  play¬ 
house  ;  and  others  never  miss  the  first  day  of  a 
playt,  lest  it  should  prove  too  luscious  to  admit 
their  going  with  any  countenance  to  it  on  the 
second. 

If  men  of  wit,  who  think  fit  to  write  for  the 
stage,  instead  of  this  pitiful  way  of  giving  delight, 
would  turn  their  thoughts  upon  raising  it  from 
such  good  natural  impulses  as  are  in  the  audience, 
but  are  choked  up  by  vice  and  luxury,  they  would 
not  only  please,  but  befriend  us  at  the  same  time. 
If  a  man  had  a  mind  to  be  new  in  his  way  of 
writing,  might  not  he  who  is  now  represented  as 
a  fine  gentleman,  though  he  betrays  the  honor 
and  bed  of  his  neighbor  and  friend,  and  lies  with 
half  the  women  in  the  play,  and  is  at  last  re¬ 
warded  with  her  of  the  best  character  in  it ; — I 
say,  upon  giving  the  comedy  another  cast,  might 
not  such  a  one  divert  the  audience  quite  as  well, 
if  at  the  catastrophe  he  were  found  out  for  a 
traitor,  and  met  with  contempt  accordingly  ? 
There  is  seldom  a  person  devoted  to  above  one 
darling  vice  at  a  time,  so  that  there  is  room 
enough  to  catch  at  men’s  hearts  to  their  good  and 
advantage,  if  the  poets  will  attempt  it  with  the 
honesty  which  becomes  their  characters. 

There  is  no  man  who  loves  his  bottle  or  his 
mistress,  in  a  manner  so  very  abandoned,  as  not 
to  be  capable  of  relishing  an  agreeable  character, 
that  is  no  way  a  slave  to  either  of  these  pursuits. 
A  man  that  is  temperate,  generous,  valiant,  chaste, 
faithful,  and  honest,  may,  at  the  same  time,  have 
wit,  humor,  good-breeding,  and  gallantry.  While 


*  Mrs.  Behn. 

-j-The  appearance  of  Lady  Mary,  a  rope-dancer  at  Bartholo¬ 
mew  fair,  gave  occasion  to  this  proper  animadversion. 

tOn  the  first  night  of- the  exhibition  of  a  new  play,  virtu¬ 
ous  women  about  this  time  came  to  see  it  in  masks,  then 
worn  by  women  of  the  town,  as  the  characteristic  mark  of 
their  being  prostitutes. 


93 

he  exerts  these  latter  qualities,  twenty  occasions 
might  be  invented  to  show  he  is  master  of  the 
other  noble  virtues.  Such  characters  would  smite 
and  reprove  the  heart  of  a  man  of  sense,  when  he 
is  given  up  to  his  pleasures.  He  would  see  he 
has  been  mistaken  all  this  while,  and  be  con¬ 
vinced  that  a  sownd  constitution  and  an  innocent 
mind  are  the  true  ingredients  for  becoming,  and 
enjoying  life.  All  men  of  true  taste  would  call  a 
man  of  wit,  wTlio  should  turn  his  ambition  this 
way,  a  friend  and  benefactor  to  his  country  ;  but 
I  am  at  a  loss  what  name  they  would  give  him, 
who  makes  use  of  his  capacity  for  contrary  pur¬ 
poses. — R. 


N o.  52.]  MONDAY,  APRIL  30,  1711. 

Omnes  ut  tecum  mentis  pro  talibus  annos 
Exigat,  et  pulchra  faciat  te  prole  parentem. 

VntG.  iEn.,  i,  78. 

To  crown  thy  worth,  she  shall  be  ever  thine, 

And  make  thee  father  of  a  beauteous  line. 

Ax  ingenious  correspondent,  like  a  sprightly 
wife,  will  always  have  the  last  word.  I  did  not 
think  my  last  letter  to  the  deformed  fraternity 
would  have  occasioned  any  answer,  especially 
since  I  had  promised  them  so  sudden  a  visit :  but 
as  they  think  they  cannot  show  too  great  a  vene¬ 
ration  for  my  person,  they  have  already  sent  me 
up  an  answer.  As  to  the  proposal  of  a  marriage 
between  myself  and  the  matchless  Hecatissa,  I 
have  but  one  objection  to  it ;  which  is,  That  all 
the  society  will  expect  to  be  acquainted  with  her  ; 
and  who  can  be  sure  of  keeping  a  woman’s  heart 
long  where  she  may  have  so  much  choice?  I  am 
the  more  alarmed  at  this,  because  the  lady  seems 
particularly  smitten  with  men  of  their  make. 

I  believe  I  shall  set  my  heart  upon  her ;  and 
think  never  the  worse  of  my  mistress  for  an  epi¬ 
gram  a  smart  fellow  wrote,  as  he  thought,  against 
her ;  it  does  but  the  more  recommend  her  to  me. 
At  the  same  time  I  cannot  but  discover  that  his 
malice  is  stolen  from  Martial : 

Tacta  places ;  audita  places ;  si  non  videare, 

Tota  places ;  neutro,  si  videare,  places. 

Whilst  in  the  dark  on  thy  soft  hand  I  hung, 

And  heard  the  tempting  Syren  in  thy  tongue, 

What  flames,  what  darts,  what  anguish  I  endur’d! 
But  when  the  candle  enter’d,  I  was  cur’d. 

“  Your  letter  to  us  we  have  received,  as  a  sig¬ 
nal  mark  of  your  favor  and  brotherly  affection. 
We  shall  be  heartily  glad  to  see  your  short  face  in 
Oxford  ;  and  since  the  wisdom  of  our  legislature 
has  been  immortalized  in  your  speculations,  and 
our  personal  deformities  in  some  sort  by  you  re¬ 
corded  to  all  posterity,  we  hold  ourselves  in  gra¬ 
titude  bound  to  receive,  with  the  highest  respect, 
all  such  persons  as  for  their  extraordinary  merit 
you  shall  think  fit,  from  time  to  time,  to  recom¬ 
mend  unto  the  board.  As  for  the  Pictish  damsel, 
we  have  an  easy  chair  prepared  at  the  upper  end 
of  the  table  :  which  we  doubt  not  but  she  will 
grace  with  a  very  hideous  aspect,  and  much  bet¬ 
ter  become  the  seat  in  the  native  and  unaffected 
uncomeliness  of  her  person,  than  with  all  the 
superficial  airs  of  the  pencil,  which  (as  you  have 
very  ingeniously  observed)  vanish  with  a  breath, 
and  the  most  innocent  adorer  may  deface  the 
shrine  with  a  salutation,  and  in  the  literal  sense 
of  our  poets,  snatch  and  imprint  his  balmy  kisses, 
and  devour  her  melting  lips.  In  short,  the  only 
faces  of  the  Pictish  kind  that  will  endure  the 
weather,  must  be  of  Dr.  Carbuncle’s  die  ;  though 
his,  in  truth,  has  cost  him  a  world  the  painting  ; 
but  then  he  boasts  with  Zeuxes,  in  ceternitatem. 
pingo;  and  oft  jocosely  tells  the  fair  ones,  would 
they  acquire  colors  that  would  stand  kissing,  they 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


94 

must  no  longer  paint,  but  drink  for  a  complexion  : 
a  maxim  that  in  this  our  age  has  been  pursued 
with  no  ill  success  ;  and  has  been  as  admirable 
in  its  effects,  as  the  famous  cosmetic  mentioned 
in  the  Postman,  and  invented  by  the  renowned 
British  Hippocrates  of  the  pestle  and  mortar ; 
making  the  party,  after  a  due  course,  rosy,  hale, 
and  airy  ;  and  the  best  and  most  approved  re¬ 
ceipt  now  extant  for  the  fever  of  the  spirits.  But 
to  return  to  our  female  candidate,  who,  I  under¬ 
stand,  is  returned  to  herself,  and  will  no  longer 
hang  out  false  colors  ;  as  she  is  the  first  of  her 
sex  that  has  done  us  so  great  an  honor,  she  will 
certainly  in  a  very  short  time,  both  in  prose  and 
verse,  be  a  lady  of  the  most  celebrated  deformity 
now  living,  and  meet  Avith  many  admirers  here 
as  frightful  as  herself.  But  being  a  long-headed 
gentlewoman,  I  am  apt  to  imagine  she  lias  some 
farther  design  than  you  have  yet  penetrated  ;  and 
perhaps  has  more  mind  to  the  Spectator  than  any 
of  his  fraternity,  as  the  person  of  all  the  Avorld  she 
could  like  for  a  paramour.  And  if  so,  really  I 
cannot  but  applaud  her  choice,  and  should  be  glad, 
if  it  might  lie  in  my  power,  to  effect  an  amicable 
accommodation  betAvixt  tAvo  faces  of  such  different 
extremes,  as  the  only  possible  expedient  to  mend 
the  breed,  and  rectify  the  physiognomy  of  the 
family  on  both  sides.  And  again,  as  she  is  a  lady 
of  a  Arery  fluent  elocution,  you  need  not  fear  that 
your  child  Avill  be  born  dumb,  which  otherwise 
you  might  have  some  reason  to  be  apprehensive 
of.  To  be  plain  Avith  you,  I  can  see  nothing 
shocking  in  it ;  for  though  she  has  not  a  face  like 
a  john-apple,  yet  as  a  late  friend  of  mine,  avIio  at 
sixty-five  ventured  on  a  lass  of  fifteen,  very  fre¬ 
quently  in  the  remaining  five  years  of  his  life  gave 
me  to  understand,  that  as  old  as  he  then  seemed, 
when  they  were  first  married  he  and  his  spouse 
could  make  but  fourscore  ;  so  may  Madam  Heca- 
tissa  veiy  justly  allege  hereafter,  that  as  long-vis¬ 
aged  as  she  may  then  be  thought,  upon  their  Aved- 
ding-day  Mr.  Spectator  and  she  had  but  half  an 
ell  of  face  betAvixt  them ;  and  this  my  Avorthy  pre¬ 
decessor,  Mr.  Serjeant  Chin,  ahvays  maintained  to 
be  no  more  than  the  true  oval  proportion  between 
man  and  wife.  But  as  this  may  be  a  new  thing  to 
you,  avIio  have  hitherto  had  no  expectations  from 
A\Tomen,  I  shall  allow  you  Avhat  time  you  think  fit 
to  consider  on  it ;  not  without  some  hope  of  seeing 
at  last  your  thoughts  hereupon  subjoined  to  mine, 
and  which  is  an  honor  much  desired  by, 

“  Sir,  your  assured  friend, 

“And  most  humble  servant, 
“Hugh  Goblin,  Prases.” 

The  following  letter  has  not  much  in  it,  but,  as' 
it  is  written  in  my  own  praise,  I  cannot  from  my 
heart  suppress  it. 

“Sir, 

“  You  proposed,  in  your  Spectator  of  last  Tues¬ 
day,  Mr.  Hobbs’s  hypothesis  for  solving  that  \rery 
odd  phenomenon  of  laughter.  You  have  made  the 
hypothesis  valuable  by  espousing  it  yourself ;  for 
had  it  continued  Mr.  Hobbs’s,  nobody  Avould  have 
minded  it.  Now  here  this  perplexed  case  arises. 
A  certain  company  laughed  very  heartily  upon 
the  reading  of  that  very  paper  of  yours  ;  and  the 
truth  on  it  is,  he  must  be  a  man  of  more  than  or¬ 
dinary  constancy  that  could  stand  out  against  so 
much  comedy,  and  not  do  as  we  did.  Now  there 
are  few  men  in  the  Avorld  so  far  lost  to  all  good 
sense,  as  to  look  upon  you  to  be  a  man  in  a  state 
of  folly  ‘  inferior  to  himself.’ — Pray  then  how  do 
you  justify  your  hypothesis  of  laughter  ? 

“Your  most  humble,  Q.  R. 

“Thursday,  the  26th  of  the  month  of  fools.” 


“Sir, 

In  answer  to  your  letter,  I  must  desire  you  to 
recollect  yourself ;  and  you  will  find,  that  when 
you  did  me  the  honor  to  be  so  merry  over  my  pa¬ 
per,  you  laughed  at  the  idiot,  the  German  courtier, 
the  gaper,  the  merry-andrew,  the  haberdasher,  the 
biter,  the  butt,  and  not  at 

“  Your  humble  servant, 

R.  “  The  Spectator.” 


No.  53.]  TUESDAY,  MAY  1,  1711. 

- Aliquando  bonus  dormitat  Homerus. 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  359. 

Ilomer  himself  hath  been  observed  to  nod. 

Roscommon. 

My  correspondents  grow  so  numerous,  that  1 
cannot  avoid  frequently  inserting  their  applica¬ 
tions  to  me. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  glad  I  can  inform  you,  that  your  endea¬ 
vors  to  adorn  that  sex,  which  is  the  fairest  part  of 
the  ATisible  creation,  are  well  received,  and  like  to 
prove  not  unsuccessful.  The  triumph  of  Daphne 
over  her  sister  Lsetitia  has  been  the  subject  of 
conversation  at  several  tea-tables  where  I  was 
present ;  and  I  have  observed  the  fair  circle  not  a 
little  pleased  to  find  you  considering  them  as 
reasonable  creatures,  and  endeavoring  to  banish 
that  Mahometan  custom,  which  had  too  much  pre¬ 
vailed  even  in  this  island,  of  treating  women  as 
if  they  had  no  souls.  I  must  do  them  the  justice 
to  say,  that  there  seems  to  be  nothing  Avanting  to 
the  finishing  of  these  lovely  pieces  of  human 
nature,  beside  the  turning  and  applying  their  am¬ 
bition  properly,  and  the  keeping  them  up  to  a  sense 
of  what  is  their  true  merit.  Epictetus,  that  plain 
honest  philosopher,  as  little  as  he  had  of  gallantry, 
appears  to  have  understood  them  as  well  as  the 
polite  St.  Evremont,  and  has  hit  this  point  very 
luckily.  ‘When  young  women,’  says  he,  ‘arrive 
at  a  certain  age,  they  hear  themselves  called 
Mistresses,  and  are  made  to  believe  that  their 
only  business  is  to  please  the  men ;  they  im¬ 
mediately  begin  to  dress,  and  to  place  all  their 
hopes  in  the  adorning  of  their  persons;  it  is  there¬ 
fore,’  continues  he,  ‘Avorth  the  while  to  endeavor 
by  all  means  to  make  them  sensible  that  the  honor 
paid  to  them  is  only  upon  account  of  their  con¬ 
ducting  themselves  with  virtue,  modesty,  and 
discretion.’ 

“Noav  to  pursue  the  matter  yet  farther,  and  to 
render  your  cares  for  the  improvement  of  the  fair 
ones  more  effectual,  I  would  propose  a  new  method 
like  those  applications  Avhich  are  said  to  convey 
their  virtue  by  sympathy ;  and  that  is,  that  in 
order  to  embellish  the  mistress,  you  should  give  a 
new  education  to  the  lover,  and  teach  the  men  not 
to  be  any  longer  dazzled  by  false  charms  and  un¬ 
real  beauty.  I  cannot  but  think  that  if  our  sex 
knew  ahvays  how  to  place  their  esteem  justly,  the 
other  would  not  be  so  often  wanting  to  themselves 
in  deserving  it.  For  as  the  being  enamored  with 
a  Avoman  of  sense  and  virtue  is  an  improvement 
to  a  man’s  understanding  and  morals,  and  the 
passion  is  ennobled  by  the  object  Avhich  inspires 
it;  so  on  the  other  side,  the  appearing  amiable 
to  a  man  of  a  wise  and  elegant  mind,  carries  in 
itself  no  small  degree  of  merit  and  accomplish¬ 
ment.  I  conclude,  therefore,  that  one  way  to 
make  the  women  yet  more  agreeable  is,  to  make 
the  men  more  virtuous. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant, 

“R.  B.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


95 


"  Sir,  April  26th. 

“  Yours  of  Saturday  last  I  read,  not  without 
some  resentment ;  but  I  will  suppose  when  you 
say  you  expect  an  inundation  of  ribbons  and  bro¬ 
cades,  and  to  see  many  new  vanities  which  the 
women  will  fall  into  upon  a  peace  with  France, 
that  you  intend  only  the  unthinking  part  of  our 
sex  :  and  what  methods  can  reduce  them  to  reason 
is  hard  to  imagine. 

“But,  Sir,  there  are  others  yet,  that  your  in¬ 
structions  might  be  of  great  use  to,  who,  after  their 
best  endeavors,  are  sometimes  at  a  loss  to  acquit 
themselves  to  a  censorious  world.  I  am  far  from 
thinking  you  can  altogether  disapprove  of  con¬ 
versation  between  ladies  and  gentlemen,  regulated 
by  the  rules  of  honor  and  prudence  ;  and  have 
thought  it  an  observation  not  ill-made,  that  where 
that  was  wholly  denied,  the  women  lost  their  wit, 
and  the  men  their  good  manners.  It  is  sure  from 
those  improper  liberties  you  mentioned,  that  a  sort 
of  undistinguishingpeople  shall  banish  from  their 
drawing-rooms  the  best-bred  men  in  the  world, 
and  condemn  those  that  do  not.  Your  stating  this 
point  might,  I  think,  be  of  good  use,  as  well  as 
much  oblige, 

“  Sir,  your  admirer,  and  most  humble  servant, 

“Anna  Bella.” 

No  answer  to  this,  till  Anna  Bella  sends  a  de¬ 
scription  of  those  she  calls  the  best-bred  men  in 
the  world. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  a  gentleman  who  for  many  years  last 
past  have  been  well  known  to  be  truly  splenetic, 
and  that  my  spleen  arises  from  having  contracted 
so  great  a  delicacy,  by  reading  the  best  authors 
and  keeping  the  most  refined  company,  that  I 
cannot  bear  the  least  impropriety  of  language,  or 
rusticity  of  behavior.  Now,  Sir,  I  have  overlook¬ 
ed  upon  this  as  a  wise  distemper  ;  but  by  late 
observations  find,  that  every  heavy  wretch  who 
has  nothing  to  say,  excuses  his  dullness  by  com¬ 
plaining  of  the  spleen.  Nay,  I  saw  the  other  day, 
two  fellows  in  a  tavern  kitchen  set  up  for  it,  call 
for  a  pint  and  pipes,  and  only  by  guzzling  liquors 
to  each  other’s  health,  and  wasting  smoke  in  each 
other’s  face,  pretend  to  throw  off  the  spleen.  I 
appeal  to  you  whether  these  dishonors  are  to  be 
done  to  the  distemper  of  the  great  and  the  polite. 

I  beseech  you,  Sir,  to  inform  these  fellows  that 
they  have  not  the  spleen  because  they  cannot  talk 
without  the  help  of  a  glass  at  their  mouths,  or 
convey  their  meaning  to  each  other  without  the 
interposition  of  clouds.  If  you  will  not  do  this 
with  all  speed,  I  assure  you,  for  my  part,  I  wrill 
wholly  quit  the  disease,  and  for  the  future  be 
merry  with  the  vulgar. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  servant.” 

“Sir, 

“This  is  to  let  you  understand  that  I  am  a  re¬ 
formed  Starer,  and  conceived  a  detestation  for  that 
practice  from  what  you  have  written  upon  the 
subject.  But  as  you  have  been  very  severe  upon 
the  behavior  of  us  men  at  divine  service,  I  hope 
you  will  not  be  so  apparently  partial  to  the  women 
as  to  let  them  go  wholly  unobserved.  If  they  do 
everything  that  is  possible  to  attract  our  eyes,  are 
we  more  culpable  than  they  for  looking  at  them  ? 

I  happened  last  Sunday  to  be  shut  into  a  pew, 
which  was  full  of  young  ladies,  in  the  bloom  of 
youth  and  beauty.  When  the  service  began,  I  had 
not  room  to  kneel  at  the  confession,  but  as  I  stood 
kept  my  eyes  from  wandering  as  well  as  I  was  ! 
able,  till  one  of  the  young  ladies,  who  is  a  Peeper,  1 
resolved  to  bring  down  my  looks,  and  fix  my  de- ! 


votion  on  herself.  You  are  to  know,  Sir,  that  a 
Peeper  works  with  her  hands,  eyes,  and  fan  ;  one 
of  which  is  continually  in  motion,  while  she 
thinks  she  is  not  actually  the  admiration  of  some 
ogler  or  starer  in  the  congregation.  As  I  stood 
utterly  at  a  loss  how  to  behave  myself,  surrounded 
as  I  was,  this  Peeper  so  placed  herself  as  to  be 
kneeling  just  before  me.  She  displayed  the  most 
beautiful  bosom  imaginable,  which  heaved  and 
fell  with  some  fervor,  while  a  delicate  and  well¬ 
shaped  arm  held  a  fan  over  her  face.  It  was  not  in 
nature  to  command  one’s  eyes  from  this  object.  I 
could  not  avoid  taking  notice  also  of  her  fan, 
which  had  on  it  various  figures  very  improper  to 
behold  on  that  occasion.  There  lay  in  the  body 
of  the  piece  a  Venus  (under  a  purple  canopy 
furled  with  curious  wreaths  of  drapery),  half 
naked,  attended  with  a  train  of  Cupids,  who  were 
busied  in  fanning  her  as  she  slept.  Behind  her 
was  drawn  a  satyr  peeping  over  the  silken  fence, 
and  threatening  to  break  through  it.  I  frequently 
offered  to  turn  my  sight  another  way,  but  was  still 
detained  by  the  fascination  of  the  Peeper’s  eyes, 
who  had  long  practiced  a  skill  in  them  to  recall  the 
parting  glances  of  her  beholders.  You  see  my 
complaint,  and  I  hope  you  will  take  these  mis¬ 
chievous  people,  the  Peepers,  into  your  considera¬ 
tion.  I  doubt  not  but  you  will  think  a  Peeper  as 
much  more  pernicious  than  a  Starer,  as  an  am¬ 
buscade  is  more  to  be  feared  than  an  open  assault. 

“I  am.  Sir,  your  most  obedient  servant.” 

This  Peeper  using  both  fan  and  eyes,  to  be  con¬ 
sidered  as  a  Piet,  and  proceed  accordingly. 

“  King  Latinus  to  the  Spectator,  Greeting, 

“  Though  some  may  think  we  descend  from  our 
imperial  dignity  in  holding  correspondence  with 
a  private  literator,  yet  as  we  have  great  respect  to 
all  good  intentions  for  our  service,  we  do  not 
esteem  it  beneath  us  to  return  you  our  royal  thanks 
for  what  you  published  in  our  behalf,  while  under 
confinement  in  the  enchanted  castle  of  the  Savoy, 
and  for  your  mention  of  a  subsidy  for  a  prince  in 
misfortune.  This  your  timely  zeal  has  inclined 
the  hearts  of  divers  to  be  aiding  unto  us,  if  we 
could  propose  the  means.  We  have  taken  their 
good-will  into  consideration,  and  have  contrived 
a  method  whicli  will  be  easy  to  those  who  shall 
give  the  aid,  and  not  unacceptable  to  us  who  re¬ 
ceive  it.  A  concert  of  music  shall  be  prepared  at 
Haberdasher’s  hall,  for  Wednesday  the  second 
of  May,  and  we  will  honor  the  said  entertainment 
with  our  presence,  where  each  person  shall  be 
assessed  but  at  two  shillings  and  sixpence.  What 
we  expect  from  you  is,  that  you  publish  these  our 
royal  intentions,  with  injunction  that  they  be  read 
at  all  tea-tables  within  the  cities  of  London  and 
Westminster ;  and  so  we  bid  you  heartily  farewell. 

“Latinus, 

“ King  of  the  Volscians” 

“  Given  at  our  court  in  Vinegar-yard,  Story  the 
third  from  the  earth,  April  28,  1711.” 

R. 


No.  54.]  WEDNESDAY,  MAY  2,  1711. 

- Strenua  nos  exercet  inertia. 

IIor.,  1  Ep.,  xi,  28. 

Laborious  idleness  our  powers  employs. 

The  following  letter  being  the  first  that  I  have 
received  from  the  learned  university  of  Cam¬ 
bridge,  I  could  not  but  do  myself  the  honor  of 
publishing  it.  It  gives  an  account  of  a  new  sect 
of  philosophers  which  has  arisen  in  that  famous 
residence  of  learning ;  and  is,  perhaps,  the  only 
sect  this  age  is  likely  to  produce. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


96 

“Mr.  Spectator,  Cambridge,  April  26. 

“Believing  you  to  be  a  universal  encourager  of 
liberal  arts  and  sciences,  and  glad  of  any  infor¬ 
mation  from  the  learned  world,  I  thought  an  ac¬ 
count  of  a  sect  of  philosophers  very  frequent 
among  us,  but  not  taken  notice  of,  as  far  as  1  can 
remember,  by  any  writers,  either  ancient  or  modern, 
would  not  be  unacceptable  to  you.  The  philo¬ 
sophers  of  this  sect  are,  in  the  language  of  our  uni¬ 
versity,  called  loungers.  I  am  of  opinion  that,  as  in 
many  other  things,  so  likewise  in  this,  the  ancients 
have  been  defective,  viz.,  in  mentioning  no  philo¬ 
sophers  of  this  sort.  Some  indeed  will  affirm  that 
they  are  a  kind  of  Peripatetics,  because  we  see  them 
continually  walking  about.  But  I  would  have 
these  gentlemen  consider,  that  though  the  an¬ 
cient  Peripatetics  walked  much,  yet  they  wrote 
much  also  ;  witness  to  the  sorrow  of  this  sect, 
Aristotle  and  others  :  whereas  it  is  notorious  that 
most  of  our  professors  never  lay  out  a  farthing 
either  in  pen,  ink,  or  paper.  Others  are  for  de¬ 
riving  them  from  Diogenes,  because  several  of  the 
leading  men  of  the  sect  have  a  great  deal  of 
cynical  humor  in  them,  and  delight  much  in  sun¬ 
shine.  But  then,  again,  Diogenes  was  content  to 
have  his  constant  habitation  in  a  narrow  tub, 
while  our  philosophers  are  so  far  from  being  of 
his  opinion,  that  it  is  death  to  them  to  be  confined 
within  the  limits  of  a  good  handsome  convenient 
chamber  but  for  half  an  hour.  Others  there  are 
who  from  the  clearness  of  their  heads  deduce  the 
pedigree  of  loungers  from  that  great  man  (I  think 
it  was  either  Plato  or  Socrates)  who,  after  all  his 
study  and  learning,  professed,  that  all  he  then 
knew  was,  that  he  knew  nothing.  You  easily  see 
this  is  but  a  shallow  argument,  and  may  soon  be 
confuted. 

“I  have  with  great  pains  and  industry  made  my 
observations  from  time  to  time  upon  these  sages  ; 
and  having  now  all  materials  ready,  am  compiling 
a  treatise,  wherein  I  shall  set  forth  the  rise  and 
progress  of  this  famous  sect,  together  with  their 
maxims,  austerities,  manner  of  living,  etc.  Hav¬ 
ing  prevailed  with  a  friend  who  designs  shortly 
to  publish  a  new  edition  of  Diogenes  Laertius,  to 
add  this  treatise  of  mine  by  way  of  supplement, 
I  shall  now,  to  let  the  work!  see  what  may  be  ex- 

Ijected  from  me  (first  begging  Mr.  Spectator’s 
eave  that  the  world  may  see  it),  briefly  touch 
upon  some  of  my  chief  observations,  and  then 
subscribe  myself  your  humble  servant.  In  the 
first  place  I  shall  give  you  two  or  three  of  their 
maxims :  the  fundamental  one,  upon  which  their 
whole  system  is  built,  is  this,  viz:  ‘  That  Time 
being  an  implacable  enemy  to,  and  destroyer  of, 
all  things,  ought  to  be  paid  in  his  own  coin,  and 
be  destroyed  and  murdered  without  mercy,  by  all 
the  ways  that  can  be  invented.’  Another  favorite 
saying  of  theirs  is,  ‘That  business  was  designed 
only  for  knaves,  and  study  for  blockheads.’  A 
third  seemed  to  be  a  ludicrous  one,  but  has  a  great 
effect  upon  their  lives;  and  is  this,  ‘That  the  devil 
is  at  home.’  How  for  their  manner  of  living:  and 
here  I  shall  have  a  large  field  to  expatiate  in  ;  but 
I  shall  reserve  particulars  for  my  intended  dis¬ 
course,  and  now  only  mention  one  or  two  of  their 
principal  exercises,  The  elder  proficients  employ 
themselves  in  inspecting  mores  hominum  multorum, 
in  getting  acquainted  with  all  the  signs  and  win¬ 
dows  in  the  town.  Some  are  arrived  at  so  great 
knowledge,  that  they  can  tell  every  time  any 
butcher  kills  a  calf,  every  time  any  old  woman’s 
cat  is  in  the  straw,  and  a  thousand  other  matters 
as  important.  One  ancient  philosopher  contem¬ 
plates  two  or  three  hours  every  day  over  a  sun¬ 
dial  !  and  is  true  to  the  dial. 


- As  the  dial  to  the  sun, 

Although  it  he  not  shone  upon. 

Our  younger  students  are  content  to  carry  their 
speculations  as  yet  no  farther  than  bowling-greens, 
billiard-tables,  and  such-like  places.  This  may 
serve  for  a  sketch  of  my  design  ;  in  which  I  hope 
I  shall  have  your  encouragement. 

“I  am,  Sir,  yours.” 

I  must  be  so  just  as  to  observe,  I  have  formerly 
seen  of  this  sect  at  our  other  university  ;  though 
not  distinguished  by  the  appellation  which  the 
learned  historian  my  correspondent  reports  they 
bear  at  Cambridge.  They  were  ever  looked  upon 
as  a  people  that  impaired  themselves  more  by  their 
strict  application  to  the  rules  of  their  order,  than 
any  other  students  whatever.  Others  seldom  hurt 
themselves  any  farther  than  to  gain  weak  eyes,  and 
sometimes  head-aches  ;  but  these  philosophers  are 
seized  all  over  with  a  general  inability,  indo¬ 
lence,  and  weariness,  and  a  certain  impatience  of 
the  place  they  are  in,  with  a  heaviness  in  remov¬ 
ing  to  another. 

The  loungers  are  satisfied  with  being  merely 
part  of  the  number  of  mankind,  without  distin¬ 
guishing  themselves  from  among  them.  They 
may  be  said  rather  to  suffer  their  time  to  pass  than 
to  spend  it,  without  regard  to  the  past,  or  pros¬ 
pect  of  the  future.  All  they  know  of  life  is  only 
the  present  instant,  and  do  not  taste  even  that. 
When  one  of  this  order  happens  to  be  a  man  of 
fortune,  the  expense  of  his  time  is  transferred  to 
his  coach  and  horses,  and  his  life  is  to  be  mea¬ 
sured  by  their  motion,  not  his  own  enjoyments  or 
sufferings.  The  chief  entertainment  one  of  these 
philosophers  can  possibly  propose  to  himself,  is 
to  get  a  relish  of  dress.  This,  methinks,  might 
diversify  the  person  he  is  weary  of  (his  own  dear 
self)  to  'himself.  I  have  known  these  two  amuse¬ 
ments  make  one  of  these  philosophers  make  a 
very  tolerable  figure  in  the  world;  with  variety  of 
dresses  in  public  assemblies  in  town,  and  quick 
motion  of  his  horses  out  of  it,  now  to  Bath,  now 
to  Tunbridge,  then  to  Newmarket,  and  then  to  Lon¬ 
don,  he  has  in  process  of  time  brought  it  to  pass, 
that  his  coach  and  his  horses  have  been  mentioned 
in  all  those  places.  When  the  loungers  leave  an 
academic  life,  and,  instead  of  this  more  elegant 
way  of  appearing  in  the  polite  world,  retire  to  the 
seats  of  their  ancestors,  they  usually  join  in  a 
pack  of  dogs,  and  employ  their  days  in  defending 
their  poultry  from  foxes.  I  do  not  know  any 
other  method,  that  any  of  this  order  has  ever 
taken  to  make  a  noise  in  the  world;  but  I  shall 
inquire  into  such  about  this  town  as  have  arrived 
at  the  dignity  of  being  loungers  by  the  force  of 
natural  parts,  without  having  ever  seen  a  uni¬ 
versity  ;  and  send  my  correspondent,  for  the  em¬ 
bellishment  of  his  book,  the  names  and  history  of 
those  who  pass  their  lives  without  any  incidents 
at  all;  and  how  they  shift  coffee-houses  and  cho¬ 
colate-houses  from  hour  to  hour,  to  get  over  their 
insupportable  labor  of  doing  nothing. — R. 


No.  55.]  THURSDAY,  MAY  3,  1711. 

- Intus  et  in  jecore  segro 

Nascuntur  Domini -  Pers.,  Sat.  v,  129. 

Our  passions  play  the  tyrants  in  our  breasts. 

Most  of  the  trades,  professions,  .and  ways  of 
living  among  mankind,  take  their  original  either 
from  the  love  of  pleasure,  or  the  fear  of  want. 
The  former,  when  it  becomes  too  violent,  degene¬ 
rates  into  luxury,  and  the  latter  into  avarice.  As 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


97 


these  two  principles  of  action  draw  different  ways, 
Persius  has  given  us  a  very  humorous  account  of 
a  young  fellow  who  was  roused  out  of  his  bed  in 
order  to  be  sent  upon  a  long  voyage  by  Avarice, 
and  afterward  over-persuaded  and  kept  at  home 
by  Luxury.  I  shall  set  down  the  pleadings  of 
these  two  imaginary  persons,  as  they  are  in  the 
original,  with  Mr.  Dryden’s  translation  of  them: 

Mane,  piger,  stertis:  surge,  inquit  Avaritia,  eja 
Surge  :  Negas:  instat:  surge,  inquit.  Non  queo.  Surge 
Et  quid  agam  ?  Itogitas  ?  saperdas  advehe  ponto, 
Castoreum,  stuppas,  hebenum,  thus,  lubrica  Coa. 

Tolle  recens  primus  piper  e  sitiente  camelo. 

Verte  aliquid;  jura.  Sed  Jupiter  audiet.  Eheu! 

Baro,  regustatum  digito  terebrare  salinum 
Contentus  perages,  si  vivere  cum  Jove  tendis. 

Jam  pueris  pellem  succinctus  et  oenophorum  aptas 
Ocyus  ad  nayem.  Nil  obstat  quin  trabe  vasta 
iEgaeum  rapias,  nisi  solers  Luxuria  ante 
Seductum  moncat;  quo  deinde,  insane,  ruis?  Quo? 

Quid  tibi  vis  ?  Calido  sub  pectore  mascula  bilis 
Intumuit,  quam  non  extinxerit  urna  cicutae? 

Tun’  mare  transilias?  Tibi  torta  cannabe  fulto 
Coena  sit  in  transtro?  Veientanumque  rubellum 
Exhalet  vapida  laesum  pice  sessilis  obba  ? 

Quid  petis?  Ut  nummi,  quos  hie  quincunce  modesto 
Nutrieras,  pergant  avidos  sudare  deunces? 

Indulge  genio :  carpamus  dulcia :  nostrum  est 
Quod  vivis;  cinis,  et  manes,  et  fabula  lies. 

1  ive  memor  letbi :  fugit  hora.  Hoc  quod  loquor,  inde  est. 
Eu  quid  agis  ?  Duplici  in  diversum  scinderis  hamo ; 
Hunccine,  ad  hunc  sequeris  ?  Sat.  v,  132.* 

Whether  alone,  or  in  thy  harlot’s  lap, 

When  thou  wouldst  take  a  lazy  morning’s  nap; 

Up,  up,  says  Avarice;  thou  snor’st  again, 

Stretchest  thy  limbs  and  yawn’st,  but  all  in  vain. 

The  rugged  tyrant  no  denial  takes ; 

At  his  command  th’  unwilling  sluggard  wakes. 

What  must  I  do?  he  cries;  What?  says  his  lord; 

Why  rise,  make  ready,  and  go  straight  aboard : 

With  fish,  from  Euxine  seas,  thy  vessel  freight; 

Flax,  castor,  Coan  wines,  the  precious  weight 
Of  pepper,  and  Sabean  incense,  take  ? 

With  thy  own  hands,  from  the  tir’d  camel’s  back, 

And  with  post-haste  thy  running  markets  make. 

Be  sure  to  turn  the  penny :  lie  and  swear, 

’Tis  wholesome  sin :  but  Jove,  thou  say’st,  will  hear. 
Swear,  fool,  or  starve,  for  the  dilemma’s  even; 

A  tradesman  thou !  and  hope  to  go  to  heav’n  ? 

Resolv’d  for  sea,  the  slaves  thy  baggage  pack, 

Each  saddled  with  his  burthen  on  his  back : 

Nothing  retards  thy  voyage  now,  but  he, 

That  soft  voluptuous  prince,  call’d  Luxury; 

And  he  may  ask  this  civil  question :  Friend, 

What  dost  thou  make  a-shipboard  ?  to  what  end  ? 

Art  thou  of  Bethlem’s  noble  college  free  ? 

Stark,  staring  mad,  that  thou  wouldst  tempt  the  sea  ? 
Cubb’d  in  a  cabin,  on  a  mattress  laid, 

On  a  brown  George,  with  lousy  swobbers  fed ; 

Dead  wine  that  stinks  of  the  Borachio,  sup 
From  a  foul  jack  or  greasy  maple  cup? 

Say,  wouldst  thou  bear  all  this,  to  raise  thy  store 
From  six  i’  th’  hundred  to  six  hundred  more  ? 

Indulge,  and  to  thy  genius  freely  give ; 

For,  not  to  live  at  ease,  is  not  to  live. 

Death  stalks  behind  thee,  and  each  flying  hour  * 

Does  some  loose  remnant  of  thy  life  devour. 

Live  while  thou  liv’st;  for  death  will  make  us  all 
A  name,  a  nothing  but  an  old  wife’s  tale. 

Speak:  wilt  thou  Avarice  or  Pleasure  choose 
To  be  thy  lord  ?  Take  one,  and  one  refuse. 

When  a  government  flourishes  in  conquests,  and 
s  secure  from  foreign  attacks,  it  naturally  falls 
nto  all  the  pleasures  of  luxury;  and  as  these  plea- 
ures  are  very  expensive,  they  put  those  who  are 
-ddicted  to  them  upon  raising  fresh  supplies  of 
uoney  by  all  the  methods  of  rapaciousness  and  cor- 
uption;  so  that  avarice  and  luxury  very  often  be- 
ome  one  complicated  principle  of  action,  in  those 
mose  hearts  are  wholly  set  upon  ease,  magnifi- 
ence,  and  pleasure.  The  most  elegant  and  cor- 
ect  of  all  the  Latin  historians  observes,  that  in 
ns  time,  when  the  most  formidable  states  in  the 
rorld  were  subdued  by  the  Romans,  the  republic 
ank  into  those  two  vices  of  a  quite  different  nature, 
uxury  and  avarice:!  and  accordingly  describes 

api  h/  Boileau’  Hat-  who  has  imitated  this  passage  very 
f  Alieui  appetens,  sui  profusus. 

7 


Catiline  as  one  who  coveted  the  wealth  of  other 
men,  at  the  same  time  that  he  squandered  away 
his  own.  1  his  observation  on  the  commonwealth, 
when  it  was  in  its  height  of  power  and  riches, 
holds  good  of  all  governments  that  are  settled  in 
a  state  of  ease  and  prosperity.  At  such  times 
men  naturally  endeavor  to  outsnine  one  another  in 
pomp  and  splendor,  and  having  no  fears  to  alarm 
them  from  abroad,  indulge  themselves  in  the  en¬ 
joyment  of  all  the  pleasures  they  can  get  into 
their  possession  ;  which  naturally  produces  ava¬ 
rice,  and  an  immoderate  pursuit  after  wealth  and 
riches. 

As  I  was  humoring  myself  in  the  speculation 
of  these  two  great  principles  of  action,  I  could 
not  forbear  throwing  my  thoughts  into  a  little 
kind  of  allegory  or  fable,  with  which  I  shall  here 
present  my  reader. 

There  were  two  very  powerful  tyrants  engaged 
in  a  pemetual  war  against  each  other;  the  name 
of  the  first  was  Luxury,  and  of  the  second  Ava¬ 
rice.  The  aim  of  each  of  them  was  no  less  than 
universal  monarchy  over  the  hearts  of  mankind. 
Luxury  had  many  generals  under  him,  who  did 
him  great  service,  as  Pleasure,  Mirth,  Pomp,  and 
Fashion.  Avarice  was  likewise  very  strong  in  his 
officers,  being  faithfully  served  by  Hunger,  Indus¬ 
try,  Care,  and  Watchfulness  :  he  had  likewise  a 
privy-counselor  who  was  always  at  his  elbow,  and 
whispering  something  or  other  in  his  ear:  the 

name  of  this  privy-counselor  was  Poverty. _ 

As  Avarice  conducted  himself  by  the  counsels  of 
Poverty,  his  antagonist  was  entirely  guided  by 
the  dictates  and  advice  of  Plenty,  who  was  his 
first  counselor  and  minister  of  state,  that  con¬ 
certed  all  his  measures  for  him,  and  never  departed 
out  of  his  sight.  While  these  two  great  rivals 
were  thus  contending  for  empire,  their  conquests 
were  very  various: — Luxury  got  possession  of  one 
heart,  and  Avarice  of  another.  The  father  of  a 
family  would  often  range  himself  under  the  ban¬ 
ners  of  Avarice,  and  the  son  under  those  of  Luxu¬ 
ry.  The  wife  and  husband  would  often  declare 
themselves  on  the  two  different  parties;  nay,  the 
same  person  would  very  often  side  with  one  in  his 
youth,  and  revolt  to  the  other  in  his  old  age.  In¬ 
deed  the  wise  men  of  the  world  stood  neuter;  but, 
alas!  their  numbers  were  not  considerable.  At 
length,  when  these  two  potentates  had  wearied 
themselves  with  waging  war  upon  one  another, 
they  agreed  upon  an  interview,  at  which  none  of 
their  counselors  were  to  be  present.  It  is  said 
that  Luxury  began  the  parley,  and  after  having 
represented  the  endless  state  of  war  in  Avhich 
they  were  engaged,  told  his  enemy,  with  a  frank¬ 
ness  of  heart  which  is  natural  to  him,  that  he  be¬ 
lieved  they  two  should  be  very  good  friends,  were 
it  not  for  the  instigations  of  Poverty,  that  perni¬ 
cious  counselor,  who  made  an  ill  use  of  his  ear, 
and  filled  him  with  groundless  apprehensions  and 
prejudices.  To  this  Avarice  replied,  that  he 
looked  upon  Plenty  (the  first  minister  of  his  an¬ 
tagonist)  to  be  a  much  more  destructive  counselor 
than  Poverty,  for  that  he  was  perpetually  suggest¬ 
ing  pleasures,  banishing  all  the  necessary  cau¬ 
tions  against  want,  and  consequently  undermining 
those  principles  on  which  the  government  of  Ava¬ 
rice  was  founded.  At  last,  in  order  to  an  accom¬ 
modation,  they  agreed  upon  this  preliminary;  that 
each  of  them  should  immediately  dismiss  his 
privy-counselor.  When  things  were  thus  far  ad¬ 
justed  toward  a  peace,  all  other  differences  were 
soon  accommodated,  insomuch  that  for  the  future 
they  resolved  to  live  as  good  friends  and  confede¬ 
rates,  and  to  share  between  them  whatever  con¬ 
quests  were  made  on  either  side.  For  this  reason 
we  now  find  Luxury  and  Avarice  taking  posses- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


98 

sion  of  the  same  hoart,  and  dividing  the  same 
person  between  them.  To  which  I  shall  only  add, 
that  since  the  discarding  of  the  counselors  above- 
mentioned,  Avarice  supplies  Luxury  in  the  room 
of  Plenty,  as  Luxury  prompts  Avarice  in  the  place 
of  Poverty. — C. 


No.  56.]  FRIDAY,  MAY  4,  1711. 

Felices  errore  suo - Lucan.,  i,  454. 

\  ... 

Happy  in  their  mistake. 

The  Americans  believe  that  all  creatures  have 
souls,  not  only  men  and  women,  but  brutes,  vege¬ 
tables,  nay,  even  the  most  inanimate  things,  as 
stocks  and  stones.  They  believe  the  same  of  all 
the  works  of  art,  as  of  knives,  boats,  looking- 
glasses  ;  and  that  as  any  of  these  things  perish, 
their  souls  go  into  another  world,  which  is  in¬ 
habited  by  the  ghosts  of  men  and  women.  For 
this  reason  they  always  place  by  the  corpse  of 
their  dead  friend  a  bow  arid  arrows,  that  he  mav 
make  use  of  the  souls  of  them  in  the  other  world, 
as  he  did  of  their  wooden  bodies  in  this.  How 
absurd  soever  such  an  opinion  as  this  may  appeal, 
our  European  philosophers  have  maintained  seve¬ 
ral  notions  altogether  as  improbable.  Some  of 
Plato’s  followers  in  particular,  when  they  talk  of 
the  world  of  ideas,  entertain  us  with  substances 
and  beings  no  less  extravagant  and  chimerical. 
Many  Aristotelians  have  likewise  spoken  as  unin¬ 
telligibly  of  their  substantial  forms.  I  shall  only 
instance  Albertus  Magnus,  who,  in  his  disserta¬ 
tion  upon  the  loadstone,  observing  that  fire  will 
destroy  its  magnetic  virtues,  tells  us  that  he  took 
particular  notice  of  one  as  it  lay  glowing  amidst 
a  heap  of  burning  coals,  and  that  he  perceived  a 
certain  blue  vapor  to  arise  from  it,  which  he  be¬ 
lieved  might  be  the  substantial  form,  that  is,  in 
our  West  Indian  phrase,  the  soul  of  the  load- 

St°There  is  a  tradition  among  the  Americans,  that 
one  of  their  countrymen  descended  in  a  vision  to 
the  great  repository  of  souls,  or,  as  we  call  it 
here,  to  the  other  world  :  and  that  upon  his  return 
he  gave  his  friends  a  distinct  account  of  every¬ 
thing  he  saw  among  those  regions  of  the  dead. 
A  friend  of  mine,  whom  I  have  formerly  men¬ 
tioned,  prevailed  upon  one  of  the  interpreters  of 
the  Indian  kings,  to  inquire  of  them,  if  possible, 
what  tradition  they  have  among  them  of  this  mat¬ 
ter:  which,  as  well  as  he  could  learn  by  those 
many  questions  which  he  asked  them  at  several 
times,  was  in  sqbstance  as  follows: 

The  visionary,  whose  name  was  Marraton,  after 
having  traveled  for  a  long  space  under  a  hollow 
mountain  arrived  at  length  on  the  confines  of  this 
world  of  spirits,  but  could  not  enter  it  by  reason 
of  a  thick  forest  made  up  of  bushes,  brambles, 
and  pointed  thorns,  so  perplexed  and  interwoven 
with  one  another  that  it  was  impossible  to  find  a 
passage  through  it.  While  he  was  looking  about 
for  some  track  or  pathway  that  might  be  worn  in 
any  part  of  it,  he  saw  a  huge  lion  couched  under 
the  side  of  it,  who  kept  his  eye  upon  him  in  the 
same  posture  as  when  he  watches  for  his  prey. 
The  Indian  immediately  started  back,  while  the 
lion  rose  with  a  spring,  and  leaped  toward  him. 
Being  wholly  destitute  of  all  other  weapons,  he 
stooped  down  to  take  a  huge  stone  in  his  hand  ; 
but  to  his  infinite  surprise  grasped  nothing,  and 
found  the  supposed  stone  to  be  only  the  apparition 
of  one.  If  he  was  disappointed  on  this  side,  he 
was  as  much  pleased  on  the  other,  when  he  found 
the  lion,  which  had  seized  on  his  left  shoulder, 
had  no  power  to  hurt  him,  and  was  only  the 
ghost  of  that  ravenous  creature  which  it  appeared 


to  be.  He  no  sooner  got  rid  )f  his  impotent  ene¬ 
my,  but  he  marched  up  to  the  wood,  and  after 
having  surveyed  it  for  some  time,  endeavored  to 
press  into  one  part  of  it  that  was  a  little  thinner 
than  the  rest ;  when  again,  to  his  great  surprise, 
he  found  the  bushes  made  no  resistance,  but  that 
he  walked  through  briers  and  brambles  with  th< 
same  ease  as  through  the  open  air;  and  in  short, 
that  the  whole  wood  was  nothing  else  but  a  wood 
of  shades.  He  immediately  concluded,  that  this 
huge  thicket  of  thorns  and  brakes  was  designed 
as  a  kind  of  fence  or  quickset  hedge  to  the  ghosts 
it  inclosed  ;  and  that  probably  their  soft  sub¬ 
stances  might  be  torn  by  these  subtile  points  and 
prickles,  which  were  too  weak  to  make  any  impres¬ 
sions  on  flesh  and  blood.  With  this  thought,  he 
resolved  to  travel  through  this  intricate  wood; 
when  by  degrees  he  felt  a  gale  of  perfumes  breath¬ 
ing  upon  him,  that  grew  stronger  and  sweeter  in 
proportion  as  he  advanced.  He  had  not  proceeded 
much  farther,  when  he  observed  the  thorns  and 
briers  to  end,  and  give  place  to  a  thousand  beau¬ 
tiful  green  trees  covered  with  blossoms  of  the 
finest  scents  and  colors,  that  formed  a  wilderness 
of  sweets,  and  were  a  kind  of  lining  to  those  rag¬ 
ged  scenes  which  he  had  before  passed  through. 
As  he  was  coming  out  of  this  delightful  part  of 
the  wood,  and  entering  upon  the  plains  it  in¬ 
closed,  he  saw  several  horsemen  rushing  by  him, 
and  a  little  while  after  heard  the  cry  of  a  pack  of 
dogs.  He  had  not  listened  long  before  he  saw  the 
apparition  of  a  milk-white  steed,  with  a  young 
man  on  the  back  of  it,  advancing  upon  full 
stretch  after  the  souls  of  about  a  hundred  beagles, 
that  were  hunting  down  the  ghost  of  a  hare, 
which  ran  away  before  them  with  an  unspeakable 
swiftness.  As  the  man  on  the  milk-white  steed 
came  by  him,  he  looked  upon  him  very  attentive¬ 
ly,  and  found  him  to  be  the  young  prince  Nicha- 
ragua,  who  died  about  half  a  year  before,  and,  by 
reason  of  his  great  virtues,  was  at  that  time 
lamented  over  all  the  western  parts  of  America. 

He  had  no  sooner  got  out  of  the  wood,  but  he 
was  entertained  with  such  a  landscape  of  flowery 
plains,  green  meadows,  running  streams,  sunny 
hills,  and  shady  vales,  as  were  not  to  be  repre¬ 
sented  by  his  own  expressions,  nor,  as  he  said,  by 
the  conceptions  of  others.  This  happy  region 
was  peopled  with  innumerable  swarms  of  spirits, 
who  applied  themselves  to  exercises  and  diver¬ 
sions,  according  as  their  fancies  led  them.  Some 
of  them  were  tossing  the  figure  of  a  quoit ;  others 
were  pitching  the  shadow  of  a  bar  ;  others  were 
breaking  the  apparition  of  a  horse  ;  and  multi¬ 
tudes  employing  themselves  upon  ingenious  handi¬ 
crafts  with  the  souls  of  departed  utensils,  for  that 
is  the  name  which  in  the  Indian  language  they 
give  their  tools  when  they  are  burnt  or  broken. 
As  he  traveled  through  this  delightful  scene,  he 
was  very  often  tempted  to  pluck  the  flowers  that 
rose  everywhere  about  him  in  the  greatest  variety 
and  profusion,  having  never  seen  several  of  them 
in  his  own  country;  but  he  quickly  found,  that 
though  they  were  the  objects  of  his  sight,  they 
were  not  liable  to  his  touch.  He  at  length  came 
to  the  side  of  a  great  river,  and  being  a  good  fish¬ 
erman  himself,  stood  upon  the  banks  of  it  some 
time  to  look  upon  an  angler  that  had  taken  a  great 
many  shapes  of  fishes,  which  lay  flouncing  up  and 
down  by  him. 

I  should  have  told  my  reader,  that  this  Indian 
had  been  formerly  married  to  one  of  the  greatest 
beauties  of  his  country,  by  whom  he  had  several 
children.  This  couple  were  so  famous  for  their 
love  and  constancy  to  one  another,  that  the  In¬ 
dians  to  this  day,  when  they  give  a  married  man 
joy  of  his  wife,  wish  they  may  live  together  like 


the  spectator 


Marraton  and  Yaratilda.  Marraton  had  not  stood 
long  by  the  fisherman  when  he  saw  the  shadow 
of  his  beloved  Yaratilda,  who  had  for  some  time 
fixed  her  eye  upon  him,  before  he  discovered  her. 
Her  arms  were  stretched  out  toward  him,  floods 
of  tears  ran  down  her  eyes  :  her  looks,  her’ hands, 
her  voice,  called  him  over  to  her  ;  and  at  the  same 
time  seemed  to  tell  him  that  the  river  was  impass¬ 
able.  Who  can  describe  the  passion  made  up 
of  joy,  sorrow,  love,  desire,  astonishment,  that 
rose  in  the  Indian  upon  the  sight  of  his  dear  Ya¬ 
ratilda  ?  He  could  express  it  by  nothing  but  his 
tears,  which  ran  like  a  river  down  his  cheeks  as 
he  looked  upon  her.  He  had  not  stood  in  this 
posture  long,  before  he  plunged  into  the  stream 
that  lay  before  him  ;  and  finding  it  to  be  nothing 
but  the  phantom  of  a  river,  stalked  on  the  boG 
tom  of  it  till  he  arose  on  the  other  side.  At  his 
approach  Yaratilda  flew  into  his  arms,  while  Mar¬ 
raton  wished  himself  disencumbered  of  that  body 
which  kept  her  from  his  embraces.  After  many 
questions  and  endearments  on  both  sides,  she 
conducted  him  to  a  bower  which  she  had  dressed 
with  all  the  ornaments  that  could  be  met  with  in 
those  blooming  regions.  She  had  made  it  gay 
beyond  imagination,  and  was  every  day  adding 
something  new  to  it.  As  Marraton  stood  aston¬ 
ished  at  the  unspeakable  beauty  of  her  habita¬ 
tion,  and  ravished  with  the  fragrancy  that  came 
from  every  part  of  it,  Yaratilda  told  him  that  she 
was  preparing  this  bower  for  his  reception,  as  well 
knowing  that  his  piety  to  his  God,  and  his  faith¬ 
ful  dealing  toward  men,  would  certainly  bring 
him  to  that  happy  place  whenever  his  life  should 
be  at  an  end.  She  then  brought  two  of  her  chil¬ 
dren  to  him,  who  died  some  years  before,  and  re¬ 
sided  with  her  in  the  same  delightful  bower  ;  ad¬ 
vising  him  to  breed  up  those  others  which  were 
still  with  him  in  such  a  manner,  that  they  might 
hereafter  all  of  them  meet  together  in  this  liappv 
place.  1 

The  tradition  tells  us  farther,  that  he  had  after¬ 
ward  a  sight  of  those  dismal  habitations  wdiich 
are  the  portion  of  ill  men  after  death ;  and  men¬ 
tions  several  molten  seas  of  gold,  in  which  were 
plunged  the  souls  of  barbarous  Europeans,  who 
put  to  the  sword  so  many  thousands  of  poor  In¬ 
dians  for  the  sake  of  that  precious  metal.  But 
having  already  touched  upon  the  chief  points  of 
this  tradition,  and  exceeded  the  measure  of  my 
paper,  I  shall  not  give  any  farther  account  of  it. 

C. 


99 


No.  57.]  SATURDAY,  MAY  5,  1711. 

Quom  praestare  potest  mulier  galeata  pudorem, 

Quas  fugit  a  sexu  ? -  Juv.,  Sat.  vi,  251. 

What  sense  of  shame  in  woman’s  breast  can  lie, 

Inur’d  to  arms,  and  her  own  sex  to  fly  ? 

When  the  wife  of  Hector,  in  Homer’s  Iliad 
discourses  with  her  husband  about  the  battle  in 
which  he  was  going  to  engage,  the  hero,  desirino- 
her  to  leave  the  matter  to  his  care,  bids  her  go  to 
her  maids,  and  mind  her  spinning  :  by  which  the 
poet  intimates,  that  men  and  women  ought  to 
busv  themselves  in  their  proper  spheres,  and  on 
sue  i  matteis  only  as  are  suitable  to  their  respec¬ 
tive  sex.  y 

I  am  at  this  time  acquainted  with  a  youno*  gen¬ 
tleman,  who  has  passed  a  great  part  of  his  life  in 
the  nursery,  and  upon  occasion  can  make  a  caudle 
or  a  sack-posset  better  than  any  man  in  England 
He  is  likewise  a  wonderful  critic  in  cambric  and 
muslins,  and  he  will  talk  an  hour  together  upon 
a  sweet-meat.  He  entertains  his  mother  every 
night  with  observations  that  he  makes  both  in 


town  and  court :  as  what  lady  shows  the  nicest 

!  *ancX  .m  her  5lress  »*  what  man  of  quality  wears 
the  iaiiest  wig;  who  has  the  finest  linen,  who 
the  prettiest  snuff-box;  with  many  other  the  like 
cuiious  remarks,  that  may  be  made  in  good  com¬ 
pany.  ° 

On  the  other  hand,  I  have  very  frequently  the 
opportunity  of  seeing  a  rural  Andromache,  who 
came  up  to  town  last  winter,  and  is  one  of  the 
greatest  fox-hunters  in  the  country.  She  talks  of 
hounds  and  horses,  and  makes  nothing  of  leaping 
over  a  six-bar  gate.  If  a  man  tells  her  a  waggish 
story,  she  gives  him  a  push  with  her  hand  in  test 
and  calls  him  an  impudent  dog ;  and  if  her  ser¬ 
vant  neglects  his  business,  threatens  to  kick  him 
out  of  the  house.  I  have  heard  her  in  her  wrath 
call  a  substantial  tradesman  a  lousy  cur  ;  and 
remember  one  day,  when  she  could  not  think  of 
the  name  of  a  person,  she  described  him  in  a  large 
company  of  men  and  ladies  by  the  fellow  with  the 
broad  shoulders. 

It  those  speeches  and  actions,  which  in  their 
o  wn  nature  are  indifferent,  appear  ridiculous  when 
they  proceed  from  a  wrong  sex,  the  faults  and  im¬ 
perfections  of  one  sex  transplanted  into  another 
appear  black  and  monstrous.  As  for  the  men,  I 
shall  not  in  this  paper  any  farther  concern  my¬ 
self  about  them  ;  but  as  I  would  fain  contribute 
to  make  womankind,  which  is  the  most  beautiful 
pait  of  creation,  entirely  amiable,  and  wear  out 
all  those  little  spots  and  blemishes  that  are  apt 
to  rise  among  the  charms  which  nature  has  poured 
out  upon  them,  I  shall  dedicate  this  paper  to 
their  service.  The  spot  which  I  would  here  en¬ 
deavor  to  clear  them  of,  is  that  party  rage  which 
of  late  years  is  very  much  crept  into  their  conver¬ 
sation.  This  is,  in  its  nature,  a  male  vice,  and 
made  up  of  many  angry  and  cruel  passions  that 
are  altogether  repugnant  to  the  softness,  the  mod¬ 
esty,  and  those  other  endearing  qualities  which 
are  natural  to  the  fair  sex.  Women  were  formed 
to  temper  mankind,  and  soothe  them  into  tender¬ 
ness  and  compassion  ;  not  to  set  an  edge  upon 
their  minds,  and  blow  up  in  them  those  passions 
which  are  too  apt  to  rise  of  their  own  accord. 
When  I  have  seen  a  pretty  mouth  uttering  calum¬ 
nies  and  invectives,  what  would  I  not  have  «iven 
to  have  stopt  it  ?  How  I  have  been  troubled  to 
see  some  of  the  finest  features  in  the  world  grow 
pale  and  tremble  with  party  rage !  Camilla  is  one 
of  the  greatest  beauties  in  the  British  nation,  and 
yet  values  herself  more  upon  being  the  virago  of 
one  party,  than  upon  being  the  toast  of  both. 

I  he  dear  creature^  about  a  week  ago,  encountered 
the  fierce  and  beautiful  Penthesilea  across  a  tea- 
table,  but  in  the  height  of  her  anger,  as  her  hand 
chanced  to  shake  with  the  earnestness  of  the  dis¬ 
pute,  she  scalded  her  fingers,  and  spilt  a  dish  of 
tea  upon  her  petticoat.  Had  not  this  accident 
broken  off  the  debate,  nobody  knows  where  it 
would  have  ended. 

There  is  one  consideration  which  I  would  ear¬ 
nestly  recommend  to  all  my  female  readers,  and 
which,  I  hope,  will  have  some  weight  with  them. 

In  short,  it  is  this,  that  there  is  nothing  so  bad 
for  the  face  as  party  zeal.  It  gives  an  ill-natured 
cast  to  the  eye,  and  a  disagreeable  sourness  to  the 
look  .  beside  that  it  makes  the  lines  too  strong, 
and  flushes  them  worse  than  brandy.  I  have  seen 
a  woman’s  face  break  out  in  heats,  as  she  had 
been  talking  against  a'great  lord,  whom  she  had 
never  seen  in  her  life  ;  and  indeed  I  never  knew 
a  party-woman  that  kept  her  beauty  for  a  twelve- 
month.  I  would  therefore  advise  all  my  female 
readers,  as  they  value  their  complexions,  to  let 
alone  all  disputes  of  this  nature  ;  though,  at  the 
same  time,  I  would  give  free  liberty  to  all  super- 


100 


THE  SPECTATOR 


animated  motherly  partisans  to  be  as  violent  as 
they  please,  since  there  will  be  no  danger  either 
of  their  spoiling  their  faces,  or  of  their  gaming 

converts.  ,  .  ,  ,  _ _ 

For  my  own  part,  I  think  a  man  makes  an 

odious  and  despicable  figure,  that  is  violent  in  a 
party  *  but  a  woman  is  too  sincere  to  mitigate  the 
fury  of  her  principles  with  temper  and  discretion, 
and  to  act  with  that  caution  and  reservedness 
which  are  requisite  in  our  sex.  When  this  unna¬ 
tural  zeal  gets  into  them,  it  throws  them  into  ten 
thousand  heats  and  extravagances ;  their  generous 
souls  set  no  bounds  to  their  love  or  to  their  ha¬ 
tred  ;  and  whether  a  whig  or  a  tory,  a  lap-dog  or 
a  gallant,  an  opera  or  a  puppet-show,  be  the  object 
of  it,  the  passion,  while  it  reigns,  engrosses  the 

whole  woman.  ^  ^ 

I  remember,  when  Dr.  Titus  Oates*  was  in  all 
his  glory,  I  accompanied  ray  friend  Will  Honey¬ 
comb  in  a  visit  to  a  lady  of  his  acquaintance. 
We  were  no  sooner  sat  down,  but  upon  casting 
my  eyes  about  the  room,  I  found  in  almost  every 
corner  of  it  a  print  that  represented  the  doctor  m 
all  magnitudes  and  dimensions.  A  little  alter,  as 
the  lady  was  discoursing  with  my  friend,  and 
held  her  snuff-box  in  her  hand,  who  should  I  see 
in  the  lid  of  it  but  the  doctor!  It  was  not  long 
after  this  when  she  had  occasion  for  her  handkei  - 
chief,  which,  upon  first  opening,  discovered  among 
the  plaits  of  it  the  figure  of  the  doctor.  Upon 
this  my  friend  Will,  who  loves  raillery,  told  her 
that  if  he  was  in  Mr.  Truelove  s  place  (for  that 
was  the  name  of  her  husband),  he  should  be  made 
as  uneasy  bv  a  handkerchief  as  ever  Othello  was. 

“  I  am  afraid,”  said  she,  “Mr.  Honeycomb  you 
are  a  tory :  tell  me  truly,  are  you  a  friend  to  the 
doctor  or  not?”  Will,  instead  of  making  her  a 
reply,  smiled  in  her  face  (for  indeed  she  was  very 
pretty)  and  told  her  that  one  of  her  patches  was 
dropping  off.  She  immediately  adjusted  it  and 
looking  a  little  serious,  “Well,”  says  she,  I  will 
be  hanged  if  you  and  your  silent  friend  there  aie 
not  against  the  doctor  m  your  hearts  ;  I  suspected 
as  much  by  his  saying  nothing.”  Upon  this  she 
took  her  fan  in  her  hand,  and  upon  the  opening 
of  it,  again  displayed  to  us  the  figure  of  the  doc¬ 
tor,  who  was  placed  with  great  gravity  among 
the  sticks  of  it.  In  a  word,  I  found  that  the  doc¬ 
tor  had  taken  possession  of  her  thoughts,  her  dis¬ 
course,  and  most  of  her  furniture  ;  but  finding 
myself  pressed  too  close  by  her  question,  I  winked 
upon  ray  friend  to  take  his  leave,  which  he  did 
accordingly. — 0. 

No.  58.]  MONDAY,  MAY  7,  1711. 

Ut  pictura,  poesis  erit.— Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  361. 

Poems  like  pictures  are. 

Nothing  is  so  much  admired,  and  so  little  un¬ 
derstood,  as  wit.  No  author  that  I  know  of  has 
written  professedly  upon  it,  and  as  for  those  who 
make  any  mention  of  it,  they  only  treat  on  the 
subject  as  it  has  accidentally  fallen  m  their  way, 
and  that  too  in  little  short  reflections,  or  in  gener¬ 
al  exclamatory  flourishes,  without  entering  into 
the  bottom  of  the  matter.  I  hope,  therefoie,  1 
shall  perform  an  acceptable  work  to  my  country¬ 
men,  if  I  treat  at  large  upon  this  subject ;  which 
I  shall  endeavor  to  do  in  a  manner  suitable  to  it, 
that  I  may  not  incur  the  censure  which  a  famous 
critic  bestows  upon  orie  who  had  written  a  trea¬ 
tise  on  “  the  sublime,”  in  a  low  groveling  style. 
I  intend  to  lay  aside  a  whole  week  for  this  under- 


*  Though,  the  name  of  Dr.  T.  Oates  is  made  use  of  here, 
,Dr.  Sacheverel  is  the  person  alluded  to. 


taking,  that  the  scheme  of  my  thoughts  may  not 
be  broken  and  interrupted  ;  and  I  dare  promise 
mvself,  if  my  readers  will  give  me  a  week  s  at- 
tention,  that  this  great  city  will  be  very  much 
changed  for  the  better  by  next  Saturday  night.  1 
shall  endeavor  to  make  what  I  say  intelligible  to 
ordinary  capacities  ;  but  if  my  readers  meet  with 
any  paper  that  in  some  parts  of  it  may  be  a  little 
out  of  their  reach,  I  would  not  have  them  dis¬ 
couraged,  for  they  may  assure  themselves  the  next 
shall  be  much  clearer. 

As  the  great  and  only  end  of  these  my  specula¬ 
tions  is  to  banish  vice  and  ignorance  out  of  the 
territories  of  Great  Britain,  I  shall  endeavor  as 
much  as  possible  to  establish  among  us  a  taste  of  '* 
polite  writing.  It  is  with  this  view  that  I  have 
endeavored  to  set  my  readers  right  in  several 
points  relating  to  operas  and  tragedies  ;  and  shall 
from  time  to  time  impart  my  notions  of  comedy, 
as  I  think  they  may  tend  to  its  refinement  arid 
perfection.  I  find  by  my  bookseller,  that  these 
papers  of  criticism,  with  that  upon  humor,  have 
met  with  a  more  kind  reception  than  indeed  I 
could  have  hoped  for  from  such  subjects;  for  which 
reason  I  shall  enter  upon  my  present  undertaking 

with  greater  cheerfulness.  _  run 

In  this,  and  one  or  two  following  papers,  !  shall 
trace  out  the  history  of  false  wit,  and  distinguish 
the  several  kinds  of  it  as  they  have  prevailed  in 
different  ages  of  the  world.  This  I  think  the  more 
necessary  at  present,  because  I  observed  there  were 
attempts  on  foot  last  winter  to  revive  some  of  those 
antiquated  modes  of  wit  that  have  been  long;  ex" 
ploded  out  of  the  commonwealth  of  letters.  1  here 
were  several  satires  and  panegyrics  handed  about 
in  acrostic,  by  which  means  some  of  the  most  ar¬ 
rant  undisputed  blockheads  about  the  town  began 
to  entertain  ambitious  thoughts,  and  to  set  up  for 
polite  authors.  I  shall  therefore  describe  at  length 
those  many  arts  of  false  wit,  in  which  a  writer 
does  not  show  himself  a  man  of  a  beautiful  genius, 

but  of  great  industry.  .  . 

The  first  species  of  false  wit  which  I  have  met 
with  is  venerable  for  its  antiquity,  and  has  pio- 
duced  several  pieces  which  have  lived  very  near 
as  long  as  the  Iliad  itself:  I  mean  those  short 
poems°  printed  among  the  minor  Greek  poets, 
which  resemble  the  figure  of  an  egg,  a  pair  ot 
wings,  an  ax,  a  shepherd’s  pipe,  and  an  altar. 

As  for  the  first,  it  is  a  little  oval  poem,  and  may 
not  improperly  be  called  a  scholar’s  egg.  I  would 
endeavor  to  hatch  it,  or,  in  more  intelligible  lan¬ 
guage,  to  translate  it  into  English,  did  not  I  find 
the  interpretation  of  it  very  difficult;  for  the  author 
seems  to  have  been  more  intent  upon  the  figure  of 
his  poem  than  upon  the  sense  of  it. 

The  pair  of  wings  consists  of  twelve  verses,  or 
rather  feathers,  every  verse  decreasing  gradually 
in  its  measure  according  to  its  situation  in  the 
wino-.  The  subject  of  it  (as  in  the  rest  of  the 
poems  which  follow)  bears  some  remote  affinity 
with  the  figure,  for  it  describes  a  god  of  love,  who 
is  always  painted  with  wings. 

The  ax,  methinks,  would  have  been  a  good 
fio-ure  for  a  lampoon,  had  the  edge  of  it  consisted 
of  the  most  satirical  parts  of  the  work ;  but  as  it 
is  in  the  original,  I  take  it  to  have  been  nothing 
else  but  the  posy  of  an  ax  which  was  consecrated 
to  Minerva,  and  was  thought  to  have  been  the 
same  that  Epeus  made  use  of  in  the  building  of 
the  Trojan  horse ;  which  is  a  hint  I  shall  leave  to 
the  consideration  of  the  crities.  _  I  am  apt  to  think 
that  the  posy  was  written  originally  upon  the  ax, 
like  those  which  our  modern  cutlers  inscribe  upon 
their  knives  ;  and  that  therefore  the  posy  still  re¬ 
mains  in  its  original  shape,  though  the  ax  itself  is 
lost. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


The  shepherd’s  pipe  may  be  said  to  be  full  of 
music,  for  it  is  composed  of  nine  different  kinds 
of  verses,  which  by  their  several  lengths  resemble 
the  nine  stops  of  the  old  musical  instrument,  that 
is  likewise  the  subject  of  the  poem. 

The  altar  is  inscribed  with  the  epitaph  of  Troi- 
lus,  the  son  of  Hecuba;  which,  by  the  way,  makes 
me  believe  that  these  false  pieces  of  wit  are  much 
more  ancient  than  the  authors  to  whom  they  are 
generally  asciibed  :  at  least  I  will  never  be  per¬ 
suaded  that  so  fine  a  writer  as  Theocritus  could 
have  been  the  author  of  any  such  simple  works. 

It  was  impossible  for  a  man  to  succeed  in  these 
perfoi  mances  who  was  not  a  kind  of  painter,  or  at 
least  a  designer.  He  was  first  of  all  to  draw  the 
outline  of  the  subject  which  he  intended  to  write 
upon,  and  afterward  conform  the  description  to 
the  figure  of  his  subject.  The  poetry  was  to  con¬ 
tract  or  dilate  itself  according  to  the  mould  in 
which  it  was  cast.  In  a  word,  the  verses  were  to 
be  cramped  or  extended  to  the  dimensions  of  the 
frame  that  was  prepared  for  them,  and  to  undergo 
the  fate  of  those  persons  whom  the  tyrant  Procrus¬ 
tes  used  to  lodge  in  his  iron  bed — if  they  were  too 
short,  he  stretched  them  on  a  rack ;  and  if  thev 
were  too  long,  chopped  off  a  part  of  their  legs,  till 
they  fitted  the  couch  which  he  had  prepared  for 
them. 

Mr.  Dryden  hints  at  this  obsolete  kind  of  wit  in 
one  of  the  following  verses  in  his  Mac  Flecno ; 
which  an  English  reader  cannot  understand,  who 
does  not  know  that  there  are  those  little  poems 
above-mentioned  in  the  shape  of  wings  and 
altars. 

- Choose  for  thy  command 

Some  peaceful  province  in  acrostic  land ; 

There  may’st  thou  wings  display,  and  altars  raise, 

And  torture  one  poor  word  a  thousand  ways. 

This  fashion  of  false  wit  was  revived  by  several 
poets  of  the  last  age,  and  in  particular  may  be  met 
with  among  Mr.  Herbert’s  poems;  and,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  in  the  translation  of  Du  Bartas.  I  do 
not  remember  any  other  kind  of  work  among  the 
moderns  which  more  resembles  the  performances 
I  have  mentioned,  than  that  famous  picture  of  King 
Charles  the  First,  which  has  the  whole  book  of 
psalms  written  in  the  lines  of  the  face  and  the  hair 
of  the  head.  When  I  was  last  at  Oxford  I  perused 
one  of  the  whiskers,  and  was  reading  the  other, 
but  could  not  go  so  far  in  it  as  I  would  have  done 
by  reason  of  the  impatience  of  my  friends  and 
fellow-travelers,  who  all  of  them  pressed  to  see 
such  a  piece  of  curiosity.  I  have  since  heard  that 
there  is  now  an  eminent  writing-master  in  town 
who  has  transcribed  all  the  whole  Testament  in  a 
full-bottomed  periwig  :  and  if  the  fashion  would 
introduce  the  thick  kind  of  wigs  which  were  in 
vogue  some  few  years  ago,  he  promises  to  add  two 
or  three  supernumerary  locks  that  should  contain 
all  the  Apocrypha.  He  designed  this  wig  origi¬ 
nally  for  king  William,  having  disposed"  of  the 
two  books  of  Kings  in  the  two  forks  of  the  fore¬ 
top  ;  but  that  glorious  monarch  dying  before  the 
wig  was  finished,  there  is  a  space  left  in  it  for  the 
face  of  any  one  that  has  a  mind  to  purchase  it. 

But  to  return  to  our  ancient  poems  in  picture. 

I  would  humbly  propose,  for  the  benefit  of  our 
modern  smatterers  in  poetry,  that  they  would  imitate 
then  hiethren  among  the  ancients  in  those  inge¬ 
nious  devices.  I  have  communicated  this  thought 
to  a  young  poetical  lover  of  my  acquaintance,  who 
intends  to  present  his  mistress  with  a  copy  of 
verses  made  in  the  shape  of  her  fan;  and,  if  he 
tells  me  true,  has  already  finished  the  three  first 
sticks  of  it.  He  has  likewise  promised  me  to  get 
the  measure  of  his  mistress’s  marriage  finger,  with 
a  design  to  make  a  posy  in  the  fashion  of  a  rin°- 


101 

which  shall  exactly  fit  it.  It  is  so  very  easy  to 
enlarge  upon  a  good  hint,  that  I  do  not  question 
but  my  ingenious  readers  will  apply  what  I  .have 
said  to  many  other  particulars  :  and  that  we  shall 
see  the  town  filled  in  a  very  little  time  with  poeti¬ 
cal  tippets,  handkerchiefs,  snuff-boxes,  and  the 
like  female  ornaments.  I  shall  therefore  conclude 
with  a  word  ol  advice  to  those  admirable  English 
authors  who  call  themselves  Pindaric  writers,  that 
they  would  apply  themselves  to  this  kind  of  wit 
without  loss  ol  time,  as  being  provided  better  than 
any  other  poets  with  verses  of  all  sizes  and  di¬ 
mensions. — C. 


No.  59. J  TUESDAY,  MAY  8,  1711. 

Operose  nihil  agunt. — Seneca. 

Busy  about  nothing. 

There  is  nothing  more  certain,  than  that  every 
man  would  be  a  wit  if  he  could;  and  notwith¬ 
standing  pedants  of  a  pretended  depth  and  solidity 
are  apt  to  decry  the  writings  of  a  polite  author  as 
flash  and  froth,  they  all  of  them  show,  upon  occa¬ 
sion,  that  they  would  spare  no  pains  to  arrive  at 
the  character  of  those  whom  they  seem  to  despise. 
F°i  this  reason  we  often  find  them  endeavoring  at 
works  of  fancy,  which  cost  them  infinite  pangs  in 
the  pi  oduction.  The  truth  of  it  is,  a  man  had 
better  be  a .  galley- slave  than  a  wit,  were  one  to 
gam  that  title  by  those  elaborate  trifles  which 
have  been  the  inventions  of  such  authors  as  were 
often  masters  of  great  learning,  but  no  genius. 

In  my  last  paper  I  mentioned  some  of  these 
false  wits  among  the  ancients,  and  in  this  shall 
give  the  reader  two  or  three  other  species  of  them, 
that  flourished  in  the  same  early  ages  of  the 
world.  The  first  I  shall  produce  are  the  lipo- 
grammatists  or  letter-droppers  of  antiquity,  that 
would  take  an  exception,  without  any  reason, 
against  some  particular  letter  in  the  alphabet,  so 
as  not  to  admit  it  once  into  a  whole  poem.  One 
Tryphiodorus  was  a  great  master  in  this  kind  of 
writing.  He  composed  an  Odyssey  or  epic  poem 
on  the  adventures  of  Ulysses,  consisting  of  four 
and  twenty  books,  having  entirely  banished  the 
letter  a  from  the  first  book,  which  was  called  Al¬ 
pha  (as  lucus  a  non  lucendo)  because  there  was  not 
an  alpha  in  it.  His  second  book  was  inscribed 
Beta  for  the  same  reason.  In  short,  the  poet  ex¬ 
cluded  the  whole  four  and  twenty  letters  in  their 
turns,  and  showed  them,  one  after  another,  that 
he  could  do  his  business  without  them. 

It  must  have  been  very  pleasant  to  have  seen 
this  poet  avoiding  the  reprobate  letter,  as  much 
as  another  would  a  false  quantity,  and  making  his 
escape  from  it  through  the  several  Greek  dialects, 
when  he  was  pressed  with  it  in  any  particular 
syllable.  For  the  most  apt  and  elegant  word  in 
the  whole  language  was  rejected,  like  a  diamond 
with  a  flaw  in  it,  if  it  appeared  blemished  with  a 
wrong  letter.  I  shall  only  observe  upon  this  head, 
that  if  the  work  I  have  here  mentioned  had  been 
now  extant,  the  Odyssey  of  Tryphiodorus,  in  all 
probability,  would  have  been  oftener  quoted  by 
our  learned  pedants,  than  the  Odyssey  of  Homer. 
What  a  perpetual  fund  would  it  have  been  of  ob¬ 
solete  words  and  phrases,  unusual  barbarisms  and 
rusticities,  absurd  spellings,  and  complicated  dia¬ 
lects?  I  make  no  question  but  it  would  have 
been  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  most  valuable 
treasuries  of  the  Greek  tongue. 

I  find  likewise  among  the  ancients  that  inge¬ 
nious  kind  of  conceit,  which  the  moderns  distin¬ 
guish  by  the  name  of  a  rebus,  that  does  not  sink 
a  letter,  but  a  whole  word,  by  substituting  a  pic¬ 
ture  in  its  place.  When  Ccesar  was  one  of  the 
masters  of  the  Roman  mint,  he  placed  the  figure 


102  THE  SPEC 

of  an  elephant  upon  the  reverse  of  the  public 
money;  the  word  Ciesar  signifying  an  elephant  m 
the  Punic  language.  This  was  artificially  con¬ 
trived  by  Caesar,  because  it  was  not  lawful  for  a 
private  man  to  stamp  his  own  figure  upon  the  coin 
of  the  commonwealth.  Cicero,  who  was  so  called 
from  the  founder  of  his  family,  that  was  marked 
on  the  nose  with  a  little  wen  like  a  vetch  (which 
is  Cicer  in  Latin),  instead  of  Marcus  Tullius  Ci¬ 
cero,  ordered  the  words  Marcus  Tullius  with  a 
figure  of  a  vetch  at  the  end  of  them,  to  be  inscrib¬ 
ed  on  a  public  monument.  This  was  done  pro¬ 
bably  to  show  that  he  was  neither  ashamed  of  his 
name  nor  his  family,  notwithstanding  the  envy  of 
his  competitors  had  often  reproached  him  with 
both.  In  the  same  manner,  we  read  of  a  famous 
building  that  was  marked  in  several  parts  of  it 
with  the  figures  of  a  frog  and  a  lizard  ;  those 
words  in  Greek  having  been  the  names  of  the 
architects,  who  by  the  laws  of  their  country  were 
never  permitted  to  inscribe  their  own  names  upon 
their  works.  For  the  same  reason  it  is  thought  that 
the  forelock  of  the  horse,  in  the  antique  equestrian 
statue  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  represents,  at  a  distance, 
the  shape  of  an  owl,  to  intimate  the  country  of 
the  statuary  who,  in  all  probability,  was  an  Athe¬ 
nian.  This  kind  of  wit  was  very  much  in  vogue 
among  our  own  countrymen  about  an  age  or  two 
ago,  who  did  not  practice  it  for  any  oblique  rea¬ 
son,  as  the  ancients  above-mentioned,  but  purely 
for  the  sake  of  being  witty.  Among  innumerable 
instances  that  may  be  given  of  this  nature,  I  shall 
produce  the  device  of  one  Mr.  Newberry,  as  I  find 
it  mentioned  by  our  learned  Camden  in  his  re¬ 
mains.  Mr.  Newberry,  to  represent  his  name  by 
a  picture,  hung  up  at  his  door  the  sign  of  a  yew- 
tree,  that  had  several  berries  upon  it,  and  in  the 
midst  of  them  a  great  golden  N  hung  upon  the 
bough  of  the  tree,  which  by  the  help  of  a  little 
false  spelling  made  up  the  word  N-ew-berry. 

I  shall  conclude  this  topic  with  a  rebus,  which 
has  been  lately  hewn  out  in  freestone,  and  erected 
over  two  of  the  portals  of  Blenheim  House,  being 
the  figure  of  a  monstrous  lion  tearing  to  pieces  a 
little  cock.  For  the  better  understanding  of  which 
device,  I  must  acquaint  my  English  reader,  that 
a  cock  has  the  misfortune  to  be  called  in  Latin  by 
the  same  word  that  signifies  a  Frenchman,  as  a 
lion  is  the  emblem  of  the  English  nation.  Such 
a  device,  in  so  noble  a  pile  of  building,  looks  like 
a  pun  in  a  heroic  poem  ;  and  I  am  very  sorry  the 
truly  ingenious  architect  would  suffer  the  statuary 
to  blemish  his  excellent  plan  with  so  poor  a  con¬ 
ceit.  But  I  hope  what  I  have  said  will  gain  quar¬ 
ter  for  the  cock,  and  deliver  him  out  of  the  lion’s 
paw. 

I  find  likewise  in  ancient  times  the  conceit  of 
making  an  echo  talk  sensibly,  and  give  rational 
answers.  If  this  could  be  excusable  in  any  writer, 
it  would  be  in  Ovid,  where  he  introduces  the  Echo 
as  a  nymph,  before  she  was  worn  away  into  no¬ 
thing  but  a  voice.  The  learned  Erasmus,  though 
a  man  of  wit  and  genius,  has  composed  a  dialogue 
upon  this  silly  kind  of  device,  and  made  use  of 
an  echo  who  seems  to  have  been  a  very  extraordi¬ 
nary  linguist,  for  she  answers  the  person  she  talks 
with  in  Latin,  Greek,  and  Hebrew,  according  as 
she  found  the  syllables  which  she  was  to  repeat 
in  any  of  these  learned  languages.  Hudibras,  in 
ridicule  of  this  false  kind  of  wit,  has  described 
Bruin  bewailing  the  loss  of  his  bear  to  a  solitary 
Echo ,  who  is  of  great  use  to  the  poet  in  several 
distichs,  as  she  does  not  only  repeat  after  him, 
but  helps  out  his  verse,  and  furnishes  him  with 
rhymes : 

He  rag’d,  and  kept  as  heavy  a  coil  as 

Stout  Hercules  for  loss  of  Ilylas : 


TATOR. 

Forcing  the  valleys  to  repeat 
The  accents  of  his  sad  regret. 

He  heat  his  breast,  and  tore  his  hair, 

For  loss  of  his  dear  crony  bear, 

That  Echo  from  the  hollow  ground, 

His  doleful  wailings  did  resound 
More  wistfully  by  many  times, 

Than  in  small  poets’  splay-foot  rhymes, 

That  make  her,  in  their  rueful  stories, 

To  answer  to  int’rogatories, 

And  most  unconscionably  depose 
Things  of  which  she  nothing  knows ; 

And  when  she  has  said  all  she  can  say, 

’Tis  wrested  to  the  lover’s  fancy. 

Quoth  he,  0  whither,  wicked  Bruin, 

Art  thou  fled  to  my - Echo,  “ ruin?” 

I  thought  th’  hadst  scorn’d  to  budge  a  step 
For  fear.  (Quoth  Echo)  “  Marry  guep.” 

Am  I  not  here  to  take  thy  part? 

Then  what  has  quell’d  thy  stubborn  heart? 
Have  these  bones  rattl’d,  and  this  head 
So  often  in  thy  quarrel  bled  ? 

Nor  did  I  ever  wince  or  grudge  it, 

For  thy  dear  sake  (Quoth  she),  “  Mum  budget,” 
Think’st  thou  ’twill  not  be  laid  i’  th’  dish, 

Thou  turn’st  thy  back?  Quoth  Echo)  “ Pish.” 
To  run  from  those  th’  hadst  overcome 
Thus  cowardly?  (Quoth  Echo)  “  Mum.” 

But  what  a  vengeance  makes  thee  fly 
From  me  too  as  thine  enemy  ? 

Or  if  thou  hast  no  thought  of  me, 

Nor  what  I  have  endur’d  for  thee; 

Yet  shame  and  honor  might  prevail 
To  keep  thee  thus  from  turning  tail : 

For  who  would  grudge  to  spend  his  blood  in 
His  honor’s  cause?  (Quoth  she)  “A  pudding.” 
C. 


No.  60.]  WEDNESDAY,  MAY  9,  1711. 

Hoc  est  quod  palles?  Cur  quis  non  prandeat,  hoc  esrt? 

Pers.,  Sat.  iii,  85. 

Is  it  for  this  you  gain  those  meager  looks, 

And  sacrifice  your  dinner  to  your  books  ? 

Several  kinds  of  false  wit  that  vanished  in  the 
refined  ages  of  the  world,  discovered  themselves 
again  in  the  times  of  monkish  ignorance. 

As  the  monks  were  the  masters  of  all  that  little 
learning  which  was  then  extant,  and  had  their  whole 
lives  entirely  disengaged  from  business,  it  is  no 
wonder  that  several  of  them,  who  wanted  genius 
for  higher  performances,  employed  many  hours  in 
the  composition  of  such  tricks  in  writing  as  re¬ 
quired  much  time  and  little  capacity.  I  have  seen 
half  the  HSneid  turned  into  Latin  rhymes  by  one 
of  the  beaux  esprits  of  that  dark  age ;  who  says 
in  his  preface  to  it,  that  the  HSneid  wanted  no¬ 
thing  but  the  sweets  of  rhyme  to  make  it  the  most 
erfect  work  in  its  kind.  I  have  likewise  seen  a 
ymn  in  hexameters  to  the  Virgin  Mary,  which 
filled  a  whole  book,  though  it  consisted  but  of  the 
eight  following  words : 

Tot,  tibi,  sunt,  Yirgo,  dotes,  quot,  sidera,  coelo. 

Thou  hast  as  many  virtues,  0  Virgin,  as  there  aro  stars  in 
heaven. 

The  poet  rang  the  changes  upon  these  eight  seve¬ 
ral  words,  and  by  that  means  made  his  verses  al¬ 
most  as  numerous  as  the  virtues  and  the  stars 
which  they  celebrated.  It  is  no  wonder  that  men 
who  had  so  much  time  upon  their  hands  did  not 
only  restore  all  the  antiquated  pieces  of  false  wit, 
but  enrich  the  world  with  inventions  of  their  own. 
It  was  to  this  age  that  we  owe  the  production  of 
anagrams,  which  is  nothing  else  but  a  transmuta¬ 
tion  of  one  word  into  another,  or  the  turning  of 
the  same  set  of  letters  into  different  words  ;  which 
may  change  night  into  day,  or  black  into  white, 
if  Chance,  who  is  the  goddess  that  presides  over 
these  sorts  of  composition,  shall  so  direct.  _  I  re¬ 
member  a  witty  author,  in  allusion  to  this  kind  of 
writing,  calls  his  rival,  who  (it  seems)  was  dis¬ 
torted,  and  had  his  limbs  set  in  places  that  did 
not  properly  belong  to  them,  “  the  anagram  of  a 
man.” 


THE  SPE 

When  the  anagrammatist  takes  a  name  to  work 
upon,  he  considers  it  at  first  as  a  mine  not  broken 
up,  which  will  not  show  the  treasure  it  contains, 
till  he  shall  have  spent  many  hours  in  the  search 
of  it ;  for  it  is  his  business  to  find  out  one  word 
that  conceals  itself  in  another,  and  to  examine  the 
letters  in  all  the  variety  of  stations  in  which  they 
can  possibly  be  ranged.  I  have  heard  of  a  gen¬ 
tleman,  who,  when  this  kind  of  wit  was  in  fash¬ 
ion,  endeavored  to  gain  his  mistress’s  heart  by  it. 
She  was  one  of  the  finest  women  of  her  age,  and 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Lady  Mary  Boon.  The 
lover  not  being  able  to  make  anything  of  Mary,  by 
certain  liberties  indulged  to  this  kind  of  writing 
converted  it  into  Moll ;  and  after  having  shut  him¬ 
self  up  for  half  a  year,  with  indefatigable  industry 
produced  an  anagram.  Upon  the  presenting  it 
to  his  mistress,  who  was  a  little  vexed  in  her  heart 
to  see  herself  degraded  into  Moll  Boon,  she  told 
him,  to  his  infinite  surprise,  that  he  had  mistaken 
her  sirname,  for  that  it  was  not  Boon,  but  Boliun. 

- Ibid  omnis 

Effusus  labor - 

The  lover  was  thunderstruck  with  his  misfortune, 
insomuch  that  in  a  little  time  after  he  lost  his 
senses,  which  indeed  had  been  very  much  impaired 
by  that  continual  application  he  had  given  to  his 
anagram. 

The  acrostic  was  probably  invented  about  the 
same  time  with  the  anagram  ,  though  it  is  impossi¬ 
ble  to  decide  whether  the  inventor  of  the  one  or 
the  other,  were  the  greater  blockhead.  The  sim¬ 
ple  acrostic  is  nothing  but  the  name  or  title  of  a 
person,  or  thing,  made  out  of  the  initial  letters  of 
several  verses,  and  by  that  means  written,  after 
the  manner  of  the  Chinese,  in  a  perpendicular  line. 
But  beside  these  there  are  compound  acrostics, 
when  the  principal  letters  stand  two  or  three  deep. 
I  have  seen  some  of  them  where  the  verses  have 
not  only  been  edged  by  a  name  at  each  extremity, 
but  have  had  the  same  name  running  down  like  a 
seam  through  the  middle  of  the  poem. 

There  is  another  near  relation  of  the  anagrams 
and  acrostics,  which  is  commonly  called  a  chro¬ 
nogram.  This  kind  of  wit  appears  very  often  on 
many  modern  medals,  especially  those  of  Ger¬ 
many,  when  they  represent  in  the  inscription  the 
year  in  which  they  were  coined.  Thus  we  see  on 
a  medal  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  the  following 
words,  ChrIstVs  DuX  ergo  TrIVMphVs.  If  you 
take  the  pains  to  pick  the  figures  out  of  the  sev¬ 
eral  words,  and  range  them  in  their  proper  order, 
you  will  find  they  amount  to  mdcxvwii,  or  1627, 
the  year  in  which  the  medal  was  stamped  ;  for  as 
some  of  the  letters  distinguish  themselves  from 
the  rest,  and  overtop  their  fellows,  they  are  to  be 
considered  in  a  double  capacity,  both  as  letters 
and  as  figures.  Your  laborious  German  wits  will 
turn  over  a  whole  dictionary  for  one  of  these  inge¬ 
nious  devices.  A  man  would  think  they  were 
searching  after  an  apt  classical  term,  but  instead 
of  that  they  are  looking  out  a  word  that  has  an  L, 
an  M,  or  a  D,  in  it.  When  therefore  we  meet  with 
any  of  these  inscriptions,  we  are  not  so  much  to 
look  in  them  for  the  thought,  as  for  the  year  of 
the  Lord. 

The  bouts-rimes  were  the  favorites  of  the  French 
nation  for  a  whole  age  together,  and  that  at  a  time 
when  it  abounded  in  wit  and  learning.  They 
were  a  list  of  words  that  rhyme  to  one  another, 
drawn  up  by  another  hand,  and  given  to  a  poet, 
who  was  to  make  a  poem  to  the  rhymes  in  the 
same  order  that  they  were  placed  upon  the  list : 
the  more  uncommon  the  rhymes  were,  the  more 
extraordinary  was  the  genius  of  the  poet  that 
could  accommodate  his  verses  to  them.  I  do  not 


C  TAT  OR.  1Q3 

know  any  greater  instance  of  the  decay  of  wit  and 
learning  among  the  French  (which  generally  fol¬ 
lows  the  declension  of  empire)  than  the  endeavor¬ 
ing  to  restore  this  foolish  kind  of  wit.  If  the 
reader  will  be  at  the  trouble  to  see  examples  of  it, 
let  him  look  into  the  new  Mercure  Gallant ;  where 
the  author  every  month  gives  a  list  of  rhymes  to 
be  filled  up  by  the  ingenious,  in  order  to  be  com¬ 
municated  to  the  public  in  the  Mercure  for  the 
succeeding  month.  That  for  the  month  of  No¬ 
vember  last,  which  now  lies  before  me,  is  as  fol¬ 
lows  : 

. Lauriers 

. Guerriers 

. Musette 

. Lisette 

. Caesars 

. . . Etendars 

. Houlette 

. Folette 

One  would  be  amazed  to  see  so  learned  a  man 
as  Menage  talking  seriously  on  this  kind  of  trifle 
in  the  following  passage: 

“  Monsieur  de  la  Chambre  has  told  me  that  he 
never  knew  what  he  was  going  to  write  when  he 
took  his  pen  into  his  hand ;  but  that  one  sentence 
always  produced  another.  For  my  own  part,  I 
never  knew  what  I  should  write  next  when  I  was 
making  verses.  In  the  first  place  I  got  all  my 
rhymes  together,  and  was  afterward  perhaps  three 
or  four  months  in  filling  them  up.  I  one  day 
showed  Monsieur  Gombaud  a  composition  of  this 
nature,  in  which,  among  others,  I  had  made  use  of 
the  four  following  rhymes,  Amaryllis,  Phyllis, 
Marne,  Arne ;  desiring  him  to  give  me  his  opinion 
of  it.  He  told  me  immediately,  that  my  verses 
were  good  for  nothing.  And  upon  my  asking  his 
reason,  he  said,  because  the  rhymes  are  too  com¬ 
mon  ;  and  for  that  reason  easy  to  be  put  into 
verse.  ‘  Marry,’  says  I,  ‘  if  it  be  so,  I  am  very  well 
rewarded  for  all  the  pains  I  have  been  at.’  But 
by  Monsieur  Gombaud’s  leave,  ‘notwithstanding 
the  severity  of  the  criticism,  the  verses  were 
good.’”  Vide  Menagiana.*  Thus  far  the  learned 
Menage,  whom  I  have  translated  word  for  word. 

The  first  occasion  of  these  bout-rimes  made 
them  in  some  manner  excusable,  as  they  were 
tasks  which  the  French  ladies  used  to  impose  on 
their  lovers.  But  when  a  grave  author,  like  him 
above-mentioned,  tasked  himself,  could  there  be 
anything  more  ridiculous  ?  Or  would  not  one  be 
apt  to  believe  that  the  author  played  booty,  and 
did  not  make  his  list  of  rhymes  till  he  had  finished 
his  poem  ? 

I  shall  only  add  that  this  piece  of  false  wit  has 
been  finely  ridiculed  by  Monsieur  Sarasin,  in  a 
poem  entitled,  La  Defaite  des  Bouts-Rimes,  The 
Rout  of  the  Bouts-Rimes. 

I  must  subjoin  to  this  last  kind  of  wit  the  double 
rhymes,  which  are  used  in  doggerel  poetry,  and 
generally  applauded  by  ignorant  readers.  If  the 
thought  of  the  couplet  in  such  composition  is 
good,  the  rhyme  adds  little  to  it ;  and  if  bad,  it 
will  not  be  in  the  power  of  the  rhyme  to  recom¬ 
mend  it.  I  am  afraid  that  great  numbers  of  those 
who  admire  the  incomparable  Hudibras,  do  it  more 
on  account  of  those  doggerel  rhymes  than  of  the 
parts  that  really  deserve  admiration.  I  am  sure  I 
have  heard  the 

Pulpit,  drum  ecclesiastic, 

Was  beat  with  fist,  instead  of  a  stick; 


*  Tom.  i,  p.  174,  etc.,  ed.  Aiust.,  1713. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


104 

and 

There  was  an  ancient  sage  philosopher 
Who  had  read  Alexander  Ross  over : 

more  frequently  quoted,  than  the  finest  pieces  of 
wit  in  the  whole  poem. — C. 


Ho.  61.]  THURSDAY,  MAY  10,  1711. 

Non  equidem  studeo  bullatis  ut  mihi  nugis 
Paeina  turgescat,  dare  pondus  idonea  fuino. 

Pers.,  Sat.  v,  19. 

’T  is  not  indeed  my  talent  to  engage 
In  lofty  trifles,  or  to  swell  my  page 
With  wind  and  noise. — Dryden. 

There  is  no  kind  of  false  wit  which  has  been 
so  recommended  by  the  practice  of  all  ages,  as  that 
which  consists  in  a  jingle  of  words,  and  is  com¬ 
prehended  under  the  general  name  of  punning. 
It  is  indeed  impossible  to  kill  a  weed  which  the 
soil  has  a  natural  disposition  to  produce.  The 
seeds  of  punning  are  in  the  minds  of  all  men;  and 
though  they  may  be  subdued  by  reason,  reflection, 
and  good  sense,  they  will  be  very  apt  to  shoot  up 
in  the  greatest  genius  that  is  not  broken  and  cul¬ 
tivated  by  the  rules  of  art.  Imitation  is  natural 
to  us,  and  when  it  does  not  raise  the  mind  to 
poetry,  painting,  music,  or  other  more  noble  arts, 
it  often  breaks  out  in  puns  and  quibbles. 

Aristotle,  in  the  eleventh  chapter  of  his  book 
of  rhetoric,  describes  two  or  three  kinds  of  puns, 
which  he  calls  paragrams,  among  the  beauties  of 
good  writing,  and  produces  instances  of  them  out 
of  some  of  the  greatest  authors  in  the  Greek 
tongue.  Cicero  has  sprinkled  several  of  his 
works  with  puns,  and  in  his  book  where  he  lays 
down  the  rules  of  oratory,  quotes  abundance  of 
sayings  as  pieces  of  wit,  which  also  upon  examina¬ 
tion  prove  arrant  puns.  But  the  age  in  which  the 
pun  chiefly  flourished  was  in  the  reign  of  King 
James  the  First.  That  learned  monarch  was  him¬ 
self  a  tolerable  punster,  and  made  very  few  bish¬ 
ops  or  privy-counselors  that  had  not  some  time  or 
other  signalized  themselves  by  a  clinch  or  a  co¬ 
nundrum.  It  was  therefore  in  this  age  that  the 
pun  appeared  with  pomp  and  dignity.  It  had 
been  before  admitted  into  merry  speeches  and  lu¬ 
dicrous  compositions  but  was  now  delivered  with 
great  gravity  from  the  pulpit,  or  pronounced  in  the 
most  solemn  manner  at  the  council-table.  The 
greatest  authors,  in  their  most  serious  works,  made 
frequent  use  of  puns.  The  sermons  of  Bishop 
Andrews,  and  the  tragedies  of  Shakspeare  are  full 
of  them.  The  sinner  was  punned  into  repentance 
by  the  former,  as  in  the  latter  nothing  is  more 
usual  than  to  see  a  hero  weeping  and  quibbling 
for  a  dozen  lines  together. 

I  must  add  to  these  great  authorities,  which 
seem  to  have  given  a  kind  of  sanction  to  this 
iece  of  false  wit,  that  all  the  writers  of  rhetoric 
ave  treated  of  punning  with  very  great  respect, 
and  divided  the  several  kinds  of  it  into  hard 
names,  that  are  reckoned  among  the  figures  of 
speech,  and  recommended  as  ornaments  in  dis¬ 
course.  I  remember  a  country  schoolmaster  of  my 
acquaintance  told  me  once,  that  he  had  been  in 
company  with  a  gentleman  whom  he  looked  upon 
to  be  the  greatest  paragrammatist  among  the 
moderns.  Upon  inquiry,  I  found  my  learned 
friend  had  dined  that  day  with  Mr.  Swan,  the  fa¬ 
mous  punster ;  and  desiring  him  to  give  me  some 
account  of  Mr.  Swan’s  conversation,  he  told  me 
that  he  generally  talked  in  the  Paronomasia ,  that 
he  sometimes  gave  into  the  Ploce,  but  that  in  his 
humble  opinion  he  shone  most  in  the  Antanaclasis. 

I  must  not  here  omit,  that  a  famous  university 
of  this  land  was  formerly  very  much  infested  with 
puns  ;  but  whether  or  no  this  might  not  arise  from 


the  fens  and  marshes  in  which  it  was  situated,  and 
which  are  now  drained,  I  must  leave  to  the  de¬ 
termination  of  more  skillful  naturalists. 

After  this  short  history  of  punning,  one  would 
wonder  how  it  should  be  so  entirely  banished  out 
of  the  learned  world  as  it  is  at  present,  especially 
since  it  had  found  a  place  in  the  writings  of  the 
most  ancient  poXite  authors.  To  account  for  this, 
we  must  consider  that  the  first  race  of  authors, 
who  were  the  great-heroes  in  writing,  were  desti¬ 
tute  of  all  rules  and  arts  of  criticism ;  and  for  that 
reason,  though  they  excel  later  writers  in  great¬ 
ness  of  genius,  they  fell  short  of  them  in  accuracy 
and  correctness.  The  moderns  cannot  reach  their 
beauties,  but  can  avoid  their  imperfections.  When 
the  world  was  furnished  with  these  authors  of  the 
first  eminence,  there  grew  up  another  set  of 
writers,  who  gained  themselves  a  reputation  by 
the  remarks  which  they  made  on  the  works  of 
those  who  preceded  them.  It  was  one  of  the  em¬ 
ployments  of  these  secondary  authors  to  dis¬ 
tinguish  the  several  kinds  of  wit  by  terms  of  art, 
and  to  consider  them  as  more  or  less  perfect  ac¬ 
cording  as  they  were  founded  in  truth.  It  is  no 
wmnder,  therefore,  that  even  such  authors  as  Iso¬ 
crates,  Plato,  and  Cicero,  should  have  such  little 
blemishes  as  are  not  to  be  met  with  in  authors  of 
a  much  inferior  character,  who  have  written  since 
those  several  blemishes  were  discovered.  I  do  not 
find  that  there  was  a  proper  separation  made  be¬ 
tween  puns  and  true  wit  by  any  of  the  ancient 
authors,  except  Quinctilian  and  Longinus.  But 
when  this  distinction  was  once  settled,  it  was  very 
natural  for  all  men  of  sense  to  agree  in  it.  As  for 
the  revival  of  this  false  wit,  it  happened  about  the 
time  of  the  revival  of  letters;  but  as  soon  as  it  was 
once  detected,  it  immediately  vanished  and  disap¬ 
peared.  At  the  same  time  there  is  no  question,  but 
as  it  has  sunk  in  one  age  and  risen  in  another,  it 
will  again  recover  itself  in  some  distant  period  of 
time,  as  pedantry  and  ignorance  shall  prevail  upon 
wit  and  sense.  And,  to  speak  the  truth,  I  do  very 
much  apprehend,  by  some  of  the  last  winter’s  pro¬ 
ductions,  which  had  their  sets  of  admirers,  that 
our  posterity  will  in  a  few  years  degenerate  into  a 
race  of  punsters :  at  least,  a  man  may  be  very  ex¬ 
cusable  for  any  apprehensions  of  this  kind,  that 
has  seen  acrostics  handed  about  the  town  with 
great  secrecy  and  applause  ;  to  which  I  must  also 
add  a  little  epigram  called  the  Witches’  Prayer, 
that  fell  into  verse  when  it  was  read  either  back¬ 
ward  or  forward,  excepting  only  that  it  cursed  one 
way  and  blessed  the  other.  When  one  sees  there 
are  actually  such  painstakers  among  our  British 
wits,  who  can  tell  what  it  may  end  in?  If  we 
must  lash  one  another,  let  it  be  with  the  manly 
strokes  of  wit  and  satire  ;  for  I  am  of  the  old 
philosopher’s  opinion,  that  if  I  must  suffer  from 
one  or  the  other,  I  would  rather  it  should  be  from 
the  paw  of  a  lion  than  from  the  hoof  of  an  ass. 
I  do  not  speak  this  out  of  any  spirit  of  party. 
There  is  a  most  crying  dullness  on  both  sides.  I 
have  seen  tory  acrostics  and  whig  anagrams,  and  do 
not  quarrel  with  either  of  them  because  they  are 
whigs  or  tories,  but  because  they  are  anagrams 
and  acrostics. 

But  to  return  to  punning.  Having  pursued  the 
history  of  a  pun,  from  its  original  to  its  downfall, 
I  shall  here  define  it  to  be  a  conceit  arising  from 
the  use  of  two  words  that  agree  in  the  sound,  but 
differ  in  the  sense.  The  only  way,  therefore,  to 
try  a  piece  of  wit,  is  to  translate  it  into  a  different' 
language.  If  it  bears  the  test,  you  may  pronounce 
it  true ;  but  if  it  vanishes  in  the  experiment,  you 
may  conclude  it  to  have  been  a  pun.  In  short, 
one  may  say  of  a  pun  as  the  countryman  described 
his  nightingale,  that  it  is  “vox  et  praterea  nihil," 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


“a  sound,  and  nothing  but  a  sound.”  On  the  con¬ 
trary,  one  may  represent  true  wit  by  the  descrip¬ 
tion  which  Aristenetus  makes  of  a  fine  woman  ; 
when  she  is  dressed  she  is  beautiful,  when  she  is 
undressed  she  is  beautiful ;  or,  as  Mercerus  has 
translated  it  more  emphatically,  “ Induitur,  formosa 
est :  exuitur,  ipsa  forma  est.”*— 0. 


105 


Ho.  62.]  FRIDAY,  MAY  11,  1711. 

Scribendi  recte  sapere  est  et  principium,  et  forts. 

IIor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  309. 

Sound  judgment  is  the  ground  of  writing  well. 

Koscommon. 

Mr.  Locke  has  an  admirable  reflection  upon  the 
difference  of  wit  andjudgment,  whereby  he  endea¬ 
vors  to  show  the  reason  why  they  are  not  always 
the  talents  of  the  same  person.  His  words  are  as 
follow:  “And  hence,  perhaps,  may  be  given  some 
reason  of  that  common  observation,  £  That  men 
who  have  a  great  deal  of  wit,  and  prompt  memo¬ 
ries,  have  not  always  the  clearest  judgment  or 
deepest  reason.’  For  wit  lying  most  in  the  assem¬ 
blage  of  ideas,  and  putting  those  together  with 
quickness  and  variety  wherein  can  be  found  any 
resemblance  or  congruity,  thereby  to  make  up 
pleasant  pictures,  and  agreeable  visions  in  the 
fancy;  judgment,  on  the  contrary,  lies  quite  on  the 
other  side,  in  separating  carefully  one  from  another 
ideas  wherein  can  be  found  the  least  difference, 
thereby  to  avoid  being  misled  by  similitude,  and 
by  affinity  to  take  one  thing  for  another.  This  is 
a  way  of  proceeding  quite  contrary  to  metaphor 
and  allusion  ;  wherein,  for  the  most  part,  lies  that 
entertainment  and  pleasantry  of  wit,  which  strikes 
so  lively  on  the  fancy,  and  is  therefore  so  accept¬ 
able  to  all  people.” 

This  is,  I  think,  the  best  and  most  philosophi¬ 
cal  account  that  I  have  ever  met  with  of  wit, 
which  generally,  though  not  always,  consists  in 
sucli  a  resemblance  and  congruity  of  ideas  as  this 
author  mentions.  I  shall  only  add  to  it,  by  way 
of  explanation,  that  every  resemblance  of  ideas  is 
not  that  which  we  call  wit,  unless  it  be  such  a 
one  that  gives  delight  and  surprise  to  the  reader, 
these  two  properties  seem  essential  to  wit,  more 
particularly  the  last  of  them.  In  order,  there¬ 
fore,  that  the  resemblance  in  the  ideas  be  wit, 
it  is  necessary  that  the  ideas  should  not  lie  too 
neai  one  another  in  the  nature  of  things ;  for 
where  the  likeness  is  obvious,  it  gives  no  surprise. 

I  o  compare  one  man’s  singing  to  that  of  another, 
or  to  represent  the  whiteness  of  any  object  by  that 
of  milk  and  snow,  or  the  variety  of  its  colors  by 
those  of  the  rainbow,  cannot  be  called  wit,  unless, 
beside  this  obvious  resemblance,  there  be  some 
farther  congruity  discovered  in  the  two  ideas,  that 
is  capable  of  giving  the  reader  some  surprise, 
thus  when  a  poet  tells  us  the  bosom  of  his  mis¬ 
tress  is.  as  white  as  snow,  there  is  no  wit  in  the 
comparison ;  but  when  lie  adds,  with  a  sigh,  it  is 
as  cold  too,  it  then  grows  into  wit.  Every  reader’s 
memory  may  supply  him  with  innumerable  in- 
dances  of  the  same  nature.  For  this  reason,  the 

*incii  U(^es  *.n  her.°ic  poets,  who  endeavor  rather 
.0  fill  the  mind  with  great  conceptions  than  to  di- 
vert  it  with  such  as  are  new  and  surprising,  have 
seldom  anything  in  them  that  can  be  called  wit, 
Mr.  Locke  s  account  of  wit,  with  this  short  expla¬ 
nation,  comprehends  most  of  the  species  of  wit, 
is  metaphors,  similitudes,  allegories,  enigmas, 
mottoes,  parables,  fables,  dreams,  visions,  dramatic 
writings,  burlesque,  and  all  the  methods  of  al- 
usion.  There  are  many  other  species  of  wit  (how 


* Dre  sed  she  is  beautiful,  undressed  she  is  beauty’s  self. 


remote  soever  they  may  appear  at  first  sight  from 
the  foregoing  description)  which  upon  examination 
will  be  found  to  agree  with  it. 

As  true  wit  generally  consists  in  this  resem¬ 
blance  and  congruity  of  ideas,  false  wit  chiefly 
consists  in  the  resemblance  and  congruity  some¬ 
times  of  single  letters,  as  in  anagrams,  chrono¬ 
grams,  lipograms,  and  acrostics;  sometimes  of 
syllables,  as  in  echoes  and  doggerel  rhymes:  some¬ 
times  of  words,  as  in  puns  and  quibbles  ;  and 
sometimes  of  whole  sentences  or  poems,  cast  into 
the  figures  of  eggs,  axes,  or  altars:  nay,  some  cany 
the  notion  of  wit  so  far,  as  to  ascribe  it  even  to 
external  mimicry;  and  to  look  upon  a  man  as  an 
ingenious  person  that  can  resemble  the  tone,  pos¬ 
ture,  or  face  of  another. 

As  true  wit  consists  in  the  resemblance  of  ideas, 
^nd  false  wit  in  the  resemblance  of  words,  accord¬ 
ing  to  the  foregoing  instances;  there  is  another 
kind  of  wit  which  consists  partly  in  the  resem¬ 
blance  of  ideas,  and  partly  in  the'' resemblance  of 
words,  which  for  distinction-sake  I  shall  call 
mixed  wit.  This  kind  of  wit  is  that  which 
abounds  in  Cowley,  more  than  in  any  other  author 
that  ever  wrote.  Mr.  Waller  has  likewise  a  great  deal 
of  it.  Mr.  Dryden  is  very  sparing  in  it.  Milton 
had  a  genius  much  above  it.  Spenser  is  in  the 
same  class  with  Milton.  The  Italians,  even  in 
their  epic  poetiy,  are  full  of  it.  Monsieur  Boileau, 
who  formed  himself  upon  the  ancient  poets,  has 
everywhere  rejected  it  with  scorn.  If  we  look 
after  mixed  wit  among  the  Greek  writers,  we  shall 
find  it  nowhere  but  in  the  epigrammatists.  There 
are  indeed  some  strokes  of  it  in  the  little  poem  as¬ 
cribed  to  Musaeus,  which  by  that,  as  well  as  many 
other  marks,  betrays  itself  to  be  a  modern  compo¬ 
sition.  If  we  look  into  the  Latin  writers,  we  find 
none  of  this  mixed  wit  in  Yirgil,  Lucretius,  or  Ca¬ 
tullus  ;  very  little  in  Horace,  but  a  great  deal  of  it 
in  Ovid,  and  scarce  anything  else  in  Martial. 

Out  of  the  innumerable  branches  of  mixed  wit, 

I  shall  choose  one  instance  which  may  be  met  with 
in  all  the  writers  of  this  class.  The  passion  of 
love,  in  its  nature,  has  been  thought  to  resemble 
fire ;  for  which  reason  the  words  fire  and  flame  are 
made  use  of  to  signify  love.  The  witty  poets 
therefore  have  taken  an  advantage  from  the  double 
meaning  of  the  word  fire,  to  make  an  infinite 
number  of  witticisms.  Cowley,  observing  the 
cold  regard  of  his  mistress’s  eyes,  and  at  the  same 
time  their  power  of  producing  love  in  him,  con¬ 
siders  them  as  burning-glasses  made  of  ice ;  and 
finding  himself  able  to  live  in  the  greatest  ex¬ 
tremities  of  love,  concludes  the  torrid  zone  to  be 
habitable.  When  his  mistress  has  read  his  letter 
written  in  juice  of  lemon,  by  holding  it  to  the  fire, 
he  desires  her  to  read  it  over  a  second  time  by 
love’s  flame.  When  she  weeps,  he  wishes  it  were 
inward  heat  that  distilled  those  drops  from  the 
limbeck.  When  she  is  absent,  he  is  beyond 
eighty,  that  is,  thirty  degrees  nearer  the  pole  than 
when  she  is  with  him.  His  ambitious  love  is  a 
fire  that  naturally  mounts  upward.;*  his  happy 
love  is  the  beams  of  heaven,  and  his  unhappy 
love  flames  of  hell.  When  it  does  not  let  him 
sleep,  it  is  a  flame  that  sends  up  no  smoke ;  when 
it  is  opposed  by  counsel  and  advice,  it  is  a  fire 
that  rages  the  more  by  the  winds  blowing  upon  it. 
Upon  the  dying  of  a  tree,  in  which  lie  had  cut  his 
loves,  he  observed  that  his  written  flames  had 
burnt  up  and  withered  the  tree.  When  he  re¬ 
solves  to  give  over  his  passion,  he  tells  us  that 
one  burnt  like  him  forever  dreads  the  fire.  His 
heart  is  an  AStna,  that  instead  of  Vulcan's  shop, 
incloses  Cupid’s  forge  in  it.  His  endeavoring  to 
drown  his  love  in  wine,  is  throwing  oil  upon  the 
fire.  He  would  insinuate  to  his  mistress  that  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


106 

fire  of  love,  like  that  of  the  sun  (which  produces  I 
so  many  living  creatures),  should  not  only  warm,  | 
but  beget.  Love  in  another  place  cooks  pleasure 
at  his  fire.  Sometimes  the  poet’s  heart  is  frozen 
in  every  breast,  and  sometimes  scorched  in  every 
eye.  Sometimes  he  is  drowned  in  tears  and  burnt 
in  love,  like  a  ship  set  on  fire  in  the  middle  of 
the  sea. 

The  reader  may  observe  in  every  one  of  these 
instances,  that  the  poet  mixes  the  qualities  of  fire 
with  those  of  love;  and  in  the  same  sentence, 
speaking  of  it  both  as  a  passion  and  as  real  fire, 
surprises  the  reader  with  those  seeming  resem¬ 
blances  or  contradictions,  that  make  up  all  the 
wit  in  this  kind  of  writing.  Mixed  wit  therefore 
is  a  composition  of  pun  and  true  wit,  and  is  more 
or  less  perfect  as  the  resemblance  lies  in  the  ideas 
or  in  the  words.  Its  foundations  are  laid  partly 
in  falsehood  and  partly  in  truth ;  reason  puts  in 
her  claim  for  one  half  of  it,  and  extravagance  for 
the  other.  The  only  province  therefore  for  this 
kind  of  wit  is  epigram,  or  those  little  occasional 
poems  that  in  their  own  nature  are  nothing  else  but 
a  tissue  of  epigrams.  I  cannot  conclude  this  head 
of  mixed  wit,  without  owning  that  the  admirable 
oet,  out  of  whom  I  have  taken  the  examples  of  it, 
ad  as  much  true  wit  as  any  author  that  ever  wrote; 
and  indeed,  all  other  talents  of  an  extraordinary 
genius. 

It  may  be  expected  since  I  am  upon  this  subject, 
that  I  should  take  notice  of  Mr.  Dryden’s  defini¬ 
tion  of  wit ;  which,  with  all  the  deference  that  is 
due  to  the  judgment  of  so  great  a  man,  is  not  so 
properly  a  definition  of  wit  as  of  good  writing  in 
general.  Wit,  as  he  defines  it,  is  “a  propriety 
of  words  and  thoughts  adapted  to  the  subject.” 
If  this  be  a  true  definition  of  wit,  I  am  apt  to 
think  that  Euclid  was  the  greatest  wit  that  ever 
set  pen  to  paper.  It  is  certain  there  never  was  a 
greater  propriety  of  words  and  thoughts  adapted 
to  the  subject,  than  what  that  author  has  made 
use  of  in  his  Elements.  I  shall  only  appeal  to 
my  reader  if  this  definition  agrees  with  any  notion 
he  has  of  wit.  If  it  be  a  true  one,  I  am  sure  Mr. 
Dryden  was  not  only  a  better  poet,  but  a  greater 
wit,  than  Mr.  Cowley  ;  and  Yirgil  a  much  more 
facetious  man  than  either  Ovid  or  Martial. 

Bouhours,  whom  I  look  upon  to  be  the  most 
penetrating  of  all  French  critics  has  taken  pains 
to  show,  that  it  is  impossible  for  any  thought  to 
be  beautiful  which  is  not  just,  and  has  not  its 
foundation  in  the  nature  of  things  ;  that  the  basis 
of  all  wit  is  truth  ;  and  that  no  thought  can  be 
valuable,  of  which  good  sense  is  not  the  ground¬ 
work.  Boileau  has  endeavored  to  inculcate  the 
same  notion  in  several  parts  of  his  writings,  both 
in  prose  and  verse.  This  is  that  natural  way  of 
writing,  that  beautiful  simplicity,  which  we  so 
much  admire  in  the  compositions  of  the  ancients  ; 
and  which  nobody  deviates  from,  but  those  who 
want  strength  of  genius  to  make  a  thought  shine 
in  its  own  natural  beauties.  Poets  who  want 
this  strength  of  gefi'ius  to  give  that  majestic  sim¬ 
plicity  to  nature,  which  we  so  much  admire  in  the 
works  of  the  ancients,  are  forced  to  hunt  after 
foreign  ornaments,  and  not  to  let  any  piece  of 
wit  of  what  kind  soever  escape  them.  I  look 
upon  these  writers  as  Goths  in  poetry,  who,  like 
those  in  architecture,  not  being  able  to  come  up 
to  the  beautiful  simplicity  of  the  old  Greeks  and 
Romans,  have  endeavored  to  supply  its  place 
with  all  the  extravagances  of  an  irregular  fancy. 
Mr.  Dryden  makes  a  very  handsome  observation 
on  Ovid’s  writing  a  letter  from  Dido  to  iEneas,  in 
the  following  words  :  “  Ovid,”  says  he,  speaking 
of  Virgil’s  fiction  of  Dido  and  vEneas,  “takes  it 
up  after  him,  even  in  the  same  age,  and  makes  an 


ancient  heroine  of  Virgil’s  new-created  Dido , 
dictates  a  letter  for  her  just  before  her  death  to 
the  ungrateful  fugitive,  and  very  unluckily  for 
himself,  is  for  measuring  a  sword  with  a  man  so 
much  superior  in  force  to  him  on  the  same  subject. 

I  think  I  may  be  judge  of  this,  because  I  have 
translated  both.  The  famous  author  of  the  Art 
of  Love  has  nothing  of  his  own  ;  he  borrows  all 
from  a  greater  master  in  his  own  profession,  and, 
which  is  worse,  improves  nothing  which  he  finds. 
Nature  fails  him,  and,  being  forced  to  his  old 
shift,  he  has  recourse  to  witticism.  This  passes 
indeed  with  his  soft  admirers,  and  gives  him  the 
preference  to  Virgil  in  their  esteem.” 

Were  I  not  supported  by  so  great  an  authority 
as  that  of  Mr.  Dryden,  I  should  not  venture  to 
observe,  that  the  taste  of  most  of  our  English 
poets,  as  well  as  readers,  is  extremely  Gothic.  He 
quotes  Monsieur  Segrais,  for  a  threefold  distinc¬ 
tion  of  the  readers  of  poetry;  in  the  first  of  which 
he  comprehends  the  rabble  of  readers,  whom  he 
does  not  treat  as  such  with  regard  to  their  quality, 
but  to  their  numbers  and  the  coarseness  of  their 
taste.  His  words  are  as  follow :  “  Segrais  has 
distinguished  the  readers  of  poetry,  according  to 
their  capacity  of  judging,  into  three  classes.” 
[He  might  have  said  the  same  of  writers  too,  if 
he  had  pleased.]  “  In  the  lowest  form  he  places 
those  whom  he  calls  Les  Petits  Esprits,  such 
things  as  our  upper- gallery  audience  in  a  play¬ 
house  ;  who  like  nothing  but  the  husk  and  rind 
of  wit,  and  prefer  a  quibble,  a  conceit,  an  epi¬ 
gram,  before  solid  sense  and  elegant  expression. 
These  are  mob  readers.  If  Virgil  and  Martial 
stood  for  parliament-men,  we  know  already  who 
would  carry  it.  But  though  they  made  the  great¬ 
est  appearance  in  the  field,  and  cried  the  loudest, 
the  best  of  it  is,  they  are  but  a  sort  of  French 
Huguenots,  or  Dutch  boors,  brought  over  in  herds, 
but  not  naturalized  ;  who  have  not  lands  of  two 
pounds  per  annum  in  Parnassus,  and  therefore 
are  not  privileged  to  poll.*  The  authors  are 
of  the  same  level,  fit  to  represent  them  on  a 
mountebank’s  stage,  or  to  be  masters  of  the  cere¬ 
monies  in  a  bear-garden  ;  yet  these  are  they  who 
have  the  most  admirers.  But  it  often  happens, 
to  their  mortification,  that  as  their  readers  im¬ 
prove  their  stock  of  sense  (as  they  may  by  read¬ 
ing  better  books,  and  by  conversation  with  men 
of  judgment),  they  soon  forsake  them.” 

I  must  not  dismiss  this  subject  without  observ¬ 
ing,  that  as  Mr.  Locke  in  the  passage  above-men¬ 
tioned  has  discovered  the  most  fruitful  source  of 
wit,  so  there  is  another  of  a  quite  contrary  nature 
to  it,  which  does  likewise  branch  itself  out  into 
several  kinds.  For  not  only  the  resemblance,  but 
the  opposition  of  ideas,  does  very  often  produce 
wit ;  as  I  could  show  in  several  little  points,  turns, 
and  antitheses,  that  I  may  possibly  enlarge  upon 
in  some  future  speculation. — C. 


*  To  poll  is  used  here  as  signifying  to  vote ;  but  in  proprie¬ 
ty  of  speech,  the  poll  only  ascertains  the  majority  of  votes. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


No.  63.]  SATURDAY,  MAY  12,  1711. 

Ilumano  capiti  cervicem  pietor  equinam 
Jungere  si  velit,  et  varias  induce  re  plumas, 

Uudique  collatis  membris  ut  turpiter  atrum 
Desiuat  in  piscem  mulier  formosa  superne; 

Spectatum  admissi  risura  teneatis  amici? 

Credite,  Pisones,  isti  tabulae  fore  librum 
Persimilem,  cujus,  yelut  aegri  somnia,  vanae 
Fingentur  species. — IIor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  1. 

If  in  a  picture,  Piso,  you  should  see 
A  handsome  woman  with  a  fish’s  tail, 

Or  a  man’s  head  upon  a  horse’s  neck, 

Or  limbs  of  beasts,  of  the  most  different  kinds, 

Cover’d  with  feathers  of  all  sorts  of  birds; 

Would  you  not  laugh,  and  think  the  painter  mad? 
Trust  me,  that  book  is  as  ridiculous, 

Whose  incoherent  style,  like  sick  men’s  dreams, 

Varies  all  shapes,  and  mixes  all  extremes. 

Roscommon. 

It  is  very  hard  for  the  mind  to  disengage  itself 
from  a  subject  on  which  it  has  been  long  em¬ 
ployed.  Tne  thoughts  will  be  rising  of  them¬ 
selves  from  time  to  time,  though  we  give  them 
no  encouragement ;  as  the  tossings  and  fluctua¬ 
tions  of  the  sea  continue  several  hours  after  the 
winds  are  laid. 

It  is  to  this  that  I  impute  my  last  night’s  dream 
or  vision,  which  formed  into  one  continued  alle¬ 
gory  the  several  schemes  of  wit,  whether  false, 
mixed,  or  true,  that  have  been  the  subject  of  my 
late  papers. 

Metho  ught  I  was  transported  into  a  country 
that  was  filled  with  prodigies  and  enchantments, 
governed  by  the  goddess  of  Falsehood,  and  en¬ 
titled  the  Region  of  False  Wit.  There  was  no¬ 
thing  in  the  fields,  the  woods,  and  the  rivers,  that 
appeared  natural.  Several  of  the  trees  blossomed 
in  leaf-gold,  some  of  them  produced  bone-lace, 
and  some  of  them  precious  stones.  The  fountains 
bubbled  in  an  opera  tune,  and  were  filled  with 
stags,  wild  boars,  and  mermaids  that  lived  among 
the  waters  ;  at  the  same  time  that  dolphins  and 
several  kinds  of  fish  played  upon  the  banks,  or 
took  their  pastime  in  the  meadows.  The  birds  j 
had  many  of  them  golden  beaks  and  human  I 
voices.  The  flowers  perfumed  the  air  with  smells 
of  incense,  ambergris,  and  pulvillios  ;*  and  were 
so  interwoven  with  one  another,  that  they  grew 
up  in  pieces  of  embroidery.  The  winds  were 
filled  with  sighs  and  messages  of  distant  lovers. 
As  I  was  walking  to  and  fro  in  this  enchanted 
wilderness,  I  could  not  forbear  breaking  out  into 
soliloquies  upon  the  several  wonders  which  lay 
before  me,  when,  to  my  great  surprise,  I  found 
there  were  artificial  echoes  in  every  walk  that,  by 
repetitions  of  certain  words  which  I  spoke,  agreed 
with  me,  or  contradicted  me,  in  everything  I  said. 
In  the  midst  of  my  conversation  with  these  in¬ 
visible  companions,  I  discovered  in  the  center  of 
a  very  dark  grove  a  monstrous  fabric  built  after 
the  Gothic  manner,  and  covered  with  innumerable 
devices  in  that  barbarous  kind  of  sculpture.  I 
immediately  went  up  to  it,  and  found  it  to  be  a 
kind  of  heathen  temple  consecrated  to  the  god  of 
Dullness.  Upon  my  entrance  I  saw  the  deity  of 
the  place  dressed  in  the  habit  of  a  monk,  with  a 
book  in  one  hand  and  a  rattle  in  the  other.  Upon 
his  right  hand  was  Industry,  with  a  lamp  burn¬ 
ing  before  her  ;  and  on  his  left  Caprice,  witli  a 
monkey  sitting  on  her  shoulder.  Before  his  feet 
there  stood  an  altar  of  a  very  odd  make,  which, 
as  1  afterward  found  was  shaped  in  that  manner 
to  compl}r  with  the  inscription  that  surrounded  it. 
Upon  the  altar  there  lay  several  offerings  of  axes, 
wings,  and  eggs,  cut  in  paper,  and  inscribed  with 
verses.  The  temple  was  filled  with  votaries,  who 
applied  themselves  to  different  diversions,  as 


107 

their  fancies  directed  them.  In  one  part  of  it  I 
saw  a  regiment  of  anagrams,  who  were  conti¬ 
nually  in  motion,  turning  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left,  facing  about,  doubling  their  ranks,  shifting 
their  stations,  and  throwing  themselves  into  all 
the  figures  and  counter-marches  of  the  most 
changeable  and  perplexed  exercise. 

Not  far  from  these  was  the  body  of  acrostics, 
made  up  of  very  disproportioned  persons.  It  was 
disposed  into  three  columns,  the  officers  planting 
themselves  in  a  line  on  the  left  hand  of  each 
column.  The  officers  were  all  of  them  at  least 
six  feet  high,  and  made  three  rows  of  very  proper 
men  ;  but  the  common  soldiers,  who  filled  up  the 
spaces  between  the  officers,  were  such  dwarfs, 
cripples,  and  scarecrows,  that  one  could  hardly 
look  upon  them  without  laughing.  There  were 
behind  the  acrostics  two  or  three  files  of  chrono¬ 
grams,  which  differed  only  from  the  former  as 
their  officers  were  equipped  like  the  figure  of 
Time)  with  an  hour-glass  in  one  hand  and  a 
scythe  in  the  other,  and  took  their  posts  promis¬ 
cuously  among  the  private  men  whom  they  com¬ 
manded. 

In  the  body  of  the  temple,  and  before  the 
very  face  of  the  Deity,  methought  I  saw  the  phan¬ 
tom  of  Tryphiodorus,  the  lipogrammatist,  engaged 
in  a  ball  with  four- and- twenty  persons,  who  pur¬ 
sued  him  by  turns  through  all  the  intricacies  and 
labyrinths  of  a  country  dance,  without  being  able 
to  overtake  him. 

Observing  several  to  be  very  busy  at  the  western 
end  of  the  temple,  I  inquired  into  what  they  were 
doing,  and  found  there  was  in  that  quarter  the 
great  magazine  of  rebuses.  These  were  several 
things  of  the  most  different  natures  tied  up  in 
bundles,  and  thrown  upon  one  another  in  heaps 
like  fagots.  You  might  behold  an  anchor,  a 
night-rail,  and  a  hobby-horse,  bound  up  together. 
One  of  the  workmen  seeing  me  very  much  sur¬ 
prised,  told  me  there  was  an  infinite  deal  of  wit 
in  several  of  those  bundles,  and  that  he  would 
explain  them  to  me  if  I  pleased  ;  I  thanked  him 
for  his  civility,  but  told  him  I  was  in  very  great 
haste  at  that  time.  As  I  was  going  out  of  the 
temple,  I  observed  in  one  corner  of  it  a  cluster  of 
men  and  women  laughing  very  heartily,  and 
diverting  themselves  at  a  game  of  crambo.  I 
heard  several  double  rhymes  as  I  passed  by  them, 
which  raised  a  great  deal  of  mirth. 

Not  far  from  these  was  another  set  of  merry 
people  engaged  at  a  diversion,  in  which  the  whole 
jest  was  to  mistake  one  person  for  another.  To 
give  occasion  for  these  ludicrous  mistakes,  they 
were  divided  into  pairs,  every  pair  being  covered 
from  head  to  foot  with  the  same  kind  of  dress, 
though  perhaps  there  was  not  the  least  resem¬ 
blance  in  their  faces.  By  this  means  an  old  man 
was  sometimes  mistaken  for  a  boy,  a  woman  for 
a  man,  and  a  black-a-moor  for  a  European,  which 
very  often  produced  great  peals  of  laughter. 
These  I  guessed  to  be  a  party  of  puns.  But  being 
very  desirous  to  get  out  of  this  world  of  magic, 
which  had  almost  turned  my  brain,  I  left  the 
temple,  and  crossed  over  the  fields  that  lay  about 
it  with  all  the  speed  I  could  make.  I  was  not 
gone  far,  before  1  heard  the  sound  of  trumpets 
and  alarms,  which  seemed  to  proclaim  the  march 
of  an  enemy ;  and,  as  I  afterward  found,  was  in 
reality  what  I  apprehended  it.  There  appeared 
at  a  great  distance  a  very  shining  light,  and  in  the 
midst  of  it  a  person  of  a  most  beautiful  aspect; 
her  name  was  Truth.  On  her  right  hand  there 
marched  a  male  deity,  who  bore  several  quivers 
on  his  shoulders,  and'  grasped  several  arrows  in 
his  hand.  His  name  was  Wit.  The  approach 
of  these  two  enemies  filled  all  the  territories  of 


*  Pulvillios,  sweet  sefents. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


108 

False  Wit  with  an  unspeakable  consternation,  inso¬ 
much  that  the  goddess  of  those  regions  appeared 
in  person  upon  her  frontiers,  with  the  several 
inferior  deities,  and  the  different  bodies  of  forces 
which  I  had  before  seen  in  the  temple,  who  were 
now  drawn  up  in  array,  and  prepared  to  give 
their  foes  a  warm  reception.  As  the  march  of 
the  enemy  was  very  slow,  it  gave  time  to  the 
several  inhabitants  who  bordered  upon  the  re¬ 
gions  of  Falsehood  to  draw  their  forces  into  a 
body,  with  a  design  to  stand  upon  their  guard  as 
neuters,  and  attend  the  issue  of  the  combat. 

I  must  here  inform  my  reader,  that  the  frontiers 
of  the  enchanted  region  which  I  have  before 
described,  were  inhabited  by  a  species  of  Mixed 
Wit,  who  made  a  very  odd  appearance  when  they 
were  mustered  together  in  an  army.  There  were 
men  whose  bodies  were  stuck  full  of  darts,  and 
women  whose  eyes  were  burning-glasses  :  men 
that  had  hearts  of  fire,  and  women  that  had 
breasts  of  snow.  It  would  be  endless  to  describe 
several  monsters  of  the  like  nature,  that  com¬ 
posed  this  great  army;  which  immediately  fell 
asunder,  and  divided  itself  into  two  parts,  the  one 
half  throwing  themselves  behind  the  banners  of 
Truth,  and  the  other  behind  those  of  Falsehood. 

The  goddess  of  Falsehood  was  of  a  gigantic 
stature,  and  advanced  some  paces  before  the  front 
of  her  army;  but  as  the  dazzling  light  which 
flowed  from  Truth  began  to  shine  upon  her,  she 
faded  insensibly ;  insomuch  that  in  a  little  space, 
she  looked  rather  like  a  huge  phantom,  than  a 
real  substance.  At  length,  as  the  goddess  of 
Truth  approached  still  nearer  to  her,  she.  fell 
away  entirely,  and  vanished  amidst  the  bright¬ 
ness  of  her  presence  ;  so  that  there  did  not  re¬ 
main  the  least  trace  or  impression  of  her  figure  in 
the  place  where  she  had  been  seen. 

As  at  the  rising  of  the  sun  the  constellations 
grow  thin,  and  the  stars  go  out  one  after  another, 
till  the  whole  hemisphere  is  extinguished  ;  such 
was  the  vanishing  of  the  goddess  :  and  not  only 
of  the  goddess  herself,  but  of  the  whole  army  that 
attended  her,  which  sympathized  with  their 
leader,  and  shrank  into  nothing,  in  proportion  as 
the  goddess  disappeared.  At  the  same  time  the 
whole  temple  sank,  the  fish  betook  themselves 
to  the  streams  and  the  wild  beasts  to  the  woods, 
the  fountains  recovered  their  murmurs,  the  birds 
their  voices,  the  trees  their  leaves,  the  flowers 
their  scents,  and  the  whole  face  of  nature  its  true 
and  genuine  appearance.  Though  I  still  con¬ 
tinued  asleep,  I  fancied  myself,  as  it  were,  awak¬ 
ened  out  of  a  dream,  when  I  saw  this  region  of 
prodigies  restored  to  woods  and  rivers,  fields  and 
meadows. 

Upon  the  removal  of  that  wild  scene  of  won¬ 
ders,  which  had  very  much  disturbed  my  imagi¬ 
nation,  I  took  a  full  survey  of  the  persons  of  Wit 
and  Truth  ;  for  indeed  it  was  impossible  to  look 
upon  the  first,  without  seeing  the  other  at  the 
same  time.  There  was  behind  them  a  strong 
compact  body  of  figures.  The  genius  of  Heroic 
Poetry  appeared  with  a  sword  in  her  hand,  and  a 
laurel  on  her  head.  Tragedy  was  crowned  with 
cypress,  and  covered  with  robes  dipped  in  blood. 
Satire  had  smiles  in  her  look,  and  a  dagger  under 
her  garment.  Rhetoric  was  known  by  her  thun¬ 
derbolt  ;  and  Comedy  by  her  mask.  After  seve¬ 
ral  other  figures,  Epigtam  marched  up  in  the  rear, 
who  had  been  posted  there  at  the  beginning  of 
the  expedition,  that  he  might  not  revolt  to  tho 
enemy,  whom  he  was  suspected  to  favor  in  his 
heart.  I  was  very  much  awed  and  delighted  with 
the  appearance  of  the  god  of  Wit ;  there  was 
something  so  amiable,  and  yet  so  piercing  in  his 
looks,  as  inspired  me  at  once  with  love  and  ter¬ 


ror.  As  I  was  gazing  on  him,  to  my  unspeakable 
joy  he  took  a  quiver  of  arrows  from  his  shoulder, 
m  order  to  make  me  a  present  of  it ;  but  as  I  was 
reaching  out  my  hand  to  receive  it  of  him,  I 
knocked  it  against  a  chair,  and  by  that  means 
awaked. — C. 


No.  64.]  MONDAY,  MAY  14,  1711. 

- Hie  vivimus  ambitiosa 

I’aupertate  omnes - Juv.,  Sat.  iii,  183. 

The  face  of  wealth  in  poverty  we  wear. 

The  most  improper  things  we  commit  in  the 
conduct  of  our  lives,  we  are  led  into  by  the  force 
of  fashion.  Instances  might  be  given,  in  which 
a  prevailing  custom  makes  us  act  against  the  rules 
of  nature,  law,  and  common  sense  ;  but  at  present 
I  shall  confine  my  consideration  to  the  effect  it 
has  upon  men’s  minds,  by  looking  into  our  beha¬ 
vior  when  it  is  the  fashion  to  go  into  mourning. 
The  custom  of  representing  the  grief  we  have  for 
the  loss  of  the  dead  by  our  habits,  certainly  had 
its  rise  from  the  real  sorrow  of  such  as  were  too 
much  distressed  to  take  the  proper  care  they  ought 
of  their  dress.  By  degrees  it  prevailed,  that  such 
as  had  this  inward  oppression  upon  their  minds, 
made  an  apology  for  not  joining  with  the  rest  of 
the  world  in  their  ordinary  diversions  by  a  dress 
suited  to  their  condition.  This,  therefore,  was  at 
first  assumed  by  such  only  as  were  under  real 
distress  ;  to  whom  it  was  a  relief  that  they  had 
nothing  about  them  so  light  and  gay  as  to  be  irk¬ 
some  to  the  gloom  and  melancholy  of  their  inward 
reflections,  or  that  might  misrepresent  them  to 
others.  In  process  of  time  this  laudable  distinc¬ 
tion  of  the  sorrowful  was  lost,  and  mourning  is 
now  worn  by  heirs  and  widows.  You  see  nothing 
but  magnificence  and  solemnity  in  the  equipage 
of  the  relict,  and  an  air  of  release  from  servitude 
in  the  pomp  of  a  son  who  has  lost  a  wealthy 
father.  This  fashion  of  sorrow  has  now  become 
a  generous  part  of  the  ceremonial  between  princes 
and  sovereigns,  who,  in  the  language  of  all  na¬ 
tions,  are  styled  brothers  to  each  other,  and  put 
on  the  purple*  upon  the  death  of  any  potentate 
with  whom  they  live  in  amity.  Courtiers,  and  all 
who  wish  themselves  such,  are  immediately  seized 
with  grief  from  head  to  foot  upon  this  disaster  to 
their  prince  ;  so  that  one  may  know  by  the  very 
buckles  of  a  gentleman-usher,  what  degree  of 
friendship  any  deceased  monarch  maintained  with, 
the  court  to  which  he  belongs.  A  good  courtier’s 
habit  and  behavior  is  hieroglyphical  on  these  oc¬ 
casions.  He  deals  much  in  whispers,  and  you 
may  see  he  dresses  according  to  the  best  intelli¬ 
gence. 

The  general  affectation  among  men,  of  appear¬ 
ing  greater  than  they  are,  makes  the  whole  world 
run  into  the  habits  of  the  court.  You  see  the 
lady,  who  the  day  before  was  as  various  as  a  rain¬ 
bow,  upon  the  time  appointed  for  beginning  to 
mourn,  as  dark  as  a  cloud.  This  humor  does  not 
prevail  only  on  those  whose  fortunes  can  support 
any  change  in  their  equipage,  nor  on  those  only 
whose  incomes  demand  the  wantonness  of  new 
appearances ;  but  on  such  also  who  have  just 
enough  to  clothe  them.  An  old  acquaintance  of 
mine,  of  ninety  pounds  a  year,  who  has  naturally 
the  vanity  of  being  a  man  of  fashion  deep  at  his 
heart,  is  very  much  put  to  it  to  bear  the  mortality 
of  princes.  He  made  a  new  black  suit  upon  the 
death  of  the  King  of  Spain,  he  turned  it  for  the 
King  of  Portugal,  and  he  now  keeps  his  chamber 
while  it  is  scouring  for  the  Emperor.  He  is  a  good 


*  Royal  and  princely  mourners  are  clad  in  purple. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


109 


economist  in  his  extravagance,  and  makes  only  a 
fresh  black  button  on  Ins  iron-gray  suit  for  any 
potentate  of  small  territories  ;  he  indeed  adds  his 
crape  hat-band  for  a  prince  whose  exploits  he  has 
admired  in  the  Gazette.  But  whatever  compli¬ 
ments  may  be  made  on  these  occasions,  the  true 
mourners  are  the  mercers,  silkmen,  lacemen,  and 
milliners.  A  prince  of  a  merciful  and  royal  dis¬ 
position  would  reflect  with  great,  anxiety  upon 
the  prospect  of  his  death,  if  he  considered  what 
numbers  would  be  reduced  to  misery  by  that 
accident  only.  He  would  think  it  of  moment 
enough  to  direct,  that  in  the  notification  of  his 
departure,  the  honor  done  to  him  might  be  re¬ 
strained  to  those  of  the  household  of  the  prince 
to  whom  it  should  be  signified.  He  would  think 
a  general  mourning  to  be,  in  a  less  degree,  the 
same  ceremony  which  is  practiced  in  barbarous 
nations,  of  killing  their  slaves  to  attend  the  obse¬ 
quies  of  their  kings. 

I  had  been  wonderfully  at  a  loss  for  many 
months  together,  to  guess  at  the  character  of  a 
man  who  came  now  and  then  to  our  coffee-house. 
He  ever  ended  a  newspaper  with  this  reflection, 
“Well,  I  see  all  the  foreign  princes  are  in  good 
health.”  If  you  asked,  “  Pray,  Sir,  what  says 
the  Postman  from  Vienna?”  He  answered,  “Make 
us  thankful,  the  German  princes  are  all  well.” — 
“What  does  he  say  from  Barcelona?” — “He  does 
not  speak  but  that  the  country  agrees  very  well 
with  the  new  Queen.”  After  very  much  inquiry, 
I  found  this  man  of  universal  loyalty  was  a 
wholesale  dealer  in  silks  and  ribbons.  His  way 
is,  it  seems,  if  he  hires  a  weaver  or  workman,  to 
have  it  inserted  in  his  articles,  “that  all  this  shall 
be  well  and  truly  performed,  provided  no  foreign 
potentate  shall  depart  this  life  within  the  time 
above-mentioned.”  It  happens  that  in  all  public 
mournings  that  the  many  trades  which  depend  up¬ 
on  our  habits,  are  during  that  folly  either  pinched 
with  present  want,  or  terrified  with  the  apparent 
approach  of  it.  All  the  atonement  which  men 
can  make  for  wanton  expenses  (which  is  a  sort 
of  insulting  the  scarcity  under  which  others  la¬ 
bor)  is,  that  the  superfluities  of  the  wealthy  give 
supplies  to  the  necessities  of  the  poor  ;  but  instead 
of  any  other  good  arising  from  the  affectation  of 
being  in  courtly  habits  of  mourning,  all  order 
seems  to  be  destroyed  by  it :  and  the  true  honor 
which  one  court  does  to  another  on  that  occasion, 
loses  its  force  and  efficacy.  When  a  foreign 
minister  beholds  the  court  of  a  nation  (which 
flourishes  in  riches  and  plenty)  lay  aside,  upon 
the  loss  of  his  master,  all  marks  of  splendor  and 
magnificence,  though  the  head  of  such  a  joyful 
people,  he  will  conceive  a  greater  idea  of  the  hon¬ 
or  done  to  his  master,  than  when  he  sees  the 
generality  of  the  people  in  the  same  habit.  When 
one  is  afraid  to  ask  the  wife  of  a  tradesman  whom 
she  has  lost  of  her  family  ;  and  after  some  prepa¬ 
ration,  endeavors  to  know  whom  she  mourns  for  ; 
how  ridiculous  is  it  to  hear  her  explain  herself, 
“  That  we  have  lost  one  of  the  house  of  Austria!” 
Princes  are  elevated  so  highly  above  the  rest  of 
mankind,  that  it  is  a  presumptuous  distinction  to 
take  a  part  in  honors  done  to  their  memories,  ex¬ 
cept  we  have  authority  for  it  by  being  related  in 
a  particular  manner  to  the  court  which  pays  the 
veneration  to  their  friendship,  and  seems  to  ex¬ 
press  on  such  an  occasion  the  sense  of  the  uncer¬ 
tainty  of  human  life  in  general,  by  assuming  the 
habit  of  sorrow,  though  in  the  full  possession  of 
triumph  and  royalty.  R. 


No.  65.]  TUESDAY,  MAY  15,  1711. 

- Demetri,  teque,  Tigelli, 

Discipularum  inter  jubeo  plorare  cathedras. 

IIor.,  1,  Sat.  x,  90. 

Demetrius  and  Tigellius,  know  your  place ; 

Go  hence,  and  whine  among  the  school-boy  race. 

After  having  at  large  explained  what  wit  is, 
and  described  the  false  appearances  of  it,  all  that 
labor  seems  but  a  useless  inquiry,  without  some 
time  be  tpent  in  considering  the  application  of  it. 
The  seat  of  wit,  when  one  speaks  as  a  man  of  the 
town  and  the  world,  is  the  playhouse ;  I  shall 
therefore  fill  this  paper  with  reflections  upon  the 
use  of  it  in  that  place.  The  application  of  wit  in 
the  theater  has  as  strong  an  effect  upon  the  man¬ 
ners  of  our  gentlemen,  as  the  taste  of  it  has  upon 
the  writings  of  our  authors.  It  may,  perhaps, 
look  like  a  very  presumptuous  work,  though  not 
foreign  from  the  duty  of  a  Spectator,  to  tax  the 
writings  of  such  as  have  long  had  the  general  ap¬ 
plause  of  a  nation  ;  but  I  shall  always  make  rea¬ 
son,  truth,  and  nature,  the  measures  of  praise  and 
dispraise ;  if  those  are  for  me,  the  generality  of 
opinion  is  of  no  consequence  against  me  ;  if  they 
are  against  me,  the  general  opinion  cannot  long 
support  me. 

Without  farther  preface,  I  am  going  to  look 
into  some  of  our  most  applauded  plays,  and  see 
whether  they  deserve  the  figure  they  at  present 
bear  in  the  imaginations  of  men  or  not. 

In  reflecting  upon  these  works,  I  shall  chiefly 
dwell  upon  that  for  which  each  respective  play  is 
most  celebrated.  The  present  paper  shall  be  em¬ 
ployed  upon  Sir  Fopling  Flutter.*  The  received 
character  of  this  play  is,  that  it  is  the  pattern  of 
genteel  comedy.  Dorimant  and  Harriet  are  the 
characters  of  greatest  consequence,  and  if  these 
are  low  and  mean,  the  reputation  of  the  play  is 
very  unjust. 

I  will  take  for  granted,  that  a  fine  gentleman 
should  be  honest  in  his  actions,  and  refined  in  his 
language.  Instead  of  this,  our  hero  in  this  piece 
is  a  direct  knave  in  his  designs,  and  a  clown  in 
his  language.  Bellair  is  his  admirer  and  friend  ; 
in  return  for  which,  because  he  is  forsooth  a  great¬ 
er  wit  than  his  said  friend,  he  thinks  it  reason¬ 
able  to  persuade  him  to  marry  a  young  lady,  whose 
virtue,  he  thinks,  will  last  no  longer  than  till  she 
is  a  wife,  and  then  she  cannot  but  fall  to  his 
share,  as  he  is  an  irresistible  fine  gentleman.  The 
falsehood  to  Mrs.  Loveit,  and  the  barbarity  of  tri¬ 
umphing  over  her  anguish  for  losing  him,  is 
another  instance  of  his  honesty  as  well  as  his 
good-nature.  As  to  his  fine  language,  he  calls 
the  orange-woman,  who,  it  seems,  is  inclined  to 
grow  fat,  “An  overgrown  jade,  with  a  flasket 
of  guts  before  her ;”  and  salutes  her  with  a  pretty 
phrase  of  “How  now,  Double  Tripe?”  Upon 
the  mention  of  a  country-gentlewoman,  whom  he 
knows  nothing  of  (no  one  can  imagine  why), 
“he  will  lay  his  life  she  is  some  awkward  ill- 
fashioned  country  toad,  who,  not  having  above 
four  dozen  of  hairs  on  her  head,  has  adorned  her 
baldness  with  a  large  white  furze,  that  she  may 
look  sparkislily  in  the  fore-front  of  the  king’s  box 
at  an  old  play.”  Unnatural  mixture  of  senseless 
common-place  ! 

As  to  the  generosity  of  his  temper,  he  tells  his 
poor  footman,  “If  he  did  not  wait  better,”  he 
would  turn  him  away — in  the  insolent  phrase  of, 
“  I’ll  uncase  you.” 

Now  for  Mrs.  Harriet.  She  laughs  at  obedience 
to  an  absent  mother,  whose  tenderness  Busy  de- 

*  “  The  Man  of  the  Mode.”  Sir  Fopling  was  Beau  Hewit, 
son  of  Sir  Thomas  Hewit,  of  Pishiobury,  in  Hertfordshire, 
Bart.;  and  the  author’s  own  character  is  represented  in  Bell- 
air. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


110 

scribes  to  be  very  exquisite,  for  “that  she  is  so 
pleased  -with  finding  Harriet  again,  that  she  can¬ 
not  chide  her  for  being  out  of  the  way.”  This 
witty  daughter  and  fine  lady  has  so  little  respect 
for  this  good  woman,  that  she  ridicules  her  air  in 
taking  leave,  and  cries,  “  In  what  struggle  is  my 

Eoor  mother  yonder  !  See,  see,  her  head  tottering, 
er  eyes  staring,  and  her  under-lip  trembling.” 
But  all  this  is  atoned  for,  because  “  she  has  more 
wit  than  is  usual  in  her  sex,  and  as  much  malice, 
though  she  is  as  wild  as  you  could  wish  her, 
and  has  a  demureness  in  her  looks  that  makes  it 
so  surprising.”  Then  to  recommend  her  as  a  fit 
spouse  for  his  hero,  the  poet  makes  her  speak  her 
sense  of  marriage  very  ingenuously :  1  think,” 
says  she,  “  I  might  be  brought  to  endure  him, 
and  that  is  all  a  reasonable  woman  should  expect 
in  a  husband.”  It  is,  methinks,  unnatural,  that  we 
are  not  made  to  understand,  how  she  that  was  bred 
under  a  silly,  pious  old  mother,  that  would  never 
trust  her  out  of  her  sight,  came  to  be  so  polite. 

It  cannot  be  denied,  but  that  the  negligence  of 
everything  which  engages  the  attention  of  the  so¬ 
ber  and  valuable  part  of  mankind,  appears  very 
well  drawn  in  this  piece.  But  it  is  denied,  that 
it  is  necessary  to  the  character  of  a  fine  gentle¬ 
man,  that  he  should  in  that  manner  trample  upon 
all  order  and  decency.  As  for  the  character  of 
Dorimant,  it  is  more  of  a  coxcomb  than  that  of 
Fopling.  He  says  of  one  of  his  companions,  that 
a  good  correspondence  between  them  is  their  mu¬ 
tual  interest.  Speaking  of  that  friend,  he  de¬ 
clares,  their  being  much  together  “  makes  the  wo¬ 
men  think  the  better  of  his  understanding,  and 
judge  more  favorably  of  my  reputation.  It  makes 
him  pass  upon  some  for  a  man  of  very  good 
sense,  and  me  upon  others  for  a  very  civil  person.” 

This  whole  celebrated  piece  is  a  perfect  contra¬ 
diction  to  good  manners,  good  sense,  and  common 
honesty ;  and  as  there  is  nothing  in  it  but  what  is 
built  upon  the  ruin  of  virtue  and  innocence,  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  notion  of  merit  in  this  comedy,  I 
take  the  shoemaker*  to  be  in  reality  the  fine  gen¬ 
tleman  of  the  play  :  for  it  seems  he  is  an  atheist, 
if  we  may  depend  upon  his  character  as  given  by 
the  orange-woman,  who  is  herself  far  from  being 
the  lowest  in  the  play.  Sire  says  of  a  fine  man  who 
is  Dorimant’s  companion,  there  “  is  not  such 
another  heathen  in  the  town,  except  the  shoe¬ 
maker.”  His  pretension  to  be  the  hero  of  the  dra¬ 
ma,  appears  still  more  in  his  own  description 
of  liis  way  of  living  with  his  lady.  “  There  is,” 
says  he,  “  never  a  man  in  town  lives  more  like  a 
gentleman  with  his  wife  than  I  do  ;  I  never  mind 
her  motions  ;  she  never  inquires  into  mine.  We 
speak  to  one  another  civilly,  hate  one  another 
heartily ;  and  because  it  is  vulgar  to  lie  and  soak 
together,  we  have  each  of  us  our  several  settle- 
bed.”  That  of  “  soaking  together  ”  is  as  good  as 
if  Dorimant  had  spoken  it  himself ;  and  I  think, 
since  he  puts  human  nature  in  as  ugly  a  form  as 
the  circumstance  will  bear,  and  is  a  staunch  un¬ 
believer,  he  is  very  much  wronged  in  having  no 
part  of  the  good  fortune  bestowed  in  the  last  act. 

To  speak  plain  of  this  whole  work,  I  think 
nothing  but  being  lost  to  a  sense  of  innocence  and 
virtue,  can  make  any  one  see  this  comedy,  without 
observing  more  frequent  occasion  to  move  sorrow 
and  indignation,  than  mirtli  and  laughter.  At 
the  same  time  I  allow  it  to  be  nature,  but  it  is 
nature  in  its  utmost  corruption  and  degeneracy. f 

R. 


*  Ho  also  was  a  real  person,  and  got  vast  employment  by 
the  representation  of  him  in  this  play. 

f  IIow  could  it  he  otherwise,  when  the  author  of  this  play 
was  Sir  George  Etheridge,  and  the  character  of  Dorimant 
that  of  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester? 


No.  66.]  WEDNESDAY,  MAY  16,  1711. 

Motus  doceri  gaudet  Ionicos 
Matura  virgo,  et  fingitur  artibus 
Jam  nunc,  et  incestos  amores. 

De  tenero  meditatur  ungui. 

IIor.  1,  Od.  vi,  21. 

Behold  a  ripe  and  melting  maid 
Bound  ’prentice  to  the  wanton  trade : 

Ionian  artists,  at  a  mighty  price, 

Instruct  her  in  the  mysteries  of  vice, 

What  nets  to  spread,  where  subtile  baits  to  lay : 

And  with  an  early  hand  they  form  the  temper’d  clay. 

Roscommon. 

The  two  following  letters  are  upon  a  subject  of 
very  great  importance,  though  expressed  without 
any  air  of  gravity. 

“  To  the  Spectator. 

“  Sir, 

“  I  take  the  freedom  of  asking  your  advice  in 
behalf  of  a  young  country  kinswoman  of  mine 
who  is  lately  come  to  town,  and  under  my  care  for 
her  education.  She  is  very  pretty,  but  you  cannot 
imagine  how  unformed  a  creature  it  is.  She 
comes  to  my  hands  just  as  nature  left  her,  half 
finished,  and.  without  any  acquired  improvements. 
When  I  look  on  her  I  often  think  of  the  Belle 
Sauvage  mentioned  in  one  of  your  papers.  Dear 
Mr.  Spectator,  help  me  to  make  her  comprehend 
the  visible  graces  of  speech,  and  the  dumb  elo¬ 
quence  of  motion ;  for  she  is  at  present  a  perfect 
stranger  to  both.  She  knows  no  way  to  express 
herself  but  by  her  tongue,  and  that  always  to  sig¬ 
nify  her  meaning.  Her  eyes  serve  her  only  to  see 
with,  and  she  is  utterly  a  foreigner  to  the  language 
of  looks  and  glances.  In  this  I  fancy  you  could 
help  her  better  than  anybody.  I  have  bestowed 
two  months  in  teaching  her  to  sigh  when  she  is 
not  concerned,  and  to  smile  when  she  is  not 
pleased,  and  am  ashamed  to  own  she  makes  little 
or  no  improvement.  Then  she  is  no  more  able 
now  to  walk,  than  she  was  to  go  at  a  year  old. 
By  walking,  you  will  easily  know  I  mean  that 
regular  but  easy  motion  which  gives  our  persons 
so  irresistible  a  grace,  as  if  we  moved  to  music, 
and  is  a  kind  of  disengaged  figure  ;  or,  if  I  may 
so  speak,  recitative  dancing.  But  the  want  of  this 
I  cannot  blame  in  her,  for  I  find  she  has  no  ear, 
and  means  nothing  by  walking  but  to  change  her 
place.  I  could  pardon  too  her  blushing,  if  she 
knew  how  to  carry  herself  in  it,  and  if  it  did  not 
manifestly  injure  her  complexion. 

“  They  tell  me  you  are  a  person  who  have  seen 
the  world,  and  are  a  judge  of  fine  breeding;  which 
makes  me  ambitious  of  some  instructions  from  you 
for  her  improvement :  which  when  you  have  favored 
me  with,  I  shall  farther  advise  with  you  about  the 
disposal  of  this  fair  forester  in  marriage:  for  I  will 
make  it  no  secret  to  you,  that  her  person  and  edu¬ 
cation  are  to  be  her  fortune. 

“I  am,  Sir, 

“Your  very  humble  servant, 

“  Celimene.” 

“Sir, 

“Being  employed  by  Celimene  to  make  up  and 
send  to  you  her  letter,  I  make  bold  to  recommend 
the  case  therein  mentioned  to  your  consideration, 
because  she  and  I  happen  to  differ  a  little  in  our 
notions.  I,  who  am  a  rough  man,  am  afraid  the 
young  girl  is  in  a  fairway  to  be  spoiled:  therefore, 
pray,  Mr.  Spectator,  let  us  have  your  opinion  of 
this  fine  thing  called  fine  breeding;  for  I  am  afraid 
it  differs  too  much  from  that  plain  thing  called 
good  breeding. 

“Your  most  humble  servant.” 

The  general  mistake  among  us  in  the  educating 
our  children  is,  that  in  our  daughters  we  take  care 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Ill 


of  their  persons  and  neglect  their  minds  ;  in  our 
sons  we  are  so  intent  upon  adorning  their  minds, 
that  we  wholly  neglect  their  bodies.  It  is  from 
this  that  you  shall  see  a  youn^  lady  celebrated 
and  admired  in  all  the  assemblies  about  town, 
when  her  elder  brother  is  afraid  to  come  into  a 
room.  From  this  ill  management  it  arises,  that 
we  frequently  observe  a  man's  life  is  half  spent, 
betore  lie  is  taken  notice  of ;  and  a  woman  in  the 
prime  of  her  years  is  out  of  fashion  and  neglected. 
The  boy  I  shall  consider  upon  some  other  occa¬ 
sion,  and  at  present  stick  to  the  girl:  and  I  am  the 
more  inclined  to  this,  because  1  have  several  let¬ 
ters  which  complain  to  me,  that  ray  female  readers 
have  not  understood  me  for  some  days  last  past, 
and  take  themselves  to  be  unconcerned  in  the  pre¬ 
sent  turn  ot  my  writing. — When  a  girl  is  safely 
brought  from  her  nurse,  before  she  is  capable  of 
forming  one  single  notion  of  anything  in  life,  she 
is  delivered  to  the  hands  of  her  dancing-master; 
and  with  a  collar  round  her  neck,  the  prettv,  wild 
thing  is  taught  a  fantastical  gravity  of  beliavior, 
and  forced  to  a  particular  way  of  holding  her  head, 
heaving  her  breast,  and  moving  with  her  whole 
bodv;  and  all  this  under  pain  of  never  having  a 
husband,  it  she  steps,  looks,  or  moves  awry. 
This  gives  the  young  lady  wonderful  workings  of 
imagination,  what  is  to  pass  between  her  and 
this  husband,  that  she  is  every  moment  told  of, 
and  for  whom  she  seems  to  be  educated.  Thus  her 
fancy  is  engaged  to  turn  all  her  endeavors  to  the 
ornament  of  her  person,  as  what  must  determine  her 
good  and  ill  in  this  life:  and  she  naturally  thinks, 
it  she  is  tall  enough,  she  is  wise  enough,  for  any¬ 
thing  for  which  her  education  makes  her  think  she 
is  designed.  To  make  her  an  agreeable  person 
is  the  main  purpose  of  her  parents  ;  to  that  is  all 
their  cost,  to  that  all  their  care  directed;  and  from 
this  general  folly  of  parents  we  owe  our  present 
numerous  race  of  coquettes.  These  reflections 
puzzle  me,  when  I  think  of  giving  my  advice  on 
the  subject  of  managing  the  wild  thing  mentioned 
in  the  letter  of  my  correspondent.  But  sure  there 
is  a  middle  way  to  be  followed;  the  management 
of  a  young  lady’s  person  is  not  to  be  overlooked, 
but  the  erudition*  of  her  mijid  is  much  more  to  be 
regarded.  According  as  this  is  managed,  you  will 
see  the  mind  follow  the  appetites  of  the  body,  or 
the  body  express  the  virtues  of  the  mind. 

Cleomira  dances  with  all  the  elegance  of  motion 
imaginable;  but  her  eyes  are  so  chastised  with  the 
simplicity  and  innocence  of  her  thoughts,  that  she 
raises  in  her  beholders  admiration  and  good-will, 
but  no  loose  hope  or  wild  imagination.  The  true 
art  in  this  case  is,  to  make  the  mind  and  body  im¬ 
prove  together ;  and,  if  possible,  to  make  gesture 
follow  thought,  and  not  let  thought  be  employed 
upon  gesture. — R. 


No.  67.]  THURSDAY,  MAY  17,  1711. 

Saltare  elegantius  quam  necesse  est  proboe. — Sallust. 

Too  fine  a  dancer  for  a  virtuous  woman. 

Lucian,  in  one  of  his  dialogues,  introduces  a 
philosopher  chiding  his  friend  for  his  being  a 
lover  of  dancing  and  a  frequenter  of  balls.  The 
other  undertakes  the  defense  of  his  favorite  diver¬ 
sion,  which,  he  says,  was  first  invented  by  the 
goddess  Rhea,  and  preserved  the  life  of  Jupiter 
himself  from  the  cruelty  of  his  father  Saturn.  He 
proceeds  to  show,  that  it  had  been  approved  by 
the  greatest  men  in  all  ages  ;  that  Homer  calls 
Mcrion  a  fine  dancer ;  and  says,  that  the  graceful 


*  Erudition  seems  to  be  hero  used  in  an  uncommon  sense 
for  cultivation  or  instruction. 


mien  and  great  agility  which  he  had  acquired  by 
that  exercise,  distinguished  him  above  the  rest  in 
the  armies  both  of  Greeks  and  Trojans. 

He  adds,  that  Pyrrhus  gained  more  reputation 
by  inventing  the  dance  which  is  called  after  his 
name,  than  by  all  his  other  actions:  that  the  Lace¬ 
daemonians,  who  were  the  bravest  people  in 
Greece,  gave  great  encouragement  to  this  diver¬ 
sion,  and  made  their  Hormus  (a  dance  much  re¬ 
sembling  the  Frencli  Brawl)  famous  all  over  Asia: 
that  there  were  still  extant  some  Thessalonian 
statues  erected  to  the  honor  of  their  best  dancers; 
and  that  he  wondered  how  his  brother  philosopher 
could  declare  himself  against  the  opinions  of  those 
two  persons  whom  he  professed  so  much  to 
admire— Homer  and  Hesiod ;  the  latter  of  which 
compares  valor  and  dancing  together,  and  says, 
that  “the  gods  have  bestowed  fortitude,  on  some 
men,  and  on  others  a  disposition  for  dancing.” 

Lastly,  he  puts  him  in  mind  that  Socrates  (who, 
in  the  judgment  of  Apollo,  was  the  wisest  of  men), 
was  not  only  a  professed  admirer  of  this  exercise 
in  others,  but  learned  it  himself  when  he  was  an 
old  man. 

The  morose  philosopher  is  so  much  affected  by 
these  and  some  other  authorities,  that  he  becomes 
a  convert  to  his  friend,  and  desires  he  would  take 
him  with  him  when  he  went  to  his  next  ball. 

I  love  to  shelter  myself  under  the  examples  of 
great  men;  and  I  think  I  have  sufficiently  showed 
that  it  is  not  below  the  dignity  of  these  my  specu¬ 
lations  to  take  notice  of  the  following  letter,  which 
I  suppose  is  sent  me  by  some  substantial  trades¬ 
man  about  ’Change. 

“  Sir, 

“I  am  a  man  in  years,  and  by  an  honest  indus¬ 
try  in  the  world  have  acquired  enough  to  give  my 
children  a  liberal  education,  though  I  was  an  utter 
stranger  to  it  myself.  My  eldest  daughter,  a  girl  of 
sixteen,  has  for  some  time  been  under  the  tuition  of 
Monsieur  Rigadoon,  a  dancing-master  in  the  city; 
and  I  was  prevailed  upon  by  her  and  her  mother  to 
go  last  night  to  one  of  his  balls.  I  must  own  to 
ou,  Sir,  that  having  never  been  to  such  a  place 
efore,  I  was  very  much  pleased  and  surprised 
with  that  part  of  his  entertainment  which  he  called 
French  Dancing.  There  were  several  young  men 
and  women  whose  limbs  seemed  to  have  no  other 
motion  but  purely  what  the  music  gave  them. 
After  this  part  was  over,  they  began  a  diversion 
which  they  call  country  dancing,  and  wherein 
there  were  also  some  things  not  disagreeable,  and 
divers  emblematical  figures,  composed,  as  I  guess, 
by  wise  men,  for  the  instruction  of  youth. 

“Among  the  rest,  I  observed  one  which,  I  think, 
they  call  ‘Hunt  the  Squirrel,’  in  which,  while  the 
woman  flies,  the  man  pursues  her  ;  but  as  soon  as 
she  turns,  he  runs  awav,  and  she  is  obliged  to 
follow. 

“  The  moral  of  this  dance  does,  I  think,  very 
aptly  recommend  modesty  and  discretion  to  the 
female  sex. 

“But  as  the  best  institutions  are  liable  to  cor¬ 
ruption,  so,  Sir,  I  must  acquaint  you,  that  very 
great  abuses  are  crept  into  this  entertainment.  I 
was  amazed  to  see  my  girl  handed  by  and  hand¬ 
ing  young  fellows  with  so  much  familiarity;  and 
I  could  not  have  thought  it  had  been  in  the  child. 
They  very  often  made  use  of  a  most  impudent  and 
lascivious  step  called  ‘Setting,’  which  1  know  not 
how  to  describe  to  you,  but  by  telling  you  that  it 
is  the  very  reverse  of  ‘  Back  to  Back.’  ‘At  last  an 
impudent  young  dog  bid  the  fiddlers  play  a  dance 
called  ‘Moll  Pately,’  and  after  having  made  two 
or  three  capers,  ran  to  his  partner,  locked  his  arms 
in  hers,  and  whisked  her  round  cleverly  above 


THE  SPE 

ground  in  such  a  manner  that  I,  who  sat  upon  one 
of  the  lowest  benches,  saw  farther  above  her  shoe 
than  I  can  think  fit  to  acquaint  you  with.  I  could 
no  longer  endure  those  enormities;  wherefore,  just 
as  my  girl  was  going  to  be  made  a  whirligig,  I  ran 
in,  seized  on  the  child,  and  carried  her  home. 

“  Sir,  I  am  not  yet  old  enough  to  be  a  fool.  I 
suppose  this  diversion  might  be  first  invented  to 
keep  up  a  good  understanding  between  young  men 
and  women,  and  so  far  I  am  not  against  it ;  but  I 
shall  never  allow  of  these  things.  I  know  not 
what  you  will  say  to  this  case  at  present,  but  am 
sure,  had  you  been  with  me,  you  would  have  seen 
matter  of  great  speculation. 

“I  am,  yours,”  etc.* 

I  must  confess  I  am  afraid  that  my  correspond¬ 
ent  had  too  much  reason  to  be  a  little  out  of  humor 
at  the  treatment  of  his  daughter,  but  I  conclude 
that  he  would  have  been  much  more  so,  had  lie 
seen  one  of  those  kissing  dances  in  which  Will 
Honeycomb  assures  me  they  are  obliged  to  dwell 
almost  a  minute  on  the  fair  one’s  lips  or  they  will 
be  too  quick  for  the  music,  and  dance  quite  out 
of  time. 

I  am  not  able,  however,  to  give  my  final  sentence 
against  this  diversion  ;  and  am  ot  Mr.  Cowley’s 
opinion,  that  so  much  of  dancing,  at  least,  as  be¬ 
longs  to  the  behavior  and  a  handsome  carriage  of 
the  body,  is  extremely  useful,  if  not  absolutely 
necessary. 

We  generally  form  such  ideas  of  people  at  first 
sight,  as  we  are  hardly  ever  persuaded  to  lay  aside 
afterward  ;  for  this  reason,  a  man  would  wish  to 
have  nothing  disagreeable  or  uncomely  in  his  ap¬ 
proaches,  and  to  be  able  to  enter  a  room  with  a  good 
grace. 

I  might  add,  that  a  moderate  knowledge  in  the 
little  rules  of  good  breeding,  gives  a  man  some 
assurance,  and  makes  him  easy  in  all  companies. 
For  want  of  this,  I  have  seen  a  professor  of  a  libe¬ 
ral  science  at  a  loss  to  salute  a  lady  ;  and  a  most 
excellent  mathematician  not  able  to  determine 
whether  he  should  stand  or  sit  while  my  lord 
drank  to  him. 

It  is  the  proper  business  of  a  dancing-master  to 
regulate  these  matters  ;  though  I  take  it  to  be  a 
just  observation,  that  unless  you  add  something 
of  your  own  to  what  these  fine  gentlemen  teach 
you,  and  which  they  are  wholly  ignorant  of  them¬ 
selves,  you  will  much  sooner  get  the  character  of 
an  affected  fop  than  a  well-bred  man. 

As  for  country  dancing,  it  must  indeed  be  con¬ 
fessed  that  the  great  familiarities  between  the  two 
sexes  on  this  occasion  may  sometimes  produce 
very  dangerous  consequences ;  and  I  have  often 
thought  that  few  ladies’  hearts  are  so  obdurate  as 
not  to  be  melted  by  the  charms  of  music,  the  force 
of  motion,  and  a  handsome  young  fellow,  who  is 
continually  playing  before  their  eyes,  and  con¬ 
vincing  them  that  he  has  the  perfect  use  of  all  his 
limbs. 

But  as  this  kind  of  dance  is  the  particular  in¬ 
vention  of  our  own  country,  and  as  every  one  is 
more  or  less  a  proficient  in  it,  I  would  not  dis¬ 
countenance  it;  but  rather  suppose  it  may  be 
practiced  innocently  by  others  as  well  as  myself, 
who  am  often  partner  to  my  landlady’s  eldest 
daughter. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Having  heard  a  good  character  of  the  collection 
of  pictures  which  is  to  be  exposed  for  sale  on 
Friday  next;  and  concluding  from  the  following 
letter,  that  the  person  who  collected  them  is  a  man 
of  no  inelegant  taste,  I  will  be  so  much  his  friend 
as  to  publish  it,  provided  the  reader  will  only 


CTATOR. 

look  upon  it  as  filling  up  the  place  of  an  adver¬ 
tisement  : 

From  the  Three  Chairs,  in  the  Piazzas,  Covent-Garden. 
“  Sir,  May  16,  1711. 

“As  you  are  a  spectator,  I  think  we  who  make 
it  our  business  to  exhibit  anything  to  public  view, 
ought  to  apply  ourselves  to  you  for  your  appro¬ 
bation.  I  have  traveled  Europe  to  furnish  out  a 
show  for  you,  and  have  brought  with  me  what  has 
been  admired  in  every  country  through  which  I 
passed.  You  have  declared  in  many  papers,  that 
your  greatest  delights  are  those  of  the  eye,  which  I 
do  not  doubt  but  I  shall  gratify  with  as  beautiful 
objects  as  yours  ever  beheld.  If  castles,  forests, 
ruins,  fine  women,  and  graceful  men,  can  please 
you,  I  dare  promise  you  much  satisfaction,  if  you 
will  appear  at  my  auction  on  Friday  next.  A 
sight  is,  I  suppose,  as  grateful  to  a  Spectator  as  a 
treat  to  another  person,  and  therefore  I  hope  you 
will  pardon  this  invitation  from,  “Sir, 

“Your  most  obedient,  humble  servant, 

X.  “  J.  Graham.” 


Ho.  68.]  FRIDAY,  MAY  18,  1711. 

Nos  duo  turba  sumus - OvrD  Met.,  i,  355. 

We  two  are  a  multitude.  • 

One  would  think  that  the  larger  the  company  is 
in  which  we  are  engaged,  the  greater  variety  of 
thoughts  and  subjects  would  be  started  in  dis¬ 
course  ;  but  instead  of  this,  we  find  that  conversa¬ 
tion  is  never  so  much  straitened  and  confined  as 
in  numerous  assemblies.  When  a  multitude  meet 
together  on  any  subject  of  discourse,  their  de¬ 
bates  are  taken  up  chiefly  with  forms  and  general 
positions ;  nay,  if  we  come  into  a  more  contracted 
assembly  of  men  and  women,  the  talk  generally 
runs  upon  the  weather,  fashion,  news,  and  the  like 
public  topics.  In  proportion  as  conversation  gets 
into  clubs  and  knots  of  friends,  it  descends  into 
particulars,  and  grows  more  free  and  communi¬ 
cative  :  but  the  most  open,  instructive,  and  unre¬ 
served  discourse,  is  that  which  passes  between 
two  persons  who  are  familiar  and  intimate  friends. 
On  these  occasions,  a  man  gives  a  loose  to  every 
passion  and  every  thought  that  is  uppermost,  dis¬ 
covers  his  most  retired  opinions  of  persons  and 
things,  tries  the  beauty  and  strength  of  his  senti¬ 
ments,  and  exposes  his  whole  soul  to  the  examina¬ 
tion  of  his  friend. 

Tully  was  the  first  who  observed,  that  friend¬ 
ship  improves  happiness  and  abates  misery,  by 
the  doubling  of  our  joy,  and  dividing  of  our  grief; 
a  thought  in  which  he  hath  been  followed  by  all 
the  essayers  upon  friendship  that  have  written 
since  his  time.  Sir  Francis  Bacon  has  finely  de¬ 
scribed  other  advantages,  or  as  he  calls  them, 
fruits  of  friendship ;  and,  indeed,  there  is  no  sub¬ 
ject  of  morality  which  has  been  better  handled 
and  more  exhausted  than  this.  Among  the  several 
fine  things  which  have  been  spoken  of  it,  I  shall 
beg  leave  to  quote  some  out  of  a  very  ancient 
author,  whose  book  would  be  regarded  by  our 
modern  wits  as  one  of  the  most  shining  tracts  of 
morality  that  is  extant,  if  it  appeared  under  the 
name  of  a  Confucius,  or  of  any  celebrated  Grecian 
philosopher:  I  mean  the  little  apocryphal  treatise, 
entitled  The  Wisdom  of  the  Son  of  Sirach.  How 
finely  has  he  described  the  art  of  making  friends 
by  an  obliging  and  affable  behavior!  —  and  laid 
down  that  precept,  which  a  late  excellent  author 
has  delivered  as  his  own,  That  we  should  have 
many  well-wishers,  but  few  friends.  _  “  Sweet 
language  will  multiply  friends  ;  and  a  fair- speak¬ 
ing  tongue  will  increase  kind  greetings.  Be  in 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


peace  with  many,  nevertheless  have  but  one  coun¬ 
selor  of  a  thousand.”*  With  what  prudence 
does  he  caution  us  in  the  choice  of  our  friends! 
And  with  what  strokes  of  nature  (I  could  almost 
say  of  humor)  has  he  described  the  behavior  of  a 
treacherous  and  self-interested  friend!  “If  thou 
wouldst  get  a  friend,  prove  him  first,  and  be  not 
hasty  to  credit  him :  for  some  man  is  a  friend  for 
his  own  occasion,  and  will  not  abide  in  the  day 
of  thy  trouble.  And  there  is  a  friend,  who 
being  turned  to  enmity  and  strife,  will  discover 
thy  reproach  ”  Again,  “Some  friend  is  a  com¬ 
panion  at  the  table,  and  will  not  continue  in  the 
day  of  thy  affliction:  but  in  thy  prosperity  he  will 
be  as  thyself,  and  will  be  bold  over  thy  servants. 
If  thou  be  brought  low  he  will  be  against  thee, 
and  hide  himself  from  thy  face  ”f  What  can  be 
more  strong  and  pointed  than  the  following  verse? 
“Separate  thyself  from  thine  enemies,  and  take 
heed  of  thy  friends.”  In  the  next  words  he 
particularizes  one  of  those  fruits  of  friendship 
which  is  described  at  length  by  the  two  famous 
authors  above-mentioned,  and  falls  into  a  general 
eulogium  of  friendship,  which  is  very  just  as  well 
as  very  sublime.  “A  faithful  friend  is  a  strong 
defense ;  and  he  that  hath  found  such  a  one  hath 
found  a  treasure.  Nothing  doth  countervail  a 
faithful  friend,  and  his  excellency  is  invaluable. 
A  faithful  friend  is  the  medicine  of  life;  and  they 
that  fear  the  Lord  shall  find  him.  Whoso  fearetli 
the  Lord  shall  direct  his  friendship  aright ;  for  as 
he  is^  so  shall  his  neighbor  (that  is  his  friend)  be 
also,  i  I  do  not  remember  to  have  met  with  any 
saying  that  has  pleased  me  more  than  that  of  a 
friend  s  being  the  medicine  of  life,  to  express  the 
efficacy  of  friendship  in  healing  the  pains  and 
anguish  which  naturally  cleave  to  our  existence  in 
this  world;  and  am  wonderfully  pleased  with  the 
turn  in  the  last  sentence,  that  a  virtuous  man  shall 
as  a  blessing  meet  with  a  friend  who  is  as  virtuous 
as  himselt.  There  is  another  saying  in  the  same 
author,  which  would  have  been  very  much  ad¬ 
mired  in  a  heathen  writer :  “Forsake  not  an  old 
friend,  for  the  new  is  not  comparable  to  him:  a 
new  friend  is  a.s  new  wine ;  when  it  is  old  thou 
with  pleasure. ”§  With  what  strength 
nf  allusion,  and  force  of  thought,  has  he  described 
the  breaches  and  violations  of  friendship? — “Who- 
30  casteth  a  stone  at  the  birds  frayeth  them 
away ;  and  he  that  upbraideth  his  friend,  break- 
3th  friendship.  Though  thou  drawest  a  sword  at 
a  friend,  yet  despair  not,  for  there  may  be  a  re¬ 
turning  to  favor.  If  thou  hast  opened  thy  mouth 
against  thy  friend,  fear  not,  for  there  may  be  a 
econciliation ;  except  for  upbraiding,  or  pride, 

)r  disclosing  of  secrets,  or  a  treacherous  wound  ; 
or,  for  these  things  every  friend  will  depart.”|| 
We  may  observe  in  this  and  several  other  precepts 
n  this  author,  those  little  familiar  instances  and 
Lustrations  which  are  so  much  admired  in  the 
noral  writings  of  Horace  and  Epictetus.  There 
tre  very  beautiful  instances  of  this  nature  in  the 
ollowing  passages,  which  are  likewise  written  on 
ne  same  subject:  *“ Whoso  disco veretli  secrets 
oseth  his  credit,  and  shall  never  find  a  friend  to 
us  mmd.  Love  thy  friend  and  be  faithful  to  him ; 
mt  it  thou  bewrayeth  his  secret,  follow  no  more 
■iter  him:  for  as  a  man  hath  destroyed  his  enemy 
o  hast  thou  lost  the  love  of  thy  friend ;  as  one 
hat  letteth  a  bird  go  out  of  his  hand,  so  hast  thou 
3t  thy  friend  go,  and  shall  not  get  him  again : 
3ilow  after  him  no  more,  for  lie  is  too  far  off  -  he 
3  as  a  roe  escaped  out  of  the  snare.  As  for  a 
'ound  it  may  be  bound  up,  and  after  reviling 


113 


there  may  be  a  reconciliation;  but  he  that  be¬ 
wrayeth  secrets  is  without  hope.”* 

Among  the  several  qualifications  of  a  good 
friend,  this  wise  man  has  very  justly  singled  out 
constancy  and  faithfulness,  as  the  principal : 
to  these,  others  have  added  virtue,  knowledge, 
discretion,  equality  in  age  and  fortune,  and, °a8 
Ciceio  calls  it,  Morum  comitas,  “a  pleasantness  of 
temper.  If  I  were  to  give  opinion  upon  such  an 
exhausted  subject,  I  should  join  to  these  other 
qualifications,  a  certain  equability  or  evenness  of 
behavior.  A  man  often  contracts  a  friendship 
with  one  whom  perhaps  he  does  not  find  out  till 
after  a  year’s  conversation;  when  on  a  sudden  some 
latent  ill  humor  breaks  out  upon  him,  which  he 
never  discovered  or  suspected  at  his  first  entering 
into  an  intimacy  with  him.  There  are  several 
persons  who  in  some  certain  periods  of  their  lives 
are  inexpressibly  agreeable,  and  in  others  as  odious 
and  detestable.  Martial  has  given  us  a  very 
pretty  picture  of  one  of  this  species,  in  the  fol¬ 
lowing  epigram  : 

Difficilis,  facilis,  jucundus,  acerbus  es  idem, 

Nec  tecum  possum  vivere,  nec  sine  te. — Epig.  xii,  47. 

In  all  thy  humors,  whether  grave  or  mellow, 

Thou’rt  such  a  touchy,  testy,  pleasant  fellow; 

Ilast  so  much  wit,  and  mirth,  and  spleen  about  thee, 
There  is  no  living  with  thee,  nor  without  thee. 

It  is  very  unlucky  for  a  man  to  be  entangled  in  a 
friendship  with  one,  who,  by  these  changes  and 
vicissitudes  of  humor,  is  sometimes  amiable  and 
sometimes  odious :  and  as  most  men  are  at  some 
times  in  admirable  frame  and  disposition  of  mind, 
it  should  be  one  of  the  greatest  tasks  of  wisdom 
to  keep  ourselves  well  when  we  are  so,  and  never 
to  go  out  of  that  which  is  the  agreeable  part  of 
our  character. — C. 


Ho.  69.]  SATURDAY,  MAY  19,  1711. 

Hie  segetes,  illic  veniunt  felicius  uvas : 

Arborei  foetus  alibi,  atque  injussa  virescunt 
Gramina.  _  Norme  vides,  croceos  at  Tmolus  odores, 
India  mittit  ebur,  molles  sua  thura  Sahaei  ? 

At  Chalybes  nudi  ferrum,  virosaque  Pontus 
Castorea,  Eliadum  palmas  Epirus  equarum  ? 
Continuo  has  leges  aeternaque  foedera  certis 
Imposuit  natura  locis -  Virg.  Georg.,  i,  54. 

This  ground  with  Bacchus,  that  with  Ceres  suits; 
That  other  loads  the  trees  with  happy  fruits, 

A  fourth  with  grass,  unhidden,  decks  the  ground: 
Thus  Tmolus  is  with  yellow  saffron  crown’d; 

India  black  ebon  and  white  iv’ry  bears ; 

And  soft  Idume  weeps  her  od’rous  tears : 

Thus  Pontus  sends  her  beaver  stones  from  far : 

And  naked  Spaniards  temper  steel  for  war : 

Epirus  for  th’  Elean  chariot  breeds 

(In  hopes  of  palms)  a  race  of  running  steeds. 

This  is  th’  original  contract ;  these  the  laws 
Impos’d  by  nature,  and  by  nature’s  cause. — Dryden. 


*Ecclus.,  vi,  5,  6. 

+  Ibid,  vi,  15—18. 

1  Ibid,  xxii,  20—22. 

8 


f  Ibid,  vi,  7,  et  seq. 
glbid.  ix,  10. 


There  is  no  place  in  the  town  which  I  so  much 
love  to  frequent  as  the  Royal  Exchange.  It  gives 
me  a  secret  satisfaction,  and  in  some  measure  grati¬ 
fies  my  vanity,  as  I  am  an  Englishman,  to  see  so 
rich  an  assembly  of.  countrymen  and  foreigners, 
consulting  together  upon  the  private  business  of 
mankind,  and  making  this  metropolis  a  kind  of 
emporium  for  the  whole  earth.  1  must  confess  1 
look  upon  high-change  to  be  a  great  council,  in 
which  all  considerable  nations  have  their  repre¬ 
sentatives.  Factors  in  the  trading  world  are  what 
ambassadors  are  in  the  politic  world;  they  ne¬ 
gotiate  affairs,  conclude  treaties,  and  maintain  a 
good  correspondence  between  those  wealthy  socie¬ 
ties  of  men  that  are  divided  from  one  another  by 
seas  and  oceans,  or  live  on  the  different  extremities 
of  a  continent.  I  have  often  been  pleased  to  hear 
disputes  adjusted  between  an  inhabitant  of  Japan 


*  Ecclus.,  xxvii,  16,  et  eeq: 


114  THE  S PE < 

and  an  alderman  of  London ;  or  to  see  a  subject 
of  the  Great  Mogul  entering  into  a  league  with 
one  of  the  Czar  of  Muscovy.  1  am  infinitely  de¬ 
lighted  in  mixing  with  these  several  ministers  of 
commerce,  as  they  are  distinguished  by  their  dif¬ 
ferent  walks  and  different  languages.  Sometimes 
I  am  jostled  among  a  body  of  Armenians  ;  some¬ 
times  I  am  lost  in  a  crowd  of  Jews  ;  and  some¬ 
times  make  one  in  a  group  of  Dutchmen.  I  am  a 
Dane,  Swede,  or  Frenchman,  at  different  times  ;  or 
rather  fancy  myself,  like  the  old  philosopher,  who 
upon  being  asked  what  countryman  he  was,  re¬ 
plied,  that  he  was  a  citizen  of  the  world. 

Though  I  very  frequently  visit  this  busy  multi¬ 
tude  of  people,  I  am  known  to  nobody  there  but 
my  friend  Sir  Andrew,  who  often  smiles  upon  me 
as  he  sees  me  bustling  in  the  crowd,  but  at  the 
same  time  connives  at  my  presence  without  taking 
farther  notice  of  me.  There  is  indeed  a  merchant 
of  Egypt,  who  just,  knows  me  by  sight,  having 
formerly  remitted  me  some  money  to  Grand  Cairo; 
but  as  I  am  not  versed  in  modern  Coptic,  our  con¬ 
ferences  go  no  farther  than  a  bow  and  a  grimace. 

This  grand  scene  of  business  gives  me  an  infi¬ 
nite  variety  of  solid  and  substantial  entertainments. 
As  I  am  a  great  lover  of  mankind,  my  heart 
naturally  overflows  with  pleasure  at,  the  sight  of 
a  prosperous  and  happy  multitude,  insomuch  that 
at  many  public  solemnities  I  cannot  forbear  ex¬ 
pressing  my  joy  with  tears  that  have  stolen  down 
my  cheeks.  For  this  reason  I  am  wonderfully  de¬ 
lighted  to  see  such  a  body  of  men  thriving  in  their 
own  private  fortunes,  and  at  the  same  time  pro¬ 
moting  the  public  stock ;  or,  in  other  words,  rais¬ 
ing  estates  for  their  own  families,  by  bringing  into 
their  country  whatever  is  wanting,  and  carrying 
out  of  it  whatever  is  superfluous. 

Nature  seems  to  have  taken  a  particular  care  to 
disseminate  her  blessings  among  the  different  re¬ 
gions  of  the  world,  with  an  eye  to  this  mutual  in¬ 
tercourse  and  traffic  among  mankind,  that  the 
natives  of  the  several  parts  of  the  globe  might 
have  a  kind  of  dependence  upon  one  another,  and 
be  united  together  by  their  common  interest.  Al¬ 
most  every  degree  produces  something  peculiar  to 
it.  The  food  often  grows  in  one  country,  and  the 
sauce  in  another.  "The  fruits  of  Portugal  are 
corrected  by  the  produce  of  Barbadoes,  and  the 
infusion  of  a  China  plant  is  sweetened  by  the  pith 
of  an  Indian  cane.  The  Phillipic  Islands  give  a 
flavor  to  our  European  bowls.  The  single  dress 
of  a  woman  of  quality  is  often  the  product  of  a 
hundred  climates.  The  muff  and  the  fan  come 
together  from  different  ends  of  the  earth.  The 
scarf  is  sent  from  the  torrid  zone,  and  the  tippet 
from  beneath  the  pole.  The  brocade  petticoat 
rises  out  of  the  mines  of  Peru,  and  the  diamond 
necklace  out  of  the  bowels  of  Indostan. 

If  we  consider  our  own  country  in  its  natural 
prospect,  without  any  of  the  benefits  and  advan¬ 
tages  of  commerce,  what  a  barren  uncomfortable 
spot  of  earth  falls  to  our  share  !  Natural  histori¬ 
ans  tell  us,  that  no  fruit  grows  originally  among 
us,  beside  hips  and  haws,  acorns  and  pig-nuts, 
with  other  delicacies  of  the  like  nature ;  that  our 
climate  of  itself,  and  without  the  assistance  of  art, 
can  make  no  farther  advances  toward  a  plum  than 
to  a  sloe,  and  carries  an  apple  to  no  greater  per¬ 
fection  than  a  crab :  that  our  melons,  our  peaches, 
our  figs,  our  apricots,  and  cherries,  are  strangers 
among  us,  imported  in  different  ages,  and  natu¬ 
ralized  in  our  English  gardens  ;  and  that  they 
would  all  degenerate  and  fall  away  into  the  trash 
of  our  own  country,  if  they  were  wholly  neglected 
-by  the  planter,  and  left  to  the  mercy  of  our  sun 
and  soil.  Nor  has  traffic  more  enriched  our  vege¬ 
table  world,  than  it  has  improved  the  whole  face 


1TATOR. 

of  nature  among  us.  Our  ships  are  laden  with 
the  harvest  of  every  climate.  Our  tables  are 
stored  with  spices,  and  oils,  and  wines.  Our 
rooms  are  filled  with  pyramids  of  China,  and 
adorned  with  the  workmanship  of  Japan.  Our 
morning’s  draught  comes  to  us  from  the  remotest 
corners  of  the  earth.  We  repair  our  bodies  by  the 
drugs  of  America,  and  repose  ourselves  under  In¬ 
dian  canopies.  My  friend,  Sir  Andrew,  calls  the 
vineyards  of  France  our  gardens;  the  Spice- 
islaiids  our  hot-beds ;  the  Persians  our  silk- 
weavers,  and  the  Chinese  our  potters.  Nature, 
indeed,  furnishes  us  with  the  bare  necessaries  of 
life,  but  traffic  gives  us  a  great  variety  of  what  is 
useful,  and  at  the  same  time  supplies  us  with 
everything  that  is  convenient  ana  ornamental. 
Nor  is  it  the  least  part  of  this  our  happiness,  that 
while  we  enjoy  the  remotest  products  of  the  north 
and  south,  we  are  free  from  those  extremities  of 
weather  which  give  them  birth  :  that  our  eyes  are 
refreshed  with  the  green  fields  of  Britain,  and  at 
the  same  time  that  our  palates  are  feasted  with 
fruits  that  rise  between  the  tropics. 

For  these  reasons  there  are  not  more  useful 
members  in  a  commonwealth  than  merchants.— 
They  knit  mankind  together  in  a  mutual  inter¬ 
course  of  good  offices,  distribute  the  gifts  of  na¬ 
ture,  find  work  for  the  poor,  add  wealth  to  the 
rich,  and  magnificence  to  the  great.  Our  English 
merchant  converts  the  tin  of  his  own  country  into 
gold,  and  exchanges  its  wool  for  rubies.  The  Ma¬ 
hometans  are  clothed  in  our  British  manufacture, 
and  the  inhabitants  of  the  frozen  zone  warmed 
with  the  fleeces  of  our  sheep. 

When  I  have  been  upon  the  ’Change,  I  have 
often  fancied  one  of  our  old  kings  standing  in 
person,  where  he  is  represented  in  effigy,  and 
looking  down  upon  the  wealthy  concourse  of  peo¬ 
ple  with  which  that  place  is  every  day  filled.  In 
this  case,  how  would  he  be  surprised  to  hear  all 
the  languages  of  Europe  spoken  in  this  little  spot 
of  his  former  dominions,  and  to  see  so  many  pri¬ 
vate  men,  who  in  his  time  would  have  been  the 
vassals  of  some  powerful  baron,  negotiating  like 
princes  for  greater  sums  of  money  than  were  for¬ 
merly  to  be  met  with  in  the  royal  treasury!— 
Trade,  without  enlarging  the  British  territories, 
has  given  us  a  kind  ot  additional  empire.  It  has 
multiplied  the  number  of  the  rich,  made  our 
landed  estates  infinitely  more  valuable  than  they 
were  formerly,  and  added  to  them  an  accession 
of  other  estates  as  valuable  as  the  lands  them¬ 
selves. — C. 


No.  70.]  MONDAY,  MAY  21,  1711. 

Interdum  vulgus  rectum  vidit. — IIor.,  1  Ep.  ii,  63. 

Sometimes  the  vulgar  see  and  judge  aright. 

When  I  traveled,  I  took  a  particular  delight  in 
hearing  the  songs  and  fables  that  are  come  frorr 
father  to  son,  and  are  most  in  vogue  among  the 
common  people  of  the  countries  through  which  1 
passed;  for  it  is  impossible  that  anything  shoulc 
be  universally  tasted  and  approved  by  a  multi 
tude,  though  they  are  only  the  rabble  of  a  nation 
which  hath  not  in  it  some  peculiar  aptness  tc 
please  and  gratify  the  mind  of  man.  Human  na 
ture  is  the  same  in  all  reasonable  creatures  ;  anc 
whatever  falls  in  with  it,  will  meet  with  admirer! 
among  readers  of  all  qualities  and  conditions 
Moliere,  as  we  are  told  by  Monsieur  Boileau,  usee 
to  read  all  his  comedies  to  an  old  woman  who  waf 
his  housekeeper,  as  she  sat  with  him  at  her  worl 
by  the  chimney-corner ;  and  could  foretell  th( 
success  of  his  play  in  the  theater,  from  the  recep 
tion  it  met  at  his  fire-side — for  he  tells  us  th< 


the  spectator. 


audience  always  followed  the  old  woman,  and  never 
failed  to  laugh  in  the  same  place. 

I  know  nothing  which  more  shows  the  essential 
and  inherent  perfection  of  simplicity  of  thought, 
above  that  which  I  call  the  Gothic  manner  in  writ¬ 
ing,  than  this — that  the  first  pleases  all  kinds  of 
palates,  and  the  latter  only  such  as  have  formed 
to  themselves  a  wrong  artificial  taste  upon  little 
fancilul  a.utliors  and  writers  of  epigram.  Homer, 
Virgil,  or  Milton,  so  far  as  the  language  of  their 
poems  is  understood,  will  please  a  reader  of  plain 
common  sense,  who  would  neither  relish  nor  com¬ 
prehend  an  epigram  of  Martial,  or  a  poem  of  Cow- 
ley  •  so,  on  the  contrary,  an  ordinary  song  or 
ballad  that  is  the  delight  of  the  common  people, 
cannot  foil  to  please  all  such  readers  as  are  not 
unqualified  for  the  entertainment  by  their  affecta¬ 
tion  or  ignorance;  and  the  reason  is  plain — be¬ 
cause  the  same  paintings  of  nature  which  recom¬ 
mend  it  to  the  most  ordinary  reader  will  appear 
beautiful  to  the  most  refined. 

,  ri'kj  son»  of  _Chevy-Chase  js  the  favorite 

ballad  of  the  common  people  of  England;  and 
Ben  Jonson  used  to  say,  he  had  rather  have  been 
the  author  of  it  than  of  all  his  works.  Sir  Philip 
Sydney,  in  his  discourse  of  Poetry,  speaks  of  it  in 
the  following  words:  “  I  never  heard  the  old  song 
of  I  ercy  and  Douglas,  that  I  found  not  my  heart 
more  moved  than  with  a  trumpet :  and  yet  it  is 
sung  by  some  blind  crowder  with  no  rougher 
voice  than  rude  style  ;  which  being  so  evil  appa¬ 
reled  in  the  dust  and  cobweb  of  that  uncivil  a^e, 
what  would  it  work  trimmed  in  the  gorgeous  elo¬ 
quence  of  Pindar?”  For  my  own  part,  I  am  so 
professed  an  admirer  of  this  antiquated  song,  that 
I  shall  give  my  reader  a  critique  upon  it,  without 
anY  farther  apology  for  so  doing. 

The  gieatest  modern  critics  have  laid  it  down 
as  a  rule,  that  a  heroic  poem  should  be  founder 
upon  some  important  precept  of  morality,  adapted 
to  the  constitution  of  the  country  in  which  the 
poet  writes.  Homer  and  Virgil  have  formed  their 
plans  in  this  view.  As  Greece  was  a  collection  of 
many  governments  who  suffered  very  much  among 
themselves,  and  gave  the  Persian  emperor,  who 
was  their  common  enemy,  many  advantages  over 
them  by  their  mutual  jealousies  and  animosities, 
Homer,*  in  order  to  establish  among  them  a  union 
which  was  so  necessary  for  their  safety,  grounds 
his  poem  upon  the  discords  of  the  several  Grecian 
princes  who  were  engaged  in  a  confederacy  against 
an  Asiatic  prince,  and  the  several  advantages 
which  the  enemy  gained  by  such  discords.  At 
the  time  the  poem  we  are  now  treating  of  was 
written,  the  dissensions  of  the  barons, f  who  were 
then  so  many  petty  princes,  ran  very  high,  whether 
they  quarreled  among  themselves,  or  with  their 
neighbors,  and  produced  unspeakable  calamities 
to  the  country.  The  poet,  to  deter  men  from  such 
unnatural  contentions,  describes  a  bloody  battle 
and  dreadful  scene  of  death,  occasioned  by  the 
mutual  feuds  which  reigned  in  the  families  of  an 
-English  and  Scottish  nobleman.  That  he  de- 
signed  this  for  the  instruction  of  his  poem,  we 
niay  learn  from  his  four  last  lines,  in  which, 
after  the  example  of  the  modern  tragedians,  he 
draws  from  it  a  precept  for  the  benefit  of  his 
readers : 


115 

God  save  the  king,  and  bless  the  land 
In  plenty,  joy,  and  peace; 

And  grant  henceforth  that  foul  debate 
’'1  wixt  noblemen  may  cease. 

The  next  point  observed  by  the  greatest  heroic 
poets,  hath  been  to  celebrate  persons  and  actions 
which  do  honor  to  their  country  :  thus  Virgil's 
was  ^ie  founder  of  Rome,  Homer’s  a  prince 
°f  ail(^  f°r  mason  Valerius  Flaccus 

and  otatius,  who  were  both  Romans,  might  be 
derided  for  having  chosen  the  expedition 
ot  the  Golden  Fleece,  and  the  wars  of  Thebes,  for 
the  subjects  of  their  epic  writings. 

The  poet  before  us  has  not  only  found  out  a 
hero  in  his  own  country,  but  raises  the  reputation 
of  it  by  several  incidents.  The  English  are'the 
first  who  take  the  field,  and  the  last  who  quit  it. 
The  English  bring  only  fifteen  hundred  to  the 
battle  ;  the  Scotch  two  thousand.  The  English 
keep  the  field  with  fifty- three ;  the  Scotch  retire 
with  fifty-five  ;  all  the  rest  on  each  side  being 
slain  in  battle.  But  the  most  remarkable  cir¬ 
cumstance  of  this  kind  is  the  different  manner  in 
which  the  Scotch  and  English  kings  receive  the 
news  of  this  fight,  and  of  the  great  men’s  deaths 
w  ho  commanded  in  it : 

This  news  was  brought  to  Edinburgh, 

Where  Scotland’s  king  did  reign, 

That  brave  Earl  Douglas  suddenly 
Was  with  an  arrow  slain. 

0  heavy  news,  King  James  did  say, 

Scotland  can  witness  be, 

I  have  not  any  captain  more 
Of  such  account  as  he. 

Like  tidings  to  King  Henry  came 
Within  as  short  a  space,* 

That  Percy  of  Northumberland 
Was  slain  in  Chevy-chase. 

Now  God  be  with  him,  saith  our  king, 

Sith ’t  will  no  better  be, 

I  trust  I  have,  within  my  realm 
Eive  hundred  good  as  he. 

Yet  shall  not  Scot  or  Scotland  say, 

But  I  will  vengeance  take, 

And  be  revenged  on  them  all 
For  brave  Lord  Percy’s  sake. 

This  vow  full  well  the  king  perform’d 
After  on  Humble-down, 

In  one  day  fifty  knights  were  slain, 

With  lords  of  great  renown. 

And  of  the  rest  of  small  account 
Did  many  thousands  die,  etc. 

At  the  same  time  that  our  poet  show's  a  laudable 
partiality  to  his  countrymen,  he  represents  the 
Scots  after  a  manner  not  unbecoming  so  bold  and 
brave  a  people : — 

Earl  Douglas  on  a  milk-white  steed, 

Most  like  a  baron  bold, 

Kode  foremost  of  the  company, 

W'hose  armor  shone  like  gold. 

His  sentiments  and  actions  are  every  wav  suitable 
to  a  hero.  One  of  us  two,  says  he,  must  die :  I 
am  an  earl  as  well  as  yourself,  so  that  you  can 
have  no  pretense  for  refusing  the  combat:  how 
ever,  says  he,  it  is  pity,  and  indeed  wmuld  be  a 
sin,  that  so  many  innocent  men  should  perish  for 
our  sakes ;  rather  let  you  and  I  end  our  quarrel  in 
a  single  fight : — 


apposition  is  strangely  incorrect.  At  the  time 

S  in  mhe/erS^n  government  (most  Probably)  did 
exwt  In  his  days  there  was  a  jealousy  amonv  the  Gre 

and  Asiatics,  not  between  Greeks  and  Persians.  Not  Hen 
UD.  I,  cap.  i,  et  seq. — L. 

,„nh*bait,e°f  0tterburn>  usually  called  Chevy-Chase  i 
the  reigns  of  Richard  Il/of  Engla 
and  Robert  II,  of  Scotland.  Others,  with  less  probabil 
have  brought  down  the  action  to  the  reigns  of  Henrv  IV 
England,  and  James  I,  of  Scotland.  ^  • 


Ere  thus  I  will  out-braved  be, 

One  of  us  two  shall  die ; 

I  know  thee  well,  an  earl  thou  art, 
Lord  Percy,  so  am  I. 

But  trust  me,  Percy,  pity  it  were 
And  great  offense  to  kill 
Any  of  these  our  harmless  men, 
For  they  have  done  no  ill. 


*  Impossible !  for  it  was  more  than  three  times  the  distance.  . 


116 


THE  SPE 

Let  thou  and  I  the  battle  try. 

And  set  our  men  aside ; 

Accurs’d  be  he,  Lord  Percy  said, 

By  whom  it  is  deni’d. 

When  these  brave  men  had  distinguished  them¬ 
selves  in  the  battle,  and  in  single  combat  with 
each  other,  in  the  midst  of  a  generous  parley,  full 
of  heroic  sentiments,  the  Scottish  earl  falls  ;  and 
with  his  dying  words  encourages  his  men  to  re¬ 
venge  his  death,  representing  to  them,  as  the  most 
bitter  circumstance  of  it,  that  his  rival  saw  him 
fall : — 

With  that  there  came  an  arrow  keen 
Out  of  an  English  bow, 

Which  struck  Earl  Douglas  to  the  heart 
A  deep  and  deadly  blow. 

Who  never  spoke  more  words  than  these, 

Eight  on,  my  merry-men  all, 

For  why?  my  life  is  at  an  end, 

Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall. 

Merry-men,  in  the  language  of  those  times,  is  no 
more  than  a  cheerful  word  for  companions  and 
fellow-soldiers.  A  passage  in  the  eleventh  book 
of  Virgil’s  iEneid  is  very  much  to  be  admired, 
where  Camilla,  in  her  last  agonies,  instead  of 
weeping  over  the  wound  she  had  received,  as  one 
might  have  expected  from  a  warrior  of  her  sex, 
considers  only  (like  the  hero  of  whom  we  are  now 
speaking)  how  the  battle  should  be  continued  after 
her  death : 

Turn  sic  expirans,  etc. — 2En.,  xi,  820. 

A  gathering  mist  o’erclouds  her  cheerful  eyes, 

And  from  her  cheeks  the  rosy  color  flies, 

Then  turns  to  her,  whom,  of  her  female  train, 

She  trusted  most,  and  thus  she  speaks  with  pain: 

“Acca,  ’t is  past!  he  swims  before  my  sight, 

Inexorable  death ;  and  claims  his  right. 

Bear  my  last  words  to  Turnus:  fly  with  speed, 

And  bid  him  timely  to  my  charge  succeed : 

Kepel  the  Trojans,  and  the  town  relieve : 

Farewell - .”  Dryden. 

Turnus  did  not  die  in  so  heroic  a  manner, 
though  our  poet  seems  to  have  had  his  eye  upon 
Turnus’s  speech  in  the  last  verse  : — 

Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall. 

- - Vicisti,  et  victum  tendere  palmas 

Ausonii  videre. — JEn.,  xii,  936. 

The  Latin  chiefs  have  seen  me  beg  my  life. 

Dryden. 

Earl  Percy’s  lamentation  over  his  enemy  is 
generous,  beautiful,  and  passionate  ;  I  must  only 
caution  the  reader  not  to  let  the  simplicity  of  the 
style,  which  one  may  well  pardon  in  so  old  a 
poet,  prejudice  him  against  the  greatness  of  the 
thought : — 

Then  leaving  life,  Earl  Percy  took 
The  dead  man  by  the  hand, 

And  said,  Earl  Douglas,  for  thy  life 
Would  I  had  lost  my  land. 

0  Christ!  my  very  heart  doth  bleed 
With  sorrow  for  thy  sake ; 

For  sure  a  more  renowned  knight 
Mischance  did  never  take. 

The  beautiful  line,  “  Taking  the  dead  man  by  the 
hand,”  will  put  the  reader  in  mind  of  ^Eneas’s 
behavior  toward  Lausus,  whom  he  himself  had 
slain  as  he  came  to  the  rescue  of  his  aged 
father : — 

At  vero  ut  vultum  vidit  morientis,  et  ora, 

Ora  modis  Anchisiades  pallentia  miris ; 

Ingemuit,  miserans  graviter,  dextramque  tetendit. 

iEN.,  x,  821. 

The  pious  prince  beheld  young  Lausus  dead ; 

He  griev’d,  he  wept,  then  grasp’d  his  hand,  and  said,  etc. 

Dryden. 

I  shall  take  another  opportunity  to  consider  the 
other  parts  of  this  old  song. — C. 


JTATOR. 

Ho.  71.]  TUESDAY,  MAY  22,  1711. 

Scribere  jussit  amor. — Ovid.  Epist.,  iv,  10. 

Love  bade  me  write. 

The  entire  conquest  of  our  passions  is  so  diffi¬ 
cult  a  work,  that  they  who  despair  of  it  should 
think  of  a  less  difficult  task,  and  only  attempt  to 
regulate  them.  But  there  is  a  third  thing  which 
may  contribute  not  only  to  the  ease,  but  also  to 
the  pleasure  of  our  life  ;  and  that  is  refining  our 
passions  to  a  greater  elegance  than  we  receive 
them  from  nature.  When  the  passion  is  love,  this 
work  is  performed  in  innocent,  though  rude  and 
uncultivated  minds,  by  the  mere  force  and  dignity 
of  the  object.  There"  are  forms  which  naturally 
create  respect  in  the  beholders,  and  at  once  inflame 
and  chastise  the  imagination.  Such  an  impress¬ 
ion  as  this  giving  an  immediate  ambition  to  de¬ 
serve,  in  order  to  please.  This  cause  and  effect 
are  beautifully  described  by  Mr.  Dryden  in  the 
fable  of  Cymon  and  Iphigenia.  After  he  has  re¬ 
presented  Cymon  so  stupid,  that 

lie  whistled  as  he  went,  for  want  of  thought; 

He  makes  him  fall  into  the  following  scene,  and 
shows  its  influence  upon  him  so  excellently,  that 
it  appears  as  natural  as  wonderful — 

It  happened  on  a  summer’s  holiday, 

That  to  the  greenwood  shade  he  took  his  way; 

His  quarter-staff,  which  he  could  ne’er  forsake, 

Hung  half  before,  and  half  behind  his  back. 

He  trudg’d  along,  unknowing  what  he  sought. 

And  whistled  as  he  went  for  want  of  thought. 

By  chance  conducted,  or  by  thirst  constrain’d, 

The  deep  recesses  of  the  grove  he  gain’d, 

Where  in  a  plain  defended  hy  the  wood, 

Crept  through  the  matted  grass  a  crystal  flood, 

By  which  an  alabaster  fountain  stood ;  _ 

And  on  the  margin  of  the  fount  was  laid 
(Attended  by  her  slaves)  a  sleeping  maid— 

Like  Dian  and  her  nymphs,  when,  tir’d  with  sport, 

To  rest  by  cool  Eurotas  they  resort : 

The  dame  herself  the  goddess  well  express’d, 

Not  more  distinguish’d  by  her  purple  vest, 

Than  by  the  charming  features  of  her  face, 

And  e’en  in  slumber  a  superior  grace ; 

Her  comely  limbs  compos’d  with  decent  care, 

Her  body  shaded  with  a  light  cymar ; 

Her  bosom  to  the  view  was  only  bare ; 

The  fanning  wind  upon  her  bosom  blows, 

To  meet  the  fanning  wind  her  bosom  rose ; 

The  fanning  wind  and  purling  streams  continue  her  reposo 
The  fool  of  nature  stood  with  stupid  eyes, 

And  gaping  mouth,  that  testified  surprise ; 

Fix’d  on  her  face,  nor  could  remove  his  sight, 

New  as  he  was  to  love,  and  novice  in  delight ; 

Long  mute  he  stood,  and  leaning  on  his  staff, 

His  wonder  witness’d  with  an  idiot  laugh ; 

Then  would  have  spoke,  but  by  his  glimm’ring  sense 
First  found  his  want  of  words,  and  fear’d  offense ; 

Doubted  for  what  he  was  he  should  be  known, 

By  his  clown-accent,  and  his  country-tone. 

But  lest  this  fine  description  should  be  excepted 
against,  as  the  creation  of  that  great  master  Mr. 
Dryden,  and  not  an  account  of  what  has  really 
ever  happened  in  the  world,  I  shall  give  you 
verbatim  the  epistle  of  an  enamored  footman  in 
the  country  to  his  mistress.  Their  surnames  shall 
not  be  inserted,  because  their  passions  demand  a 
greater  respect  than  is  due  to  their  quality.  J ames 
is  servant  in  a  great  family,  and  Elizabeth  waits 
upon  the  daughter  of  one  as  numerous,  some 
miles  off  her  lover.  James,  before  he  beheld 
Betty,  was  vain  of  his  strength,  a  rough  wrestler, 
and  quarrelsome  cudgel-player ;  Betty  a  public 
dancer  at  may -poles,  a  romp  at  stool-ball :  he 
always  following  idle  women,  she  playing  among 
the  peasants :  he  a  country  bully,  she  a  country 
coquette.  But  love  has  made  her  constantly  in 
her  mistress’s  chamber,  where  the  young  lady 
gratifies  a  secret  passion  of  her  own,  by  making 
Betty  talk  of  James ;  and  James  is  become  a  con¬ 
stant  waiter  near  his  master’s  apartment,  in  read- 


THE  SPECTATOR 


ing,  as  well  as  he  can,  romances.  I  cannot  learn 
who  Molly  is,  who  it  seems  walked  ten  miles  to 
carry  the  angry  message,  which  gave  occasion  to 
what  follows 

“  My  dear  Betty,  May  14,  1711. 

“  Remember  your  bleeding  lover  who  lies  bleed¬ 
ing  at  the  wounds  Cupid  made  with  the  arrows  he 
borrowed  at  the  eyes  of  Venus,  which  is  your 
sweet  person. 

“Nay  more,  with  the  token  you  sent  me  for  my 
love  and  service  offered  to  your  sweet  person  ; 
which  was  your  base  respects  to  my  ill  condi¬ 
tions  ;  when,  alas !  there  is  no  ill  conditions  in 
me,  but  quite  contrary :  all  love  and  purity,  es¬ 
pecially  to  your  sweet  person  ;  but  all  this  I  take 
as  a  jest. 

“But  the  sad  and  dismal  news  which  Molly 
brought  me,  struck  me  to  the  heart,  which  was,  it 
seems,  and  is,  your  ill  conditions  for  my  love  and 
respects  to  you. 

“  For  she  told  me,  if  I  came  forty  times  to  you, 
you  would  not  speak  with  me,  which  words  I  am 
sure  is  a  great  grief  to  me. 

“Now,  my  dear,  if  I  may  not  be  permitted  to 
your  sweet  company,  and  to  have  the  happiness 
of  speaking  with  your  sweet  person,  I  beg  the 
favor  of  you  to  accept  of  this  my  secret  mind  and 
thoughts,  which  hath  so  long  lodged  in  my  breast, 
the  which  if  you  do  not  accept,  I  believe  will  go 
nigh  to  break  my  heart. 

“For  indeed,  my  dear,  I  love  you  above  all  the 
beauties  I  ever  saw  in  my  life. 

“  The  young  gentleman,  and  my  master’s  daugh¬ 
ter,  the  Londoner  that  is  come  down  to  marry  her, 
sat  in  the  arbor  most  part  of  last  night.  Oh,  dear 
Betty,  must  the  nightingales  sing  to  those  who 
many  for  money,  and  not  to  us  true  lovers  !  Oh, 
my  dear  Betty,  that  we  could  meet  this  night 
where  we  used  to  do  in  the  wood ! 

1  '  “  Now,  my  dear,  if  I  may  not  have  the  blessing 
of  kissing  your  sweet  lips,  I  beg  I  may  have  the 
happiness  of  kissing  your  fair  hand,  with  a  few 
hnes  from  your  dear  self,  presented  by  whom  you 
please  or  think  fit.  I  believe,  if  time  would  per¬ 
mit  me,  I  could  write  all  day ;  but  the  time  being 
short,  and  paper  little,  no  more  from  your  never- 
failing  lover  till  death.  “  James _ 


117 


Poor  J ames  !  since  his  time  and  paper  were  so 
short,  I  that  have  more  than  I  can  use  well  of  both, 
will  put  the  sentiments  of  this  kind  letter  (the 
style  of  which  seems  to  be  confused  with  the 
scraps  he  had  got  in  hearing  and  reading  what 
he  did  not  understand)  into  what  he  meant  to 
express. 

“Dear  Creature, 

Can  you  then  neglect  him  who  has  forgot  all 
his  recreations  and  enjoyments,  to  pine  away  his 
life  m  thinking  of  you  ?  When  I  do  so,  you  ap- 

h™  ™n’S  “f w'as  James  Hirst.  lie  was  a  servant  to 
]n? '  {■dwar<1  W°r«ey,  Esq.,  and  in  delivering  a  parcel  of 
hw  master,  gave  by  mistake  this  letter,  which  he 
o™  nf  Vi repar!f  f?r  hTr  sweetheart>  and  kept  in  its  stead 
blnmW1!  ter  s-  IIe  quickly  returned  to  rectify  the 

Bettv  In  «  late‘  Unfortunately  the  letter  to 

Betty  was  the  first  that  presented  itself  to  Mr.  Wortley,  who 

mmed  ftiumnn18  CVn°sity  in  readin»  the  ^ve-tale  of  his  ena- 
Sn  S‘T'  J^ne?,  r,e3uested  to  have  it  returned  iu 
man  w?8’  saia,  hlH  master,  “you  shall  bo  a  great 

man,  and  this  letter  must  appear  in  the  Spectator  ”  S 

Hr"?,es  succeeded  in  putting  an  end  to  Betty's  “ill  condi¬ 
tions,  and  obtained  her  consent  to  marry  him ;  but  the  mar¬ 
riage  was  prevented  by  her  sudden  death.  James  Hirst 
after>  ^r.0“  hjs  regard  and  love  for  Betty,  married  her 
sister,  and  died  about  thirteen  years  ago,  by  Pennistone  iu 
the  neighborhood  of  Wortley,  near  Leeds.  Betty’s  sister 
and  successor  was  probably  the  Molly  who  walked  ten  miles 
Jetted  ^  aUgry  messaSe  whicli  occasioned  the  preceding 


pear  more  amiable  to  me  than  Venus  does  in  the 
most  beautiful  description  that  ever  was  made  of 
her.  All  this  kindness  you  return  with  an  accu¬ 
sation,  that  1  do  not  love  you  :  but  the  contrary  is 
so  manifest,  that  I  cannot  think  you  in  earnest. 
But  the  certainty  given  me  in  your  message  by 
Molly,  that  you  do  not  love  me,  is  what  robs  me 
of  all  comfort.  She  says  you  will  not  see  me  :  if 
you  can  have  so  much  cruelty,  at  least  write  to 
me,  that  I  may  kiss  the  impression  made  by  your 
fair  hand.  I  love  you  above  all  things  ;  and  in 
my  condition,  what  you  look  upon  with  indiffer¬ 
ence  is  to  me  the  most  exquisite  pleasure  or  pain. 
Our  young  lady  and  a  fine  gentleman  from  Lon¬ 
don,  who  are  to  marry  for  mercenary  ends,  walk 
about  our  gardens,  and  hear  the  voice  of  evening 
nightingales,  as  if  for  fashion-sake  they  courted 
those  solitudes,  because  they  have  heard  lovers  do 
so.  Oh  Betty !  could  I  hear  these  rivulets  mur¬ 
mur,  and  birds  sing,  while  you  stood  near  me, 
how  little  sensible  should  I  be  that  we  are  both 
servants,  that  there  is  anything  on  earth  above  us ! 
Oh !  I  could  write  to  you  as  long  as  I  love  you, 
till  death  itself.  “James.” 

N.  B.  By  the  words  ill  conditions,  James  means, 
in  a  woman  coquetry,  in  a  man  inconstancy. — R. 


No.  72.  WEDNESDAY,  MAY  23,  1711, 

- Genus  imxnortale  manet,  multosque  per  annos 

Stat  fortuna  domus,  et  avi  numerantur  avorum. 

Virg.  Georg.,  iv,  208. 

Th’  immortal  line  in  sure  succession  reigns, 

The  fortune  of  the  family  remains, 

And  grandsires’  grandsons  the  long  list  contains. 

Dryden. 

Having  already  given  my  reader  an  account  of 
several  extraordinary  clubs,  both  ancient  and  mo¬ 
dern,  I  did  not  design  to  have  troubled  him  with 
any  more  narratives  of  this  nature  ;  but  I  have 
lately  received  information  of  a  club,  which  I  can 
call  neither  ancient  nor  modern,  that  I  dare  say 
will  be  no  less  surprising  to  my  reader  than  it 
was  to  myself ;  for  which  reason  I  shall  commu¬ 
nicate  it  to  the  public  as  one  of  the  greatest  curi¬ 
osities  in  its  kind. 

A  friend  of  mine  complaining  of  a  tradesman 
who  is  related  to  him,  after  having  represented 
him  as  a  very  idle,  worthless  fellow,  who  neglected 
his  family,  and  spent  most  of  his  time  over  a  bot¬ 
tle,  told  me,  to  conclude  his  character,  that  he 
was  a  member  of  the  Everlasting  club.  So  very 
odd  a  title  raised  my  curiosity  to  inquire  into  the 
nature  ol  a  club  that  had  such  a  sounding  name  ; 
upon  which,  my  friend  gave  me  the  following  ac¬ 
count  : 

The  Everlasting  club  consists  of  a  hundred 
members,  who  divide  the  whole  twenty-four  hours 
among  them  in  such  a  manner,  that  the  club  sits 
day  and  night  from  one  end  of  the  year  to  another; 
no  party  presuming  to  rise  till  they  are  relieved 
by  those  who  are  in  course  to  succeed  them.  By 
this  means  a  member  of  the  Everlasting  club 
never  wants  company ;  for,  though  he  is  not  upon 
duty  himself,  he  is  sure  to  find  some  who  are  ;  so 
that  if  he  be  disposed  to  take  a  whet,  a  nooning, 
an  evening  draught,  or  a  bottle  after  midnight,  he 
goes  to  the  club,  and  finds  a  knot  of  friends  to  his 
mind. 

It  is  a  maxim  in  this  club,  that  the  steward 
never  dies  ;  for  as  they  succeed  one  another  by 
way  of  rotation,  no  man  is  to  quit  the  great  elbowr- 
chair  which  stands  at  the  upper  end  of  the  table, 
till  his  successor  is  in  readiness  to  fill  it ;  inso- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


118 

much  that  there  has  not  been  a  sede  vacante  in  the 
memory  of  man. 

This  club  was  instituted  toward  the  end  (or  as 
some  of  them-  say,  about  the  middle)  of  the  civil 
wars,  and  continued  without  interruption  till  the 
time  of  the  great  fire,*  which  burnt  them  out,  and 
dispersed  them  for  several  weeks.  _  The  steward 
at  that  time  maintained  his  post  till  he  had  like 
to  have  been  blown  up  with  a  neighboring  house 
(which  was  demolished  in  order  to  stop  the  fire); 
and  would  not  leave  the  chair  at  last,  till  he  had 
emptied  all  the  bottles  upon  the  table,  and  received 
repeated  directions  from  the  club  to  withdraw 
himself.  This  steward  is  frequently  talked  of  in 
the  club  and  looked  upon  by  every  member  of  it 
as  a  greater  man  than  the  famous  captain  men¬ 
tioned  in  my  Lord  Clarendon,  who  was  burnt  in 
his  ship  because  he  would  not  quit  it  without  or¬ 
ders.  It  is  said,  that  toward  the  close  of  1700, 
being  the  great  year  of  jubilee,  the  club  had  under 
consideration  whether  they  should  break  up  or 
continue  their  session  ;  but  after  many  speeches 
and  debates,  it  was  at  length  agreed  to  sit  out  the 
other  century.  This  resolution  passed  in  a  gen¬ 
eral  club  nemine  contradicente. 

Having  given  this  short  account  of  the  institu¬ 
tion  and  continuation  of  the  Everlasting  club,  I 
should  here  endeavor  to  say  something  of  the 
manners  and  characters  of  its  several  members, 
which  I  shall  do  according  to  the  best  lights  I 
have  received  in  this  matter. 

It  appears  by  their  books  in  general,  that  since 
their  first  institution,  they  have  smoked  fifty  tons 
of  tobaccco,  drunk  thirty  thousand  butts  of  ale, 
one  thousand  hogsheads  of  red  port,  two  hundred 
barrels  of  brandy,  and  a  kilderkin  of  small  beer. 
There  has  been  likewise  a  great  consumption  of 
cards.  It  is  also  said,  that  they  observe  the  law  in 
Ben  Jonson’s  club,f  which  orders  the  fire  to  be  al¬ 
ways  kept  in  (focus  per ennis  esto ),  as  well  for  the 
convenience  of  lighting  their  pipes,  as  to  cure  the 
dampness  of  the  club-room.  They  have  an  old 
woman  in  the  nature  of  a  vestal,  whose  business 
it  is  to  cherish  and  perpetuate  the  fire  which  burns 
from  generation  to  generation,  and  has  seen  the 
glass-house  fires  in  and  out  above  a  hundred 
times. 

The  Everlasting  club  treats  all  other  clubs  with 
an  eye  of  contempt,  and  talks  even  of  the  Kit-Cat 
and  October  as  of  a  couple  of  upstarts.  Their 
ordinary  discourse  (as  much  as  I  have  been  able 
to  learn  of  it)  turns  altogether  upon  such  adven¬ 
tures  as  have  passed  in  their  own  assembly;  of 
members  who  have  taken  the  glass  in  their  turns 
for  a  week  together,  without  stirring  out  of  the 
club;  of  others  who  have  smoked  a  hundred  pipes 
at  a  sitting  ;  of  others,  who  have  not  missed  their 
morning’s  draught  for  twenty  years  together. — 
Sometimes  they  speak  in  raptures  of  a  run  of  ale 
in  King  Charles’s  reign ;  and  sometimes  reflect 
with  astonishment  upon  games  at  whist,  which 
have  been  miraculously  recoveied  by  members  of 
the  society,  when  in  all  human  probability  the 
case  was  desperate. 

They  delight  in  several  old  catches,  which  they 
sing  at  all  hours  to  encourage  one  another  to 
moisten  their  clay,  and  grow  immortal  by  drink¬ 
ing;  with  many  other  edifying  exhortations  of  the 
like  nature. 

There  are  four  general  clubs  held  in  a  year,  at 
which  time  they  fill  up  vacancies,  appoint  waiters, 
confirm  the  old  fire-maker,  or  elect  a  new  one,  set¬ 
tle  contributions  for  coals,  pipes,  tobacco,  and 
other  necessaries. 

*  Anno.  1666. 

f  See  the  Leges  Conviviales  of  this  club,  in  Langbaine’s 
Lives  of  English  Poets,  etc.*  Art.,  Ben  Jonson. 


The  senior  member  has  outlived  the  whole  club 
twice  over,  and  has  been  drunk  with  the  grand¬ 
fathers  of  some  of  the  present  sitting  members. — C. 


No.  73.]  THURSDAY,  MAY  24,  1711. 

- 0  Dea  certe! — Yieg.  Jin.,  i,  328. 

0  Goddess !  for  no  less  you  seem. 

It  is  very  strange  to  consider,  that  a  creature 
like  man,  who  is  sensible  of  so  many  weaknesses 
and  imperfections,  should  be  actuated  by  a  love  of 
fame  :  that  vice  and  ignorance,  imperfection  and 
misery,  should  contend  for  praise,  and  endeavor 
as  much  as  possible  to  make  themselves  objects  of 
admiration. 

But  notwithstanding  man’s  essential  perfection 
is  but  very  little,  his  comparative  perfection  may 
be  very  considerable.  If  he  looks  upon  himself 
in  an  abstracted  light,  he  has  not  much  to  boast 
of;  but  if  he  considers  himself  with  regard  to 
others,  he  may  find  occasion  of  glorying,  if  not 
in  his  own  virtues,  at  least  in  the  absence  of 
another’s  imperfections.  This  gives  a  different 
turn  to  the  reflections  of  the  wise  man  and  the 
fool.  The  first  endeavors  to  shine  in  himself,  and 
the  last  to  outshine  others.  The  first  is  humbled 
by  a  sense  of  his  own  infirmities,  the  last  is  lifted 
up  by  the  discovery  of  those  which  he  observes  in 
other  men.  The  wise  man  considers  what  he 
wants,  and  the  fool  what  he  abounds  in.  The 
wise  man  is  happy  when  he  gains  his  own  appro¬ 
bation,  and  the  fool  when  he  recommends  himself 
to  the  applause  of  those  about  him. 

But  however  unreasonable  and  absurd  this  pas¬ 
sion  for  admiration  may  appear  in  such  a  creature 
as  man,  it  is  not  wholly  to  be  discouraged  ;  since 
it  often  produces  very  good  effects,  not  only  as  it 
restrains  him  from  doing  anything  which  is  mean 
and  contemptible,  but  as  it  pushes  him  to  ac¬ 
tions  which  are  great  and  glorious.  The  princi¬ 
ple  may  be  defective  or  faulty,  but  the  conse¬ 
quences  it  produces  are  so  good,  that,  for  the  bene¬ 
fit  of  mankind,  it  ought  not  to  be  extinguished. 

It  is  observed  by  Cicero,  that  men  of  the  greatest 
and  the  most  shining  parts  are  the  most  actuated 
by  ambition  ;  and  if  we  look  into  the  two  sexes, 
I  believe  we  shall  find  this  principle  of  action 
stronger  in  women  than  in  men. 

The  passion  for  praise,  which  is  so  very  vehement 
in  the  fair  sex,  produces  excellent  effects  in  women 
of  sense,  who  desire  to  be  admired  for  that  only 
which  deserves  admiration ;  and  I  think  we  may 
observe,  without  a  compliment  to  them,  that  many 
of  them  do  not  only  live  in  a  more  uniform  course 
of  virtue,  but  with  an  infinitely  greater  regard  to 
their  honor,  than  what  we  find  in  the  generality  of 
our  own  sex.  How  many  instances  have  we  of 
chastity,  fidelity,  devotion !  How  many  ladies 
distinguish  themselves  by  the  education  of  their 
children,  care  of  their  families,  and  love  of  their 
husbands, — which  are  the  great  qualities  and 
achievements  of  woman-kind,  as  the  making  of 
war,  the  carrying  on  of  traffic,  the  administration 
of  justice,  are  those  by  which  men  grow  famous, 
and  get  themselves  a  name. 

But  as  this  passion  for  admiration,  when  it 
works  according  to  reason,  improves  the  beautiful 
part  of  our  species  in  everything  that  is  laudable ; 
so  nothing  is  more  destructive  to  them,  when  it  is 
governed  by  vanity  and  folly.  What  I  have  there¬ 
fore  here  to  say,  only  regards  the  vain  part  of  the 
sex,  whom  for  certain  reasons,  which  the  reader 
will  hereafter  see  at  larg;e,  I  shall  distinguish  by 
the  name  of  idols.  An  idol  is  wholly  taken  up  in 
the  adorning  of  her  person.  You  see  in  every 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


119 


posture  of  her  body,  air  of  her  face,  and  motion  of 
ner  head,  that  it  is  her  business  and  employment 
to  gain  adorers.  For  this  reason  vour  idols  ap¬ 
pear  in  all  public  places  and  assemblies,  in  order  to 
seduce  men  to  their  worship.  The  play-house  is 
very  frequently  filled  with  idols  ;  several  of  them 
are  carried  in  procession  every  evening  about  the 
ryig,  and  several  of  them  set  up  their  worship 
even  in  churches.  They  are  to  be  accosted  in  the 
language  proper  to  the  Deity/  Life  and  death  are 
in  their  power  :  joys  of  heaven  and  pains  of  hell, 
are  at  their  disposal:  paradise  is  in  their  arms,  and 
eternity  in  every  moment  that  you  are  present  with 
them.  Rapi&res,  transports  and  ecstasies,  are  the 
rewards  which  they  confer :  sighs  and  tears,  prayers 
and  broken  hearts,  are  the  offerings  which  are 
paid  to  them.  Their  smiles  make  men  happy ; 
their  frowns  drive  them  to  despair.  I  shall  only 
add  under  this  head,  that  Ovid’s  book  of  the  Art 
of  Love  is  a  kind  of  heathen  ritual,  which  con¬ 
tains  all  the  forms  of  worship  which  are  made  use 
of  to  an  idol. 

It  would  be  as  difficult  a  task  to  reckon  up  these 
different  kinds  of  idols,  as  Milton’s  was  to  num¬ 
ber  those  that  were  known  in  Canaan,  and  the 
lands  adjoining.  Most  of  them  are  worshiped, 
like  Moloch,  in  fire  and  flames.  Some  of  them, 
like  Baal,  love  to  see  their  votaries  cut  and  slash¬ 
ed,  and  shedding  their  blood  for  them.  Some  of 
them,  like  the  idol  in  the  apocrypha,  must  have 
treats  and  collations  prepared  for  them  every  night. 
It  has  indeed  been  known,  that  some  of  them  have 
been  used  by  their  incensed  worshipers  like  the 
Chinese  idols,  who  are  whipped  and  scourged 
when  they  refuse  to  comply  with  the  prayers  that 
are  offered  to  them. 

I  must  here  observe,  that  those  idolaters  who 
devote  themselves  to  the  idols  I  am  here  speaking 
of,  differ  very  much  from  all  other  kinds  of  idol¬ 
aters.  For  as  others  fall  out  because  they  worship 
different  idols,  these  idolaters  quarrel  because  they 
worship  the  same. 

The  intention  therefore  of  the  idol  is  quite  con¬ 
trary  to  the  wishes  of  the  idolaters  ;  as  the  one 
desires  to  confine  the  idol  to  himself,  the  whole 
business  and  ambition  of  the  other  is  to  multiply 
adorers.  This  humor  of  an  idol  is  prettily  de¬ 
scribed  in  a  tale  of  Chaucer.  He  represents  one 
of  them  sitting  at  a  table  with  three  of  her  vota¬ 
ries  about  her,  who  are  all  of  them  courting  her 
favor,  and  paying  their  adorations.  She  smiled 
upon  one,  drank  to  another,  and  trod  upon  the 
other’s  foot  which  was  under  the  table.  Now 
which  of  these  three,  says  the  old  bard,  do  you 
think  was  the  favorite  ?  In  troth,  says  he,  not 
one  of  all  the  three. 

The  behavior  of  this  old  idol  in  Chaucer,  puts 
me  in  mind  of  the  beautiful  Clarinda,  one  of  the 
greatest  idols  among  the  moderns.  She  is  wor¬ 
shiped  once  a  week  by  candlelight,  in  the  midst 
of  a  large  congregation,  generally  called  an  assem¬ 
bly.  Some  of  the  gayest  youths  in  the  nation  en¬ 
deavor  to  plant  themselves  in  her  eye,  while  she 
sits  in  form  with  multitudes  of  tapers  burning 
about  her.  To  encourage  the  zeal  of  her  idola¬ 
ters,  she  bestows  a  mark  of  her  favor  upon  every 
one  of  them,  before  they  go  out  of  her  presence. 
She  asks  a  question  of  one,  tells  a  story  to  anoth¬ 
er,  glances  an  ogle  upon  a  third,  takes  a  pinch  of 
snuff  from  the  fourth,  lets  her  fan  drop  by  acci¬ 
dent  to  give  the  fifth  an  occasion  of  taking  it 
UP  >' — bi  short,  every  one  goes  away  satisfied  with 
his  success,  and  encouraged  to  renew  his  devo¬ 
tions  on  the  same  canonical  hour  that  day  seven- 
night. 

An  idol  may  be  un deified  by  many  accidental 
causes.  Marriage  in  particular  is  a  kind  of  coun¬ 


ter-apotheosis,  or  a  deification  inverted. — When  a 
man  becomes  familiar  with  his  goddess,  she  quick¬ 
ly  sinks  into  a  woman. 

^  Old  age  is  likewise  a  great  decay er  of  your  idol. 
1  he  truth  of  it  is,  there  is  not  a  more  unhappy  be¬ 
ing  than  a  superannuated  idol,  especially  when 
she  has  contracted  such  airs  and  behavior  as  are 
only  graceful  when  her  worshipers  are  about  her. 

Considering,  therefore,  that  in  these  and  many 
other  cases  the  woman  generally  outlives  the  idol, 
I  must  return  to  the  moral  of  this  paper,  and  de¬ 
sire  my  fair  readers  to  give  a  proper  direction  to 
their  passion  for  being  admired;  in  order  to  which, 
they  must  endeavor  to  make  themselves  the  objects 
of  a  reasonable  and  lasting  admiration.  This  is 
not  to  be  hoped  for  from  beauty,  or  dress,  or  fash¬ 
ion,  but  from  those  inward  ornaments  which  are 
not  to  be  defaced  by  time  or  sickness,  and  which 
appear  most  amiable  to  those  who  are  most  ac¬ 
quainted  with  them. — C. 


No.  74.]  FRIDAY,  MAY  25,  1711. 

- Pendent  opera  interrupta - 

Virg.  iEn.,  iv,  88. 

The  works  unfinished  and  neglected  lie. 

In  my  last  Monday's  paper  I  gave  some  general 
instances  of  those  beautiful  strokes  which  please 
the  reader  in  the  old  song  of  Chevy-Chase ;  I 
shall  here,  according  to  my  promise,  be  more  par¬ 
ticular,  and  show  that  the  sentiments  in  that 
ballad  are  extremely  natural  and  poetical,  and 
full  of  the  majestic  simplicity  which  we  admire 
in  the  greatest  of  the  ancient  poets  ;  for  which 
reason  I  shall  quote  several  passages  of  it,  in 
which  the  thought  is  altogether  the  same  with 
what  we  meet  in  several  passages  of  the  JEneid  ; 
not  that  I  would  infer  from  thence,  that  the  poet 
(whoever  he  was)  proposed  to  himself  any  imita¬ 
tion  of  those  passages,  but  that  he  was  directed 
to  keep  them  in  general  by  the  same  kind  of 
poetical  genius,  and  by  the  same  copyings  after 
nature. 

Had  this  old  song  been  filled  with  epigrammati- 
cal  turns  and  points  of  wit,  it  might  perhaps  have 
pleased  the  wrong  taste  of  some  readers ;  but  it 
would  never  have  become  the  delight  of  the  com¬ 
mon  people,  nor  have  Avarmed  the  heart  of  Sir 
Philip  Sidney  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet;  it  is 
only  nature  that  can  have  this  effect,  and  please 
those  tastes  which  are  the  most  unprejudiced,  or 
the  most  refined.  I  must,  however,  beg  leave  to 
dissent  from  so  great  an  authority  as  that  of  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  in  the  judgment  which  he  has 
passed  as  to  the  rude  style  and  evil  apparel  of 
this  antiquated  song ;  for  there  are  se\*eral  parts 
in  it  where  not  only  the  thought  but  the  language 
is  majestic,  and  the  numbers  sonorous  ;  at  least 
the  apparel  is  much  more  gorgeous  than  many  of 
the  poets  made  use  of  in  Queen  Elizabeth’s  time, 
as  the  reader  will  see  in  several  of  the  following 
quotations. 

What  can  be  greater  than  either  the  thought  or 
the  expression  in  that  stanza. 

To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn 
Earl  Percy  took  his  way ! 

The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn 
The  hunting  of  that  day ! 

This  way  of  considering  the  misfortunes  which 
this  battle  would  bring  upon  posterity,  not  only 
on  those  who  were  born  immediately  after  the 
battle,  and  lost  their  fathers  in  it,  but  on  those 
also  who  perished  in  future  battles  which  took 
their  rise  from  this  quarrel  of  the  two  earls,  is 


120 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


wonderfully  beautiful,  and  conformable  to  the  way  J 
of  thinking  among  the  ancient  poets. 

Audiet  pugnas  vitio  parentum 
Bara  juventus. — Hor.  1,  Od.  ii,  23. 

Posterity,  thinn’d  by  their  fathers’  crimes, 

Shall  read  with  grief  the  story  of  their  times. 

What  can  be  more  sounding  and  poetical,  or  re¬ 
semble  more  the  majestic  simplicity  of  the  an¬ 
cients,  than  the  following  stanzas  ? 

The  stout  Earl  of  Northumberland 
A  vow  to  God  did  make, 

His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 
Three  summers’  days  to  take : 

With  fifteen  hundred  bowmen  bold, 

All  chosen  men  of  might, 

Who  knew  full  well  in  time  of  need, 

To  aim  their  shafts  aright. 

The  hounds  ran  swiftly  through  the  woods 
The  nimble  deer  to  take : 

And  with  their  cries  the  hills  and  dales 
An  echo  shrill  did  make. 

-Yocat  ingenti  clamor e  Cithaeron 


Taygetique  canes,  domitrixque  Epidaurus  equorum : 

Et  vox  assensu  nemorum  ingeminata  remugit. 

Georg.,  iii,  43. 

Cithaeron  loudly  calls  me  to  my  way; 

Thy  hounds,  Taygetus,  open  and  pursue  the  prey : 

High  Epidaurus  urges  on  my  speed, 

Fam’d  for  his  hills,  and  for  his  horses’  breed: 

From  hills  and  dales  the  cheerful  cries  rebound ; 

For  Echo  hunts  along,  and  propagates  the  sound. 

Dryden. 

Lo,  yonder  doth  Earl  Douglas  come, 

His  men  in  armor  bright; 

Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears, 

All  marching  in  our  sight. 

All  men  of  pleasant  Tividale. 

Fast  by  the  river  Tweed,  etc. 

The  country  of  the  Scotch  warriors,  described  in 
these  two  last  verses,  has  a  fine  romantic  situa¬ 
tion,  and  affords  a  couple  of  smooth  words  for 
verse.  If  the  reader  compares  the  foregoing  six 
lines  of  the  song  with  the  following  Latin  verses, 
he  will  see  how  much  they  are  written  in  the 
spirit  of  Virgil : 

Adversi  campo  apparent,  hustasque  reductis 
Protendunt  longe  dextris ;  et  spicula  vibrant : — 

Quique  altum  Pracneste  viri,  quique  arva  Gabinae 
Junonis,  gelidumque  Anienem,  et  roscida  rivis 
Hernica  saxa  colunt: — qui  rosea  rura  Velini, 

Qui  Tetricae  horrentes  rupes,  montemque  Severum, 
Casperiamque  colunt,  Forulusque  et  flumen  Himellae: 

Qui  Tiberim  Fabarimque  bibunt, - 

JEn.,  xi,  605 ;  viii,  6S2,  712. 

Advancing  in  a  line,  they  couch  their  spears - 

- Prasneste  sends  a  chosen  band, 

With  those  who  plow  Saturnia’s  Gabine  land : 

Beside  the  succors  which  cold  Anien  yields ; 

The  rocks  of  Hernicus - beside  a  band, 

That  followed  from  Yelinum’s  dewy  land - 

And  mountaineers  that  from  Severus  came : 

And  from  the  craggy  cliffs  of  Tetrica ;  _ 

And  those  where  yellow  Tiber  takes  his  way, 

And  where  Himella’s  wanton  waters  play : 

Casperia  sends  her  arms,  with  those  that  lie 
By  Fabaris,  and  fruitful  Foruli. — Dryden. 

But  to  proceed : 

Earl  Douglas  on  a  milk-white  steed, 

Most  like  a  baron  bold, 

Bode  foremost  of  the  company — 

Whose  armor  shone  like  gold. 

Turnus  ut  antevolans  tardum  praecesserat  agmen,  etc. 
Yidisti,  quo  Turnus  equo,  quibus  ibat  in  armis 
Aureus -  ^En.,  ix,  47,  269. 

Our  English  archers  bent  their  bows, 

Their  hearts  were  good  and  true ; 

At  the  first  flight  of  arrows  sent, 

Full  threescore  Scots  they  slew. 

They  clos’d  full  fast  on  every  side, 

No  slackness  there  was  found; 

And  many  a  gallant  gentleman 
Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 


With  that  there  came  an  arrow  keen 
Out  of  an  English  bow, 

Which  struck  Earl  Douglas  to  the  heart, 

A  deep  and  deadly  blow. 

iEneas  was  wounded  after  the  same  manner  by 
an  unknown  hand  in  the  midst  of  a  parley. 

Has  inter  voces,  media  inter  talia  verba, 

Ecce  viro  stridens  alis  allapsa  sagitta  est, 

Incertum  qua  pulsa  manu -  -3£n.,  xii,  318. 

Thus,  while  he  spoke,  unmindful  of  defense, 

A  winged  arrow  struck  the  pious  prince ; 

But  whether  from  a  human  hand  it  came, 

Or  hostile  god,  is  left  unknown  by  fame. — Dryden. 

|  But  of  all  the  descriptive  parts  of  this  song,  there 
are  none  more  beautiful  than  the  four  following 
stanzas,  which  have  a  great  force  and  spirit  in 
them,  and  are  filled  with  very  natural  circum- 
i  stances.  The  thought  in  the  third  stanza  was 
never  touched  by  any  other  poet,  and  is  such  a 
one  as  would  have  shined  in  Homer  or  in  Virgil : 

So  thus  did  both  these  nobles  die, 

Whose  courage  none  could  stain; 

An  English  archer  then  perceiv’d 
The  noble  earl  was  slain. 

He  had  a  bow  bent  in  his  hand, 

Made  of  a  trusty  tree, 

An  arrow  of  a  cloth-yard  long, 

Unto  the  head  drew  he. 

Against  Sir  Hugh  Montgomery 
So  right  his  shaft  he  set, 

The  gray-goose  wing  that  was  thereon 
In  his  heart-blood  was  wet. 

This  fight  did  last  from  break  of  day 
Till  setting  of  the  sun ; 

For  when  they  rang  the  evening  bell 
The  battle  scarce  was  done. 

One  may  observe,  likewise,  that  in  the  catalogue 
of  the  slain,  the  author  has  followed  the  example 
of  the  great  ancient  poets,  not  only  in  giving  a 
long  list  of  the  dead,  but  by  diversifying  it  with 
little  characters  of  particular  persons. 

And  with  Earl  Douglas  there  was  slain 
Sir  Hugh  Montgomery, 

Sir  Charles  Carrel,  that  from  the  field 
One  foot  would  never  fly. 

Sir  Charles  Murrel  of  Batcliffe  too, 

His  sister’s  son  was  he ; 

Sir  David  Lamb,  so  well  esteem’d, 

Yet  saved  could  not  be. 

The  familiar  sound  in  these  names  destroys  the 
majesty  of  the  description ;  for  this  reason  I  do 
not  mention  this  part  of  the  poem  but  to  show 
the  natural  cast  of  thought  which  appears  in  it, 
as  the  two  last  verses  look  almost  like  a  transla- 
|  tion  of  Virgil. 

-Cadit  et  Bipheus  justissimus  unus 


Qui  fuit  in  Teucris  et  servantissimus  aequi. 

Diis  aliter  visum -  iEn.,  ii,  426. 

Then  Bipheus  fell  in  the  unequal  fight, 

Just  of  his  word,  observant  of  the  right : 

Ileav’n  thought  not  so. — Dryden. 

In  the  catalogue  of  the  English  who  fell,  Wither- 
ington’s  behavior  is  in  the  same  manner  parti¬ 
cularized  very  artfully,  as  the  reader  is  prepared 
for  it  by  that  account  which  is  given  of  him  in 
the  beginning  of  the  battle  ;  though  I  am  satisfied 
your  little  buffoon  readers  (who  have  seen  that 
passage  ridiculed  in  Hudibras)  will  not  be  able 
to  take  the  beauty  of  it ;  for  which  reason  I  dare 
not  so  much  as  quote  it. 

Then  stepp’d  a  gallant  ’squire  forth, 

Witlierington  was  his  name, 

Who  said,  I  would  not  have  it  told 
To  Henry  our  king  for  shame, 

That  e’er  my  captain  fought  on  foot, 

And  I  stood  looking  on. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


121 


Nou  pudet,  0  Rutuli,  cunctis  pro  talibus  unam 
Objeetaro  animam?  numerouo  an  viribus  a^qui 
Non  sumus? -  JEn.,  xii,  229. 

For  ehame,  Rutilians,  can  you  bear  the  sight 
Of  one  expos’d  fur  all,  in  single  light?  \ 

Can  we  before  the  face  of  heav'n  confess 

Our  courage  colder,  or  our  numbers  less? — Drtden. 

TThat  can  be  more  natural,  or  more  moving,  than 
the  circumstances  in  which  he  describes  the  beha¬ 
vior  of  those  women  who  had  lost  their  husbands 
on  this  fatal  day  ? 

Next  day  did  many  widows  come 
Their  husbands  to  bewail; 

They  wash'd  their  wounds  in  brinish  tears, 

But  all  would  not  prevail. 

Their  bodies  bathed  in  purple  blood, 

They  bore  with  them  away; 

They  kiss’d  them  dead  a  thousand  times, 

When  they  were  clad  in  clay. 

Thus  we  see  how  the  thoughts  of  this  poem,  which 
naturally  arise  from  the  subject,  are  always  simple, 
and  sometimes  exquisitely  noble ;  that  the  lan¬ 
guage  is  often  very  sounding,  and  that  the  whole 
is  written  with  a  true  poetical  spirit. 

If  this  song  had  been  written  in  the  Gothic 
manner,  which  is  the  delight  of  all  our  little  wits 
whether  writers  or  readers,  it  would  not  have  hit 
the  taste  of  so  many  ages,  and  have  pleased  the 
readers  of  all  ranks  and  conditions.  I  shall  only 
beg  pardon  for  such  a  profusion  of  Latin  quota¬ 
tions  ;  which  I  should  not  have  made  use  of, 
but  that  I  feared  my  own  judgment  would  have 
looked  too  singular  on  such  a  subject,  had  not 
I  supported  it  by  the  practice  and  authority  of 


No.  75.]  SATURDAY,  MAY  26,  1711. 

Omnifi  Aristippum  decuit  color,  et  status,  et  res. 

LLor.,  1  Ep.,  xvii,  23. 

All  fortune  fitted  Aristippus  well. — Creech. 

It  is  with  some  mortification  that  I  suffered  the 
raillery  of  a  fine  lady  of  my  acquaintance,  for  call¬ 
ing,  in  one  of  my  papers,*  Dorimant  a  clown. 
She  was  so  unmerciful  as  to  take  advantage  of 
my  invincible  taciturnity,  and  on  that  occasion 
with  great  freedom  to  consider  the  air,  the  height, 
the  face,  the  gesture  of  him,  who  could  pretend  to 
judge  so  arrogantly  of  gallantry.  She  is  full  of 
motion,  jaunty  and  lively  in  her  impertinence, 
and  one  of  those  that  commonly  pass,  among  the 
ignorant,  for  persons  who  have  a  great  deal  of 
humor.  She  had  the  play  of  Sir  Fopling  in  her 
hand,  and  after  she  had  said  it  was  happy  for  her 
there  was  not  so  charming  a  creature  as  Dorimant 
now  living,  she  began  with  a  theatrical  air  and 
tone  of  voice  to  read,  by  way  of  triumph  over  me, 
some  of  his  speeches.  “  ’Tis  she!  that  lovely 
air,  that  easy  shape,  those  wanton  eyes,  and  ail 
those  melting  charms  about  her  mouth,  which 
Medley  spoke  of ;  I’ll  follow  the  lottery,  and  put 
in  for  a  prize  with  my  friend  Bellair.” 

Tn  love  the  victors  from  the  vanquish’d  fly; 

They  fly  that  wound,  and  they  wound  that  die! 

Then  turning  over  the  leaves,  she  reads  alter¬ 
nately,  and  speaks  ; 

And  you  and  Loveit  to  her  cost  shall  find 

I  fathom  all  the  depths  of  woman-kir  d. 

Oh  the  fine  gentleman!  But  here,  continues  she, 
is  the  passage  I  admire  most,  where  he  begins  to 
tease  Loveit,  and  mimic  Sir  Fopling.  Oh,  the 


*S  pect.,  No.  £5. 


I,  that  I  may  successful  prove, 

Transform  myself  to  what  you  love. 

Then  how  like  a  man  of  the  town,  so  wild  and 
gay  is  that ! 

The  wise  will  find  a  diff’rence  in  ouij  fate, 

You  wed  a  woman,  I  a  good  estate. 

It  would  have  been  a  very  wild  endeavor  for  a 
man  of  my  temper  to  offer  any  opposition  to  so 
nimble  a  speaker  as  my  fair  enemy  is  ;  but  her 
discourse  gave  me  very  many  reflections  when  I 
had  left  her  company.  Among  others,  I  could 
not  but  consider  with  some  attention,  the  false 
impressions  the  generality  (the  fair  sex  more  es¬ 
pecially)  have  of  what  should  be  intended,  when 
they  say  a  “  fine  gentleman and  could  not  help 
revolving  that  subject  in  my  thoughts,  and  set¬ 
tling,  as  it  were,  an  idea  of  that  character  in  my 
own  imagination. 

No  man  ought  to  have  the  esteem  of  the  rest  of 
the  world,  for  any  actions  which  are  disagreeable 
to  those  maxims  which  prevail  as  the  standards  of 
behavior  in  the  country  wherein  he  lives.  What 
is  opposite  to  the  eternal  rules  of  reason  and  good 
sense  must  be  excluded  from  any  place  in  the 
carriage  of  a  well-bred  man.  I  did  not,  I  confess, 
explain  myself  enough  on  this  subject,  when  I 
called  Dorimant  a  clown,  and  made  it  an  instance 
of  it,  that  lie  called  the  orange  wench  Double 
Tripe :  I  should  have  shown,  that  humanity 
obliges  a  gentleman  to  give  no  part  of  human¬ 
kind  reproach,  for  what  they  whom  they  reproach, 
may  possibly  have  in  common  with  the  most 
virtuous  and  worthy  among  us.  When  a  gen¬ 
tleman  speaks  coarsely,  he  has  dressed  himself 
clean  to  no  purpose.  The  clothing  of  our  minds 
certainly  ought  to  he  regarded  before  that  of  our 
bodies.  To  betray  in  a  man’s  talk  a  corrupt 
imagination,  is  a  much  greater  offense  against  the 
conversation  of  gentlemen  than  any  negligence  of 
dress  imaginable.  But  this  sense  of  the  matter 
is  so  far  from  being  received  among  people  of 
condition,  that  Vocifer  even  passes  for  a  fine  gen¬ 
tleman.  He  is  loud,  haughty,  gentle,  soft,  lewd, 
and  obsequious  by  turns,  just  as  a  little  un¬ 
derstanding  and  great  impudence  prompt  him 
at  the  present  moment.  He  passes  among  the 
silly  part  of  our  women  for  a  man  of  wit,  because 
he  is  generally  in  doubt.  He  contradicts  with  a 
shrug,  and  confutes  with  a  certain  sufficiency,  in 
professing  such  and  such  a  thing  is  above  his 
capacity.  What  makes  his  character  the  plea¬ 
santer  is,  that  he  is  a  professed  deluder  of  women ; 
and  because  the  empty  coxcomb  has  no  regard  to 
anything  that  is  of  itself  sacred  and  inviolable,  I 
have  heard  an  unmarried  lady  of  fortune  say,  it 
is  a  pity  so  fine  a  gentleman  as  Vocifer  is  so  great 
an  atheist.  The  crowds  of  such  inconsiderable 
creatures,  that  infest  all  places  of  assembling, 
every  reader  will  have  in  his  eye  from  his  own 
observation  ;  hut  would  it  not  be  worth  consider¬ 
ing  what  sort  of  figure  a  man  who  formed  himself 
upon  those  principles  among  us  which  are  agree¬ 
able  to  the  dictates  of  honor  and  religion  would 
make  in  the  familiar  and  ordinary  occurrences  of 
life? 

I  hardly  have  observed  any  one  fill  his  several 
duties  of  life  better  than  Ignotus.  All  the  under 
parts  of  his  behavior,  and  such  as  are  exposed  to 
common  observation,  have  their  rise  in  him  from 
great  and  noble  motives.  A  firm  and  unshaken 
expectation  of  another  life  makes  him  become 
this  ;  humanity  and  good-nature,  fortified  by  the 


We  meet  with  the  same  heroic  sentiment  in  Virgil,  j  pretty  satire,  in  his  resolving  to  he  a  coxcomb  to 

please,  since  noise  and  nonsense  have  such  power¬ 
ful  charms. 


I 


122 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


sense  of  virtue,  liave  the  same  effect  upon  him  as 
the  neglect  of  all  goodness  has  upon  many  others. 
Being  firmly  established  in  all  matters  of  import¬ 
ance,  that  certain  inattention  which  makes  men’s 
actions  look  easy,  appears  in  him  with  greater 
beauty :  by  a  thorough  contempt  of  little  excellen¬ 
cies,  he  is  perfectly  master  of  them.  This  temper 
of  mind  leaves  him  under  no  necessity  of  study¬ 
ing  his  air,  and  he  has  this  peculiar  distinction, 
that  his  negligence  is  unaffected. 

He  that  can  work  himself  into  a  pleasure  in 
considering  this  being  as  an  uncertain  one,  and 
think  to  reap  an  advantage  by  its  discontinuance, 
is  in  a  fair  way  of  doing  all  things  with  a  graceful 
unconcern,  and  a  gentleman-like  ease.  Such  a 
one  does  not  behold  his  life  as  a  short,  transient, 
perplexing  state,  made  up  of  trifling  pleasures 
and  great  anxieties  ;  but  sees  it  in  quiteanother 
light :  his  griefs  are  momentary  and  his  joys  im¬ 
mortal.  Reflection  upon  death  is  not  a  gloomy 
and  sad  thought  of  resigning  everything  that  he 
delights  in,  but  it  is  a  short  night  followed  by  an 
endless  day.  What  I  would  here  contend  for  is, 
that  the  more  virtuous  the  man  is,  the  nearer  he 
will  naturally  be  to  the  character  of  genteel  and 
agreeable.  A  man  whose  fortune  is  plentiful, 
shows  an  ease  in  his  countenance,  and  confidence 
in  his  behavior,  which  he  that  is  under  wants  and 
difficulties  cannot  assume.  It  is  thus  with  the 
state  of  the  mind ;  he  that  governs  his  thoughts 
with  the  everlasting  rules  of  reason  and  sense, 
must  have  something  so  inexpressibly  graceful  in 
his  words  and  actions,  that  every  circumstance 
must  become  him.  The  change  of  persons  or 
things  around  him  does  not  at  all  alter  his  situa¬ 
tion,  but  he  looks  disinterested  in  the  occurrences 
with  which  others  are  distracted,  because  the 
reatest  purpose  of  his  life  is  to  maintain  an  in- 
ifference  both  to  it  and  all  its  enjoyments.  In  a 
word,  to  be  a  fine  gentleman  is  to  be  a  generous 
and  a  brave  man.  What  can  make  a  man  so 
much  in  constant  good  humor,  and  shine,  as  we 
call  it,  than  to  be  supported  by  what  can  never 
fail  him,  and  to  believe  that  whatever  happens  to 
him  was  the  best  thing  that  possibly  could  befall 
him,  or  else  he  on  whom  it  depends  would  not 
have  permitted  it  to  have  befallen  him  at  all ! — R. 


No.  76.]  MONDAY,  MAY  28,  1711. 

Ut  tu  fortunam,  sic  nos  te,  Celce.  feremus. 

IIor.,  1  Ep.,  viii,  17. 

As  you  your  fortune  bear,  we  will  bear  you. — Creech. 

There  is  nothing  so  common  as  to  find  a  man, 
whom  in  the  general  observation  of  his  carriage 
you  take  to  be  of  a  uniform  temper,  subject  to  such 
unaccountable  starts  of  humor  and  passion,  that 
he  is  as  much  unlike  himself,  and  differs  as  much 
from  the  man  you  at  first  thought  him,  as  any  two 
distinct  persons  can  differ  from  each  other.  This 

firoceeds  from  the  want  of  forming  some  law  of 
ife  to  ourselves,  or  fixing  some  notion  of  things 
in  general,  which  may  affect  us  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  create  proper  habits  both  in  our  minds  and 
bodies.  The  negligence  of  this  leaves  us  exposed 
not  only  to  an  unbecoming  levity  in  our  usual 
conversation,  but  also  to  the  same  instability  in 
our  friendships,  interests,  and  alliances.  A  man 
who  is  but  a  mere  spectator  of  what  passes  around 
him,  and  not  engaged  in  commerces  of  any  con¬ 
sideration,  is  but  an  ill  judge  of  the  secret  motions 
of  the  heart  of  man,  and  by  what  degrees  it  is  actu¬ 
ated  to  make  such  visible  alterations  in  the  same 
person:  but,  at  the  same  time,  when  a  man  is  no  way 
concerned  in  the  effect  of  such  inconsistencies  in 
the  behavior  of  men  of  the  world,  the  speculation 


must  be  in  the  utmost  degree  both  diverting  and  in¬ 
structive  ;  yet  to  enjoy  such  observations  in  the 
highest  relish,  he  ought  to  be  placed  in  a  post  of  di¬ 
rection,  and  have  the  dealings  of  their  fortunes  to 
them.  I  have  therefore  been  wonderfully  diverted 
with  some  pieces  of  secret  history,  which  an  anti¬ 
quary,  my  very  good  friend,  lent  me  as  a  curiosity. 
They  are  memoirs  of  the  private  life  of  Pharamond 
of  France.  “  Pharamond,”  says  my  author,  “  was  a 
prince  of  infinite  humanity  and  generosity,  and  at 
the  same  time  the  most  pleasant  and  facetious 
companion  of  his  time.  He  had  a  peculiar  taste 
in  him,  which  would  have  been  unlucky  in  any 
prince  but  himself ;  he  thought  there  could  be  no 
exquisite  pleasure  in  conversation  but  among 
equals;  and  would  pleasantly  bewail  himself  that 
he  always  lived  in  a  crowd,  but  was  the  only  man 
in  France  that  could  never  get  into  company. 
This  turn  of  mind  made  him  delight  in  midnight 
rambles,  attended  only  with  one  person  of  his 
bedchamber.  He  would  in  these  excursions  get 
acquainted  with  men  (whose  temper  he  had  a 
mind  to  try)  and  recommend  them  privately  to 
the  particular  observation  of  his  first  minister. 
He  generally  found  himself  neglected  by  his  new 
acquaintance  as  soon  as  they  had  hopes  of  grow¬ 
ing  great ;  and  used  on  such  occasions  to  remark, 
that  it  was  a  great  injustice  to  tax  princes  of  for¬ 
getting  themselves  in  their  high  fortunes,  when 
there  were  so  few  that  could  with  constancy  bear 
the  favor  of  their  very  creatures.”  My  author  in 
these  loose  hints  has  one  passage  that  gives  us  a 
very  lively  idea  of  the  uncommon  genius  of  Phara¬ 
mond.  He  met  with  one  man  whom  he  had  put  to 
all  the  usual  proofs  he  made  of  those  he  had  a  mind 
to  know  thoroughly,  and  found  him  for  his  pur¬ 
pose.  In  discourse  with  him  one  day,  he  gave 
him  an  opportunity  of  saying  how  much  would 
satisfy  all  his  wishes.  The  prince  immediately 
revealed  himself,  doubled  the  sum,  and  spoke  to 
him  in  this  manner :  “  Sir,  you  have  twice  what 
you  desired,  by  the  favor  of  Pharamond  ;  but  look 
to  it,  that  you  are  satisfied  with  it,  for  it  is  the 
last  you  shall  ever  receive.  I  from  this  moment 
consider  you  as  mine  ;  and  to  make  you  truly  so, 
I  give  you  my  royal  word  you  shall  never  be 
greater  or  less  than  you  are  at  present.  Answer 
me  not  (concluded  the  prince,  smiling),  but  enjoy 
the  fortune  I  have  put  you  in,  which  is  above  my 
own  condition  :  for  you  have  hereafter  nothing 
to  hope  or  to  fear.” 

His  majesty  having  thus  well  chosen  and  bought 
a  friend  and  companion,  he  enjoyed  alternately  all 
the  pleasures  of  an  agreeable  private  man,  and  a 
great  and  powerful  monarch.  He  gave  himself, 
with  his  companion,  the  name  of  the  merry  tyrant; 
for  he  punished  his  courtiers  for  their  insolence  and 
folly,  not  by  any  act  of  public  disfavor,  but  by 
humorously  practicing  upon  their  imaginations. 
If  he  observed  a  man  untractable  to  his  inferiors, 
he  would  find  an  opportunity  to  take  some  favor¬ 
able  notice  of  him,  and  render  him  insupportable. 
He  knew  all  his  own  looks,  words,  ana  actions 
had  their  interpretations;  and  his  friend,  Monsieur 
Eucrate  (for  so  heAvas  called) ,  having  a  great  soul 
without  ambition,  he  could  communicate  all  his 
thoughts  to  him,  and  fear  no  artful  use  would  be 
made  of  that  freedom.  It  was  no  small  delight 
when  they  were  in  private,  to  reflect  upon  all 
which  had  passed  in  public. 

Pharamond  would  often,  to  satisfy  a  vain  fool 
of  power  in  his  country,  talk  to  him  in  a  full 
court,  and  with  one  whisper  make  him  despise  all 
his  old  friends  and  acquaintance.  He  was  come 
to  that  knoAvledge  of  men  by  long  observation, 
that  he  Avould  profess  altering  the  whole  mass  of 
blood  in  some  tempers,  by  thrice  speaking  to  them. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


As  fortune  was  in  his  power,  he  gave  himself  con¬ 
stant  entertainment  in  managing  the  mere  follow¬ 
ers  of  it  with  the  treatment  they  deserved.  He 
would  by  a  skillful  cast  of  his  eye,  and  half  a 
smile,  make  two  fellows  who  hated,  embrace,  and 
fall  upon  each  other’s  necks,  with  as  much  eager¬ 
ness  as  if  they  followed  their  real  inclinations,  and 
intended  to  stifle  one  another.  When  he  was  in 
high  good  humor,  he  would  lay  the  scene  with 
Eucrate,  and  on  a  public  night  exercise  the  pas¬ 
sions  of  his  whole  court.  He  was  pleased  to  see 
a  haughty  beauty  watch  the  looks  of  a  man  she 
had  long  despised,  from  observation  of  his  being 
taken  notice  of  by  Pharamond;  and  the  lover  con¬ 
ceive  higher  hopes  than  to  follow  the  woman  he 
was  dying  for  the  day  before.  In  a  court,  where 
men  speak  affection  in  the  strongest  terms,  and 
dislike  in  the  faintest,  it  was  a  comical  mixture 
of  incidents  to  see  disguises  thrown  aside  in  one 
case,  and  increased  on  the  other,  according  as 
favor  or  disgrace  attended  the  respective  objects 
of  men’s  approbation  or  disesteem.  Pharamond, 
in  his  mirth  upon  the  meanness  of  mankind,  used 
to  say,  “As  he  could  take  away  a  man’s  five 
senses,  he  could  give  him  a  hundred.  The  man 
in  disgrace  shall  immediately  lose  all  his  natural 
endowments,  and  he  that  finds  favor  have  the 
attributes  of  an  angel.”  He  would  carry  it  so  far 
as  to  say,  “  It  should  not  be  only  so  in  the  opinion 
of  the  lower  part  of  court,  but  the  men  themselves 
shall  think  thus  meanly  or  greatly  of  themselves 
as  they  are  out  or  in,  the  good  graces  of  a  court.” 

A  monarch  who  had  wit  and  humor,  like  Pha¬ 
ramond,  must  have  pleasures  which  no  man  else 
can  ever  have  the  opportunity  of  enjoying.  He 
gave  fortune  to  none  but  those  whom  he  knew 
could  receive  it  without  transport.  He  made  a 
noble  and  generous  use  of  his  observations,  and 
did  not  regard  his  ministers  as  they  wore  agree¬ 
able  to  himself,  but  as  they  were  useful  in  his 
kingdom.  By  this  means  the  king  appeared  in 
every  officer  of  state;  and  no  man  had  a  participa¬ 
tion  of  the  power,  who  had  not  a  similitude  of  the 
virtue  of  Pharamond. — R. 


No.  77.]  TUESDAY,  MAY  29,  1711. 

Non  convivere  licet,  nec  urbe  tota 
Quisquam  est  tam  prope  tain  proculque  nobis. 

Mart.,  Epig.  i,  87. 

What  correspondence  can  I  hold  with  you, 

Who  are  so  near,  and  yet  so  distant  too? 

My  friend  Will  Honeycomb  is  one  of  those  sort 
of  men  who  are  very  absent  in  conversation,  and 
what  the  French  call  a  reveur  and  d  distrait.  A 
little  before  our  club-time  last  night,  we  Avere 
walking  together  in  Somerset-gardens,  where  Will 
icked  up  a  small  pebble  of  so  odd  a  make,  that 
e  said  he  would  present  it  to  a  friend  of  his,  an 
eminent  virtuoso.  After  we  had  Avalked  some 
time,  I  made  a  full  stop  with  my  face  tOAvard  the 
west,  which  Will  knowing  to  be  my  usual  Avay  of 
asking  Avhat’s  o’clock  of  an  afternoon,  immedi¬ 
ately  pulled  out  his  Avatch,  and  told  me  we  had 
seven  minutes  good.  We  took  a  turn  or  two  more, 
when  to  my  great  surprise,  I  suav  him  squirt  away 
his  watch  a  considerable  Avay  into  the  Thames, 
and  Avith  great  sedateness  in  liis  looks  put  up  the 
ebble  he  had  before  found  into  his  fob.  As  I 
ave  naturally  an  aversion  to  much  speaking,  and 
do  not  love  to  be  the  messenger  of  ill  news,  espe¬ 
cially  when  it  comes  too  late  to  be  useful,  I  left  him 
to  be  convinced  of  his  mistake  in  due  time,  and 
continued  my  Avalk,  reflecting  on  these  little  ab¬ 
sences  and  distractions  in  mankind,  and  resolving 
to  make  them  the  subject  of  a  future  speculation. 


123 

I  was  the  more  confirmed  in  my  design,  when  I 
considered  that  they  were  very  often  blemishes  in 
the  characters  of  men  of  excellent  sense ;  and 
helped  to  keep  up  the  reputation  of  that  Latin 
proverb,  which  Mr.  Dryden  has  translated  in  the 
following  lines: — 

Great  wit  to  madness  sure  is  near  allied, 

And  thin  partitions  do  their  bounds  divide.* 

Mv  reader  does,  I  hope,  perceive,  that  I  distin¬ 
guish  a  man  who  is  absent,  because  he  thinks  of 
something  else,  from  one  who  is  absent  because  he 
thinks  of  nothing  at  all.  The  latter  is  too  inno¬ 
cent  a  creature  to  be  taken  notice  of ;  but  the  dis¬ 
tractions  of  the  former  may,  I  believe,  be  generally 
accounted  for  from  one  of  these  reasons : 

Either  their  minds  are  wholly  fixed  on  some 
particular  science,  which  is  often  the  case  Avith 
mathematicians  and  other  learned  men  ;  or  are 
Avholly  taken  up  with  some  violent  passion,  such 
as  anger,  fear,  or  love,  which  ties  the  mind  to 
some  distant  object ;  or  lastly,  these  distractions 
proceed  from  a  certain  vivacity  and  fickleness  in  a 
man’s  temper,  which,  while  it  raises  up  infinite 
numbers  of  ideas  in  the  mind,  is  continually  push¬ 
ing  it  on,  Avithout  alloAving  it  to  rest  on  any  parti¬ 
cular  image.  Nothing  therefore  is  more  unnatural 
than  the  thoughts  and  conceptions  of  such  a  man, 
which  are  seldom  occasioned  either  by  the  com¬ 
pany  he  is  in,  or  any  of  those  objects  which  are 
placed  before  him.  While  you  fancy  he  is  admir¬ 
ing  a  beautiful  woman,  it  is  an  even  Avager  that  he 
is  solving  a  proposition  in  Euclid  :  and  while  you 
may  imagine  he  is  reading  the  Paris  Gazette,  it  is 
far  from  being  impossible  that  he  is  pulling  down 
and  rebuilding  the  front  of  his  country  house. 

At  the  same  time  that  I  am  endeavoring  to  ex¬ 
pose  this  weakness  in  others,  I  shall  readily  con¬ 
fess  that  I  once  labored  under  the  same  infirmity 
myself.  The  method  I  took  to  conquer  it  was  a 
firm  resolution  to  learn  something  from  whatever 
I  was  obliged  to  see  or  hear.  There  is  a  way  of 
thinking,  if  a  man  can  attain  to  it,  by  which  he 
may  strike  somewhat  out  of  anything.  I  can  at 
present  observe  those  starts  of  good  sense  and 
struggles  of  unimproved  reason  in  the  conversa¬ 
tion  of  a  clown,  with  as  much  satisfaction  as  the 
most  shining  periods  of  the  most  finished  orator ; 
and  can  make  a  shift  to  command  my  attention  at 
a  puppet-show  or  an  opera,  as  well  as  at  Ham¬ 
let  or  Othello.  I  always  make  one  of  the  com¬ 
pany  I  am  in  ;  for  though  I  say  little  myself,  my 
attention  to  others,  and  those  nods  of  approbation 
Avhich  I  never  bestoAV  unmerited,  sufficiently  show 
that  I  am  among  them.  Whereas  Will  Honey¬ 
comb,  though  a  felloAV  of  good  sense,  is  every  day 
doing  and  saying  a  hundred  things,  which  he 
afterward  confesses,  with  a  well-bred  frankness, 
were  somewhat  mal-a-propos  and  undesigned. 

I  chanced  the  other  day  to  get  into  a  coffee¬ 
house  Avhere  Will  was  standing  in  the  midst  of 
several  auditors,  Avhom  he  had  gathered  round 
him,  and  Avas  giving  them  an  account  of  the  per¬ 
son  and  character  of  Moll  Hinton.  My  appearance 
before  him  just  put  him  in  mind  of  me,  without 
making  him  reflect  that  I  was  actually  present. 
So  that  keeping  his  eyes  full  upon  me,  to  the  great 
surprise  of  his  audience,  he  broke  off  his  first 
harangue,  and  proceeded  thus:  —  “Why  now' 
there’s  my  friend,”  mentioning  me  by  name,  “he 
is  a  felloAV  that  thinks  a  great  deal,  but  never 
opens  his  mouth;  I  Avarrant  you  he  is  now  thrust¬ 
ing  his  short  face  into  some  coffee-house  about 
’Change.  I  was  his  bail  in  the  time  of  the  Popish 


*  Nullum  magnum  ingenium  sine  inixtura  dementias. — Se¬ 
neca  De  Tranquil.  Anim.,  cap.  xv. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


124 

lot,  •when  he  was  taken  up  for  a  Jesuit.”  If  he 
ad  looked  on  me  a  little  longer,  he  had  certainly 
described  me  so  particularly  without  ever  consi¬ 
dering  what  led  him  into  it,  that  the  whole  com¬ 
pany  must  necessarily  have  found  me  out :  for 
which  reason  remembering  the  old  proverb,  “  Out 
of  sight  out  of  mind,”  I  left  the  room  ;  and  upon 
meeting  him  an  hour  afterward,  was  asked  by 
him,  with  a  great  deal  of  good  humor,  in  what 
part  of  the  world  I  lived,  that  he  had  not  seen  me 
these  three  days. 

Monsieur  Bruyere  has  given  us  the  character  of 
an  absent  man  with  a  great  deal  of  humor,  which 
he  has  pushed  to  an  agreeable  extravagance  :  with 
the  heads  of  it  I  shall  conclude  my  present 
paper. 

“Menalcas,”  says  that  excellent  author,  “  comes 
down  in  the  morning,  opens  his  door  to  go  out, 
but  shuts  it  again,  because  he  perceives  that  he 
has  his  night-cap  on ;  and  examining  himself 
farther,  finds  that  he  is  but  half-shaved,  that  he 
has  stuck  his  sword  on  his  right  side,  that  his 
stockings  are  about  his  heels,  and  that  his  shirt  is 
over  his  breeches.  When  he  is  dressed,  he  goes 
to  court,  comes  into  the  drawing-room,  and  walk¬ 
ing  bolt  upright  under  a  branch  of  candlesticks, 
his  wig  is  caught  by  one  of  them,  and  hangs 
dangling  in  the  air.  All  the  courtiers  fall  a  laugh¬ 
ing,  but  Menalcas  laughs  louder  than  any  of  them, 
and  looks  about  for  the  person  that  is  the  jest  of 
the  company.  Coming  down  to  the  court-gate  he 
finds  a  coach,  which  taking  for  his  own,  he  whips 
into  it ;  and  the  coachman  drives  off,  not  doubting 
but  he  carries  his  master.  As  soon  as  he  stops, 
Menalcas  throjvs  himself  out  of  the  coach,  crosses 
the  court,  ascends  the  stair-case,  and  runs  through 
all  the  chambers  with  the  greatest  familiarity;  re¬ 
poses  himself  on  a  couch,  and  fancies  himself  at 
home.  The  master  of  the  house  at  last  comes  in ; 
Menalcas  rises  to  receive  him,  and  desires  him  to 
sit  down ;  he  talks,  muses,  and  then  talks  again. 
The  gentleman  of  the  house  is  tired  and  amazed ; 
Menalcas  is  no  less  so,  but  is  every  moment  in 
hopes  that  his  impertinent  guest  will  at  last  end 
his  tedious  visit.  Night  comes  on,  when  Menalcas 
is  hardly  undeceived. 

“When  he  is  playing  at  'backgammon,  he  calls 
for  a  full  glass  of  wine  and  water  ;  it  is  his  turn 
to  throw ;  he  has  the  box  in  one  hand,  and  his 
glass  in  the  other;  and  being  extremely  dry,  and 
unwilling  to  lose  time,  he  swallows  down  both  the 
dice,  and  at  the  same  time  throws  his  wino  into 
the  tables.  He  writes  a  letter,  and  flings  the  sand 
into  the  ink-bottle  ;  he  writes  a  second,  and  mis¬ 
takes  the  superscriptions.  A  nobleman  receives 
one  of  them,  and  upon  opening  it  reads  as  follows: 
‘I  would  have  you,  honest  Jack,  immediately 
upon  the  receipt  of  this,  take  in  hay  enough  to 
serve  me  the  winter.  His  farmer  receives  the 
other,  and  is  amazed  to  see  in  it,  ‘My  lord,  I  re¬ 
ceived  your  grace’s  commands,  with  an  entire  sub¬ 
mission  too.’ — If  he  is  at  an  entertainment,  you 
may  see  the  pieces  of  bread  continually  multi¬ 
plying  round  his  plate.  It  is  true  the  rest  of  the 
company  want  it,  as  well  as  their  knives  and  forks, 
which  Menalcas  does  not  let  them  keep  long. 
Sometimes  in  a  morning  he  puts  his  whole  family 
in  a  hurry,  and  at  last  goes  out  without  being  able 
to  stay  for  his  coach  or  dinner,  and  for  that  day 
you  may  see  him  in  every  part  of  the  town,  ex¬ 
cept  the  very  place  where  be  had  appointed  to  be 
upon  business  of  importance.  You  would  often 
take  him  for  everything  that  he  is  not ;  for  a  fel¬ 
low  quite  stupid,  for  he  hears  nothing ;  for  a  fool, 
for  he  talks  to  himself,  and  has  a  hundred  grim¬ 
aces  and  motions  in  his  head,  which  are  altogether 
involuntary;  for  a  proud  man  for  he  looks  full 


upon  you,  and  takes  no  notice  of  your  saluting 
him.  The  truth  of  it  is,  his  eyes  are  open,  but  he 
makes  no  use  of  them  and  neither  sees  you — nor 
any  man,  nor  anything  else.  He  came  once  from 
his  country-house,  and  his  own  footmen  attempt¬ 
ed  to  rob  him,  and  succeeded.  They  held  a  flam¬ 
beau  to  his  throat,  and  bid  him  deliver  his  purse  ; 
he  did  so,  and  coming  home  told  his  friends  he 
had  been  robbed ;  they  desired  to  know  the  par¬ 
ticulars  :  ‘Ask  my  servants,’  says  Menalcas,  ‘for 
they  were  with  me.’  ” — X. 


No.  78.]  WEDNESDAY,  MAY  30,  1711. 

Cum  talis  sis,  utinam  noster  esses ! 

Could  we  but  call  so  great  a  genius  ours! 

The  following  letters  are  so  pleasant  that  I 
doubt  not  but  the  reader  will  be  as  much  diverted 
with  them  as  I  was.  I  have  nothing  to  do  in  this 
day’s  entertainment,  but  taking  the  sentence  from 
the  end  of  the  Cambridge  letter,  and  placing  it  at 
the  front  of  my  paper,  to  show  the  author  1  wish 
him  my  companion  with  as  much  earnestness  as  he 
invites  me  to  be  his. 

“Sir, 

“I  send  you  the  inclosed,  to  be  inserted  (if  you 
think  them  worthy  of  it)  in  your  Spectatqrs ;  in 
which  so  surprising  a  genius  appears,  that  it  is 
no  wonder  if  all  mankind  endeavors  to  get  .some¬ 
what  into  a  paper  which  will  always  live. 

“As  to  the  Cambridge  affair,  the  humor  was 
really  carried  on  in  the  way  I  describe  it.  How¬ 
ever,  you  have  a  full  commission  to  put  out  or  in, 
and  to  do  whatever  you  think  fit  with  it.  I  have 
already  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  you  take 
that  liberty  with  some  things  I  have  before  sent 
ou.  Go  on,  Sir,  and  prosper.  You  have  the 
est  wishes  of,  Sir,  your  very  affectionate,  and 
obliged,  humble  servant.” 

“Mr.  Spectator,  Cambridge. 

“  You  well  know  it  is  of  great  consequence  to 
clear  titles,  and  it  is  of  importance  that  it  be  done 
in  the  proper  season  ;  on  which  account  this  is  to 
assure  you  that  the  club  of  Ugly  Faces  was  insti¬ 
tuted  originally  at  Cambridge,  in  the  merry  reign 
of  King  Charles  II.  As  in  great  bodies  of  men  it 
is  not  difficult  to  find  members  enough  for  such  a 
club,  so  (I  remember)  it  was  then  feared,  upon 
their  intention  of  dining  together,  that  the  Hall 
belonging  to  Clare-hall,  the  ugliest  then  in  the  town 
(though  now  the  neatest),  would  not  be  large 
enough  handsomely  to  hold  the  company.  Invi¬ 
tations  were  made  to  very  great  numbers,  but  very 
few  accepted  them  without  much  difficulty.  One 
pleaded  that  being  at  London,  in  a  bookseller’s 
shop,  a  lady  going  by  with  a  great  belly  longed  to 
kiss  him.  He  had  certainly  been  excused,  but 
that  evidence  appeared,  that  indeed  one  in  Lon¬ 
don  did  pretend  she  longed  to  kiss  him,  but  that 
was  only  a  pick-pocket,  who  during  his  kissing 
her  stole  away  all  his  money.  Another  would 
have  got  off  by  a  dimple  in  his  chin  ;  but  it  was 
proved  upon  him,  that  he  had,  by  coming  into  a 
room,  made  a  woman  miscarry,  and  frightened 
two  children  into  fits.  A  third  alleged,  that  he 
was  taken  by  a  lady  for  another  gentleman,  who 
was  one  of  the  handsomest  in  the  university ;  but 
upon  inquiry  it  was  found  that  the  lady  had  actu¬ 
ally  lost  one  eye,  and  the  other  was  very  much 
upon  the  decline.  A  fourth  produced  letters  out 
of  the  country  in  his  vindication,  in  which  a 
gentleman  offered  him  his  daughter,  who  had 
lately  fallen  in  love  with  him,  with  a  good  fortune: 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


but  it  was  made  to  appear,  that  the  young  lady 
was  amorous,  and  had  like  to  have  run  away  with 
her  father’s  coachman — so  that  it  was  supposed, 
that  her  pretense  of  falling  in  love  with  him,  was 
only  in  order  to  be  well  married.  It  was  pleasant 
to  hear  the  several  excuses  which  were  made,  in¬ 
somuch  that  some  made  as  much  interest  to  be  ex¬ 
cused,  as  they  would  from  serving  sheriff ;  how¬ 
ever,  at  last  the  society  was  formed,  and  proper 
officers  were  appointed  ;  and  the  day  was  fixed  for 
the  entertainment,  which  was  in  venison  season. 
A  pleasant  fellow  of  King’s  college  (commonly 
called  Crab,  from  his  sour  look,  and  the  only  man 
who  did  not  pretend  to  get  off)  was  nominated  for 
chaplain  ;  and  nothing  was  wanting  but  some  one 
to  sit  in  the  elbow  chair  by  way  of  president,  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  table ;  and  there  the  business 
stuck,  for  there  was  no  contention  for  superiority 
there.  This  affair  made  so  great  a  noise,  that  the 
King,  who  was  then  at  Newmarket,  heard  of  it, 
and  was  pleased  merrily  and  graciously  to  say, 
‘He  could  not  be  there  himself,  but  he  would  send 
them  a  brace  of  bucks.’ 

“I  would  desire  you,  Sir,  to  set  this  affair  in  a 
true  light,  that  posterity  may  not  be  misled  in  so 
important  a  point :  for  when  the  wise  man  wiio 
shall  write  your  true  history  shall  acquaint  the 
world,  that  you  had  a  diploma  sent  from  the  Ugly 
Club  at  Oxford,  and  that  by  virtue  of  it  you  wrere 
admitted  into  it,  what  a  learned  war  will  there  be 
among  future  critics  about  the  original  of  that  club, 
which  both  universities  will  contend  so  wrarmly 
for?  And  perhaps  some  hardy  Cantabrigian 
author  may  then  boldly  affirm,  that  the  word  Ox¬ 
ford  was  an  interpolation  of  some  Oxonian  instead 
of  Cambridge.  This  affair  will  be  best  adjusted 
in  your  lifetime  ;  but  I  hope  your  affection  to 
your  mother  will  not  make  you  partial  to  your 
aunt. 

“To  tell  you,  Sir,  my  own  opinion:  though  I 
cannot  find  any  ancient  records  of  any  acts  of  the 
society  of  the  Ugly  Faces,  considered  in  a  public 
capacity;  yet,  in  a  private  one,  they  have  certainly 
antiquity  on  their  side.  I  am  persuaded  they  will 
hardly  give  place  to  the  Loungers,  and  the  Loun¬ 
gers  are  of  the  same  standing  with  the  university 
itself. 

“Though  we  well  know.  Sir,  you  want  no 
motives  to  do  justice,  yet  I  am  commissioned  to 
tell  you,  that  you  are  invited  to  be  admitted  ad 
eunaem  at  Cambridge;  and  I  believe  I  may  venture 
safely  to  deliver  this  as  the  wish  of  our  whole 
university.” 

To  Mr.  Spectator. 

“  The  humble  petition  of  who  and  which, 

“  SHOWETH, 

“  That  your  petitioners  being  in  a  forlorn  and 
destitute  condition,  know  not  to  whom  we  should 
apply  ourselves  for  relief,  because  there  is  hardly 
any  man  alive  who  hath  not  injured  us.  Nay,  we 
speak  it  with  sorrow,  even  you  yourself,  whom  we 
should  suspect  of  such  a  practice  the  last  of  all 
mankind,  can  hardly  acquit  yourself  of  having 
given  us  some  cause  of  complaint.  We  are  de¬ 
scended  of  ancient  families,  and  kept  up  our 
dignity  and  honor  many  years,  till  the  jack-sprat 
that  supplanted  us.  How  often  have  we  found 
ourselves  slighted  by  the  clergy  in  their  pulpits, 
and  the  lawyers  at  the  bar !  Nay,  how  often  have 
we  heard,  in  one  of  the  most  polite  and  august 
assemblies  in  the  universe,  to  our  great  mortifica¬ 
tion,  these  words,  ‘That  that  that  noble  lord 
urged;’  which  if  one  of  us  had  justice  done, 
would  have  sounded  nobler  thus,  ‘that  which 
that  noble  lord  urged.’  Senates  themselves,  the 
guardians  of  British  liberty,  have  degraded  us, 


125 

and  preferred  that  to  us;  and  yet  no  decree  was 
ever  given  against  us.  In  the  very  acts  of  parlia¬ 
ment,  in  which  the  utmost  right  should  be  done  to 
everybody,  word,  and  thing,  we  find  ourselves 
often  either  not  used,  or  used  one  instead  of 
another.  In  the  first  and  best  prayer  children  are 
taught,  they  learn  to  misuse  us:  ‘Our  Father  which 
art  in  heaven,’  should  be,  ‘Our  Father  who  art  in 
heaven ;’  and  even  a  Convocation,  after  long  de¬ 
bates,  refused  to  consent  to  an  alteration  of  it.  In 
our  general  Confession  we  say,  ‘Spare  thou  them, 
0  God,  which  confess  their  faults,’  which  ought 
to  be,  ‘who  confess  their  faults.’  What  hopes 
then  have  we  of  having  justice  done  us,  when  the 
makers  of  our  very  prayers  and  laws,  and  the 
most  learned  in  all  faculties,  seem  to  be  in  a  con¬ 
federacy  against  us,  and  our  enemies  themselves 
must  be  our  judges  ? 

“The  Spanish  proverb  says,  II sabio  muda  conscio, 
il  necio  no;  i.  e.  ‘A  wise  man  changes  his  mind,  a 
fool  never  will.’  So  that  we  think  you,  Sir,  a  very 
proper  person  to  address  to,  since  we  know  you 
to  be  capable  of  being  convinced,  and  of  changing 
your  judgment.  You  are  well  able  to  settle  this 
affair,  and  to  you  we  submit  our  cause.  We  de¬ 
sire  you  to  assign  the  butts  and  bounds  of  each 
of  us ;  and  that  for  the  future  we  may  both  enjoy 
our  own.  We  would  desire  to  be  heard  by  our 
counsel,  but  that  we  fear  in  their  very  pleadings 
they  would  betray  our  cause:  beside,  we  have  been 
oppressed  so  many  years,  that  we  can  appear  in 
no  other  way  but  in  forma  pauperis.  All  which 
considered,  we  hope  you  will  be  pleased  to  do 
that  which  to  right  and  justice  shall  appertain. 

R.  “And  your  petitioners,”  etc. 


No.  79.]  THURSDAY,  MAY  31,  1711. 

Odorant  peccare  boni  virtutis  amore. 

Hor.  1  Ep.  xvi,  52. 

Tho  good,  for  virtue's  sake,  abhor  to  sin. — Creech. 

I  have  received  very  many  letters  of  late  from 
my  female  correspondents,  most  of  whom  are  very 
angry  with  me  for  abridging  their  pleasures,  and 
looking  severely  upon  things  in  themselves  in¬ 
different.  But  I  think  they  are  extremely  unjust 
to  me  in  this  imputation.  All  I  contend  for  is  that 
those  excellencies  which  are  to  be  regarded  but  in 
the  second  place  should  not  precede  more  weighty 
considerations.  The  heart  of  man  deceives  him, 
in  spite  of  the  lectures  of  half  a  life  spent  in 
discourses  on  the  subjection  of  passion  ;  and  I  do 
not  know  why  one  may  not  think  the  heart  of  a 
woman  as  unfaithful  to  itself.  If  we  grant  an 
equality  in  the  faculties  of  both  sexes,  the  minds 
of  women  are  less  cultivated  with  precepts,  and 
consequently  may,  without  disrespect  to  them,  be 
accounted  more  liable  to  illusion,  in  cases  wherein 
natural  inclination  is  out  of  the  interests  of  virtue. 
I  shall  take  up  my  present  time  in  commenting 
upon  a  billet  or  two  which  came  from  ladies,  ana 
from  thence  leave  the  reader  to  judge  whether  I 
am  in  the  right  or  not,  in  thinking  it  is  possible 
fine  women  may  be  mistaken.  The  following  ad¬ 
dress  seems  to  have  no  other  design  in  it,  but  to 
tell  me  the  writer  will  do  what  she  pleases,  for  all 
me. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  young,  and  very  much  inclined  to  follow 
the  paths  of  innocence ;  but  at  the  same  time,  as  I 
have  a  plentiful  fortune,  and  am  of  quality,  I  am 
unwilling  to  resign  the  pleasure  of  distinction, 
some  little  satisfaction  in  being  admired  in  general, 
and  much  greater  in  being  beloved  by  a  gentleman, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


126 

whom  I  design  to  make  my  husband.  But  I  have 
a  mind  to  put  off  entering  into  matrimony  till 
another  winter  is  over  my  head,  which  (whatever, 
musty  Sir,  you  may  think  of  the  matter)  I  design 
to  pass  away  in  hearing  music,  going  to  plays, 
visiting,  and  all  other  satisfactions  which  fortune 
and  youth,  protected  by  innocence  and  virtue,  can 
procure  for, 

“Sir,  your  most  humble  servant,  M.  T. 

“My  lover  does  not  know  I  like  him,  therefore, 
having  no  engagements  upon  me,  I  think  to  stay 
and  know  whether  I  may  not  like  any  one  else 
better.” 

I  have  heard  Will  Honeycomb  say,  “A  woman 
seldom  writes  her  mind  but  in  her  postscript.”  I 
think  this  gentlewoman  has  sufficiently  discovered 
hers  in  this.  I  will  lay  what  wager  she  pleases 
against  her  present  favorite,  and  can  tell  her,  that 
she  will  like  ten  more  before  she  is  fixed,  and  then 
will  take  the  worst  man  she  ever  liked  in  her  life. 
There  is  no  end  of  affection  taken  in  at  the  eyes 
only ;  and  you  may  as  well  satisfy  those  eyes  with 
seeing,  as  control  any  passion  received  by  them 
only.  It  is  from  loving  by  sight,  that  coxcombs 
so  frequently  succeed  with  women,  and  very  often 
a  young  lady  is  bestowed  by  her  parents  to  a  man 
who  weds  her  as  innocence  itself,  though  she  has, 
in  her  own  heart,  given  her  approbation  of  a  dif¬ 
ferent  man  in  every  assembly  she  was  in  the  whole 
year  before.  What  is  wanting  among  women  as 
well  as  among  men,  is  the  love  of  laudable  things, 
and  not  to  rest  only  in  the  forbearance  of  such  as 
are  reproachful. 

How  far  removed  from  a  woman  of  this  light 
imagination  is  Eudosia!  Eudosia  has  all  the  arts 
of  life  and  good-breeding  with  so  much  ease,  that 
the  virtue  of  her  conduct  looks  more  like  instinct 
than  choice.  It  is  as  little  difficult  to  her  to  think 
justly  of  persons  and  things,  as  it  is  to  a  woman 
of  different  accomplishments  to  move  ill  or  look 
awkward.  That  which  was,  at  first,  the  effect  of 
instruction,  is  grown  into  a  habit;  and  it  would 
be  as  hard  for  Eudosia  to  indulge  a  wrong  sug¬ 
gestion  of  thought,  as  it  would  be  to  Flavia,  the 
fine  dancer,  to  come  into  a  room  with  an  unbecom¬ 
ing  air. 

But  the  misapprehensions  people  themselves 
have  of  their  own  state  of  mind,  is  laid  down 
with  much  discerning  in  the  following  letter, 
which  is  but  an  extract  of  a  kind  epistle  from  my 
charming  mistress  Hecatissa,  who  is  above  the 
vanity  of  external  beauty,  and  is  the  better  judge 
of  the  perfections  of  the  mind. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  write  this  to  acquaint  you,  that  very  many 
ladies,  as  well  as  myself,  spend  many  hours  more 
than  we  used  at  the  glass,  for  want  of  the  female 
library,  of  which  you  promised  us  a  catalogue.  I 
hope,  Sir,  in  the  choice  of  authors  for  us,  you  will 
have  a  particular  regard  to  books  of  devotion. 
What  they  are,  and  how  many,  must  be  your  chief 
care  ;  for  upon  the  propriety  of  such  writings  de¬ 
pends  a  great  deal.  I  have  known  those  among 
us,  who  think  if  they  every  morning  and  evening 
spend  an  hour  in  their  closet,  and  read  over  so 
many  prayers  in  six  or  seven  books  of  devotion, 
all  equally  nonsensical,  with  a  sort  of  warmth 
(that  might  as  well  be  raised  by  a  glass  of  wine, 
or  a  dram  of  citron),  they  may  all  the  rest  of  their 
time  go  on  in  whatever  their  particular  passion 
leads  them  to.  The  beauteous  Philautia,  who  is 
(in  your  language)  an  idol,  is  one  of  these  vota¬ 
ries  ;  she  has  a  very  pretty-furnished  closet,  to 
which  she  retires  at  her  appointed  hours.  This  is 
her  dressing-room,  as  well  as  chapel ;  she  has  con¬ 


stantly  before  her  a  large  looking-glass ;  and  upon 
the  table,  according  to  a  very  witty  author, 

Together  lie  her  prayer-book  and  paint, 

At  once  t’  improve  the  sinner  and  the  saint. 

“It  must  be  a  good  scene,  if  one  could  be  pre¬ 
sent  at  it,  to  see  this  idol  by  turns  lift  up  her  eyes 
to  heaven  and  steal  glances  at  her  own  dear  per¬ 
son.  It  cannot  but  be  a  pleasing  conflict  between 
vanity  and  humiliation.  When  you  are  upon  this 
subject,  choose  books  which  elevate  the  mind 
above  the  world,  and  give  a  pleasing  indifference 
to  little  things  in  it.  For  want  of  such  instruc¬ 
tions  I  am  apt  to  believe  so  many  people  take  it 
in  their  heads  to  be  sullen,  cross,  ana  angry,  under 
pretense  of  being  abstracted  from  the  affairs  of 
this  life,  when  at  the  same  time  they  betray  their 
fondness  for  them  by  doing  their  duty  as  a  task, 
and  pouting  and  reading  good  books  for  a  week 
together.  Much  of  this  I  take  to  proceed  from  the 
indiscretion  of  the  books  themselves,  whose  very 
titles  of  weekly  preparations,  and  such  limited 
godliness,  lead  people  of  ordinary  capacities  into 
great  errors,  and  raise  in  them  a  mechanical  re¬ 
ligion,  entirely  distinct  from  morality.  I  know  a 
lady  so  given  up  to  this  sort  of  devotion,  that 
though  she  employs  six  or  eight  hours  of  the 
twenty-four  at  cards,  she  never  misses  one  constant 
hour  of  prayer,  for  which  time  another  holds  her 
cards,  to  which  she  returns  with  no  little  anxious¬ 
ness  till  two  or  three  in  the  morning.  All  these 
acts  are  but  empty  shows,  and,  as  it  were,  compli¬ 
ments  made  to  virtue ;  the  mind  is  all  the  while 
untouched  with  any  true  pleasure  in  the  pursuit 
of  it.  From  thence  I  presume  it  arises,  that  so 
many  people  call  themselves  virtuous,  from  no 
other  pretense  to  it  but  an  absence  of  ill.  There 
is  Dulciamara,  the  most  insolent  of  all  creatures 
to  her  friends  and  domestics,  upon  no  other  pre¬ 
tense  in  nature,  but  that  (as  her  silly  phrase  is) 
‘  no  one  can  say  black  is  her  eye.’  She  has  no 
secrets,  forsooth,  which  should  make  her  afraid  to 
speak  her  mind,  and  therefore  she  is  imperti¬ 
nently  blunt  to  all  her  acquaintance,  and  unsea¬ 
sonably  imperious  to  all  her  family.  Dear  Sir,  be 
pleased  to  put  such  books  into  our  hands,  as  may 
make  our  virtue  more  inward,  and  convince  some 
of  us,  that,  in  a  mind  truly  virtuous,  the  scorn  of 
vice  is  always  accompanied  with  the  pity  of  it. 
This  and  other  things  are  impatiently  expected 
from  you  by  our  whole  sex  ;  among  the  rest  by, 
“Sir,  your  most  humble  servant, 

R.  “B.  D.” 


No.  80.]  FRIDAY,  APRIL  1,  1711. 

Coelum  non  animum  mutant  qui  trans  mare  currunt. 

IIok.  1  Ep.  ix,  27. 

Those  that  beyond  sea  go,  will  sadly  find, 

They  change  their  climate  only,  not  their  mind. 

Creech. 

In  the  year  1688,  and  on  the  same  day  of  that 
year,  were  born  in  Cheapside,  London,  two  fe¬ 
males  of  exquisite  feature  and  shape ;  the  one  we 
shall  call  Brunetta,  the  other  Phillis.  A  close  in¬ 
timacy  between  their  parents  made  each  of  them 
the  first  acquaintance  the  other  knew  in  the  world. 
They  played,  dressed  babies,  acted  visitings, 
learned  to  dance  and  make  courtesies,  together. 
They  were  inseparable  companions  in  all  the  little 
entertainments  their  tender  years  were  capable 
of ;  which  innocent  happiness  continued  until  the 
beginning  of  their  fifteenth  year,  when  it  happen¬ 
ed  that  Phillis  had  a  head-dress  on,  which  became 
her  so  very  well,  that  instead  of  being  beheld  any 
more  with  pleasure  for  their  amity  to  each  other, 
the  eyes  of  the  neighborhood  were  turned  to  re- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


mark  them  with  comparison  of  their  beauty. 
They  now  no  longer  enjoyed  the  ease  of  mind  and 
leasing  indolence  in  which  they  were  formerly 
appy,  but  all  their  words  and  actions  were  mis¬ 
interpreted  by  each  other,  and  every  excellence  in 
their  speech  and  behavior  was  looked  upon  as  an 
act  of  emulation  to  surpass  the  other.  These  be¬ 
ginnings  of  disinclination  soon  improved  into  a 
formality  of  behavior,  a  general  coldness,  and  by 
natural  steps  into  an  irreconcilable  hatred. 

These  two  rivals  for  the  reputation  of  beauty, 
were,  in  their  stature,  countenance,  and  mien,  so 
very  much  alike,  that  if  you  were  speaking  of 
them  in  their  absence,  the  words  in  which  you  de¬ 
scribed  the  one  must  give  you  an  idea  of  the  other. 
They  were  hardly  distinguishable,  you  would 
think,  when  they  were  apart,  though  extremely 
different  when  together.  What  made  their  enmity 
the  more  entertaining  to  all  the  rest  of  their  sex 
was,  that  in  detraction  from  each,  neither  could 
fall  upon  any  terms  which  did  not  hit  herself  as 
much  as  her  adversary.  Their  nights  grew  rest¬ 
less  with  meditation  of  new  dresses  to  outvie  each 
other,  and  inventing  new  devices  to  recall  ad¬ 
mirers,  who  observed  the  charms  of  the  one  rather' 
than  those  of  the  other,  on  the  last  meeting.  Their 
colors  failed  at  each  other’s  appearance,  flushed 
with  pleasure  at  the  report  of  a  disadvantage,  and 
their  countenances  withered  upon  instances  of  ap¬ 
plause.  The  decencies  to  which  women  are  oblig¬ 
ed,  made  these  virgins  stifle  their  resentment  so 
far  as  not  to  break  into  open  violences,  while  they 
equally  suffered  the  torments  of  a  regulated  anger. 
Their  mothers,  as  it  is  usual,  engaged  in  the 
quarrel,  and  supported  the  several  pretensions  of 
their  daughters  with  all  that  ill-chosen  sort  of  ex¬ 
pense  which  is  common  with  people  of  plentiful 
fortunes  and  mean  taste.  The  girls  preceded  their 
parents  like  queens  of  May,  in  all  the  gaudy 
colors  imaginable,  on  every  Sunday  to  church,  and 
were  exposed  to  the  examination  of  the  audience 
for  superiority  of  beauty. 

During  this  constant  struggle  it  happened,  that 
Phillis  one  day  at  public  prayers  smote  the  heart 
of  a  gay  West  Indian,  who  appeared  in  all  the 
colors  which  can  affect  an  eye  that  could  not  dis¬ 
tinguish  between  being  fine  and  tawdry.  This 
American,  in  a  Summer-island  suit,  was  too  shin¬ 
ing  and  too  gay  to  be  resisted  by  Phillis,  and  too 
intent  upon  her  charms  to  be  diverted  by  any  of 
the  labored  attractions  of  Brunetta.  Soon  after, 
Brunetta  had  the  mortification  to  see  her  rival  dis¬ 
posed  of  in  a  wealthy  marriage,  while  she  was 
only  addressed  to  in  a  manner  that  showed  she 
wras  the  admiration  of  all  men,  but  the  choice  of 
none.  Phillis  was  carried  to  the  habitation  of  her 
spouse  in  Barbadoes.  Brunetta  had  the  ill-nature 
to  inquire  for  her  by  every  opportunity,  and  had 
the  misfortune  to  hear  of  her  being  attended  by 
numeious  slaves,  fanned  into  slumbers  by  succes¬ 
sive  bands  of  them,  and  carried  from  place  to 
place  in  all  t lie  pomp  of  barbarous  magnificence. 
Biunetta  could  not  endure  these  repeated  advices, 
but  employed  all  her  arts  and  charms  in  laying 
baits  for  any  of  condition  of  the  same  island,  out 
of  a  mere  ambition  to  confront  her  once  more 
before  she  died.  She  at  last  succeeded  in  her 
design,  and  was  taken  to  wife  by  a  gentleman 
whose  estate  was  contiguous  to  that  of  her  ene¬ 
my  s  husband.  It  would  be  endless  to  enumerate 
the  many  occasions  on  which  these  irreconcilable 
beauties  labored  to  excel  each  other;  but  in  process 
of  time  it  happened,  that  a  ship  put  into  the 
island  consigned  to  a  friend  of  Phillis,  who  had 
directions  to  give  her  the  refusal  of  all  goods  for 
apparel,  before  Brunetta  could  be  alarmed  of  their 
arrival.  He  did  so,  and  Phillis  was  dressed  in  a 


127 

few  days  in  a  brocade  more  gorgeous  and  costly 
than  had  ever  before  appeared  in  that  latitude. 
Brunetta  languished  at  the  sight,  and  could  by  no 
means  come  up  to  the  bravery  of  her  antagonist. 
She  communicated  her  anguish  of  mind  to  a  faith¬ 
ful  friend,  who,  by  an  interest  in  the  wife  of  Phil¬ 
lis’s  merchant,  procured  a  remnant  of  the  same 
silk  for  Brunetta.  Phillis  took  pains  to  appear  in 
all  public  places  where  she  was  sure  to  meet  Bru¬ 
netta  ;  Brunetta  was  now  prepared  for  the  insult, 
and  came  to  a  public  ball  in  a  plain  black  silk 
in  ant  u  a,  attended,  by  a  beautiful  negro  girl  in  a 
petticoat  of  the  same  brocade  with  which  Phillis 
was  attired.  This  drew  the  attention  of  the 
whole  company,  upon  which  the  unhappy  Phillis 
swooned  away,  and  was  immediately  conveyed  to 
her  house.  As  soon  as  she  came  to  herself,  she 
fled  from  her  husband’s  house,  went  on  board  a 
ship  in  the  road,  and  is  now  landed  in  inconsola¬ 
ble  despair  at  Plymouth. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

After  the  above  melancholy  narration,  it  may 
perhaps  be  a  relief  to  the  reader  to  peruse  the  fol¬ 
lowing  expostulation : 

“To  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  just  Remonstrance  of  affronted  THAT. 

“Though  I  deny  not  the  petition  of  Mess.  WHO 
and  WHICH,  yet  you  should  not  suffer  them  to  be 
rude,  and  to  call  honest  people  names:  for  that 
bears  very  hard  on  some  of  those  rules  of  decency 
which  you  are  justly  famous  for  establishing. 
They  may  find  fault,  and  correct  speeches  in  the 
senate  and  at  the  bar,  but  let  them  try  to  get  them¬ 
selves  so  often,  and  with  so  much  eloquence,  re¬ 
peated  in  a  sentence,  as  a  great  orator  doth  fre¬ 
quently  introduce  me. 

“‘My  lords!’  says  he,  ‘with  humble  submis¬ 
sion,  That  That  I  say  is  this;  That,  That  That 
gentleman  has  advanced,  is  not  That  That  he 
should  have  proved  to  your  lordships.’  Let  these 
two  questionary  petitioners  try  to  do  thus  with 
their  Whos  and  their  Whiches. 

“  What  great  advantange  was  I  of  to  Mr.  Dry- 
den  in  his  Indian  Emperor, 

‘  You  force  me  still  to  answer  you  in  That? — 

to  furnish  out  a  rhyme  to  Morat  ?  and  what  a  poor 
figure  would  Mr.  Bayes  have  made  without  his 
‘  Egad  and  all  That?’  How  can  a  judicious  man 
distinguish  one  thing  from  another,  without  say¬ 
ing,  ‘ This  here,’  or  ‘  That  there?’  And  how  can  a 
sober  man,  without  using  the  expletives  of  oaths 
(in  which  indeed  the  rakes  and  bullies  have  a 
great  advantage  over  others),  make  a  discourse  of 
any  tolerable  length,  without  ‘That  is;’  and  if  he 
be  a  very  grave  man  indeed,  without  ‘  That  is  to 
say?’  And  how  instructive  as  well  as  entertain¬ 
ing  are  those  usual  expressions  in  the  mouths  of 
great  men,  ‘Such  things  as  That,’  and  ‘The  like 
of  That.’ 

“I  am  not  against  reforming  the  corruptions  of 
speech  you  mention,  and  own  there  are  proper 
seasons  for  the  introduction  of  other  words  beside 
That;  but  I  scorn  as  much  to  supply  the  place  of 
a  Who  or  a  Which  at  every  turn,  as  They  are  une¬ 
qual  always  to  fill  mine ;  and  I  expect  good  lan¬ 
guage  and  civil  treatment,  and  hope  to  receive  it 
for  the  future:  That,  That  I  shall  only  add  is, 
That  I  am,  “Yours, 

R-  “That.” 


128 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


No.  81.  SATURDAY,  JUNE  2,  1711. 

Qualis  ubi  audito  venantum  murmure  tigris 

Horruit  in  xnaculas -  Stat.  Theb.  ii,  128. 

As  when  the  tigress  hears  the  hunter’s  din, 

Dark  angry  spots  distain  her  glossy  skin. 

About  tlie  middle  of  last  winter  I  went  to  see 
an  opera  at  the  theater  in  the  Hay-market,  where 
I  could  not  but  take  notice  of  two  parties  of  very 
fine  women,  that  had  placed  themselves  in  the 
opposite  side-boxes,  and  seemed  drawn  up  in  a 
kind  of  battle  array  one  against  another.  After  a 
short  survey  of  them,  I  found  they  were  patched 
differently;  the  faces  on  one  hand  being  spotted 
on  the  right  side  of  the  forehead,  and  those  upon 
the  other  on  the  left.  I  quickly  perceived  that 
they  cast  hostile  glances  upon  one  another; 
and.  that  their  patches  were  placed  in  those  diffe¬ 
rent  situations,  as  party-signals  to  distinguish 
friends  from  foes.  In  the  middle-boxes,  between 
these  two  opposite  bodies,  were  several  ladies  who 
patched  indifferently  on  both  sides  of  their  faces, 
and  seemed  to  sit  there  with  no  other  intention 
but  to  see  the  opera.  Upon  inquiry  I  found  that 
the  body  of  Amazons  on  my  right  hand  were 
whigs,  and  those  on  my  left  tories ;  and  that  those 
who  had  placed  themselves  in  the  middle  boxes 
were  a  neutral  party,  whose  faces  had  not  yet 
declared  themselves.  These  last,  however,  as  I 
afterward  found,  diminished  daily,  and  took  their 
party  with  one  side  or  the  other ;  insomuch  that  I 
observed,  in  several  of  them,  the  patches  which 
were  before  dispersed  equally,  are  now  all  gone 
over  to  the  whig  or  tory  side  of  the  face.  The 
censorious  say,  that  the  men,  whose  hearts  are 
aimed  at,  are  very  often  the  occasions  that  one 
part  of  the  face  is  thus  dishonored,  and  lies  under 
a  kind  of  disgrace,  while  the  other  is  so  much  set 
off  and  adorned  by  the  owner :  and  that  the 
patches  turn  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  according 
to  the  principles  of  the  man  who  is  most  in  favor. 
But  whatever  may  be  the  motives  of  a  few  fantas¬ 
tical  coquettes,  who  do  not  patch  for  the  public 
good  so  much  as  for  their  own  private  advantage, 
it  is  certain,  that  there  are  several  women  of  honor 
who  patch  out  of  principle,  and  with  an  eye  to 
the  interest  of  their  country. — Nay,  I  am  informed 
that  some  of  them  adhere  so  steadfastly  to  their 
party,  and  are  so  far  from  sacrificing  their  zeal  for 
the  public  to  their  passion  for  any  particular  per¬ 
son,  that,  in  a  late  draught  of  marriage  articles,  a 
lady  has  stipulated  with  her  husband,  that  what¬ 
ever  his  opinions  are,  she  shall  be  at  liberty  to 
patch  on  whicli  side  she  pleases. 

I  must  here  take  notice,  that  Rosalinda,  a  famous 
whig  partisan,  has  most  unfortunately  a  very 
beautiful  mole  on  the  tory  part  of  her  forehead  ; 
which  being  very  conspicuous,  has  occasioned 
many  mistakes,  and  given  a  handle  to  her  enemies 
to  misrepresent  her  face,  as  though  it  had  revolted 
from  the  whig  interest.  But,  whatever  this  natu¬ 
ral  patch  may  seem  to  insinuate,  it  is  well  known 
that  her  notions  of  government  are  still  the  same. 
This  unlucky  mole,  however,  has  misled  several 
coxcombs ;  and,  like  the  hanging  out  of  false 
colors,  made  some  of  them  converse  with  Rosa¬ 
linda  in  what  they  thought  the  spirit  of  her  party, 
when  on  a  sudden  she  has  given  them  an  unex¬ 
pected  fire,  that  has  sunk  them  all  at  once.  If 
Rosalinda  is  unfortunate  in  her  mole,  Nigranilla 
is  as  unhappy  in  a  pimple,  which  forces  her, 
against  her  inclinations,  to  patch  on  the  whig 
side. 

I  am  told  that  many  virtuous  matrons,  who  for¬ 
merly  have  been  taught  to  believe  that  this  artifi¬ 
cial  spotting  of  the  face  was  unlawful,  are  nowT 
reconciled  by  a  zeal  for  their  cause,  to  what  they 
could  not  be  prompted  to  by  a  concern  for  their 


beauty.  This  way  of  declaring  war  upon  one 
another,  puts  me  in  mind  of  what  is  reported  of 
the  tigress — that  several  spots  rise  in  her  skin 
when  she  is  angry,  or,  as  Mr.  Cowley  has  imitated 
the  verses  that  stand  as  the  motto  of  this  paper, 

- She  swells  with  angry  pride, 

And  calls  forth  all  her  spots  on  every  side.* 

When  I  was  in  the  theater  the  time  above-men¬ 
tioned,  I  had  the  curiosity  to  count  the  patches 
on  both  sides,  and  found  the  tory  patches  to  be 
about  twenty  stronger  than  the  whig ;  but  to  make 
amends  for  this  small  inequality,  I  the  next  morn¬ 
ing  found  the  whole  puppet-show  filled  with  faces 
spotted  after  the  whiggish  manner.  Whether  or 
no  the  ladies  had  retreated  hither  in  order  to  rally 
their  forces  I  cannot  tell ;  but  the  next  night  they 
came  in  so  great  a  body  to  the  opera,  that  they 
outnumbered  the  enemy. 

This  account  of  party-patches  will,  I  am  afraid, 
appear  improbable  to  those  who  live  at  a  distance 
from  the  fashionable  world  ;  but  as  it  is  a  dis¬ 
tinction  of  a  very  singular  nature,  and  what  per¬ 
haps  may  never  meet  with  a  parallel,  I  think  I 
should  not  have  discharged  the  office  of  a  faithful 
Spectator,  had  not  I  recorded  it. 

I  have,  in  former  papers,  endeavored  to  expose 
this  party-rage  in  women,  as  it  only  serves  to  ag¬ 
gravate  the  hatreds  and  animosities  that  reign 
among  men,  and  in  a  great  measure  deprives  the 
fair  sex  of  those  peculiar  charms  with  which  na¬ 
ture  has  endowed  them. 

When  the  Romans  and  Sabines  were  at  war,  and 
just  upon  the  point  of  giving  battle,  the  women, 
who  were  allied  to  both  of  them,  interposed  with 
so  many  tears  and  entreaties,  that  they  prevented 
the  mutual  slaughter  which  threatened  both  par¬ 
ties,  and  united  them  together  in  a  firm  and  last¬ 
ing  peace. 

I  would  recommend  this  noble  example  to  our 
British  ladies,  at  a  time  when  their  country  is  torn 
with  so  many  unnatural  divisions,  that  if  they 
continue,  it  will  be  a  misfortune  to  be  born  in  it. 
The  Greeks  thought  it  so  improper  for  women  to 
interest  themselves  in  competitions  and  conten¬ 
tions,  that  for  this  reason,  among  others,  they  for¬ 
bade  them,  under  pain  of  death,  to  be  present  at 
the  Olympic  games,  notwithstanding  these  were 
the  public  diversions  of  all  Greece. 

As  our  English  women  exceed  those  o.f  all  na¬ 
tions  in  beauty,  they  should  endeavor  to  outshine 
them  in  all  other  accomplishments  proper  to  the 
sex,  and  to  distinguish  themselves  as  tender 
mothers  and  faithful  wives,  rather  than  as  furious 
partisans.  Female  virtues  are  of  a  domestic  turn. 
The  family  is  the  proper  province  for  private 
women  to  shine  in.  If  they  must  be  showing 
their  zeal  for  the  public,  let  it  not  be  against  those 
who  are  perhaps  of  the  same  family,  or  at  least  of 
the  same  religion  or  nation,  but  against  those  who 
are  the  open,  professed,  undoubted  enemies  of 
their  faith,  liberty,  and  country.  When  the  Ro¬ 
mans  were  pressed  with  a  foreign  enemy,  the 
ladies  voluntarily  contributed  all  their  rings  and 
jewels  to  assist  the  government  under  a  public 
exigence,  which  appeared  so  laudable  an  action  in 
the  eyes  of  their  countrymen,  that  from  thence¬ 
forth  it  was  permitted  by  a  law  to  pronounce  pub¬ 
lic  orations  at  the  funeral  of  a  woman  in  praise 
of  the  deceased  person,  which  till  that  time  was 
peculiar  to  men.  Would  our  English  ladies,  in¬ 
stead  of  sticking  on  a  patch  against  those  of  their 
own  country,  show  themselves  so  truly  public- 
spirited  as  to  sacrifice  every  one  her  necklace 
against  the  common  enemy,  what  decrees  ought 
not  to  be  made  in  favor  of  them  ? 


*  Davideis,  Book  III,  page  409,  Vol.  II,  1710. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Since  I  am  recollecting  upon  this  subject  such 
passages  as  occur  to  my  memory  out  ot‘  ancient 
authors,  I  cannot  omit  a  sentence  in  the  celebrated 
fuueial  oration  of  Pericles,  which  he  made  in 
honor  of  those  brave  Athenians  that  were  slain 
in  a  fight  with  the  Lacedaemonians.*  After  hav¬ 
ing  addressed  himself  to  the  several  ranks  and 
orders  of  his  countrymen,  and  shown  them  how 
they  should  behave  themselves  in  his  public 
cause,  he  turns  to  the  female  part  of  the  audi¬ 
ence  :  “And  as  for  you/'  says  he,  “  I  shall  advise 
you  in  very  few  words.  Aspire  only  to  those 
vntues  that  are  peculiar  to  your  sex  ;  follow  your 
natural  modesty,  and  think  it  your  greatest  com¬ 
mendation  not  to  be  talked  of  one  way  or  other/’ 
C. 


No.  82.]  MONDAY,  JUNE  4,  1711. 

- Caput  domina  Tenale  sub  hasta. 

Juv.,  Sat.  iii,  33. 

His  fortune  ruin’d,  and  himself  a  slave. 

Passing  under  Ludgatef  the  other  day,  I  heard  a 
voice  brawling  for  charity,  which  I  thought  I  had 
somewhere  heard  before.  Coming  near  to  the  grate, 
the  prisoner  called  me  by  my  name,  and  desired 
I  would  throw  something  into  the  box  ;  I  was  out 
of  countenance  for  him,  and  did  as  he  bid  me,  by 
putting  in  half-a-crown.  I  went  away,  reflect¬ 
ing  upon  the  strange  constitution  of  some  men, 
and  liow  meanly  they  behave  themselves  in  all 
sorts  of  conditions.  The  person  who  begged  of 
me  is  now,  I  take  it,  fifty  :  I  was  well  acquainted 
with  him  till  about  the  age  of  twenty-five  ;  at 
which  time  a  good  estate  fell  to  him  by  the  death 
of  a  relation.  LTpon  coming  to  this  unexpected 
^ood  fortune,  he  ran  into  all  the  extravagances 
imaginable  ;  was  frequently  in  drunken  disputes, 
broke  drawers’  heads,  talked  and  swore  loud,  was 
unmannerly  to  those  above,  and  insolent  to  those 
below  him.  I  could  not  but  remark,  that  it  was 
the  same  baseness  of  spirit  which  worked  in  his 
behavior  in  both  fortunes  :  the  same  littl^  mind 
was  insolent  in  riches,  and  shameless  in  poverty. 
This  accident  made  me  muse  upon  the  circum¬ 
stance  of  being  in  debt  in  general,  and  solve  in 
my  mind  what  tempers  were  most  apt  to  fall  into 
this  error  of  life,  as  well  as  the  misfortune  it  must 
needs  be  to  languish  under  such  pressures.  As 
for  myself,  my  natural  aversion  to  that  sort  of 
conversation  which  makes  a  figure  with  the  gene¬ 
rality  of  mankind,  exempts  me  from  any  tempta¬ 
tions  to  expense ;  and  all  my  business  lies  within 
a  very  narrow  compass,  which  is  only  to  give  an 
honest  man  who  takes  care  of  my  estate,  proper 
vouchers  for  his  quarterly  payments  to  me,  and 
observe  what  linen  my  laundress  brings  and  takes 
away  with  her  once  a  week.  My  steward  brings 
his  receipt  ready  for  my  signing ;  and  I  have  a 
pretty  implement  with  the  respective  names  of 
shuts,  cravats,  handkerchiefs,  and  stockings,  with 
pioper  numbers,  to  know  how  to  reckon  with  my 
laundress.  This  being  almost  all  the  business  'I 
ha\  e  m  the  world  for  the  care  of  my  own  affairs, 

1  am  at  lull  leisure  to  observe  upon  what  others 
dh  relation  to  their  equipage  and  economy. 
vY  hen  I  walk  the  street  and  observe  the  hurry 
about  me  in  this  town,  J 

y*  here,  with  like  haste,  through  several  ways  they  run* 
Some  to  undo,  and  some  to  be  undone!  ’ 

I  say,  when  I  behold  this  vast  variety  of  persons 


*Thuycd.  “Hist.,”  L.  II,  p.  130,  edit.  H.  Steph.,  1588,  folio. 
T  Ludgate  was  a  prison  for  such  debtors  as  were  freemen  of 
me  city  of  London;  it  was  taken  down  in  the  year  1762,  and 
the  prisoners  removed  to  the  London  workhouse. 


129 

and  humors,  with  the  pains  they  both  take  for  the 
accomplishment  of  the  ends  mentioned  in  the 
abo\  e  verses  of  Denham,*  I  cannot  much  wonder 
at  the  endeavor  after  gain,  but  am  extremely  as- 
tonished  that  men  can  be  so  insensible  of  the  dan- 
ger  of  running  into  debt.  One  would  think  it 
impossible  that  a  man  who  is  given  to  contract 
debts  should  not  know,  that  his  creditor  has, 
from  that  moment  in  which  he  transgresses  pay¬ 
ment,  so  much  as  that  demand  comes  to,  in  his 
debtor’s  honor,  liberty,  and  fortune.  One  would 
think  he  did  not  know  that  his  creditor  can  say 
the  worst  thing  imaginable  of  him,  to-wit,  “  That 
he  is  unjust,”  without  defamation ;  and  can  seize 
his  peison,  without  being  guilty  of  an  assault. 
j.  ct  such  is  the  loose  and  abandoned  turn  of  some 
men’s  minds,  that  they  can  live  under  these  con¬ 
stant  apprehensions,  and  still  go  on  to  increase 
the  cause  of  them.  Can  there  be  a  more  low  and 
servile  condition,  than  to  be  ashamed  or  afraid  to 
see  any  one  man  breathing?  Yet  he  that  is  much 
in  debt,  is  in  that  condition  with  relation  to  twenty 
different  people.  There  are  indeed  circumstances 
wherein  men  of  honest  natures  may  become  liable 
to  debts,  by  some  unadvised  behavior,  in  any  great 
point  of  their  lite,  or  mortgaging  a  man’s  honesty 
as  a  security  for  that  of  another,  and  the  like  ;  but 
these  instances  are  so  particular  and  circumstan¬ 
tiated,  that  they  cannot  come  within  general  con¬ 
siderations.  For  one  such  case  as  one  of  these, 
there  are  ten  where  a  man,  to  keep  up  a  farce  of 
retinue  and  grandeur  within  his  own  house,  shall 
shrink  at  the  expectation  of  surly  demands  at  his 
doors.  The  debtor  is  the  creditor’s  criminal;  and 
all  the  officers  of  power  and  state,  whom  we  behold 
make  so  great  a  figure,  are  no  other  than  so  many 
persons  in  authority  to  make  good  his  charge 
against  him.  .Human  society  depends  upon  his 
having  the  vengeance  law  allots  him  ;  and  the 
debtor  owes  his  liberty  to  his  neighbor,  as  much 
as  the  murderer  does  his  life  to  his  prince. 

Our  gentry  are,  generally  speaking,  in  debt ; 
and  many  families  have  put  it  into  a  kind  of 
method  of  being  so  from  generation  to  generation. 
The  father  mortgages  when  his  son  is  very  young; 
and  the  boy  is  to  marry,  as  soon  as  he  is  at  age’ 
to  redeem  it  and  find  portions  for  his  sisters. 

1  his,  forsooth,  is  no  great  inconvenience  to  him  ; 
lor  he  may  wench,  keep  a  public  table,  or  feed 
dogs,  like  a  worthy  English  gentleman,  till  he 
has  out-run  half  his  estate,  and  leave  the  same 
incumbrance  upon  his  first-born,  and  so  on  ;  till 
one  man  of  more  vigor  than  ordinary  goes  quite 
through  the  estate,  or  some  man  of  sense  comes 
into  it,  and  scorns  to  have  an  estate  in  partner¬ 
ship,  that  is  to  say,  liable  to  the  demand  or  insult 
of  any  man  living.  There  is  my  friend  Sir  An¬ 
drew,  though  for  many  years  a  great  and  general 
trader,  was  never  the  defendant  in  a  law-suit,  in 
all  the  perplexity  of  business,  and  the  iniquity  of 
mankind  at  present ;  no  one  had  any  color  for  the 
least  complaint  against  his  dealings  with  him. 

1  his  is  certainly  as  uncommon,  and  in  its  propor¬ 
tion  as  laudable  in  a  citizen,  as  it  is  in  a  general 
never  to  have  suffered  a  disadvantage  in  fight. 
How  different  from  this  gentleman  is  Jack  True¬ 
penny,  who  has  been  an  old  acquaintance  of  Sir 
Andrew  and  myself  trom  boys,  but  could  never 
learn  our  caution.  Jack  has  a  whorish,  unresist¬ 
ing  good-nature,  which  makes  him  incapable  of 
having  a  property  in  anything.  His  fortune,  his 
reputation,  his  time,  and  his  capacity,  are  at  any 
man  s  service  that  comes  first.  When  he  was  at 
school  he  was  whipped  thrice  a  week  for  faults 
he  took  upon  him  to  excuse  others;  since  he  came 


♦From  his  poem  entitled  “Cooper’s  Hill.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


130 

into  the  business  of  the  world,  he  has  been  ar¬ 
rested  twice  or  thrice  a-year  for  debts  he  had 
nothing  to  do  with,  but  as  surety  for  others ;  and 
I  remember  when  a  friend  of  his  had  suffered  in 
the  vice  of  the  town,  all  the  physic  his  friend 
took  was  conveyed  to  him  by  Jack,  and  inscribed 
“A  bolus  or  an  electuary  for  Mr.  Truepenny. 
Jack  had  a  good  estate  left  him,  which  came  to 
nothing;  because  he  believed  all  who  pretended 
to  demands  upon  it.  This  easiness  and  creaulity 
destroy  all  the  other  merit  he  has;  and  he  has  all 
his  life  been  a  sacrifice  to  others,  without  ever  re¬ 
ceiving  thanks,  or  doing  one  good  action. 

I  will  end  this  discourse  with  a  speech  which  1 
heard  Jack  make  to  one  of  his  creditors  (of  whom 
he  deserved  gentler  usage)  after  lying  a  whole 
night  in  custody  at  his  suit. 

“  Sir;  your  ingratitude  for  the  many  kindnesses 
I  have  done  you,  shall  not  make  me  unthankful 
for  the  good  you  have  done  me,  in  letting  me 
see  there  is  such  a  man  as  you  in  the  world.  I 
am  obliged  to  you  for  the  diffidence  I  shall  have 
all  the  rest  of  my  life  :  I  shall  hereafter  trust  no 
man  so  far  as  to  be  in  his  debt.”  R. 


No.  83.]  TUESDAY,  JUNE  5,  1711. 

- Animum  nictura  pascit  inani. 

Virg.  2En.,  l,  464. 

And  with  the  shadowy  picture  feeds  his  mind. 

When  the  weather  hinders  me  from  taking  my 
diversions  without  doors,  I  frequently .  make  a 
little  party  with  two  or  three  select  friends,  to 
visit  anything  curious  that  may  be  seen  under 
covert.  My  principal  entertainments  of  this  na¬ 
ture  are  pictures,  insomuch  that  when  I  have 
found  the  weather  set  in  to  be  very  bad,  I  have 
taken  a  whole  day’s  journey  to  see  a  gallery  that 
is  furnished  by  the  hands  of  great  masters.  By 
this  means,  when  the  heavens  are  filled  with 
clouds,  when  the  earth  swims  in  rain,  and  all 
nature  wears  a  lowering  countenance,  I  withdraw 
myself  from  these  uncomfortable  scenes  into  the 
visionary  worlds  of  art ;  where  I  meet  with  shill¬ 
ing  landscapes,  gilded  triumphs,  beautiful  faces, 
and  all  those  other  objects  which  fill  the  mind  with 
gay  ideas,  and  disperse  that  gloominess  which  is 
apt  to  hang  upon  it  in  those  dark  disconsolate 

seasons.  . 

I  was  some  weeks  ago  in  a  course  oi  these  divei- 

sions,  which  had  taken  such  an  entire  possession 
of  my  imagination,  that  they  formed  in  it  a  short 
morning’s  dream,  which  I  shall  communicate  to 
my  reader,  rather  as  the  first  sketch  and  outlines 
of  a  vision,  than  as  a  finished  piece. 

I  dreamt  that  I  was  admitted  into  a  long,  spa¬ 
cious  gallery,  which  had  one  side  covered  with 
pieces  of  all  the  famous  painters  who  are  now 
living,  and  the  other  with  the  works  of  the  great¬ 
est  masters  that  are  dead. 

On  the  side  of  the  living,  I  saw  several  persons 
busy  in  drawing,  coloring,  and  designing.  On 
the  side  of  the  dead  painters,  I  could  not  discover 
more  than  one  person  at  work,  who  was  exceed¬ 
ingly  slow  in  his  motions,  and  wonderfully  nice 

in  his  touches.  . 

I  was  resolved  to  examine  the  several  artists 
that  stood  before  me,  and  accordingly  applied 
myself  to  the  side  of  the  living.  The  first  I  ob¬ 
served  at  work  in  this  part  of  the  gallery  was 
Vanity,  with  his  hair  tied  behind  him  in  a 
ribbon,'  and  dressed  like  a  Frenchman.  All  the 
faces  he  drew  were  very  remarkable  for  their 
smiles,  and  a  certain  smirking  air  which  he  be¬ 
stowed  indifferently  on  every  age  and  degree  of 


either  sex.  The  toujours  gai  appeared  even  in  hifc 
judges,  bishops,  and  privy  counselors  In  a 
word,  <\11  his  high,  were  pstits  in&itTcs  y  find  8.11  his 
women  coquettes.  The  drapery  of  his  figures  was 
extremely  well  suited  to  his  laces,  and  was  made 
up  of  all  the  glaring  colors  that  could  be  mixed 
together  ;  every  part  of  the  dress  was  in  a  flutter, 
and  endeavored  to  distinguish  itself  above  the 
rest 

On  the  left  hand  of  Vanity  stood  a  laborious 
workman  who  I  found  was  his  humble  admirer, 
and  copied  after  him.  He  was  dressed  like  a 
German,  and  had  a  very  hard  name,  that  sounded 
something  like  Stupidity. 

The  third  artist  that  I  looked  over  was  Fan- 
tasque,  dressed  like  a  Venetian  scaiamouch.  He 
had  an  excellent  hand  at  chimera,  and  dealt  very 
much  in  distortions  and  grimaces.  He  would 
sometimes  affright  himself  with  the  phantoms 
that  flowed  from  his  pencil.  In  short,  the  most 
elaborate  of  his  pieces  was  at  best  but  a  tenifying 
dream  ;  and  one  could  say  nothing  more  of  his 
finest  figures,  than  that  they  were  agreeable 
monsters. 

The  fourth  person  I  examined  was  very  remark¬ 
able  for  his  hasty  hand,  which  left  his  pictures  so 
unfin i shed  that  the  beauty  in  the  picture  (which 
was  designed  to  continue  as  a  monument  of  it  to 
posterity)  faded  sooner  than  in  the  person  after 
whom  it  was  drawn.  He  made  so  much  haste  to 
dispatch  his  business,  that  he  neither  gave  himself 
time  to  clean  his  pencils,  nor  mix  his  colors.  The 
name  of  this  expeditious  workman  was  Avarice. 

Not  far  from  this  artist  I  saw  another  of  a  quite 
different  nature,  who  was  dressed  in  the  habit 
of  a  Dutchman,  and  known  by  the  name  of  In¬ 
dustry.  His  figures  were  wonderfully  labored. 
If  he  drew  the  portraiture  of  a  man,  he  did  not 
omit  a  single  hair  in  his  face;  if  the  figuie  of  a 
ship,  there  was  not  a  rope  among  the  tackle  that 
escaped  him.  He  had  likewise  hung  a  great  part 
of  the  wall  with  night  pieces,  that  seemed  to 
show  themselves  by  the  candles  which  were 
lighted  up  in  several  parts  of  them;  and  were  so 
inflamed  by  the  sunshine  which  accidentally  fell 
upon  them,  that  at  first  sight  I  could  scarce  for¬ 
bear  crying  out  “  Fire.” 

The  “five  foregoing  artists  were  the  most  con¬ 
siderable  on  this  side  the  gallery  ;  there  were 
indeed  several  others  whom  I  had  not  time  to 
look  into.,  One  of  them,  however,  I  could  not 
forbear  observing,  who  was  very  busy  in  retouch¬ 
ing  the  finest  pieces,  though  he  produced  no 
originals  of  his  own.  His  pencil  aggravated 
every  feature  that  was  before  overcharged,  loaded 
every  defect,  and  poisoned  every  color  it  touched. 
Though  this  workman  did  so  much  mischief  on 
the  side  of  the  living,  he  never  turned  his  eye 
toward  that  of  the  dead.  His  name  was  Envy. 

Having  taken  a  cursory  view  of  one  side  of  the# 
gallery,  1  turned  myself  to  that  which  was  filled 
by  the  works  of  those  great  masters  that  were 
dead;  when  immediately  I  fancied  myself  stand¬ 
ing  before  a  multitude  of  spectators,  and  thou¬ 
sands  of  eyes  looking  upon  me  at  once  :  for  all 
before  me  appeared  so  like  men  and  women,  that 
I  almost  forgot  they  were  pictures.  Raphael’s 
figures  stood  in  one  row,  Titian’s  in  another, 
Guido  Rheni’s  in  a  third.  One  part  of  the  wall 
was  peopled  by  Hannibal  Carracce,  another  by 
Correggio,  and  another  by  Rubens.  To  be  short, 
there  was  not  a  great  master  among  the  dead  who 
had  not  contributed  to  the  embellishment  of  this 
side  of  the  gallery.  The  persons  that  owed  their 
being  to  these  several  masters,  appeared  all  of 
them  to  be  real  and  alive,  and  differed  among 
one  another  only  in  the  variety  of  theii  shapes. 


131 


THE  SPE 

complexions,  and  clothes  ;  so  that  they  looked 
like  different  nations  of  the  same  species. 

Observing  an  old  man  (who  was  the  same  per¬ 
son  I  before  mentioned  as  the  only  artist  that  was 
at  work  on  this  side  of  the  gallery)  creeping  up 
and  down  from  one  picture  to  another,  and  re¬ 
touching  all  the  fine  pieces  that  stood  before  me, 
I  could  not  but  be  very  attentive  to  all  his  mo¬ 
tions.  I  found  his  pencil  was  so  very  light,  that 
it  worked  imperceptibly,  and,  after  a  thousand 
touches,  scarce  produced  any  visible  effect  in  the 
picture  on  which  he  was  employed.  However, 
as  he  busied  himself  incessantly,  and  repeated 
touch  after  touch  without  rest  or  intermission,  he 
wore  oft  insensibly  every  little  disagreeable  gloss 
that  hung  upon  a  figure.  He  also  added  such  a 
beautiful  brown  to  the  shades  and  mellowness  to 
the  colors,  that  he  made  every  picture  appear 
more  perfect  than  when  it  came  fresh  from  the 
master’s  pencil.  I  could  not  forbear  looking 
upon  the  face  of  this  ancient  workman,  and  im¬ 
mediately  by  the  long  lock  of  hair  upon  his  fore¬ 
head,  discovered  him  to  be  Time. 

Whether  it  were  because  the  thread  of  my 
dream  was  at  an  end  I  cannot  tell ;  but,  upon  my 
taking  a  survey  of  this  imaginary  old  man,  my 
6leep  left.  me. — C. 


No.  84.]  WEDNESDAY,  JUNE,  6,  1711. 

- Quis  talia  fando 

Myrmidonum  Dolupomve  aut  duri  miles  Ulyssei 
Temperet  a  lachrymis? — Virg.  Jin.,  ii,  6. 

Who  con  such  woes  relate,  without  a  tear, 

As  stern  Ulysses  must  have  wept  to  hear  ? 

Looking  over  the  old  manuscript  wherein  the 
private  actions  of  Pharamond  are  set  down  by 
way  of  table-book,  I  found  many  things  which 
gave  me  great  delight ;  and  as  human  life 
turns  upon  the  same  principles  and  passions  in 
all  ages,  I  thought  it  very  proper  to  take  minutes 
of  wliat  passed  in  that  age,  for  the  instruction  of 
this.  The  antiquary  who  lent  me  these  papers 

favc  me  a  character  of  Eucrate,  the  favorite  of 
haramond,  extracted  from  an  author  who  lived 
in  that  court.  The  account  he  gives  both  of  the 
prince  and  this  his  faithful  friend,  will  not  be 
improper  to  insert  here,  because  I  may  have  occa¬ 
sion  to  mention  many  of  their  conversations,  into 
which  these  memorials  of  them  may  give  light. 

“  Pharamond,  when  he  had  a  mind  to  retire  for 
an  hour  or  two  from  the  hurry  of  business  and 
fatigue  of  ceremony,  made  a  signal  to  Eucrate,  by 
putting  his  hand  to  his  face,  placing  his  arm  ne¬ 
gligently  on  a  window,  or  some  such  action  as 
appeared  indifferent  to  all  the  rest  of  the  com¬ 
pany.  Upon  such  notice,  unobserved  by  others 
(for  their  entire  intimacy  was  always  a  secret), 
Eucrate  repaired  to  his  own  apartment  to  receive 
the  king.  There  was  a  secret  access  to  this  part 
of  the  court,  at  which  Eucrate  used  to  admit 
many,  whose  mean  appearance  in  the  eyes  of 
the  ordinary  waiters  and  doorkeepers  made  them  be 
repulsed  trom  other  parts  of  the  palace.  Such  as 
these  were  let  in  here  by  order  of  Eucrate,  and 
had  audiences  of  Pharamond.  This  entrance 
Pharamond  called  the  ‘gate  of  the  unhappy/  and 
the  tears  of  the  afflicted  who  came  before  him,  he 
would  say  were  bribes  received  by  Eucrate ;  for 
Eucrate  had  the  most  compassionate  spirit  of  all 
men  living,  except  his  generous  master,  who  was 
always  kindled  at  the  least  affliction  which  was 
communicated  to  him.  In  regard  for  the  miser¬ 
able,  Eucrate  took  particular  care  that  the  proper 
forms  of  distress,  and  the  idle  pretenders  to  sor¬ 
row,  about  courts,  who  wanted  only  supplies  to 


CTATOR. 

luxury,  should  never  obtain  favor  by  his  means  ; 
but  the  distresses. which  arise  from  the  many  inex¬ 
plicable  occurrences  that  happen  among  men,  the 
unaccountable  alienation  of  parents  from  their 
children,  cruelty  of  husbands  to  wives,  poverty 
occasioned  from  shipwreck  or  fire,  the  falling  out 
of  friends,  or  such  other  terrible  disasters  to 
which  the  life  of  man  is  exposed, — in  cases  of 
this  nature,  Eucrate  was  the  patron,  and  enjoyed 
this  part  of  the  royal  favor  so  much  without 
being  envied,  that  it  was  never  inquired  into,  by 
whose  means,  wrhat  no  one  else  cared  for  doing 
was  brought  about. 

“  One  evening,  when  Pharamond  came  into  the 
apartment  of  Eucrate,  he  found  him  extremely 
dejected:  upon  which  he  asked  (with  a  smile 
that  Avas  natural  to  him),  ‘  What,  is  there  any 
one  too  miserable  to  be  relieved  by  Pharamond, 
that  Eucrate  is  melancholy  ?’  *  I  fear  there  is/ 
answered  the  favorite  :  ‘  A  person  Avithout,  of  a 
good  air,  well  dressed,  and  though  a  man  in  the 
strength  of  life,  seems  to  faint  under  some  incon¬ 
solable  calamity.  All  his  features  seem  suffused 
with  agony  of  mind;  but  I  can  observe  in  him, 
that  it  is  more  inclined  to  break  aAAray  in  tears 
than  rage.  I  asked  him  wliat  he  would  have. 
He  said  he  would  speak  to  Pharamond.  1  desired 
his  business.  He  could  hardly  say  to  me, 

‘  Eucrate,  carry  me  to  the  king,  my  story  is  not 
to  be  told  twice  ;  I  fear  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
speak  it  at  all.’  Pharamond  commanded  Eucrate 
to  let  him  enter ;  he  did  so,  and  the  gentleman 
approached  the  king  Avith  an  air  which  spoke 
him  under  the  greatest  concern  in  Avhat  manner  to 
demean  himself.  The  king,  who  had  a  quick 
discerning,  relieved  him  from  the  oppression  he 
was  under ;  and  with  the  most  beautiful  compla¬ 
cency  said  to  him,  ‘  Sir,  do  not  add  to  that  load 
of  soitoav  I  see  in  your  countenance  the  aAve  of 
my  presence.  Think  you  are  speaking  to  your 
friend.  If  the  circumstances  of  your  distress  Avill 
admit  of  it,  you  shall  find  me  so/  To  Avliom  the 
stranger  :  ‘  Oh,  excellent  Pharamond,  name  not  a 
friend  to  the  unfortunate  Spinamont.*  I  had 
one,  but  he  is  dead  by  my  oavh  hand  ;  but,  oh 
Pharamond,  though  it  Avas  by  the  hand  of  Spina¬ 
mont,  it  Avas  by  the  guilt  of  Pharamond.  I  come 
not,  oh  excellent  prince,  to  implore  your  pardon  ; 

I  come  to  relate  my  soitoav,  a  sorrow  too  great  for 
human  life  to  support ;  from  henceforth  shall  all 
occurrences  appear  dreams,  or  short  intervals  of 
amusement  from  this  one  affliction,  which  has 
seized  my  very  being.  Pardon  me,  oh  Phara¬ 
mond,  if  my  griefs  give  me  leave,  that  I  lay  before 
you  in  the  anguish  of  a  wounded  mind,  that  you, 
good  as  you  are,  are  guilty  of  the  generous  biood 
spilt  this  day  by  this  unhappy  hand.  0  that  it 
had  perished  before  that  instant !’  Here  the 
stranger  paused,  and  recollecting  his  mind,  after 
some  little  meditation,  he  went  on  in  a  calmer 
tone  and  gesture  as  folloAvs  : 

“  There  is  an  authority  due  to  distress,  and  as 
none  of  human  race  is  above  the  reach  of  sorrow, 
none  should  be  above  the  hearing  the  voice  of 
it ;  I  am  sure  Pharamond  is  not.  Know  then, 
that  I  have  this  morning  unfortunately  killed  in 
a  duel,  the  man  whom  of  all  men  living  I  most 
loved.  I  command  myself  too  much  in  your  royal 
presence,  to  say  Pharamond  gave  me  my  friend ! 
Pharamond  has  taken  him  from  me !  I  will  not 
say,  shall  the  merciful  Pharamond  destroy  his 
own  subjects?  Will  the  father  of  his  country 
murder  his  people  ?  But  the  merciful  Pharamond 


*  Mr.  Thornhill,  the  gentleman  here  alluded  to  under  the 
fictitious  or  translated  name  of  Spinamont,  killed  Sir  Choh 
mondley  Deering,  of  Kent,  hart.,  in  a  duel,  May  9, 1711. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


132 

does  destroy  his  subjects,  the  father  of  his  coun¬ 
try  does  murder  his  people.  Fortune  is  so  much 
the  pursuit  of  mankind,  that  all  glory  and  honor 
is  in  the  power  of  a  prince,  because  he  has  the 
distribution  of  their  fortunes.  It  is  therefore  the 
inadvertency,  negligence,  or  guilt,  of  princes  to 
let  anything  grow  into  custom  which  is  against 
their  laws.  A  court  can  make  fashion  and  duty 
walk  together  ;  it  can  never,  without  the  guilt  of 
a  court,  happen  that  it  shall  not  be  unfashionable 
to  do  what  is  unlawful.  But,  alas  !  in  the  do¬ 
minions  of  Pharamond,  by  the  force  of  a  tyrant 
custom,  which  is  misnamed  a  point  of  honor,  the 
duelist  kills  his  friend  whom  he  loves  ;  and  the 
judge  condemns  the  duelist  while  he  approves 
his  behavior.  Shame  is  the  greatest  of  all  evils  ; 
what  avail  laws,  when  death  only  attends  the 
breach  of  them,  and  shame  obedience  to  them  ? 
As  for  me,  0  Pharamond,  were  it  possible  to  de¬ 
scribe  the  nameless  kinds  of  compunctions  and 
tendernesses  I  feel,  when  I  reflect  upon  the  little 
accidents  in  our  former  familiarity,  my  mind 
swells  into  sorrow  which  cannot  be  resisted 
enough  to  be  silent  in  the  presence  of  Pharamond. 
(With  that  he  fell  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  wept 
aloud.)  Why  should  not  Pharamond  hear  the 
anguish  he  only  can  relieve  others  from  in  time 
to  come?  Let  him  hear  from  me,  what  they  feel 
who  have  given  death  by  the  false  mercy  of  his 
administration,  and  form  to  himself  the  vengeance 
called  for  by  those  who  have  perished  by  his 
negligence.’  ” — R. 


No.  85.]  THURSDAY,  JUNE  7,  1711. 

Interdum  speciosa  locis,  morataque  recte 
Fabula,  nullius  Veneris,  sine  pondere  et  arte, 

**  Valdius  oblectat  populum,  meli usque  moratur, 

Quam  versus  inopes  rerum,  nugseque  canorae. 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  319. 

When  the  sentiments  and  manners  please, 

And  all  the  characters  are  wrought  with  ease, 

Your  tale,  though  void  of  beauty,  force,  and  art, 

More  strongly  shall  delight,  and  wax-m  the  heart ; 

Than  where  a  lifeless  pomp  of  verse  appears. 

And  with  sonorous  trifles  charms  our  ears. — Francis. 

It  is  the  custom  of  the  Mahometans,  if  they  see 
any  written  or  printed  paper  upon  the  ground,  to 
take  it  up  and  lay  it  aside  carefully,  as  not  know¬ 
ing  but  it  may  contain  some  portion  of  their  Alco¬ 
ran.  I  must  confess  I  have  so  much  of  the  Mus¬ 
sulman  in  me,  that  I  cannot  forbear  looking  into 
every  printed  paper  which  comes  in  my  way,  under 
whatsoever  despicable  circumstances  it  may  ap¬ 
pear;  for  as  no  mortal  author,  in  the  ordinary  fate 
and  vicissitude  of  things,  knows  to  what  use  his 
works  may  sometime  or  other  be  applied,  a  man 
may  often  meet  with  very  celebrated  names  in  a 
paper  of  tobacco.  I  have  lighted  my  pipe  more 
than  once  with  the  writings  of  a  prelate;  and  know 
a  friend  of  mine,  who,  for  these  several  years,  has 
converted  the  essays  of  a  man  of  quality  into  a 
kind  of  fringe  for  his  candlesticks.  I  remember 
in  particular,  after  having  read  over  a  poem  of  an 
eminent  author  on  a  victory,  I  met  with  several 
fragments  of  it  upon  the  next  rejoicing  day,  which 
had  been  employed  in  squibs  and  crackers,  and 
by  that  means  celebrated  its  subject  in  a  double 
capacity.  I  once  met  with  a  page  of  Mr.  Baxter 
under  a  Christmas-pie.  Whether  or  no  the  pastry¬ 
cook  had  made  use  of  it  through  chance  or  wag¬ 
gery,  for  the  defense  of  that  superstitious  viande, 
I  know  not;  but  upon  the  perusal  of  it,  I  conceived 
so  good  an  idea  of  the  author’s  piety,  that  I  bought 
the  whole  book.  I  have  often  profited  by  these 
accidental  readings,  and  have  sometimes  found 
very  curious  pieces  that  are  either  out  of  print,  or 
not  to  be  met  with  in  the  shops  of  our  London 


booksellers.  For  this  reason,  when  my  friends 
take  a  survey  of  my  library,  they  are  very  much 
surprised  to  find  upon  the  shelf  of  folios,  two  long 
band-boxes  standing  upright  among  my  books  ; 
till  I  let  them  see  that  they  are  both  of  them  lined 
with  deep  erudition  and  abstruse  literature.  I 
might  likewise  mention  a  paper-kite,  from  which  I 
have  received  great  improvement ;  and  a  hat-case 
which  I  would  not  exchange  for  all  the  beavers  in 
Great  Britain.  This  my  inquisitive  temper,  or 
rather  impertinent  humor  of  prying  into  all  sorts 
of  writing,  with  my  natural  aversion  to  loquacity, 
gives  me  a  good  deal  of  employment  when  I  enter 
any  house  in  the  country ;  for  I  cannot  for  my 
heart  leave  a  room  before  I  have  thoroughly  stud¬ 
ied  the  Avails  of  it,  and  examined  the  several  print¬ 
ed  papers  which  are  usually  pasted  upon  them. 
The  last  piece  that  I  met  with  upon  this  occasion 
gave  me  most  exquisite  pleasure.  My  reader  will 
think  I  am  not  serious,  when  I  acquaint  him  that 
the  piece  I  am  going  to  speak  of  was  the  old  bal¬ 
lad  of  the  Two  Children  in  the  Wood,  which  is 
one  of  the  darling  songs  of  the  common  people, 
and  has  been  the  delight  of  most  Englishmen  in 
some  part  of  their  age. 

This  song  is  a  plain  simple  copy  of  nature,  des¬ 
titute  of  the  helps  and  ornaments  of  art.  The 
tale  of  it  is  a  pretty  tragical  story,  and  pleases  for 
no  other  reason  but  because  it  is  a  copy  of  nature. 
There  is  even  a  despicable  simplicity  in  the  verse; 
and  yet,  because  the  sentiments  appear  genuine 
and  unaffected,  they  are  able  to  move  the  mind  of 
the  most  polite  reader  with  inward  meltings  of 
humanity  and  compassion.  The  incidents  grow 
out  of  the  subject,  and  are  such  as  are  the  most 
proper  to  excite  pity ;  for  which  reason  the  whole 
narration  has  something  in  it  very  moving,  not¬ 
withstanding  the  author  of  it  (whoever  he  was) 
has  delivered  it  in  such  an  abject  phrase  and  poor¬ 
ness  of  expression,  that  the  quoting  any  of  it 
would  look  like  a  design  of  turning  it  into  ridicule. 
But  though  the  language  is  mean,  the  thoughts, 
as  I  have  before  said,  from  one  end  to  the  other, 
are  natural,  and  therefore  cannot  fail  to  please 
those  who  are  not  judges  of  language,  or  those 
who  notwitstanding  they  are  judges  of  language, 
have  a  true  and  unprejudiced  taste  of  nature.  The 
condition,  speech,  and  behavior,  of  the  dying 
parents,  with  the  age,  innocence,  and  distress,  of 
the  children,  are  set  forth  in  such  tender  circum¬ 
stances,  that  it  is  impossible  for  a  reader  of  com¬ 
mon  humanity  not  to  be  affected  with  them.  As 
for  the  circumstance  of  the  robin-red-breast,  it  is 
indeed  a  little  poetical  ornament ;  and  to  show  the 
genius  of  the  author  amidst  all  his  simplicity,  it 
is  just  the  same  kind  of  fiction  which  one  of  the 
greatest  of  the  Latin  poets  has  made  use  of  upon 
a  parallel  occasion;  I  mean  that  passage  in  Horace, 
where  he  describes  himself  Avhen  he  was  a  child 
fallen  asleep  in  a  desert  wood,  and  covered  with 
leaves  by  the  turtles  that  took  pity  on  him. 

Me  fabulosae  vulture  in  Appulo, 

Altricis  extra  limen  Apulige, 

Ludo  fatigatumque  somno 
Fronde  nova  pueruni  palumbes 
Texere -  4  Od.  iii. 

Me  when  a  child,  as  tired  with  play 
Upon  the  Apulian  hills  I  lay 
In  careless  slumbers  bound, 

The  gentle  doves  protecting  found, 

And  cover’d  me  with  myrtle  leaves.  \ 

I  have  heard  that  the  late  Lord  Dorset,  who  had 
the  greatest  wit  tempered  with  the  greatest  can¬ 
dor,  and  was  one  of  the  -finest  critics  as  well  as 
the  best  poets  of  his  age,  had  a  numerous  collec¬ 
tion  of  old  English  ballads,  and  took  a  particular 
pleasure  in  the  reading  of  them.  I  can  affirm  the 
same  of  Mr.  Dryden,  and  know  several  of  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


most  refined  writers  of  our  present  age  who  are 
of  the  same  humor. 

I  might  likewise  refer  my  reader  to  Moliere’s 
thoughts  on  this  subject,  as  he  expressed  them  in 
the  character  of  the  Misanthrope;  but  those  only 
who  are  endowed  with  a  true  greatness  of  soul 
and  genius,  can  divest  themselves  of  the  little 
images  of  ridicule,  and  admire  nature  in  her  sim¬ 
plicity  and  nakedness.  As  for  the  little  con¬ 
ceited  wits  of  the  age,  who  can  only  show  their 
judgment  by  finding  fault,  they  cannot  be  sup¬ 
posed  to  admire  these  productions  which  have 
nothing  to  recommend  them  but  the  beauties  of 
nature,  when  they  do  not  know  how  to  relish 
even  those  compositions  that,  with  all  the  beauties 
of  nature,  have  also  the  additional  advantages  of 
art.— L.  & 


Ho.  86.]  FRIDAY,  JUNE  8,  1711. 

Heu  quam.  difficile  est  crimen  non  prodere  vultu ! 

Ovid,  Met.  ii,  447. 

How  in  the  looks  does  conscious  guilt  appear. — Addison. 

There  are  several  arts,  which  all  men  are  in 
some  measure  masters  of,  without  having  been  at 
the  pains  of  learning  them.  Every  one  that 
speaks  or  reasons  is  a  grammarian  and  a  logician, 
though  he  may  be  wholly  unacquainted  with  the 
rules  of  grammar  or  logic,  a^  they  are  delivered 
in  books  and  systems.  In  the  same  manner, 
every  one  is  in  some  degree  a  master  of  that  art 
which  is  generally  distinguished  by  the  name  of 
Physiognomy  :  and  naturally  forms  to  himself  the 
character  or  fortune  of  a  stranger,  from  the  fea¬ 
tures  and  lineaments  of  his  face.  We  are  no 
sooner  presented  to  any  one  we  never  saw  before, 
but  we  are  immediately  struck  with  the  idea  of  a 
proud,  a  reserved,  an  affable,  or  good-natured  man  ; 
and  upon  our  first  going  into  a  company  of  stran¬ 
gers,  our  benevolence  or  aversion,  awe  or  con¬ 
tempt,  rises  naturally  toward  several  particular 
persons,  before  we  have  heard  them  speak  a 
single  word,  or  so  much  as  know  who  they  are. 

Eveiy  passion  gives  a  particular  cast  to  the 
countenance,  and  is  apt  to  discover  itself  in  some 
feature  or  other.  I  have  seen-  an  eye  curse  for 
half  an  hour  together,  and  an  eyebrow  call  a  man 
a  scoundrel.  Nothing  is  more  common  than  for 
lovers  to  complain,  resent,  languish,  despair,  and 
die,  in  dumb-show.  For  my  own  part,  I  am  so 
apt  to  frame  a  notion  of  every  man’s  humor  or 
circumstances  by  his  looks,  that  I  have  sometimes 
employed  myself  from  Charing-Cross  to  the  Royal 

xchanGe,  in  drawing  the  characters  of  those  who 
have  passed  by  me.  When  I  see  a  man  with  a 
sour  riveled  face,  I  cannot  forbear  pitying  his 
wife  :  and  when  I  meet  with  an  open  ingenuous 
countenance,  think  on  the  happiness  of  his 
friends,  his  family,  and  relations. 

I  cannot  lecollect  the  author  of  a  famous  saying 
to  a  sti  anger,  who  stood  silent  in  his  company. 

Speak,  that  I  may  see  thee.”  But,  with  sub¬ 
mission,  I  think  we  may  be  better  known  by  our 
look.',  than  by  our  words,  and  that  a  man’s  speech 
is  much  more  easily  disguised  than  his  counte- 
nance.  In  this  case,  however,  I  think  the  air  of 
the  whole  face  is  much  more  expressive  than  the 
lines  of  it.  The  truth  of  it  is,  the  air  is  generally 
nothing  else  but  the  inward  disposition  of  the 
mind  made  visible. 

Those  who  have  established  physiognomy  into 
an  art,  and  laid  down  rules  of  judging  men’s 
tempers  by  their  faces,  have  regarded  the°features 
much  more  than  the  air  Martial  has  a  pretty 
epigram  on  this  subject : 


133 

Crine  ruber,  niger  ore,  brevis  pede,  lumino  lapsus  : 

Rem  magnam  praestas,  Zoile,  si  bonus  es. — Epig.  liv,  12. 

Thy  beard  and  head  are  of  a  different  die ; 

Short  of  one  foot,  distorted  in  an  eye : 

With  all  these  tokens  of  a  knave  complete, 

Shouldst  thou  be  honest,  thou'rt  a  devilish  cheat. 

I  have  seen  a  very  ingenious  author  on  this 
subject,  who  founds  his  speculations  on  the  suppo¬ 
sition,  that  as  a  man  hath  in  the  mould  of  his  face 
a  remote  likeness  to  that  of  an  ox,  a  sheep,  a  lion, 
a  hog,  or  any  other  creature ;  he  hath  the  same 
resemblance  in  the  Irame  of  his  mind,  and  is  sub¬ 
ject  to  those  passions  which  are  predominant  in 
the  creature  that  appears  in  his  countenance.  Ac 
cordingly  he  gives  the  prints  of  several  faces  that 
are  ol  a  different  mould,  and  by  a  little  over¬ 
charging  the  likeness,  discovers  the  figures  of 
these  several  kinds  of  brutal  faces  in  human  fea¬ 
tures*  I  remember,  in  the  life  of  the  famous 
Prince  of  Conde,  the  writer  observes,  the  face  of 
that  prince  was  like  the  face  of  an  eagle,  and  that 
prince  was  very  well  pleased  to  be  told  so.  In 
this  case  therefore  we  maybe  sure,  that  he  had 
in  his  mind  some  general  implicit  motion  of  this 
art  of  physiognomy  which  I  have  just  now  men¬ 
tioned  ;  and  that  when  his  courtiers  told  him  his 
face  was  made  like  an  eagle’s,  he  understood  them 
in  the  same  manner  as  if  they  had  told  him, 
there  was  something  in  his  looks,  which  showed 
him  to  be  strong,  active,  piercing,  and  of  a  royal 
descent.  Whether  or  no  the  different  motions  of 
the  animal  spirits,  in  different  passions,  may  have 
any  effect  upon  the  mould  of  the  face  when  the 
lineaments  are  pliable  and  tender,  or  whether  the 
same  kind  of  souls  require  the  same  kind  of 
habitations,  I  shall  leave  to  the  consideration  of  the 
curious.  In  _  the  meantime  I  think  nothing  can 
be  more  glorious  than  for  a  man  to  give  the  lie* to 
his  face,  and  to  be  an  honest,  just,  good-natured 
man,  in  spite  of  all  those  marks  and  signatures 
which  nature  seems  to  have  set  upon  him  for  the 
contrary.  This  very  often  happens  among  those 
who,  instead  of  being  exasperated  by  their  own 
looks,  or  envying  the  looks  of  others,  apply 
themselves  entirely  to  the  cultivating  of  their 
minds,  and  getting  those  beauties  which  are  more 
lasting,  and  more  ornamental.  I  have  seen  many 
an  amiable  piece  of  deformity ;  and  have  observed 
a  certain  cheerfulness  in  as  bad  a  system  of  fea¬ 
tures  as  ever  was  clapped  together,  which  hath 
appeared  more  lovely  than  all  the  blooming 
charms  of  an  insolent  beauty.  There  is  a  double 
praise  due  to  virtue,  when  it  is  lodged  in  a  body 
that  seems  to  have  been  prepared  for  the  reception 
of  vice ;  in  many  such  cases  the  soul  and  body 
do  not  seem  to  be  fellows. 

Socrates  was  an  extraordinary  instance  of  this 
nature.  1  here  chanced  to  be  a  great  physiogno¬ 
mist  in  his  time  at  Athens,  who  had  made  strange 
discoveries  of  men’s  tempers  and  inclinations  by 
their  outward  appearances.  Socrates’  disciples, 
that  they  might  put. this  artist  to  the  trial,  carried 
him  to  their  master,  whom  he  had  never  seen  be¬ 
fore,  and  did  not  know  he  was  then  in  company 
with  him.  After  a  short  examination  of  his  face, 
l]ie  Physiognomist  pronounced  him  the  most  lewd, 
libidinous,  drunken  old  fellow  that  he  had  ever 
met  with  in  his  whole  life.  Upon  which  the  dis¬ 
ciples  all  burst  out  a-laughing,  as  thinking  they 
had  detected  the  falsehood  and  vanity  of  his  art 
But  Socrates  told  them,  that  the  principles  of  his 
art  might  be  very  true,  notwithstanding  his  pre 
sent  mistake ;  for  that  he  himself  was  naturally 


*This  doubtless  refers  to  Baptist, a  della  Porta’s  famous 
book  De  Humana  Physiognomia;  which  has  run  through 
many  editions,  both  in  Latin  and  Italian.  He  died  in  1010. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


134 


inclined  to  those  particular  vices  which  the  phy¬ 
siognomist  had  discovered  in  his  countenance, 
but  that  he  had  conquered  the  strong  disposi¬ 
tions  he  was  born  with,  by  the  dictates  of  phi¬ 
losophy.* 

We  are  indeed  told  by  an  ancient  author,!  that 
Socrates  very  much  resembled  Silenus  in  his  face; 
which  we  find  to  have  been  very  rightly  observed 
from  .the  statues  and  busts  of  both,  that  are  still 
extant;  as  well  as  on  several  antique  seals  and 
recious  stones,  which  are  frequently  enough  to 
e  met  with  in  the  cabinets  of  the  curious.  But 
however  observations  of  this  nature  may  some¬ 
times  hold,  a  wise  man  should  be  particularly 
cautious  how  he  gives  credit  to  a  man’s  outward 
appearance.  It  is  an  irreparable  injustice  we  are 
guilty  of  toward  one  another,  when  we  are  pre¬ 
judiced  by  the  looks  and  features  of  those  whom 
we  do  not  know.  How  often  do  we  conceive 
hatred  against  a  person  of  worth,  or  fancy  a  man 
to  be  proud  or  ill-natured  by  his  aspect,  whom  we 
think  we  cannot  esteem  too  much  when  we  are 
acquainted  with  his  real  character  ?  Dr.  Moore, 
in  his  admirable  System  of  Ethics,  reckons  this 
particular  inclination  to  take  a  prejudice  against 
a  man  for  his  looks,  among  the  smaller  vices 
in  morality,  and,  if  I  remember,  gives  it  the 
name  of  a  “prosopolepsia.”t — L. 


No.  87.]  SATURDAY,  JUNE  9,  1711. 

- Nimium  ne  crede  colori. — Yirg.,  Eel.  ii,  17. 

Trust  not  too  much  to  an  enchanting  face. — Deaden. 

It  has  been  the  purpose  of  several  of  my  specu¬ 
lations  to  bring  people  to  an  unconcerned  beha¬ 
vior,  with  relation  to  their  persons,  whether  beau¬ 
tiful  or  defective.  As  the  secrets  of  the  Ugly  club 
were  exposed  to  the  public,  that  men  might  see 
there  were  some  noble  spirits  in  the  age  who  are 
not  at  all  displeased  with  themselves  upon  con¬ 
siderations  which  they  have  no  choice  in;  so  the  dis¬ 
course  concerning  Idols  tended  to  lessen  the  value 
people  put  upon  themselves  from  personal  advan¬ 
tages  and  gifts  of  nature.  As  to  the  latter  species 
of  mankind — the  beauties,  whether  male  or  fe¬ 
male —  they  are  generally  the  most  untractable 
people  of  all  others.  You  are  so  excessively  per¬ 
plexed  with  the  particularities  in  their  behavior, 
that  to  be  at  ease,  one  would  be  apt  to  wish  there 
were  no  such  creatures.  They  expect  so  great 
allowances,  and  give  so  little  to  others,  .that  they 
who  have  to  deal  with  them  find,  in  the  main,  a 
man  with  a  better  person  than  ordinary,  and  a 
beautiful  woman,  might  be  very  happily  changed 
for  such  to  whom  nature  has  been  less  liberal. 
The  handsome  fellow  is  usually  so  much  a  gen¬ 
tleman,  and  the  fine  woman  has  something  so 
becoming,  that  there  is  no  enduring  either  of 
them.  It  lias  therefore  been  generally  my  choice 
to  mix  with  cheerful  ugly  creatures,  rather  than 
gentlemen  who  are  graceful  enough  to  omit  or  to 
do  what  they  please,  or  beauties  who  have  charms 
enough  to  do  and  say  what  would  be  disobliging 
in  any  but  themselves. 

Diffidence  and  presumption,  upon  account  of  our 
persons,  are  equally  faults  ;  and  both  arise  from 
the  want  of  knowing,  or  rather  endeavoring  to 
know  ourselves,  and  for  what  we  ought  to  be 
valued  or  neglected.  But  indeed  I  did  not  ima¬ 


*  Cicer.  Tusc.  Qu.  5  et  De  Facto.  f  Plat.  Conviv. 

{A  Greek  word,  used  in  the  N.  T.  Rom.,  ii,  11,  and  Eph.  vi, 
9 :  where  it  is  said  that  “  God  is  no  respecter  of  persons.” — 
Here  it  signifies  a  prejudice  against  a  person  formed  from  his 
countenance,  ect.,  too  hastily. 


gine  these  little  considerations  and  coquetries 
could  have  the  ill  consequences  I  find  they  have 
by  the  following  letters  of  my  correspondents, 
where  it  seems  beauty  is  thrown  into  the  account, 
in  matters  of  sale,  to  those  who  receive  no  favor 
from  the  charmers. 

“  Mr.  Spectator,  June  4. 

“ After  I  have  assured  you  I  am  in  every  respect 
one  of  the  handsomest  young  girls  about  town,  I 
need  be  particular  in  nothing  but  the  make  of  mv 
face,  which  has  the  misfortune  to  be  exactly  oval. 
This  I  take  to  proceed  from  a  temper  that  natu¬ 
rally  inclines  me  both  to  speak  and  hear. 

“  With  this  account  you  may  wonder  how  I  can 
have  the  vanity  to  offer  myself  as  a  candidate, 
which  I  now  do,  to  the  society  where  the  Specta¬ 
tor  and  Hecatissa  have  been  admitted  with  so  much 
applause.  I  don’t  want  to  be  put  in  mind  how 
very  defective  I  am  in  everything  that  is  ugly: 
I  am  too  sensible  of  my  own  unworthiness  in  this 
particular,  and  therefore  I  only  propose  myself  as 
a  foil  to  the  club. 

“You  see  how  honest  I  have  been  to  confess  all 
my  imperfections,  which  is  a  great  deal  to  come 
from  a  woman,  and  what  I  hope  you  will  encour¬ 
age  with  the  favor  of  your  interest. 

“  There  can  be  no  objection  made  on  the  side 
of  the  matchless  Hecatissa,  since  it  is  certain  I 
shall  be  in  no  danger  of  giving  her  the  least  occa¬ 
sion  of  jealousy ;  and  then  a  joint  stool  in  the 
very  lowest  place  at  the  table  is  all  the  honor  that 
is  coveted  by 

“  Your  most  humble  and  obedient  servant, 

“  Rosalinda.” 

“  P.  S.  I  have  sacrificed  my  necklace  to  put  into 
the  public  lottery  against  the  common  enemy. 
And  last  Saturday,  about  three  o’clock  in  the  af¬ 
ternoon,  I  began  to  patch  indifferently  on  both 
sides  of  my  face.,, 

“Mr.  Spectator,  London,  June  7,  1711. 

“  Upon  reading  your  late  dissertation  concern¬ 
ing  idols,  I  cannot  but  complain  to  you  that  there 
are,  in  six  or  seven  places  of  this  city,  coffee¬ 
houses  kept  by  persons  of  that  sisterhood.  These 
idols  sit  and  receive  all  day  long  the  adoration  of 
the  youth  within  such  and  such  districts, 
know,  in  particular,  goods  are  not  entered  as  they 
ought  to  be  at  the  custom-house,  nor  law  reports 
perused  at  the  temple,  by  reason  of  one  beauty 
who  detains  the  young  merchants  too  long  near 
’Change,  and  another  fair  one  who  keeps  the  stu¬ 
dents  at  her  house  when  they  should  be  at  study. 
It  would  be  worth  your  while  to  see  how  the  idol¬ 
aters  alternately  offer  incense  to  their  idols,  and 
what  heart-burnings  arise  in  those  who  wait  for 
their  turn  to  receive  kind  aspects  from  those  little 
thrones  which  all  the  company,  but  these  lovers, 
call  the  bars.  I  saw  a  gentleman  turn  as  pale  as 
ashes,  because  an  idol  turned  the  sugar  in  a  tea- 
dish  for  his  rival,  and  carelessly  called  the  boy  to 
to  serve  him,  with  a  ‘  Sirrah!  why  don’t  you  give 
the  gentleman  the  box  to  please  himself?’  Cer¬ 
tain  it  is,  that  a  very  hopeful  young  man  was  ta¬ 
ken  with  leads  in  his  pockets  below-bridge,  where 
he  intended  to  drown  himself,  because  his  idol 
would  wash  the  dish  in  which  she  had  but  just 
drunk  tea,  before  she  would  let  him  use  it. 

“I  am.  Sir,  a  person  past  being  amorous,  and 
do  not  give  this  information  out  of  envy  or  jeal¬ 
ousy,  but  I  am  a  real  sufferer  by  it.  These  lovers 
take  anything  for  tea  and  coffee  ;  I  saw  one  yes¬ 
terday  surfeit  to  make  his  court !  and  all  his 
rivals,  at  the  same  time,  loud  in  the  commenda¬ 
tion  of  liquors  that  went  against  everybody  in  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


room  that  was  not  in  love.  While  these  young 
fellows  resign  their  stomachs  with  their  hearts, 
and  drink  at  the  idol  in  this  manner,  we  wTio 
come  to  do  business  or  talk  politics  are  utterly 
poisoned.  They  have  also  drams  for  those  wrho 
are  more  enamored  than  ordinary  ;  and  it  is  very 
common  for  such  as  are  too  low  in  constitution  to 
ogle  the  idol  upon  the  strength  of  tea,  to  fluster 
themselves  with  warmer  liquors :  thus  all  pre¬ 
tenders  advance  as  fast  as  they  can  to  a  fever  or  a 
diabetes.  I  must  repeat  to  you,  that  I  do  not 
look  with  an  evil  eye  upon  the  profit  of  the  idols 
or  the  diversions  of  the  lovers  ;  what  I  hope  from 
this  remonstrance,  is  only  that  we  plain  people 
may  not  be  served  as  if  we  were  kfolaters ;  but 
that  from  the  time  of  publishing  this  in  your 
paper,  the  idols  would  mix  ratsbane  only  for 
their  admirers,  and  take  more  care  of  us  who 
don’t  love  them.  “  I  am.  Sir,  yours, 

R.  “  T.  T.” 


Ho.  88.]  MONDAY,  JUNE  11,  1711. 

Quid  doiniui  fa  dent,  audent  cum  talia  fures  ? 

Virg.,  Eel.  iii,  16. 

What  will  not  masters  do,  when  servants  thus  presume  ? 

“Mr.  Spectator,  May  30,  1711. 

“  I  have  no  small  value  for  your  endeavors  to 
lay  before  the  world  what  may  escape  their  obser¬ 
vation,  and  yet  highly  conduces  to  their  service. 
You  have,  I  think,  succeeded  very  well  on  many 
subjects  ;  and  seem  to  have  been  conversant  in 
very  different  scenes  of  life.  But  in  the  consider¬ 
ations  of  mankind,  as  a  Spectator,  you  should  not 
omit  circumstances  which  relate  to  the  inferior 
part  of  the  world,  any  more  than  those  which 
concern  the  greater.  There  is  one  thing  in  par¬ 
ticular,  which  I  wonder  you  have  not  touched 
upon — and  that  is  the  general  corruption  of  man¬ 
ners  in  the  Servants  of  Great  Britain.  I  am  a 
man  that  have  traveled  and  seen  many  nations, 
but  have  for  seven  years  last  past  resided  con¬ 
stantly  in  London  or  within  twenty  miles  of  it. 
In  this  time  I  have  contracted  a  numerous  ac¬ 
quaintance  among  the  best  sort  of  people,  and 
have  hardly  found  one  of  them  happy  in  their 
servants.  This  is  matter  of  great  astonishment 
to  foreigners,  and  all  such  as  have  visited  foreign 
countries  ;  especially  since  we  cannot  but  observe, 
that  there  is  no  part  of  the  world  where  servants 
have  those  privileges  and  advantages  as  in  Eng¬ 
land.  They  have  nowhere  else  such  plentiful 
diet,  large  wages,  or  indulgent  liberty.  There  is 
no  place  where  they  labor  less,  and  yet  where  they 
are  so  little  respectful,  more  wasteful,  more  negli¬ 
gent,  or  where  they  so  frequently  change  their 
masters.  To  this  1  attribute,  in  a  great  measure, 
the  frequent  robberies  and  losses  which  we  suffer 
on  the  high-road  and  in  our  own  houses.  That 
indeed  which  gives  me  the  present  thought  Of  this 
kind  is,  that  a  careless  groom  of  mine  has  spoiled 
me  the  prettiest  pad  in  the  world  with  only  riding 
him  ten  miles  ;  and  I  assure  you,  if  I  were  to 
make  a  register  of  all  the  horses  I  have  known 
thus  abused  by  the  negligence  of  servants,  the 
number  would  mount  a  regiment.  I  wish  you 
would  give  us  your  observations,  that  we  may 
know  how  to  treat  these  rogues,  or  that  we  mas¬ 
ters  may  enter  into  measures  to  reform  them. 
Pray  give  us  a  speculation  in  general  about  ser¬ 
vants,  and  you  make  me,  “Yours, 

“  Philo-Britannicus.” 

“  P.  S.  Pray  do  not  omit  the  mention  of  grooms 
in  particular.” 


135 

This  honest  gentleman,  who  is  so  desirous  that 
I  should  write  a  satire  upon  grooms,  lias  a  great 
deal  of  reason  for  his  resentment ;  and  I  know  no 
evil  which  touches  all  mankind  so  much  as  this 
of  the  misbehavior  of  servants. 

The  complaint  of  this  letter  runs  wholly  upon 
men-servants  ;  and  I  can  attribute  the  licentious¬ 
ness  which  has  at  present  prevailed  among  them, 
to  nothing  but  what  a  hundred  before  me  have 
ascribed  it  to  the  custom  of  giving  board-wages. 
This  one  instance  of  false  economy  is  sufficient  to 
debauch  the  whole  nation  of  servants,  and  makes 
them  as  it  were  but  for  some  part  of  their  time  in 
that  quality.  They  are  either  attending  in  places 
where  they  meet  and  run  into  clubs,  or  else,  if 
they  wait  at  taverns,  they  eat  after  their  masters, 
and  reserve  their  wages  for  other  occasions.  From 
hence  it  arises,  that  they  are  but  in  a  lower  de 
gree  what  their  masters  themselves  are  ;  and  usu 
ally  affect  an  imitation  of  their  manners  :  and  you 
have  in  liveries,  beaux,  fops  and  coxcombs,  in  as 
high  perfection  as  among  people  that  keep  equip¬ 
ages.  It  is  a  common  humor  among  the  retinue 
of  the  people  of  quality,  when  they  are  in  their 
revels — that  is,  when  they  are  out  of  their  mas¬ 
ters’  sight — to  assume  in  a  humorous  way  the 
names  and  titles  of  those  whose  liveries  they  wear. 
By  which  means,  characters  and  distinctions  be¬ 
come  so  familiar  to  them,  that  it  is  to  this,  among 
other  causes,  one  may  impute  a  certain  insolence 
among  our  servants,  that  they  take  no  notice  of 
any  gentleman,  though  they  know  him  ever  so 
well,  except  he  is  an  acquaintance  of  their  master. 

My  obscurity  and  taciturnity  leave  me  at  liberty, 
without  scandal,  to  dine,  if  1  think  fit,  at  a  com¬ 
mon  ordinary,  in  the  meanest  as  well  as  the  most 
sumptuous  house  of  entertainment.  Falling  in 
the  other  day  at  a  victualling-house  near  the  house 
of  peers,  I  heard  the  maid  come  down  and  tell 
the  landlady  at  the  bar,  that  my  lord  bishop 
swore  he  would  throw  her  out  at  the  window,  if 
she  did  not  bring  up  more  mild  beer,  and  that  my 
lord  duke  would  have  a  double  mug  of  purl. 
My  surprise  was  increased,  in  hearing  loud  and 
rustic  voiced  speak  and  answer  to  each  other 
upon  the  public  affairs,  by  the  names  of  the  most 
illustrious  of  our  nobility ;  till  of  a  sudden  one 
came  running  in,  and  cried  the  house  was  rising. 
Down  came  all  the  company  together,  and  away ! 
The  ale-house  was  immediately  filled  with  clamor, 
and  scoring  one  mug  to  the  marquis  of  such  a 
place,  oil  and  vinegar  to  such  an  earl,  three 
quarts  to  my  new  lord  for  wetting  his  title,  and 
so  forth.  It  is  a  thing  too  notorious  to  mention 
the  crowds  of  servants,  and  their  insolence,  near 
the  courts  of  justice,  and  the  stairs  toward  the  su¬ 
preme  assembly,  where  there  is  a  universal  mock¬ 
ery  of  all  order,  such  riotous  clamor  and  licen¬ 
tious  confusion,  that  one  would  think  the  whole 
nation  lived  in  iest,  and  that  there  were  no  such 
thing  as  rule  and  distinction  among  us. 

The  next  place  of  resort,  wherein  the  servile 
world  are  let  loose,  is  at  the  entrance  of  Hyde- 
park,  while  the  gentry  are  at  the  ring.  Hither 
people  bring  their  lackeys  out  of  state,  and  here 
it  is  that  all  they  say  at  their  tables,  and  act  in 
their  houses,  is  communicated  to  the  whole  town. 
There  are  men  of  wit  in  all  conditions  of  life ; 
and  mixing  with  these  people  at  their  diversions, 
I  have  heard  coquettes  and  prudes  as  well  rallied, 
and  insolence  and  pride  exposed  (allowing  for 
their  want  of  education)  with  as  much  humor  and 
good  sense,  as  in  the  politest  companies.  It  is  a 
general  observation,  that  all  dependents  run  in 
some  measure  into  the  manners  and  behavior  of 
those  whom  they  serve.  You  shall  frequently 
meet  with  lovers  and  men  of  intriguo  among  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


136 

lackeys  as  wjll  as  at  White’s  or  in  the  side-boxes. 
I  remember  some  years  ago  an  instance  of  this 
kind.  A  footman  to  a  captain  of  the  guards 
used  frequently,  when  his  master  was  out  of  the 
way,  to  carry  on  amours  and  make  assignations 
in  his  master’s  clothes.  The  fellow  had  a  very 
good  person,  and  there  are  very  many  women  who 
think  no  farther  than  the  outside  of  a  gentleman : 
beside  which  he  was  almost  as  learned  a  man  as 
the  colonel*  himself :  I  say,  thus  qualified,  the 
fellow  could  scrawl  billets-doux  so  well,  and  fur¬ 
nish  a  conversation  on  the  common  topics,  that  he 
had,  as  they  call  it,  a  great  deal  of  business  on  his 
hands.  It  happened  one  day,  that  coming  down 
a  tavern  stairs,  in  his  master’s  fine  guard  coat, 
with  a  well-dressed  woman  masked,  he  met  the 
colonel  coming  up  with  other  company ;  but  with 
ready  assurance  he  quitted  his  lady,  came  up  to 
him,  and  said,  “  Sir,  I  know  you  have  too  much 
respect  for  yourself  to  cane  me  in  this  honorable 
habit.  But  you  see  there  is  a  lady  in  the  case, 
and  on  that  score  also  you  will  put  off  your  anger 
till  I  have  told  you  all  another  time.”  After  a 
little  pause  the  colonel  cleared  up  his  countenance, 
and  with  an  air  of  familiarity  whispered  to  his 
man  apart,  “  Sirrah,  bring  the  lady  with  you  to 
ask  pardon  for  you  then  aloud,  “  Look  to  it, 
Will,  I’ll  never  forgive  you  else.”  The  fellow 
went  back  to  his  mistress,  and  telling  her  with 
a  loud  voice  and  an  oath,  that  was  the  honestest 
fellow  in  the  world,  conveyed  her  to  a  hackney- 
coach. 

But  the  many  irregularities  committed  by  ser¬ 
vants  in  the  places  above-mentioned,  as  well  as  in 
theaters,  of  which  masters  are  generally  the  oc¬ 
casions,  are  too  various  not  to  need  being  re¬ 
sumed  on  another  occasion. — R. 


Ho.  89.]  TUESDAY,  JUNE  12,  1711. 

- Petite  hinc,  juvenesque  senesque, 

Finem  ammo  certum,  miserisque  viatica  canis. 

Cras  hoc  fiet.  Idem  eras  flet.  Quid  ?  quasi  magnum, 
Nempe  diem  donas?  sed  cum  lux  altera  venit, 

Jam  eras  hesternum  consumpsimus ;  ecce  aliud  cras 
Egerit  hos  annos,  et  semper  paulum  erit  ultra. 

Nam  quamvis  prope  te,  quamvis  temone  sub  uno, 
Vertentem  sese  frustra  sectabere  canthum. 

Pers.,  Sat.  v,  64. 

Pers.  From  thee  both  old  and  young  with  profit  learn 
The  bounds  of  good  and  evil  to  discern. 

Corn.  Unhappy  he,  who  does  this  work  adjourn, 

And  to  to-morrow  would  the  search  delay : 

His  lazy  morrow  Avill  be  like  to-day. 

Pers.  But  is  one  day  of  ease  too  much  to  borrow  ? 

Corn.  Yes,  sure ;  for  yesterday  was  once  to-morrow. 
That  yesterday  is  gone,  and  nothing  gain’d ; 

And  all  thy  fruitless  days  will  thus  be  drain’d ; 

For  thou  hast  more  to-morrows  yet  to  ask, 

And  wilt  be  ever  to  begin  thy  task ; 

Who,  like  the  hindmost  chariot-wheels,  are  curst, 

Still  to  be  near,  but  ne’er  to  reach  the  first. — Dryden. 

As  my  correspondents  upon  the  subject  of  love 
are  very  numerous,  it  is  my  design,  if  possible,  to 
range  them  under  several  heads,  and  address  my- 
selt  to  them  at  different  times.  The  first  branch 
of  them,  to  whose  service  I  shall  dedicate  this 
paper,  are  those  that  have  to  do  with  women  of 
dilatory  tempers,  who  are  for  spinning  out  the 
time  of  courtship  to  an  immoderate  length,  with¬ 
out  being  able  either  to  close  with  their  lovers  or 
to  dismiss  them.  I  have  many  letters  by  me  filled 
with  complaints  against  this  sort  of  women.  In 
one  of  them  no  less  a  man  than  a  brother  of  the 
coif  f  tells  me,  that  he  began  his  suit  vicesimo  nono 


^Iii  the  Spect.  in  folio,  and  in  the  edit,  of  1712,  in  8vo., 
this  officer  is  styled  both  captain  and  colonel, 
fi.  e.  A  serjeant  at  law. 


Caroli  secundi,  before  he  had  been  a  twelvemonth 
at  the  Temple ;  that  he  prosecuted  it  for  many 
years  after  he  was  called  to  the  bar  ;  that  at  pre¬ 
sent  he  is  a  serjeant  at  law  ;  and  notwithstanding 
he  hoped  that  matters  would  have  been  long  since 
brought  to  an  issue,  the  fair  one  still  demurs.  I 
am  so  well  pleased  with  this  gentleman’s  phrases 
that  I  shall  distinguish  this  sect  of  women  by  the 
title  of  Demurrers.  I  find  by  another  letter  from 
one  who  calls  himself  Thyrsis,  that  his  mistress 
has  been  demurring  above  these  seven  years.  But 
among  all  my  plaintiffs  of  this  nature,!  most  pity 
the  unfortunate  Philander,  a  man  of  a  constant 
passion  and  plentiful  fortune,  who  sets  forth  that 
the  timorous  and  irresolute  Sylvia  has  demurred 
till  she  is  past  child-bearing.  Strephon  appears 
by  his  letter  to  be  a  very  choleric  lover,  and  is 
irrevocably  smitten  with  one  that  demurs  out  of 
self-interest.  He  tells  me  with  great  passion  that 
she  has  bubbled  him  out  of  his  youth ;  that  she 
drilled  him  to  five  and  fifty,  and  that  he  verily 
believes  she  will  drop  him  in  his  old  age,  if  she 
can  find  her  account  in  another.  I  shall  conclude 
this  narrative  with  a  letter  from  honest  Sam  Hope- 
well,  a  very  pleasant  fellow,  who  it  seems  has  at 
last. married  a  Demurrer.  I  must  only  premise, 
that  Sam,  who  is  a  very  good  bottle-companion, 
has  been  the  diversion  of  his  friends,  upon  ac¬ 
count  of  his  passion,  ever  since  the  year  one  thou¬ 
sand  six  hundred  and  eighty-one. 

“  Dear  Sir, 

“  You  know  very  well  my  passion  for  Mrs.  Mar¬ 
tha,  and  what  a  dance  she  has  led  me.  She  took 
me  out  at  the  age  of  two-and-twenty,  and  dodged 
Avith  me  above  thirty  years.  I  have  loved  her  till 
she  is  grown  as  gray  as  a  cat,  and  am  with  much 
ado  become  the  master  of  her  person,  such  as  it 
is,  at  present.  She  is  however  in  my  eye  a  very 
charming  old  woman.  We  often  lament  that  we 
did  not  marry  sooner,  but  she  has  nobody  to 
blame  for  it  but  herself.  You  know  very  well 
that  she  would  never  think  of  me  while  she  had 
a  tooth  in  her  head.  I  have  put  the  date  of  my 
passion  ( anno  arnoris  trigesimo  primo  instead  of 
posy  on  my  wedding-ring.  I  expect  you  should 
send  me  a  congratulatory  letter,  or,  if  you  please, 
an  epithalamium  upon  this  occasion. 

“  Mrs.  Martha’s  and  yours  eternally, 

“  Sam  Hopewell.” 

In  order  to  banish  an  evil  out  of  the  world,  that 
does  not  only  produce  a  great  uneasiness  to  pri¬ 
vate  persons,  but  has  also  a  very  bad  influence  on 
the  public,  I  shall  endeavor  to  show  the  folly  of 
demurrage,  from  two  or  three  reflections  which  I 
earnestly  recommend  to  the  thoughts  of  my  fair 
readers. 

First  of  all,  I  would  have  them  seriously  think 
on  the  shortness  of  their  time.  Life  is  not  long 
enough  for  a  coquette  to  play  all  her  tricks  in.  A 
timorous  woman  drops  into  her  grave  before  she 
is  done  deliberating.  Were  the  age  of  man  the 
same  that  it  was  before  the  flood,  a  lady  might 
sacrifice  half  a  century  to  a  scruple,  and  be  two 
or  three  ages  in  demurring.  Had  she  nine  hundred 
years  good,  she  might  hold  out  to  the  conversion 
of  the  Jews  before  she  though  fit  to  be  prevailed 
upon.  But,  alas  !  she  ought  to  play  her  part  in 
haste,  when  she  considers  that  she  is  suddenly  to 
quit  the  stage,  and  make  room  for  others. 

In  the  second  place,  I  would  desire  my  rem 
readers  to  consider  that  as  the  term  of  life  is  short, 
that  of  beauty  is  much  shorter.  The  finest  skin 
wrinkles  in  a  few  years,  and  loses  the  strength 
of  its  coloring  so  soon,  that  we  have  scarce  time 
to  admiro  it.  I  might  embellish  this  subject  with 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


roses  and  rainbows,  and  several  other  ingenious 
conceits,  which  1  may  possibly  reserve  for  another 
opportunity. 

There  is  a  third  consideration  which  I  would 
likewise  recommend  to  a  demurrer — and  that  is, 
the  great  danger  of  her  falling  in  love  when  she 
is  about  threescore,  if  she  cannot  satisfy  her 
doubts  and  scruples  before  that  time.  There  is 
a  kind  of  latter  spring,  that  sometimes  gets  into 
the  blood  of  an  old  woman,  and  turns  her  into  a 
very  odd  sort  of  an  animal.  I  would  therefore 
have  the  demurrer  consider  what  a  strange  figure 
she  will  make,  if  she  chances  to  get  over  all  diffi¬ 
culties,  and  comes  to  a  final  resolution,  in  that 
unseasonable  part  of  her  life. 

I  would  not  however  be  understood,  by  any¬ 
thing  I  have  here  said,  to  discourage  thak  natural 
modesty  in  the  sex,  which  renders  a  retreat  from 
the  first  approaches  of  a  lover  both  fashionable 
and  graceful.  All  that  I  intend  is,  to  advise 
them,  when  they  are  prompted  by  reason  and  in¬ 
clination,  to  demur  only  out  of  form,  and  so  far 
as  decency  requires.  A  virtuous  woman  should 
reject  the  first  offer  of  marriage,  as  a  good  man 
does  that  of  a  bishopric;  but  I  would  advise  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other  to  persist  in  refusing  what 
they  secretly  approve.  I  would  in  this  particular 
propose  the  example  of  Eve  to  all  her  daughters, 
as  Milton  has  represented  her  in  the  following 
passage,  which  I  cannot  forbear  transcribing 
entire,  though  only  the  twelve  last  lines  are  to  my 
purpose. 

_  The  rib  he  form’d  and  fashion'd  with  his  hands : 
Under  his  forming  hands  a  creature  grew, 

Man-like,  but  different  sex;  so  lovely  fair, 

That  what  seem’d  fair  in  all  the  world,  seem’d  now 
Mean,  or  in  her  summ’d  up,  in  her  contain’d, 

And  in  her  looks;  which  from  that  time  infus’d 
Sweetness  into  my  heart  unfelt  before, 

And  into  all  things  from  her  air  inspir’d 
The  spirit  of  love  and  amorous  delight. 

She  disappear’d,  and  left  me  dark ;  I  wak’d 
To  find  her,  or  forever  to  deplore 
Her  loss,  and  other  pleasures  all  abj  ure : 

When  out  of  hope,  behold  her,  not  far  off, 

Such  as  I  saw  her  in  my  dream,  adorn’d 
\\  ith  what  all  earth  or  heaven  could  bestow 
To  make  her  amiable.  On  she  came, 

Led  by  her  heavenly  Maker  though  unseen, 

And  guided  by  his  voice,  nor  uninform’d 
Of  nuptial  sanctity  and  marriage  rites : 

Grace  was  in  all  her  steps,  Heav’n  in  her  eye, 

In  every  gesture  dignity  and  love. 

I,  overjoyed,  could  not  foi-bear  aloud : 

“  This  turn  hath  made  amends :  thou  has  fulfill’d 
Thy  words,  Creator  bounteous  and  benign! 

Giver  of  all  things  fair:  but  fairest  this 
Of  all  thy  gifts,  nor  enviest.  1  now  see 
Bone  of  my  bone,  flesh  of  my  flesh,  myself.” 

She  heard  me  thus,  and  though  divinely  brought, 

Yet  innocence  and  virgin  modesty, 

Her  virtue,  and  the  conscience  of  her  worth, 

That  would  be  woo’d,  and  not  unsought  be  won, 

Not  obvious,  not  obtrusive,  but  retir’d, 

The  more  desirable — or,  to  say  all, 

Nature  herself,  though  pure  of  sinful  thought, 

W  rought  in  her  so,  that  seeing  me  sh£  turn’d. 

I  follow’d  her:  she  what  was  honor  knew, 

And  with  obsequious  majesty  approv’d 
My  pleaded  reason.  To  the  nuptial  bower 
1  led  her  blushing  like  the  morn - 

L-  Paradise  Lost,  viii,  469—511. 


No.  90.]  WEDNESDAY,  JUNE  13,  1711. 

- Magnus  sine  viribus  ignis 

lneassum  furit -  Virg.,  Georg,  iii,  99. 

In  all  the  rage  of  impotent  desire, 

The  feel  a  quenchless  flame,  a  fruitless  fire. 

There  is  not,  in  my  opinion,  a  consideration 
more  effectual  to  extinguish  inordinate  desires  in 
the  soul  of  man,  than  the  notions  of  Plato  and 
his  followers  upon  that  subject.  They  tell  us, 


137 

that  every  passion  which  has  been  contracted  by 
the  soul  during  her  residence  in  the  body  remains 
with  her  in  a  separate  state;  and  that  the  soul  in 
the  body,  or  out  of  the  body,  differs  no  more  than 
the  man  docs  from  himself  when  he  is  in  his 
house,  or  in  open  air.  When  therefore  the  obscene 
passions  in  particular  have  once  taken  root,  and 
spread  themselves  in  the  soul,  they  cleave  to  her 
inseparably,  and  remain  in  her  forever,  after  the 
body  is  cast  off  and  thrown  aside.  As  an  argument 
to  confirm  this  their  doctrine,  they  observed  that  a 
lewd  youth  who  goes  on  in  a  continued  course  of 
voluptuousness,  advances  by  degrees  into  a  libidi¬ 
nous  old  man  ;  and  that  the  passion  survives  in 
the  mind  when  it  is  altogether  dead  in  the  body ; 
nay,  that  the  desire  grows  more  violent,  and  (like 
all  other  habits)  gathers  strength  by  age,  at  the 
same  time  that  it  has  no  power  of  executing  its 
own  purposes.  If,  say  they,  the  soul  is  the  most 
subject  to  these  passions  at  a  time  when  it  has  the 
least  instigations  from  the  body,  we  may  well  sup¬ 
pose  she  will  still  retain  them  when  she  is  entire¬ 
ly  divested  of  it.  The  very  substance  of  the  soul 
is  festered  with  them,  the  gangrene  is  gone  too 
far  to  be  ever  cured  ;  the  inflammation  will  rage 
to  all  eternity. 

In  this  therefore  (say  the  Platonists)  consists 
the  punishment  of  a  voluptuous  man  after  death. 
He  is  tormented  with  desires  which  it  is  impossi¬ 
ble  for  him  to  gratify  ;  solicited  by  a  passion  that 
lias  neither  objects  nor  organs  adapted  to  it.  He 
lives  in  a  state  of  invincible  desire  and  impo¬ 
tence,  and  always  burns  in  the  pursuit  of  what  he 
always  despairs  to  possess.  It  is  for  this  reason 
(says  Plato)  that  the  souls  of  the  dead  appear 
frequently  in  cemeteries,  and  hover  about  the 
places  where  their  bodies  are  buried,  still  hanker¬ 
ing  after  their  old  brutal  pleasures,  and  desiring 
again  to  enter  the  body  that  gave  them  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  fulfilling  them. 

Some  of  our  most  eminent  divines  have  made 
use  of  this  Platonic  notion,  so  far  as  it  regards 
the  subsistence  of  our  passions  after  death,  with 
great  beauty  and  strength  of  reason.  Plato  in¬ 
deed  carries  the  thought  very  far  when  he  grafts 
upon  it  his  opinion  of  ghosts  appearing  in  places 
of  burial.  Though,  I  must  confess,  if  one  did 
believe  that  the  departed  souls  of  men  and  women 
wandered  up  and  down  these  lower  regions,  and 
entertained  themselves  with  the  sight  of  their 
species,  one  could  not  devise  a  more  proper  hell 
for  an  impure  spirit  than  that  which  Plato  has 
touched  upon. 

The  ancients  seem  to  have  drawn  such  a  state 
of  torments  in  the  description  of  Tantalus,  who 
was  punished  with  the  rage  of  an  eternal  thirst, 
and  set  up  to  the  chin  in  water  that  fled  from  his 
lips  whenever  he  attempted  to  drink  it. 

Virgil,  who  has  cast  the  whole  system  of  Pla¬ 
tonic  philosophy,  so  far  as  it  relates  to  the  soul 
of  man,  into  beautiful  allegories,  in  the  sixth 
book  of  his  ^Eneid  gives  us  the  punishment  of  a 
voluptuary  after  death,  not  unlike  that  which  we 
are  here  speaking  of  : 

- Lucent  genialibus  altis 

A  urea  fulcra  toris,  epulaeque  ante  ora  paratae 
Kegifico  luxu :  furiarum  maxima  juxta 
Accubat,  et  manibus  prohibet  contingore  mensas; 
Exurgitque  facem  attollens,  atque  intonat  ore. 

They  lie  below  on  golden  beds  display’d, 

And  genial  feasts  with  regal  pomp  are  made : 

The  queen  of  furies  by  their  side  is  set, 

And  snatches  from  their  mouths  the  untasted  meat 
Which,  if  they  touch,  her  hissing  snakes  she  rears, 
Tossing  her  torch,  and  thundering  in  their  ears. 

Dryden. 

That  I  may  a  little  alleviate  the  severity  of  this 
my  speculation  (which  otherwise  may  lose  me 


138 


THE  SPE 

several  of  my  polite  readers),  I  shall  translate  a 
story  that  has  been  quoted  upon  another  occasion 
by  one  of  the  most  learned  men  of  the  present 
age,  as  I  find  it  in  the  original.  The  reader  will 
see  it  is  not  foreign  to  my  present  subject,  and  I 
dare  say  will  think  it  a  lively  representation  of  a 
person  lying  under  the  torments  of  such  a  kind 
of  tantalism,  or  Platonic  hell,  as  that  which  we 
have  now  under  consideration.  Monsieur  Pontig- 
nan,  speaking  of  a  love-adventure  that  happened 
to  him  in  the  country,  gives  the  following  account 
of  it.* 

“When  I  was  in  the  country  last  summer,  I 
was  often  in  company  with  a  couple  of  charming 
women,  who  had  all  the  wit  and  beauty  one  could 
desire  in  female  companions,  with  a  dash  of  co¬ 
quetry,  that  from  time  to  time  gave  me  a  great 
many  agreeable  torments.  I  was,  after  my  way, 
in  love  with  both  of  them,  and  had  such  frequent 
opportunities  of  pleading  my  passion  to  them 
when  they  were  asunder,  that  I  had  reason  to  hope 
for  particular  favors  from  each  of  them.  As  I 
was  walking  one  evening  in  my  chamber  with 
nothing  about  me  but  my  night-gown,  they  both 
came  into  my  room,  and  told  me  they  had  a  very 
pleasant  trick  to  put  upon  a  gentleman  that  was 
in  the  same  house,  provided  1  would  bear  a  part 
in  it.  Upon  this  they  told  me  such  a  plausible 
story,  that  I  laughed  at  their  contrivance,  and 
agreed  to  do  whatever  they  should  require  of  me. 
They  immediately  began  to  swaddle  me  up  in  my 
night-gown,  with  long  pieces  of  linen,  which  they 
folded  about  me  till  they  had  wrapped  me  in 
above  a  hundred  yards  of  swath.  My  arms  were 
pressed  to  my  sides,  and  my  legs  closed  together 
by  so  many  wrappers  one  over  another,  that  J 
looked  like  an  Egyptian  mummy.  As  I  stood 
bolt-upright  upon  one  end  in  this  antique  figure, 
one  of  the  ladies  burst  out  a-laughing.  “And 
now,  Pontignan,”  says  she,  “  we  intend  to  perform 
the  promise  that  we  find  you  have  extorted  from 
each  of  us.  You  have  often  asked  the  favor  of 
us,  and  I  dare  say  you  are  a  better-bred  cavalier 
than  to  refuse  to  go  to  bed  to  two  ladies  that  de¬ 
sire  it  of  you.”  After  having  stood  a  fit  of  laugh¬ 
ter,  I  begged  them  to  uncase  me,  and  do  with  me 
what  they  pleased.  “No,  no,”  said  they,  “we 
like  you  very  wTell  as  you  are ;”  and  upon  that 
ordered  me  to  be  carried  to  one  of  their  houses, 
and  put  to  bed  in  all  my  swaddles.  The  room 
was  lighted  up  on  all  sides :  and  I  was  laid  very 
decently  between  a  pair  of  sheets,  with  my  head 
(which  was  indeed  the  only  part  I  could  move) 
upon  a  very  high  pillow:  this  was  no  sooner  done, 
but  my  two  female  friends  came  into  bed  to  me  in 
their  finest  night-clothes.  You  may  easily  guess 
at  the  condition  of  a  man  that  saw  a  couple  of  the 
most  beautiful  women  in  the  world  undressed  and 
a-bed  wfith  him,  without  being  able  to  stir  hand 
or  foot.  I  begged  them  to  release  me,  and  strug¬ 
gled  all  I  could  to  get  loose,  which  1  did  with  so 
much  violence,  that  about  midnight  they  both 
leaped  out  of  the  bed,  crying  out  they  were  un¬ 
done.  But  seeing  me  safe,  they  took  their  posts 
again,  and  renewed  their  raillery.  Finding  all 
my  prayers  and  endeavors  were  lost,  I  composed 
myself  as  well  as  I  could,  and  told  them  that  if 
they  would  not  unbind  me,  I  would  fall  asleep 
between  them,  and  by  that  means  disgrace  them 
forever.  But,  alas!  this  was  impossible;  could  I 
have  been  disposed  to  it,  they  would  have  pre¬ 
vented  me  by  several  little  ill-natured  caresses 


*  The  substance  of  the  story  here  paraphrased  is  taken 
from  a  little  book  entitled  Academie  Galante,  printed  at  Paris 
and  in  Holland  in  1682,  and  afterward  at  Amst.,  in  1708.  See 
that  edit.,  p.  125 ;  and  first  Dutch  edit.,  p.  160. 


CTATOR. 

and  endearments  which  they  bestowed  upon  me. 
As  much  devoted  as  I  am  to  womankind,  I  would 
not  pass  such  another  night  to  be  master  of  the 
whole  sex.  My  reader  will  doubtless  be  curious 
to  know  what  became  of  me  the  next  morning. 
Why  truly  my  bed-fellows  left  me  about  an  hour 
before  day,  and  told  me,  if  I  would  be  good  and 
lie  still,  they  would  send  somebody  to  take  me  up 
as  soon  as  it  was  time  for  me  to  rise.  Accordingly 
about  nine  o’clock  in  the  morning  an  old  woman 
came  to  unswathe  me.  I  bore  all  this  very 
patiently,  being  resolved  to  take  my  revenge  on 
my  tormentors,  and  to  keep  no  measures  with 
them  as  soon  as  I  was  at  liberty;  but  upon  asking 
my  old  woman  what  wras  become  of  the  two  ladies, 
she  told  me  she  believed  they  were  by  that  time 
within  sight  of  Paris,  for  that  they  went  away  in 
a  coach  and  six  before  five  o’clock  in  the  morn¬ 
ing.” — L. 


No.  91.]  THURSDAY,  JUNE  14, 1711. 

In  furias  ignemque /ruunt ;  amor  omnibus  idem. 

Virg.,  Georg,  iii,  244. 

- They  rush  into  the  flame ; 

For  love  is  lord  of  all,  and  is  in  all  the  same. — Dryden. 

Though  the  subject  I  am  now  going  upon 
would  be  much  more  properly  the  foundation  of  a 
comedy,  I  cannot  forbear  inserting  the  circum¬ 
stances  which  pleased  me  in  the  account  a  young 
lady  gave  me  of  the  loves  of  a  family  in  town, 
which  shall  be  nameless  ;  or  rather,  for  the  better 
sound  and  elevation  of  the  history,  instead  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Sucli-a-one,  I  shall  call  them  by  feigned 
names.  Without  farther  preface  you  are  to  know 
that  within  the  liberties  of  the  city  of  Westminster 
lives  the  lady  Honoria,  a  widow  about  the  age  of 
forty,  of  a  healthy  constitution,  gay  temper,  and 
elegant  person.  She  dresses  a  little  too  much 
like  a  girl,  affects  a  childish  fondness  in  the  tone 
of  her  voice,  sometimes  a  pretty  sullenness  in  the 
leaning  of  her  head,  and  now  and  then  a  downcast 
of  her  eyes  on  her  fan.  Neither  her  imagination 
nor  her  health  would  ever  give  her  to  know  that 
she  is  turned  of  twenty;  but  that  in  the  midst  of 
these  pretty  softnesses  and  airs  of  delicacy  and 
attraction,  she  has  a  tall  daughter  within  a  fort¬ 
night  of  fifteen,  who  impertinently  comes  into  the 
room,  and  towers  so  much  toward  woman,  that 
her  mother  is  always  checked  by  her  presence, 
and  every  charm  of  Honoria  droops  at  the  entrance 
of  Flavia.  The  agreeable  Flavia  would  be  what 
she  is  not,  as  well  as  her  mother  Honoria ;  but  all 
their  beholders  are  more  partial  to  an  affectation 
of  what  a  person  is  growing  up  to,  than  of  what 
has  been  already  enjoyed,  and  is  gone  forever.  It 
is  therefore  allowed  to  Flavia  to  look  forward,  but 
not  to  Honoria  to  look  back.  Flavia  is  no  way 
dependent  on  her  mother  with  relation  to  her  for¬ 
tune,  for  which  reason  they  live  almost  upon  an 
equality  in  conversation  ;  and  as  Honoria  has 
given  Flavia  to  understand  that  it  is  ill-bred  to  be 
always  calling  mother,  Flavia  is  as  well  pleased 
never  to  be  called  child.  It  happens  by  this 
means,  that  these  ladies  are  generally  rivals  in  all 
places  where  they  appear  ;  and  the  words  mother 
and  daughter  never  pass  between  them  but  out  of 
spite.  Flavia  one  night  at  a  play  observing  Hono¬ 
ria  draw  the  eyes  of  several  in  the  pit,  called  to  a 
lady  who  sat  by  her,  and  bid  her  ask  her  mother 
to  lend  her  her  snuff-box  for  one  moment.  Another 
time,  when  a  lover  of  Honoria  was  on  his  knees 
beseeching  the  favor  to  kiss  her  hand,  Flavia, 
rushing  into  the  room,  kneeled  down  by  him  and 
asked  her  blessing.  Several  of  these  contradic¬ 
tory  acts  of  duty  have  raised  between  them  such 
a  coldness,  that  they  generally  converse  when  they 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


are  in  mixed  company,  by  way  of  talking  at  one 
another,  and  not  to  one  another.  Honoria  is  ever 
complaining  of  a  certain  sufficiency  in  the  young 
women  of  this  age,  who  assume  to  themselves  an 
authority  of  carrying  all  things  before  them,  as  if 
they  were  possessors  of  the  esteem  of  mankind, 
and  all  who  were  but  a  year  before  them  in  the 
world  were  neglected  or  deceased.  Flavia,  upon 
such  a  provocation,  is  sure  to  observe,  that  there 
are  people  who  can  resign  nothing,  and  know  not 
how  to  give  up  what  they  know  they  cannot  hold: 
that  there  are  those  who  will  not  allow  youth  their 
follies,  not  because  they  are  themselves  past  them, 
but  because  they  love  to  continue  in  them.  These 
beauties  rival  each  other  on  all  occasions,  not  that 
they  have  always  had  the  same  lovers,  but  each 
has  kept  up  a  vanity  to  show  the  other  the  charms 
of  her  lover.  Dick  Crastin  and  Tom  Tulip, 
among  many  others,  have  of  late  been  pretenders 
in  this  family — Dick  to  Honoria,  Tom  to  Flavia. 
Dick  is  the  only  surviving  beau  of  the  last  age, 
and  Tom  almost  the  only  one  that  keeps  up  that 
order  of  men  in  this. 

1  wish  I  could  repeat  the  little  circumstances 
of  a  conversation  of  the  four  lovers  with  the  spirit 
in  which  the  young  lady  I  had  my  account  from 
represented  it  at  a  visit  where  I  had  the  honor  to 
be  present;  but  it  seems  Dick  Crastin,  the  admirer 
of  Honoria,  and  Tom  Tulip,  the  pretender  to  Fla¬ 
via,  were  purposely  admitted  together  by  the 
ladies,  that  each  might  show  the  other  that  her 
lover  had  the  superiority  in  the  accomplishments 
of  that  sort  of  creature  whom  the  sillier  part  of 
women  call  a  fine  gentleman.  As  this  age  has  a 
much  more  gross  taste  in  courtship,  as  well  as  in 
everything  else,  than  the  last  had,  these  gentlemen 
are  instances  of  it  in  their  different  manner  of  ap¬ 
plication.  Tulip  is  ever  making  allusions  to  the 
vigor  of  his  person,  the  sinewy  force  of  his  make; 
while  Crastin  professes  a  wary  observation  of  the 
turns  of  his  mistress’s  mind.  Tulip  gives  him¬ 
self  the  airs  of  a  resistless  ravisher,  Crastin  prac¬ 
tices  those  of  a  skillful  lover.  Poetry  is  the  inse¬ 
parable  property  of  every  man  in  love  ;  and  as 
men  of  wit  write  verses  on  those  occasions,  the 
rest  of  the  world  repeat  the  verses  of  others.  These 
servants  of  the  ladies  were  used  to  imitate  their 
manner  of  conversation,  and  allude  to  one  another, 
rather  than  interchange  discourse  in  what  they 
said  when  they  met.  Tulip  the  other  day  seized 
his  mistress’s  hand,  and  repeated  out  of  Ovid’s 
Art  of  Love, 

’T  is  I  can  in  soft  battles  pass  the  night, 

Yet  rise  next  morning  vigorous  for  the  fight, 

Fresh  as  the  day,  and  active  as  the  light. 

Upon  hearing  this,  Crastin,  with  an  air  of  defe¬ 
rence,  played  with  Honoria’s  fan,  and  repeated, 

Sedley  has  that  prevailing  gentle  art, 

That  can  with  a  resistless  charm  impart 
The  loosest  wishes  to  the  chastest  heart; 
liaise  such  a  conflict,  kindle  such  a  fire, 

Between  declining  virtue  and  desire, 

Till  the  poor  vanquish’d  maid  dissolves  away 
In  dreams  all  night,  in  sighs  and  tears  all  day.* 

When  Crastin  had  uttered  these  verses  with  a 
tenderness  which  at  once  spoke  passion  and  re¬ 
spect,  Honoria  cast  a  triumphant  glance  at  Flavia, 
as  exulting  in  the  elegance  of  Crastin’s  courtship, 
and  upbraiding  her  with  the  homeliness  of  Tu¬ 
lip’s.  Tulip  understood  the  reproach,  and  in 
return  began  to  applaud  the  wisdom  of  old  amor¬ 
ous  gentlemen,  who  turned  their  mistress’s  ima¬ 
gination  as  far  as  possible  from  what  they  had 
long  themselves  forgot,  and  ended  his  discourse 


*  These  verses  on  Sir  Charles  Sedley,  are  from  Lord  Roches¬ 
ter's  Imitation  of  Horace,  1  Sat.  x. 


139 

with  a  sly  commendation  of  the  doctrine  of  Pla 
tonic  love  ;  at  the  same  time  he  ran  over,  with  a 
laughing  eye,  Crastin’s  thin  legs,  meager  looks, 
and  spare  body.  The  old  gentleman  immediately 
left  the  room  with  some  disorder,  and  the  conver¬ 
sation  fell  upon  untimely  passion,  after-love,  and 
unseasonable  youth.  Tulip  sang,  danced,  moved 
before  the  glass,  led  his  mistress  half  a  minuet, 
hummed 

Celia,  the  fair,  in  the  bloom  of  fifteen ! 

when  there  came  a  servant  with  a  letter  to  him, 
which  was  as  follows : — 

“  Sir, 

“I  understand  very  well  what  you  meant  by 
your  mention  of  Platonic  love.  I  shall  be  glad  to 
meet  you  immediately  in  Hyde-park,  or  behind 
Montague-house,  or  attend  you  to  Barn-elms,  or 
any  other  fashionable  place  that’s  fit  for  a  gentle¬ 
man  to  die  in,  that  you  shall  appoint  for, 

“  Sir, 

“  Y our  most  humble,  servant, 

“Richard  Crastin.” 

Tulip’s  color  changed  at  the  reading  of  this 
epistle  ;  for  which  reason  his  mistress  snatched  it 
to  read  the  contents.  While  she  was  doing  so. 
Tulip  went  away;  and  the  ladies  now  agreeing  in 
a  common  calamity,  bewailed  together  the  danger 
of  their  lovers.  They  immediately  undressed  to 
go  out,  and  took  hackneys  to  prevent  mischief ; 
but  after  alarming  all  parts  of  the  town,  Crastin 
was  found  by  his  widow  in  his  pumps  at  Hyde- 
park,  which  appointment  Tulip  never  kept,  but 
made  his  escape  into  the  country.  Flavia  tears 
her  hair  for  his  inglorious  safety,  curses  and  de¬ 
spises  her  charmer,  and  is  fallen  in  love  with 
Crastin  ;  which  is  the  first  part  of  the  history  of 
the  rival  mother.  R. 


No.  92.]  FRIDAY,  JUNE  15,  1711. 

- Convivae  prope  dissentire  videntur, 

Poscentes  vario  multum  diversa  palato ; 

Quid  dem?  Quid  non  dem? — IIor,.,  2  Ep.,  ii,  61. 

IMITATED. 

- What  would  you  have  me  do, 

When  out  of  twenty  I  can  please  not  two  ? — 

One  likes  the  pheasant’s  wing,  and  one  the  leg; 

The  vulgar  boil,  the  learned  roast  an  egg; 

Hard  task,  to  hit  the  palate  of  such  guests. — Pope. 

Looking  over  the  late  packets  of  letters  which 
have  been  sent  to  me,  I  found  the  following  one : 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“Your  paper  is  a  part  of  my  tea  equipage;  and 
my  servant  knows  my  humor  so  well,  that  calling 
for  my  breakfast  this  morning  (it  being  my  usual 
hour),  she  answered,  the  Spectator  was  not  yet 
come  in  ;  but  that  the  tea-kettle  boiled,  and  she 
expected  it  every  moment.  Having  thus  in  part 
signified  to  you  the  esteem  and  veneration  which 
I  have  for  you,  I  must  put  you  in  mind  of  the 
catalogue  of  books  which  you  have  promised  to 
recommend  to  our  sex;  for  I  have  deferred  furnish¬ 
ing  my  closet  with  authors,  till  I  receive  your 
advice  in  this  particular,  being  your  daily  disciple 
and  humble  servant, 

“Leonora.” 

In  answer  to  my  fair  disciple,  whom  I  am  very 
proud  of,  I  must  acquaint  her  and  the  rest  of  my 
readers,  that  since  I  have  called  out  for  help  in. 
my  catalogue  of  a  lady’s  library,  I  have  received 
many  letters  upon  that  head,  some  of  which  I  shall 
give  an  account  of. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


140 

In  the  first  class  I  shall  take  notice  of  those 
which  come  to  me  from  eminent  booksellers,  who 
every  one  of  them  mention  with  respect  the  authors 
they  have  printed,  and  consequently  have  an  eye 
to  their  own  advantage  more  than  to  that  of  the 
ladies.  One  tells  me,  that  he  thinks  it  absolutely 
necessary  for  women  to  have  true  notions  of  right 
and  equity,  and  that  therefore  they  cannot  peruse 
a  better  book  than  Dalton’s  Country  Justice. 
Another  thinks  they  cannot  be  without  The  Com¬ 
plete  Jockey.  A  third,  observing  the  curiosity 
and  desira  of  prying  into  secrets,  which  he  tells 
me  is  natural  to  the  fair  sex,  is  of  opinion  this 
female  inclination,  if  well  directed,  might  turn 
very  much  to  their  advantage,  and  therefore  recom¬ 
mends  to  me  Mr.  Mede  upon  the  Revelations.  A 
fourth  lays  it  down  as  an  unquestioned  truth,  that 
a  lady  cannot  be  thoroughly  accomplished,  who 
has  not  read  The  Secret  Treaties  and  Negotiations 
of  Marshal  d’Estrades.  Mr.  Jacob  Tonson,  junior, 
is  of  opinion,  that  Eayle’s  Dictionary  might  be 
of  very  great  use  to  the  ladies,  in  order  to  make 
them  general  scholars.  Another,  whose  name  I 
have  forgotten,  thinks  it  highly  proper  that  every 
woman  with  child  should  read  Mr.  Wall’s  History 
of  Infant  Baptism;  as  another  is  very  importunate 
with  me  to  recommend  to  all  my  female  readers 
The  Finishing  Stroke;  being  a  ^Vindication  of  the 
Patriarchal  Scheme,  etc. 

In  the  second  class  I  shall  mention  books  which 
are  recommended  by  husbands,  if  I  may  believe 
the  writers  of  them.  Whether  or  no  they  are  real 
husbands,  or  personated  ones,  I  cannot  tell  ;  but 
the  books  they  recommend  are  as  follow A  Para- 
lirase  on  the  History  of  Susannah.  Rules  to 
eep  Lent.  The  Christian’s  Overthrow  prevented. 
A  Dissuasive  from  the  Playhouse.  The  Virtues 
of  Campliire,  with  directions  to  make  Camphire 
Tea.  The  Pleasure  of  a  Country  Life.  The  Go¬ 
vernment  of  the  Tongue.  A  letter  dated  Cheap- 
side,  desires  me  that  I  would  advise  all  young 
wives  to  make  themselves  mistresses  of  Wingate’s 
Arithmetic,  and  concludes  with  a  Postscript,  that 
he  hopes  I  will  not  forget  The  Countess  of  Kent’s 
Receipts. 

I  may  reckon  the  ladies  themselves  as  a  third 
class  among  these  my  correspondents,  and  privy- 
counselors.  In  a  letter  from  one  of  them,  I  am 
advised  to  place  Pharamond*  at  the  head  of  my 
catalogue,  and  if  I  think  proper,  to  give  the 
second  place  to  Cassandra.f  Coquetilla  begs  me 
not  to  think  of  nailing  women  upon  their  knees 
with  manuals  of  devotion,  nor  of  scorching  their 
faces  with  books  of  housewifery.  Florella  desires 
to  know  if  there  are  any  books  written  against 
prudes,  and  entreats  me,  if  there  are,  to  give  them 
a  place  in  my  library.  Plays  of  all  sorts  have 
their  several  advocates :  All  for  Love  is  mentioned 
in  above  fifteen  letters;  Sophonisba,  or  HannibaPs 
Overthrow  in  a  dozen:  The  Innocent  Adultery  is 
likewise  highly  approved;  Mithridates,  King  of 
Pontus,  has  many  friends;  Alexander  the  Great 
and  Aurengzebe  have  the  same  number  of  voices; 
but  Theodosius,  or  the  Force  of  Love,  carries  it 
from  all  the  rest. 

I  should,  in  the  last  place,  mention  such  books 
as  have  been  proposed  by  men  of  learning,  and 
those  who  appear  competent  judges  of  this  mat¬ 
ter,  and  must  here  take  occasion  to  thank  A.  B., 
whoever  it  is  that  conceals  himself  under  these 
two  letters,  for  his  advice  upon  this  subject.  But 
as  I  find  the  work  I  have  undertaken  to  be  very 
difficult,  I  shall  defer  the  executing  of  it  till  I  am 
farther  acquainted  with  the  thoughts  of  my  judi- 


*  f  Two  celebrated  French  romances,  written  by  M.  La  Cal- 
pronede. 


cious  cotemporaries,  and  have  time  to  examine  the 
several  books  they  offer  to  me :  being  resolved,  in 
an  affair  of  this  moment,  to  proceed 'with  the 
greatest  caution. 

In  the  meanwhile,  as  I  have  taken  the  ladies 
under  my  particular  care,  1  shall  make  it  my  busi¬ 
ness  to  find  out  in  the  best  authors,  ancient  and 
modern,  such  passages  as  may  be  for  their  use, 
and  endeavor  to  accommodate  them  as  well  as  I 
can  to  their  taste;  not  questioning  but  the  valua¬ 
ble  part  of  the  sex  will  easily  pardon  me,  if  from 
time  to  time  I  laugh  at  those  little  vanities  and 
follies  which  appear  in  the  behavior  of  some  of 
them,  and  which  are  more  proper  for  ridicule  than 
a  serious  censure.  Most  books  being  calculated 
for  male  readers,  and  generally  written  with  an 
eye  to  men  of  learning,  makes  a  work  of  this  na¬ 
ture  the  more  necessary  ;  beside,  I  am  the  more 
encouraged,  because  I  flatter  myself  that  I  see 
the  sex  daily  improving  by  these  my  speculations 
My  fair  readers  are  already  deeper  scholars  than 
the  beaux.  I  could  name  some  of  them  who  talk 
much  better  than  several  gentlemen  that  make  a 
figure  at  Will’s  and  as  I  frequently  receive  letters 
from  the  fine  ladies  and  pretty  fellows,  I  cannot 
but  observe  that  the  former  are  superior  to  the 
other,  not  only  in  the  sense  but  in  the  spelling. 
This  cannot  but  have  a  good  effect  upon  the  female 
world,  and  keep  them  from  being  charmed  by 
those  empty  coxcombs  that  have  hitherto  been  ad¬ 
mired  among  the  women,  though  laughed  at  among 
the  men. 

I  am  credibly  informed  that  Tom  Tattle  passes 
for  an  impertinent  fellow,  that  Will  Trippet  begins 
to  be  smoked,  and  that  Frank  Smoothly  himself 
is  within  a  month  of  a  coxcomb,  in  case  I  think 
fit  to  continue  this  paper.  For  my  part,  as  it  is 
my  business  in  some  measure  to  detect  such  as 
would  lead  astray  weak  minds  by  their  false  pre¬ 
tenses  to  wit  and  judgment,  humor  and  gallantry, 
I  shall  not  fail  to  lend  the  best  light  I  am  able  to 
the  fair  sex  for  the  continuation  of  these  their  dis¬ 
coveries. — L. 

& 

No.  33.]  SATURDAY,  JUNE  16,  1711. 

- Spatio  brevi 

Spem  longarn  reseces :  dum  loquimur,  fugerit  invida 

iEtas :  carpe  diem,  quam  minimum  credula  postero. 

Hor.  1  Od.  xi,  6. 

Thy  lengthen’d  hopes  with  prudence  bound 
Proportion’d  to  the  flying  hour; 

While  thus  we  talk  in  careless  ease, 

The  envious  moments  wing  their  flight, 

Instant  the  fleeting  pleasure  seize, 

Nor  trust  to-morrow’s  doubtful  light. — Francis. 

We  all  of  us  complain  of  the  shortness  of  time, 
saith  Seneca,  and  yet  have  much  more  than  we 
know  what  to  do  with.  Our  lives,  says  he,  are 
spent  either  in  doing  nothing  at  all,  or  in  doing 
nothing  to  the  purpose,  or  in  doing  nothing  that 
we  ought  to  do.  We  are  always  complaining  our 
days  are  few,  and  acting  as  though  there  would  be 
no  end  of  them.  That  noble  philosopher  has  de¬ 
scribed  our  inconsistency  with  ourselves  in  this 
particular,  by  all  those  various  turns  of  expres¬ 
sion  and  thought  which  are  peculiar  to  his 
writings. 

I  often  consider  mankind  as  wholly  inconsistent 
with  itself  in  a  point  that  bears  some  affinity  to 
the  former.  Though  we  seem  grieved  at  the  short¬ 
ness  of  life  in  general,  we  are  wishing  every  pe 
riod  of  it  an  end.  The  minor  longs  to  be  at  age, 
then  to  be  a  man  of  business,  then  to  make  up  an 
estate,  then  to  arrive  at  honors,  then  to  retire. 
Thus,  although  the  whole  life  is  allowed  by  every 
one  to  be  short,  the  several  divisions  of  it  appear 
long  and  tedious.  We  are  lengthening  our  span 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


141 


in  general,  but  would  fain  contract  tbe  parts  of 
which  it  is  composed.  '  he  usurer  would  be  very 
well  satisfied  to  have  all  the  time  annihilated  that 
lies  between  the  present  moment  and  next  quarter- 
day.  The  politician  would  be  contented  to  lose 
three  years  in  his  life,  could  he  place  things  in 
the  posture  which  he  fancies  they  will  stand  in 
after  such  a  revolution  of  time.  The  lover  would 
be  glad  to  strike  out  of  his  existence  all  the  mo¬ 
ments  that  are  to  pass  away  before  the  happy 
meeting.  I  hus,  as  last  as  our  time  runs,  we 
should  be  very  glad  in  most  parts  of  our  lives  that 
it  ran  much  faster  than  it  does.  Several  hours  of 
the  day  hang  upon  our  hands,  nay  we  wish  away 
whole  years ;  and  travel  through  time  as  through 
a  country  filled  with  mauy  Avild  and  empty  wastes, 
which  we  would  fain  hurry  over,  that  we  may  ar¬ 
rive  at  those  several  little  settlements  or  imagina¬ 
ry  points  of  rest  which  are  dispersed  up  and  down 
in  it. 

If  we  divide  the  life  of  most  men  into  twenty 
parts,  we  shall  find,  that  at  least  nineteen  of  them 
are  mere  gaps  and  chasms,  which  are  neither 
filled  with  pleasure  nor  business.  I  do  not,  how¬ 
ever,  include  in  this  calculation  the  life  of  those 
men  who  are  in  a  perpetual  hurry  of  affairs,  but 
of  those  only  who  are  not  always  engaged  in 
scenes  of  action  ;  and  I  hope  I  shall  not  do  an  un¬ 
acceptable  piece  of  service  to  these  persons,  if  I 
point  out  to  them  certain  methods  for  the  filling 
up  their  empty  spaces  of  life.  The  methods  1 
shall  propose  to  them  are  as  follow: 

The  first  is  the  exercise  of  virtue,  in  the  most 
general  acceptation  of  the  word.  The  particular 
scheme  which  comprehends  the  social  virtues,  may 
give  employment  to  the  most  industrious  temper, 
and  find  a  man  in  business  more  than  the  most  ac¬ 
tive  station  of  life.  To  advise  the  ignorant,  relieve 
the  needy,  comfort  the  afflicted,  are  duties  that  fall 
in  our  way  almost  every  day  of  our  lives.  A  man 
has  frequently  opportunities  of  mitigating  the 
fierceness  of  a  party  ;  of  doing  justice  to  the  cha¬ 
racter  of  a  deserving  man  ;  of  softening  the  envi¬ 
ous,  quieting  the  angry,  and  rectifying  the  preju¬ 
diced  ;  which  are  all  of  them  employments  suited 
to  a  reasonable  nature,  and  bring  great  satisfaction 
to  the  person  who  can  busy  himself  in  them  with 
discretion. 

There  is  another  kind  of  virtue  that  may  find 
employment  for  those  retired  hours  in  which  we 
are  altogether  left  to  ourselves,  and  destitute  of 
company  and  conversation;  I  mean  that  inter¬ 
course  and  communication  which  every  reasonable 
creature  ought  to  maintain  with  the  great  Author 
°f  his  being.  The  man  who  lives  under  an  habit¬ 
ual  sense  of  the  divine  presence  keeps  up  a  per¬ 
petual  cheerfulness  of  temper,  and  enjoys  every 
moment  the  satisfaction  of  thinking  himself  in 
company  with  his  dearest  and  best  of  friends. 
Tin:  time  never  lies  heavy  upon  him  ;  it  is  impos¬ 
sible  for  him  to  be  alone.  His  thoughts  and  pas¬ 
sions  are  the  most  busied  at  such  hours  when 
those  of  other  men  are  the  most  inactive.  He  no 
s o.o mi  steps  out  of  the  world  but  his  heart  burns 
with  devotion,  swells  with  hope,  and  triumphs  in 
the  consciousness  of  that  presence  which  every¬ 
where  sunounds  him;  or,  on  the  contrary,  pours 
out  its  fears,  its  sorrows,  its  apprehensions,  to  the 
great  supporter  of  its  existence. 

I  haA  e  here  only  considered  the  necessity  of  a 
man  s  being  virtuous,  that  he  may  have  something 
to  do  ;  but  if  Ave  consider  farther,  that  the  exercise 
of  virtue  is  not  only  an  amusement  for  the  time  it 
lasts,  but  that  its  influence  extends  to  those  parts 
of  our  existence  which  lie  beyond  the  grave,  and 
that  our  whole  eternity  is  to  take  its  color  from 
those  hours  which  Ave  here  employ  in  virtue  or  in 


vice,  the  argument  redoubles  upon  us  for  putting 
in  practice  this  method  of  passing  away  our  time. 

”  ^1<in  a  man  has  but  a  little  stock  to  improve, 
and  has  opportunities  of  turning  it  all  to  good  ac¬ 
count,  what  shall  we  think  of  him  if  he  suffers 
nineteen  parts  of  it  to  lie  dead,  and  perhaps  em¬ 
ploys  even  the  twentieth  to  his  ruin  or  disadvant¬ 
age  t  But  because  the  mind  cannot  be  always  in 
its  fervors,  nor  strained  up  to  a  pitch  of  virtue, 
it  is  necessary  to  find  out  proper  employments  for 
it  in  its  relaxations. 

The  next  method  therefore  that  I  would  propose 
to  fill  up  our  time,  should  be  useful  and  innocent 
diversions.  I  must  confess  I  think  it  is  below 
reasonable  creatures  to  be  altogether  conversant  in 
such  diversions  as  are  merely  innocent,  and  have 
nothing  else  to  recommend  them  but  that  there  is 
no  hurt  in  them.  Whether  any  kind  of  gaming 
has  eAren  thus  much  to  say  for  itself  I  shall  not 
determine  ;  but  I  think  it  is  very  Avonderful  to  see 
persons  of  the  best  sense  parsing  aAvay  a  dozen 
hours  together  in  shuffling  and  dividing  a  pack  of 
cards,  with  no  other  conversation  but  what  is 
made  up  of  a  few  game  phrases,  and  no  other 
ideas  but  those  of  black  or  red  spots  ranged  to¬ 
gether  in  different  figures.  Would  not  a  man 
laugh  to  hear  any  one  of  this  species  complaining 
that  life  is  short?  ° 

The  stage  might  be  made  a  perpetual  source  of 
the  most  noble  and  useful  entertainments,  were  it 
under  proper  regulations. 

But  the  mind  never  unbends  itself  so  agreeably 
as  in  the  conversation  of  a  well-chosen  friend. 
There  is  indeed  no  blessing  of  life  that  is  any 
way  comparable .  to  the  enjoyment  of  a  discreet 
and  virtuous  friend.  It  eases  and  unloads  the 
mind,  clears  and  improves  the  understanding,  en¬ 
genders  thoughts  and  knowledge,  animates  virtue 
and  good  resolutions,  soothes  and  allays  the  pas¬ 
sions,  and  finds  employments  for  most  of  the  va¬ 
cant  hours  of  life. 

Next  to  such  an  intimacy  with  a  particular  per¬ 
son,  one  would  endeavor  after  a  more  general  con¬ 
versation  Avith  such  as  are  able  to  entertain  and 
improve  those  with  Avhom  they  converse,  which 
are  qualifications  that  seldom  go  asunder. 

There  are  many  other  useful  employments  of 
life,  which  one  Avould  endeavor  to  multiply,  that 
one  might  on  all  occasions  have  recourse  to  some¬ 
thing,  rather  than  suffer  the  mind  to  lie  idle,  or 
run  adrift  with  any  passion  that  chances  to  rise 
in  it. 

A  man  that  has  a  taste  of  music,  painting,  or  ar¬ 
chitecture,  is  like  one  that  has  another  sense,  when 
compared  with  such  as  have  no  relish  of  those 
arts.  The  florist,  the  planter,  the  gardener,  the 
husbandman,  when  they  are  only  as  accomplish¬ 
ments  to  the  man  of  fortune,  are  great  reliefs  to  a 
country  life,  and  many  Avays  useful  to  those  who 
are  possessed  of  them. 

But  of  all  the  diversions  of  life,  there  is  none 
so  proper  to  fill  up  its  empty  spaces  as  the  read¬ 
ing  of  useful  and  entertaining  authors.  But  this 
I  shall  only  touch  upon,  because  it  in  some  mea¬ 
sure  interferes  with  the  third  method,  which  I 
shall  propose  in  another  paper,  for  the  employ¬ 
ment  of  our  dead  inactive  hours,  and  which  I 
shall  only  mention  in  general  to  be  the  pursuit  of 
knowledge. — L. 


142 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


No.  94.  MONDAY,  JUNE  18,  1711. 

- - Hoc  est 

Vivere  bis,  vita  posse  prime  frui. 

Mart.  Epig.  xxiii,  10. 

The  present  joys  of  life  we  doubly  taste, 

By  looking  back  with  pleasure  to  the  past. 

The  last  method  which  I  proposed  in  my  Satur¬ 
day’s  paper,  for  filling  up  those  empty  spaces  of 
life  which  are  so  tedious  and  burdensome  to  idle 
people,  is  the  employing  ourselves  in  the  pursuit 
of  knowledge.  I  remember  Mr.  Boyle,  speaking 
of  a  certain  mineral,  tells  us,  that  a  man  may 
consume  his  whole  life  in  the  study  of  it,  without 
arriving  at  the  knowledge  of  all  its  qualities. 
The  truth  of  it  is,  there  is  not  a  single  science,  or 
any  branch  of  it,  that  might  not  furnish  a  man 
with  business  for  life,  though  it  were  much  longer 
than  it  is. 

I  shall  not  here  engage  on  those  beaten  sub¬ 
jects  of  the  usefulness  of  knowledge  ;  nor  of  the 
pleasure  and  perfection  it  gives  the  mind  ;  nor  on 
the  methods  of  obtaining  it ;  nor  recommend  any 
particular  branch  of  it ;  all  which  have  been  the 
topics  of  many  other  writers  ;  but  shall  indulge 
myself  in  a  speculation  that  is  more  uncommon, 
and  may  therefore  perhaps  be  more  entertaining. 

I  have  before  shown  how  the  unemployed  parts 
of  life  appear  long  and  tedious,  and  shall  here 
endeavor  to  show  how  those  parts  of  life  which 
are  exercised  in  study,  reading,  and  the  pursuits 
of  knowledge,  are  long,  but  not  tedious,  and  by 
that  means  discover  a  method  of  lengthening  our 
lives,  and  at  the  same  time  of  turning  all  the 
parts  of  them  to  our  advantage. 

Mr.  Locke  observes,  “  That  we  get  the  idea  of 
time  or  duration,  by  reflecting  on  that  train  of 
ideas  which  succeed  one  another  in  our  minds  : 
that  for  this  reason,  -when  we  sleep  soundly  with¬ 
out  dreaming,  we  have  no  perception  of  time,  or 
the  length  of  it  while  we  sleep  ;  and  that  the  mo¬ 
ment  wherein  we  leave  off  to  think,  till  the  mo¬ 
ment  we  begin  to  think  again,  seems  to  have 
no  distance.”  To  which  the  author  adds,  “  and 
so  I  doubt  not  but  it  would  be  to  a  waking  man 
if  it  were  possible  for  him  to  keep  only  one  idea 
in  his,mind,  without  variation,  and  the  succession 
of  others  ;  and  we  see,  that  one  who  fixes  his 
thoughts  very  intently  on  one  thing,  so  as  to 
take  but  little  notice  of  the  succession  of  ideas 
that  pass  in  his  mind  while  he  is  taken  up  with 
that  earnest  contemplation,  lets  slip  out  of  his  ac¬ 
count  a  good  part  of  that  duration,  and  thinks 
that  time  shorter  than  it  is.” 

We  might  carry  this  thought  farther  :  and  con- 
sider  a  man  as,  on  one  side,  shortening  his  time 
by  thinking  on  nothing,  or  but  a  few  things  ;  so 
on  the  other,  as  lengthening  it,  by  employing  his 
thoughts  on  many  subjects,  or  by  entertaining  a 
quick  and  constant  succession  of  ideas.  Accord¬ 
ingly,  Monsieur  Malebranche,  in  his  Inquiry  af¬ 
ter  Truth  (which  was  published  several  years  be¬ 
fore  Mr.  Locke’s  Essay  on  Human  Understanding), 
tells  us,  “  that  it  is  possible  some  creatures  may 
think  half  an  hour  as  long  as  we  do  a  thousand 
years  ;  or  look  upon  that  space  of  duration  which 
we  call  a  minute,  as  an  hour,  a  week,  a  month,  or 
a  whole  age.” 

This  notion  of  Monsieur  Malebranche  is  capa¬ 
ble  of  some  little  explanation  from  what  I  have 
quoted  out  of  Mr.  Locke  ;  for  if  our  notion  of 
time  is  produced  by  our  reflecting  on  the  suc¬ 
cession  of  ideas  in  our  mind,  and  this  succession 
may  be  infinitely  accelerated  or  retarded,  it  will 
follow,  that  different  beings  may  have  different 
lotions  of  the  same  parts  of  duration,  according 

s  their  ideas,  which  we  suppose  are  equally  dis¬ 


tinct  in  each  of  them,  follow  one  another  in  a 
greater  or  less  degree  of  rapidity. 

There  is  a  famous  passage  in  the  Alcoran, 
which  looks  as  if  Mahomet  had  been  possessed 
of  the  notion  we  are  now  speaking  of.  It  is  there 
said  that  the  Angel  Gabriel  took  Mahomet  out  of 
his  bed  one  morning  to  give  him  a  sight  of  all 
things  in  the  seven  heavens,  in  paradise,  and  in 
hell,  which  the  prophet  took  a  distinct  view  of : 
and  after  having  held  ninety  thousand  conferences 
with  God,  Avas  brought  back  again  to  his  bed. 
All  this,  says  the  Alcoran,  was  transacted  in  so 
small  a  space  of  time,  that  Mahomet  at  his  return 
found  his  bed  still  warm,  and  took  up  an  earthen 
pitcher,  which  wras  thrown  down  at  the  very  in¬ 
stant  that  the  Angel  Gabriel  carried  him  away, 
before  the  Avater  was  all  spilled.* 

There  is  a  very  pretty  story  in  the  Turkish 
tales,  which  relates  to  this  passage  of  that  famous 
impostor,  and  bears  some  affinity  to  the  subject 
Ave  are  now  upon.  A  sultan  of  Egypt,  Avho  was 
an  infidel,  used  to  laugh  at  this  circumstance  in 
Mahomet’s  life,  as  what  was  altogether  impossible 
and  absurd  ;  but  conversing  one  day  Avith  a  great 
doctor  in  the  law,  who  had  the  gift  of  Avorking 
miracles,  the  doctor  told  him  he  would  quickly 
convince  him  of  the  truth  of  this  passage  in  the 
history  of  Mahomet,  if  he  would  consent  to  do 
Avhat  he  should  desire  of  him.  Upon  this  the  sul¬ 
tan  was  directed  to  place  himself  by  a  huge  tub 
of  water,  which  he  did  accordingly ;  and  as  he 
stood  by  the  tub  amid  a  circle  of  his  great  men, 
the  holy  man  bid  him  plunge  his  head  into  the 
water,  and  draAv  it  up  again.  The  king  accord¬ 
ingly  thrust  his  head  into  the  water,  and  at 
the  same  time  found  himself  at  the  foot  of  a 
mountain  on  the  sea-shore.  The  king  immedi¬ 
ately  began  to  rage  against  his  doctor  for  this 
piece  of  treachery  and  Avitclicraft ;  but  at  length, 
knowing  it  was  in  vain  to  be  angry,  he  set  him¬ 
self  to  think  on  proper  methods  for  getting  a  live¬ 
lihood  in  this  strange  country.  Accordingly  he 
applied  himself  to  some  people  Avliom  he  suav  at 
work  in  a  neighboring  wood  :  these  people  con¬ 
ducted  him  to  a  town  that  stood  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  Avood,  where,  after  some  adventures,  he 
married  a  woman  of  great  beauty  and  fortune. 
He  liAred  with  this  woman  so  long,  that  he  had  by 
her  seven  sons  and  seven  daughters.  He  was  af¬ 
terward  reduced  to  great  want,  and  forced  to  think 
of  plying  in  the  streets  as  a  porter  for  his  liveli¬ 
hood.  One  day  as  he  Avas  walking  alone  by  the 
sea-side,  being  seized  Avith  many  melancholy  re¬ 
flections  upon  his  former  and  his  present  state  of 
life,  Avhich  had  raised  a  fit  of  devotion  in  him,  he 
threAv  off  his  clothes  with  a  design  to  Avash  him¬ 
self,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  Mahometans, 
before  he  said  his  prayers. 

After  his  first  plunge  into  the  sea,  he  no  sooner 
raised  his  head  above  the  water  but  he  found 
himself  standing  by  the  side  of  the  tub,  with  the 
great  men  of  his  court  about  him,  and  the  holy 
man  at  his  side.  He  immediately  upbraided  his 
teacher  for  having  sent  him  on  such  a  course  of 
adventures,  and  betrayed  him  into  so  long  a  state 
of  misery  and  servitude ;  but  was  wonderfully 
surprised  when  he  heard  that  the  state  he  talked 
of  Avas  only  a  dream  and  delusion  ;  that  he  had 
not  stirred  from  the  place  Avhere  he  then  stood ; 
and  that  he  had  only  dipped  his  head  into  the 
Avater,  and  immediately  taken  it  out  again. 

The  Mahometan  doctor  took  this  occasion  of 
instructing  the  sultan,  that  nothing  Avas  impossi- 


*  The  Spectator’s  memory  hath  here  deceived  him;  no  such 
passage  is  to  be  found  in  the  Alcoran,  though  it  possibly  may 
in  some  of  the  histories  of  Mahomet’s  life. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


ble  with  God  ;  and  that  He,  with  whom  a  thou¬ 
sand  years  arc  but  as  one  day,  can,  if  He  pleases, 
make  a  single  day,  nay,  a  single  moment,  appear 
to  any  of  his  creatures  as  a  thousand  years. 

I  shall  leave  my  reader  to  compare  these  east¬ 
ern  fables  with  the  notions  of  those  two  great 
philosophers  whom  I  have  quoted  in  this  paper ; 
and  shall  only,  by  way  of  application,  desire  him 
to  consider  how  we  may  extend  life  beyond  its 
natural  dimension,  by  applying  ourselves  dili¬ 
gently  to  the  pursuits  of  knowledge. 

i  he  hours  of  a  wise  man  are  lengthened  by  his 
ideas,  as  those  of  a  fool  are  by  his  passions.  The 
time  of  the  one  is  long,  because  lie  does  not 
know  what  to  do  with  it ;  so  is  that  of  the  other, 
because  he  distinguishes  every  moment  of  it  with 
useful  or  amusing  thoughts  ;  or,  in  other  words, 
because  the  one  is  always  wishing  it  away,  and 
the  other  always  enjoying  it. 

How  different  is  the  view  of  past  life,  in  the  man 
who  is  grown  old  in  knowledge  and  wisdom, 
from  that  of  him  who  is  grown  old  in  ignorance 
and  folly!  The  latter  is  like  the  owner  of  a  bar¬ 
ren  country,  that  fills  his  eve  with  the  prospect 
of  naked  hills  and  plains,  which  produce  nothing 
either  profitable  or  ornamental ;  the  other  beholds 
a  beautiful  and  spacious  landscape  divided  into 
delightful  gardens,  green  meadows,  fruitful  fields, 
and  can  scarce  cast  his  eye  on  a  single  spot  of  his 
possessions,  that  is  not  covered  with  some  beau¬ 
tiful  plant  or  flower.  L. 

No.  95.]  TUESDAY,  JUNE  19,  1711. 

Curae  leves  loquuntur,  ingentes  stupent. — Seneca  Trao. 
Light  sorrows  loose  the  tongue,  hut  great  enchain. — P. 

Having  read  the  two  following  letters  with  much 
pleasure,  I  cannot  but  think  the  good  sense  of 
them  will  be  as  agreeable  to  the  town  as  anything 
I  could  say  either  on  the  topics  they  treat  of,  or 
any  other ;  they  both  allude  to  former  papers  of 
mine,  and  I  do  not  question  but  the  first,  which 
is  upon  mourning,  will  be  thought  the  production 
of  a  man  who  is  well  acquainted  with  the  gener¬ 
ous  yearnings  of  distress  in  a  manly  temper,  which 
is  above  the  relief  of  tears.  A  speculation  of  my 
own  on  that  subject  I  shall  defer  till  another  oc¬ 
casion. 

The  second  letter  is  from  a  lady  of  a  mind  as 
great  as  her  understanding.  There  is,  perhaps, 
something  in  the  beginning  of  it  which  I  ought 
in  modesty  to  conceal ;  but  I  have  so  much  este'em 
for  this  correspondent,  that  I  will  not  alter  a  tittle 
of  what  she  writes,  though  I  am  thus  scrupulous 
at  the  price  of  being  ridiculous. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  was  very  well  pleased  with  your  discourse 
upon  general  mourning,  and  should  be  obliged  to 
you  if  you  would  enter  into  the  matter  more 
deeply,  and  give  us  your  thoughts  upon  the  com¬ 
mon  sense  the  ordinary  people  have  of  the  demon¬ 
strations  of  grief,  who  prescribe  rules  and  fash¬ 
ions  to  the  most  solemn  affliction  ;  such  as  the 
loss  of  the  nearest  relations  and  dearest  friends. 
You  cannot  go  to  visit  a  sick  friend,  but  some 
impel tinent  waiter  about  him  observes  the  muscles 
of  your  face  as  strictly  as  it  they  were  prognostics 
of  his  death  or  recovery.  If  he  happens  to  be 
taken  from  you,  you  are  immediately  surrounded 
with  numbers  of  these  spectators,  who  expect  a 
melancholy  shrug  of  your  shoulders,  a  patlietical 
shake  of  your  head,  and  an  expressive  distortion 
of  your  face,  to  measure  your  affection  and  value 
for  the  deceased.  But  there  is  nothing,  on  these 
occasions,  so  much  in  their  favor  as  immoderate 
weeping.  As  all  their  passions  are  superficial, 


143 

they  imagine  the  seat  of  love  and  friendship  to  be 
placed  visibly  in  the  eyes.  They  judge  what 
stock  of  kindness  you  had  for  the  living,  by  the 
quantity  of  tears  you  pour  out  for  the  dead  :  so 
that  if  one  body  wants  that  quantity  of  saltwater 
another  abounds  with,  he  is  in  great  danger  of 
being  thought  insensible  or  ill-natured.  They  are 
strangers  to  friendship  whose  grief  happens  not 
to  be  moist  enough  to  wet  such  a  parcel  of  hand¬ 
kerchiefs.  But  experience  has  told  us  nothing  is 
so  fallacious  as  this  outward  sign  of  sorrow ;  and 
the  natural  history  of  our  bodies  will  teach  us 
that  this  flux  of  the  eyes,  this  faculty  of  weeping 
is  peculiar  only  to  some  constitutions.  We  ob¬ 
serve  in  the  tender  bodies  of  children,  when 
crossed  in  their  little  wills  and  expectations,  how 
dissolvable  they  are  into  tears.  If  this  were  what 
grief  is  in  men,  nature  would  not  be  able  to  sup¬ 
port  them  in  the  excess  of  it  for  one  moment. 
Add  to  this  observation,  how  quick  is  their  trans¬ 
ition  from  this  passion  to  that  of  their  joy!  I 
will  not  say  we  see  often,  in  the  next  tender  things 
to  children,  tears  shed  without  much  grieving. 
Thus  it  is  common  to  shed  tears  without  much 
sorrow,  and  as  common  to  suffer  much  sorrow 
without  shedding  tears.  Grief  and  weeping  are 
indeed  frequent  companions  ;  but,  I  believe,  never 
in  their  highest  excesses.  As  laughter  does  not 
proceed  from  profound  joy,  so  neither  does  weep¬ 
ing  from  profound  sorrow.  The  sorrow  which 
appears  so  easily  at  the  eyes,  cannot  have  pierced 
deeply  into  the  heart.  The  heart,  distended  with 
grief,  stops  all  the  passages  for  tears  or  lamentations. 

“  Now,  Sir,  what  I  would  incline  you  to  in  all 
this  is,  that  you  would  inform  the  shallow  critics 
and  observers  upon  sorrow,  that  true  affliction  la¬ 
bors  to  be  invisible,  that  it  is  a  stranger  to  cere- 
mony,  and  that  it  bears  in  its  own  nature  a  digni- 
ty  much  above  the  little  circumstances  which  are 
affected  under  the  notion  of  decency.  You  must 
know,  Sir.  I  have  lately  lost  a  dear  friend,  for 
whom  I  have  not  yet  shed  a  tear,  and  for  that 
reason  your  animadversions  on  that  subject  would 
be  the  more  acceptable  to, 

“  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant,  “  B.  D.” 

“  Mr-  Spectator,  June  the  15th. 

“  As  I  hope  there  are  but  few  who  have  so  little 
gratitude  as  not  to  acknowledge  the  usefulness  of 
your  pen,  and  to  esteem  it  a  public  benefit. ;  so  I 
am  sensible,  be  that  as  it  will,  you  must  neverthe¬ 
less  find  the  secret  and  incomparable  pleasure  of 
doing  good,  and  be  a  great  sharer  in  the  enter¬ 
tainment  you  give.  I  acknowledge  our  sex  to  be 
much  obliged,  and  I  hope  improved,  by  your  la¬ 
bors,  and  even  your  intentions  more  particularly 
tor  our  service.  If  it  be  true,  as  it  is  sometimes 
said,  that  our  sex  have  an  influence  on  the  other, 
your  paper  may  be  a  yet  more  general  good.  Your 
directing  us  to  reading  is  certainly  the  best  means 
to  our  instruction  ;  but  I  think  with  you,  caution 
in  that  particular  very  useful,  since  the  improve¬ 
ment  of  our  understandings  may  or  may  not  be  of 
service  to  us,  according  as  it  is  managed.  It  has 
been  thought  we  are  not  generally  so  ignorant  as 
ill-taught,  or  that  our  sex  does  not  so  often  want 
wit,  judgment,  or  ^knowledge,  as  the  right  appli¬ 
cation  of  them.  You  are  so  well-bred,  as  to  say 
your  fair  readers  are  already  deeper  scholars  than 
the  beaux,  and  that  you  could  name  some  of  them 
that  talk  much  better  than  several  gentlemen  that 
make  a  figure  at  Will’s.  This  may  possibly  be, 
and  no  great  compliment,  in  my  opinion,  even 
supposing  your  comparison  to  reach  Tom’s  and 
the  Grecian.  Surely  you  are  too  wise  to  think 
that  the  real  commendation  of  a  woman.  Were 
it  not  rather  to  be  wished  we  improved  in  our  own 


i 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


144 

sphere,  and  approved  ourselves  better  daughters, 
bettef  wives,  mothers,  and  friends  ? 

“  I  cannot  but  agree  with  the  judicious  trader 
in  Cheapside  (though  I  am  not  at  all  prejudiced 
in  his  favor)  in  recommending  the  study  of  arith¬ 
metic  ;  and  must  dissent  even  from  the  authority 
which  you  mention,  when  it  advises  the  making 
our  sex  scholars.  Indeed  a  little  more  philosophy, 
in  order  to  the  subduing  our  passions  to  our  rea¬ 
son  might  be  sometimes  serviceable,  and  a  treatise 
of  that  nature  I  should  approve  of  even  in  ex¬ 
change  for  Theodosius,  or  the  Force  of  Love ; 
but  as  I  well  know  you  want  not  hints,  I  will 
proceed  no  farther  than  to  recommend  the  Bishop 
of  Cambray’s  Education  of  a  Daughter,  as  it  is 
translated  into  the  only  language  I  have  any 
knowledge  of,  though  perhaps  very  much  to  its 
disadvantage.  I  have  heard  it  objected  against 
that  piece,  that  its  instructions  are  not  of  general 
use,  but  only  fitted  for  a  great  lady :  but  I  confess 
I  am  not  of  that  opinion  ;  for  I  do  not  remember 
that  there  are  any  rules  laid  down  for  the  expenses 
of  a  woman — in  which  particular  only  I  think  a 
gentlewoman  ought  to  differ  from  a  lady  of  the 
best  fortune,  or  highest  quality,  and  not  in  their 
principles  of  justice,  gratitude,  prudence,  or  mod¬ 
esty.  I  ought  perhaps  to  make  an  apology  for 
this  long  epistle  ;  bnt  as  I  rather  believe  you  a 
friend  to  sincerity  than  ceremony,  shall  only  as¬ 
sure  you  I  am, 

*  “  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant, 

T.  “  Annabella.” 


No.  96.]  WEDNESDAY,  JUNE  20,  1711. 

- Amicum 

Mancipium  domino,  et  frugi. — IIor.  2  Sat.  vii,  2. 

- The  faithful  servant,  and  the  true. — Creech. 

“Mr  Spectator, 

“I  have  frequently  read  your  discourse  upon 
servants,  and  as  I  am  one  myself,  have  been  much 
offended  that  in  that  variety  of  forms  wherein  you 
considered  the  bad,  you  found  no  place  to  mention 
the  good.  There  is,  however,  one  observation  of 
yours  I  approve,  which  is,  ‘That  there  are  men  of 
wit  and  good  sense  among  all  orders  of  men,  and 
that  servants  report  most  of  the  good  or  ill  which 
is  spoken  of  their  masters.’  That  there  are  men 
of  sense  who  live  in  servitude,  I  have  the  vanity 
to  say  I  have  felt  to  my  woeful  experience.  You 
attribute  very  justly  the  source  of  our  general  in¬ 
iquity  to  board-wages,  and  the  manner  of  living 
out  of  a  domestic  way ;  but  I  cannot  give  you  my 
thoughts  on  this  subject  any  way  so  well  as  by  a 
short  account  of  my  own  life,  to  this  the  forty- 
fifth  year  of  my  age — that  is  to  say,  from  my  first 
being  a  foot-boy  at  fourteen,  to  my  present  station 
of  a  nobleman’s  porter  in  the  year  of  my  age 
above-mentioned. 

“Know  then,  that  my  father  was  a  poor  tenant 
to  the  family  of  Sir  Stephen  Rackrent.  Sir  Ste¬ 
phen  put  me  to  school,  or  rather  made  me  follow 
his  son  Harry  to  school,  from  my  ninth"  year ;  and 
there,  though  Sir  Stephen  paid  something  for  my 
learning,  I  was  used  like  a  servant,  and  was  forced 
to  get  what  scraps  of  learning  I  could  by  my  own 
industry,  for  the  schoolmaster  took  very  little 
notice  of  me.  My  young  master  was  a  lad  of 
very  sprightly  parts ;  and  my  being  constantly 
about  him,  and  loving  him,  was  no  small  ad¬ 
vantage  to  me.  My  master  loved  me  extremely, 
and  has  often  been  whipped  for  not  keeping  me  at 
a  distance.  He  used  always  to  say,  that  when  he 
came  to  his  estate  I  should  have  a  lease  of  my 
father’s  tenement  for  nothing.  I  came  up  to  town 
with  him  to  Westminster-school;  at  which  time  he 


taught  me  at  night  all  he  learnt,  and  put  me  to 
find  out  words  in  the  dictionary  when  he  was 
about  his  exercise.  It  was  the  will  of  Providence 
that  master  Harry  was  taken  very  ill  of  a  fever,  of 
which  he  died  within  ten  days  after  his  first  fall¬ 
ing  sick.  Here  was  the  first  sorrow  I  ever  knew ; 
and  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Spectator,  I  remember  the 
beautiful  action  of  the  sweet  youth  in  his  fever,  as 
fresh  as  if  it  were  yesterday.  If  he  wanted  any¬ 
thing,  it  must  be  given  him  by  Tom.  When  I  let 
anything  fall  through  the  grief  I  was  under,  he 
would  cry,  ‘Do  not  beat  the  poor  boy ;  give  him 
some  more  julep  for  me,  nobody  else  shall  give  it 
me.’  He  Avould  strive  to  hide  his  being  so  bad, 
when  he  saw  I  could  not  bear  his  being  in  so  much 
danger,  and  comforted  me,  saying,  ‘Tom,  Tom, 
have  a  good  heart.’  When  1  was  holding  a  cup 
at  his  mouth,  he  fell  into  convulsions;  and  at  this 
very  time  I  hear  my  dear  master’s  last  groan.  I 
was  quickly  turned  out  of  the  room,  and  left  to. 
sob  and  beat  my  head  against  the  wall  at  my 
leisure.  The  grief  I  was  in  was  inexpressible  : 
and  everybody  thought  it  would  have  cost  me  my 
life.  In  a  few  days  my  old  lady,  who  was  one  of 
the  housewives  of  the  world,  thought  of  turning 
me  out  of  doors,  because  I  put  her  in  mind  of  her 
son.  Sir  Stephen  proposed  putting  me  to  pren¬ 
tice  ;  but  my  lady  being  an  excellent  manager, 
would  not  let  her  husband  throw  away  his  money 
in  acts  of  charity.  I  had  sense  enough  to  be 
under  the  utmost  indignation,  to  see  her  discard, 
with  so  little  concern,  one  her  son  had  loved  so 
much;  and  went  out  of  the  house  to  ramble  where- 
ever  my  feet  would  carry  me. 

“The  third  day  after  I  left  Sir  Stephen’s  family, 
I  was  strolling  up  and  down  in  the  walks  of  the 
Temple.  A  young  gentleman  of  the  house,  who 
(as  I  heard  him  say  afterward)  seeing  me  half- 
starved  and  well-dressed,  thought  me  an  equipage 
ready  to  his  hand  after  very  little  inquiry  more  than 
‘Did  I  want  a  master?’  bid  me  follow  him  ;  I  did 
so,  and  in  a  very  little  while  thought  myself  the 
happiest  creature  in  the  world.  My  time  was 
taken  up  in  carrying  letters  to  wenches,  or  mes¬ 
sages  to  young  ladies  of  my  master’s  acquaintance. 
We  rambled  from  tavern  to  tavern,  to  the  play¬ 
house,  the  Mulberry-garden,*  and  places  of  resort; 
where  my  master  engaged  every  flight  in  some 
new  amour,  in  which  and  drinking  he  spent  all  his 
time  when  lie  had  money.  During  these  extrava¬ 
gances,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  lying  on  the  stairs 
of  a  tavern  half  a  night,  playing  at  dice  with 
other  servants,  and  the  like  idleness.  When  my 
master  was  moneyless,  I  was  generally  employed 
in  transcribing  amorous  pieces  of  poetry,  old  songs, 
and  new  lampoons.  This  life  held  till  my  master 
married,  and  he  had  then  the  prudence  to  turn 
me  off,  because  I  was  in  the  secret  of  his  intrigues. 

“I  was  utterly  at  a  loss  what  course  to  take 
next;  when  at  last  I  applied  myself  to  a  fellow - 
sufferer,  one  of  his  mistresses,  a  woman  of  the 
town.  She  happening  at  that  time  to  be  pretty 
full  of  money,  clothed  .me  from  head  to  foot ;  and 
knowing  me  to  be  a  sharp  fellow,  employed  me 
accordingly.  Sometimes  I  was  to  go  abroad  with 
her,  and  when  she  had  pitched  upon  a  young 
fellow  she  thought  for  her  turn,  I  was  to  be  drop¬ 
ped  as  one  she  could  not  trust.  She  would  often 
cheapen  goods  at  the  New  Exchange;!  and  when 
she  had  a  mind  to  be  attacked  she  would  send  me 
away  on  an  errand.  When  an  humble  servant 

*  The  mulberry-garden  was  a  place  of  elegant  entertain¬ 
ment  near  Buckingham-house  (now  the  Queen’s  Palace), 
somewnat  like  the  modern  Yauxhall. 

fThe  New  Exchange  was  situated  between  Durham-yard 
and  York-buildings  in  the  Strand.  It  was  the  fashionable 
mart  of  millinery  wares  till  1737,  when  it  was  taken  down, 
and  dwelling-houses  erected  on  the  spot. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


and  she  were  beginning  a  parley,  I  came  im¬ 
mediately,  and  told  her  Sir  John  was  come  home: 
then  she  w  ould  order  another  coach  to  prevent 
being  dogged.  The  lover  makes  signs  to  me  as  I 
get  behind  the  coach;  1  shake  my  head — it  was 
impossible :  1  leave  my  lady  at  the  next  turning 
and  tollow  the  cully  to  knowr  how  to  fall  in  his 
way  on  another  occasion.  Beside  good  offices  of 
this  nature,  I  wrote  all  my  mistress’s  love  letters ; 
some  from  a  lady  that  saw  such  a  gentleman  at 
such  a  place  in  such  a  colored  coat — some  showing 
the  terrors  she  was  in  of  a  jealous  old  husband — 
others  explaining  that  the  severity  of  her  parents 
was  such  (though  her  fortune  was  settled)  that  she 
was  willing  to  run  away  with  such  a  one,  though 
she  knew  he  was  but  a  younger  brother.  In  a 
word,  my  half  education  and  love  of  Idle  books 
made  me  outwrite  all  that  made  love  to  her  by 
ay  of  epistle;  and  as  she  was  extremely  cunning, 
she  did  well  enough  in  company  by  a  skillful 
affectation  of  the  greatest  modesty.  In  the 
midst  of  all  this,  I  was  surprised  with  a  letter 
from  her,  and  a  ten-pound  note. 


145 


Ho.  97.]  THURSDAY,  JUNE,  21,1711. 


Projecere  animas 


Virg.  Mn.,  vi,  436. 


They  prodigally  threw  their  lives  away. 


u  ‘Honest  Tom, 

“  *Y  ou  will  never  see  me  more.  I  am  married 
to  a  very  cunning  country  gentleman,  who  might 
possibly  guess  something  if  I  kept  you  still;  there¬ 
fore  farewell.’ 

W  hen  this  place  was  lost  also  in  marriage, 
I  was  resolved  to  go  among  quite  another  people' 
for  the  future,  and  got  in  butler  to  one  of  those 
families  where  there  is  a  coach  kept,  three  or  four 
sei  vants,  a  clean  house,  and  a  good  general  out¬ 
side  upon  a  small  estate.  Here  I  lived  very  com¬ 
fortably  for  some  time,  until  I  unfortunately  found 
my  master,  the  very  gravest  man  alive,  in  the 
garret  with  the  chambermaid.  I  knew  the  world 
too  well  to  think  of  staying  there;  and  the  next 
day  pretended  to  have  received  a  letter  out  of  the 
country  that  my  father  was  dying,  and  got  my 
discharge  with  a  bounty  for  my  discretion. 

“  The  next  I  lived  with  was  a  peevish  single 
man,  whom  I  stayed  with  for  a  year  and  a  half. 
Most  part  of  the  time  I  passed  very  easily  ;  for 
when  I  began  to  know  him,  I  minded  no  more 
than  he  meant,  what  he  said:  so  that  one  day  in  a 
good  humor  he  said,  ‘I  was  the  best  man  he  ever 
had,  by  my  want  of  respect  to  him.’ 

“These,  Sir,  are  the  chief  occurrences  of  my  life; 
and  I  will  not  dwell  upon  very  many  other  places 
I  have  been  in,  where  I  have  been  the  strangest 
fellow  in  the  world,  where  nobody  in  the  world 
had  such  servants  as  they,  where  sure  they  were 
the  unluckiest  people  in  the  world  for  servants, 
and  so  forth.  All  I  mean  by  this  representation 
is,  to  show  you  that  we  poor  servants  are  'not 
(what  you  called  us  too  generally)  all  rogues  ;  but 
that  we  are  what  we  are,  according  to  the  example 
of  our  superiors.  In  the  family  I  am  now  in,  I 
am  guilty  of  no  one  sin  but  lying;  which  I  do 
with  a  grave  face  in  my  gown  and  staff  every  day 
1  li\  e,  and  almost  all  day  long,  in  denying  my 
lord  to  impertinent  suitors,  and  my  lady  to  un¬ 
welcome  visitants.  But,  Sir,  I  am  to  let  you  know 
that  1  am,  when  I  can  get  abroad,  a  leader  of  the 
sei\  ants.  I  am  he  that  keeps  time  with  beating  my 
cudgel  against  the  boards  in  the  gallery  at  an 
opeia  .  I  am  he  that  am  touched  so  properly  at  a 
tragedy,  when  the  people  of  quality  are  staring  at 
one  another  during  the  most  important  incidents 
When  you  hear  in  a  crowd  a  cry  in  the  right  place’ 
a  hum  where  the  point  is  touched  in  a  speedh  or 
a  huzza  set  up  where  it  is  the  voice  of  the  people: 
you  may  conclude  it  is  begun  or  joined  by,  Sir 
“  Your  more  than  humble  servant,  ' 

“  Thomas  Trusty.” 

10 


Among  the  loose  papers  which  I  have  frequently 
spoken  of  heretofore,  I  find  a  conversation  between 
1  haramond  and  Eucrate  upon  the  subject  of  duels, 
and  the  copy  of  an  edict  issued  in  consequence 
of  that  discourse. 

Eucrate  argued,  that  nothing  but  the  most 
severe  and  vindictive  punishment,  such  as  placing 
the  bodies  of  the  offenders  in  chains,  and  put¬ 
ting  them  to  death  by  the  most  exquisite  tor¬ 
ments,  would  be  sufficient  to  extirpate  a  crime 
which  had  so  long  prevailed,  and  was  so  firmly 
fixed  in  the  opinion  of  the  world  as  great  and 
laudable.  The  king  answered,  “that  indeed  in¬ 
stances  of  ignominy  were  necessary  in  the  cure  of 
this  evil ;  but,  considering  that  it  prevailed  only 
among  such  as  had  a  nicety  in  their  sense  of 
honor,  and  that  it  often  happened  that  a  duel  was 
fought  to  save  appearances  to  the  world,  when 
both  parties  were  in  their  hearts  in  amity  and  re¬ 
conciliation  to  each  other,  it  was  evident  that 
turning  the  mode  another  way  would  effectually 
put  a  stop  to  what  had  been  only  as  a  mode ;  that 
to  such  persons  poverty  and  shame  were  torments 
sufficient ;  that  lie  would  not  go  farther  in  punish¬ 
ing  in  others,  crimes  which  he  was  satisfied  he 
himself  was  most  guilty  of,  in  that  he  might  have 
prevented  them  by  speaking  his  displeasure  soon¬ 
er.”  Beside  which  the  king  said,  “he  was  in 
general  averse  to  tortures,  which  was  putting 
human  nature  itself,  rather  than  the  criminal,  to 
disgi  ace ;  and  that  he  would  be  sure  not  to  use 
this  means  where  the  crime  was  but  an  ill  effect 
arising  from  a  laudable  cause,  the  fear  of  shame.” 
The  king,  at  the  same  time,  spoke  with  much 
giace  upon  the  subject  of  mercy;  and  repented 
of  many  acts  of  that  kind  which  had  a  magnifi¬ 
cent  aspect  in  the  doing,  but  dreadful  consequences 
m  the  example.  “Mercy  to  particulars,”  he  ob¬ 
served,  “was  cruelty  in  the  general.  That  though 
a  prince  could  not  revive  a  dead  man  by  taking 
the  life  of  him  who  killed  him,  neither  could  he 
make  reparation  to  the  next  that  should  die  by 
the  evil  example  ;  or  answer  to  himself  for  the 
partiality  in  not  pardoning  the  next  as  well  as  the 
former  offender.— As  for  me,”  says  Pharamond, 

“  I  have  conquered  France,  and  yet  have  given 
laws  to  my  people.  The  laws  are  my  methods  of 
life;  they  are  not  a  diminution  but  a  direction  to 
my  power.  I  am  still  absolute  to  distinguish  the 
innocent  and  the  virtuous,  to  give  honors  to  the 
brave  and  generous  ;  I  am  absolute  in  my  good 
will ;  none  can  oppose  my  bounty,  or  prescribe 
rules  for  my  favor.  While  I  can,  as  I  please,  re¬ 
ward  the  good,  I  am  under  no  pain  that  I  cannot 
pardon  the  wicked  ;  for  which  reason,”  continued 
Pharamond,  “I  will  effectually  put  a  stop  to  this 
evil,  by  exposing  no  more  the  tenderness  of  my 
nature  to  the  importunity  of  having  the  same  re¬ 
spect  to  those  who  are  miserable  by  their  fault, 
and  those  who  are  so  by  their  misfortune.  Flat¬ 
terers  (concluded  the  king,  smiling)  repeat  to  us 
princes,  that  we  are  heaven’s  vicegerents  :  let  us 
be  so,  and  let  the  only  thing  out  of  our  power  be 
to  do  ill.” 

Soon  after  the  evening  wherein  Pharamond  and 
Eucrate  had  this  conversation,  the  following  edict 
was  published  against  duels 


pharamond’s  edict  against  duels. 

Pharamond ,  King  of  the  Gauls,  to  all  his  loving, 
subjects  sendeth  greeting : 

“Whereas  it  has  come  to  our  royal  notice  and 
observation,  that,  in  contempt  of  all  laws  divine 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


146 


and  human,  it  is  of  late  oecome  a  custom  among 
the  nobility  and  gentry  of  this  our  kingdom,  upon 
slight  and  trivial  as  well  as  great  and  urgent  pro¬ 
vocations,  to  invite  each  other  into  the  field — there, 
by  their  own  hands,  and  of  their  own  authority, 
to  decide  their  controversies  by  combat ;  we  have 
thought  fit  to  take  the  said  custom  into  our  royal 
consideration,  and  find,  upon  inquiry  into  the 
usual  causes  whereon  such  fatal  decisions  have 
arisen,  that  by  this  wicked  custom,  maugre  all  the 
precepts  of  our  holy  religion  and  the  rules  of 
right  reason,  the  greatest  act  of  the  human  mind, 
forgiveness  of  injuries,  is  become  vile  and  shame¬ 
ful  ;  that  the  rules  of  good  society  and  virtuous 
conversation  are  hereby  inverted ;  that  the  loose, 
the  vain,  and  the  impudent,  insult  the  careful,  the 
discreet,  and  the  modest ;  that  all  virtue  is  sup- 
ressed,  and  all  vice  supported,  in  the  one  act  of 
eing  capable  to  dare  to  the  death.  We  have  also 
farther,  with  great  sorrow  of  mind,  observed  that 
this  dreadful  action,  by  long  impunity  (our  royal 
attention  being  employed  upon  matters  of  more 
general  concern),  is  become  honorable,  and  the 
refusal  to  engage  in  it  ignominious.  In  these  our 
royal  cares  and  inquiries  we  are  yet  farther  made 
to  understand,  that  the  persons  of  most  eminent 
worth,  and  most  hopeful  abilities,  accompanied 
with  the  strongest  passion  for  true  glory,  are 
such  as  are  most  liable  to  be  involved  in  the  dan¬ 
gers  arising  from  this  license. — Now,  taking  the 
said  premises  into  our  serious  consideration,  and 
well  weighing  that  all  such  emergencies  (where¬ 
in  the  mind  is  incapable  of  commanding  itself, 
and  where  the  injury  is  too  sudden  or  too  exquisite 
to  be  borne)  are  particularly  provided  for  by  laws 
heretofore  enacted;  and  that  the  qualities  of  less 
injuries,  like  those  of  ingratitude,  are  too  nice 
and  delicate  to  come  under  general  rules;  we  do 
resolve  to  blot  this  fashion  or  wantonness  of  anger, 
out  of  the  minds  of  our  subjects,  by  our  royal 
resolutions  declared  in  this  edict  as  follow: 

“No  person  who  either  sends  or  accepts  a  chal¬ 
lenge,  or  the  posterity  of  either,  though  no  death 
ensues  thereupon,  shall  be,  after  the  publication  of 
this  our  edict,  capable  of  bearing  office  in  these 
our  dominions. 

“The  person  who  shall  prove  the  sending  or 
receiving  a  challenge,  shall  receive  to  his  own 
use  and  property  the  whole  personal  estate  of  both 
arties  ;  and  their  real  estate  shall  be,  imme- 
iately  vested  in  the  next  heir  of  the  offenders, 
in  as  ample  manner  as  if  the  said  offenders  were 
actually  deceased. 

“In  cases  where  the  laws  (which  we  have  al¬ 
ready  granted  to  our  subjects)  admit  of  an  appeal 
for  blood;  when  the  criminal  is  condemned  by 
the  said  appeal,  he  shall  not  only  suffer  death, 
but  his  whole  estate,  real,  mixed,  and  personal, 
shall  from  the  hour  of  his  death  be  vested  in  the 
next  heir  of  the  person  whose  blood  he  spilt. 

“  That  it  shall  not  hereafter  be  in  our  royal 
power,  or  that  of  our  successors,  to  pardon  the 
said  offenses  or  restore  the  offenders  in  their 
estates,  honor,  or  blood,  forever. 

“  Given  at  our  court  of  Blois,  the  8tli  of  Feb¬ 
ruary,  420,  in  the  second  year  of  our  reign.” — T. 


No.  98.]  FRIDAY,  JUNE  22,  1711. 

- Tanta  est  quaerendi  cura  clecoris. 

Juv.,  Sat.  vi,  500. 

So  studiously  their  persons  they  adorn. 

There  is  not  so  variable  a  thing  in  nature  as  a 
lady’s  head-dress.  Within  my  own  memory,  I 
have  known  it  rise  and  fall  above  thirty  degrees. 
About  ten  years  ago  it  shot  up  to  a  very  great 


height,  insomuch  that  the  female  part  of  our 
species,  were  much  taller  than  the  men.*  The  wo¬ 
men  were  of  such  an  enormous  stature  that  “  we  ap¬ 
peared  as  grasshoppers  before  them.”  At  present 
the  whole  sex  is  in  a  manner  dwarfed,  and 
shrunk  into  a  race  of  beauties  that  seem  almost 
another  species.  I  remember  several  ladies,  who 
were  once  very  near  seven  foot  high,  that  at  pre¬ 
sent  want  some  inches  of  five.  How  they  came 
to  be  thus  curtailed  I  cannot  learn  ;  whether  the 
whole  sex  be  at  present  under  any  penance  which 
we  know  nothing  of ;  or  whether  they  have  cast 
their  head-dresses  in  order  to  surprise  us  with 
something  in  thatkind  which  shall  be  entirely  new; 
or  whether  some  of  the  tallest  of  the  sex,  being 
too  cunning  for  the  rest,  have  contrived  this  me¬ 
thod  to  make  themselves  appear  sizeable — is  still 
a  secret;  though  I  find  most  are  of  opinion,  they 
are  at  present  like  trees  new  lopped  and  pruned, 
that  will  certainly  sprout  up  and  flourish  with 
greater  heads  than  before.  For  my  own  part,  as 
I  do  not  love  to  be  insulted  by  women  who  are 
taller  than  myself,  I  admire  the  sex  much  more 
in  their  present  humiliation,  which  has  reduced 
them  to  their  natural  dimensions,  than  when  they 
had  extended  their  persons  and  lengthened  them¬ 
selves  out  into  formidable  and  gigantic  figures. 

I  am  not  for  adding  to  the  beautiful  edifices  of 
nature,  nor  for  raising  any  whimsical  superstruc¬ 
ture  upon  her  plans :  I  must,  therefore,  repeat  it, 
tli at  I  am  highly  pleased  with  the  coiffure  now  in 
fashion,  and  think  it  shows  the  good  sense  which 
at  present  very  much  reigns  among  the  valuable 
part  of  the  sex.  One  may  observe  that  women  in 
all  ages  have  taken  more  pains  than  men  to  adorn 
the  outside  of  their  heads  ;  and  indeed  1  very 
much  admire,  that  those  female  architects,  who 
raise  such  wonderful  structures  out  of  ribbons,  lace, 
and  wire,  have  not  been  recorded  for  their  respec¬ 
tive  inventions.  It  is  certain  there  have^  been  as 
many  orders  in  these  kinds  of  building,  as  in 
those  which  have  been  made  of  marble.  Some¬ 
times  they  rise  in  the  shape  of  a  pyramid,  some¬ 
times  like  a  tower,  and  sometimes  like  a  steeple. 
In  Juvenal’s  time  the  building  grew  by  several 
orders  and  stories,  as  he  has  very  humorously 
described  it : 

Tot  premit  ordinibus,  tot  adhuc  compagibus  altum 

iEdificat  caput ;  Andromaohen  a  fronte  videbis ; 

Post  minor  est;  aliam  credas. -  Juv.,  Sat.  vi,  501. 

With  curls  on  curls  they  build  her  head  before, 

And  mount  it  with  a  formidable  tow’r; 

A  giantess  she  seems :  but  look  behind, 

And  then  she  dwindles  to  the  pigmy  kind.— Dryden. 

But  I  do  not  remember  in  any  part  of  my  reading, 
that  the  head-dress  aspired  to  so  great  an  extra¬ 
vagance  as  in  the  fourteenth  century  ;  when,  it 
was  built  up  in  a  couple  of  cones  or  spires,  Avhich 
stood  so  exceedingly  high  on  each  side  of  the 
head,  that  a  woman,  who  was  but  a  pigmy  with¬ 
out  her  head-dress,  appeared  like  a  colossus  upon 
putting  it  on.  Monsieur  Paradin  says,  “  that 
these  old-fashioned  fontanges  rose  an  ell  above 
the  head;  that  they  were  pointed  like  steeples, 
and  had  long  loose  pieces  of  crape  fastened  to  the 
tops  of  them,  which  were  curiously  fringed,  and 
hung  down  their  backs  like  streamers.” 

The  women  might  possibly  have  carried  this 
Gothic  building  much  higher,  had  not  a  famous 
monk,  Thomas  Conecte  by  name,  attacked  it 

*This  refers  to  the  commode  (called  by  the  French  “fon- 
tange  ”),  a  kind  of  head-dress  worn  by  the  ladies  at  the  be¬ 
ginning  of  the  last  century,  which  by  means  of  wire  Itore  up 
their  hair  and  fore-part  of  the  cap,  consisting  of  many  folds 
of  fine  lace,  to  a  prodigious  height.  The  transition  from  this 
to  the  opposite  extreme  was  very  abrupt  and  sudden. 

f  Numb,  xiii,  33. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


with  groat  zeal  and  resolution.  This  holy  man 
traveled  from  place  to  place  to  preach  down  this 
monstrous  commode;  and  succeeded  so  well  in  it, 
that,  as  the  magicians  sacrificed  their  books  to 
the  flames  upon  the  preaching  of  an  apostle,  many 
of  the  women  threw  down  their  head-dresses  in 
the  middle  of  the  sermon,  and  made  a  bonfire  of 
them  within  sight  of  the  pulpit.  He  was  so  re¬ 
nowned,  as  well  for  the  sanctity  of  his  life  as  his 
manner  of  preaching,  that  he  had  often  a  congrega¬ 
tion  of  twenty  thousand  people  ;  the  men  pfacing 
themselves  on  the  one  side  of  hi*  pulpit,  and  the 
women  on  the  other,  appeared  (to  use  the  simili¬ 
tude  of  an  ingenious  writer)  like  a  forest  of  cedars 
with  their  heads  reaching  to  the  clouds.  He  so 
warmed  and  animated  the  people  against  this 
monstrous  ornament,  that  it  lay  under  a  kind  of 
persecution;  and  whenever  it  appeared  in  public, 
was  pelted  down  by  the  rabble,  who  flung  stones 
at  the  persons  that  wore  it.  But  notwithstanding 
this  prodigy  vanished  while  the  preacher  was 
among  them,  it  began  to  appear  again  some 
months  after  his  departure,  or,  to  tell  it  in  Mon¬ 
sieur  Paradin’s  own  words,  “the  women,  that, 
like  snails  in  a  fright,  had  drawn  in  their  horns, 
shot  them  out  again  as  soon  as  the  danger  was 
over.”  This  extravagance  of  the  women’s  head¬ 
dresses  in  that  age,  is  taken  notice  of  by  Mon¬ 
sieur  d’Argentre  in  his  history  of  Bretagne,  and 
by  other  historians,  as  well  as  the  person  I  have 
here  quoted. 

It  is  usually  observed,  that  a  good  reign  is  the 
only  proper  time  for  making  laws  against  the 
exorbitance  of  power  ;  in  the  same  manner  an 
excessive  head-dress  may  be  attacked  the  most 
effectually  when  the  fashion  is  against  it.  I  do 
therefore  recommend  this  paper  to  my  female 
readers  by  way  of  prevention. 

I  would  desire  the  fair  sex  to  consider  how  im- 
ossible  it  is  for  them  to  add  anything  that  can 
e  ornamental  to  what  is  already  the  master-piece 
of  nature.  The  head  has  the  most  beautiful  ap¬ 
pearance,  as  well  as  the  highest  station,  in  a 
human  figure.  Nature  has  laid  out  all  her  art 
in  beautifying  the  face  ;  she  has  touched  it  with 
vermilion,  planted  in  it  a  double  row  of  ivory, 
made  it  the  seat  of  smiles  and  blushes,  lighted  it 
up  and  enlivened  it  with  the  brightness  of  the 
eyes,  hung  it  on  each  side  with  curious  organs 
of  sense,  given  it  airs  and  graces  that  cannot  be 
described,  and  surrounded  it  with  such  a  flowing 
shade  of  hair  as  sets  all  its  beauties  in  the  most 
agreeable  light.  In  short,  she  seems  to  have  de¬ 
signed  the  head  as  the  cupola  to  the  most  glorious 
of  her  works:  and  when  we  load  it  with  such 
a  pile  of  supernumerary  ornaments,  we  destroy 
the  symmetry  of  the  human  figure,  and  foolishly 
contrive  to  call  off  the  eye  from  great  and  real 
beauties,  to  childish  gew-gaws,  ribbons,  and  bone- 
lace. — L 


No.  99.]  SATURDAY,  JUNE  23,  1711. 

— - Turpi  secernis  honestum.— Iloa.  1  Sat.  vi,  63. 

i  ou  know  to  fix  the  bounds  of  right  and  wrong. 

The  club,  of  which  I  have  often  declared  my¬ 
self  a  member,  were  last  night  engaged  in  a  dis¬ 
course  upon  that  which  passes  for  the  chief  point 
of  honor  among  men  and  women  ;  and  started  a 
great  many  hints  upon  the  subject,  which  I  thought 
were  entirely  new.  I  shall  therefore  method¬ 
ize  the  several  reflections  that  arose  upon  this 
occasion,  and  present  ray  reader  with  them  for 
the  speculation  of  this  day;  after  having  pre¬ 
mised,  that  if  there  is  anything  in  this°paper 
which  seems  to  differ  with  any  passage  of  last 


147 

Thursday’s,  the  reader  will  consider  them  as  the 
sentiments  of  the  club,  and  the  other  as  my  own 
private  thoughts,  or  rather  those  of  Pharamond. 

The  great  point  of  honor  in  men  is  courage, 
.and  in  women  chastity.  If  a  man  loses  his  honor 
in  one  encounter,  it  is  not  impossible  for  him 
to  regain  it  in  another:  a  slip  in  a  woman’s 
honor  is  irreparable.  I  can  give  no  reason  for 
fixing  the  point  of  honor  to  these  two  qualities, 
unless  it  be  that  each  sex  sets  the  greatest  value 
on  the  qualification  which  renders  them  the  most 
amiable  in  the  eyes  of  the  contrary  sex.  I  should 
believe  the  choice  would  have  fallen  on  wisdom 
or  virtue  ;  or  had  women  determined  their  own 
point  of  honor,  it  is  probable  that  wit  or  good-na¬ 
ture  would  have  carried  it  against  chastity. 

Nothing  recommends  a  man  more  to  the  female 
sex  than  courage;  whether  it  be  that  they  are 
pleased  to  see  one  who  is  a  terror  to  others  fall 
like  a  slave  at  their  feet ;  or  that  this  quality  sup¬ 
plies  their  own  principal  defect,  in  guarding  them 
from  insults,  and  avenging  their  quarrels  ;  or  that 
courage  is  a  natural  indication  of  a  strong  and 
sprightly  constitution.  On  the  other  side,  nothing 
makes  women  more  esteemed  by  the  opposite  sex 
than  chastity ;  whether  it  be  that  we  always  prize 
those  most  who  are  hardest  to  come  at  ;  or  that 
nothing  beside  chastity,  with  its  collateral  atten¬ 
dants,  truth,  fidelity,  and  constancy,  gives  the 
man  a  property  in  the  person  he  loves,  and  con¬ 
sequently  endears  her  to  him  above  all  things. 

I  am  very  much  pleased  with  a  passage  in  the 
inscription  on  a  monument  erected  in  West¬ 
minster  abbey  to  the  late  Duke  and  Duchess  of 
Newcastle.  “Her  name  was  Margaret  Lucas, 
youngest  sister  to  the  Lord  Lucas  of  Colchester  ; 
a  noble  family,  for  all  the  brothers  were  valiant* 
and  all  the  sisters  virtuous.” 

In  books  of  chivalry,  where  the  point  of  honor 
is  strained  to  madness,  the  whole  story  runs  on 
chastity  and  courage.  The  damsel  is  mounted 
on  a  white  palfrey,  as  an  emblem  of  her  innocence  ; 
and,  to  avoid  scandal,  must  have  a  dwarf  for  her 
page.  She  is  not  to  think  of  a  man,  until  some 
misfortune  has  brought  a  knight-errant  to  her 
relief.  The  knight  falls  in  love,  and,  did  not 
gratitude  restrain  her  from  murdering  her  deli¬ 
verer,  would  die  at  her  feet  by  her  disdain.  How¬ 
ever,  he  must  waste  many  years  in  the  desert, 
before  her  virgin  heart  can  think  of  a  surrender! 
The  knight  goes  off,  attacks  everything  he  meets 
that  is  bigger  and  stronger  than  himself,  seeks  all 
opportunities  of  being  knocked  on  the  head,  and 
after  seven  years’  rambling  returns  to  his  mistress 
whose  chastity  has  been  attacked  in  the  meantime 
by  giants  and  tyrants,  and  undergone  as  many 
trials  as  her  lover’s  valor. 

In  Spain,  where  there  are  still  great  remains  of 
this  romantic  humor,  it  is  a  transporting  favor  for 
a  lady  to  cast  an  accidental  glance  on  her  lover 
from  a  window,  though  it  be  two  or  three  stories 
high  ;  as  it  is  usual  for  a  lover  to  assert  his  pas¬ 
sion  for  his  mistress,  in  a  single  combat  with  a, 
mad  bull. 

The  great  violation  in  point  of  honor  from  man 
o  man,  is  giving  the  lie.  One  map  tell  another 
he  whores,  drinks,  blasphemes,  and'  it  may  pass 
unresented  ;  but  to  say  he  lies,  though  but  in 
jest,  is  an  affront  that  nothing  but  blood  can  ex¬ 
piate.  The  reason  perhaps  maybe,  because  no 
other  vice  implies  a  want  of  courage  so  much  as 
the  making  a.  lie  ;  and  therefore  telling  a  man  he 
lies,  is  touching  him  in  the  most  sensible  part  of 
honor,  and  indirectly  calling  him  a  coward.  I 
cannot  admit  under  this  head  what  Herodotus 
tells  us  of  the  ancient  Persians — that  from  the 
age  of  five  years  to  twenty  they  instruct  their 


148 


THE  SPE 

sons  only  in  three  things,  to  manage  the  horse,  to 
make  use  of  the  bow,  and  to  speak  truth. 

The  placing  the  point  of  honor  in  this  false  kind 
of  courage,  has  given  occasion  to  the  very  refuse 
of  mankind,  who  have  neither  virtue  nor  common 
sense,  to  set  up  for  men  of  honor.  An  English  peer 
who  has  not  long  been  dead,*  used  to  tell  a  plea¬ 
sant  story  of  a  French  gentleman  that  visited  him 
early  one  morning  at  Paris,  and  after  great  profes¬ 
sions  of  respect,  let  him  know  that  he  had  it  in  lus 
power  to  oblige  him;  which,  in  short,  amounted 
to  this — that  he  believed  he  could  tell  his  lordship 
the  person’s  name  who  jostled  him  as  he  came  out 
from  the  opera:  but  before  he  would  proceed,  lie 
begged  his  lordship  that  he  would  not  deny  him 
the  honor  of  making  him  his  second.  Hie  En¬ 
glish  lord,  to  avoid  being  drawn  into  a  very  fool¬ 
ish  affair,  told  him  he  was  under  engagements  for 
his  two  next  duels  to  a  couple  of  particular  friends, 
upon  which  the  gentleman  immediately  withdrew, 
hoping  his  lordship  would  not  take  it  ill  if  he 
meddled  no  farther  in  an  affair  from  whence  he 
himself  was  to  receive  no  advantage. 

The  beating  down  this  false  notion  of  honor  in 
so  vain  and  lively  a  people  as  those  of  Fiance,  is 
deservedly  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  most  glorious 
parts  of  their  present  king’s  reign.  It  is  a  pity 
but  the  punishment  of  these  mischievous  notions 
should  have  in  it  some  particular  circumstances  of 
shame  and  infamy  :  that  those  who  are  slaves  to 
them  may  see,  that  instead  of  advancing  their  re- 
utations,  they  lead  them  to  ignominy  and  dis- 

onor.  ,  .  , 

Death  is  not  sufficient  to  deter  men  who  make 
it  their  glory  to  despise  it ;  but  if  every  one  that 
fought  a  duel  were  to  stand  in  the  pillory,  it  would 
quickly  lessen  the  number  of  these  imaginary  men 
of  honor,  and  put  an  end  to  so  absurd  a  practice. 

When  honor  is  a  support  to  virtuous  principles, 
and  runs  parallel  with  the  laws  of  God  and  our 
country,  it  cannot  be  too  much  cherished  and  en¬ 
couraged  :  but  when  the  dictates  of  honor  are  con¬ 
trary  to  those  of  religion  and  equity,  they  are  the 
greatest  depravations  of  human  nature,  by  giving 
wrong  ambitions  and  false  ideas  of  what  is  good 
and  laudable  ;  and  should  therefore  be  exploded 
by  all  governments,  and  driven  out  as  the  bane 
and  plague  of  human  society.  L. 


No.  100.]  MONDAY,  JUNE  25,  1711. 

Nil  esco  contulerim  jucundo  sanus  amico. 

°  Hor.  1  Sat.  v,  44. 

The  greatest  blessing  is  a  pleasant  friend. 

A  man  advanced  in  years  that  thinks  fit  to  look 
back  upon  his  former  life,  and  call  that  only  life 
which  was  passed  with  satisfaction  and  enjoy¬ 
ment,  excluding  all  parts  which  were  not  pleasant 
to  him,  will  find  himself  very  young,  if  not  in 
his  infancy.  Sickness,  ill-humor  and  idleness 
will  have  robbed  him  of  a  great  share  of  that 
space  Ave  ordinarily  call  our  life.  It  is  therefore  the 
duty  of  every  man  that  would  be  true  to  himself, 
to  obtain,  if  possible,  a  disposition  to  be  pleased, 
and  place  himself  in  a  constant  aptitude  for  the  sat¬ 
isfactions  of  his  being.  _  Instead  of  this,  you 
hardly  see  a  man  who  is  not  uneasy  in  pro¬ 
portion  to  his  advancement  in  the  arts  of  life. 
An  affected  delicacy  is  the  common  improvement 
we  meet  with  in  those  who  pretend  to  be  refineo 
above  others.  They  do  not  aim  at  true  pleasures 
themselves,  but  turn  their  thoughts  upon  observ- 


*  The  editor  has  been  told  this  was  William  Cavendish,  the 
first  duke  of  Devonshire,  who  died  August  18,  1707. 


CTATOR. 

ing  the  false  pleasures  of  other  men.  Such  people 
are  valetudinarians  in  society,  and  they  should  no 
more  come  into  company  than  a  sick  man  should 
come  into  the  air.  If  a  man  is  too  Aveak  to  bear 
what  is  refreshment  to  men  in  health,  he  must  still 
keep  his  chamber.  When  any  one  in  Sir  Roger  s 
company  complains  he  is  out  of  order,  he  imme¬ 
diately  calls  for  some  posset-drink  for  him;  for 
which  reason  that  sort  of  people  who  are  ever  be- 
Availing  their  constitution  in  other  places,  are  the 
cheerfulest  imaginable  when  he  is  present. 

It  is  a  wonderful  thing  that  so  many,  and  they 
not  reckoned  absurd,  shall  entertain  those  with 
whom  they  converse,  by  giving  them  a  history  of 
their  pains  and  aches,  and  imagine  such  narra¬ 
tions  their  quota  of  the  conversation.  This  is  of 
all  other  the  meanest  help  to  discourse,  and  a  man 
must  not  think  at  all,  or  think  himself  very  in¬ 
significant,  when  he  finds  an  account  of  his  head¬ 
ache  answered  by  another’s  asking  Avhat  news  by 
the  last  mail.  Mutual  good  humor  is  a  dress  we 
ought  to  appear  in  whenever  we  meet,  and  we 
should  make  no  mention  of  what  concerns  our¬ 
selves,  without  it  be  of  matters  wheiein  oui 
friends  ought  to  rejoice ;  but  indeed  there  are 
crowds  of  people  who  put  themselves  in  no  meth¬ 
od  of  pleasing  themselves  or  others ;  such  are 
those  whom  we  usually  call  indolent  persons.— 
Indolenoe  is,  methinks,  an  intermediate  state  be¬ 
tween  pleasure  and  pain,  and  very  much  unbecom¬ 
ing  any  part  of  our  life  after  we  are  out  of  the 
nurse’s  arms.  Such  an  aversion  to  labor  creates  a 
constant  Aveariness,  and  one  would  think  should 
make  existence  itself  a  burden.  The  indolent 
man  descends  from  the  dignity  of  his  nature, 
and  makes  that  being  which  was  rational  merely 
vegetative.  His  life  consists  only  in  the  meie  in¬ 
crease  and  decay  of  a  body,  which,  with  relation 
to  the  rest  of  the  world,  might  as  well  have  been 
uninformed,  as  the  habitation  of  a  reasonable 

mind.  ,  .. 

Of  this  kind  is  the  life  of  that  extraordinary 

couple,  Harry  Tersett  and  his  lady.  Harry  was, 
in  the  days  of  his  celibacy,  one  of  those  pert  crea¬ 
tures  who  have  much  vivacity  and  little  under¬ 
standing  ;  Mrs.  Rebecca  Quickly,  whom  he  mar¬ 
ried,  had  all  that  the  fire  of  youth  and  a  lively 
manner  could  do  toward  making  an  agi eeable 
woman.  These  two  people  of  seeming  mei it  fell 
into  each  other’s  arms  ;  and  passion  being  sated, 
and  no  reason  or  good  sense  in  either  to  succeed 
it,  their  life  is  now  at  a  stand  ;  their  meals  are 
insipid  and  their  time  tedious  ;  their  fortune  has 
placed  them  above  care,  and  their  loss  of  taste 
reduced  them  below  diversion.  When  Ave  talk  of 
these  as  instances  of  inexistence,  we  do  not  mean 
that  in  order  to  live,  it  is  necessary  we  should  be 
ahvays  in  jovial  crews,  or  crowned  with  chaplets 
of  roses,  as  the  merry  fellows  among  the  ancients 
are  described  ;  but  it  is  intended,  by  considering 
these  contraries  of  pleasure,  indolence  and  too 
much  delicacy,  to  show  that  it  is  piudence  to  pie- 
serve  a  disposition  in  ourselves  to  receive  a  certain 
delight  in  all  Ave  hear  and  see. 

This  portable  quality  of  good  humor  seasons 
all  the  parts  and  occurrences  Ave  meet  with  in  such 
a  manner,  that  there  are  no  moments  lost :  but 
they  all  pass  with  so  much  satisfaction,  that  the 
heaviest  of  loads  (AAThen  it  is  a  load),  that  of  time, 
is  never  felt  by  us.  Yarilas  has  this  quality  to  the 
highest  perfection,  and  communicates  it  wherever 
he  appears.  The  sad,  the  merry,  the  seveie,  the 
melancholy,  shoAV  a  neAV  cheerfulness  when  he 
comes  among  them.  At  the  same  time  no  one  can 
repeat  anything  that  V arilas  has  ever  said  that  de¬ 
serves  repetition  ;  but  the  man  has  that  innate 
goodness  of  temper,  that  he  is  welcome  to  every- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


body? because  every  man  thinks  he  is  so  to  him. 
He  does  not  seem  to  contribute  anything  to  the 
mirth  of  the  company;  and  yet  upon  reflection  you 
find  it  all  happened  by  his  being  there.  I  thought 
it  was  whimsically  said  of  a  gentleman,  that  if 
Varilas  had  wit,  it  would  be  the  best  wit  in  the 
world.  It  is  certain,  when  a  well-corrected,  lively 
imagination  and  good  breeding  are  added  to  a 
sweet  disposition,  they  qualify  it  to  be  one  of  the 
greatest  blessings  as  well  as  pleasures  of  life. 

Men  would  come  into  company  with  ten  times 
the  pleasure  they  do,  if  they  were  sure  of  hearing 
nothing  that  would  shock  them,  as  well  as  expect¬ 
ed  what  would  please  them.  When  we  know 
every  person  that  is  spoken  of  is  represented  by 
one  who  has  no  ill-will,  and  everything  that  is 
mentioned  described  by  one  that  is  apt  to  set  it  in 
the  best  light,  the  entertainment  must  be  delicate, 
because  the  cook  has  nothing  brought  to  his  hand 
but  what  is  the  most  excellent  in  its  kind;  Beauti¬ 
ful  pictures  are  the  entertainments  of  pure  minds, 
and  deformities  of  the  corrupted.  It  is  a  degree 
toward  the  life  of  angels,  when  we  enjoy  conver¬ 
sation  wherein  there  is  nothing  presented  but  in 
its  excellence ;  and  a  degree  toward  that  of  de¬ 
mons,  wherein  nothing  is  shown  but  in  its  de¬ 
generacy.  X. 


Ho.  101.]  TUESDAY,  JUNE  26,  1711, 

Romulus,  et  Liber  pater,  et  cum  Castore  Pollux, 

Post  ingentia  facta,  deorum  in  templa  recepti; 

Dum  terras  hominumque  colunt  genus,  aspera  bella 
Componunt,  agros  assignant,  oppida  condunt; 
Ploravere  suis  non  respondere  favorem 
Speratum  meritis : -  Hoe.  2  Ep.  i,  5. 

IMITATED. 

Edward  and  Henry,  now  tho  boast  of  fame, 

And  virtuous  Alfred,  a  more  sacred  name, 

After  a  life  of  generous  toils  endur’d, 

The  Gaul  subdu’d,  or  property  secur’d, 

Ambition  humbled,  mighty  cities  storm’d, 

Or  laws  establish’d,  and  the  world  reform’d : 

Clos’d  their  long  glories  with  a  sigh  to  find 
Th’  unwilling  gratitude  of  base  mankind. — Pope. 

“Censure,”  says  a  late  ingenious  author,  “is 
the  tax  a  man  pays  to  the  public  for  being  emi¬ 
nent.”  It  is  a  folly  for  an  eminent  man  to  think 
of  escaping  it,  and  a  weakness  to  be  affected  with 
it.  All  the  illustrious  persons  of  antiquity,  and 
indeed  of  every  age  in  the  world,  have  passed 
through  this  fiery  persecution.  There  is  no  cfefense 
against  reproach  but  obscurity;  it  is  a  kind  of 
concomitant  to  greatness,  as  satires  and  invectives 
were  an  essential  part  of  a  Roman  triumph. 

If  men  of  eminence  are  exposed  to  censure  on 
one  hand,  they  are  as  much  liable  to  flattery  on 
the  other.  If  they  receive  reproaches  which  are 
not  due  to  them,  they  likewise  receive  praises 
which  they  do  not  deserve.  In  a  word,  the  man 
in  a  high  post  is  never  regarded  with  an  indiffer- 
ent  eye,  but  always  considered  as  a  friend  or  an 
enemy.  For  this  reason  persons  in  great  stations 
have  seldom  their  true  characters  drawn  till  several 
years  after  their  deaths.  Their  personal  friend¬ 
ships  and  enmities  must  cease,  and  the  parties 
thev  were  engaged  in  be  at  an  end,  before  their 
faults  or  their  virtues  can  have  justice  done  them. 
When  writers  have  the  least  opportunities  of 
know  ing  the  truth,  they  are  in  the  best  disposition 
to  tell  it.  r 

.  It  is  therefore  the  privilege  of  posterity  to  ad¬ 
just  the  characters  of  illustrious  persons,  and  to 
set  matters  right  between  those  antagonists,  who 
by  their  rivalry  for  greatness  divided°a  whole  ave 
into  factions.  We  can  now  allow  Caesar  to  be&a 
great  man  without  derogating  from  Pompey  ;  and 
celebrate  the  virtues  of  Cato,  without  detracting 
from  those  of  Caesar.  Every  one  that  has  been 


149 

long  dead  has  a  due  proportion  of  praise  allotted 
him,  in  which,  while  he  lived,  his  friends  were  too 
profuse,  and  his  enemies  too  sparing. 

According  to  Sir  Isaac  Newton’s  calculations, 
the  last  comet  that  made  its  appearance  in  1680, 
imbibed  so  much  heat  by  its  approaches  to  the 
sun,  that  it  would  have  been  two  thousand  times 
hottei  than  red  hot  iron,  had  it  been  a  globe  of  that 
metal;  and  that  supposing  it  as  big  as  the  earth,  and 
at  the  same  distance  from  the  sun,  it  would  be 
fifty  thousand  years  in  cooling,  before  it  recovered 
its  natural  temper.  In  the  like  manner,  if  an  En¬ 
glishman  considers  the  great  ferment  into  which 
our  political  world  is  thrown  at  present,  and  how 
intensely  it  is  heated  in  all  its  parts,  he  cannot 
suppose  that  it  will  cool  again  in  less  than  three 
hundred  years.  In  such  a  tract  of  time  it  is  pos¬ 
sible  that  the  heats  oi  the  present  age  may  be  ex¬ 
tinguished,  and  our  several  classes  of  great  men 
represented  under  their  proper  characters.  Some 
emineut  historian  may  then  probably  arise  that 
will  not  write  rccentibus  odiis  (as  Tacitus  expres¬ 
ses  it) — with  the  passions  and  prejudices  of  a  co- 
temporary  author — but  make  an  impartial  distri¬ 
bution  of  fame  among  the  great  men  of  the  pre¬ 
sent  age. 

I  cannot  forbear  entertaining  myself  very  often 
with  the  idea  of  such  an  imaginary  historian  de¬ 
scribing  the  reign  of  Anne  the  first,  and  introdu¬ 
cing  it  with  a  preface  to  his  reader  that  he  is  now 
entering  upon  the  most  shining  part  of  the  En¬ 
glish  story.  The  great  rivals  in  fame  will  be  then 
distinguished  according  to  their  respective  merits, 
and  shine  in  their  proper  points  of  light.  Such  a 
one  (says  the  historian),  though  variously  repre¬ 
sented  by  the  writers  of  his  own  age,  appears  to 
have  been  a  man  of  more  than  ordinary  abilities, 
great  application  and  uncommon  integrity  :  nor 
was  such  a  one  (though  of  an  opposite  "party  and 
interest)  inferior  to  him  in  any  of  these  respects. 
The  several  antagonists  who  now  endeavor  to  de¬ 
preciate  one  another,  and  are  celebrated  or  traduced 
by  different  parties,  will  then  have  the  same  body 
of  admirers,  and  appear  illustrious  in  the  opinion 
of  the  whole  British  nation.  The  deserving  man, 
who  can  now  recommend  himself  to  the  esteem  of 
but  half  his  countrymen,  will  then  receive  the  ap-  ^ 
probations  and  applauses  of  a  whole  age. 

Among  the  several  persons  that  flourish  in  this 
glorious  reign,  there  is  no  question  but  such  a  fu¬ 
ture  historian,  as  the  person  of  whom  I  am  speak¬ 
ing,  will  make  mention  of  the  men  of  genius  and 
learning,  who  have  now  any  figure  in  the  British 
nation.  For  my  own  part,  I  often  flatter  myself 
with  the  honorable  mention  which  will  then  be 
made  of  me  ;  and  have  drawn  up  a  paragraph  in 
my  own  imagination,  that  I  fancy  will  not  be  al¬ 
together  unlike  what  will  be  found  in  some  page 
or  other  of  this  imaginary  historian. 

It  was  under  this  reign*  says  he,  that  the  Spec¬ 
tator  published  those  little  diurnal  essays  which  are 
still  extant.  We  know  very  little  of  the  name  or 
person  of  this  author,  except  only  that  he  was 
a  man  of  a  very  short  face,  extremely  addicted 
to  silence  and  so  great  a  lover  of  knowledge,  that 
he  made  a  voyage  to  grand  Cairo  for  no  other  rea¬ 
son  but  to  take  the  measure  of  a  pyramid.  His 
chief  friend  was  one  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  a 
whimsical  country  knight — and  a  Templar,  whose 
name  he  has  not  transmitted  to  us.  He  lived  as  a 
lodger  at  the  house  of  a  widow- woman,  and  was  a 
great  humorist  in  all  parts  of  his  life.  This  is  all 
we  can  affirm  with  any  certainty  of  his  person 
and  character.  As  for  his  speculations,  notwith¬ 
standing  thd  several  obsolete  words  and  obscure 
phrases  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  we  still  un¬ 
derstand  enough  of  them  to  see  the  diversions  and 


150  THE  SPE 

characters  of  the  English  nation  in  his  time :  not 
but  that  we  are  to  make  allowance  for  the  mirth 
and  humor  of  the  author,  who  has  doubtless 
strained  many  representations  of  things  beyond 
the  truth.  For  if  we  interpret  his  words  in  their 
literal  meaning,  we  must  suppose  that  women  of  the 
first  quality  used  to  pass  away  whole  mornings  at 
a  puppet-show:  that  they  attested  their  principles 
by  their  patches  :  that  an  audience  would  sit  out 
an  evening,  to  hear  a  dramatical  performance  writ¬ 
ten  in  a  language  which  they  did  not  understand : 
that  chairs  and  flower-pots  were  introduced  as 
actors  upon  the  British  stage  :  that  a  promiscuous 
assembly  of  men  and  women  were  allowed  to 
meet  at  midnight  in  masks  within  the  verge  of  the 
court;  with  many  improbabilities  of  the  like  na¬ 
ture.  We  must,  therefore,  in  these  and  the  like 
cases,  suppose  that  these  remote  hints  and  allu¬ 
sions  aimed  at  some  certain  follies  which  were 
then  in  vogue,  and  which  at  present  we  have  not 
any  notion  of.  We  may  guess  by  several  passages 
in  the  speculations, 'that  there  were  writers  who 
endeavored  to  detract  from,  the  works  of  this 
author:  but  as  nothing  of  this  nature  is  come 
down  to  us,  we  cannot  guess  at  any  objections  that 
could  be  made  to  this  paper.  If  we  consider  his 
style  with  that  indulgence  which  we  must  show 
to  old  English  Avriters,  or  if  we  look  into  the  va¬ 
riety  of  his  subjects*-  with  those  several  critical 
dissertations,  moral  reflections, 

*  *  *  *  *•*  *  * 

The  following  part  of  the  paragraph  is  so  much 
to  my  advantage,  and  beyond  anything  I  can  pre¬ 
tend  to,  that  I  hope  my  reader  Avill  excuse  mo  for 
not  inserting  it. — L  . 


No.  102.]  WEDNESDAY,  JUNE  27,  1711. 

- -Lusus  ammo  debent  aliquando  dari, 

Ad  cogitanduin  melior  ut  redeat  sibi. 

The  mind  ought  sometimes  to  be  diverted,  that  it  may  re¬ 
turn  the  better  to  thinking. 

I  do  not  know  whether  to  call  the  following  let¬ 
ter  a  satire  upon  coquettes,  or  a  representation  of 
their  several  fantastical  accomplishments,  or  what 
other  title  to  give  it ;  but,  as  it  is,  I  shall  commu¬ 
nicate  it  to  the  public.  It  will  sufficiently  explain 
its  own  intentions,  so  that  I  shall  give  it  my  reader 
at  length,  without  either  preface  or  postscript. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“Women  are  armed  with  fans  as  men  with 
swords,  and  sometimes  do  more  execution  with 
them.  To  the  end,  therefore,  that  ladies  may  be 
entire  mistresses  of  the  Aveapon  they  bear,  I  have 
erected  an  academy  for  the  training  up  of  young 
women  in  the  exercise  of  the  fan,  according  to  the 
most  fashionable  airs  and  motions  that  are  now 
practiced  at  court.  The  ladies  who  carry  fans 
under  me  are  draAvn  up  tAvice  a- day  in  my  great 
hall,  Avhere  they  are  instructed  in  the  use  of  their 
arms,  and  exercised  by  the  following  words  of 
command :  Handle  your  fans,  Unfurl  your  fans, 
Discharge  your  fans,  Ground  your  fans,  Recover 
your  fans,  Flutter  your  fans.  By  the  right  obser¬ 
vation  of  these  feAV  plain  words  of  command,  a 
woman  of  a  tolerable  genius,  Avho  Avill  apply  her¬ 
self  diligently  to  her  excercise  for  the  space  of  but 
one-half-year,  shall  be  able  to  give  her  fan  all  the 
graces  that  can  possibly  enter  into  that  little  modish 
machine. 

“  But  to  the  end  that  my  readers  may  form  to 
themselves  a  right  notion  of  this  exercise,  I  beg 
leave  to  explain  it  to  them  in  all  its  parts.  When 
my  female  regiment  is  drawn  up  in  array,  Avith 
every  <one  her  Aveapon  in  her  hand,  upon  my  giv¬ 
ing  the  word  to  Handle  their  fans,  each  of  them 


IT  ATOR. 

shakes  her  fan  at  me  with  a  smile,  then  giv^s  her 
right-hand  woman  a  tap  upon  the  shoulder,  then 
presses  her  lips  with  the  extremity  of  her  fan,  then 
lets  her  arms  fall  in  an  easy  motion,  and  stands  in 
readiness  to  receive  the  next  word  of  command. 
All  this  is  done  with  a  close  fan,  and  is  generally 
learned  in  the  first  Aveek. 

“  The  next  motion  is  that  of  Unfurling  the  fan, 
in  which  are  comprehended  several  little  flirts  and 
vibrations,  as  also  gradual  and  deliberate  open¬ 
ings,  Avitli  many  voluntary  fallings  asunder  in  the 
fan  itself,  that  are  seldom  learned  under  a  month’s 
practice.  This  part  of  the  exercise  pleases  the 
spectators  more  than  any  other,  as  it  discovers  on 
a  sudden  an  infinite  number  of  cupids,  garlands, 
altars,  birds,  beasts,  rainbows,  and  the  like  agree¬ 
able  figures  that  display  themselves  to  view— - 
Avhile  every  one  in  the  regiment  holds  a  picture  in 
her  hand. 

“Upon  my  giving  the  Avord  to  Discharge  their 
fans,  they  give  one  general  crack  that  may  be 
heard  at  a  considerable  distance  when  the  wind 
sets  fair.  This  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  parts 
of  the  exercise  :  but  I  have  several  ladies  with  me, 
Avho  at  their  first  entrance  could  not  give  a  pop 
loud  enough  to  be  heard  at  the  farther  end  of  a 
room,  who  can  uoav  discharge  a  fan  in  such  a 
manner,  that  it  shall  make  a  report  like  a  pocket- 
pistol.  I  have  likewise  taken  care  (in  order  to 
hinder  young  women  from  letting  off  their  fans  in 
Avrong  places  or  on  unsuitable  occasions)  to  show 
upon  what  subject  the  crack  of  a  fan  may  come  in 
properly:  I  have  likewise  invented  a  fan,  with 
which  a  girl  of  sixteen,  by  the  help  of  a  little  wind 
which  is  inclosed  about  one  of  the  largest  sticks, 
can  make  as  loud  a  crack  as  a  woman  of  fifty  with 
an  ordinary  fan. 

“When  the  fans  are  thus  discharged,  the  word 
of  command,  in  course,  is  to  Ground  their  fans. 
This  teaches  a  lady  to  quit  her  fan  gracefully 
when  she  throws  it  aside  in  order  to  take  up  a 
pack  of  cards,  adjust  a  curl  of  hair,  replace  a  fall¬ 
ing  pin,  or  apply  herself  to  any  other  matter  of 
importance.  This  part  of  the  exercise,  as  it  only 
consists  in  tossing  a  fan  with  an  air  upon  a  long 
table  (which  stands  by  for  that  purpose),  may  be 
learned  in  tAVo  days’  time  as  well  as  in  a  twelve- 
month. 

“When  my  female  regiment  is  thus  disarmed,  I 
generally  let  them  Avalk  about  the  room  for  some 
time ;  when,  on  a  sudden  (like  ladies  that  look 
upon  their  Avatches  after  a  long  visit),  they  all  of 
them  hasten  to  their  arms,  catch  them  up  in  a 
hurry,  and  place  themselves  in  their  proper  sta¬ 
tions,  upon  my  calling  out.  Recover  your  fans. 
This  part  of  the  exercise  is  not  difficult,  provided 
a  woman  applies  her  thoughts  to  it. 

“  The  fluttering  of  the  fan  is  the  last,  and  indeed 
the  master-pieces  of  the  Avhole  exercise  ;  but  if  a 
lady  does  not  mis- spend  her  time,  she  may  make 
herself  mistress  of  it  in  three  months.  I  generally 
lay  aside  the  dog-days  and  the  hot  time  of  the 
summer  for  the  teaching  this  part  of  the  exercise ; 
for  as  soon  as  ever  I  pronounce,  Flutter  your  fans, 
the  place  is  filled  with  so  many  zephyrs  and  gentle 
breezes  as  are  very  refreshing  in  that  season  of  the 
year,  though  they  might  be  dangerous  to  ladies 
of  a  tender  constitution  in  any  other. 

“There  is  an  infinite  variety  of  motions  to  be 
made  use  of  in  the  flutter  of  a  fan.  There  is  the 
angry  flutter,  the  modest  flutter,  the  timorous  flut¬ 
ter,  and  the  amorous  flutter.  Not  to  be  tedious, 
there  is  scarce  any  emotion  in  the  mind  Avhich 
does  not  produce  a  suitable  agitation  in  the  fan ; 
insomuch,  that  if  I  only  see  the  fan  of  a  disci¬ 
plined  lady,  I  know  very  well  whether  she  laughs, 
frowns,  or  blushes.  I  have  seen  a  fan  so  very 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


angry,  that  it  would  have  been  dangerous  for  the 
absent  lover  who  provoked  it  to  have  come  within 
the  wind  of  it ;  and  at  other  times  so  very  lan¬ 
guishing,  that  I  have  been  glad  for  the  lady’s  sake 
the  lover  was  at  a  sufficient  distance  from  it.  I 
need  not  add,  that  a  fan  is  either  a  prude  or 
coquette,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  person 
who  bears  it.  To  conclude  my  letter,  I  must  ac¬ 
quaint  you  that  I  have  from  my  own  observation 
compiled  a  little  treatise  for  the  use  of  my  scholars, 
entitled,  The  Passions  of  the  Fan;  which  I  will 
communicate  to  you,  if  you  think  it  may  be  of  use 
to  the  public.  I  shall  have  a  general  review  On 
Thursday  next;  to  which  you  shall  be  very  wel¬ 
come  if  you  will  honor  it  with  your  presence, 

“I  am,  etc. 

“P.  S.  I  teach  young  gentlemen  the  whole  art 
of  gallanting  a  fan. 

“N.  B.  I  have  several  little  plain  fans  made  for 
this  use,  to  avoid  expense.” 


No.  103.]  THURSDAY,  JUNE  28,  1711. 

- Sibi  quivis 

Speret  idem,  sudet  multum,  frustraque  laboret. 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  v.  240. 

Such  all  might  hope  to  imitate  at  ease : 

Yet  while  they  strive  the  same  success  to  gain, 

Should  find  then1  labor  and  their  hopes  are  vain. 

Francis. 

My  friend  the  divine  having  been  used  with 
words  of  complaisance  (which  he  thinks  could  be 
properly  applied  to  no  one  living,  and  I  think 
could  be  only  spoken  of  him,  and  that  in  his  ab¬ 
sence),  was  so  extremely  offended  with  the  exces¬ 
sive  way  of  speaking  civilities  among  us,  that  he 
made  a  discourse  against  it  at  the  club,  which  he 
concluded  with  this  remark,  “that  he  had  not 
heard  one  compliment  made  in  our  society  since 
its  commencement.”  Every  one  was  pleased  with 
his  conclusion  ;  and  as  each  knew  his  good-wTill 
to  the  rest,  he  was  convinced  that  the  many  pro¬ 
fessions  of  kindness  and  service,  which  we  ordi¬ 
narily  meet  with,  are  not  natural  where  the  heart 
is  well  inclined :  but  are  a  prostitution  of  speech, 
seldom  intended  to  mean  any  part  of  what  they 
express,  never  to  mean  all  they  express.  Our 
reverend  friend,  upon  this  topic,  pointed  to  us  two 
or  three  paragraphs  on  this  subject  in  the  first  ser¬ 
mon  of  the  first  volume  of  the  late  archbishop’s 
posthumous  works.  I  do  not  know  that  I  ever 
read  anything  that  pleased  me  more  ;  and  as  it  is 
the  praise  of  Longinus,  that  he  speaks  of  the  sub¬ 
lime  in  a  style  suitable  to  it,  so  one  may  say  of 
this  author  upon  sincerity,  that  he  abhors  any 
pomp  of  rhetoric  on  this  occasion,  and  treats  it 
with  a  more  than  ordinary  simplicity,  at  once  to 
be  a  preacher  and  an  example.  With  what  com¬ 
mand  of  himself  does  he  lay  before  us,  in  the  lan¬ 
guage  and  temper  of  his  profession,  a  fault  which, 
by  the  least  liberty  and  warmth  of  expression, 
would  be  the  most  lively  wit  and  satire!  But  his 
heart  was  better  disposed,  and  the  good  man  chas¬ 
tised  the  great  wit  in  such  a  manner,  that  he  was 
able  to  speak  as  follows  : 

“ — Among  too  many  other  instances  of  the  great 
corruption  and  degeneracy  of  the  age  wherein  we 
live,  the  great  and  general  want  of  sincerity  in 
conversation  is  none  of  the  least.  The  world  is 
grown  so  full  of  dissimulation  and  compliment, 
that  men’s  words  are  hardly  any  signification  of 
their  thoughts;  and  if  any  man  measure  his  words 

*  See  Archbishop  Tillotson’s  Sermon  on  Sincerity,  from 
John,  chap,  i,  ver.  47,  being  the  last  discourse  he  preachod 
July  29,  1694.  lie  died  Nov.  24,  following. 


151 

by  his  heart,  and  speak  as  lie  thinks,  and  do  not 
express  more  kindness  to  every  man  than  men 
usually  have  for  any  man,  he  can  hardly  escape 
the  censure  of  want  of  breeding.  The  old  English 
plainness  and  sincerity — that  generous  integrity 
of  nature,  and  honesty  of  disposition,  which 
always  argues  true  greatness  of  mind  and  is  usu¬ 
ally  accompanied  with  undaunted  courage  and 
resolution,  is  in  a  great  measure  lost  among  us. 
There  hath  been  a  long  endeavor  to  transform  us 
into  foreign  manners  and  fashions,  and  to  bring  us 
to  a  servile  imitation  of  none  of  the  best  of  our 
neighbors,  in  some  of  the  worst  of  their  qualities. 
The  dialect  of  conversation  is  now-a-days  so 
swelled  with  vanity  and  compliment,  and  so  sur¬ 
feited  (as  I  may  say)  of  expressions  of  kindness 
and  respect,  that  if  a  man  that  lived  an  age  or  two 
ago  should  return  into  the  world  again,  he  would 
really  want  a  dictionary  to  help  him  to  understand 
his  own  language,  and  to  know  the  true  intrinsic 
value  of  the  phrase  in  fashion— and  would  hardly 
at  first  believe  at  what  a  low  rate  the  highest 
strains  and  expressions  of  kindness  imaginable  do 
commonly  pass  in  current  payment :  and  when  he 
should  come  to  understand  it,  it  would  be  a  great 
while  before  he  could  bring  himself  with  a  good 
countenance  and  a  good  conscience  to  converse 
with  men  upon  equal  terms,  and  in  their  own  way. 

“And  in  truth  it  is  hard  to  say,  whether  it 
should  more  provoke  our  contempt  or  our  pity,  to 
hear  what  solemn  expressions  of  respect  and  kind¬ 
ness  will  pass  between  men,  almost  upon  no  occa¬ 
sion;  how  great  honor  and  esteem  they  will  declare 
for  one  whom  perhaps  they  never  saw  before,  and 
how  entirely  they  are  all  on  the  sudden  devoted 
to  his  service  and  interest,  for  no  reason;  liow 
infinitely  and  eternally  obliged  to  him,  for  no 
benefit ;  and  how  extremely  they  will  be  concerned 
for  him,  yea,  and  afflicted  too,  for  no  cause.  I 
know  it  is  said,  in  justification  of  this  hollow  kind 
of  conversation,  that  there  is  no  harm,  no  real 
deceit  in  compliment,  but  the  matter  is  well 
enough,  so  long  as  we  understand  one  another  ;  e< 
verba  valent  ut  nummi,  “words  are  like  money;” 
and  wh'ep  the  current  value  of  them  is  generally 
understood,  no  man  is  cheated  by  them.  This  is 
something,  if  such  words  were  anything;  but  being 
brought  into  the  account,  they  are  mere  ciphers. 
However  it  is  still  a  just  matter  of  complaint,  that 
sincerity  and  plainness  are  out  of  fashion,  and 
that  our  language  is  running  into  a  lie  ;  that  men 
have  almost  quite  perverted  the  use  of  speech,  and 
made  words  to  signify  nothing ;  that  the  greatest 
part  of  the  conversation  of  mankind  is  little  else 
but  driving  a  trade  of  dissimulation  ;  insomuch 
that  it  would  make  a  man  heartily  sick  and  weary 
of  the  world,  to  see  the  little  security  that  is  in 
use  and  practice  among  men.” 

When  the  vice  is  placed  in  this  contemptuous 
light,  he  argues  unanswerably  against  it,  in  words 
and  thoughts  so  natural,  that  any  man  who  reads 
them  would  imagine  he  himself  could  have  been 
the  author  of  them.  ' 

“  If  the  show  of  anything  be  good  for  anything, 
I  am  sure  sincerity  is  better  :  for  why  does  any 
man  dissemble,  or  seem  to  be  that  which  he  is 
not,  but  because  he  thinks  it  good  to  have  such  a 
uality  as  he  pretends  to  ?  For  to  counterfeit  and 
issemble,  is  to  put  on  the  appearance  of  some 
real  excellency.  Now  the  best  way  in  the  world 
to  seem  to  be  anything,  is  really  to  be  what  he 
would  seem  to  be.  Beside,  that  it  is  many  times 
as  troublesome  to  make  good  the  pretense  of  a  good 
quality,  as  to  have  it ;  and  if  a  man  have  it  not, 
it  is  ten  to  one  but  he  is  discovered  to  want  it; 
and  then  all  his  pains  and  labor  to  seem  to  have 
it,  are  lost.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


152 

In  another  part  of  the  same  discourse  he  goes 
on  to  show,  that  all  artifice  must  naturally  tend  to 
the  disappointment  of  him  that  practices  it. 

“  Whatsoever  convenience  may  be  thought  to  be 
m  falsehood  and  dissimulation,  it  is  soon  over ; 
but  the  inconvenience  of  it  is  perpetual,  because 
it  brings  a  man  under  an  everlasting  jealousy  and 
suspicion,  so  that  he  is  not  believed  when  he 
speaks  truth,  nor  trusted  when  perhaps  he  means 
honestly.  When  a  man  has  once  forfeited  the  re¬ 
putation  of  his  integrity,  he  is  set  fast,  and 
nothing  will  then  serve  his  turn,  neither  truth  nor 
falsehood.” — R. 


No.  104.]  FRIDAY,  JUNE  29,  1711. 

- Qualis  equos  Threissa  fatigat 

Ilarpalyce. - Virg.  Jin.,  i,  316. 

With  such  array  Harpalyce  bestrode 
Her  Thracian  courser. — Jjryden. 

It  would  be  a  noble  improvement!,  or  rather  a 
recovery  of  what  we  call  good  breeding,  if  nothing 
were  to  pass  among  us  for  agreeable  which  was 
the  least  transgression  against  that  rule  of  life 
called  decorum,  or  a  regard  to  decency.  This 
would  command  the  respect  of  mankind,  because 
it  carries  in  it  deference  to  their  good  opinion,  as 
humility  lodged  in  a  worthy  mind  is  always  at¬ 
tended  with  a  certain  homage  which  no  haughty 
soul,  with  all  the  arts  imaginable,  will  ever  be  able 
to  purchase. 

T  ully  says,  virtue  and  decency  are  so  nearly  re¬ 
lated,  that  it  is  difficult  to  separate  them  from  each 
other  but  in  our  imagination.  As  the  beauty  of 
the  body  always  accompanies  the  health  of  it,  so 
certainly  is  decency  concomitant  to  virtue.  As 
beauty  of  body,  with  an  agreeable  carriage,  pleases 
the  eye,  and  that  pleasure  consists  in  that  we 
observe  all  the  parts  with  a  certain  elegance  are 
roportioned  to  each  other ;  so  does  decency  of 
ehavior  which  appears  in  our  lives  obtain  the  ap¬ 
probation  of  all  with  whom  we  converse,  from  the 
order,  consistency,  and  moderation  of  our  words 
and  actions.  This  flows  from  the  reverence  we 
bear  toward  every  good  man  and  to  the  world  in 
general ;  for  to  be  negligent  of  what  any  one  thinks 
of  you,  does  not  only  show  you  arrogant,  but 
abandoned.  In  all  these  considerations  we  are  to 
distinguish  how  one  virtue  differs  from  another. 
As  it  is  the  part  of  justice  never  to  do  violence,  it 
is  of  modesty  never  to  commit  offense.  In  the 
last  particular  lies  the  whole  force  of  what  is 
called  decency;  to  this  purpose  that  excellent  mo¬ 
ralist  above-mentioned  talks  of  decency  ;  but  this 
quality  is  more  easily  comprehended  by  an  ordi¬ 
nary  capacity,  than  expressed  with  all  his  elo¬ 
quence.  This  decency  of  behavior  is  generally 
transgressed  among  all  orders  of  men  ;  nay,  the 
very  women,  though  themselves  created  as  it  were 
for  ornament,  are  often  very  much  mistaken  in  this 
ornamental  part  of  life.  It  would,  methinks,  be  a 
short  rule  for  behavior,  if  every  young  lady  in  her 
dress,  words,  and  actions,  were  only  to  recommend 
herself  as  a  sister,  daughter,  or  wife,  and  make 
herself  the  more  esteemed  in  one  of  those  charac¬ 
ters.  The  care  of  themselves  with  regard  to  the 
families  in  which  women  are  born,  is  the  best  mo¬ 
tive  for  their  being  courted  to  come  into  the  alli¬ 
ance  of  other  houses.  Nothing  can  promote  this 
end  more  than  a  strict  preservation  of  decency.  I 
should  be  glad  if  a  certain  equestrian  order  of  la¬ 
dies,  some  of  whom  one  meets  in  an  evening  at 
every  outlet  of  the  town,  would  take  this  subject 
into  their  serious  consideration.  In  order  there¬ 
unto  the  following  letter  may  not  be  wholly  un¬ 
worthy  their  perusal. 


“Mr.  Spectator, 

“Going  lately  to  take  the  air  in  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  evenings  this  season  has  produced  ;  as  I 
was  admiring  the  serenity  of  the  sky,  the  lively 
colors  of  the  fields,  and  the  variety  of  the  land¬ 
scape  every  way  around  me,  my  eyes  were  sud¬ 
denly  called  off  from  these  inanimate  objects  by  a 
little  party  of  horsemen  I  saw  passing  the  road. 
The  greater  part  of  them  escaped  my  particular 
observation,  by  reason  that  my  whole  attention 
was  fixed  on  a  very  fair  youth  who  rode  in  the 
midst  of  them,  and  seemed  to  have  been  dressed 
by  some  description  in  a  romance.  His  features, 
complexion,  and  habit,  had  a  remarkable  effemi¬ 
nacy,  and  a  certain  languishing  vanity  appeared 
in  his  air.  His  hair,  well  curled  and  powdered, 
hung  to  a  considerable  length  on  his  shoulders, 
and  was  wantonly  tied,  as  if  by  the  hands  of  his 
mistress,  in  a  scarlet  ribbon,  which  played  like  a 
streamer  behind  him  ;  he  had  a  coat  and  waist¬ 
coat  of  blue  camlet  trimmed  and  embroidered  with 
silver  ;  a  cravat  of  the  finest  lace  ;  and  wore,  in  a 
smart  cock,  a  little  beaver  hat  edged  with  silver, 
and  made  more  sprightly  by  a  feather.  His  horse, 
too,  which  was  a  pacer,  was  adorned  after  the 
same  airy  manner,  and  seemed  to  share  in  the  va¬ 
nity  of  the  rider.  As  I  was  pitying  the  luxury  of 
this  young  person,  who  appeared  to  me  to  have 
been  educated  only  as  an  object  of  sight,  I  per¬ 
ceived  on  my  nearer  approach,  and  as  I  turned  my 
eyes  downward,  a  part  of  the  equipage  I  had  not 
seen  before,  which  was  a  petticoat  of  the  same  with 
the  coat  and  waistcoat.  After  this  discovery,  I 
looked  again  on  the  face  of  the  fair  Amazon  who 
had  thus  deceived  me,  and  thought  those  features 
which  had  before  offended  me  by  their  softness, 
were  now  strengthened  into  as  improper  a  bold¬ 
ness  ;  and  though  her  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth 
seemed  to  be  formed  with  perfect  symmetry,  I  am 
not  certain  whether  she,  who  in  appearance  was  a 
very  handsome  youth,  may  not  be  in  reality  a  very 
indifferent  woman. 

“  There  is  an  objection  which  naturally  presents 
itself  against  those  occasional  perplexities  and 
mixtures  of  dress,  which  is,  that  they  seem  to 
break  in  upon  that  propriety  and  distinction  of 
appearance  in  which  the  beauty  of  different  char¬ 
acters  is  preserved  ;  and  if  they  should  be  more 
frequent  than  they  are  at  present,  would  look  like 
turning  our  public  assemblies  into  a  general 
masquerade.  The  model  of  this  Amazonian  hunt¬ 
ing-habit  for  ladies  was,  as  I  take  it,  first  import¬ 
ed  from  France,  and  well  enough  expresses  the 
gayety  of  a  people  who  are  taught  to  do  anything, 
so  it  be  with  an  assurance ;  but  I  cannot  help 
thinking  it  sits  awkwardly  yet  on  our  English 
modesty.  The  petticoat  is  a  kind  of  incumbrance 
upon  it ;  and  if  the  Amazons  should  think  fit  to 
go  on  in  this  plunder  of  our  sex’s  ornaments,  they 
ought  to  add  to  their  spoils,  and  complete  their 
triumph  over  us,  by  wearing  the  breeches. 

“  If  it  be  natural  to  contract  insensibly  the  man¬ 
ners  of  thos«  we  imitate,  the  ladies  who  are 
pleased  with  assuming  our  dresses  will  do  us 
more  honor  than  we  deserve,  but  they  will  do  it 
at  their  own  expense.  Why  should  the  lovely 
Camilla  deceive  us  in  more  shapes  than  her  own, 
and  affect  to  be  represented  in  her  picture  with  a 
gun  and  a  spaniel ;  while  her  elder  brother,  the 
heir  of  a  worthy  family,  is  drawn  in  silks  like  his 
sister  ?  The  dress  and  air  of  a  man  are  not  well 
to  be  divided  ;  and  those  who  would  not  be  con 
tent  with  the  latter,  ought  never  to  think  of  assum¬ 
ing  the  former.  There  is  so  large  a  portion  of 
natural  agreeableness  among  the  fair  sex  of  our 
island,  that  they  seem  betrayed  into  these  romantic 


THE  SPE 

habits  without  having  the  same  occasion  for 
them  with  their  inventors  :  all  that  needs  to  be  de¬ 
sired  of  them  is,  that  they  would  be  themselves — 
that  is,  what  nature  designed  them.  And  to  see 
their  mistake  when  they  depart  from  this,  let  them 
look  at  a  man  who  affects  the  softness  and  effemi¬ 
nacy  of  a  woman,  to  learn  how  their  sex  must  ap¬ 
pear  to  us  when  approaching  to  the  resemblance 
of  a  man. 

T.  “I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant.” 


No.  105.]  SATURDAY,  JUNE  30,  1711. 

- Id  arbitror 

Adprime  in  vita  esse  utile,  ne  quid  nimis. 

Ter.  Andr.,  act.  1,  sc.  1. 

I  take  it  to  be  a  principal  rule  of  life,  not  to  be  too  much 
addicted  to  any  one  thing. 

Too  much  of  anything,  is  good  for  nothing. — Eng.  Prov. 

My  friend  Will  Honeycomb  values  himself  very 
much  upon  what  he  calls  the  knowledge  of  man¬ 
kind,  which  has  cost  him  many  disasters  in  his 
youth  ;  for  Will  reckons  every  misfortune  that  he 
has  met  with  among  the  women,  and  every  ren¬ 
counter  among  the  men,  as  parts  of  his  education  ; 
and  fancies  he  should  never  have  been  the  man  he 
is,  had  he  not  broke  windows,  knocked  down 
constables,  disturbed  honest  people  with  his  mid¬ 
night  serenades,  and  beat  up  a  lewd  woman’s 
quarters,  when  he  was  a  young  fellow.  The  en- 
gagingin  adventures  of  this  nature  Will  calls  the 
studying  of  mankind  ;  and  terms  this  knowledge 
of  the  town  the  knowledge  of  the  world.  Will 
ingenuously  confesses  that  for  half  his  life  his 
head  ached  every  morning  with  reading  of  men 
overnight;  and  at  present  comforts  himself  under 
certain  pains  which  he  endures  from  time  to  time, 
that  without  them  he  could  not  have  been  ac¬ 
quainted  with  the  gallantries  of  the  age.  This 
Will  looks  upon  as  the  learning  of  a  gentleman, 
and  regards  all  other  kinds  of  science  as  the  ac¬ 
complishments  of  one  whom  he  calls  a  scholar,  a 
bookish  man,  or  a  philosopher. 

For  these  reasons  Will  shines  in  mixed  compa¬ 
ny,  where  he  has  the  discretion  not  to  go  out  of 
his  depth,  and  has  often  a  certain  way  of  making 
his  real  ignorance  appear  a  seeming  one.  Our 
club  however  has  frequently  caught  him  tripping, 
at  which  times  they  never  spare  him.  For  as 
Will  often  insults  us  with  his  knowledge  of  the 
town,  we  sometimes  take  our  revenge  upon  him 
by  our  knowledge  of  books. 

He  was  last  week  producing  two  or  three  let¬ 
ters  which  he  wrote  in  his  youth  to  a  coquette  lady. 
The  raillery  of  them  was  natural  and  well  enough 
for  a  mere  man  of  the  town:  but,  very  unluckily, 
several  ot  the  words  were  wrong  spelt.  Will 
laughed  this  off  at  first  as  well  as  he  could  ;  but 
finding  himself  pushed  on  all  sides,  and  especial¬ 
ly  by  the  Templar,  he  told  us  with  a  little  pas¬ 
sion,  that  lie  never  liked  pedantry  in  spelling, 
and  that  he  spelt  like  a  gentleman,  and  not  like  a 
scholar :  upon  this  Will  had  recourse  to  his  old 
topic  of  showing  the  narrow-spirited  ness,  the 
pride,  and  ignorance  of  pedants ;  which  he  car¬ 
ried  so  far,  that  upon  my  retiring  to  my  lodgings, 

I  could  not  forbear  throwing  together  such  reflec¬ 
tions  as  occurred  to  me  upon  that  subject. 

A  man  who  has  been  brought  up  among  books, 
and  is  able  to  talk  of  nothing  else,  is  a  very  indif¬ 
ferent  companion,  and  what  we  call  a  "pedant. 
But,  methinks,  we  should  enlarge  the  title,  and 
give  it  to  every  one  that  does  not  know  how  to 
think  out  of  his  profession  and  particular  way  of 
jfo. 


C  TAT  OR.  153 

What  is  a  "reater  pedant  than  a  mere  man  of 
the  town  ?  Bar  him  the  play-houses,  a  catalogue 
of  the  reigning  beauties,  and  an  account  of  a  few 
fashionable  distempers  that  have  befallen  him, 
and  you  strike  him  dumb.  How  many  a  pretty 
gentleman’s  knowledge  lies  all  within  the  verge 
of  the  court?  He  will  tell  you  the  names  of  the 
principal  favorites,  repeat  the  shrewd  sayings  of 
a  man  of  quality ;  whisper  an  intrigue  that  is  not 
yet  blown  upon  by  common  fame;  or,  if  the 
sphere  of  his  observations  is  a  little  larger  than 
ordinary,  will  perhaps  enter  into  all  the  incidents, 
turns,  and  revolutions,  in  a  game  of  ombre.  When 
he  has  gone  thus  far,  he  has  shown  you  the  whole 
circle  of  his  accomplishments ;  his  parts  are 
drained,  and  he  is  disabled  from  any  further  con¬ 
versation.  What  are  these  but  rank  pedants  ? 
and  yet  these  are  the  men  who  value  themselves 
most  on  their  exemption  from  the  pedantry  of 
colleges. 

I  might  here  mention  the  military  pedant,  who 
always  talks  in  a  camp — and  is  storming  towns, 
making  lodgments,  and  fighting  battles,  from  one 
end  of  the  year  to  the  other.  Everything  he 
speaks  smells  of  gunpowder  ;  if  you  take  away 
his  artillery  from  him,  he  has  not  a  word  to  say 
for  himself.  I  might  likewise  mention  the  law 
pedant,  that  is  perpetually  putting  cases,  repeat¬ 
ing  the  transactions  of  Westminster-hall,  wrang¬ 
ling  with  you  upon  the  most  indifferent  circum¬ 
stances  of  life,  and  not  to  be  convinced  of  the 
distance  of  a  place,  or  of  the  most  trivial  point  in 
conversation,  but  by  dint  of  argument.  The  state 
pedant  is  wrapped  up  in  news,  and  lost  in  politics. 
If  you  mention  either  of  the  kings  of  Spain  or 
Poland,  lie  talks  very  notably  ;  but  if  you  go  out 
of  the  Gazette,*  you  drop  him.  In  short,  a  mere 
courtier,  a  mere  soldier,  a  mere  scholar,  a  mere 
anything,  is  an  insipid  pedantic  character,  and 
equally  ridiculous. 

Of  all  the  species  of  pedants  which  I  have  men¬ 
tioned,  the  book  pedant  is  much  the  most  sup¬ 
portable  ;  he  has  at  least  an  exercised  understand¬ 
ing,  a  head  which  is  full,  though  confused — so 
that  a  man  who  converses  with  him  may  often  re¬ 
ceive  from  him  hints  of  things  that  are  worth 
knowing,  and  what  he  may  possibly  turn  to  his 
own  advantage,  though  they  are  of  little  use  to  the 
owner.  The  worst  kind  of  pedants  among 
learned  men,  are  such  as  are  naturally  endued 
with  a  very  small  share  of  common  sense,  and 
have  read  a  great  number  of  books  without  taste 
or  distinction. 

The  truth  of  it  is,  learning,  like  traveling,  and 
all  other  methods  of  improvement,  as  it  finishes 
good  sense,  so  it  makes  a  silly  man  ten  thousand 
times  more  insufferable,  by  supplying  variety  of 
matter  to  his  impertinence,  and  giving  him  an  op¬ 
portunity  of  abounding  in  absurdities. 

Shallow  pedants  cry  up  one  another  much  more 
than  men  of  solid  and  useful  learning.  To  read 
the  titles  they  give  an  editor,  or  collator  of  a  maim 
script,  you  would  take  him  for  the  glory  of  the 
commonwealth  of  letters,  and  the  wonder  of  his 
age!  when  perhaps  upon  examination  you  find 
that  he  has  only  rectified  a  Greek  particle,  or  laid 
out  a  whole  sentence  in  proper  commas. 

They  are  obliged  indeed  to  be  thus  lavish  of 
their  praises,  that  they  may  keep  one  another  in 
countenance;  and  it  is  no  wonder  if  a  great  deal 
of  knowledge  which  is  not  capable  of  making  a 
man  wise,  lias  a  natural  tendency  to  make  him 
vain  and  arrogant. — L. 


*  A  newspaper,  so  called  from  gazette,  the  name  of  a  piece 
of  current  money,  which  was  the  stated  price  at  which  it  was 
originally  sold. 


154 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


No.  106.]  MONDAY,  JULY  2,  1711. 

- Hinc  tibi  copia 

Manabit  ad  plenum,  beuigno 
Ruris  honorum  opulenta  cornu. 

Hor.  1  Od.  xyii,  14. 

Here  plenty’s  liberal  born  shall  pour 
Of  fruits  for  thee  a  copious  show’r, 

Rich  honors  of  the  quiet  plain. 

Having  often  received  an  invitation  from  my 
friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  to  pass  away  a 
month  with  him  in  the  country,  I  last  week  ac¬ 
companied  him  thither,  and  am  settled  with  him 
for  some  time  at  his  country-house,  where  I  in¬ 
tend  to  form  several  of  my  ensuing  speculations. 
Sir  Roger,  who  is  very  well  acquainted  with  my 
humor,  lets  me  rise  and  go  to  bed  when  I  please, 
dine  at  his  own  table  or  in  my  chamber  as  I  think 
fit,  sit  still  and  say  nothing  without  bidding  me 
be  merry.  When  the  gentlemen  of  the  country 
come  to  see  him,  he  only  shows  me  at  a  distance. 
As  I  have  been  walking  in  his  fields  I  have  ob¬ 
served  them  stealing  a  sight  of  me  over  a  hedge, 
and  have  heard  the  knight  desiring  them  not  to 
let  me  see  them,  for  that  I  hated  to  be  stared  at. 

I  am  the  more  at  ease  in  Sir  Roger’s  family,  be¬ 
cause  it  consists  of  sober  and  staid  persons;  for 
as  the  knight  is  the  best  master  in  the  world,  he 
seldom  changes  his  servants;  and  as  he  is  beloved 
by  all  about  him,  his  servants  never  care  for  leav¬ 
ing  him;  by  this  means  his  domestics  are  all  in 
years,  and  grown  old  with  their  master.  You 
would  take  his  valet-de-chambre  for  his  brother, 
his  butler  is  gray-headed,  his  groom  is  one  of  the 
gravest  men  that  I  have  ever  seen,  and  his  coach¬ 
man  has  the  looks  of  a  privy-counselor.  You  see 
the  goodness  of  the  master  even  in  his  old  house¬ 
dog,  and  in  a  gray  pad  that  is  kept  in  the  stable 
with  great  care  and  tenderness,  out  of  regard  to 
his  past  services,  though  he  has  been  useless  for 
several  years. 

I  could  not  but  observe  with  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure,  the  joy  that  appeared  in  the  countenances 
of  these  ancient  domestics  upon  my  friend’s  arri¬ 
val  at  his  country  seat.  Some  of  them  could  not 
refrain  from  tears  at  the  sight  of  their  old  master ; 
every  one  of  them  pressed  forward  to  do  some¬ 
thing  for  him,  and  seemed  discouraged  if  they 
were  not  employed.  At  the  same  time  the  good 
old  knight,  with  a  mixture  of  the  father  and 
the  master  of  the  family,  tempered  the  inquiries 
after  his  own  affairs  with  several  kind  questions 
relating  to  themselves.  This  humanity  and  good¬ 
nature  engages  everybody  to  him,  so  that  when 
he  is  pleasant  upon  any  of  them,  all  his  family 
are  in  good  humor,  and  none  so  much  as  the  per¬ 
son  whom  he  diverts  himself  with;  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  if  he  coughs,  or  betrays  any  infirmity  of 
old  age,  it  is  easy  for  a  stander-by  to  observe  a 
secret  concern  in  the  looks  of  all  his  servants. 

My  worthy  friend  has  put  me  under  the  par¬ 
ticular  care  of  his  butler,  who  is  a  very  prudent 
man,  and,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  his  fellow-ser¬ 
vants,  wonderfully  desirous  of  pleasing  me,  be¬ 
cause  they  have  often  heard  their  master  talk  of 
me  as  his  particular  friend. 

My  chief  companion,  when  Sir  Roger  is  divert¬ 
ing  himself  in  the  woods  or  the  fields,  is  a  very 
venerable  man  who  is  ever  with  Sir  Roger,  and 
has  lived  at  his  house  in  the  nature  of  a  chaplain 
above  thirty  years.  This  gentleman  is  a  person 
of  good  sense  and  some  learning,  of  a  very  regu¬ 
lar  life  and  obliging  conversation :  he  heartily 
loves  Sir  Roger,  and  knows  that  he  is  very  much 
in  the  old  knight’s  esteem,  so  that  he  lives  in  the 
family  rather  as  a  relation  than  a  dependent. 

I  have  observed  in  several  of  my  papers,  that 
my  friend  Sir  Roger,  amidst  all  his  good  qualities, 


is  something  of  a  humorist;  and  that  his  virtues, 
as  well  as  imperfections,  are  as  it  were  tinged  by 
a  certain  extravagance,  which  makes  them  par¬ 
ticularly  his,  and  distinguishes  them  from  those 
of  other  men.  This  cast  of  mind,  as  it  is  gen¬ 
erally  very  innocent  in  itself,  so  it  renders  his 
conversation  highly  agreeable,  and  more  delight¬ 
ful  than  the  same  degree  of  sense  and  virtue  would 
appear  in  their  common  and  ordinary  colors.  As 
1  was  walking  with  him  last  night,  he  asked  me 
how  I  liked  the  good  man  whom  I  have  just  now 
mentioned  ?  and  without  staying  for  my  answer, 
told  me  that  he  was  afraid  of  being  insulted  with 
Latin  and  Greek  at  his  own  table;  for  which  reason 
he  desired  a  particular  friend  of  liis  at  the  univer¬ 
sity  to  find  him  out  a  clergyman  rather  of  plain 
sense  than  much  learning,  of  a  good  aspect,  a 
clear  voice,  a  sociable  temper,  and,  if  possible,  a 
man  that  understood  a  little  of  backgammon.  “My 
friend,”  says  Sir  Roger,  “found  me  out  this  gentle¬ 
man,  who,  beside  the  endowments  required  of  him, 
is,  they  tell  me,  a  good  scholar,  though  he  does 
not  show  it.  I  have  given  him  the  patronage  of 
the  parish  ;  and  because  I  know  his  value,  have 
settled  upon  him  a  good  annuity  for  life.  If  he 
outlives  me,  he  shall  find  that  he  was  higher  in 
my  esteem  than  perhaps  he  thinks  he  is.  He  has 
now  been  with  me  thirty  years  ;  and  though  he 
does  not  know  I  have  taken  notice  of  it,  has  never 
in  all  that  time  asked  anything  of  me  for  himself, 
though  he  is  every  day  soliciting  me  for  something 
in  behalf  of  one  or  other  of  my  tenants  his  parish¬ 
ioners.  There  has  not  been  a  lawsuit  in  the  parish 
since  he  has  lived  among  them  ;  if  any  dispute 
arises,  they  apply  themselves  to  him  for  the  de¬ 
cision:  if  they  do  not  acquiesce  in  his  judgment, 
which  I  think  never  happened  above  once  or  twice 
at  most,  they  appeal  to  me.  At  his  first  settling 
with  me,  I  made  him  a  present  of  all  the  good 
sermons  which  have  been  printed  in  English,  and 
only  begged  of  him  that  every  Sunday  he  would 
pronounce  one  of  them  in  the  pulpit.  Accord¬ 
ingly  he  has  digested  them  into  such  a  series,  that 
they  follow  one  another  naturally,  and  make  a 
continued  system  of  practical  divinity.” 

As  Sir  Roger  was  going  on  in  his  story,  the 
gentleman  we  were  talking  of  came  up  to  us ;  and 
upon  the  knight’s  asking  him  who  preached  to¬ 
morrow  (for  it  was  Saturday  night),  told  us,  the 
bishop  of  St.  Asaph*  in  the  morning,  and  Dr. 
South  in  the  afternoon.  He  then  showed  us  his 
list  of  preachers  for  the  whole  year,  where  I  saw 
with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  Archbishop  Tillot- 
son,  Bishop  Saunderson,  Dr.  Barrow,  Dr.  Calamy, 
with  several  living  authors  who  have  published 
discourses  of  practical  divinity.  I  no  sooner  saw 
this  venerable  man  in  the  pulpit,  but  I  very  much 
approved  of  my  friend’s  insisting  upon  the  quali¬ 
fications  of  a  good  aspect  and  a  clear  voice ;  for  I 
was  so  charmed  with  the  gracefulness  of  his  figure 
and  delivery,  as  well  as  with  the  discourses  he 
pronounced,  that  I  think  I  never  passed  any  time 
more  to  my  satisfaction.  A  sermon  repeated  after 
this  manner,  is  like  the  composition  of  a  poet  in 
the  mouth  of  a  graceful  actor. 

I  could  heartily  wish  that  more  of  our  country 
clergy  would  follow  this  example;  and  instead  of 
wasting  their  spirits  in  laborious  compositions  of 
their  own,  would  endeavor  after  a  handsome  elocu¬ 
tion,  and  all  those  other  talents  that  are  proper  to 
enforce  what  has  been  penned  by  great  masters. 
This  would  not  only  be  more  easy  to  themselves, 
but  more  edifying  to  the  people. — L. 


*  Dr.  William  Fleetwood. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


No.  107.]  TUESDAY,  JULY  3,  1711. 

iEsopo  ingentem  statuam  posuero  Attici, 

Serv  unique  collocaruut  aeterna  iu  basi, 

Patere  honoris  scirent  ut  cunctis  viam. 

Phedr.  Epilog.  1,  2. 

The  Athenians  erected  a  large  statue  to  TEsop,  and  placed 
him,  though  a  slave,  on  a  lasting  pedestal :  to  show,  that  the 
way  to  honor  lies  open  indifferently  to  all. 

The  reception,  manner  of  attendance,  undis¬ 
turbed  freedom  and  quiet,  which  I  meet  with 
here  in  the  country,  has  confirmed  me  in  the 
opinion  I  always  had,  that  the  general  corruption 
of  manners  in  servants  is  owiner  to  the  conduct  of 

o 

masters.  The  aspect  of  every  one  in  the  family 
carries  so  much  satisfaction,  that  it  appears 
he  knows  the  happy  lot  which  has  befallen  him  in 
being  a  member  of  it.  There  is  one  particular 
which  I  have  seldom  seen  but  at  Sir  Roger’s ;  it  is 
usual  in  all  other  places,  that  servants  fly  from 
the  parts  of  the  house  through  which  their  master 
is  passing  ;  on  the  contrary,  here  they  industri¬ 
ously  place  themselves  in  his  way  ;  and  it  is  on 
both  sides,  as  it  were,  understood  as  a  visit,  when 
the  servants  appear  without  calling.  This  pro¬ 
ceeds  from  the  humane  and  equal  temper  of  the 
man  of  the  house,  who  also  perfectly  well  knows 
how  to  enjoy  a  great  estate  with  such  economy  as 
ever  to  be  much  beforehand.  This  makes  his  own 
mind  untroubled,  and  consequently  unapt  to  vent 
peevish  expressions,  or  give  passionate  or  incon¬ 
sistent  orders  to  those  about  him.  Thus  respect 
and  love  go  together ;  and  a  certain  cheerfulness 
in  performance  of  their  duty  is  the  particular  dis¬ 
tinction  of  the  lower  part  of  this  family.  When 
a  servant  is  called  before  his  master,  he  does  not 
come  with  an  expectation  to  hear  himself  rated  for 
some  trivial  fault,  threatened  to  be  stripped,  or 
used  with  any  other  unbecoming  language,  which 
mean  masters  often  give  to  worthy  servants  ;  but 
it  is  often  to  know,  what  road  he  took  that  he 
came  so  readily  back  according  to  order  :  whether 
he  passed  by  such  a  ground  ;  if  the  old  man  who 
rents  it  is  in  good  health ;  or  whether  he  gave  Sir 
Roger’s  love  to  him,  or  the  like. 

A  man  who  preserves  a  respect  founded  on  his 
benevolence  to  his  dependents,  lives  rather  like  a 
prince  than  a  master  in  his  family:  his  orders  are 
received  as  favors  rather  than  duties ;  and  the  dis¬ 
tinction,  of  approaching  him  is  part  of  the  re¬ 
ward  for  executing  what  is  commanded  by  him. 

There  is  another  circumstance  in  which  my 
friend  excels  in  his  management,  which  is  the 
manner  of  rewarding  his  servants.  He  has  ever 
been  of  opinion,  that  giving  his  cast  clothes  to  be 
worn  by  valets  has  a  very  ill  effect  upon  little 
minds,  and  creates  a  silly  sense  of  equality  be¬ 
tween  the  parties,  in  persons  affected  only  with 
outward  things.  I  have  heard  him  often  pleasant 
on  this  occasion,  and  describe  a  young  gentleman 
abusing  his  man  in  that  coat,  which  a  month  or 
two  before  was  the  most  pleasing  distinction  he 
was  conscious  of  in  himself.  He  would  turn  his 
discourse  still  more  pleasantly  upon  the  bounties 
of  the  ladies  in  this  kind  ;  and  I  have  heard  him 
say  he  knew  a  fine  woman,  who  distributed  re¬ 
wards  and  punishments  in  giving  becoming  or 
unbecoming  dresses  to  her  maids. 

But  my  good  friend  is  above  these  little  instances 
of  good-will,  in  bestowing  only  trifles  on  his  serv¬ 
ants:  a  good  servant  to  him  is  sure  of  having  it  in 
his  choice  very  soon  of  being  no  servant  at  all. 
As  I  before  observed,  he  is  so  good  a  husband, 
and  knows  so  thoroughly  that  the  skill  of  the 
purse  is  the  cardinal  virtue  of  this  life  ;  I  say  he 
knows  so  well  that  frugality  is  the  support  of 
generosity,  that  he  can  often  spare  a  large  fine 
when  a  tenement  falls,  and  give  that  settlement 


155 

to  a  good  servant  who  has  a  mind  to  go  into  the 
world,  or  make  a  stranger  pay  the  nne  to  that 
servant  for  his  more  comfortable  maintenance,  if 
he  stays  in  his  service. 

A  man  of  honor  and  generosity  considers  it 
would  be  miserable  to  himself  to  have  no  will  but 
that  of  another,  though  it  were  of  the  best  person 
breathing,  and,  for  that  reason,  goes  on  as  fast 
as  he  is  able  to  put  his  servants  into  independent 
livelihoods.  The  greatest  part  of  Sir  Roger’s 
estate  is  tenanted  by  persons  tvho  have  served 
himself  or  his  ancestors.  It  was  to  me  extremely 
pleasant  to  observe  the  visitants  from  several  parts 
to  welcome  his  arrival  into  the  country:  and  all  the 
difference  that  I  could  take  notice  of  between  the 
late  servants  who  came  to  see  him,  and  those  who 
stayed  in  the  family  was,  that  these  latter  were  look¬ 
ed  upon  as  finer  gentlemen  and  better  courtiers. 

This  manumission  and  placing  them,  in  a  way 
of  livelihood,  I  look  upon  as  only  what  is  due  to  a 
good  servant;  which  encouragement  will  make  his 
successor  be  as  diligent,  as  humble,  and  as  ready 
as  he  was.  There  is  something  wonderful  in  the 
narrowness  of  those  minds  which  can  be  pleased, 
and  be  barren  of  bounty  to  those  who  please  them. 

One  might  on  this  occasion,  recount  the  sense 
that  great  persons  in  all  ages  have  had  of  the 
merit  of  their  dependents,  and  the  heroic  services 
which  men  have  done  their  masters  in  the  ex 
tremity  of  their  fortunes,  and  shown  to  their  un¬ 
done  patrons  that  fortune  was  all  the  difference 
between  them;  but  as  I  design  this  my  speculation 
only  as  a  gentle  admonition  to  thankless  masters, 
I  shall  not  go  out  of  the  occurrences  of  common  life, 
but  assert  it  as  a  general  observation,  that  I  never 
saw,  but  in  Sir  Roger’s  family  and  one  or  two  more, 
good  servants  treated  as  they  ought  to  be.  Sir 
Roger’s  kindness  extends  to  their  children’s  child¬ 
ren;  and  this  very  morning  he  sent  his  coachman’s 
grandson  to  ’prentice.  I  shall  conclude  this  paper 
with  an  account  of  a  picture  in  his  gallery,  where 
there  are  many  which  will  deserve  my  future  obser¬ 
vation. 

At  the  upper  end  of  this  handsome  structure  I 
saw  the  portraiture  of  two  young  men  standing  in 
a  river,  the  one  naked,  the  other  in  a  livery.  The 
person  supported  seemed^  half  dead,  but  still  so 
much  alive  as  to  show  in  his  face  exquisite  joy 
and  love  toward  the  other.  I  thought  the  fainting 
figure  resembled  my  friend  Sir  Roger,  and  looking 
at  the  butler  who  stood  by  me,  for  an  account  of  it, 
he  informed  me  that  the  person  in  the  livery  was  a 
servant  of  Sir  Roger’s  who  stood  on  the  shore 
while  his  master  was  swimming,  and  observing  him 
taken  with  some  sudden  illness  and  sink  under 
water  jumped  in  and  saved  him.  He  told  me  Sir 
Roger  took  off  the  dress  he  was  in  as  soon  as  he 
came  home,  and  by  a  great  bounty  at  that  time, 
followed  by  his  favor  ever  since,  had  made  him 
master  of  that  pretty  seat  which  we  saw  at  a 
distance  as  we  came  to  this  house.  I  remembered, 
indeed,  Sir  Roger  said,  there  lived  a  very  worthy 
gentleman,  to  whom  he  was  highly  obliged,  with¬ 
out  mentioning  anything  farther.  Upon  my 
looking  a  little  dissatisfied  at  some  part  of  the 
picture,  my  attendant  informed  me  that  it  was 
against  Sir  Roger’s  will,  and  at  the  earnest  request 
of  the  gentleman  himself,  that  he  was  drawn  in 
the  habit  in  which  he  had  saved  his  master.  R. 


No.  108.]  WEDNESDAY,  JULY  4,  1711. 

Gratis  anhelans,  multa  agendo  nihil  agens. 

Phedr.,  Fab.  v,  2. 

Out  of  breath  to  no  purpose,  and  very  busy  about  nothing. 

As  I  was  yesterday  morning  walking  with  Sir 
Roger  before  his  house,  a  country  fellow  brought 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


156 

him  a  huge  fish,  which,  he  told  him,  Mr.  William 
Wimble*  had  caught  that  very  morning ;  and  that 
he  presented  it  with  his  service  to  him,  and  in¬ 
tended  to  come  and  dine  with  him.  At  the  same 
time  he  delivered  a  letter,  which  my  friend  read 
to  me  as  soon  as  the  messenger  left  him. 

“  Sir  Roger, 

“I  desire  you  to  accept  of  a  jack,  which  is  the 
best  I  have  caught  this  season.  I  intend  to  come 
and  stay  with  you  a  week,  and  see  how  the  perch 
bite  in  the  Black  river.  I  observed  with  some 
concern,  the  last  time  I  saw  you  upon  the  bowling- 
green,  that  your  whip  wanted  a  lash  to  it ;  I  will 
bring  half  a  dozen  with  me  that  I  twisted  last 
week,  which  I  hope  will  serve  you  all  the  time  you 
are  in  the  country.  I  have  not  been  out  of  the 
saddle  for  six  days  last  past,  having  been  at  Eton 
with  Sir  John’s  eldest  son.  He  takes  to  his  learn¬ 
ing  hugely. 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

“Will  Wimble.” 

This  extraordinary  letter,  and  message  that 
accompanied  it,  made  me  very  curious  to  know 
the  character  and  quality  of  the  gentleman  who 
sent  them ;  which  I  found  to  be  as  follow : — Will 
Wimble  is  younger  brother  to  a  baronet,  and  de¬ 
scended  of  the  ancient  family  of  the  Wimbles. 
He  is  now  between  forty  and  fifty;  but  being  bred 
to  no  business  and  born  to  no  estate,  he  generally 
lives  with  his  elder  brother  as  superintendent  of 
his  game.  He  hunts  a  pack  of  dogs  better  than 
any  man  in  the  country,  and  is  very  famous  for 
finding  out  a  hare.  He  is  extremely  well  versed 
in  all  the  little  handicrafts  of  an  idle  man.  He 
makes  a  May-fly  to  a  miracle :  and  furnishes  the 
whole  country  with  angle-rods.  As  he  is  a  good- 
natured,  officious  fellow,  and  very  much  esteemed 
upon  account  of  his  family,  he  is  a  welcome  guest 
at  every  house,  and  keeps  up  a  good  correspond¬ 
ence  among  all  the  gentlemen  about  him.  He 
carries  a  tulip  root  in  his  pocket  from  one  to  an¬ 
other,  or  exchanges  a  puppy  between  a  couple 
of  friends  that  live  perhaps  in  the  opposite  sides 
of  the  country.  Will  is  a  particular  favorite  of  all 
the  young  heirs,  whom  he  frequently  obliges  with 
a  net  that  he  has  weaved,  or  a  setting-dog  that  he 
has  made  himself.  He  now  and  then  presents  a 
pair  of  garters  of  his  own  knitting  to  their  mothers 
and  sisters;  and  raises  a  great  deal  of  mirth  among 
them,  by  inquiring  as  often  as  lie  meets  them 
“ how  they  wear!”  These  gentleman-like  manu¬ 
factures  and  obliging  little  humors,  make  Will  the 
darling  of  the  country. 

Sir  Roger  was  proceeding  in  the  character  of 
him,  when  he  saw  him  make  up  to  us  with  two  or 
three  hazle  twigs  in  his  hand  that  he  had  cut  in 
Sir  Roger’s  woods,  as  he  came  through  them  in 
his  way  to  the  house.  I  was  very  much  pleased 
to  observe  on  one  side  the  hearty  and  sincere  wel¬ 
come  with  which  Sir  Roger  received  him,  and  on 
the  other,  the  secret  joy  which  his  guest  discovered 
at  the  sight  of  the  good  old  knight.  After  the 
first  salutes  were  over,  Will  desired  Sir  Roger  to 
lend  him  one  of  his  servants  to  carry  a  set  of  shuttle¬ 
cocks  he  had  with  him  in  a  little  box,  to  a  lady 
that  lived  about  a  mile  off,  to  whom  it  seems  he 
had  promised  such  a  present  for  above  this  half¬ 
ear.  Sir  Roger’s  back  was  no  sooner  turned,  but 
onest  Will  began  to  tell  me  of  a  large  cock  phea¬ 
sant  that  he  had  sprung  in  one  of  the  neighboring 
woods,  with  two  or  three  other  adventures  of  the 
same  nature.  Odd  and  uncommon  characters  are 
the  game  that  I  look  for  and  most  delight  in ;  for 

*  A  Yorkshire  gentleman,  whose  name  was  Mr.  Thomas 
Morecraft. 


which  reason  I  was  as  much  pleased  with  the 
novelty  of  the  person  that  talked  to  me,  as  he 
could  be  for  his  life  with  the  springing  of  a  phea¬ 
sant,  and  therefore  listened  to  him  with  more  than 
ordinary  attention. 

In  the  midst  of  his  discourse  the  bell  rang  to 
dinner,  where  the  gentleman  I  have  been  speaking 
of  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  huge  jack  he 
had  caught  served  up  for  the  first  dish  in  a  most 
sumptuous  manner.  Upon  our  sitting  down  to  it 
he  gave  us  a  long  account  how  he  had  hooked  it, 
played  with  it,  foiled  it,  and  at  length  drew  it  out 
upon  the  bank — with  several  other  particulars  that 
lasted  all  the  first  course.  A  dish  of  wild  fowl 
that  came  afterward  furnished  conversation  for  the 
rest  of  the  dinner,  which  concluded  with  a  late 
invention  of  Will’s  for  improving  the  quail-pipe. 

Upon  withdrawing  into  my  room  after  dinner,  I 
was  secretly  touched  with  compassion  toward  the 
honest  gentleman  that  had  dined  with  us ;  and 
could  not  but  consider  with  a  great  deal  of  con¬ 
cern,  how  so  good  a  heart  and  such  busy  hands 
were  wholly  employed  in  trifles ;  that  so  much 
humanity  should  be  so  little  beneficial  to  others, 
and  so  much  industry  so  little  advantageous  to 
himself.  The  same  temper  of  mind  and  applica¬ 
tion  to  affairs,  might  have  recommended  him  to 
the  public  esteem,  and  have  raised  his  fortune  in 
another  station  of  life.  What  good  to  his  country 
or  himself  might  not  a  trader  or  a  merchant  have 
done  with  such  useful  though  ordinary  qualifica¬ 
tions  ! 

Will  Wimble’s  is  the  case  of  many  a  younger 
brother  of  a  great  family,  who  had  rather  see  their 
children  starve  like  gentlemen,  than  thrive  in  a 
trade  or  profession  that  is  beneath  their  quality. 
This  humor  fills  several  parts  of  Europe  with 
pride  and  beggary.  It  is  the  happiness  of  a  trad¬ 
ing  nation  like  ours,  that  the  younger  sons,  though 
incapable  of  any  liberal  art  or  profession,  may  be 
placed  in  such  a  way  of  life,  as  may  perhaps  en¬ 
able  them  to  vie  with  the  best  of  their  family. 
Accordingly  we  find  several  citizens  that  were 
launched  into  the  world  with  narrow  fortunes, 
rising  by  an  honest  industry  to  greater  estates  than 
those  of  their  elder  brothers.  It  is  not  improba¬ 
ble  but  Will  was  formerly  tried  at  divinity,  law, 
or  physic;  and  that,  finding  his  genius  did  not  lie  in 
that  way,  his  parents  gave  him  up  at  length  to  his 
own  inventions.  But  certainly,  however  improper 
he  might  have  been  for  studies  of  a  higher  nature, 
he  was  perfectly  well  turned  for  the  occupations 
of  trade  and  commerce.  As  I  think  this  is  a  point 
which  cannot  be  too  much  inculcated,  I  shall 
desire  my  reader  to  compare  what  I  have  here 
written  with  what  I  have  said  in  my  twenty-first 
speculation . — L . 


No.  109.]  THURSDAY,  JULY  5,  1711. 

Abnormis  sapiens - Hor.  2  Sat.  ii,  3. 

Of  plain  good  sense,  untutor’d  in  the  schools. 

I  was  this  morning  walking  in  the  gallery, 
when  Sir  Roger  entered  at  the  end  opposite  to  me, 
and  advancing  toward  me,  said  he  was  glad  to 
meet  me  among  his  relations  the  De  Coverleys, 
and  hoped  I  liked  the  conversation  of  so  much 
good  company,  who  were  as  silent  as  myself.  I 
knew  he  alluded  to  the  pictures,  and  as  he  is  a 
gentleman  who  does  not  a  little  value  himself  upon 
his  ancient  descent,  I  expected  he  would  give  me 
some  account  of  them.  We  were  now  arrived  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  gallery,  when  the  knight 
faced  toward  one  of  the  pictures,  and  as  we  stood 
before  it,  he  entered  into  the  matter  after  his  blunt 
way  of  saying  things  as  they  occur  to  his  imagi- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


nation,  without  regular  introduction,  or  care  to 
preserve  the  appearance  of  chain  of  thought. 

“It  is,”  said  he,  “worth  while  to  consider  the 
force  of  dress ;  and  how  the  persons  of  one  -age 
differ  from  those  of  another,  merely  by  that  only. 
One  may  observe  also,  that  the  general  fashion  of 
one  age  has  been  followed  by  one  particular  set 
of  people  in  another,  and  by  them  preserved  from 
one  generation  to  another.  Thus  the  vast  jetting 
coat  and  small  bonnet,  which  was  the  habit  in 
Henry  the  Seventh’s  time,  is  kept  on  the  yeomen 
of  the  guard ;  not  without  a  good  and  politic  view, 
because  they  look  a  foot  taller,  and  a  foot  and  a 
half  broader — beside  that  the  cap  leaves  the  face 
expanded,  and  consequently  more  terrible  and 
fitter  to  stand  at  the  entrance  of  palaces. 

“  This  predecessor  of  ours,  you  see,  is  dressed 
after  this  manner,  and  his  cheeks  would  be  no 
larger  than  mine  were  he  in  a  hat  as  I  am.  He 
was  the  last  man  that  won  a  prize  in  the  Tilt-yard 
(which  is  now  a  common  street  before  Whitehall). 
You  see  the  broken  lance  that  lies  there  by  his 
right  foot.  He  shivered  that  lance  of  his  adver¬ 
sary  all  to  pieces  ;  and  bearing  himself,  look  you, 
Sir,  in  this  manner,  at  the  same  time  he  came 
within  the  target  of  the  gentleman  who  rode 
against  him,  and  taking  him  with  incredible  force 
before  him  on  the  pummel  of  his  saddle,  he  in 
that  manner  rode  the  tournament  over,  with  an  air 
that  showed  he  did  it  rather  to  perform  the  rules 
of  the  lists,  than  to  expose  his  enemy:  however, 
it  appeared  he  knew  how  to  make  use  of  a  victory, 
and  with  a  gentle  trot  he  marched  up  to  a  gallery 
where  their  mistress  sat  (for  they  were  rivals),  and 
let  him  down  with  laudable  courtesy  and  pardon¬ 
able  insolence.  I  do  not  know  but  it  might  be 
exactly  where  the  coffee-house*  is  now. 

“You  are  to  know  this  my  ancestor  was  not 
only  of  a  military  genius,  but  fit  also  for  the  arts 
of  peace,  for  he  played  on  the  bass-viol  as  well  as 
any  gentleman  at  court ;  you  see  where  his  viol 
hangs  by  his  basket-liilt  sword.  The  action  at 
the  Tilt-yard,  vou  may  be  sure,  won  the  fair  lady, 
who  was  a  maid  of  honor  and  the  greatest  beauty 
of  her  time;  here  she  stands,  the  next  picture. 
You  see,  Sir,  my  great  great  great  grandmother 
has  on  the  new-fashioned  petticoat,  except  that 
the  modern  is  gathered  at  the  waist ;  my  grand¬ 
mother  appears  as  if  she  stood  in  a  large  drum, 
whereas  the  ladies  now  walk  as  if  they  were  in  a 
go-cart.  For  all  this  lady  was  bred  at  court,  she 
became  an  excellent  country-wife;  she  brought  ten 
children,  and  when  I  show  you  the  library,  you 
shall  see  in  her  own  hand  (allowing  for  the  diffe¬ 
rence  of  the  language)  the  best  receipt  now  in  Eng¬ 
land  both  for  a  hasty-pudding  and  a  white-pot. 

“If  you  please  to  fall  back  a  little,  because  it  is 
necessary  to  look  at  the  three  next  pictures  at  one 
view ;  these  are  three  sisters.  She  on  the  right 
hand  who  is  so  very  beautiful,  died  a  maid ; 
the  next  to  her,  still  handsomer,  had  the  same 
fate,  against  her  will ;  this  homely  thing  in  the 
middle  had  both  their  portions  added  to  her  own, 
and  was  stolen  by  a  neighboring  gentleman,  a 
man  of  stratagem  and  resolution ;  for  he  poisoned 
three  mastiffs  to  come  at  her,  and  knocked  down 
two  deer-stealers  in  carrying  her  off.  Misfortunes 
happen  in  all  families.  The  theft  of  this  romp, 
and  so  much  money,  was  no  great  matter  to  our 
estate.  But  the  next  heir  that  possessed  it  was 
this  soft  gentleman  whom  you  see  there.  Observe 
the  small  buttons,  the  little  boots,  the  laces,  the 
slashes  about  his  clothes,  and  above  all  the  pos¬ 
ture  he  is  drawn  in  (which  to  be  sure  was  his  own 
choosing) :  you  see  he  sits  with  one  hand  on  a 


157 

desk,  writing,  and  looking  as  it  were  another  way, 

|  like  an  easy  writer,  or  a  somietteer.  He  was  one 
of  those  that  had  too  much  wit  to  know  how  to 
live  in  the  world ;  he  was  a  man  of  no  justice, 
but  great  good  manners  ;  he  ruined  everybody  that 
had  anything  to  do  with  him,  but  never  said  a 
rude  thing  in  his  life ;  the  most  indolent  person  in 
the  world,  he  would  sign  a  deed  that  passed  away 
half  his  estate  with  his  gloves  on,  but  would  not 
put  on  his  hat  before  a  lady  if  it  were  to  save  his 
country.  He  is  said  to  be  the  first  that  made  love 
by  squeezing  the  hand.  He  left  the  estate  with 
ten  thousand  pounds  debt  upon  it;  but,  however, 
by  all  hands  I  have  been  informed,  that  he  was 
every  way  the  finest  gentleman  in  the  world. 
That  debt  lay  heavy  on  our  house  for  one  genera¬ 
tion,  but  it  was  retrieved  by  a  gift  from  that 
honest  man  you  see  there,  a  citizen  of  our  name, 
but  nothing  at  all  akin  to  us.  I  know  Sir  Andrew 
Freeport  has  said  behind  my  back,  that  this  man 
was  descended  from  one  of  the  ten  children  of  the 
maid  of  honor  I  showed  you  above :  but  it  was 
never  made  out.  We  winked  at  the  thing  indeed, 
because  money  was  wanting  at  that  time.” 

Here  I  saw  my  friend  a  little  embarrassed,  and 
turned  my  face  to  the  next  portraiture. 

Sir  Roger  went  on  with  his  account  of  the  gal¬ 
lery  in  the  following  manner :  “  This  man  (point¬ 
ing  to  him  I  looked  at)  I  take  to  be  the  honor  of 
our  house.  Sir  Humphry  de  Coverley;  he  was  in 
his  dealings  as  punctual  as  a  tradesman,  and  as 
generous  as  a  gentleman.  He  would  have  thought 
himself  as  much  undone  by  breaking  his  word,  as 
if  it  were  to  be  followed  by  bankruptcy.  He 
served  his  country  as  knight  of  the  shire  to  his 
dying  day.  He  found  it  no  easy  matter  to  main¬ 
tain  an  integrity  in  his  words  and  actions  even  in 
things  that  regarded  the  offices  which  were  incum¬ 
bent  upon  him,  in  the  care  of  his  own  affairs  and 
relations  of  life,  and  therefore  dreaded  (though  he 
had  great  talents)  to  go  into  employments  of  state, 
where  he  must  be  exposed  to  the  snares  of  ambi¬ 
tion.  Innocence  of  life,  and  great  ability,  were 
the  distinguishing  parts  of  his  character;  the  lat¬ 
ter,  he  had  often  observed,  had  led  to  the  destruc¬ 
tion  of  the  former,  and  he  used  frequently  to 
lament  that  great  and  good  had  not  the  same 
signification.  He  was  an  excellent  husbandman, 
but  had  resolv.ed  not  to  exceed  such  a  degree  of 
wealth ;  all  above  it  he  bestowed  in  secret  bounties 
many  years  after  the  sum  he  aimed  at  for  his  own 
use  was  attained.  Yet  he  did  not  slacken  his  in¬ 
dustry,  but  to  a  decent  old  age  spent  the  life  and 
fq§une  which  were  superfluous  to  himself,  in  the 
service  of  his  friends  and  neighbors.” 

Here  we  were  called  to  dinner,  and  Sir  Roger 
ended  the  discourse  of  this  gentleman,  by  telling 
me,  as  we  followed  the  servant,  that  this  his  an¬ 
cestor  was  a  brave  man,  and  narrowly  escaped  be¬ 
ing  killed  in  the  civil  wars  ;  “  for,”  said  he,  “  he 
was  sent  out  of  the  field  with  a  private  mes¬ 
sage,  the  day  before  the  battle  of  Worcester.” 
The  whim  of  narrowly  escaping  by  having  been 
within  a  day  of  danger,  with  other  matters  above- 
mentioned,  mixed  with  good  sense,  left  me  at  a 
loss  whether  I  was  more  delighted  with  my  friend’s 
wisdom  or  simplicity.  R. 


No.  110.]  FRIDAY,  JULY  6,  1711. 

Horror  ubique  animos,  simul  ipsa  silentia  terrent. 

Vikg.  iEn.,  ii,  755. 

All  things  are  full  of  horror  and  affright, 

And  dreadful  e’en  the  silence  of  the  night. — Dryden. 

At  a  little  distance  from  Sir  Roger’s  house, 
among  the  ruins  of  an  old  abbey,  there  is  a  long 


*  The  Tilt-yard  coffee-house,  still  in  being. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


158 

walk  of  aged  elms  ;  which  are  shot  up  so  very 
high,  that  when  one  passes  under  them,  the  rooks 
and  crows  that  rest  upon  the  tops  of  them  seem 
to  be  cawing  in  another  region.  I  am  very  much 
delighted  with  this  sort  of  noise,  which  I  consider 
as  a  kind  of  natural  prayer  to  that  Being  who 
supplies  the  wants  of  his  own  creation,  and  who, 
in  the  beautiful  language  of  the  psalms*  feedeth 
the  young  ravens  that  call  upon  him.  I  like  this 
retirement  the  better,  because  of  an  ill  report  it 
lies  under  of  being  haunted  ;  for  which  reason  (as 
I  have  been  told  in  the  family)  no  living  creature 
ever  walked  in  it  beside  the  chaplain.  My  good 
friend  the  butler  desired  me  with  a  very  grave  face 
not  to  venture  myself  in  it  after  sunset,  for  that  one 
of  the  footmen  had  been  almost  frightened  out  of 
his  wits  by  a  spirit  that  appeared  to  him  in  the 
shape  of  a  black  horse  without  a  head  ;  to  which 
he  added,  that  about  a  month  ago  one  of  the  maids, 
coming  home  late  that  way  with  a  pail  of  milk 
upon  her  head,  heard  such  a  rustling  among  the 
bushes  that  she  let  it  fall. 

I  was  taking  a  walk  in  this  place  last  week  be 
tween  the  hours  of  nine  and  ten,  and  could  not 
but  fancy  it  one  of  the  most  proper  scenes  in  the 
world  for  a  ghost  to  appear  in.  The  ruins  of  the 
abbey  are  scattered  up  and  dawn  on  every  side, 
and  half  covered  with  ivy  and  elder  bushes,  the 
harbors  of  several  solitary  birds  which  seldom 
make  their  appearance  till  the  dusk  of  the  even¬ 
ing.  The  place  was  formerly  a  churchyard,  and 
has  still  several  marks  in  it  of  graves  and  bury¬ 
ing  places.  There  is  such  an  echo  among  the  old 
ruins  and  vaults  that,  if  you  stamp  but  a  little 
louder  than  ordinary,  you  hear  the  sound  repeated. 
At  the  same  time  the  walk  of  elms,  with  the 
croaking  of  the  ravens  which  from  time  to  time 
are  heard  from  the  tops  of  them,  looks  exceedingly 
solemn  and  venerable.  These  objects  naturally 
raise  seriousness  and  attention  ;  and  when  night 
heightens  the  awfulness  of  the  place,  and  pours 
out  her  supernumerary  horrors  upon  everything 
in  it,  I  do  not  at  all  wonder  that  weak  minds  fill 
it  with  specters  and  apparitions. 

Mr.  Locke,  in  his  chapter  of  the  Association  of 
Ideas,  has  very  curious  remarks  to  show  how,  by 
the  prejudice  of  education,  one  idea  often  intro¬ 
duces  into  the  mind  a  whole  #t  that  bear  no 
resemblance  to  one  another  in  the  nature  of  things. 
Among  several  instances  of  this  kind  he  produces 
the  following  :  “  The  ideas  of  goblins  and  sprites 
have  really  no  more  to  do  with  darkness  than 
light:  yet  let  but  a  foolish  maid  inculcate  these 
often  on  the  mind  of  a  child,  and  raise  them  there 
together,  possibly  he  shall  never  be  able  to  sepa¬ 
rate  them  again  so  long  as  he  lives  ;  but  darkness 
shall  ever  after  bring  with  it  those  frightful  ideas, 
and  they  shall  be  so  joined,  that  he  can  no  more 
bear  the  one  than  the  other.” 

As  I  was  walking  in  this  solitude,  where  the 
dusk  of  the  evening  conspired  with  so  many  other 
occasions  of  terror,  I  observed  a  cow  grazing  not 
far  from  me,  which  an  imagination  that  was  apt 
to  startle  might  easily  have  construed  into  a  black 
horse  without  a  head :  and  I  dare  say  the  poor  foot¬ 
man  lost  his  wits  upon  some  such  trivial  occasion. 

My  friend  Sir  Roger  has  often  told  me  with  a 
great  deal  of  mirth  that,  at  his  first  coming  to  his 
estate,  he  found  three  parts  of  his  house  altogether 
useless  ;  that  the  best  room  in  it  had  the  reputa¬ 
tion  of  being  haunted,  and  by  that  means  was 
locked  up  ;  that  noises  had  been  heard  in  his  long 
gallery,  so  that  he  could  not  get  a  servant  to  enter 
it  after  eight  o’clock  at  night, ;  that  the  door  of 
one  of  his  chambers  was  nailed  up,  because  there 


went  a  story  in  the  family  that  a  butler  had  for¬ 
merly  hanged  himself  in  it ;  and  that  his  mother, 
who  lived  to  a  great  age,  had  shut  up  half  the 
rooms  in  the  house,  in  which  either  her  hjusband, 
a  son,  or  a  daughter,  had  died.  The  knight  see¬ 
ing  his  habitation  reduced  to  so  small  a  compass, 
and  himself  in  a  manner  shut  out  of  his  own 
house,  upon  the  death  of  his  mother  ordered  all 
the  apartments  to  be  flung  open,  and  exorcised  by 
his  chaplain,  who  lay  in  every  room  one  after 
another,  and  by  that  means  dissipated  the  fears 
which  had  so  long  reigned  in  the  family. 

I  should  not  thus  have  been  particular  upon 
these  ridiculous  horrors,  did  I  not  find  them  so 
very  much  prevail  in  all  parts  of  the  country. 
At  the  same  time  I  think  a  person  who  is  thus 
terrified  with  the  imagination  of  ghosts  and  spec¬ 
ters  much  more  reasonable  than  one  who,  contrarv 
to  the  reports  of  all  historians,  sacred  and  pro¬ 
fane,  ancient  and  modern,  and  to  the  traditions 
of  all  nations,  thinks  the  appearance  of  spirits 
fabulous  and  groundless.  Could  not  I  give  my¬ 
self  up  to  this  general  testimony  of  mankind,  I 
should  to  the  relations  of  particular  persons  who 
are  now  living,  and  whom  I  cannot  distrust  in 
other  matters  of  fact.  I  might  here  add,  that  not 
only  the  historians,  to  whom  we  may' join  the 
poets,  but  likewise  the  philosophers  of  antiquity, 
have  favored  this  opinion.  Lucretius  himself, 
though  by  the  course  of  his  philosophy  he  was 
obliged  to  maintain  that  the  soul  did  not  exist 
separate  from  the  body,  makes  no  doubt  of  the 
reality  of  apparitions,  and  that  men  have  often 
appeared  after  their  death.  This  I  think  very 
remarkable  :  he  was  so  pressed  with  the  matter  of 
fact,  which  he  could  not  have  the  confidence  to 
deny  that  he  was  forced  to  account  for  it  by  one 
of  the  most  absurd  unphilosophical  notions  that 
wras  ever  started.  He  tells  us,  that  the  surfaces 
of  all  bodies  are  perpetually  flying  off  from  their 
respective  bodies,  one  after  another ;  and  that 
these  surfaces,  or  thin  cases  that  included  each 
other  while  they  were  joined  in  the  body,  like  the 
coats  of  an  onion,  are  sometimes  seen  entire  when 
they  are  separated  from  it ;  by  which  means  we 
often  behold  the  shapes  and  shadows  of  persons 
who  are  either  dead  or  absent.* 

I  shall  dismiss  this  paper  with  a  story  out  of 
Josephus, f  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  the  story 
itself  as  for  the  moral  reflections  with  which  the 
author  concludes  it,  and  which  I  shall  here  set  , 
down  in  his  owrn  words  : — “  Glaphyra,  the  daugh¬ 
ter  of  King  Archelaus,  after  the  death  of  her  two 
first  husbands  (being  married  to  a  third,  vTho  was 
brother  to  her  first  husband,  and  so  passionately  in 
love  with  her,  that  he  turned  off  his  former  wife 
to  make  room  for  this  marriage),  had  a  very  odd 
kind  of  a  dream.  She  fancied  that  she  saw  her 
first  husband  coming  toward  her,  and  that  she 
embraced  him  with  great  tenderness  ;  when  in  the 
midst  of  the  pleasure  which  she  expressed  at  the 
sight  of  him,  he  reproached  her  after  the  following 
manner  :  ‘  Glaphyra/  says  he,  ‘  thou  hast  made 
good  the  old  saying,  that  women  are  not  to  be 
trusted.  Was  not  I  the  husband  of  thy  virginity'/ 
Have  not  I  children  by  thee  ?  How  couldst  thou 
forget  our  loves  so  far  as  to  enter  into  a  second 
marriage,  and  after  that  into  a  third,  nay,  to  take 
for  thy  husband  a  rpan  who  has  so  shamelessly 
crept  into  the  bed  Of  his  brother  ?  However,  for 
the  sake  of  our  passed  loves,  I  shall  free  thee  from 
thy  present  reproach,  and  make  thee  mine  forever.’ 
Glaphyra  told  this  dream  to  several  women  of  her 
acquaintance,  and  died  soon  after.”  I  thought 


*  Psu,!.,  cxlvii,  9. 


*  Lucret.,  iv,  34,  etc. 

j  Autiquit.  Jud.,  lib.  xvii,  cap.  15,  sect.  4,  5. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


chis  story  might  not  be  impertinent  in  this  place, 
wherein  I  speak  of  those  things.  Beside  that  the 
example  deserves  to  be  taken  notice  of,  as  it  con¬ 
tains  a  most  certain  proof  of  the  immortality  of 
the  soul,  and  of  Divine  Providence.  If  any  man 
thinks  these  facts  incredible,  let  him  enjoy  his 
own  opinion  to  himself,  but  let  him  not  endeavor 
to  disturb  the  belief  of  others,  who  by  instances 
of  this  nature  are  excited  to  the  studv  of  virtue. 

-  L. 

No.  111.]  SATURDAY,  JULY  7,  1711. 

Inter  silvas  academi  quaere  re  verum. 

Hor.  2  Ep.  ii,  45. 

To  search  for  truth  in  academic  groves. 

The  course  of  my  last  speculation  led  me  in¬ 
sensibly  into  a  subject  upon  which  I  always  medi¬ 
tate  with  great  delight ;  I  mean  the  immortality 
of  the  soul.  I  was  yesterday  walking  alone  in 
one  of  my  friend’s  woods,  and  lost  myself  in  it 
very  agreeably,  as  I  was  running  over  in  my  mind 
the  several  arguments  that  established  this  great 
point,  which  is  the  basis  of  morality,  and  the 
source  of  all  the  pleasing  hopes  and  secret  joys 
that  can  arise  in  the  heart  of  a  reasonable  creature. 
I  considered  those  several  proofs,  drawn  : 

First,  from  the  nature  of  the  soul  itself,  and 
particularly  its  immateriality,  which,  though  not 
absolutely  necessary  to  the  eternity  of  its  dura¬ 
tion,  has,  I  think,  been  evinced  to  almost  a  de¬ 
monstration. 

Secondly,  from  its  passions  and  sentiments,  as 
particularly  from  its  love  of  existence,  its  horror 
of  annihilation,  and  its  hopes  of  immortality, 
with  that  secret  satisfaction  which  it  finds  in  the 

(>ractice  of  virtue,  and  that  uneasiness  which  fol- 
ows  in  it  upon  the  commission  of  vice. 

Thirdly,  from  the  nature  of  the  Supreme  Being, 
whose  justice,  goodness,  wisdom,  and  veracity, 
are  all  concerned  in  this  great  point. 

But  among  these  and  other  excellent  arguments 
for  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  there  is  one  drawn 
from  the  perpetual  progress  of  the  soul  to  its  per¬ 
fection,  without  a  possibility  of  ever  arriving  at  it ; 
which  is  a  hint  that  I  do  not  remenjber  to  have 
seen  opened  and  improved  by  others  who  have 
written  on  this  subject,  though  it  seems  to  me  to 
carry  a  great  weight  with  it.  How  can  it  enter 
into  the  thoughts  of  man,  that  the  soul,  which  is 
capable  of  such  immense  perfections,  and  of  re-  j 
ceiving  new  improvements  to  all  eternity,  shall 
fall  away  into  nothing  almost  as  soon  as  it  is  cre¬ 
ated  ?  Are  such  abilities  made  for  no  purpose  ? 
A  brute  arrives  at  the  point  of  perfection  that  he 
can  never  pass  :  in  a  few  years  he  has  all  the  en¬ 
dowments  he  is  capable  of :  and,  were  he  to  live 
ten  thousand  more,  would  be  the  same  thing  he  is 
at  present.  Were  a  human  soul  thus  at  a  stand 
in  her  accomplishments  ;  were  her  faculties  to  be 
full  blown,  and  incapable  of  farther  enlargements, 

I  could  imagine  it  might  fall  away  insensibly, 
and  drop  at  once  into  a  state  of  annihilation. 
But  can  we  believe  a  thinking  being,  that  is  in  a 
perpetual  progress  of  improvements,  and  travel¬ 
ing  on  from  perfection  to  perfection,  after  having 
just  looked  abroad  into  the  works  of  its  Creator, 
and  made  a  few  discoveries  of  his  infinite  good¬ 
ness,  wisdom,  and  power,  must  perish  at  her  first 
setting  out,  and  in  the  beginning  of  her  inquiries? 

A  man,  considered  in  his  present  state,  seems 
only  sent  into  the  world  to  propagate  his  kind. 
He  provides  himself  with  a  successor,  and  imme¬ 
diately  quits  his  post  to  make  room  for  him. 

- 1  he  res 

Hyeredem  alterius,  velut  unda  supervenit  undam. 

Hor.  2  Ep.  ii,  175. 

- Heir  crowds  heir,  as  ip  a  rolling  flood 

Wave  urges  wave.  Creech, 


159 

He  does  not  seem  born  to  enjoy  life,  but  to  deliver 
it  down  to  others.  This  is  not  surprising  to  con¬ 
sider  in  animals,  which  are  formed  for  our  use, 
and  can  finish  their  business  in  a  short  life.  The 
silkworm,  after  having  spun  her  task,  lays  her 
egg s  and  dies.  But  a  man  can  never  have  taken 
in  his  full  measure  of  knowledge,  has  not  time 
to  subdue  his  passions,  establish  his  soul  in  vir¬ 
tue  and  come  up  to  the  perfection  of  his  nature, 
before  he  is  hurried  off  the  stage.  Would  an  in¬ 
finitely  wise  Being  make  such  glorious  creatures 
for  so  mean  a  purpose  ?  Can  he  delight  in  the 
production  of  such  abortive  intelligences,  such 
short-lived  reasonable  beings  ?  Would  he  give  us 
talents  that  are  not  to  be  exerted  ?  capacities  that 
are  never  to  be  gratified  ?  How  can  we  find  that 
wisdom,  which  shines  through  all  his  works  in 
the  formation  of  man,  without  looking  on  this 
world  as  only  a  nursery  for  the  next,  and  believ¬ 
ing  that  the  several  generations  of  rational  crea¬ 
tures,  which  rise  up  and  disappear  in  such  quick 
successions,  are  only  to  receive  their  first  rudi¬ 
ments  of  existence  here,  and  afterward  to  be  trans¬ 
planted  into  a  more  friendly  climate,  where  they 
may  spread  and  flourish  to  all  eternity! 

There  is  not,  in  my  opinion,  a  more  pleasing  and 
triumphant  consideration  in  religion  than  this  of 
the  perpetual  progress  which  the  soul  makes  to¬ 
ward  the  perfection  of  its  nature,  without  ever  ar¬ 
riving  at  a  period  in  it.  To  look  upon  the  soul  as 
going  on  from  strength  to  strength,  to  consider  that 
she  is  to  shine  forever  with  new  accessions  of 
glory,  and  brighten  to  all  eternity  ;  that  she  will 
be  still  adding  virtue  to  virtue,  and  knowledge  to 
knowledge  ;  carries  in  it  something  wonderfully 
agreeable  to  that  ambition  which  is  natural  to  the 
mind  of  man.  Nay,  it  must  be  a  prospect  pleas 
ing  to  God  himself,  to  see  his  creation  forever 
beautifying  in  his  eyes,  and  drawing  nearer  to 
him,  by  greater  degrees  of  resemblance.^ 

Methinks  this  single  consideration  of  the  pro¬ 
gress  of  a  finite  spirit  to  perfection,  will  be  suffi¬ 
cient  to  extinguish  all  envy  in  inferior  natures, 
and  all  contempt  in  superior.  That  cherubim, 
which  now  appears  as  a  God  to  a  human  soul, 
knows  very  well  that  the  period  will  come  about 
in  eternity,  when  the  human  soul  shall  be  as  per¬ 
fect  as  he  himself  now  is  :  nay,  when  she  shall 
look  down  upon  that  degree  of  perfection,  as 
much  as  she  now  falls  shoi't  of  it.  It  is  true,  the 
higher  nature  still  advances,  and  by  that  means 
preserves  his  distance  and  superiority  in  the  scale 
of  being ;  but  he  knows  that  how  high  soever 
the  station  is  of  which  he  stands  possessed  at 
present,  the  inferior  nature  will  at  length  mount 
up  to  it,  and  shine  forth  in  the  same  degree  of 
glory. 

With  what  astonishment  and  veneration  may 
we  look  into  our  own  souls,  where  there  are  such 
hidden  stores  of  virtue  and  knowledge,  such  in- 
exhausted  sources  of  perfection?  We  know  not 
yet  what  we  shall  be,  nor  will  it  ever  enter  into 
the  heart  of  man  to  conceive  the  glory  that  will 
be  always  in  reserve  for  him.  The  soul,  consi¬ 
dered  with  its  Creator,  is  like  one  of  those  ma¬ 
thematical  lines  that  may  draw  nearer  to  another 
for  all  eternity  without  a  possibility  of  touching 
it  ;*  and  can  there  be  a  thought  so  transporting, 
as  to  consider  ourselves  in  these  perpetual  ap¬ 
proaches  to  him,  who  is  not  only  the  standard  of 
perfection  but  of  happiness ! — L. 

*  Those  lines  are  what  the  geometricians  call  the  asymp 
totes  of  the  hyperbola,  and  the  allusion  to  them  here  is,  per¬ 
haps,  one  of  the  mast  beautiful  that  has  ever  been  mado 


160 


THE  SPECTATOR 


Ho.  112.]  MONDAY,  JULY  9,  1711. 

First  in  obedience  to  thy  country’s  rites, 

Worship  th’  immortal  gods. — Pythag. 

I  am  always  very  well  pleased  with  a  country  ! 
Sunday,  and  think,  if  keeping  holy  the  seventh  ' 
day  were  only  a  human  institution,  it  would  be 
the  best  method  that  could  have  been  thought  of 
for  polishing  and  civilizing  of  mankind.  It  is 
certain,  the  country  people  would  soon  degenerate 
into  a  kind  of  savages  and  barbarians,  were  there 
not  such  frequent  returns  of  a  stated  time,  in 
which  the  whole  village  meet  together  with  their* 
best  faces,  and  in  their  cleanest  habits,  to  con¬ 
verse  with  one  another  upon  different  subjects, 
hear  their  duties  explained  to  them,  and  join  to¬ 
gether  in  adoration  of  the  supreme  Being.  Sun¬ 
day  clears  away  the  rust  of  the  whole  week,  not 
only  as  it  refreshes  in  their  minds  the  notions  of 
religion,  but  as  it  puts  both  the  sexes  upon  appear¬ 
ing  in  their  most  agreeable  forms,  and  exerting  all 
such  qualities  as  are  apt  to  give  them  a  figure  in 
the  eye  of  the  village.  A  country  fellow  distin¬ 
guishes  himself  as  much  in  the  churchyard,  as  a 
citizen  does  upon  the  ’Change,  the  whole  parish- 
politics  being  generally  discussed  in  that  place 
either  after  sermon  or  before  the  bell  rings. 

My  friend  Sir  Roger,  being  a  good  churchman, 
has  beautified  the  inside  of  his  church  with  seve¬ 
ral  texts  of  his  own  choosing.  He  lias  likewise 
given  a  handsome  pulpit-cloth,  and  railed  in  the 
communion  table  at  his  own  expense.  He  has  often 
told  me,  that  at  his  coming  to  his  estate  he  found 
his  parishioners  very  irregular :  and  that  in  order 
to  make  them  kneel  and  join  in  the  responses,  he 
gave  every  one  of  them  a  hassock  and  a  common- 
prayer  book  :  and  at  the  same  time  employed  an 
itinerant  singing-master,  who  goes  about  the  coun¬ 
try  for  that  purpose,  to  instruct  them  rightly  in  the 
tunes  of  the  Psalms ;  upon  which  they  now  very 
much  value  themselves,  and  indeed  outdo  most 
of  the  country  churches  that  I  have  ever  heard. 

As  Sir  Roger  is  landlord  to  the  whole  congre¬ 
gation,  he  keeps  them  in  very  good  order,  and 
will  suffer  nobody  to  sleep  in  it  beside  himself ; 
for  if  by  chance  he  has  been  surprised  into  a  short 
nap  at  sermon,  upon  recovering  out  of  it  he  stands 
up  and  looks  about  him,  and  if  he  sees  anybody 
else  nodding,  either  wakes  them  himself  or  sends 
his  servants  to  them.  Several  other  of  the  old 
knight’s  particularities  break  out  upon  these 
occasions.  Sometimes  he  will  be  lengthening  out 
a  verse  in  the  singing  Psalms  half  a  minute  after 
the  rest  of  the  congregation  have  done  with  it ; 
sometimes,  when  he  is  pleased  with  the  matter  of 
his  devotion,  he  pronounces  amen  three  or  four 
times  to  the  same  prayer ;  and  sometimes  stands 
up  when  everybody  else  is  upon  their  knees,  to 
count  the  congregation,  or  see  if  any  of  his  ten¬ 
ants  are  missing. 

I  was  yesterday  very  much  surprised  to  hear 
my  old  friend,  in  the  midst  of  the  service,  calling 
out  to  one  John  Matthews  to  mind  what  he  was 
about,  and  not  disturb  the  congregation.  This 
John  Matthews  it  seems  is  remarkable  for  being 
an  idle  fellow,  and  at  that  time  was  kicking  his 
heels  for  his  diversion.  This  authority  of  the 
knight,  though  exerted  in  that  odd  manner  which 
accompanies  him  in  all  the  circumstances  of  life, 
has  a  very  good  effect  upon  the  parish,  who  are 
not  polite  enough  to  see  anything  ridiculous  in 
his  behavior;  beside  that  the  general  good  sense 
and  worthiness  of  his  character  make  his  friends 
observe  these  little  singularities  as  foils  that 
rather  set  off  than  blemish  his  good  qualities. 

As  soon  as  the  sermon  is  finished,  nobody  pre¬ 
sumes  to  stir  till  Sir  Roger  is  gone  out  of  the 


church.  The  knight  walks  down  from  his  seat  in 
the  chancel  between  a  double  row  of  his  tenants, 
that  stand  bowing  to  him  on  each  side;  and  every 
now  and  then  inquires  how  such  a  one’s  wife,  or 
mother,  or  son,  or  father  do,  "whom  he  does  not 
see  at  church  ;  which  is  understood  as  a  secret 
reprimand  to  the  person  that  is  absent. 

The  chaplain  has  often  told  me  that,  upon  a 
catechising  day,  when  Sir  Roger  has  been  pleased 
with  a  boy  that  answers  well,  he  has  ordered  a 
Bible  to  be  given  to  him  next  day  for  his  en¬ 
couragement  ;  and  sometimes  accompanies  it  with 
a  flitch  of  bacon  to  his  mother.  Sir  Roger  has 
likewise  added  five  pounds  a  year  to  the  clerk’s 
place ;  and  that  he  may  encourage  the  young  fel¬ 
lows  to  make  themselves  perfect  in  the  church 
service,  has  promised  upon  the  death  of  the  pre¬ 
sent  incumbent,  who  is  very  old,  to  bestow  it 
according  to  merit. 

The  fair  understanding  between  Sir  Roger  and 
his  chaplain,  and  their  mutual  concurrence  in 
doing  good,  is  the  more  remarkable,  because  the 
very  next  village  is  famous  for  the  differences  and 
contentions  that  arise  between  the  parson  and  the 
squire,  who  live  in  a  perpetual  state  of  war.  The 
parson  is  always  preaching  at  the  squire ;  and  the 
squire,  to  be  revenged  on  the  parson,  never  comes 
to  church.  The  squire  has  made  all  his  tenants 
atheists  and  tithe-stealers  ;  while  the  parson  in¬ 
structs  them  every  Sunday  in  the  dignity  of  his 
order,  and  insinuates  to  them,  in  almost  every 
sermon,  that  he  is  a  better  man  than  his  patron. 
In  short,  matters  are  come  to  such  an  extremity, 
that  the  squire  has  not  said  his  prayers  either  m 
public  or  private  this  half  year;  and  the  parson 
threatens  him,  if  he  does  not  mend  his  manners, 
to  pray  for  him  in  the  face  of  the  whole  con¬ 
gregation. 

Feuds  of  this  nature,  though  too  frequent  in 
the  country,  are  very  fatal  to  the  ordinary  people, 
who  are  so  used  to  be  dazzled  with  riches,  that 
they  pay  as  much  deference  to  the  understanding 
of  a  man  of  an  estate,  as  of  a  man  of  learning ; 
and  are  very  hardly  brought  to  regard  any  truth, 
how  important  soever  it  may  be,  that  is  preached 
to  them,  when  they  know  there  are  several  men 
of  five  hundred  a  year  who  do  not  believe  it. — L. 


No.  113.]  TUESDAY,  JULY,  10,  1711. 

- Ha?rent  infixi  pectore  vultus. 

Vikg.  iEn.,  ix,  4. 

Her  looks  were  deep  imprinted  in  his  heart. 

Ix  my  first  description  of  the  company  in  which 
I  pass  most  of  my  time,  it  may  be  remembered, 
that  I  mentioned  a  great  affliction  which  my 
friend  Sir  Roger  had  met  with  in  his  youth ; 
which  was  no  less  than  a  disappointment  in 
love.  It  happened  this  evening,  that  we  fell  into 
a  very  pleasing  walk  at  a  distance  from  his  house. 
As  soon  as  we  came  into  it,  “It  is,”  quoth  the 
good  old  man,  looking  round  him  with  a  smile, 
“  very  hard,  that  any  part  of  my  land  should  be 
settled  upon  one  who  has  used  me  so  ill  as  the 
perverse  widow  did  ;  and  yet  I  am  sure  I  could 
not  see  a  sprig  of  any  bough  of  this  whole  walk 
of  trees,  but  I  should  reflect  upon  her  and  her 
severity.  She  has  certainly  the  finest  hand  of 
any  woman  in  the  world.  You  are  to  know,  this 
was  the  place  wherein  I  used  to  muse  upon  her ; 

|  and  by  that  custom  I  can  never  come  into  it  but 
the  same  tender  sentiments  revive  in  my  mind,  as 
if  I  had  actually  walked  with  that  beautiful  crea- 
■  ture  under  these  shades.  I  have  been  fool  enough 
!  to  carve  her  name  on  the  bark  of  several  of  these 
j  trees  ;  so  unhappy  is  the  condition  of  men  in  love, 
j  to  attempt  the  removing  of  their  passion  by  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


161 


methods  which  serve  only  to  imprint  it  deeper. 
She  lias  certainly  the  finest  hand  of  any  woman 
in  the  world.” 

Here  followed  a  profound  silence;  and  I  was 
not  displeased  to  observe  my  friend  falling  so 
naturally  into  a  discourse  which  I  had  ever  before 
taken  notice  he  industriously  avoided.  After  a 
very  long  pause,  he  entered  upon  an  account  of 
this  great  circumstance  in  his  life,  with  an  air 
which  I  thought  raised  my  idea  of  him  above 
what  I  had  ever  had  before ;  and  gave  me  the  pic¬ 
ture  of  that  cheerful  mind  of  his,  before  it  received 
that  stroke  which  has  ever  since  affected  his  words 
and  actions.  But  he  went  on  as  follows  : — 

“I  came  to  my  estate  in  my  twenty- second 
year,  and  resolved  to  follow  the  steps  of  the 
most  worthy  of  my  ancestors  who  have  inhabited 
this  spot  of  earth  before  me,  in  all  the  methods 
of  hospitality  and  good  neighborhood,  for  the 
sake  of  my  fame;  and  in  country  sports  and  re¬ 
creations,  for  the  sake  of  my  health.  In  my 
twenty  third  year  I  was  obliged  to  serve  as  she¬ 
riff  of  the  county  ;  and  in  my  servants,  officers, 
and  whole  equipage  indulged  the  pleasure  of  a 
young  man  (who  did  not  think  ill  of  his  own 
person)  in  taking  that  public  occasion  of  showing 
my  figure  and  behavior  to  advantage.  You  may 
easily  imagine  to  yourself  what  appearance  I  made, 
who  am  pretty  tall,  rode  well,  and  was  very  well 
dressed,  at  the  head  of  a  whole  country,  with 
music  before  me,  a  feather  in  my  hat,  and  my  horse 
well  bitted.  I  can  assure  you  I  was  not  a  little 
pleased  with  the  kind  looks  and  glances  I  had  from 
all  the  balconies  and  windows  as  I  rode  to  the  hall 
where  the  assizes  were  held.  But,  when  I  came 
there,  a  beautiful  creature  in  a  "widow's  habit  sat 
in  court  to  hear  the  event  of  a  cause  concerning 
her  dower.  This  commanding  creature  (who  was 
born  for  the  destruction  of  all  who  beheld  her) 
put  on  such  a  resignation  in  her  countenance, 
and  bore  the  whispers  of  all  around  the  court 
with  such  a  pretty  uneasiness,  I  warrant  you,  and 
then  recovered  herself  from  one  eye  to  another, 
until  she  was  perfectly  confused  by  meeting  some¬ 
thing  so  wistful  in  all  she  encountered,  that  at 
last,  with  a  murrain  to  her,  she  cast  her  bewitch¬ 
ing  eye  upon  me.  I  no  sooner  met  it  but  I  bowed 
like  a  great  surprised  booby ;  and  knowing  her 
cause  to  be  the  first  which  came  on,  I  cried,  like 
a  captivated  calf  as  I  was,  ‘  Make  way  for  the 
defendant’s  witnesses.’  This  sudden  partiality 
made  all  the  country  immediately  see  the  sheriff 
also  was  become  a  slave  to  the  fine  widow.  Dur¬ 
ing  the  time  her  cause  was  upon  trial,  she  be¬ 
haved  herself,  I  warrant  you,  with  such  a  deep 
attention  to  her  business,  took  opportunities  to 
have  little  billets  handed  to  her  counsel,  then 
would  be  in  such  a  pretty  confusion,  occasioned, 
you  must  know,  by  acting  before  so  much  com¬ 
pany,  that  not  only  I,  but  the  whole  court  was 
rejudiced  in  her  favor  ;  and  all  that  the  next 
eir  to  her  husband  had  to  urge  was  thought  so 
groundless  and  frivolous,  that  when  it  came  to 
her  counsel  to  reply,  there  was  not  half  so  much 
said  as  every  one  beside  in  the  court  thought  he 
could  have  urged  to  her  advantage.  You  must 
understand,  Sir,  this  perverse  woman  is  one  of 
those  unaccountable  creatures  that  secretly  rejoice 
in  the  admiration  of  men,  but  indulge  themselves 
in  no  farther  consequences.  Hence  it  is  that  she 
has  ever  had  a  train  of  admirers,  and  she  removes 
from  her  slaves  in  town  to  those  in  the  country, 
according  to  the  seasons  of  the  year.  She  is  a 
reading  lady,  and  far  gone  in  the  pleasures  of 
friendship.  She  is  always  accompanied  by  a 
confidant,  who  is  witness  to  her  daily  protestations 
against  our  sex,  and  consequently  a  bar  to  her 
11 


first  steps  toward  love,  upon  the  strength  of  her 
own  maxims  and  declarations. 

“However,  I  must  need  say,  this  accomplished 
mistress  ot  mine  has  distinguished  me  above  the 
rest,  and  has  been  known  to  declare  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley  was  the  tamest  and  most  humane  of  all 
the  brutes  in  the  country.  I  was  told  she  said  so 
by  one  who  thought  he  rallied  me  ;  but  upon  the 
strength  of  this  slender  encouragement  of  being 
thought  less  detestable,  I  made  new  liveries,  new- 
paired  my  coach-horses,  sent  them  all  to  town  to 
be  bitted,  and  taught  to  throw  their  legs  well,  and 
move  all  together,  before  I  pretended  to  cross  the 
country,  and  wait  upon  her.  As  soon  as  I  thought 
my  retinue  suitable  to  the  character  of  my  fortune 
and  youth,  I  set  out  from  hence  to  make  my  ad¬ 
dresses.  The  particular  skill  of  this  lady  has  ever 
been  to  inflame  your  wishes,  and  yet  command  re¬ 
spect.  To  make  her  mistress  of  this  art,  she  has 
a  greater  share  of  knowledge,  wit,  and  good  sense 
than  is  usual  even  among  men  of  merit.  Then 
she  is  beautiful  beyond  tne  race  of  women.  If 
you  will  not  let  her  go  on  with  a  certain  artifice 
with  her  eyes,  and  the  skill  of  beauty,  she  will 
arm  herself  with  her  real  charms,  and  strike  you 
with  admiration  instead  of  desire.  It  is  certain 
that  if  you  were  to  behold  the  whole  woman,  there 
is  that  dignity  in  her  aspect,  that  composure  in 
her  motion,  that  complacency  in  her  manner,  that 
if  her  form  makes  you  hope,  her  merit  makes  you 
fear.  But  then  again,  she  is  such  a  desperate 
scholar,  that  no  country  gentleman  can  approach 
her  without  being  a  jest.  As  I  was  going  to  tell 
ou,  when  I  came  to  her  house  I  was  admitted  to 
er  presence  with  great  civility  ;  at  the  same  time 
she  placed  herself  to  be  first  seen  by  me  in  such 
an  attitude,  as  I  think  you  call  the  posture  of  a 
picture,  that  she  discovered  new  charms,  and  I  at 
last  came  toward  her  with  such  an  awe  as  made 
me  speechless.  This  she  no  sooner  observed  but 
she  made  her  advantage  of  it,  and  began  a  dis¬ 
course  to  me  concerning  love  and  honor,  as  they 
both  are  followed  by  pretenders  and  the  real  vota¬ 
ries  to  them.  When  she  discussed  these  points 
in  a  discourse  which,  I  verily  believe,  was  as 
learned  as  the  best  philosopher  in  Europe  could 
ossibly  make,  she  asked  me  whether  she  was  so 
appy  as  to  fall  in  with  my  sentiments  on  these 
important  particulars.  Her  confidant  sat  by  her, 
and  upon  my  being  in  the  last  confusion  and 
silence,  this  malicious  aid  of  hers,  turning  to  her, 
says,  ‘I  am  very  glad  to  observe  Sir  Roger  pauses 
upon  this  subject,  and  seems  resolved  to  deliver 
all  his  sentiments  upon  the  matter  when  he  pleases 
to  speak.’  They  both  kept  their  countenances, 
and  after  I  had  sat  half  an  hour  meditating  how 
to  behave  before  such  profound  casuists,  I  rose  up 
and  took  my  leave.  Chance  has  since  that  time 
thrown  me  very  often  in  her  way,  and  she  as  often 
has  directed  a  discourse  to  me  which  I  could  not 
understand.  This  barbarity  has  kept  me  ever  at 
a  distance  from  the  most  beautiful  object  my  eyes 
ever  beheld.  It  is  thus  also  she  deals  with  all 
mankind,  and  you  must  make  love  to  her  as  you 
would  conquer  the  sphinx,  by  posing  her.  But 
were  she  like  other  women,  and  that  there  were 
any  talking  to  her,  how  constant  must  the  pleasure 
of  that  man  be,  who  could  converse  with  such  a 
creature.  But,  after  all,  you  may  be  sure  her 
heart  is  fixed  on  some  one  or  other:  and  yet  I  have 
been  credibly  informed — but  who  can  believe  half 
that  is  said? — after  she  had  done  speaking  to  me, 
she  put  her  hand  to  her  bosom,  and  adjusted  her 
tucker:  then  she  cast  her  eyes  a  little  down,  upon 
my  beholding  her  too  earnestly.  They  say  she 
sings  excellently:  her  voice  in  her  ordinary  speech 
has  something  in  it  inexpressibly  sweet.  You 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


162 

must  know  I  dined  with  her  at  a  public  table  the 
day  after  I  first  saw  her,  and  she  helped  me  to 
some  tansy  in  the  eye  of  all  the  gentlemen  in  the 
country.  She  has  certainly  the  finest  hand  of  any 
woman  in  the  world.  I  can  assure  you,  Sir,  were 
you  to  behold  her,  you  would  be  in  the  same 
condition;  for  as  her  speech  is  music,  her  form  is 
angelic.  But  I  find  I  grow  irregular  while  I  am 
talking  of  her  ;  but  indeed  it  would  be  stupidity 
to  be  unconcerned  at  such  perfection.  Oh,  the  ex¬ 
cellent  creature!  she  is  as  inimitable  to  all  women, 
as  she  is  inaccessible  to  all  men.” 

I  found  my  friend  begin  to  rave,  and  insensibly 
led  him  toward  the  house,  that  we  might  be  joined 
by  some  other  company  ;  and  am  convinced  that 
the  widow  is  the  secret  cause  of  all  that  inconsist¬ 
ency  which  appears  in  some  part  of  my  friend’s 
discourse  ;  though  he  has  so  much  command  of 
himself  as  not  directly  to  mention  her,  yet  accord¬ 
ing  to  that  of  Martial,  which  one  knows  not  how 
to  render  into  English,  durn  facet  hanc  loquitur.  I 
shall  end  this  paper  with  that  whole  epigram, 
which  represents  with  much  humor  my  honest 
friend’s  condition  : — 

Quicquid  agit  Rufus,  nihil  est,  nisi  Naevia  Rufo, 

Si  gaudet,  si  flet,  si  tacet,  hanc  loquitur : 

Coenat,  propinat,  poscit,  negat,  annuit,  una  est 
Naevia:  si  non  sit  Naevia,  mutus  erit 
Scriberet  hesterna,  patri  cum  luce  salutem, 

Naevia  lux,  inquit,  Naevia  numen,  ave. — Epig.  i,  69. 

Let  Rufus  weep,  rejoice,  stand,  sit,  or  walk, 

Still  he  can  nothing  hut  of  Naevia  talk; 

Let  him  eat,  drink,  ask  questions,  or  dispute, 

Still  he  must  speak  of  Naevia,  or  be  mute. 

He  wrote  to  his  father,  ending  with  this  line — 

I  am,  my  lovely  Naevia,  ever  thine. 


No.  114.]  WEDNESDAY,  JULY  11,  1711. 

- Paupertatis  pudor  et  fuga. 

Hor.  1  Ep.  xviii,  24. 

- The  dread  of  nothing  more 

Than  to  he  thought  necessitous  and  poor.— Pooly. 

Economy  in  our  affairs  has  the  same  effect  upon 
our  fortunes  which  good  breeding  has  upon  our 
conversation.  There  is  a  pretending  behavior 
in  both  cases,  which  instead  of  making  men  es¬ 
teemed,  renders  them  both  miserable  and  con¬ 
temptible.  We  had  yesterday,  at  Sir  Roger’s,  a 
set  of  country  gentlemen  who  dined  with  him  ; 
and  after  dinner  the  glass  was  taken,  by  those  who 
pleased,  pretty  plentifully.  Among  others  I  ob¬ 
served  a  person  of  a  tolerable  good  aspect,  who 
seemed  to  be  more  greedy  of  liquor  than  any  of 
the  company,  and  yet  methought  he  did  not  taste 
it  with  delight.  As  he  grew  warm,  he  was  suspi¬ 
cious  of  everything  that  was  said,  and  as  he  ad¬ 
vanced  toward  being  fuddled,  his  humor  grew 
worse.  At  the  same  time  his  bitterness  seemed  to 
be  rather  an  inward  dissatisfaction  in  his  own 
mind,  than  any  dislike  he  had  taken  to  the  com¬ 
pany.  Upon  hearing  his  name,  I  knew  him  to  be 
a  gentleman  of  a  considerable  fortune  in  this 
country,  but  greatly  in  debt.  What  gives  the  un¬ 
happy  man  this  peevishness  of  spirit  is,  that  his 
estate  is  dipped,  and  is  eating  out  with  usury ; 
and  yet  he  has  not  the  heart  to  sell  any  part  of  it. 
His  proud  stomach,  at  the  cost  of  restless  nights, 
constant  inquietudes,  danger  of  affronts,  and  a 
thousand  nameless  inconveniences,  preserves  this 
canker  in  his  fortune,  rather  than  it  shall  be  said 
he  is  a  man  of  fewer  hundreds  a  year  than  he  has 
been  commonly  reputed.  Thus  he  endures  the 
torment  of  poverty,  to  avoid  the  name  of  being 
less  rich.  If  you  go  to  his  house,  you  see  great 
plenty ;  but  served  in  a  manner  that  shows  it  is 
all  unnatural,  and  that  the  master’s  mind  is  not  at 
home.  There  is  a  certain  waste  and  carelessness 


in  the  air  of  everything,  and  the  whole  appears 
but  a  covered  inaigence,  a  magnificent  poverty. 
That  neatness  and  cheerfulness  which  attend  the 
table  of  him  who  lives  within  compass,  is  want¬ 
ing,  and  exchanged  for  a  libertine  way  of  service 
in  all  about  him. 

This  gentleman’s  conduct,  though  a  very  com¬ 
mon  way  of  management,  is  as  ridiculous  as  that 
officer’s  would  be,  who  had  but  few  men  under  his 
command,  and  should  take  the  charge  of  an  ex¬ 
tent  of  country  rather  than  of  a  small  pass.  To 
pay  for,  personate,  and  keep  in  a  man’s  hands,  a 
greater  estate  than  he  really  has,  is  of  all  others 
the  most  unpardonable  vanity,  and  must  in  the 
end  reduce  the  man  who  is  guilty  of  it  to  dishon¬ 
or.  Yet  if  we  look  round  us  m  any  county  of 
Great  Britain,  we  shall  see  many  in  this  fatal 
error ;  if  that  may  be  called  by  so  soft  a  name, 
which  proceeds  from  a  false  shame  of  appearing 
what  they  really  are,  when  the  contrary  behavior 
would  in  a  short  time  advance  them  to  the  condi¬ 
tion  which  they  pretend  to. 

Laertes  has  fifteen  hundred  pounds  a  year ; 
which  is  mortgaged  for  six  thousand  pounds  ;  but 
it  is  impossible  to  convince  him,  that  if  he  sold  as 
much  as  would  pay  off  that  debt,  he  would  save 
four  shillings  in  the  pound,*  which  he  gives  for 
the  vanity  of  being  the  reputed  master  of  it.  Yet 
if  Laertes  did  this,  he  would  perhaps  be  easier  in 
his  own  fortune  ;  but  then  Irus,  a  fellow  of  yes¬ 
terday,  who  has  but  twelve  hundred  a  year,  would 
be  his  equal.  Rather  than  this  should  be,  Laertes 
goes  on  to  bring  well-born  beggars  into  the  world, 
and  every  twelvemonth  charges  his  estate  with  at 
least  one  year’s  rent  more  by  the  birth  of  a  child. 

Laertes  and  Irus  are  neighbors,  whose  way  of 
living  are  an  abomination  to  each  other.  Irus  is 
moved  by  the  fear  of  poverty,  and  Laertes  by  the 
shame  of  it.  Though  the  motive  of  action  is  of 
so  near  affinity  in  both,  and  may  be  resolved  into 
this,  “  that  to  each  of  them  poverty  is  the  greatest 
of  all  evils,”  yet  are  their  manners  widely  differ¬ 
ent.  Shame  of  poverty  makes  Laertes  launch  into 
unnecessary  equipage,  vain  expense,  and  lavish 
entertainments.  Fear  of  poverty  makes  Irus  al¬ 
low  himself  only  plain  necessaries,  appear  with¬ 
out  a  servant,  sell  his  own  corn,  attend  his  labor¬ 
ers,  and  be  himself  a  laborer.  Shame  of  poverty 
makes  Laertes  go  every  day  a  step  nearer  to  it ; 
and  fear  of  poverty  stirs  up  Irus  to  make  every 
day  some  farther  progress  from  it. 

These  different  motives  produce  the  excesses 
which  men  are  guilty  of  in  the  negligence  of  and 
provision  for  themselves.  Usury,  stock-jobbing, 
extortion,  and  oppression,  have  their  seed  in  the 
dread  of  want ;  and  vanity,  riot,  and  prodigality, 
from  the  shame  of  it ;  but  both  these  excesses  are 
infinitely  below  the  pursuit  of  a  reasonable  crea¬ 
ture.  After  we  have  taken  care  to  command  so 
much  as  is  necessary  for  maintaining  ourselves  in 
the  order  of  men  suitable  to  our  character,  the  care 
of  superfluities  is  a  vice  no  less  extravagant  than 
the  neglect  of  necessaries  would  have  been  before. 

Certain  it  is,  that  they  are  both  out  of  nature, 
when  she  .  is  followed  by  reason  and  good  sense. 
It  is  from  this  reflection  that  I  always  read  Mr. 
Cowley  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  His  magnan¬ 
imity  is  as  much  above  that  of  other  considerable 
men,  as  his  understanding  ;  and  it  is  a  true  dis¬ 
tinguishing  spirit  in  the  elegant  abthor  who  pub¬ 
lished  his  works,  to  dwell  so  much  upon  the  tem¬ 
per  of  his  mind  and  the  moderation  of  his  desires. 
By  this  means  he  has  rendered  his  friend  as  amia¬ 
ble  as  famous.  That  state  of  life  which  bears  the 


*  Viz :  the  land  tax. 


THE  SPE 

face  of  poverty  with  Mr.  Cowley's  great  vulgar,* 
is  admirably  described  :  and  it  is  no  small  satis¬ 
faction  to  those  of  the  same  turn  of  desire,  that 
he  uroduces  the  authority  of  the  wisest  men  of 
the  best  age  of  the  world,  to  strengthen  his  opin¬ 
ion  of  the  ordinary  pursuits  of  mankind. 

It  would  methinks  be  no  ill  maxim  of  life,  if, 
according  to  that  ancestor  of  Sir  Roger  whom  I 
lately  mentioned,  every  man  would  point  to  him¬ 
self  what  sum  he  would  resolve  not  to  exceed.  He 
might  by  this  means  cheat  himself  into  a  tran¬ 
quillity  on  this  side  of  that  expectation,  or  convert 
what  he  should  get  above  it  to  nobler  uses  than 
his  own  pleasures  or  necessities.  This  temper  of 
mind  would  exempt  a  man  from  an  ignorant  envy 
of  restless  men  above  him,  and  a  more  inexcusa- 
sable  contempt  of  happy  men  below  him.  This 
would  be  sailing  by  some  compass,  living  with 
some  design  ;  but  to  be  eternally  bewildered  in 
prospects  of  future  gain,  and  putting  on  unneces¬ 
sary  armor  against  improbable  blows  of  fortune, 
is  a  mechanic  being  which  has  not  good  sense  for 
its  direction,  but  is  carried  on  by  a  sort  of  acquired 
instinct  toward  things  below  our  consideration, 
and  unworthy  our  esteem.  It  is  possible  that  the 
tranquillity  I  now  enjoy  at  Sir  Roger’s  may  have 
created  in  me  this  way  of  thinking,  which  is  so 
abstracted  from  the  common  relish  of  the  world : 
but  as  I  am  now  in  a  pleasing  arbor  surrounded 
with  a  beautiful  landscape,  I  find  no  inclination 
so  strong  as  to  continue  in  these  mansions  so  re¬ 
mote  from  the  ostentatious  scenes  of  life  ;  and  am 
at  this  present  writing  philosopher  enough  to 
conclude  with  Mr.  Cowley :  -  T. 

If  e’er  ambition  did  my  fancy  cheat 
With  any  wish  so  mean  as  to  be  great ; 

Continue,  Heav’n,  still  from  me  to  remove 
The  humble  blessings  of  that  life  I  love. 

T. 


No.  115.]  THURSDAY,  JULY  12,  1711. 

- Ut  sit  mens  sana  in  corpore  sano. 

Juv.,  Sat.  x,  356. 

Pray  for  a  sound  mind  in  a  sound  body. 

Bodily  labor  is  of  two  kinds, — either  that 
which  a  man  submits  to  for  his  livelihood,  or  that 
which  he  undergoes  for  his  pleasure.  The  latter 
of  them  generally  changes  the  name  of  labor  for 
that  of  exercise,  but  differs  only  from  ordinary  la¬ 
bor  as  it  rises  from  another  motive. 

A  country  life  abounds  in  both  these  kinds  of 
labor — and  for  that  reason  gives  a  man  a  greater 
stock  of  health,  and  consequently  a  more  perfect 
enjoyment  of  himself,  than  any  other  way  of  life. 
I  consider  the  body  as  a  system  of  tubes. and 
glands,  or,  to  use  a  more  rustic  phrase,  a  bundle 
of  pipes  and  strainers,  fitted  to  one  another  after 
so  wonderful  a  manner  as  to  make  a  proper  en¬ 
gine  for  the  soul  to  work  with.  This  description 
does  not  only  comprehend  the  bowels,  bones,  ten¬ 
dons,  veins,  nerves,  and  arteries,  but  every  muscle, 
and  every  ligature,  which  is  a  composition  of 
fibers,  that  are  so  many  imperceptible  tubes  or 
pipes  interwoven  on  all  sides  with  invisible  glands 
or  strainers. 

This  general  idea  of  a  human  body,  without 
considering  it  in  the  niceties  of  anatomy,  lets  us 
see  how  absolutely  necessary  labor  is  for  the  right 
preservation  of  it.  There  must  be  frequent  mo¬ 
tions  and  agitations,  to  mix,  digest,  and  separate 
the  juices  contained  in  it,  as  well  as  to  clear  and 
cleanse  that  infinitude  of  pipes  and  strainers  of 


*  Hence,  ye  profane,  I  hate  ye  all, 

Both  the  great  vulgar  and  the  small. 

Cowley’s  Paraphr.  of  Hor.  3  Od.  i. 


CTATOR.  103 

which  it  is  composed,  and  to  give  their  solid  parts 
a  more  firm  and  lasting  tone.  Labor  or  exercise 
ferments  the  humors,  casts  them  into  their  proper 
channels,  throws  off  redundancies,  and  helps  na¬ 
ture  in  those  secret  distributions,  without  which 
the  body  cannot  subsist  in  its  vigor,  nor  the  soul 
act  witli  cheerfulness. 

I  might  here  mention  the  effects  which  this  has 
upon  all  the  faculties  of  the  mind,  by  keeping  the 
understanding  clear,  the  imagination  untroubled, 
and  refining  those  spirits  which  are  necessary  for 
the  proper  exertion  of  our  intellectual  faculties, 
during  the  present  laws  of  union  between  soul  and 
body.  It  is  to  a  neglect  in  this  particular  that  we 
must  ascribe  the  spleen,  which  is  so  frequent  in 
men  of  studious  and  sedentary  tempers,  as  well 
as  the  vapors,  to  which  those  of  the  other  sex  are 
so  often  subject. 

Had  not  exercise  been  absolutely  necessary  for 
our  well-being,  uature  would  not  have  made  the 
body  so  proper  for  it,  by  giving  such  an  activity 
to  the  limbs,  and  such  a  pliancy  to  every  part  as 
necessarily  produce  those  compressions,  exten¬ 
sions,  contortions,  dilations,  and  all  other  kinds  of 
motions  that  are  necessary  for  the  preservation  of 
such  a  system  of  tubes  and  glands  as  has  been  be¬ 
fore  mentioned.  And  that  we  might  not  want  in¬ 
ducements  to  engage  us  in  such  an  exercise  of  the 
body  as  is  proper  for  its  welfare,  it  is  so  ordered 
that  nothing  valuable  can  be  procured  without  it. 
Not  to  mention  riches  and  honor,  even  food  and 
raiment  are  not  to  be  come  at  without  the  toil  of 
the  hands  and  the  sweat  of  the  brows.  Provi¬ 
dence  furnishes  materials,  but  expects  that  we 
should  work  them  up  ourselves.  The  earth  must 
be  labored  before  it  gives  its  increase  ;  and  when 
it  is  forced  into  its  several  products,  how  many 
hands  must  they  pass  through  before  they  are  fit 
for  use  ?  Manufactures,  trade,  and  agriculture, 
naturally  employ  more  than  nineteen  parts  of  the 
species  in  twenty ;  and  as  for  those  who  are  not 
obliged  to  labor,  by  the  condition  in  which  they 
are  born,  they  are  more  miserable  than  the  rest  of 
mankind,  unless  they  indulge  themselves  in  that 
voluntary  labor  which  goes  by  the  name  of  exer¬ 
cise. 

My.  friend  Sir  Roger  has  been  an  indefatigable 
man  in  business  of  this  kind,  and  has  hung  several 
parts  of  his  house  with  the  trophies  of  his  former 
labors.  The  walls  of  his  great  hall  are  covered 
with  the  horns  of  several  kinds  of  deer  that  he 
has  killed  in  the  chase,  which  he  thinks  the  most 
valuable  furniture  of  his  house,  as  they  afford  him 
frequent  topics  of  discourse,  and  show  that  he  has 
not  been  idle.  At  the  lower  end  of  the  hall  is  a 
large  otter’s  skin  stuffed  with  hay,  which  his 
mother  ordered  to  be  hung  up  in  that  manner,  and 
the  knight  looks  upon  it  with  great  satisfaction,, 
because  it  seems  he  was  but  nine  years  old  when 
his  dog  killed  him.  A  little  room  adjoining  to 
the  hall  is  a  kind  of  arsenal  filled  with  guns  of 
several  sizes  and  inventions,  with  which  the 
knight  has  made  great  havoc  in  the  woods,  and 
destroyed  many  thousands  of  pheasants,  part¬ 
ridges,  and  woodcocks.  His  stable-doors  are 
patched  with  noses  that  belonged  to  foxes  of  the 
knight’s  own  hunting  down.  Sir  Roger  showed 
me  one  of  them  that  for  distinction  sake  has  a 
brass  nail  struck  through  it,  which  cost  him  about 
fifteen  hours  riding,  carried  him  through  half  a 
dozen  counties,  killed  him  a  brace  of  geldings, 
and  lost  above  half  his  dogs.  This  the  knight 
looks  upon  as  one  of  the  greatest  exploits  of  Ids 
life.  The  perverse  widow,  whom  I  have  given 
some  account  of,  was  the  death  of  several  foxes  ; 
for  Sir  Roger  has  told  me,  that  in  the  course  of 
his  amours  he  patched  the  western  door  of  his 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


164 


stable.  Whenever  the  "widow  was  cruel,  the  foxes 
were  sure  to  pay  for  it.  In  proportion  as  his  pas¬ 
sion  for  the  widow  abated  and  old  age  came  on,  he 
loft  off  fox-hunting;  but  a  hare  is  not  yet  safe  that 
sits  within  ten  miles  of  his  house. 

There  is  no  kind  of  exercise  which  I  would  so 
recommend  to  my  readers  of  both  sexes  as  this  of 
riding,  as  there  is  none  which  so  much  conduces 
to  health,  and  is  every  way  accommodated  to  the 
body,  according  to  the  idea  which  I  have  given 
of  it,  Doctor  Sydenham  is  very  lavish  in  its 
praises;  and  if  the  English  reader  would  see  the 
mechanical  effects  of  it  described  at  length,  he 
may  find  them  in  a  book  published  not  many 
years  since,  under  the  title  of  Medicina  Gymnastica.* 
For  my  own  part,  when  I  am  in  town,  for  want 
of  these  opportunities,  I  exercise  myself  an  hour 
every  morning  upon  a  dumb-bell  that  is  placed  in 
a  corner  of  my  room,  and  it  pleases  me  the  more 
because  it  does  everything  that  I  require  of  it  in 
the  most  profound  silence.  My  landlady  and  her 
daughters  are  so  well  acquainted  with  my  hours 
of  exercise,  that  they  never  come  into  my  room  to 
disturb  me  while  I  am  ringing. 

When  I  was  some  years  younger  than  I  am  at 
present,  I  used  to  employ  myself  in  a  more  labo¬ 
rious  diversion,  which  I  learned  from  a  Latin  trea¬ 
tise  of  exercises  that  is  written  with  great  erudition  :f 
it  is  there  called  the  fighting  with  a  man’s  own 
shadow,  and  consists  in  the  brandishing  of  two 
short  sticks  grasped  in  each  hand,  and  loaden 
with  plugs  of  lead  at  either  end.  This  opens  the 
chest,  exercises  the  limbs,  and  gives  a  man  all  the 
pleasure  of  boxing,  without  the  blows.  I  could 
wish  that  several  learned  men  would  lay  out  that 
time  which  they  employ  in  controversies  and  dis¬ 
putes  about  nothing,  in  this  method  of  fighting 
with  their  own  shadows.  It  might  conduce  very 
much  to  evaporate  the  spleen,  which  makes  them 
uneasy  to  the  public  as  well  as  to  themselves. 

To  conclude,  as  I  am  a  compound  of  soul  and 
body,  I  consider  myself  as  obliged  to  a  double 
scheme  of  duties ;  and  think  I  have  not  fulfilled 
the  business  of  the  day  when  I  do  not  thus  employ 
the  one  in  labor  and  exercise,  as  well  as  the  other 
in  study  and  contemplation. 


No.  116.]  FRIDAY,  JULY  13,  1711. 

- Vocat  ingenti  clamore  Cithaeron, 

Taygetique  canes. — Virg.  Georg,  iii,  43. 

The  echoing  hills  and  chiding  hounds  invite. 

Those  who  have  searched  into  human  nature  ob¬ 
serve  that  nothing  so  much  shows  the  nobleness 
of  the  soul,  as  that  its  felicity  consists  in  action. 
Every  man  has  such  an  active  principle  in  him,/ 
that  he  will  find  out  something  to  employ  himself 
upon,  in  whatever  place  or  state  of  life  he  is 
posted.  I  have  heard  of  a  gentleman  who  was 
under  close  confinement  in  the  Bastile  seven  years, 
during  which  time  he  amused  himself  in  scatter¬ 
ing  a  few  small  pins  about  his  chamber,  gathering 
them  up  again,  and  placing  them  in  different 
figures  on  the  arm  of  a  great  chair.  He  often  told 
his  friends  afterward,  that  unless  he  had  found 
out  this  piece  of  exercise,  he  verily  believed  he 
should  have  lost  his  senses. 

After  what  has  been  said,  I  need  not  inform  my 
readers  that  Sir  Roger,  with  whose  character  I 
hope  they  are  at  present  pretty  well  acquainted, 
has  in  his  youth  gone  through  the  whole  course 
of  those  rural  diversions  which  the  country 

*  By  Francis  Fuller,  M.  A. 

-j-  This  is  Hieronymus  Mercurialis’s  celebrated  book,  Artis 
Gymnasticse  apud  Antiquos,  etc.  Libri  sex.  Venet.,  1569, 
4to.  See  lib.  iv,  cap.  5,  and  lib.  vi,  cap.  2. 


abounds  in ;  and  which  seem  to  be  extremely  well 
suited  to  that  laborious  industry  a  man  may  ob¬ 
serve  here  in  a  far  greater  degree  than  in  towns 
and  cities.  I  have  before  hinted  at  some  of  my 
friend’s  exploits:  he  has  in  his  youthful  days  taken 
forty  coveys  of  partridges  in  a  season ;  and  tired 
many  a  salmon  with  a  line  consisting  of  but  a 
single  hair.  The  constant  thanks  and  good  wishes 
of  the  neighborhood  always  attended  him  on  ac¬ 
count  of  his  remarkable  enmity  toward  foxes  ; 
having  destroyed  more  of  these  vermin  in  one 
year,  than  it  was  thought  the  whole  country  could 
have  produced.  Indeed  the  knight  does  not  scru¬ 
ple  to  own  among  his  most  intimate  friends,  that 
in  order  to  establish  his  reputation  this  way,  he 
has  secretly  sent  for  great  numbers  of  them  out  of 
other  countries,  which  he  used  to  turn  loose  about 
the  country  by  night,  that  he  might  the  better 
signalize  himself  in  their  destruction  the  next  day. 
His  hunting  horses  were  the  finest  and  best  man¬ 
aged  in  all  these  parts.  His  tenants  are  still  full 
of  the  praises  of  a  gray  stone-horse  that  unhap - 
ily  staked  himself  several  years  since,  and  was 
uried  with  great  solemnity  in  the  orchard. 

Sir  Roger  being  at  present  too  old  for  fox-hunt 
ing,  to  keep  himself  in  action,  has  disposed  of 
his  beagles  and  got  a  pack  of  stop-hounds.  What 
these  want  in  speed,  he  endeavors  to  make  amends 
for  by  the  deepness  of  their  mouths  and  the  va¬ 
riety  of  their  notes,  which  are  suited  in  such  a 
manner  to  each  other,  that  the  whole  cry  makes 
up  a  complete  concert.  He  is  so  nice  in  this  par¬ 
ticular,  that  a  gentleman  having  made  him  a  pre¬ 
sent  of  a  very  fine  hound  the  other  day,  the  knight 
returned  it  by  the  servant  with  a  great  many  ex¬ 
pressions  of  civility  ;  but  desired  him  to  tell  his 
master  that  the  dog  he  had  sent  was  indeed  a  most 
excellent  bass,  but  that  at  present  he  only  wanted 
a  counter-tenor.  Could  I  believe  my  friend  had 
ever  read  Shakspeare,  I  should  certainly  conclude 
he  had  taken  the  hint  from  Theseus  in  the  Mid- 
summer  Night’s  Dream: — 

My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind, 

So  Su’d,*  so  sanded;!  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew. 
Crook’d-kneed  and  dew-lap’d  like  Thessalian  bulls, 

Slow  in  pursuit,  but  match'd  in  mouths  like  bells, 

Each  under  each.  A  cry  more  tunable 
Was  never  halloo’d  to,  nor  cheer’d  with  horn. 

Sir  Roger  is  so  keen  at  this  sport,  that  he  has 
been  out  almost  every  day  since  I  came  down;  and 
upon  the  chaplain’s  offering  to  lend  me  his  easy 
pad,  I  was  prevailed  on  yesterday  morning  to 
make  one  of  the  company.  I  was  extremely 
pleased,  as  we  rode  along,  to  observe  the  general 
benevolence  of  all  the  neighborhood  toward  my 
friend.  The  farmers’  sons  thought  themselves 
happy  if  they  could  open  a  gate  for  the  good  old 
knight  as  he  passed  by;  which  he  generally  re¬ 
quited  with  a  nod  or  a  smile,  and  a  kind  inquiry 
after  their  fathers  or  uncles. 

After  we  had  ridden  about  a  mile  from  home, 
we  came  upon  a  large  heath,  and  the  sportsmen 
began  to  beat.  They  had  done  so  for  some  time, 
when,  as  I  was  at  a  little  distance  from  the  rest  of 
the  company,  I  saw  a  hare  pop  out  from  a  small 
furze-brake  almost  under  my  horse’s  feet.  I  mark¬ 
ed  the  way  she  took,  which  I  endeavored  to  make 
the  company  sensible  of  by  extending  my  arm  ; 
but  to  no  purpose,  till  Sir  Roger,  who  knows  that 
none  of  my  extraordinary  motions  are  insignifi¬ 
cant,  rode  up  to  me  and  asked  me  if  puss  was 
gone  that  way?  Upon  my  answering  yes,  he  im¬ 
mediately  called  in  the  dogs,  and  put  them  upon 
the  scent.  As  they  were  going  off,  I  heard  one 
of  the  country  fellows  muttering  to  his  companion, 

*  Mouthed,  chapped.  f  Marked  with  small  spots. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


“that  ’twas  a  wonder  they  had  not  lost  all  their 
Bport,  for  want  of  the  silent  gentleman’s  crying, 
Stole  away.” 

This,  with  my  aversion  to  leaping  hedges,  made 
me  withdraw  to  a  rising  ground,  from  whence  I 
could  have  the  pleasure  of  the  whole  chase,  with¬ 
out  the  fatigue  of  keeping  in  with  the  hounds. 
The  hare  immediately  threw  them  above  a  mile 
behind  her;  but  I  was  pleased  to  find  that,  instead 
of  running  straight  forward,  or,  in  hunter’s  lan¬ 
guage,  “flying  the  country,”  as  I  was  afraid  she 
might  have  done,  she  wheeled  about,  and  de¬ 
scribed  a  sort  of  circle  round  the  hill  where  I  had 
taken  my  station,  in  such  a  manner  as  gave  me  a 
very  distinct  view  of  the  sport.  I  could  see  her 
first  pass  by,  and  the  dogs  some  time  afterward 
unraveling  the  whole  track  she  had  made,  and 
following  her  through  all  her  doubles,  I  was  at 
the  same  time  delighted  in  observing  that  defer¬ 
ence  which  the  rest  of  the  pack  paid  to  each  par¬ 
ticular  hound,  according  to  the  character  he  had 
acquired  among  them.  If  they  were  at  fault,  and 
an  old  hound  of  reputation  opened  but  once,  he 
was  immediately  followed  by  the  whole  cry;  while 
a  raw  dog,  or  one  who  was  a  noted  liar,  might 
have  yelped  his  heart  out,  without  being  taken 
notice  of. 

The  hare  now,  after  having  squatted  two  or 
three  times,  and  being  put  up  again  as  often,  came 
still  nearer  to  the  place  where  she  was  at  first 
started.  The  dogs  pursued  her,  and  these  were 
followed  by  the  jolly  knight,  who  rode  upon  a 
white  gelding,  encompassed  by  his  tenants  and 
servants,  and  cheering  his  hounds  with  all  the 
gayety  of  five-and-twenty.  One  of  the  sportsmen 
rode  up  to  me,  and  told  me,  that  he  was  sure  the 
chase  was  almost  at  an  end,  because  the  old 
dogs,  which  had  hitherto  lain  behind,  now  headed 
the  pack.  The  fellow  was  in  the  right.  Our  hare 
took  a  large  field  just  under  us,  followed  by  the 
full  cry  in  view.  I  must  confess  the  brightness 
of  the  weather,  the  cheerfulness  of  everything 
around  me,  the  chiding  of  the  hounds,  which  was 
returned  upon  us  in  a  double  echo  from  two  neigh¬ 
boring  hills,  with  the  hallooing  of  the  sportsmen, 
and  the  sounding  of  the  horn,  lifted  my  spirits 
into  a  most  lively  pleasure,  which  I  freely  in¬ 
dulged  because  I  -was  sure  it  was  innocent.  If  I 
was  under  any  concern,  it  was  on  account  of  the 
poor  hare,  that  was  now  quite  spent,  and  almost 
within  the  reach  of  her  enemies;  when  the  hunts¬ 
man  getting  forward,  threw  down  his  pole  before 
the  dogs.  They  were  now  within  eight  yards  of 
that  game  which  they  had  been  pursuing  for  almost 
as  many  hours;  yet  on  the  signal  before-mentioned 
they  all  made  a  sudden  stand,  and  though  they 
continued  opening  as  much  as  before,  durst  not 
once  attempt  to  pass  beyond  the  pole.  At  the 
same  time  Sir  Roger  rode  forward,  and  alighting, 
took  up  the  hare  in  his  arms;  which  he  soon  after 
delivered  up  to  one  of  his  servants  with  an  order 
if  she  could  be  kept  alive,  to  let  her  go  in  his  great 
orchard  ;  where  it  seems  he  has  several  of  these 
prisoners  of  war,  who  live  together  in  a  very  com¬ 
fortable  captivity.  I  was  highly  pleased  to  see 
the  discipline  of  the  pack,  and  the  good-nature  of 
the  knight,  who  could  not  find  in  his  heart  to 
murder  a  creature  that  had  given  him  so  much 
diversion. 

As  we  were  returning  home,  I  remembered  that 
Monsieur  Paschal,  in  his  most  excellent  discourse 
on  the  Misery  of  Man,  tells  us,  that  all  our  endea¬ 
vors  after  greatness  proceed  from  nothing  but  a 
desire  of  being  surrounded  by  a  multitude  of  per¬ 
sons  and  affairs  that  may  hinder  us  from  looking 
into  ourselves,  which  is  a  view  we  cannot  bear. 
He  afterward  goes  on  to  show  that  our  love  of 


165 

sports  comes  from  the  same  reason,  and  is  par¬ 
ticularly  severe  upon  hunting.  “What,”  says  he, 
“unless  it  be  to  urown  thought,  can  make  them 
throw  awav  so  much  time  and  pains  upon  a  silly 
animal,  which  they  might  biiy  cheaper  in  the 
market?”  The  foregoing  reflection  is  certainly 
just,  when  a  man  suffers  his  whole  mind  to  be 
drawn  into  liis  sports,  and  altogether  loses  him¬ 
self  in  the  woods  ;  but  does  not  affect  those  who 
propose  afar  more  laudable  end  from  this  exercise, 
J  mean  the  preservation  of  health,  and  keeping 
all  the  organs  of  the  soul  in  a  condition  to  execute 
her  orders.  Had  that  incomparable  person  whom 
I  last  quoted  been  a  little  more  indulgent  to  him¬ 
self  in  this  point,  the  world  might  probably  have 
enjoyed  him  much  longer;  whereas,  through  too 
great  an  application  to  his  studies  in  his  youth, 
he  Contracted  that  ill  habit  of  body,  which,  after 
a  tedious  sickness,  carried  him  off  in  the  fortieth 
year  of  his  age;  and  the  whole  history  we  have  of 
his  life  till  that  time,  is  but  one  continued  account 
of  the  behavior  of  a  noble  soul  struggling  under 
innumerable  pains  and  distempers. 

For  my  own  part,  I  intend  to  hunt  twice  a  week 
during  my  stay  with  Sir  Roger ;  and  shall  pre¬ 
scribe  the  moderate  use  of  this  exercise  to  all  my 
country  friends,  as  the  best  kind  of  physic  for 
mending  a  bad  constitution,  and  preserving  a 
good  one. 

I  cannot  do  this  better,  than  in  the  following 
lines  out  of  Mr.  Dryden  : 

The  first  physicians  by  debauch  were  made ; 

Excess  began,  and  Sloth  sustains  the  trade. 

By  chase  our  long-liv’d  fathers  earn’d  their  food; 

Toil  strung  the  nerves,  and  purifi’d  the  blood : 

But  we  their  sons,  a  pamper’d  race  of  men, 

Are  dwindled  down  to  three-score  years  and  ten. 

Better  to  hunt  in  fields  for  health  unbought, 

Than  fee  the  doctor  for  a  nauseous  draught. 

The  wise  for  cure  on  exercise  depend ; 

God  never  made  his  work  for  man  to  mend. 

X. 


Ho.  117]  SATURDAY,  JULY  14,  1711. 

- Ipsi  sibi  somnia  fingunt. — Tiro.,  Eel.  viii,  108. 

With  voluntary  dreams  they  cheat  their  minds. 

There  are  some  opinions  in  which  a  man 
should  stand  neuter,  without  engaging  his  assent 
to  one  side  or  the  other.  Such  a  hovering  faith 
as  this,  which  refuses  to  settle  upon  his  determi¬ 
nation,  is  absolutely  necessary  in  a  mind  that  is 
careful  to  avoid  errors  and  prepossessions.  When 
the  arguments  press  equally  on  both  sides  in  mat¬ 
ters  that  are  indifferent  to  us,  the  safest  method  is 
to  give  up  ourselves  to  neither. 

It  is  with  this  temper  of  mind  that  I  consider 
the  subject  of  witchcraft.  Whenever  I  hear  the 
relations  that  are  made  from  all  parts  of  the 
world,  not  only  from  Norway  and  Lapland,  from 
the  East  and  West  Indies,  but  from  every  partic¬ 
ular  nation  in  Europe,  I  cannot  forbear  thinking 
that  there  is  such  an  intercourse  and  commerce 
with  evil  spirits,  as  that  which  we  express  by  the 
name  of  witchcraft.  But  when  I  consider  that  the 
ignorant  and  credulous  parts  of  the  world  abound 
most  in  these  relations,  and  the  persons  among 
us,  who  are  supposed  to  engage  in  such  an  infer¬ 
nal  commerce,  are  people  of  a  weak  understanding 
and  crazed  imagination — and  at  the  same  time 
reflect  upon  the  many  impostures  and  delusions 
of  this  nature  that  have  been  detected  in  all  ages, 
I  endeavor  to  suspend  my  belief  till  I  hear  more 
certain  accounts  than  any  which  have  yet  come 
to  my  knowledge.  In  short,  when  I  consider  the 
question,  whether  there  are  such  persons  in  the 
world  as  those  we  call  witches,  my  mind  is  di¬ 
vided  between  two  opposite  opinions,  or  rather 


16(5  THE  SPE( 

(to  speak  ray  thoughts  freely)  I  believe  in  general 
that  there  is,  and  has  been,  such  a  thing  as  witch¬ 
craft  ;  but  at  the  same  time  can  give  no  credit  to 
any  particular  instance  of  it. 

I  am  engaged  in  this  speculation,  by  some  oc¬ 
currences  that  I  met  with  yesterday,  which  I  shall 
give  my  reader  an  account  of  at  large.  As  I  was 
walking  with  my  friend  Sir  Roger  by  the  side  ot^ 
one  of  his  woods,  an  old  woman  applied  herself 
to  me  for  my  charity.  Her  dress  and  figure  put 
me  in  mind  of  the  following  description  in  Ot¬ 
way  : 

In  a  close  lane,  as  I  pursu’d  my  journey, 

I  spied  a  wrinkled  hag,  with  age  grown  double, 

Picking  dry  sticks,  and  mumbling  to  herself. 

Her  eyes  with  scalding  rheum  were  gall’d  and  red; 

Cold  palsy  shook  her  head;  her  hands  seem’d  wither’d; 
And  on  her  crooked  shoulders  had  she  wrapt 
The  tatter’d  remnant  of  an  old  striped  hanging, 

Which  served  to  keep  her  carcass  from  the  cold: 

So  there  was  nothing  of  a  piece  about  her. 

Her  lower  weeds  were  all  o’er  coarsely  patch’d 
With  different  color’d  rags,  black,  red,  white,  yellow, 

And  seem’d  to  speak  variety  of  wretchedness. 

As  I  was  musing  on  this  description,  and  com¬ 
paring  it  with  the  object  before  me,  the  knight 
told  me,  that  this  very  old  woman  had  the  repu¬ 
tation  of  a  witch  all  over  the  country  ;  that  her 
lips  were  observed  to  be  always  in  motion  ;  and 
that  there  was  not  a  switch  about  her  house  which 
her  neighbors  did  not  believe  had  carried  her  sev¬ 
eral  hundreds  of  miles.  If  she  chanced  to  stum¬ 
ble,  they  always  found  sticks  or  straws  that  lay 
in  the  figure  of  a  cross  before  her.  If  she  made 
any  mistake  at  church,  and  cried  amen  in  a  wrong 
place,  they  never  failed  to  conclude  that  she  was 
saying  her  prayers  backward.  There  was  not  a 
maid  in  the  parish  that  would  take  a  pin  of  her, 
though  she  should  offer  a  bag  of  money  with  it. 
She  goes  by  the  name  of  Moll  White,  and  has 
made  the  country  ring  with  several  imaginary  ex¬ 
ploits  which  are  palmed  upon  her.  If  the  dairy¬ 
maid  does  not  make  her  butter  come  so  soon  as 
she  would  have  it,  Moll  White  is  at  the  bottom  of 
the  churn.  If  a  horse  sweats  in  the  stable,  Moll 
White  has  been  upon  his  back.  If  a  hare  makes 
an  unexpected  escape  from  the  hounds,  the  hunts¬ 
man  curses  Moll  White.  “Nay,”  says  Sir  Ro¬ 
ger,  “  I  have  known  the  master  of  the  pack,  upon 
such  an  occasion,  send  one  of  his  servants  to  see 
if  Moll  White  had  been  out  that  morning.” 

This  account  raised  my  curiosity  so  far,  that  I 
begged  my  friend  Sir  Roger  to  go  with  me  into 
her  hovel,  which  stood  in  a  solitary  corner  under 
the  side  of  the  wood.  Upon  our  first  entering, 
Sir  Roger  winked  to  me,  and  pointed  to  something 
that  stood  behind  the  door,  which,  upon  looking 
that  way,  I  found  to  be  an  old  broom-staff.  At 
the  same  time  he  whispered  me  in  the  ear  to  take 
notice  of  a  tabby  cat  that  sat  in  the  chimney  cor¬ 
ner,  which,  as  the  old  knight  told  me,  lay  under 
as  bad  a  report  as  Moll  White  herself  ;  for  beside 
that  Moll  is  said  often  to  accompany  her  in  the 
same  shape,  the  cat  is  reported  to  have  spoken 
twice  or  thrice  in  her  life,  and  to  have  played  sev¬ 
eral  pranks  above  the  capacity  of  an  ordinary 
cat. 

I  was  secretly  concerned  to  see  human  nature 
in  so  much  wretchedness  and  disgrace,  but  at  the 
same  time  could  not  forbear  smiling  to  hear  Sir 
Roger,  who  is  n  little  puzzled  about  the  old  wo¬ 
man,  advising  her  as  a  justice  of  peace  to  avoid 
all  communication  with  the  devil,  and  never  to 
hurt  any  of  her  neighbor’s  cattle.  We  concluded 
our  visit  with  a  bounty  which  was  very  accept¬ 
able. 

In  our  return  home  Sir  Roger  told  me  that  old 
Moll  had  been  often  brought  before  him  for  ma- 


1TATOR. 

king  children  spit  pins,  and  giving  maids  the 
nightmare  ;  and  that  the  country  people  would  be 
tossing  her  into  a  pond  and  trying  experiments 
with  her  every  day,  if  it  was  not  for  him  and  his 
chaplain. 

1  have  since  found  upon  inquiry  that  Sir  Roger 
was  several  times  staggered  with  the  reports  that 
had  been  brought  him  concerning  this  old  woman, 
and  would  frequently  have  bound  her  over  to  the 
county  sessions,  had  not  his  chaplain  with  much 
ado  persuaded  him  to  the  contrary. 

I  have  been  the  more  particular  in  this  account, 
because  I  hear  there  is  scarcely  a  village  in  England 
that  has  not  a  Moll  White  in  it.  When  an  old 
woman  begins  to  doat,  and  grow  chargeable  to  a 
parish,  she  is  generally  turned  into  a  witch,  and 
fills  the  whole  country  with  extravagant  fancies, 
imaginary  distempers,  and  terrifying  dreams.  In 
the  meantime,  the  poor  wretch  that  is  the  innocent 
occasion  of  so  many  evils,  begins  to  be  frighted  at 
herself,  and  sometimes  confesses  secret  commerces 
and  familiarities  that  her  imagination  forms  in  a 
delirious  old  age.  This  frequently  cuts  oft’  charity 
from  the  greatest  objects  of  compassion,  and  in¬ 
spires  people  with  a  malevolence  toward  those 
poor  decrepid  parts  of  our  species,  in  whom  hu¬ 
man  nature  is  defaced  by  infirmity  and  dotage. — L 


No.  118.]  MONDAY,  JULY  16,  1711. 

- H;eret  lateri  lethalis  arundo. — Virg.,  Ain.  iv,  73. 

- The  fatal  dart 

Sticks  in  his  side,  and  rankles  in  his  heart. — Dryden. 

This  agreeable  seat  is  surrounded  with  so  many- 
pleasing  walks,  which  are  struck  out  of  a  wood, 
in  the  midst  of  which  the  house  stands,  that  one 
can  hardly  be  weary  of  rambling  from  one  laby¬ 
rinth  of  delight  to  another.  To  one  used  to  live  in 
the  city,  the  charms  of  the  country  are  so  exquisite 
that  the  mind  is  lost  in  a  certain  transport  which 
raises  us  above  ordinary  life,  and  yet  is  not  strong 
enough  to  be  inconsistent  with  tranquillity.  This 
state  of  mind  was  I  in — ravished  with  the  mur¬ 
mur  of  waters,  the  whisper  of  breezes,  the  sing¬ 
ing  of  birds  ;  and  whether  I  looked  up  to  the  hea¬ 
vens,  down  on  the  earth,  6r  turned  to  the  prospects 
around  me,  still  struck  with  new  sense  of  plea¬ 
sure  ;  when  I  found  by  the  voice  of  my  friend, 
who  walked  by  me,  that  we  had  insensibly  strolled 
into  the  grove  sacred  to  the  widow.  “  This  wo¬ 
man,”  says  he,  “  is  of  all  others  the  most  unintel¬ 
ligible;  she  either  designs  to  marry  or  she  does  not. 
What  is  the  most  perplexing  of  all  is,  that  she 
doth  not  either  say  to  her  lovers  she  has  any  res¬ 
olution  against  that  condition  of  life  in  general, 
or  that  she  banishes  them  ;  but  conscious  of  her 
own  merit,  she  permits  their  addresses,  without 
fear  of  any  ill  consequence,  or  want  of  respect, 
from  their  rage  or  despair.  She  has  that  in  her  as¬ 
pect  against  which  it  is  impossible  to  offend.  A 
man  whose  thoughts  are  constantly  bent  upon  so 
agreeable  an  object,  must  be  excused  if  the  ordinary 
occurrences  in  conversation  are  below  his  atten¬ 
tion.  I  call  her  indeed  perverse,  but,  alas  !  why 
do  I  call  her  so  ? — because  her  superior  merit  is 
such,  that  I  cannot  approach  her  without  awe — 
that  my  heart  is  checked  by  too  much  esteem  :  I 
am  angry  that  her  charms  are  not  more  accessible, 
that  I  am  mqre  inclined  to  worship  than  salute 
her.  How  often  have  I  wished  her  unhappy,  that 
I  might  have  an  opportunity  of  serving  her !  and 
how  often  troubled  in  that  very  imagination  at 
giving  her  the  pain  of  being  obliged!  Well,  I 
have  led  a  miserable  life  in  secretupon  her  account; 
but  fancy  she  would  have  condescended  to  have 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


some  regard  for  me,  if  it  had  not  been  tor  that 
watchful  animal  her  confidant. 

“  Of  all  persons  under  the  sun”  (continued  he, 
(Killing  me  by  my  name),  “be  sure  to  set  a  mark 
upon  confidants :  they  are  of  all  people  the  most 
impertinent.  What  is  most  pleasaut  to  observe  in 
them  is,  that  they  assume  to  themselves  the  merit 
of  persons  whom  they  have  in  their  custody.  Or- 
estilla  is  a  great  fortune,  and  in  wonderful  dan¬ 
ger  of  surprises,  therefore  full  of  suspicious  of  the 
feast  indifferent  thing,  particularly  careful  of  new 
acquaintance,  and  of  growing  too  familiar  with 
the  old.  Thermista,  her  favorite  woman,  is  every 
whit  as  careful  of  whom  she  speaks  to,  and  what 
she  says.  Let  the  ward  be  a  beauty,  her  confidant 
shall  treat  you  with  an  air  of  distance ;  let  her  be 
a  fortune,  and  she  assumes  the  suspicious  beha¬ 
vior  of  her  friend  and  patroness,  thus  it  is  that 
very  many  of  our  unmarried  women  of  distinction 
are  to  all  intents  and  purposes  married,  except  the 
consideration  of  different  sexes.  They  are  directly 
under  the  conduct  of  their  whisperer  ;  and  think 
they  are  in  a  state  of  freedom,  while  they  can 
prate  with  one  of  these  attendants  of  all  men  in 
general,  and  still  avoid  the  man  they  most  like. 
You  do  not  see  one  heiress  in  a  hundred  whose 
fate  does  not  turn  upon  this  circumstance  of  choos¬ 
ing  a  confidant.  Thus  it  is  that  the  lady  is  ad¬ 
dressed  to,  presented,  and  flattered  only  by  proxy, 
in  her  woman.  In  my  case,  how  is  it  possible 
that - ”  Sir  Roger  was  proceeding  in  his  ha¬ 

rangue,  when  we  heard  the  voice  of  one  speaking 
very  importunately,  and  repeating  these  words, 
“  What,  not  one  smile?”  We  followed  the  sound 
till  we  came  to  a  close  thicket,  on  the  other  side  of 
which  we  saw  a  young  woman  sitting  as  it  were 
in  a  personated  sullenness  just  over  a  transparent 
fountain.  Opposite  to  her  stood  Mr.  William,  Sir 
Roger’s  master  of  the  game.  The  knight  whis¬ 
pered  me,  “  Hist,  these  are  lovers.’  The  hunts¬ 
man  looking  earnestly  at  the  shadow  of  the  young 
maiden  in  the  stream — “Othou  dear  picture,  if 
thou  couldst  remain  there  in  the  absence  of  that 
fair  creature  whom  you  represent  in  the  water, 
how  willingly  could  I  stand  here  satisfied  forever, 
without  troubling  my  dear  Betty  herself  with  any 
mention  of  her  unfortunate  William,  whom  she  is 
angry  with !  But  alas !  when  she  pleases  to  be 
gone,  thou  wilt  also  vanish — yet  let  me  talk  to 
thee  while  thou  dost  stay.  Tell  my  dearest  Betty 
thou  dost  not  more  depend  upon  her,  than  does 
her  William  ;  her  absence  will  make  away  with 
me  as  well  as  thee.  If  she  offers  to  remove  thee, 
I  will  jump  into  these  waves  to  lay  hold  on  thee — 
herself,  her  own  dear  person,  I  must  never  em¬ 
brace  again.  Still  do  you  hear  me  without  one 
smile — it  is  too  much  to  bear.”  He  had  no  soon¬ 
er  spoken  these  words,  but  he  made  an  offer  of 
throwing  himself  into  the  water :  at  which  his 
mistress  started  up,  and  at  the  next  instant  he 
jumped  across  the  fountain,  and  met.  her  in  an  em¬ 
brace.  She,  half  recovering  from  her  fright,  said 
in  the  most  charming  voice  imaginable,  and  with 
a  tone  of  complaint,  “1  thought  how  well  you 
would  drown  yourself.  No,  no,  you  will  not 
drown  yourself  till  you  have  taken  your  leave  of 
Susan  Holiday.”  The  huntsman,  with  a  tender¬ 
ness  that  spoke  the  most  passionate  love,  and 
with  his  cheek  close  to  hers,  whispered  the  softest 
vows  of  fidelity  in  her  ear,  and  cried,  “  Do  not, 
mv  dear,  believe  a  word  Kate  Willow  says  ;  she  is 
spiteful,  and  makes  stories,  because  she  loves  to 
hear  me  talk  to  herself  for  your  sake.”  “Look  you 
there  ”  quoth  Sir  Roger,  “do  you  see  there,  all  mis¬ 
chief  comes  from  confidants  !  But  let.us  not  inter¬ 
rupt  them;  the  maid  is  honest,  and  the  man  dare 
not  be  otherwise,  for  he  knows  I  loved  her  lather:  I 


167 

will  interpose  in  this  matter,  and  hasten  the  wed¬ 
ding.  Kate  Willow  is  a  witty,  mischievous  wench 
in  the  neighborhood,  who  was  a  beauty  ;  and 
makes  me  hope  I  shall  see  the  perverse  widow  in 
her  condition.  She  was  so  flippant  in  her  answers 
to  all  the  honest  fellows  that  came  near  her,  and 
so  very  vain  of  her  beauty,  that  she  has  valued 
herself  upon  her  charms  till  they  have  ceased. — 
She  therefore  now  makes  it  her  business  to  pre¬ 
vent  other  young  women  from  being  more  discreet 
than  she  was  herself :  however,  the  saucy  thing 
said  the  other  day  well  enough,  ‘  Sir  Roger  and  I 
must  make  a  match,  for  we  are  both  despised  by 
those  we  loved.’  The  hussy  has  a  great  deal  of 
power  wherever  she  comes,  and  has  her  share  of 
cunning. 

“  However,  when  I  reflect  upon  this  woman,  I 
do  not  know  whether  in  the  main  I  am  the  worse 
for  having  loved  her  :  whenever  she  is  recalled  to 
my  imagination,  my  youth  returns,  and  I  feel  a 
forgotten  warmth  in  my  veins.  This  affliction  in 
my  life  has  streaked  all  my  conduct  with  a  soft¬ 
ness,  of  which  I  should  otherwise  have  been  inca¬ 
pable.  It  is  owing,  perhaps,  to  this  dear  image  in 
my  heart  that  I  am  apt  to  relent,  that  I  easily  for¬ 
give,  and  that  many  desirable  things  are  grown 
into  my  temper,  which  I  should  not  have  arrived 
at  by  better  motives  than  the  thought  of  being 
one  day  hers.  I  am  pretty  well  satisfied  such  a 
passion  as  I  have  had  is  never  well  cured  ;  and 
between  you  and  me,  I  am  often  apt  to  imagine  it 
has  had  some  whimsical  effect  upon  my  brain : 
for  I  frequently  find,  that  in  my  most  serious  dis¬ 
course  I  let  fall  some  comical  familiarity  of  speech 
or  odd  phrase  that  makes  the  company  laugh. 
However,  I  cannot  but  allow  she  is  a  most  excel¬ 
lent  woman.  When  she  is  in  the  country,  I  war¬ 
rant  she  does  not  run  into  dairies,  but  reads  upon 
the  nature  of  plants  :  she  has  a  glass  hive,  and 
comes  into  the  garden  out  of  books  to  see  them 
work,  and  observe  the  policies  of  their  common¬ 
wealth.  She  understands  everything.  I  would 
give  ten  pounds  to  hear  her  argue  with  my  friend 
Sir  Andrew  Freeport  about  trade.  No,  no,  for  all 
she  looks  so  innocent  as  it  were,  take  my  word  for 
it  she  is  no  fool.” — T. 


No.  119.]  TUESDAY,  JULY  17,  1711. 

Urbem  quam  dicunt  Roman,  Meliboee,  putavi 
Stultus  ego  huic  nostras  similem - Yirg.,  Eel.  i,  20. 

The  city  men  call  Rome,  unskillful  clown, 

I  thought  resembled  this  our  humble  town.— Y\  arton. 

The  first  and  most  obvious  reflections  which 
arise  in  a  man  who  changes  the  city  for  the  coun¬ 
try,  are  upon  the  different  manners  of  the  people 
whom  he  meets  with  in  those  two  different  scenes 
of  life.  By  manners  I  do  not  mean  morals,  but 
behavior  and  good-breeding,  as  they  show  them¬ 
selves  in  the  town  and  in  the  country. 

And  here  in  the  first  place  I  must  observe  a  very 
great  revolution  that  has  happened  in  this  article 
of  good-breeding.  Several  obliging  deferences, 
condescensions,  and  submissions,  with  many  out¬ 
ward  forms  and  ceremonies  that  accompany  them, 
were  first  of  all  brought  up  among  the  politer  part 
of  mankind,  who  lived  in  courts  and  cities,  and 
distinguished  themselves  from  the  rustic  part  of 
the  species  (who  on  all  occasions  acted  bluntly 
and  naturally)  by  such  a  mutual  complaisance 
and  intercourse  of  civilities.  These  forms  of  con¬ 
versation  by  degrees  multiplied  and  grew  trouble¬ 
some  ;  the  "modish  world  found  too  great  a  con¬ 
straint  in  them,  and  have  therefore  thrown  most 
of  them  aside.  Conversation,  like  the  Romish 
religion,  was  so  encumbered  with  show  and  cere- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


168 

mony,  that  it  stood  in  need  of  a  reformation  to 
retrench  its  superfluities,  and  restore  it  to  its 
natural  good  sense  and  beauty.  At  present,  there¬ 
fore,  an  unconstrained  carriage,  and  a  certain 
openness  of  behavior,  are  the  height  of  good¬ 
breeding.  The  fashionable  world  is  grown  free 
and  easy ;  our  manners  sit  more  loosely  upon  us. 
Nothing  is  so  modish  as  an  agreeable  negligence. 
In  a  word,  good-breeding  shows  itself  most,  where 
to  an  ordinary  eye  it  appears  the  least. 

If  after  this  we  look  on  the  people  of  mode 
in  the  country,  we  find  in  them  the  manners  of 
the  last  age.  They  have  no  sooner  fetched  them¬ 
selves  up  to  the  fashions  of  the  polite  world,  but 
the  town  has  dropped  them,  and  are  nearer  to  the 
first  state  of  nature,  than  to  those  refinements 
which  formerly  reigned  in  the  court,  and  still 
prevailed  in  the  country.  One  may  now  know  a 
man  that  never  conversed  in  the  world,  by  his 
excess  of  good-breeding.  A  polite  country  esquire 
shall  make  you  as  many  bows  in  half  an  hour,  as 
would  serve  a  courtier  for  a  week.  There  is  infin¬ 
itely  more  to  do  about  place  and  precedency  in  a 
meeting  of  justices’  wives,  than  in  an  assembly  of 
duchesses. 

This  rural  politeness  is  very  troublesome  to  a 
man  of  my  temper,  who  generally  take  the  chair 
that  is  next  me,  and  walk  first  or  last,  in  the  front 
or  in  the  rear,  as  chance  directs.  I  Jiave  known  my 
friend  Sir  Roger’s  dinner  almost  cold  before  the 
company  could  adjust  the  ceremonial,  and  be  pre¬ 
vailed  upon  to  sit  down  ;  and  have  heartily  pitied 
my  old  friend,  when  I  have  seen  him  forced  to 
pick  and  cull  his  guests,  as  they  sat  at  the  several 
parts  of  his  table,  that  he  might  drink  their  healths 
according  to  their  respective  ranks  and  Qualities. 
Honest  Will  Wimble,  who  I  should  have  thought 
had  been  altogether  uninfected  with  ceremony, 

fives  me  abundance  of  trouble  in  this  particular. 

'hough  he  has  been  fishing  all  the  morning,  he 
will  not  help  himself  at  dinner  till  I  am  served. 
When  we  are  going  out  of  the  hall,  he  runs  behind 
me ;  and  last  night  as  we  were  walking  into  the 
fields,  stopped  short  at  a  stile  until  I  came  up  to 
it,  and  upon  my  making  signs  to  him  to  get  over, 
told  me  with  a  serious  smile,  that  sure  I  believed 
they  had  no  manners  in  the  country. 

There  has  happened  another  revolution  in  the 
point  of  good-breeding,  which  relates  to  the  con¬ 
versation  among  men  of  mode,  and  which  I  can¬ 
not  but  look  upon  as  very  extraordinary.  It  was 
certainly  one  of  the  first  distinctions  of  a  well- 
bred  man  to  express  everything  that  had  the 
most  remote  appearance  of  being  obscene,  in  mod¬ 
est  terms  and  distant  phrases  ;  while  the  clown, 
who  had  no  such  delicacy  of  conception  and  ex¬ 
pression,  clothed  his  ideas  in  those  plain,  homely 
terms  that  are  the  most  obvious  and  natural. 
This  kind  of  good  manners  was  perhaps  carried 
to  an  excess,  so  as  to  make  conversation  too  stiff, 
formal,  and  precise  :  for  which  reason  (as  hypo¬ 
crisy  in  one  age  is  generally  succeeded  by  atheism 
in  another)  conversation  is  in  a  great  measure  re¬ 
lapsed  into  the  first  extreme;  so  that  at  present  sev¬ 
eral  of  our  men  of  the  town,  and  particularly  those 
who  have  been  polished  in  France,  make  use  of  the 
most  coarse,  uncivilized  words  in  our  language, 
and  utter  themselves  often  in  such  a  manner  as  a 
clown  would  blush  to  hear. 

This  infamous  piece  of  good-breeding,  which 
reigns  among  the  coxcombs  of  the  town,  has  not 
yet  made  its  way  into  the  country :  and  as  it  is 
impossible  for  such  an  irrational  way  of  conver¬ 
sation  to  last  long  among  a  people  that  make  any 
profession  of  religion,  or  show  of  modesty,  if 
the  country  gentlemen  get  into  it,  they  will  cer¬ 
tainly  be  left  in  the  lurch.  Their  good-breeding 


will  come  too  late  to  them,  and  they  will  be 
thought  a  parcel  of  lewd  clowns,  while  they  fan¬ 
cy  themselves  talking  together  like  men  of  wit 
and  pleasure. 

As  the  two  points  of  good -breeding,  which  I 
have  hitherto  insisted  upon,  regard  behavior  and 
conversation,  there  is  a  third  which  turns  upon 
dress.  In  this,  too,  the  country  are  very  much 
behindhand.  The  rural  beaux  are  not  yet  got  out 
of  the  fashion  that  took  place  at  the  time  of  the 
revolution,  but  ride  about  the  country  in  red  coats 
and  laced  hats,  while  the  women  in  many  parts 
are  still  trying  to  outvie  one  another  in  the  height 
of  their  head-dresses. 

But  a  friend  of  mine,  who  is  now  upon  the 
western  circuit,  having  promised  to  give  me  an 
account  of  the  several  modes  and  fashions  that 
prevail  in  the  different  parts  of  the  nation  through 
which  he  passes,  I  shall  defer  the  enlarging  upon 
this  last  topic  till  I  have  received  a  letter  from 
him,  which  I  expect  every  post. — L. 


No.  120.]  WEDNESDAY,  JULY  18,  1711. 

- Equidem  credo,  quia  sit  divinitus  illis 

Ingeniuru -  Virg.,  Georg,  i,  415. 

- 1  deem  their  breasts  inspir’d 

With  a  divine  sagacity. - 

My  friend  Sir  Roger  is  very  often  merry  with 
me  upon  my  passing  so  much  of  my  time  among 
his  poultry.  He  has  caught  me  twice  or  thrice 
looking  after  a  bird’s  nest,  and  several  times  sit¬ 
ting  an  hour  or  two  together  near  a  hen  and  chick¬ 
ens.  He  tells  me  he  believes  I  am  personally 
acquainted  with  every  fowl  about  his  house  ;  calls 
such  a  particular  cock  my  favorite ;  and  frequently 
complains  that  his  ducks  and  geese  have  more  of 
my  company  than  himself. 

I  must  confess  I  am  infinitely  delighted  with 
those  speculations  of  nature  which  are  to  be  made 
in  a  country  life ;  and  as  my  reading  has  very 
much  lain  among  books  of  natural  history,  I  can¬ 
not  forbear  recollecting  upon  this  occasion  the 
several  remarks  which  I  have  met  with  in  authors, 
and  comparing  them  with  what  falls  under  my 
own  observation  :  the  arguments  for  Providence 
drawn  from  the  natural  history  of  animals  being 
in  my  opinion  demonstrative. 

The  make  of  every  kind  of  animal  is  different 
from  that  of  every  other  kind  ;  and  yet  there  is 
not  the  least  turn  in  the  muscles  or  twist  in  the 
fibers  of  any  one,  which  does  not  render  them 
more  proper  for  that  particular  animal’s  way  of 
life  than  any  other  cast  or  texture  of  them  would 
have  been. 

The  most  violent  appetites  in  all  creatures  are 
lust  and  hunger.  The  first  is  a  perpetual  call 
upon  them  to  propagate  their  kind  ;  the  latter  to 
preserve  themselves. 

It  is  astonishing  to  consider  the  different  de¬ 
grees  of  care  that  descend  from  the  parent  to  the 
young,  so  far  as  it  is  absolutely  necessary  for  the 
leaving  a  posterity.  Some  creatures  cast  their 
eggs  as  chance  directs  them,  and  think  of  them 
no  farther  ;  as  insects  and  several  kinds  of  fish. 
Others,  of  a  nicer  frame,  find  out  proper  beds  to 
deposit  them  in,  and  there  leave  them  ;  as  the 
serpent,  the  crocodile,  and  ostrich  :  others  hatch 
their  eggs  and  tend  the  birth  till  it  is  liable  to 
shift  for  itself. 

What  can  we  call  the  principle  which  directs 
every  different  kind  of  bird  to  observe  a  particular 
plan  in  the  structure  of  its  nest,  and  directs  all 
the  same  species  to  work  after  the  same  model  ?  It 
cannot  be  imitation  ;  for  though  you  hatch  a  crow 
under  a  hen,  and  never  let  it  see  any  of  the  works 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


of  its  own  kind,  the  nest  it  makes  shall  be  the 
same,  to  the  laying  of  a  stick,  with  all  the  other 
nests  of  the  same  species.  It  cannot  be  reason  ; 
for  were  animals  indued  with  it  to  as  great  a  de¬ 
gree  as  man,  their  buildings  would  be  as  different 
as  ours,  according  to  the  different  conveniences 
that  they  would  propose  to  themselves. 

Is  it  not  remarkable  that  the  same  temper  of 
weather,  which  raises  this  genial  warmth  in  ani¬ 
mals,  should  cover  the  trees  with  leaves,  and  the 
fields  with  grass,  for  their  security  and  conceal¬ 
ment  and  produce  such  infinite  swarms  of  insects 
for  the  support  and  sustenance  of  their  respective 
broods  ? 

Is  it  not  wonderful  that  the  love  of  the  parent 
should  be  so  violent  while  it  lasts,  and  that  it 
should  last  no  longer  than  is  necessary  for  the 
preservation  of  the  young  ? 

The  violence  of  this  natural  love  is  exempli¬ 
fied  by  a  very  barbarous  experiment ;  which  I 
shall  quote  at  length,  as  I  find  it  in  an  excellent 
author,  and  hope  my  readers  will  pardon  the  men¬ 
tioning  such  an  instance  of  cruelty;  because  there 
is  nothing  can  so  effectually  show  the  strength  of 
that  principle  in  animals  of  which  I  am  here 
speaking.  “A  person,  who  was  well  skilled  in 
dissections,  opened  a  bitch,  and  as  she  lay  in  the 
most  exquisite  tortures,  offered  her  one  of  her 
young  puppies,  which  she  immediately  fell  a  lick¬ 
ing  ;  and  for  the  time  seemed  insensible  of  her 
own  pain.  On  the  removal,  she  kept  her  eye  fixed 
on  it,  and  began  a  wailing  sort  of  cry,  which 
seemed  rather  to  proceed  from  the  loss  of  her 
young  one,  than  the  sense  of  her  own  torments.” 

But  notwithstanding  this  natural  love  in  brutes 
is  much  more  violent  and  intense  than  in  rational 
creatures,  Providence  has  taken  care  that  it  should 
be  no  longer  troublesome  to  the  parent  than  it  is 
useful  to  the  young  :  for  so  soon  as  the  wants  of 
the  latter  cease,  the  mother  withdraws  her  fond¬ 
ness,  and  leaves  them  to  provide  for  themselves  ; 
and  what  is  a  very  remarkable  circumstance  in 
this  part  of  instinct,  we  find  that  the  love  of  the 
parent  may  be  lengthened  beyond  its  usual  time, 
if  the  preservation  of  the  species  requires  it ;  as 
we  may  see  in  birds  that  drive  away  their  young 
as  soon  as  they  are  able  to  get  their  livelihood, 
but  continue  to  feed  them  if  they  are  tied  to  the 
nest,  or  confined  within  a  cage,  or  by  any  other 
means  appear  to  be  out  of  a  condition  of  supply¬ 
ing  their  own  necessities. 

This  natural  love  is  not  observed  in  animals  to 
ascend  from  the  young  to  the  parent,  which  is  not 
at  all  necessary  for  the  continuance  of  the  species  ; 
nor  indeed  in  reasonable  creatures  does  it  rise  in 
any  proportion,  as  it  spreads  itself  downward  ; 
for  in  all  family  affection  we  find  protection  grant¬ 
ed  and  favors  bestowed,  are  greater  motives  to 
love  and  tenderness,  than  safety,  benefits,  or  life 
received. 

One  would  wonder  to  hear  skeptical  men  dis¬ 
puting  for  the  reason  of  animals,  and  telling  us  it 
is  only  our  pride  and  prejudices  that  will  not  al¬ 
low  them  the  use  of  that  faculty. 

Reason  shows  itself  in  all  occurrences  of  life  ; 
whereas  the  brute  makes  no  discovery  of  such  a 
talent,  but  in  what  immediately  regards  his  own 

preservation  or  the  continuance  of  his  species. _ 

Animals  in  their  generation  are  wiser  than  the 
sons  of  men  ;  but  their  wisdom  is  confined  to  a 
fev  particulars,  and  lies  in  a  very  narrow  compass. 
Take  a  brute  out  of  his  instinct,  and  you  find  him 
wholly  deprived  of  understanding.  To  use  an 
instance  that  comes  often  under  observation  : 

With  what  caution  does  the  hen  provide  herself 
a  nest  in  places  unfrequented,  and  free  from  noise 
and  disturbance  !  when  she  has  laid  her  eggs  in 


169 

such  a  manner  than  she  can  cover  them,  what  care 
does  she  take  in  turning  them  frequently,  that  all 
parts  may  partake  of  the  vital  warmth !  when  she 
leaves  them,  to  provide  for  her  necessary  suste¬ 
nance,  how  punctually  does  she  return  before  they 
have  time  to  cool,  and  become  incapable  of  pro¬ 
ducing  an  animal !  In  the  summer  you  see  her 
giving  herself  greater  freedoms,  and  quitting  her 
care  for  above  two  hours  together  ;  but  in  winter, 
when  the  rigor  of  the  season  would  chill  the  prin¬ 
ciples  of  life,  and  destroy  the  young  one,  she 
grows  more  assiduous  in  her  attendance,  and  stays 
away  but  half  the  time.  When  the  birth  ap¬ 
proaches,  with  how  much  nicety  and  attention 
does  she  help  the  chick  to  break  its  prison  !  not 
to  take  notice  of  her  covering  it  from  the  injuries 
of  the  weather,  providing  it  proper  nourishment, 
and  teaching  it  to  help  itself  ;  not  to  mention  her 
forsaking  the  nest,  if  after  the  usual  time  of  reck¬ 
oning  the  young  one  does  not  make  its  appear¬ 
ance.  A  chemical  operation  could  not  be  follow¬ 
ed  with  greater  art  or  diligence,  than  is  seen  in 
the  hatching  of  a  chick;  though  there  are  many 
birds  that  show  an  infinitely  greater  sagacity  in 
all  the  forementioned  particulars. 

But  at  the  same  time  the  hen,  that  has  all  this 
seeming  ingenuity  (which  is  indeed  absolutely 
necessary  for  the  propagation  of  the  species), 
considered  in  other  respects,  is  without  the  least 
glimmering  of  thought  or  common  sense.  She  mis¬ 
takes  a  piece  of  chalk  for  an  egg,  and  sits  upon  it 
in  the  same  manner.  She  is  insensible  of  any  in¬ 
crease  or  diminution  in  the  number  of  those  she 
lays.  She  does  not  distinguish  between  her  own 
and  those  of  another  species  ;  and  when  the  birth 
appears  of  never  so  different  a  bird,  will  cherish 
it  for  her  own.  In  all  these  circumstances,  which 
do  not  carry  an  immediate  regard  to  the  subsist¬ 
ence  of  herself  or  her  species,  she  is  a  very  idiot. 

There  is  not,  in  my  opinion,  anything  more 
mysterious  in  nature  than  this  instinct  in  animals, 
which  thus  rises  above  reason,  and  falls  infinitely 
short  of  it.  It  cannot  be  accounted  for  by  any 
properties  in  matter,  and  at  the  same  time  works 
after  so  odd  a  manner,  that  one  cannot  think  it 
the  faculty  of  an  intellectual  being.  For  my  own 
part,  I  look  upon  it  as  upon  the  principle  of  gra¬ 
vitation  in  bodies,  which  is  not  to  be  explained 
by  any  known  qualities  inherent  in  the  bodies 
themselves,  nor  from  the  laws  of  mechanism,  but, 
according  to  the  best  notions  of  the  greatest  phi¬ 
losophers,  is  an  immediate  impression  from  the 
first  mover,  and  the  divine  energy  acting  on  the 
creatures. — L. 


No.  121.]  THURSDAY,  JULY  19,  1711. 

- Jovis  omnia  plena. — Virg.,  Eel.  iii,  66. 

- All  things  are  full  of  Jove. 

As  I  was  walking  this  morning  in  the  great 
yard  that  belongs  to  my  friend’s  country  house,  I 
was  wonderfully  pleased  to  see  the  different  work¬ 
ings  of  instinct  in  a  hen  followed  by  a  brood  of 
ducks.  The  young,  upon  the  sight  of  a  pond, 
immediately  ran  into  it  ;  while  the  stepmother, 
with  all  imaginary  anxiety,  hovered  about  the 
borders  of  it,  to  call  them  out  of  an  element  that 
appeared  to  her  so  dangerous  and  destructive.  As 
the  different  principle  which  acted  in  these  differ¬ 
ent  animals  cannot  be  termed  reason,  so  when  we 
call  it  instinct,  we  mean  something  Ave  have  no 
knowledge  of.  To  me,  as  I  hinted  in  my  last 
paper,  it  seems  the  immediate  direction  of  Provi¬ 
dence,  and  such  an  operation  of  the  Supreme 
Being  as  that  which  determines  all  the  portions  of 
matter  to  their  proper  centers.  A  modem  philo- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


170 

sopher,  quoted  bv  Monsieur  Bayle  in  bis  learned 
dissertation  on  the  Souls  of  Brutes,  delivers  the 
same  opinion,  though  in  a  bolder  form  of  words, 
where  he  says,  Deus  est  anifna  brutorum,  “  God 
himself  is  the  soul  of  brutes.”  Who  can  tell 
what  to  call  that  seeming  sagacity  in  animals, 
which  directs  them  to  such  food  as  is  proper  for 
them,  and  makes  them  naturally  avoid  whatever 
is  noxious  or  unwholesome  ?  Tully  has  observed, 
that  a  lamb  no  sooner  falls  from  its  mother,  but 
immediately  and  of  its  own  accord  it  applies 
itself  to  the  teat.  Dampier,  in  his  Travels,  tells 
us,  that  when  seamen  are  thrown  upon  any  of  the 
unknown  coasts  of  America,  they  never  venture 
upon  the  fruit  of  any  tree,  how  tempting  soever  it 
may  appear,  unless  they  observe  that  it  is  marked 
with  the  pecking  of  birds ;  but  fall  on  without 
any  fear  or  apprehension  where  the  birds  have 
been  before  them. 

But  notwithstanding  animals  have  nothing  like 
the  use  of  reason,  we  find  in  them  all  the  lower 
parts  of  our  nature,  the  passions  and  senses,  in 
their  greatest  strength  and  perfection.  And  here 
it  is  worth  our  observation,  that  all  beasts  and 
birds  of  prey  are  wonderfully  subject  to  anger, 
malice,  revenge,  and  all  the  other  violent  passions 
that  may  animate  them  in  search  of  their  proper 
food  :  as  those  that  are  incapable  of  defending 
themselves,  or  annoying  others,  or  whose  safety 
lies  chiefly  in  their  flight,  are  suspicious,  fearful, 
and  apprehensive  of  everything  they  see  or  hear ; 
while  others  that  are  of  assistance  and  use  to  man, 
have  their  natures  softened  with  something  mild 
and  tractable,  and  by  that  means  are  qualified  for 
a  domestic  life.  In  this  case  the  passions  gener¬ 
ally  correspond  with  the  make  of  the  body.  We 
do  not  find  the  fury  of  a  lion  in  so  weak  and  de¬ 
fenseless  an  animal  as  a  lamb  :  nor  the  meekness 
of  a  lamb  in  a  creature  so  armed  for  battle  and 
assault  as  the  lion.  In  the  same  manner,  we  find 
that  particular  animals  have  a  more  or  less  exqui¬ 
site  sharpness  and  sagacity  in  those  particular 
senses  which  most  turn  to  their  advantage,  and  in 
which  their  safety  and  welfare  is  the  most  con¬ 
cerned. 

Nor  must  we  here  omit  that  great  variety  of 
arms  with  which  nature  has  differently  fortified 
the  bodies  of  several  kinds  of  animals — such  as 
claws,  hoofs,  horns,  teeth,  and  tusks,  a  tail,  a 
sting,  a  trunk,  or  a  proboscis.  It  is  likewise  ob¬ 
served  by  naturalists,  that  it  must  be  some  hidden 
principle,  distinct  from  what  we  call  reason,  which 
instructs  animals  in  the  use  of  these  their  arms, 
and  teaches  them  to  manage  them  to  the  best  ad¬ 
vantage  ;  because  they  naturally  defend  them¬ 
selves  with  that  part  in  which  their  strength  lies, 
before  the  weapon  be  formed  in  it :  as  is  remark¬ 
able  in  lambs,  which,  though  they  are  bred  within 
doors  and  never  saw  the  actions  of  their  own  spe¬ 
cies,  push  at  tliose*who  approach  them  with  their 
foreheads,  before  the  first  budding  of  a  horn  ap¬ 
pears. 

I  shall  add  to  these  general  observations  an  in¬ 
stance,  Avhich  Mr.  Locke  has  given  us,  of  Provi¬ 
dence  even  in  the  imperfections  of  a  creature 
which  seems  the  meanest  and  most  despicable  in 
the  whole  animal  world.  “We  may,”  says  he, 
“  from  the  make  of  an  oyster,  or  cockle,  conclude, 
that  it  has  not  so  many  nor  so  quick  senses  as  a 
man,  or  several  other  *  animals ;  nor  if  it  had, 
would  it,  in  that  state  and  incapacity  of  transfer¬ 
ring  itself  from  one  place  to  another,  be  bettered 
by  them.  What  good  would  sight  and  hearing 
do  to  a  creature  that  cannot  move  itself  to  or  from 
the  object,  wherein  at  a  distance  it  perceives  good 
or  evil?  And  would  not  quickness  of  sensation 
be  an  inconvenience  to  an  animal  that  must  be  still 


where  chance  has  once  placed  it,  and  there  receive 
the  afflux  of  colder  or  warmer,  clean  or  foul  water, 
as  it  happens  to  come  to  it.” 

I  shall  add  to  this  instance  out  of  Mr.  Locke, 
another  out  of  the  learned  Dr.  More,  who  cites  it 
from  Cardan,  in  relation  to  another  animal  which 
Providence  has  left  defective,  but  at  the  same 
time  has  shown  its  wisdom  in  the  formation  of 
that  organ  in  which  it  seems  chiefly  to  have 
failed.  “What  is  more  obvious  and  ordinary 
than  a  mole ;  and  yet  what  more  palpable  argu¬ 
ment  of  Providence  than  she  ?  the  members  of  her 
body  are  so  exactly  fitted  to  her  nature  and  man¬ 
ner  of  life  :  for  her  dwelling  being  under  ground 
where  nothing  is  to  be  seen,  nature  has  so  obscure¬ 
ly  fitted  her  with  eyes,  that  naturalists  can  scarce 
agree  whether  she  have  any  eyes  at  all,  or  no.  But 
for  amends,  what  she  is  capable  of  for  her  defense 
and  warning  of  danger,  she  has  very  eminently 
conferred  upon  her  ;  for  she  is  exceeding  quick  of 
hearing.  And  then  her  short  tail  and  short  legs, 
but  broad  fore-feet  armed  with  short  claws ;  we 
see  by  the  event  to  what  purpose  they  are,  she  so 
swiftly  working  herself  under  ground,  and  making 
her  way  so  fast  in  the  earth  as  they  that  behold  it 
cannot  but  admire  it.  Her  legs,  therefore,  are  short, 
that  she  need  dig  no  more  than  will  serve  the 
mere  thickness  of  her  body  ;  and  her  fore-feet  are 
broad,  that  she  may  scoop  away  much  earth  at  a 
time  ;  and  little  or  no  tail  she  has,  because  she 
courses  it  not  on  the  ground,  like  the  rat  or  mouse, 
of  whose  kindred  she  is  ;  but  lives  under  the 
earth,  and  is  fain  to  dig  herself  a  dwelling  there. 
And  she  making  her  way  through  so  thick  an  ele¬ 
ment,  which  will  not  yield  easily,  as  the  air  or  the 
water,  it  had  been  dangerous  to  have  drawn  so 
long  a  train  behind  her  ;  for  her  enemy  might  fall 
upon  her  rear,  and  fetch  her  out,  before  she  had 
completed  or  got  full  possession  of  her  works.” 

I  cannot  forbear  mentioning  Mr.  Boyle’s  re¬ 
mark  upon  this  last  creature,  who  I  remember 
somewhere  in  his  works  observes,  that  though 
the  mole  be  not  totally  blind  (as  it  is  commonly 
thought)  she  has  not  sight  enough  to  distinguish 
particular  objects.  Her  eye  is  said  to  have  but  one 
humor  in  it,  which  is  supposed  to  give  her  the 
idea  of  light,  but  of  nothing  else,  and  is  so  formed 
that  this  idea  is  probably  painful  to  the  animal. 
Whenever  she  comes  up  into  broad  day,  she  might 
be  in  danger  of  being  taken,  unless  she  were  thus 
affected  by  a  light  striking  upon  her  eye,  and 
immediately  warning  her  to  bury  herself  in  her 

Cer  element.  More  sight  would  be  useless  to 
as  none  at  all  might  be  fatal. 

I  have  only  instanced  such  animals  as  seem  the 
most  imperfect  works  of  nature ;  and  if  Provi¬ 
dence  shows  itself  even  in  the  blemishes  of  these 
creatures,  how  much  more  does  it  discover  itself 
in  the  several  endowments  which  it  has  variously 
bestowed  upon  such  creatures  as  are  more  or  less 
finished  and  completed  in  their  several  faculties, 
according  to  the  condition  of  life  in  which  they 
are  posted. 

I  could  ■wish  our  Royal  Society  would  compile 
a  body  of  natural  history,  the  best  that  could  be 
gathered  together  from  books  and  observations. 
If  the  several  writers  among  them  took  each  his 
particular  species,  and  gave  us  a  distinct  account 
of  its  origin,  birth,  and  education  ;  its  policies, 
hostilities,  and  alliances,  with  the  frame  and  tex¬ 
ture  of  its  inward  and  outward  parts,  and  partic¬ 
ularly  those  that  distinguish  it  from  all  other  ani¬ 
mals,  with  their  peculiar  aptitudes  for  the  state  of 
being  in  which  Providence  has  placed  them,  it 
would  be  one  of  the  best  services  their  studies 
could  do  mankind,  and  not  a  little  redound  to  the 
glory  of  the  all- wise  Contriver. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


171 


It  is  true,  such  a  natural  history,  after  all  the 
disquisitions  of  the  learned,  would  be  infinitely 
short  and  defective.  Seas  and  deserts  hide  mil¬ 
lions  ot  animals  from  our  observation.  Innumer¬ 
able  artifices  and  stratagems  are  acted  in  the 
“  howling  wilderness”  and  in  the  “  great  deep,” 
that  can  never  come  to  our  knowledge.  Beside 
that  there  are  infinitely  more  species  of  creatures 
which  are  not  to  be  seen  without,  nor  indeed  with, 
the  help  of  the  finest  glasses,  than  of  such  as  are 
bulky  enough  for  the  naked  eye  to  take  hold  of. 
However,  from  the  consideration  of  such  animals 
as  lie  within  the  compass  of  our  knowledge,  we 
might  easily  form  a  conclusion  of  the  rest ;  that 
the  same  variety  of  wisdom  and  goodness  runs 
through  the  whole  creation,  and  puts  every  crea¬ 
ture  in  a  condition  to  provide  for  its  safety  and 
subsistence  in  its  proper  station. 

Tully  has  given  us  an  admirable  sketch  of  na¬ 
tural  history,  in  his  second  book  concerning  the 
Nature  of  the  Gods  ;  and  that  in  a  style  so  raised 
by  metaphors  and  descriptions,  that  it  lifts  the 
subject  above  raillery  and  ridicule,  which  fre¬ 
quently  fall  on  such  nice  observations  when  they 
pass  through  the  hands  of  an  ordinary  writer. — L. 


No.  122.]  FRIDAY,  JULY  20,  1711. 

Comes  J  ucundus  in  via  pro  vehiculo  est. — Fuel.,  Syr.  Frag. 
An  agreeable  companion  upon  the  road  is  as  good  as  a  coach. 

A  man’s  first  care  should  be  to  avoid  the  re¬ 
proaches  of  his  own  heart ;  his  next,  to  escape 
the  censures  of  the  world.  If  the  last  interferes 
with  the  former,  it  ought  to  be  entirely  neglected  ; 
but  otherwise  there  cannot  be  a  greater  satisfac¬ 
tion  to  an  honest  mind,  than  to  see  those  appro¬ 
bations  which  it  gives  itself,  seconded  by  the  ap¬ 
plauses  of  the  public.  A  man  is  more  sure  of  his 
conduct,  when  the  verdict  which  he  passes  upon 
his  own  behavior  is  thus  warranted  and  confirmed 
by  the  opinion  of  all  that  know  him. 

My  worthy  friend  Sir  Roger  is  one  of  those  who 
is  not  only  at  peace  within  himself,  but  beloved 
and  esteemed  by  all  about  him.  He  receives  a 
suitable  tribute  tor  his  universal  benevolence  to 
mankind,  in  the  returns  of  affection  and  good-will 
which  are  paid  him  by  every  one  that  lives  in  his 
neighborhood.  1  lately  met  with  two  or  three  odd 
instances  of  that  general  respect  which  is  shown 
to  the  good  old  knight.  He  would  needs  carry 
Will  Wimble  and  myself  with  him  to  the  county 
assizes.  As  we  were  upon  the  road,  Will  Wimble 
joined  a  couple  of  plain  men  who  rode  before  us, 
and  conversed  with  them  for  some  time  ;  during 
which  my  friend  Sir  Roger  acquainted  me  with 
their  characters. 

The  first  of  them,”  says  he,  “that  has  a  spa¬ 
niel  by  his  side,  is  a  yeoman  of  about  a  hundred 
pounds  a-year,  an  honest  man.  He  is  just  within 
the  game-act,  and  qualified  to  kill  a  hare  or  a 
pheasant.  He  knocks  down  a  dinner  with  his  gun 
twice  or  thrice  a  week  ;  and  by  that  means  lives 
much  cheaper  than  those  who  have  not  so  good  an 
estate  as  himself.  He  would  be  a  good  neighbor 
if  he  did  not  destroy  so  many  partridges.  In 
shot,  lie  is  a  very  sensible  man — shoots  fiyin0- — 
and  has  been  several  times  foreman  of  the  pettv- 
jury. 

“  The  other  that  rides  along  with  him  is  Tom 
Touchy,  a  fellow  famous  for  taking ‘the  law’  of 
everybody.  There  is  not  one  in  the  town  where 
he  lives  that  he  has  not  sued  at  a  quarter-sessions. 
The  rogue  had  once  the  impudence  to  go  to  law 
with  the  widow.  His  head  is  full  of  costs,  dama¬ 
ges,  and  ejectments,  He  plagued  a  couple  of  ho¬ 


nest  gentlemen  so  long  for  a  trespass  in  breaking 
one  ot  his  hedges,  till  he  was  forced  to  sell  the 
ground  it  inclosed  to  defray  the  charges  of  the 
prosecution.  His  father  left  him  fourscore  pounds 
a  year ;  but  he  has  cast  and  been  cast  so  often, 
that  he  is  not  now  worth  thirty.  I  suppose  he  is 
going  upon  the  old  business  ot  the  willow-tree.” 

i  As  Sir  Roger  was  giving  me  this  account  of 
1  om  louchy,  Will  Wimble  and  his  two  com¬ 
panions  stopped  short  till  he  came  up  to  them. 
After  having  paid  their  respects  to  Sir  Roger, 
Will  told  him  that  Mr.  Touchy  and  he  must  ap¬ 
peal  to  him  upon  a  dispute  that  arose  between 
them.  Will,  it  seems,  had  been  giving  his  fellow- 
traveler  an  account  of  his  angling  one  day  in 
such  a  hole ;  when  Tom  Touchy,  instead  of  hear¬ 
ing  out  his  story,  told  him  that  Mr.  Such-a-one, 
if  he  pleased,  might  “  take  the  law  of  him,”  for 
fishing  in  that  part  of  the  river.  My  friend  Sir 
Roger  heard  them  both  upon  a  round  trot ;  and 
after  having  paused  some  time,  told  them  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  would  not  give  his  judgment 
rashly,  that  “  much  might  be  said  on  both  sides.” 
They  were  neither  of  them  dissatisfied  with  the 
knight’s  determination,  because  neither  of  them 
found  himself  in  the  wrong  by  it.  Upon  which 
we  made  the  best  of  our  way  to  the  assizes. 

The  court  was  sitting  before  Sir  Roger  came  ;  but 
notwithstanding  all  the  justices  had  taken  their 
places  upon  the  bench,  they  made  room  for  the 
old  knight  at  the  head  of  them  ;  who  for  his  repu¬ 
tation  in  the  country  took  occasion  to  whisper  in 
the  judge’s  ear,  that  he  was  glad  his  lordship  had 
met  with  so  much  good  weather  in  his  circuit.  I 
was  listening  to  the  proceedings  of  the  court  with 
much  attention,  and  infinitely  pleased  with  that 
great  appearance  of  solemnity  which  so  properly 
accompanies  such  a  public  administration  of  our 
laws  ;  when,  after  about  an  hour’s  sitting,  I  ob¬ 
served,  to  my  great  surprise,  in  the  midst  of  a 
trial,  Sir  Roger  was  getting  up  to  speak.  I  was 
in  some  pain  for  him,  until  I  found  he  had  acquit¬ 
ted  himself  of  two  or  three  sentences  with  a  look 
of  much  business  and  great  intrepidity. 

Upon  his  first  rising  the  court  was  hushed,  and 
a  general  whisper  ran  among  the  country  people, 
that  Sir  Roger  “  was  up.”  The  speech  he  made 
was  so  little  to  the  purpose,  that  I  shall  not 
trouble  my  readers  with  an  account  of  it ;  and  I 
believe  was  not  so  much  designed  by  the  knight 
himself  to  inform  the  court,  as  to  give  him  a 
figure  in  my  eye,  and  keep  up  his  credit  in  the 
country. 

I.  was  highly  delighted  when  the  court  rose,  to 
see  the  gentlemen  of  the  country  gathering  about 
my  old  friend,  and  striving  who  should  compli¬ 
ment  him  most ;  at  the  same  time  that  the  ordi¬ 
nary  people  gazed  upon  him  at  a  distance,  not  a 
little  admiring  his  courage,  that  he  was  not  afraid 
to  speak  to  the  judge. 

In  our  return  home  we  met  with  a  very  odd 
accident ;  which  I  cannot  forbear  relating,  be¬ 
cause  it  shows  how  desirous  all  who  know  Sir 
Roger  ai£  of  giving  him  marks  of  their  esteem. 
When  we  were  arrived  upon  the  verge  of  his 
estate,  we  stopped  at  a  little  inn,  to  rest  ourselves 
and  our  horses.  The  man  of  the  house  had,  it 
seems,  been  formerly  a  servant  in  the  knight’s 
family  ;  and  to  do  honor  to  his  old  master,  had 
some  time  since,  unknown  to  Sir  Roger,  put  him 
up  in  a  sign-post  before  the  door;  so  that  the 
knight’s  head  hung  out  upon  the  road  about  a 
week  before  he  himself  knew  anything  of  the 
matter.  As  soon  as  Sir  Roger  was  acquainted 
with  it,  finding  that  his  servant’s  indiscretion  pro¬ 
ceeded  wholly  from  affection  and  good-will,  he 
only  told  him  that  he  had  made  him  too  high  a 


172 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


compliment ;  and.  when  the  fellow  seemed  to 
think  that  could  hardly  be,  added  with  a  more 
decisive  look,  that  it  was  too  great  an  honor  for  any 
man  under  a  duke ;  but  told  him  at  the  same  time, 
that  it  might  be  altered  with  a  very  few  touches, 
and  that  he  himself  would  be  at  the  charge  of  it. 
Accordingly  they  got  a  painter,  by  the  knight’s 
directions,  to  add  a  pair  of  whiskers  to  the  face,  and 
bv  a  little  aggravation  to  the  features  to  change 
it  to  the  Saracen’s  Head.  I  should  not  have 
known  this  story,  had  not  the  inn-keeper,  upon  Sir 
Roger’s  alighting,  told  him  in  my  hearing  that  his 
honor’s  head  was  brought  last  night  with  the  alter¬ 
ations  that  he  had  ordered  to  be  made  in  it.  Upon 
this,  my  friend,  with  his  usual  cheerfulness,  re¬ 
lated  the  particulars  above-mentioned, and  ordered 
the  head  to  be  brought  into  the  room.  I  could  not 
forbear  discovering  greater  expressions  of  mirth 
than  ordinary  upon  the  appearance  of  this  mon¬ 
strous  face,  under  which,  notwithstanding  it  was 
made  to  frown  and  stare  in  a  most  extraordinary 
manner,  I  could  still  discover  a  distant  resem¬ 
blance  of  my  old  friend.  Sir  Roger,  upon  seeing 
me  laugh,  desired  me  to  tell  him  truly  it  I  thought 
if  possible  for  people  to  know  him  in  that  disguise. 
I  at  first  kept  my  usual  silence ;  but  upon  the 
knight’s  conjuring  me  to  tell  him  whether  it  was 
not  still  more  like  himself  than  a  Saracen,  I  com¬ 
posed  my  countenance  in  the  best  manner  I  could, 
and  replied,  “  that  much  might  be  said  on  both 
sides  ^ 

These  several  adventures,  with  the  knight’s  be¬ 
havior  in  them,  gave  me  as  pleasant  a  day  as 
ever  I  met  with  in  any  of  my  travels. — L. 


No.  123.]  SATURDAY,  JULY  21,  1711. 

Doctrina  sed  vim  promovet  insitam, 

Itectique  cultus  pectora  roborarxt : 

Utcunque  defecere  mores, 

Dedecorant  bene  nata  culpas. — Hor.  4,  Od.  iv,  33. 

Yet  the  best  blood  by  learning  is  refin’d, 

And  virtue  arms  the  solid  mind; 

While  vice  will  stain  the  noblest  race, 

And  the  paternal  stamp  efface. — Oldisworth. 

As  I  was  yesterday  taking  the  air  with  my 
friend  Sir  Roger,  we  were  met  by  a  fresh-colored 
ruddy  young  man  who  rode  by  us  full  speed,  with  a 
couple  of  servants  behind  him.  Upon  my  inquiry 
who  he  was,  Sir  Roger  told  me  he  was  a  young 
gentleman  of  a  considerable  estate,  who  had  been 
educated  by  a  tender  mother  that  lived  not  many 
miles  from  the  place  where  we  were.  She  is  a 
very  good  lady,  says  my  friend,  but  took  so  much 
care  of  her  son’s  health,  that  she  has  made  him 
good  for  nothing.  She  quickly  found  that  read¬ 
ing  was  bad  for  his  eyes,  and  that  writing  made 
his  head  ache.  He  was  let  loose  among  the 
woods  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  ride  on  horse¬ 
back,  o.r  to  carry  a  gun  upon  his  shoulder.  To 
be  brief,  I  found,  by  my  friend’s  account  of  him, 
that  he  had  got  a  great  stock  of  health,  and 
nothing  else  ;  and  that  if  it  were  a  man’s  business 
only  to  live,  there  would  not  be  a  more  accom¬ 
plished  young  fellow  in  the  whole  country. 

The  truth  of  it  is,  since  my  residing  in  these 
parts,  I  have  seen  and  heard  innumerable  in¬ 
stances  of  young  heirs  and  elder  brothers,  who, 
either  from  their  own  reflecting  upon  the  estates 
they  are  born  to,  and  therefore  thinking  all  other 
accomplishments  unnecessary,  or  from  hearing 
these  notions  frequently  inculcated  to  them  by 
the  flattery  of  their  servants  and  domestics,  or 
from  the  same  foolish  thought  prevailing  in  those 
who  have  the  care  of  their  education,  are  of  no 
manner  of  use  but  to  keep  up  their  families,  and 


transmit  their  lands  and  houses  in  a  line  to 
posterity. 

This  makes  me  often  think  on  a  story  I  have 
heard  of  two  friends,  which  I  shall  give  my 
readers  at  large,  under  feigned  names.  The 
moral  of  it  may,  I  hope,  be  useful,  though  there 
are  some  circumstances  which  make  it  rather 
appear  like  a  novel,  than  a  true  story. 

Eudoxus  and  Leontine  began  the  world  with 
small  estates.  They  were  both  of  them  men 
of  good  sense  and  great  virtue.  They  pro¬ 
secuted  their  studies  together  in  their  earlier 
years,  and  entered  into  such  a  friendship  as  lasted 
to  the  end  of  their  lives.  Eudoxus,  at  his  first  set¬ 
ting  out  in  the  world,  threw  himself  into  a  court, 
where  by  his  natural  endowments  and  his  ac¬ 
quired  abilities,  he  made  his  way  from  one  post 
to  another,  until  at  length  lie  had  raised  a  very 
considerable  fortune.  Leontine,  on  the  contrary, 
sought  all  opportunities  of  improving  his  mind 
by  study,  conversation,  and  travel.  He  was  not 
only  acquainted  with  all  the  sciences,  but  with 
the  most  eminent  professors  of  them  throughout 
Europe.  He  knew  perfectly  well  the  interests  of 
its  princes,  with  the  customs  and  fashions  of  their 
courts,  and  could  scarce  meet  with  the  name  of  an 
extraordinary  person  in  the  Gazette  whom  he  had 
not  either  talked  to  or  seen.  In  short,  he  had  so 
well  mixed  and  digested  his  knowledge  of  men 
and  books,  that  he  made  one  of  the  most  accom¬ 
plished  persons  of  his  age.  During  the  whole 
course  of  his  studies  and  travels  he  kept  up  a 
punctual  correspondence  with  Eudoxus,  who 
often  made  himself  acceptable  to  the  principal 
men  about  court,  by  the  intelligence  which  he 
received  from  Leontine.  When  they  were  both 
turned  of  forty  (an  age  in  which,  according  to 
Mr.  Cowley,  “  there  is  no  dallying  with  life),” 
they  determined,  pursuant  to  the  resolution  they 
had  taken  in  the  beginning  of  their  lives,  to 
retire,  and  pass  the  remainder  of  their  days  in 
the  country.  In  order  to  this,  they  both  of  them 
married  much  about  the  same  time.  Leontine, 
with  his  own  and  wife’s  fortune,  bought  a  farm 
of  three  hundred  a  year,  which  lay  within  the 
neighborhood  of  his  friend  Eudoxus,  who  had 
purchased  an  estate  of  as  many  thousands.  They 
were  both  of  them  fathers  about  the  same  time — 
Eudoxus  having  a  son  born  to  him,  and  Leontine 
a  daughter  ;  but  to  the  unspeakable  grief  of  the 
latter,  his  young  wife  (in  whom  all  his  happiness 
was  wrapt  up)  died  in  a  few  days  after  the  birth 
of  her  daughter.  His  affliction  would  have  been 
insupportable,  had  not  he  been  comforted  by  the 
daily  visits  and  conversations  of  his  friend.  A.S 
they  were  one  day  talking  together  with  their 
usual  intimacy,  Leontine,  considering  how  inca¬ 
pable  he  was  of  giving  his  daughter  a  proper 
education  in  his  own  house,  and  Eudoxus  reflect¬ 
ing  on  the  ordinary  behavior  of  a  son  who 
knows  himself  to  be  the  heir  of  a  great  estate, 
they  both  agreed  upon  an  exchange  of  children, 
namely,  that  the  boy  should  be  bred  up  with 
Leontine  as  his  son,  and  that  the  girl  should  live 
with  Eudoxus  as  his  daughter,  until  they  were 
each  of  them  arrived  at  years  of  discretion.  The 
wife  of  Eudoxus,  knowing  that  her  son  could 
not  be  so  advantageously  brought  up  as  under  the 
care  of  Leontine,  and  considering  at  the  same 
time  that  he  would  be  perpetually  under  her  own 
eye,  was  by  degrees  prevailed  upon  to  fall  in  with 
the  project.  She  therefore  took  Leonilla,  for  that 
was  the  name  of  the  girl,  and  educated  her  as  her 
own  daughter.  The  two  friends  on  each  side  had 
wrought  themselves  to  such  an  habitual  tenderness 
for  the  children  who  were  under  their  direction, 
that  each  of  them  had  the  real  passion  of  a  father, 


173 


THE  SPE 

where  the  title  was  but  imaginary.  Florio,  the 
name  of  the  young  heir  that  lived  with  Leontine, 
though  he  had  all  the  duty  and  affection  imaginable 
for  his  supposed  parent,  was  taught  to  rejoice  at  the 
sight  of  Eudoxus,  who  visited  his  friend  very  fre¬ 
quently,  and  was  dictated  by  his  natural  affection, 
as  well  as  by  the  rules  of  prudence,  to  make  himself 
esteemed  and  beloved  by  Florio.  The  boy  was 
now  old  enough  to  know  his  supposed  father’s 
circumstances,  and  that  therefore  he  had  to  make 
his  way  in  the  world  by  his  own  industry.  This 
consideration  grew  stronger  in  him  every  day,  and 
produced  so  good  an  effect,  that  he  applied  him¬ 
self  with  more  than  ordinary  attention  to  the 
pursuits  of  everything  which  Leontine  recom¬ 
mended  to  him.  His  natural  abilities,  which 
were  very  good,  assisted  by  the  directions  of  so 
excellent  a  counselor,  enabled  him  to  make  a 
quicker  progress  than  ordinary  through  all  the 
parts  of  his  education.  Before  he  was  twenty 
years  of  age,  having  finished  his  studies  and  exer¬ 
cises  with  great  applause,  he  was  removed  from 
the  university  to  the  inns  of  court,  where  there  are 
very  few  that  make  themselves  considerable  profi¬ 
cients  in  the  studies  of  the  place,  who  know  they 
shall  arrive  at  great  estates  without  them.  This 
was  not  Florio’s  case  ;  lie  found  that  three  hundred 
a  year  was  but  a  poor  estate  for  Leontine  and  him¬ 
self  to  live  upon,  so  that  he  studied  without  in¬ 
termission  till  he  gained  a  very  good  insight  into 
the  constitution  and  laws  of  his  country. 

I  should  have  told  my  reader  that,  -while  Florio 
lived  at  the  house  of  his  foster-father,  he  was 
always  an  acceptable  guest  in  the  family  of  Eu¬ 
doxus,  where  he  became  acquainted  with  Leonilla 
from  her  infancy.  His  acquaintance  with  her  by 
degrees  grew  into  love,  which  in  a  mind  trained 
up  in  all  the  sentiments  of  honor  and  virtue  be¬ 
came  a  very  uneasy  passion.  He  despaired  of 
gaining  an  heiress  of  so  great  a  fortune  and 
would  rather  have  died  than  attempted  it  by  any 
indirect  methods.  Leonilla,  who  was  a  woman  of 
the  greatest  beauty,  joined  with  the  greatest 
modesty,  entertained  at  the  same  time  a  secret 
passion  for  Florio,  but  conducted  herself  with  so 
much  prudence  that  she  never  gave  him  the  least 
intimation  of  it.  Florio  was  now  engaged  in  all 
those  arts  and  improvements  that  are  proper  to 
raise  a  man’s  private  fortune  and  give  him  a 
figure  in  his  country,  but  secretly  tormented  with 
that  passion  which  burns  with  the  greatest  fury 
in  a  virtuous  and  noble  heart,  when  he  received  a 
sudden  summons  from  Leontine  to  repair  to  him 
in  the  country  the  next  day  :  for  it  seems  Eudoxus 
was  so  filled  with  the  report  of  his  son’s  reputa¬ 
tion,  that  he  could  no  longer  withhold  making 
himselt  known  to  him.  The  morning  after  his 
arrival  at  the  house  of  his  supposed  father,  Leon¬ 
tine  told  him  that  Eudoxus  had  something  of 
great  importance  to  communicate  to  him  ;  upon 
which  the  good  man  embraced  him,  and  wept. 
Florio  was  no  sooner  arrived  at  the  great  house  that 
stood  in  his  neighborhood,  but  Eudoxus  took  him 
by  the  hand,  after  the  first  salutes  were  over,  and 
conducted  him  into  his  closet.  He  there  opened 
to  him  the  whole  secret  of  his  parentage  and  edu¬ 
cation,  concluding  after  this  manner :  “  I  have  no  I 
other  way  left  of  acknowledging  my  gratitude  to 
Leontine,  than  by  marrying  you  to  his  daughter. 

He  shall  not  lose  the  pleasure  of  being  your  father 
by  the  discovery  I  have  made  to  you.  Leonilla, 
too,  shall  be  still  my  daughter :  her  filial  piety, 
though  misplaced,  has  been  so  exemplary,  that  it 
deserves  the  greatest  reward  I  can  confer  upon  it. 
You  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  great 
estate  fall  to  you,  which  you  would  have  lost  the 
relish  of  had  you  known  yourself  born  to  it. 


CTATOR. 

Continue  only  to  deserve  it  in  the  same  manner 
you  did  before  you  possessed  it.  1  have  left  your 
mother  in  the  next  room.  Her  heart  yearns  to¬ 
ward  you.  She  is  making  the  same  discoveries 
to  Leonilla  which  I  have  made  to  yourself.” 
Florio  was  so  overwhelmed  with  this  profusion 
of  happiness,  that  he  was  not  able  to  make  a 
reply>  but  threw  himself  down  at  his  father’s  feet, 
and,  amidst  a  flood  of  tears,  kissed  and  embraced 
his  knees,  asking  his  blessing,  and  expressing  in 
dumb  show  those  sentiments  of  love,  duty,  and 
gratitude,  that  were  too  big  for  utterance.  To 
conclude,  the  happy  pair  were  married,  and  half 
Eudoxus  s  estate  settled  upon  them.  Leontine 
and  Eudoxus  passed  the  remainder  of  their  lives 
together :  and  receiving  in  the  dutiful  and  affec¬ 
tionate  behavior  of  Florio  and  Leonilla  the  just 
recompense,  as  well  as  the  natural  effects,  of  that 
care  which  they  had  bestowed  upon  them  in 
their  education. — L. 


Ho.  124. J  MONDAY,  JULY  23,  1711. 

A  great  book  is  a  great  evil. 

A  man  who  publishes  his  works  in  a  volume, 
has  an  infinite  advantage  over  one  who  communi¬ 
cates  his  writings  to  the  world  in  loose  tracts  and 
single  pieces.  We  do  not  expect  to  meet  with 
anything  in  a  bulky  volume,  till  after  some  heavy 
preamble,  and  several  words  of  course,  to  prepare 
the  reader  for  what  follows.  Nay,  authors  have 
established  it  as  a  kind  of  rule,  that  a  man  ought 
to  be  dull  sometimes  ;  as  the  most  severe  reader 
makes  allowances  for  many  rests  and  nodding- 
places  in  a  voluminous  writer.  This  gives  occa¬ 
sion  to  the  famous  Greek  proverb  which  I  have 
chosen  for  my  motto,  that,  “  a  great  book  is  a 
great  evil.” 

On  the  contrary,  those  who  publish  their 
thoughts  in  distinct  sheets,  and  as  it  were  by 
piecemeal,  have  none  of  these  advantages.  We 
must  immediately  fall  into  our  subject,  and  treat 
every  part  of  it  in  a  lively  manner,  or  our  papers 
are  thrown  by  as  dull  and  insipid.  Our  matter 
must  lie  close  together,  and  either  be  wholly  new 
in  itself,  or  in  the  turn  it  receives  from  our  ex¬ 
pressions.  Were  the  books  of  our  best  authors 
thus  to  be  retailed  by  the  public,  and  every  page 
submitted  to  the  taste  of  forty  or  fifty  thousand 
readers,  I  am  afraid  we  should  complain  of  many 
flat  expressions,  trivial  observations,  beaten  to¬ 
pics,  and  common  thoughts,  which  go  off  very 
well  in  the  lump.  At  the  same  time,  notwith¬ 
standing  some  papers  may  be  made  up  of  broken 
hints  and  irregular  sketches,  it  is  often  expected 
that  every  sheet  should  have  been  a  kind  of  trea¬ 
tise,  and  make  out  in  thought  what  it  wants  in 
bulk  ;  that  a  point  of  humor  should  be  worked  up 
in  all  its  parts  ;  and  a  subject  touched  upon  in  its 
most  essential  articles,  without  the  repetitions, 
tautologies,  and  enlargements,  that  are  indulged 
in  longer  labors.  The  ordinary  writers  of  moral¬ 
ity  prescribe  to  their  readers  after  the  Galenic 
way  ;  their  medicines  are  made  up  in  large  quan¬ 
tities.  An  essay- writer  must  practice  in  the  che¬ 
mical  method,  and  give  the  virtue  of  a  full  draught 
in  a  few  drops.  Were  all  books  reduced  thus  to 
their  quintessence,  many  a  bulky  author  would 
make  his  appearance  in  a  penny-paper.  There 
would  be  scarce  such  a  thing  in  nature  as  a  folio  ; 
the  works  of  an  age  would  be  contained  on  a  few 
shelves  ;  not  to  mention  millions  of  volumes  that 
would  be  utterly  annihilated. 

I  cannot  think  that  the  difficulty  of  furnishing 
out  separate  papers  of  this  nature  has  hindered 
authors  from  communicating  their  thoughts  to  the 


174 


THE  .SPECTATOR. 


world  after  such  a  manner :  though  I  must  con¬ 
fess  I  am  amazed  that  the  press  should  be  only 
made  use  of  in  this  way  by  news-writers,  and  the 
zealots  of  parties  :  as  if  it  were  not  more  advan¬ 
tageous  to  mankind,  to  be  instructed  in  wisdom 
and  virtue,  than  in  politics  ;  and  to  be  made  good 
fathers,  husbands  and  sons,  than  counselors  ancl 
statesmen.  Had  the  philosophers  and  great  men 
of  antiquity,  who  took  so  much  pains  in  order  to 
instruct  mankind,  and  leave  the  world  wiser  and 
better  than  they  found  it ;  had  they,  I  say,  been 
possessed  of  the  art  of  printing,  there  is  no  ques¬ 
tion  but  they  would  have  made  such  an  advantage 
of  it,  in  dealing  out  their  lectures  to  the  public. 
Our  common  prints*  would  be  of  great  use  were  they 
thus  calculated  to  diffuse  good  sense  through  the 
bulk  of  a  people,  to  clear  up  their  understandings, 
animate  their  minds  with  virtue,  dissipate  the 
sorrows  of  a  heavy  heart,  or  unbend  the  mind 
from  its  more  severe  employments,  with  innocent 
amusements.  When  knowledge,  instead  of  being 
bound  up  in  books,  and  kept  in  libraries  and  re¬ 
tirements,  is  thus  obtruded  upon  the  public  ;  when 
it  is  canvassed  in  every  assembly,  and  exposed 
upon  every  table,  I  cannot  forbear  reflecting  upon 
that  passage  in  the  Proverbs:  “  Wisdom  cneth 
without,  she  uttereth  her  voice  m  the  streets  ;  she 
crieth  in  the  chief  place  of  concourse,  m  the  open¬ 
ings  of  the  gates.  In  the  city  she  uttereth  her 
words,  saying,  How  long,  ye  simple  ones,  will  ye 
love  simplicity  ?  And  the  scorners  delight  m  their 
scorning  ?  And  fools  hate  knowledge  . 

The  many  letters  which  come  to  me  from  per¬ 
sons  of  the  best  sense  in  both  sexes  (for  I  may 
pronounce  their  characters  from  their  way  of  wri¬ 
ting)  do  not  a  little  encourage  me  in  the  prosecu¬ 
tion  of  this  my  undertaking:  beside  that  my 
bookseller  tells  me,  the  demand  for  these  my  pa¬ 
pers  increases  daily.  It  is  at  his  instance  that  I 
shall  continue  my  rural  speculations  to  the  end  of 
this  month  ;  several  having  made  up  separate  sets 
of  them,  as  they  have  done  of  those  relating  to 
wit,  to  operas,  to  points  of  morality,  or  subjects 

of  humor.  ,  ,  T 

I  am  not  at  all  mortified,  ^hen  sometimes  I  see 

my  works  thrown  aside  by  men  of  no  taste  or 
learning.  There  is  a  kind  of  heaviness  and  igno¬ 
rance  that  hangs  upon  the  minds  of  ordinary  men, 
which  is  too  thick  for  knowledge  to  break 
through.  Their  souls  are  not  to  be  enlightened. 

- -Nox  atra  cava  circumvolat  umbra. 

Virg.,  iEn.  u,  360. 


three  of  these  dark  undermining  vermin,  and  in 
tend  to  make  a  string  of  them,  in  order  to  hang 
them  up  in  one  of  my  papers,  as  an  example  to 
all  such  voluntary  moles. 


Black  night  imvraps  them  in  her  gloomy  shade. 

To  these  I  must  apply  the  fable  of  the  mole 
that,  after  having  consulted  many  oculists  for  the 
bettering  of  his  sight,  was  at  last  provided  with 
a  good  pair  of  spectacles  ;  but  upon  his  endeavor- 
in  «■  to  make  use  of  them,  his  mother  told  him 
very  prudently,  “That  spectacles,  though  they 
might  help  the  eye  of  a  man,  could  be  of  no  use 
to  a  mole.”  It  is  not  therefore  for  the  benefit  ot 
moles  that  I  publish  these  my  daily  essays. 

But  beside  such  as  are  moles  through  ignorance, 
there  are  others  who  are  moles  through  envy.  As 
it  is  said  in  the  Latin  proverb,  “  That  one  man  is 
a  wolf  to  another;”  so,  generally  speaking,  one 
author  is  a  mole  to  another.  It  is  impossible  for 
them  to  discover  beauties  in  one  another’s  works  ; 
they  have  eyes  only  for  spots  and  blemishes :  they 
can  indeed  see  the  light,  as  it  is  said  of  the  ani¬ 
mals  which  are  their  namesakes,  but  the  idea  of 
it  is  painful  to  them  ;  they  immediately  shut  their 
eyes  upon  it,  and  withdraw  themselves  into  a 
willful  obscurity.  I  have  already  caught  two  or 

*  Newspapers. 


Ho.  125.]  TUESDAY,  JULY  24,  1711. 

Ne,  pueri,  ne  tanta  animis  assuescite  bclla : 

Neu  patriae  validas  in  viscera  vertite  vires. 

V irg.,  iEn.  vi,  832. 

This  thirst  of  kindred  blood,  my  sons,  detest, 

Nor  turn  your  force  against  your  country  s  breast. 

Dryden. 

My  worthy  friend  Sir  Roger,  when  we  aie  talk 
ing  of  the  malice  of  parties,  very  frequently  tells 
us  an  accident  that  happened  to  him  when  lie  was 
a  school-boy  which  was  at  the  time  when  the  feuds 
ran  high  between  the  Round-heads  and  Cavaliers. 
This  worthy  knight,  being  then  but  a  stripling, 
had  occasion  to  inquire  which  was  the  wav  to 
St.  Anne’s-lane  ;  upon  which  the  person  whom 
he  spoke,  instead  of  answering  the  question, 
called  him  a  young  popish  cur,  and  asked  him 
who  had  made  Anne  a  saint?  The  boy  being  in 
some  confusion,  inquired  of  the  next  he  met> 
which  was  the  way  to  Anne’s-lane  ;  but  was  called 
a  prick-eared  cur  for  his  pains,  and  instead  of  be- 
in0,  shown  the  way,  was  told  that  she  had  been  a 
saint  before  he  was  born,  and  would  be  one  after 
he  was  hanged.  “  Upon  this,  ’  says  Sir  Roger, 

“  I  did  not  think  fit  to  repeat  the  former  question, 
but  going  into  evgry  lane  of  the  neighborhood, 
asked  what  they  called  the  name  of  that  lane. 
By  which  ingenious  artifice  he  found  out  the 
place  he  inquired  after,  without  giving  offense  to 
any  party.  Sir  Roger  generally  closes  tins  nar¬ 
rative  with  reflections  on  the  mischief  that  pa^- 
ties  do  in  the  country  ;  how  they  spoil  good  neigh¬ 
borhood,  and  make  honest  gentlemen  hate  one 
another  ;  beside  that  they  manifestly  tend  to  the 
prejudice  of  the  land-tax,  and  the  destruction  of 

the  game.  ,  . 

There  cannot  be  a  greater  judgment  befall  a 
country  than  such  a  dreadful  spirit  of  division  as 
rends  a  government  into  distinct  people,  and 
makes  them  greater  strangers  and  more  averse  to 
one  another,  than  if  they  were  actually  two  differ¬ 
ent  nations.  The  effects  of  such  a  division  are 
pernicious  to  the  last  degree,  not  only  with  regard 
to  those  advantages  which  they  give  the  common 
enemy,  but  to  those  private  evils  which  they  pro¬ 
duce  in  the  heart  of  almost  every  particular  per¬ 
son.  This  influence  is  very  fatal,  both  to  men  s 
morals  and  their  understandings ;  it  sinks  the 
virtue  of  a  nation,  and  not  only  so,  but  destroys 

even  common  sense.  . 

A  furious  party  spirit,  when  it  rages  m  its  full 
violence,  exerts  itself  in  civil  war  and  bloodshed ; 
and  when  it  is  under  its  greatest  restraints  natur¬ 
ally  breaks  out  in  falsehood,  detraction,  calumny, 
and  a  partial  administration  of  justice.  In  a 
word,  it  fills  a  nation  with  spleen  and  rancor, 
and  extinguishes  all  the  seeds  of  good-nature, 
compassion,  and  humanity.  , 

Plutarch  says  very  finely,  “  that  a  man  should 
not  allow  himself  to  hate  even  his  enemies  ;  be¬ 
cause,”  says  he,  “if  you  indulge  this  passion  on 
some  occasions,  it  will  rise  of  itself  m  others  ;  if 
you  hate  your  enemies,  you  will  contract  such  a 
vicious  habit  of  mind,  as  by  degrees  will  break 
out  upon  those  who  are  your  friends,  or  those  who 
are  indifferent  to  you.”  I  might  here  observe  how 
admirably  this  precept  of  morality  (which  derives 
the  malignity  of  hatred  from  the  passion  itself, 
and  not  from  its  object)  answers  to  that  great 
rule  which  was  dictated  to  the  world  about  a 


THE  SPEC 

hundred  years  before  this  philosopher  wrote;*  but 
instead  of  that,  I  shall  only  take  notice,  with  a 
real  grief  of  heart,  that  the  minds  of  many  good 
men  among  us  appear  soured  with  party  princi¬ 
ples,  and  alienated  from  one  another  in  such  a 
manner  as  seems  to  me  altogether  inconsistent 
with  the  dictates  either  of  reason  or  religion.  Zeal 
for  a  public  cause  is  apt  to  breed  passions  in  the 
hearts  of  virtuous  persons,  to  which  the  regard  of 
their  own  private  interest  would  never  have  be¬ 
trayed  them. 

If  this  party-spirit  has  so  ill  an  effect  on  our 
morals,  it  has  likewise  a  very  great  one  upon  our 
judgments.  We  often  hear  a  poor  insipid  paper 
or  pamphlet  cried  up,  and  sometimes  a  noble  piece 
deprecated,  by  those  who  are  of  a  different  prin¬ 
ciple  from  the  author.  One  who  is  actuated  by 
this  spirit  is  almost  under  an  incapacity  of  dis¬ 
cerning  either  real  blemishes  or  beauties.  A  man 
of  merit  in  a  different  principle,  is  like  an  object 
seen  in  two  different  mediums,  that  appears  crook¬ 
ed  or  broken,  however  straight  and  entire  it  may 
be  in  itself.  For  this  reason  there  is  scarce  a 
person  of  any  figure  in  England,  who  does  not  go 
by  two  contrary  characters,  as  opposite  to  one 
another  as  light  and  darkness.  Knowledge  and 
learning  suffer  in  a  particular  manner  from  this 
strange  prejudice,  which  at  present  prevails  among 
all  ranks  and  degrees  in  the  British  nation.  As 
men  formerly  became  eminent  in  learned  societies 
by  their  parts  and  acquisitions,  they  now  dis¬ 
tinguished  themselves  by  the  warmth  and  violence 
with  which  they  espouse  their  respective  parties. — 
Books  are  valued  upon  the  like  considerations. 

An  abusive,  scurrilous  style  passes  for  satire,  and 
a  dull  scheme  of  party  notions  is  called  fine  writing. 

There  is  one  piece  of  sophistry  practiced  by 
both  sides — and  that  is,  the  taking  any  scandal¬ 
ous  story  that  has  been  ever  whispered  or  invented 
°f  a  private  man  for  a  known  undoubted  truth,  and 
raising  suitable  speculations  upon  it.  Calumnies 
that  have  never  been  proved,  or  have  been  often 
refuted,  are  the  ordinary  postulatums  of  these  in¬ 
famous  scribblers,  upon  which  they  proceed  as 
upon  first’  principles  granted  by  all  men,  though 
in  their  hearts  they  know  they  are  false,  or  at  best 
very  doubtful.  When  they  have  laid  these  foun¬ 
dations  of  scurrility,  it  is  no  wonder  that  their 
superstructure  is  every  way  answerable  to  them. 

If  this  shameless  practice  of  the  present  age  en¬ 
dures  much  longer,  praise  and  reproach  will  cease 
to  be  motives  of  action  in  good  men. 

There  are  certain  periods  of  time  in  all  govern¬ 
ments,  when  this  inhuman  spirit  prevails.  Italy 
was  long  torn  in  pieces  by  the  Guelfs  and  Ghibel- 
lines,  and  France  by  those  who  were  for  and  against 
the  League:  but  it  is  very  unhappy  for  a  man  to 
be  born  in  such  a  stormy  and  tempestuous  season. 

It  is  the  restless  ambition  of  artful  men  that  thus 
breaks  a  people  into  factions,  and  draws  several 
well-meaning  persons  to  their  interest  by  a  spe¬ 
cious  concern  for  their  country.  How  many 
honest  minds  are  filled  with  uncharitable  and 
barbarous  notions,  out  of  their  zeal  for  the  public 
goodi  What  cruelties  and  outrages  would  they 
not  commit  against  men  of  an  adverse  party, 
whom,  they  would  honor  and  esteem,  if,  instead 
of  considering  them  as  they  are  represented,  they 
knew  them  as  they  are?  Thus  are  persons  of  the 
greatest  probity  seduced  into  shameful  errors  and 
prejudices,  and  made  bad  men  even  by  that  noblest 
of  principles,  “the  love  of  their  country.”  I  can¬ 
not  here  forbear  mentioning  the  famous  Spanish 
proverb,  “If  there  were  neither  fools  nor  knaves 
in  the  world,  all  people  would  be  of  one  mind.” 


TATOR.  175 

For  my  own  part,  I  could  heartily  wish  that  all 
honest  men  would  enter  into  an  association,  for 
the  support  ot  one  another  against  the  endeavors 
of  those  whom  they  ought  to  look  upon  as  their 
common  enemies,  whatsoever  side  they  may  be¬ 
long  to.  Were  there  such  an  honest  body  of  neu¬ 
tral  forces,  we  should  never  see  the  worst  of  men 
in  great  figures  ot  life,  because  they  are  useful  to  a 
party ;  nor  the  best  unregarded,  because  they  are 
above  practicing  those  methods  which  would  be 
grateful  to  their  faction.  We  should  then  single 
every  criminal  out  of  the  herd,  and  hunt  him 
down,  however  formidable  and  overgrown  he 
might  appear:  on  the  contrary,  we  should  shelter 
distressed  innocence,  and  defend  virtue,  however 
beset  with  contempt  or  ridicule,  envy  or  defama¬ 
tion.  In  short,  we  should  not  any  longer  regard 
our  fellow-subjects  as  whigs  or  tories,  but  should 
make  the  man  of  merit  our  friend,  and  the  villain 
our  enemy. — 0 


No.  126.  ]  WEDNESDAY,  JULY  25,  1711. 

Tros  Rutulusve  fuat,  nullo  discrimine  liabebo. 

Virg.  uEu.,  x,  108. 

Rutulians,  Trojans,  are  the  same  to  me. — Dryden. 

In  my  yesterday’s  paper  I  proposed,  that  the 
honest  men  of  all  parties  should  enter  into  a  kind 
of  association  for  the  defense  of  one  another,  and 
the  confusion  of  their  common  enemies.  As  it  is 
designed  this  neutral  body  should  act  with  a  re¬ 
gard  to  nothing  but  truth  and  equity,  and  divest 
themselves  of  the  little  heats  and  prepossessions 
that  cleave  to  parties  of  all  kinds,  I  have  prepared 
for  them  the  following  form  of  an  association, 
which  may  express  their  intentions  in  the  most 
plain  and  simple  manner: 

“We  whose  names  are  hereunto  subscribed  do 
solemnly  declare,  that  we  do  in  our  consciences 
believe  two  and  two  make  four;  and  that  we  shall 
adjudge  any  man  whatsoever  to  be  our  enemy  who 
endeavors  to  persuade  us  to  the  contrary.  We  are 
likewise  ready  to  maintain  with  the  hazard  of  all 
that  is  near  and  dear  to  us,  that  six  is  less  than 
seven  in  all  times  and  in  all  places ;  and  that  ten 
will  not  be  more  three  years  hence  than  it  is  at 
present.  We  do  also  firmly  declare,  that  it  is  our 
resolution  as  long  as  we  live  to  call  black  black, 
and  white  white.  And  we  shall  upon  all  occasions 
oppose  such  persons  that  upon  any  day  of  the 
year  shall  call  black  white,  or  white  black,  with 
the  utmost  peril  of  our  lives  and  fortunes.” 

Were  there  such  a  combination  of  honest  men, 
who  without  any  regard  to  places  would  endea¬ 
vor  to  extirpate  all  such  furious  zealots  as  would 
sacrifice  one  half  their  country  to  the  passion  and 
interest  of  the  other ;  as  also  such  infamous  hypo¬ 
crites  that  are  for  promoting  their  own  advantage 
under  color  of  the  public  good;  with  all  the  pro¬ 
fligate  immoral  retainers  to  each  side,  that  have 
nothing  to  recommend  them  but  an  implicit  sub¬ 
mission  to  their  leaders:  we  should  soon  see  that 
furious  party-spirit  extinguished,  which  may  in 
time  expose  us  to  the  derision  and  contempt  of  all 
the  nations  about  us. 

A  member  of  this  society  that  would  thus  care¬ 
fully  employ  himself  in  making  room  for  merit, 
by  throwing  down  the  worthless  and  depraved 
part  of  mankind  from  those  conspicuous  stations 
of  life  to  which  they  have  been  sometimes  ad¬ 
vanced,  and  all  this  without  any  regard  to  his 
private  interest,  would  be  no  small  benefactor  to 
his  country. 

I  remember  to  have  read  in  Diodorus  Siculus  an 
account  of  a  very  active  little  animal,  which  I 
think  he  calls  the  ichneumon,  that  makes  it  the 
whole  business  of  his  life  to  break  the  eggs  of  the 


*  Viz :  by  Jesus  Christ.  See  Luke,  yi,  27 — 32,  etc. 


176 


THE  SPECTATOR 


crocodile,  which,  he  is  always  in  search  after. 
This  instinct  is  the  more  remarkable,  because  the 
ichneumon  never  feeds  upon  the  eggs  he  has 
broken,  nor  any  other  way  finds  his  account  in 
them  Were  it  not  for  the  incessant  labors  of 
this  industrious  animal,  Egypt,  says  the  historian, 
would  be  overrun  with  crocodiles,  for  the  Egyp 
tians  are  so  far  from  destroying  those  pernicious 
creatures,  that  they  worship  them  as  gods. 

If  we  look  into  the  behavior  of  ordinary  parti¬ 
sans,  we  shall  find  them  far  from  resembling  this 
disinterested  animal;  and  rather  acting  after  the 
example  of  the  wild  Tartars,  who  are  ambitious 
of  destroying  a  man  of  the  most  extraordinary 
parts  and  accomplishments,  as  thinking  that  upon 
his  decease  the  same  talents,  whatever  post  they 
qualified  him  for,  enter  of  course  into  his  de¬ 
stroyer. 

As  in  the  whole  train  of  my  speculations  1  nave 
endeavored,  as  much  as  I  am  able,  to  extinguish 
that  pernicious  spirit  of  passion  and  prejudice 
which  rages  with  the  same  violence  in  all  parties, 

I  am  stilf  the  more  desirous  of  doing  some  good 
in  this  particular,  because  I  observe  that  the  spirit 
of  party  reigns  more  in  the  country  than  in  the 
town.  It  here  contracts  a  kind  of  brutality  and 
rustic  fierceness,  to  which  men  of  a  politer  con¬ 
versation  are  wholly  strangers.  It  extends  itself 
even  to  the  return  of  the  bow  and  the  hat ;  and  at 
the  same  time  that  the  heads  of  parties  preseive 
toward  one  another  an  outward  show  of  good¬ 
breeding,  and  keep  up  a  perpetual  intercourse  of 
civilities,  their  tools  that  are  dispersed  m  these 
outlying  parts  will  not  so  much  as  mingle  together 
at  a  cock-match.  This  humor  fills  the  country 
with  several  periodical  meetings  of  Whig  jockeys 
and  Tory  fox-hunters ;  not  to  mention  the  innu¬ 
merable  curses,  frowns,  and  whispers  it  produces 
at  a  quarter-sessions.  . 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  have  observed  m  any 
of  my  former  papers  that  my  friends  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley  and  Sir  Andrew  Freeport  are  of  different 
principles— the  first  of  them  inclined  to  the  land¬ 
ed  and  the  other  to  the  monied  interest.  .  This 
humor  is  so  moderate  in  each  of  them,  that  it  pro¬ 
ceeds  no  farther  than  to  an  agreeable  raillery, 
which  very  often  diverts  the  rest  of  the  club.  1 
find,  however,  that  the  knight  is  a  much  stronger 
Tory  in  the  country  than  in  town,  which,  as  he 
has  told  me  in  my  ear,  is  absolutely  necessary  for 
the  keeping  up  his  interest.  In  all  our  journey 
from  London  to  his  house,  we  did  not  so  much  as 
bait  at  a  Whig  inn ;  or  if  by  chance  the  coachman 
stopped  at  a  wrong  place,  one  of  Sir  Roger’s  serv¬ 
ants  would  ride  up  to  his  master  full  speed,  and 
whisper  to  him  that  the  master  of  the  house  was 
against  such  a  one  in  the  last  election.  This  often 
betrayed  us  into  hard  beds  and  bad  cheer  ,  foi  we 
were  not  so  inquisitive  about  the  inn  as  the  inn¬ 
keeper;  and  provided  our  landlord’s  principles 
were  sound,  did  not  take  any  notice  of  the  stale¬ 
ness  of  his  provisions.  This  I  found  still  the 
more  inconvenient,  because  the  better  the  host 
was,  the  worse  generally  were  his  accommoda¬ 
tions  ;  the  fellow  knowing  very  well  that  those 
who  were  his  friends  would  take  up  with  coarse 
diet  and  a  hard  lodging.  For  these  reasons,  all 
the  while  I  was  upon  the  road  I  dreaded  entering 
into  a  house  of  any  one  that  Sir  Roger  had  ap¬ 
plauded  for  an  honest  man. 

Since  my  stay  at  Sir  Roger’s  in  the  country,  1 
daily  find  more  instances  of  this  narrow  paity 
humor.  Being  upon  the  bowling-green  at  a  neigh- 
boriim  market-town  the  other  day  (for  that  is  the 
place °wliere  the  gentlemen  of  one  side  meet  once 
a  week),  1  observed  a  stranger  among  them  of  a 
better  presence  and  genteeler  behavior  than  ordi¬ 


nary;  but  was  much  surprised  that,  notwithstand¬ 
ing  he  was  a  very  fair  better,  nobody  would  take 
him  up.  But  upon  inquiry,  I  found  that  he  was 
one  who  had  given  a  disagreeable  vote  in  a  former 
parliament,  for  which  reason  there  was  not  a  man 
upon  the  bowling-green  who  would  have  so  much 
correspondence  with  him  as  to  win  his  money  of 

him.  . 

Among  other  instances  of  this  nature,  1  must 

not  omit  one  which  concerns  myself.  Will  Wim¬ 
ble  was  the  other  day  relating  several  strange 
stories  that  he  had  picked  up,  nobody  knows 
where,  of  a  certain  great  man;  and  upon  my  star- 
ing  at  him,  as  one  that  was  surprised  to  hear  such 
things  in  the  country— which  had  never  been  so 
much  as  whispered  in  the  town  Will  stopped 
short  in  the  thread  of  his  discourse,  and  after  din¬ 
ner  asked  my  friend  Sir  Roger  in  his  ear  if  he  was 
sure  that  I  was  not  a  fanatic.  . 

It  o-ives  me  a  serious  concern  to  see  such  a  spirit 
of  dissension  in  the  country ;  not  only  as  it  de¬ 
stroys  virtue  and  common  sense,  and  renders  us 
in  a  manner  barbarians  toward  one  another,  but 
as  it  perpetuates  our  animosities,  widens  our 
breaches,  and  transmits  our  present  passions  and 
prejudices  to  our  posterity.  For  my  own  part,  1 
am  sometimes  afraid  that  I  discover  the  seeds  of  a 
civil  war  in  these  our  divisions;  and  therefore  cajn- 
not  but  bewail,  as  in  their  first  principles,  the 
miseries  and  calamities  of  our  children.  0 


No.  127.]  THURSDAY,  JULY  26,  1711. 

_ Quantum  est  in  rebus  inane !— Pers.  Sat.,  i,  1. 

How  much  of  emptiness  we  find  in  things! 

It  is  our  custom  at  Sir  Roger’s,  upon  the  com¬ 
ing  in  of  the  post,  to  sit  about  a  pot  of  coffee,  and 
hear  the  old  knight  read  Dyer’s  Letter ;  which  he 
does  witli  his  spectacles  upon  his  nose,  and  in  an 
audible  voice,  smiling  very  often  at  those  little 
strokes  of  satire  which  are  so  frequent  in  the 
writings  of  that  author.  I  afterward  communi¬ 
cate  to  the  knight  such  packets  as  I  receive  under 
the  quality  of  Spectator.  The  following  letter 
chancing  to  please  him  more  than  ordinary,  I  shall 
publish  it  at  his  request. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“You  have  diverted  the  town  almost  a  whole 
month  at  the  expense  of  the.  country;  it  is  now- 
high  time  that  you  should  give  the  country  their 
revenge.  Since  your  withdrawing  from  this 
place,  the  fair  sex  are  run  into  great  extrava¬ 
gances  Their  petticoats,  which  began  to  heave 
and  swell  before  you  left  us,  are  now  blown  up 
into  a  most  enormous  concave,  and  rise  every  day 
more  and  more.  In  short,  Sir,  since  our  women 
know  themselves  to  be  out  of  the  eye  of  the  bpec- 
tator,  they  will  be  kept  within  no  compass.  You 
praised  them  a  little  too  soon,  for  the  modesty  ot 
their  head-dresses;  for  as  the  humor  of  a  sick  per¬ 
son  is  often  driven  out  of  one  limb  into  another, 
their  superfluity  of  ornaments,  instead  of  being 
entirely  banished,  seems  only  fallen  from  their 
heads  upon  their  lower  parts.  What  they  have 
lost  in  height  they  make  up  in  breadth,  and  con¬ 
trary  to  all  rules  of  architecture,  widen  the  foun¬ 
dations  at  the  same  time  that  they  shorten  the 
superstructure.  Were  they,  like  Spanish  jennets, 
to  impregnate  by  the  wind,  they  could  not  have 
thought  on  a  more  proper  invention.  But  as  we 
do  not  hear  any  particular  use  in  this  petticoat,  or 
that  it  contains  anything  more  than  what  was  sup¬ 
posed  to  be  in  those  of  scantier  make,  we  are 

wonderfully  at  a  loss  about  it. 

“The  women  give  out  in  defense  of  these  wide 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


bottoms,  that  they  are  airy,  and  very  proper  for 
the  season;  but  this  I  look  upon  to  be  only  a  pre¬ 
tense,  and  a  piece  of  art,  for  it  is  well  known  we 
have  not  had  a  more  moderate  summer  these  many 
years,  so  that  it  is  certain  the  heat  they  complain 
of  cannot  be  in  the  weather.  Beside,  I  would  fain 
ask  these  tender-constitutioned  ladies,  why  they 
should  require  more  cooling  than  their  mothers 
before  them? 

“I  find  several  speculative  persons  are  of  opinion 
that  our  sex  has  of  late  years  been  very  saucy, 
and  that  the  hoop-petticoat  is  made  use  of  to  keep 
us  at  a  distance.  It  is  most  certain  that  a  wo¬ 
man’s  honor  cannot  be  better  intrenched  than 
after  this  manner  in  circle  within  circle,  amidst 
such  a  variety  of  outworks  and  lines  of  circum- 
vallation.  A  female  who  is  thus  invested  in 
whalebone,  is  sufficiently  secured  against  the  ap¬ 
proaches  of  an  ill-bred  fellow,  who  might  as  well 
think  of  Sir  George  Etherege’s  way  of  making 
'Love  in  a  Tub,’*  as  in  the  midst  of  so  many 
hoops. 

"Among  these  various  conjectures  there  are  men 
of  superstitious  tempers,  who  look  upon  the  hoop- 
petticoat  as  a  kind  of  prodigy.  Some  will  have 
it  that  it  portends  the  downfall  of  the  French 
king,  and  observe  that  the  farthingal  appeared  in 
England  a  little  before  the  ruin  of  the  Spanish 
monarchy.!  Others  are  of  opinion  that  it  foretells 
battle  and  bloodshed,  and  believe  it  of  the  same 
prognostication  as  the  tail  of  a  blazing  star.  For 
ray  part,  I  am  apt  to  think  it  is  a  sign  that  multi¬ 
tudes  are  coming  into  the  world  rather  than  ffoin? 
out  of  it.  8 

"The  first  time  I  saw  a  lady  dressed  in  one  of 
these  petticoats,  I  could  not  lorbear  blaming  her 
in  my  own  thoughts  for  walking  abroad  when  she 
was  'so  near  her  time,’  but  soon  recovered  myself 
out  of  my  error,  when  I  found  all  the  modish  part 
ot  the  sex  'as  far  gone’  as  herself.  It  is  generally 
thought  some  crafty  women  have  thus  betrayed 
their  companions  into  hoops,  that  they  might 
make  them  accessory  to  their  own  concealments, 
and  by  that  means  escape  the  censure  of  the  world: 
as  warv  generals  have  sometimes  dressed  two  or 
three  dozen  of  their  friends  in  their  own  habit, 
that  they  might  not  draw  upon  themselves  any 
particular  attacks  from  the  enemy.  The  strutting 
petticoat  smooths  all  distinctions,  levels  the  mothe* 
with  the  daughter,  and  sets  maids  and  matrons, 
wives  and  widows,  upon  the  same  bottom.  In  the 
meanwhile,  I  cannot  but  be  troubled  to  see  so 
many  well-shaped  innocent  virgins  bloated  up, 
*nd  waddling  up  and  down  like  big-bellied  wo¬ 
men. 

Should  this  fashion  get  among  the  ordinary 
people,  our  public  ways  would  be  so  crowded,  that 
we  should  want  street-room.  Several  congrega¬ 
tions  of  the  best  fashion  find  themselves  already 
very  much  straitened ;  and  if  the  mode  increase,  I 
wish  it  may  not  drive  many  ordinary  women  into 
meetings  and  conventicles.  Should  our  sex  at  the 
same  time  take  it  into  their  heads  to  wear  trunk 
breeches  (as  who  knows  what  their  indignation  at 
this  female  treatment  may  drive  them  to?)  a  man 
and  his  wife  would  fill  a‘ whole  pew. 

^  °U  ^now,.  to  is.  recorded  of  Alexander 
the  Great,  that  in  his  Indian  expedition  he  buried 
several  suits  of  armor,  which  by  his  directions 
were  made  much  too  big  for  any  of  his  soldiers, 
m  order  to  give  posterity  an  extraordinary  idea  of 
him,  and  make  them  believe  he  had  commanded 


*  See  his  play  so  called,  act  iv,  scene  6,  where  Dufoy  a 
Frenchman,  is  thrust  into  a  tub  without  a  bottom,  which  he 
carries  about  the  stage  on  his  shoulders,  his  head  comine 
through  a  hole  at  the  top. 
f  Viz:  in  1558. 

12 


177 

an  army  of  giants.  I  am  persuaded  that  if  one  of 
the  present  petticoats  happens  to  be  hung  up  in 
any  repository  of  curiosities,  it  would  lead  into 
the  same  error  the  generations  that  lie  some  re¬ 
moves  from  us  ;  unless  we  can  believe  our  pos¬ 
terity  will  think  so  disrespectfully  of  their  great¬ 
grandmothers,  that  they  made  themselves  mon¬ 
strous  to  appear  amiable. 

"  When  I  survey  this  new-fashioned  rotunda  in 
all  its  parts,  I  cannot  but  think  of  the  old  philo¬ 
sopher,  who  after  having  entered  into  an  Egyp¬ 
tian  temple,  and  looked  about  for  the  idol  of  the 
place,  at  length  discovered  a  little  black  monkey 
enshrined  in  the  midst  of  it,  upon  which  he  could 
not  forbear  crying  out,  to  the  great  scandal  of  the 
worshipers,  ‘  What  a  magnificent  place  is  here  for 
such  a  ridiculous  inhabitant !  * 

"  Though  you  have  taken  a  resolution,  in  one 
of  your  papers,  to  avoid  descending  to  particular¬ 
ities  of  dress,  I  believe  you  will  not  think  it  be¬ 
low  you,  on  so  extraordinay  an  occasion,  to  un¬ 
hoop  the  fair  sex,  and  cure  this  unfashionable 
tympany  that  is  got  among  them.  I  am  apt  to 
think  the  petticoat  will  shrink  of  its  own  accord 
at  your  first  coming  to  town  ;  at  least  a  touch  of 
your  pen  will  make  it  contract  itself  like  the  sen¬ 
sitive  plant,  and  by  that  means  oblige  several  who 
are  either  terrified  or  astonished  at  this  portentous 
novelty,  and  among  the  rest, 

C.  "  Your  humble  servant,”  etc. 


No.  128.]  THURSDAY,  JULY  27,  1711. 

- Concordia  discors. — Lucan.,  i,  98. 

- Harmonious  discord. 

Women  in  their  nature  are  much  more  gay  and 
joyous  than  men  ;  whether  it  be  that  their  blood 
is  more  refined,  their  fibers  more  delicate,  and 
their  animal  spirits  more  light  and  volatile  ;  or 
whether,  as  some  have  imagined,  there  may  ’ not 
be  a  kind  of  sex  in  the  very  soul,  I  shall  not  pre¬ 
tend  to  determine.  As  vivacity  is  the  gift  of  wo¬ 
men,  gravity  is  that  of  men.  They  should  each 
of  them  therefore  keep  a  watch  upon  the  particu¬ 
lar  bias  which  nature  has  fixed  in  their  minds, 
that  it  may  not  draw  too  much,  and  lead  them 
out  of  the  paths  of  reason.  This  will  certainly 
happen,  if  the  one  in  every  word  and  action  af¬ 
fects  the  character  of  being  rigid  and  severe,  and 
the  other  of  being  brisk  and  airy.  Men  should 
beware  of  being  captivated  by  a  kind  of  savage 
philosophy,  women  by  a  thoughtless  gallantry 
Where  these  precautions  are  not  observed,  the 
man  often  degenerates  into  a  cynic,  the  woman 
into  a  coquette  ;  the  man  grows  sullen  and  mo¬ 
rose,  the  woman  impertinent  and  fantastical. 

By  what  I  have  said,  we  may  conclude,  men  and 
women  were  made  as  counterparts  to  one  another, 
that  the  pains  and  anxieties  of  the  husband  might 
be  relieved  by  the  sprightliness  and  good  humor 
of  the  wife.  When  these  are  rightly  tempered, 
care  and  cheerfulness  go  hand  in  hand ;  and  the’ 
family,  like  a  ship  that  is  duly  trimmed,  wants 
neither  sail  nor  ballast. 

Natural  historians  observe  (for  while  I  am  in 
the  country,  I  must  fetch  my  allusions  from 
thence)  that  only  the  male  birds  have  voices  ;  that 
their  songs  begin  a  little  before  breeding-time, 
and  end  a  little  after  :  that  while  the  hen  is  cov¬ 
ering  her  eggs,  the  male  generally  takes  his  stand 
upon  a  neighboring  bough  within  her  hearing  : 
and  by  that  means  amuses  and  diverts  her  with 
his  songs  during  the  whole  time  of  her  sitting. 

This  contract  among  birds  lasts  no  longer  than 
till  a  brood  of  young  ones  arises  from  it :  so  that 
in  the  feathered  kina,  the  cares  and  fatigues  of  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


178 

married  state,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  lie  principally 
upon  the  female.  On  the  contrary,  a,s,  in  our  spe¬ 
cies,  the  man  and  the  woman  are  joined  together 
for  life,  and  the  main  burden  rests  upon  the  for¬ 
mer,  nature  has  given  all  the  little  arts  of  sooth¬ 
ing  and  blandishment  to  the  female,  that  she  may 
cheer  and  animate  her  companion  in  a  constant 
and  assiduous  application  to  the  making  a  provis¬ 
ion  for  his  family,  and  the  educating  of  their  com¬ 
mon  children.  This  however  is  not  to  be  taken 
so  strictly,  as  if  the  same  duties  were  not  often  re¬ 
ciprocal,  and  incumbent  on  both  parties;  but  only 
to  set  forth  what  seems  to  have  been  the  general 
intention  of  nature,  in  the  different  inclinations 
and  endowments  which  are  bestowed  on  the  dif¬ 
ferent  sexes. 

But  whatever  was  the  reason  that  man  and  wo¬ 
man  were  made  with  this  variety  of  temper,  if  we 
observe  the  conduct  of  the  fair  sex,  we  find  that 
they  choose  rather  to  associate  themselves  with  a 
person  who  resembles  them  in  that  light  and  vol¬ 
atile  humor  which  is  natural  to  them,  than  to  such 
as  are  qualified  to  moderate  and  counterbalance 
it.  It  has  been  an  old  complaint,  that  the  cox¬ 
comb  carries  it  with  them  before  the  man  of  sense. 
When  we  see  a  fellow  loud  and  talkative,  full  of 
insipid  life  and  laughter,  we  may  venture  to  pro¬ 
nounce  him  a  female  favorite.  Noise  and  flutter 
are  such  accomplishments  as  they  cannot  with¬ 
stand.  To  be  short,  the  passion  of  an  ordinary 
woman  for  a  man  is  nothing  else  than  self-love 
diverted  upon  another  object.  She  would  have 
the  lover  a  woman  in  everything  but  the  sex.  I 
do  not  know  a  finer  piece  of  satire  on  this  part  of 
womankind,  than  those  lines  of  Mr.  Dryden  : 

Our  thoughtless  sex  is  caught  by  outward  form, 

And  empty  noise;  and  lores  itself  in  man. 

This  is  a  source  of  infinite  calamities  to  the 
sex,  as  it  frequently  joins  them  to  men  who,  in 
their  own  thoughts,  are  as  fine  creatures  as  them¬ 
selves  ;  or  if  they  chance  to  be  good-humored, 
serve  only  to  dissipate  their  fortunes,  inflame  their 
follies,  and  aggravate  their  indiscretions. 

The  same  female  levity  is  no  less  fatal  to  them 
after  marriage  than  before.  It  represents  to  their 
imaginations  the  faithful,  prudent  husband,  as  an 
honest,  tractable,  and  domestic  animal ;  and  turns 
their  thoughts  upon  the  fine,  gay  gentleman  that 
laughs,  sings,  and  dresses  so  much  more  agree- 
ably. 

As  this  irregular  vivacity  of  temper  leads  astray 
the  hearts  of  ordinary  women  in  the  choice  of 
their  lovers  and  the  treatment  of  their  husbands, 
it  operates  with  the  same  pernicious  influence  to¬ 
ward  their  children,  who  are  taught  to  accomplish 
themselves  in  all  those  sublime  perfections  that 
appear  captivating  in  the  eye  of  their  mother. 
She  admires  in  her  son  what  she  loved  in  her  gal¬ 
lant  ;  and  by  that  means  contributes  all  she  can 
to  perpetuate  herself  in  a  worthless  progeny. 

The  younger  Faustina  was  a  lively  instance  of 
this  sort  of  women.  Notwithstanding  she  was 
married  to  Marcus  Aurelius,  one  of  the  greatest, 
wisest,  and  best  of  the  Roman  emperors,  she 
thought  a  common  gladiator  much  the  prettier 
entleman;  and  had  taken  such  care  to  accomplish 
er  son  Commodus  according  to  her  own  notions 
of  a  fine  man,  that  when  he  ascended  the  throne 
of  his  father,  he  became  the  most  foolish  and 
abandoned  tyrant  that  ever  was  placed  at  the  head 
of  the  Roman  empire,  signalizing  himself  in 
nothing  but  the  fighting  of  prizes,  and  knocking 
out  men’s  brains.  As  he  had  no  taste  of  true 
glory,  we  see  him  in  several  medals  and  statues, 
which  are  still  extant  of  him,  equipped  like  a 
Hercules,  with  a  club  and  a  lion’s  skin. 


I  have  been  led  into  this  speculation  by  the 
characters  I  have  heard  of  a  country  gentleman 
and  his  lady,  who  do  not  live  many  miles  from 
Sir  Roger.  The  wife  is  an  old  coquette  that  is 
always  hankering  after  the  diversions  of  the  town; 
the  husband  a  morose  rustic,  that  frowns  and  frets 
at  the  name  of  it.  The  wife  is  overrun  with  affec¬ 
tation, *  the  husband  sunk  into  brutality.  The 
lady  cannot  bear  the  noise  of  the  larks  and  night¬ 
ingales,  hates  your  tedious  summer-days,  and  is 
sick  at  the  sight  of  shady  woods  and  purling 
streams;  the  husband  wonders  how  any  one  can 
be  pleased  with  the  fooleries  of  plays  and  operas, 
and  rails  from  morning  till  night  at  essenced  fops 
and  tawdry  courtiers.  The  children  are  educated 
in  these  different  notions  of  their  parents.  The 
sons  follow  their  father  about  his  grounds,  while 
the  daughters  read  volumes  of  love-letters  and  ro¬ 
mances  to  their  mother.  By  this  means  it  comes 
to  pass  that  the  girls  look  upon  their  father  as  a 
clown,  and  the  boys  think  their  mother  no  better 
than  she  should  be. 

How  different  are  the  lives  of  Aristus  and  Aspa- 
sia !  The  innocent  vivacity  of  the  one  is  temper¬ 
ed  and  composed  by  the  cheerful  gravity  of  the 
other.  The  wife  grows  wise  by  the  discourses  of 
the  husband,  and  the  husband  good-humored  by 
the  conversations  of  the  wife.  Aristus  would  not 
be  so  amiable  were  it  not  for  his  Aspasia,  nor  As- 
pasia  so  much  esteemed  were  it  not  for  her  Aris¬ 
tus.  Their  virtues  are  blended  in  their  children, 
and  diffuse  through  the  whole  family  a  perpetual 
spirit  of  benevolence,  complacency,  and  satisfac¬ 
tion. — C. 


No.  129.]  SATURDAY,  JULY  28,  1711. 

Vertentem  sese  frustra  sectabere  canthum, 

Cum  rota  posterior  curras  et  in  axe  secundo. 

Pers.  Sat.,  v,  71. 

Thou,  like  the  hindmost  chariot-wheels  art  curst, 

Still  to  be  near,  but  ne’er  to  be  the  first. — Dryden. 

Great  masters  in  painting  never  care  for  draw¬ 
ing  people  in  the  fashion :  as  very  well  knowing 
that  the  head-dress  or  periwig,  that  now  prevails, 
and  gives  a  grace  to  their  portraitures  at  present, 
will  make  a  very  odd  figure  and  perhaps  look 
monstrous  in  the  ey§f,  of  posterity.  For  this  rea¬ 
son  they  often  represent  an  illustrious  person  in  a 
Roman  habit,  or  some  other  dress  that  never  va¬ 
ries.  I  could  wish  for  the  sake  of  my  country 
friends,  that  there  was  such  a  kind  of  everlasting 
drapery  to  be  made  use  of  by  all  who  live  at  a  cer¬ 
tain  distance  from  the  town,  and  that  they  would 
agree  upon  such  fashions  as  should  never  be  lia¬ 
ble  to  changes  and  innovations.  For  want  of  this 
standing  dress,  a  man  who  takes  a  journey  into 
the  country  is  as  much  surprised  as  one  who 
walks  in  a  gallery  of  old  family  pictures,  and 
finds  as  great  a  variety  of  garbs  and  habits  in  the 
persons  he  converses  with.  Did  they  keep  to  one 
constant  dress  they  would  sometimes  be  in  the 
fashion,  which  they  never  are  as  matters  are  man¬ 
aged  at  present.  If  instead  of  running  after  the 
mode,  they  would  continue  fixed  in  one  certain 
habit,  the  mode  would  sometime  or  other  overtake 
them,  as  a  clock  that  stands  still  is  sure  to  point 
right  once  in  twelve  hours.  In  this  case,  tnere- 
fore,  I  would  advise  them,  as  a  gentleman  did  his 
friend  who  was  hunting  about  the  whole  town 
after  a  rambling  fellow — If  you  follow  him  you 
will  never  find  him,  but  if  you  plant  yourself  at 
the  corner  of  any  one  street,  I  will  engage  it  will 
not  be  long  before  you  see  him. 

I  have  already  touched  upon  this  subject  in  a 
speculation  which  shows  how  cruelly  the  country 
are  led  astray  in  following  the  town ;  and  equip- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


ped  in  a  ridiculous  habit,  when  they  fancy  them¬ 
selves  in  the  height  of  the  mode.  Since  that 
speculation  I  have  received  a  letter  (which  I  there 
hinted  at)  from  a  gentleman  who  is  now  on  the 
western  circuit. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

"  Being  a  lawyer  of  the  Middle-Temple,  a  Cor- 
nishman  by  birth,  I  generally  ride  the  western 
circuit*  for  my  health;  and  as  I  am  not  interrupt¬ 
ed  with  clients,  have  leisure  to  make  many  obser¬ 
vations  that  escape  the  notice  of  my  fellow-trav¬ 
elers. 

One  .of  the  most  fashionable  women  I  met 
with  in  all  the  circuit  was  my  landlady  at  Staines, 
where  I  chanced  to  be  on  a  holiday.  Her  com¬ 
mode  was  not  half  a  foot  high,  and  her  petticoat 
within  some  yards  of  a  modish  circumference. 
In  the  same  place  I  observed  a  young  fellow  with 
a  tolerable  periwig,  had  it  not  been  covered  with 
a  hat  that  was  shaped  in  the  Ramilie-cock.  As  I 
proceeded  in  my  iourney,  I  observed  the  petticoat 
grew  scantier  and  scantier,  and  about  threescore 
miles  from  London  was  so  very  unfashionable, 
that  a  woman  might  walk  in  it  without  any  man¬ 
ner  of  inconvenience. 

.  “  Not  far  from  Salisbury  I  took  notice  of  a  jus¬ 
tice  of  the  peace’s  lady,  who  was  at  least  ten  years 
behind-hand  in  her  dress,  but  at  the  same  time  as 
fine  as  hands  could  make  her.  She  was  flounced 
and  furbelowed  from  head  to  foot;  every  ribbon 
was  wrinkled,  and  every  part  of  her  garments  in 
curl,  so  that  she  looked  like  one  of  those  animals 
which  in  the  country  we  call  a  Friesland  hen. 

“Not  many  miles  beyond  this  place  I  was  in¬ 
formed  that  one  of  the  last  year’s  little  muffs  had 
by  some  means  or  other  straggled  into  those  parts, 
and  that  all  the  women  of  fashion  were  cutting 
their  old  muffs  in  two,  or  retrenching  them,  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  little  model  which  was  got  among 
them.  I  cannot  believe  the  report  they  have 
there,  that  it  was  sent  down  franked  by  a  parlia¬ 
ment-man  in  a  little  packet ;  but  probably  by  next 
winter  this  fashion  will  be  at  the  height  in  the 
country,  when  it  is  quite  out  at  London. 

“The  greatest  beau  at  our  next  country  sessions 
was  dressed  in  a  most  monstrous  flaxen  periwig, 
that  was  made  in  King  William’s  reign.  The 
wearer  of  it  goes,  it  seems,  in  his  own  hair  when 
he  is  at  home,  and  lets  his  wig  lie  in  a  buckle  for 
a  whole  half-year,  that  he  may  put  it  on  upon  oc¬ 
casion  to  meet  the  judges  in  it. 

“  I  must  not  here  omit  an  adventure  which  hap¬ 
pened  to  us  in  a  country  church  upon  the  frontiers 
of  Cornwall.  As  we  were  in  the  midst  of  the  ser¬ 
vice,  a  lady,  who  is  the  chief  woman  of  the  place, 
and  had  passed  the  winter  at  London  with  her 
husband,  entered  the  congregation  in  a  little  head¬ 
dress,  and  a  hooped  petticoat.  The  people,  who 
were  wonderfully  startled  at  such  a  sight,  all  of 
them  rose  up.  Some  stared  at  the  prodigious  bot¬ 
tom,  and  some  at  the  little  top  of  this  strange 
dress.  In  the  meantime  the  lady  of  the  manor 
filled  the  area  of  the  church,  and  walked  up  to  her 
pew  with  an  unspeakable  satisfaction,  amidst  the 
whispers,  conjectures,  and  astonishments  of  the 
whole  congregation. 

“  L  pon  our  way  from  hence  we  saw  a  youno-  fel¬ 
low  riding  toward  us  full  gallop,  with  a  bol^wio- 
and  a  black  silken  bag  tied  to  it.  He  stopped  short 
at  the  coach,  to  ask  us  how  far  the  judges  were 
behind  us.  His  stay  was  so  very  short,  that  we 
had  only  time  to  observe  his  new  silk  waistcoat, 
which  was  unbuttoned  in  several  places,  to  let  us 


179 

see  he  had  a  clean  shirt  on,  which  was  ruffled 
down  to  his  middle. 

“  From  this  place,  during  our  progress  through 
the  most  western  parts  of  the  kingdom,  we  fan¬ 
cied  oui selves  in  King  Charles  the  Second’s  reign, 
the  people  having  made  very  little  variations  in 
their  dress  since  that  time.  The  smartest  of  the 
country  squiies  appears  still  in  the  Monmouth- 
cock,  and  when  they  go  a  wooing  (whether  they 
have  any  post  in  the  militia  or  not)  they  generally 
put  on  a  red  coat.  We  were,  indeed,  very  much, 
surprised,  at  the  place  we  lay  at  last  night,  to 
meet  with  a  gentleman  that  had  accoutered  him¬ 
self  in  a  nightcap  wig,  a  coat  with  long  pockets 
and  slit  sleeves,  and  a  pair  of  shoes  with  high 
scollop  tops  ;  but  we  soon  found  by  his  conversa¬ 
tion  that  he  was  a  person  who  laughed  at  the  ig¬ 
norance  and  rusticity  of  the  country  people,  ancl 
was  resolved  to  live  and  die  in  the  mode. 

Sir,  if  you  think  this  account  of  my  travels 
may  be  of  any  advantage  to  the  public,  I  will  next 
year  trouble  you  with  such  occurrences  as  I  shall 
meet  with  in  other  parts  of  England.  For  I  am 
informed  there  are  greater  curiosities  in  the  north¬ 
ern  circuit  than  in  the  western  ;  and  that  a  fashion 
makes  it  progress  much  slower  into  Cumberland 
than  into  Cornwall.  I  have  heard  in  particular, 
that  the  Steenkirk*  arrived  but  two  months  ago  at 
Newcastle,  and  that  there  are  several  commodes  in 
those  parts  which  are  worth  taking  a  iournev 
thither  to  see.”  n  J 


No.  180.]  MONDAY,  JULY  30,  1711. 

- Semperque  recentes 

Convectare  juvat  praedas,  et  vivere  rapto. 

Virg.  ^En.,  vii,  748. 

A  plundering  race,  still  eager  to  invade, 

On  spoil  they  live,  and  make  of  theft  a  trade. 

As  I  was  yesterday  riding  out  in  the  fields  with 
my  friend  Sir  Roger,  we  saw  at  a  little  distance 
from  us  a  troop  of  gipsies.  Upon  the  first  discov¬ 
ery  of  them,  my  friend  was  in  some  doubt  whether 
he  should  not  exert  the  justice  of  the  peace  upon 
such  a  band  of  lawless  vagrants  ;  but  not  having 
his  clerk  with  him,  who  is  a  necessary  counselor 
with  him  on  these  occasions,  and  fearing  that  his 
poultry  might  fare  the  worse  for  it,  let  the  thought 
drop  but  at  the  same  time  gave  me  a  particular 
account  of  the  mischiefs  they  do  in  the  country, 
in  stealing  people’s  goods  and  spoiling  their  ser¬ 
vants.  ^  “  If  a  stray  piece  of  linen  hangs  upon  a 
hedge,”  says  Sir  Roger,  “they  are  sure  to  have  it; 
if  the  hog  loses  his  way  in  the  fields,  it  is  ten  to 
one  but  he  becomes  their  prey :  our  geese  cannot 
live  in  peace  for  them  ;  if  a  man  prosecutes  them 
with  severity,  his  hen-roost  is  sure  to  pay  for  it. 
They  generally  straggle  into  these  parts  about 
this  time  of  the  year ;  and  set  the  heads  of  our 
servant-maids  so  agog  for  husbands,  that  we  do 
not  expect  to  have  any  business  done  as  it  should 
be  while  they  are  in  the  country.  I  have  an  hon¬ 
est  dairy-maid  who  crosses  their  hands  with  a 
iece  of  silver  every  summer,  and  never  fails 
eing  promised  the  handsomest  young  fellow  in 
the  parish  for  her  pains.  Your  friend  the  butler 
has  been  fool  enough  to  be  seduced  by  them  ;  and 
though  he  is  sure  to  lose  a  knife,  a  fork  or  a  spoon 
every  time  his  fortune  is  told  him,  generally  shuts 
himself  up  in  the  pantry  with  an  old  gipsy  for 
above  half  an  hour  once  in  a  twelvemonth.  Sweet¬ 
hearts  are  the  things  they  live  upon,  which  they 
bestow  very  plentifully  upon  all  those  who  apply 
themselves  to  them.  You  see  now'  and  then  some 


*■  Counselors  generally  go  on  the  circuits  through  the  coun¬ 
ties  in  which  they  are  bora  and  bred. 


*  The  Steenkirk  was  a  kind  of  military  cravat  of  black  silk ; 
probably  first  worn  at  the  battle  of  Steenkirk,  fought  August 
2,  1692.  *  b 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


180 

handsome  young  jades  among  tnem  :  the  sluts 
have  white  teeth  and  black  eyes.” 

Sir  Roger  observing  that  I  listened  with  great 
attention  to  his  account  of  a  people  who  were  so 
entirely  new  to  me,  told  me,  that  if  I  -would,  they 
should  tell  us  our  fortunes.  As  I  was  very  well 
pleased  with  the  knight’s  proposal,  we  rode  up, 
and  communicated  our  hands  to  them.  A  Cas¬ 
sandra  of  the  crew,  after  having  examined  my 
lines  very  diligently,  told  me,  that  I  loved  a  pretty 
maid  in  a  corner,  that  I  was  a  good  woman’s 
man,  with  some  other  particulars  which  I  do  not 
think  proper  to  relate.  Mv  friend  Sir  Roger 
alighted  from  his  horse,  and  exposing  his  palm 
to  two  or  three  that  stood  by  him,  they  crumpled 
it  all  shapes,  and  diligently  scanned  every  wrinkle 
that  could  be  made  in  it ;  when  one  of  them,  who 
wrs  older  find  more  sunburnt  tliun  tlie  rest,  told 
him,  that  he  had  a  widow  in  his  line  of  life. 
Upon  which  the  knight  cried,  “Go,  go,  you  are 
an  idle  baggage  and  at  the  same  time  smiled 
upon  me.  The  gipsy  finding  he  was  not  dis¬ 
pleased  in  his  heart,  told  him,  after  a  farther 
inquiry  into  his  hand,  that  his  true-love  was  con¬ 
stant,  and  that  she  should  dream  of  him  to-night. 
Mv  old  friend  cried  pish,  and  bid  her  go  on.  The 
gipsy  told  him  that  he  "was  a  bachelor,  but  would 
not  be  so  long;  and  that  he  was  dearer  to  some¬ 
body  than  he  thought.  The  knight  still  repeated, 

“  She  was  an  idle  baggage,”  and  bid  her  go  on. 
“Ah,  master,”  said  the  gipsy,  “  that  roguish  leer 
of  yours  makes  a  pretty  woman’s  heart  ache  ;  you 
have  not  that  simper  about  the  mouth  for  nothing.” 
The  uncouth  gibberish  with  which  all  this  was 
uttered,  like  the  darkness  of  an  oracle,  made  us 
the  more  attentive  to  it.  To  be  short,  the  knight 
left  the  money  with  her  that  he  had  crossed  her 
hand  with,  and  got  up  again  on  his  horse. 

As  we  were  riding  away,  Sir  Roger  told  me, 
that  he  knew  several  sensible  people  who  believed 
these  gipsies  now  and  then  foretold  very  strange 
things  ;  and  for  half  an  hour  together  appeared 
more  jocund  than  ordinary.  In  the  height  of  his 
good  humor,  meeting  a  common  beggar  upon  the 
road,  who  was  no  conjurer,  as  he  went  to  relieve 
him  he  found  his  pocket  was  picked  ;  that  being 
a  kind  of  palmistry  at  which  this  race  of  vermin 

are  very  dextrous.  >  .  _ 

I  might  here  entertain  my  reader  with  historical 
remarks  on  this  idle,  profligate  people,  who  infest 
all  the  countries  of  Europe,  and  live  in  the  midsf; 
of  governments  in  a  kind  of  commonwealth  by 
themselves.  But  instead  of  entering  into  obser¬ 
vations  of  this  nature,  I  shall  fill  the  remaining 
part  of  my  paper  with  a  story  which  is  still  fresh 
in  Holland,  and  was  printed  in  one  of  our  month¬ 
ly  accounts  about  twenty  years  ago..  “As  the 
trek-schuyt,  or  hackney -boat  which  carries  passen¬ 
gers  from  Leyden  to  Amsterdam,  was  putting  off, 
a  boy  running  along  the  side  of  the  canal  desired 
to  be  taken  in :  which  the  master  of  the  boat 
refused,  because  the  lad  had  not  quite  money 
enough  to  pay  the  usual  fare.*  An  eminent  mer¬ 
chant  being  pleased  with  the  looks  of  the  boy,  and 
secretly  touched  with  compassion  toward  him, 
paid  the  money  for  him,  and  ordered  him  to  be 
taken  on  board.  Upon  talking  with  him  after¬ 
ward,  he  found  that  he  could  speak  readily  in 
three  or  four  languages,  and  learned  upon  farther 
examination,  that  he  had  been  stolen  away  when 
he  was  a  child  by  a  gipsy,  and  had  rambled  ever 
since  with  a  gang  of  those  strollers  up  and  down 
several  parts  of  Europe.  It  happened  that  the 
merchant,  whose  heart  seemed  to  have  inclined 
toward  the  boy  by  a  secret  kind  of  instinct,  had 


himself  lost  a  child  some  years  before.  The  pa¬ 
rents,  after  a  long  search  for  him,  gave  him  for 
drowned  in  one  of  the  canals  with  which  that 
country  abounds  ;  and  the  mother  was  so  afllicted 
at  the  loss  of  a  fine  boy,  who  was  her  only  son, 
that  she  died  for  grief  of  it.  Upon  laying  together 
all  particulars,  and  examining  several  moles  and 
marks  by  which  the  mother  used  to  describe  the 
child  when  he  was  first  missing,  the  boy  proved 
to  be  the  son  of  the  merchant  whose  heart  had  so 
unaccountably  melted  at  the  sight  of  him.  The 
lad  was  very  well  pleased  to  fincT  a  father  who  was 
so  rich  and  likely  to  leave  him  a  good  estate  :  the 
father  on  the  other  hand  was  not  a  little  delighted 
to  see  a  son  return  to  him,  whom  he  had  given  up 
for  lost,  with  such  a  strength  of  constitution, 
sharpness  of  understanding,  and  skill  in  lan¬ 
guages.”  Here  the  printed  story  leaves  off ;  but 
if  I  may  give  credit  to  reports,  our  linguist  hav¬ 
ing  received  such  extraordinary  rudiments  toward 
a  good  education,  was  afterward  trained  up  in 
everything  that  became  a  gentleman  ;  wearing  off 
by  little  and  little  all  the  vicious  habits  and  prac¬ 
tices  that  he  had  been  used  to  in  the  course  of  his 
peregrinations.  Nay,  it  is  said,  that  he  has  since 
been  employed  in  foreign  courts  upon  national 
business,  with  great  reputation  to  himself  and 
honor  to  those  who  sent  him,  and  that  he  has 
visited  several  countries  as  a  public  minister  in 
which  he  formerly  wandered  as  a  gipsy. — 0. 


No.  131.]  TUESDAY,  JULY  31,  1711. 

- Ipsaj  rursum  concedite  sylvae. 

VntG.  Eel.,  x,  63. 

Once  more,  ye  woods,  adieu. 

It  is  usual  for  a  man  who  loves  country  sports 
to  preserve  the  game  in  his  own  grounds,  and 
divert  himself  upon  those  that  belong  to  his  neigh¬ 
bor.  My  friend  Sir  Roger  generally  goes  two  or 
three  miles  from  his  house,  and  gets  into  the 
frontiers  of  his  estate,  before  he  beats  about  in 
search  of  a  hare  or  partridge,  on  purpose  to  spare 
his  own  fields,  where  he  is  always  sure  of  finding 
diversion,  when  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst. 
By  this  means  the  breed  about  his  house  has  time 
to  increase  and  multiply,  beside  that  the  sport  is 
more  agreeable  where  the  game  is  harder  to  come 
at,  and  where  it  does  not  lie  so  thick  as  to  produce 
any  perplexity  or  confusion  in  the  pursuit.  For 
these  reasons  the  country  gentleman,  like  the  fox, 
seldom  preys  near  his  own  home. 

In  the  same  manner  I  have  made  a  month’s 
excursion  out  of  the  town,  which  is  the  great  field 
of  game  for  sportsmen  of  my  species,  to  try  my 
fortune  in  the  country,  where  I  have  started  sever¬ 
al  subjects,  and  hunted  them  down,  with  some 
pleasure  to  myself,  and  I  hope  to  others.  I  am 
here  forced  to  use  a  great  deal  of  diligence  before 
I  can  spring  anything  to  my  mind ;  whereas  in 
town,  while  I  am  following  one  character,  it  is  ten 
to  one  but  I  am  crossed  in  my  way  by  another, 
and  put  up  such  a  variety  of  odd  creatures  in 
both  sexes,  that  they  foil  the  scent  of  one  another, 
and  puzzle  the  chase.  My  greatest  difficulty  in 
the  country  is  to  find  sport,  and  in  town  to  choose 
it.  In  the  meantime,  as  I  have  given  a  whole 
month’s  rest  to  the  cities  of  London  and  West¬ 
minster,  I  promise  myself  abundance  of  new  game 
upon  my  return  thither. 

It  is  indeed  high  time  for  me  to  leave  the  coun¬ 
try,  since  I  find  the  whole  neighborhood  begin  to 
grow  very  inquisitive  after  my  name  and  charac¬ 
ter  ;  my  love  of  solitude,  taciturnity,  and  particu¬ 
lar  way  of  life,  having  raised  a  great  curiosity  in 
all  these  parts. 


*  Hardly  more  than  three  pence. 


181 


THE  SPE 

The  notions  which  have  been  framed  of  me  are 
various  :  some  look  upon  me  as  very  proud,  some 
as  very  modest,  and  some  as  very  melancholy. 
Will  Wimble,  as  my  friend  the  butler  tells  me, 
observing  me  very  much  alone,  and  extremely 
silent  when  I  am  in  company,  is  afraid  I  have 
killed  a  man.  The  country  people  seem  to  sus¬ 
pect  me  for  a  conjurer ;  and  some  of  them  hear¬ 
ing  of  the  visit  which  I  made  to  Moll  White, 
will  needs  have  it  that  Sir  Roger  has  brought 
down  a  cunning  man  with  him,  to  cure  the  old 
woman,  and  free  the  country  from  her  charms. 
So  that  the  character  which  I  go  under  in  part  of 
the  neighborhood,  is  what  they  call  here  a  White 
Witch. 

A  justice  of  peace,  who  lives  about  five  miles 
off,  and  is  not  of  Sir  Roger’s  party,  has,  it  seems, 
said  twice  or  thrice  at  his  table,  that  he  wishes 
Sir  Roger  does  not  harbor  a  Jesuit  in  his  house, 
and  that  he  thinks  the  gentlemen  of  the  country 
would  do  very  well  to  make  me  give  some  account 
of  myself. 

On  the  other  side,  some  of  Sir  Roger’s  friends 
are  afraid  the  old  knight  is  imposed  upon  by  a 
designing  fellow ;  and  as  they  have  heard  that  he 
converses  very  promiscuously  when  he  is  in  town, 
do  not  know  but  he  has  brought  down  with  him 
some  discarded  whig,  that  is  sullen,  and  says 
nothing  because  he  is  out  of  place. 

Such  is  the  variety  of  opinions  which  are  here 
entertained  of  me,  so  that  I  pass  among  some  for  a 
disaffected  person,  and  among  others  for  a  popish 
priest ;  among  some  for  a  wizard,  and  among  oth¬ 
ers  for  a  murderer  ;  and  all  this  for  no  other  reason 
that  I  can  imagine,  but  because  I  do  not  hoot,  and 
halloo,  and  make  a  noise.  It  is  true,  my  friend 
Sir  Roger  tells  them, — “  That  it  is  my  way,”  and 
that  I  am  only  a  philosopher  ;■ — but  this  will  not 
satisfy  them.  They  think  there  is  more  in  me 
than  he  discovers,  and  that  I  do  not  hold  my 
tongue  for  nothing. 

For  these  and  other  reasons  I  shall  set  out  for 
London  to-morrow,  having  found  by  experience 
that  the  country  is  not  the  place  for  a  person  of 
my  temper,  who  does  not  love  jollity,  and  what 
they  call  good  neighborhood.  A  man  that  is  out 
of  humor  when  an  unexpected  guest  breaks  in 
upon  him,  and  does  not  care  for  sacrificing  an 
afternoon  to  every  chance  comer — that  will  be  the 
master  of  his  own  time,  and  the  pursuer  of  his 
own  inclinations, — makes  but  a  very  unsociable 
figure  in  this  kind  of  life.  I  shall  therefore  retire 
into  the  town,  if  I  may  make  use  of  that  phrase, 
and  get  into  the  crowd  again  as  fast  as  I  can,  in 
order  to  be  alone.  I  can  there  raise  what  specu¬ 
lations  I  please  upon  others  without  being  ob¬ 
served  myself,  and  at  the  same  time  enjoy  all  the 
advantages  of  company  with  all  the  privileges  of 
solitude.  In  the  meanwhile,  to  finish  the  month, 
and  conclude  these  my  rural  speculations,  I  shall 
here  insert  a  letter  from  my  friend  Will  Honey¬ 
comb,  who  has  not  lived  a  month  for  these  forty 
years  out  of  the  smoke  of  London,  and  rallies  me 
after  his  way  upon  my  country  life. 

“  Dear  Spec., 

.  y  suppose  this  letter  will  find  thee  picking  of 
daisies,  or  smelling  to  a  lock  of  hay,  or  passing 
away  thy  time  in  some  innocent  country  diversion 
of  the  like  nature.  I  have  however  orders  from 
the  club  to  summon  thee  up  to  town,  being  all  of 
us  cursedly  afraid  thou  wilt  not  be  able  to  relish 
our  company,  after  thv  conversations  with  Moll 
White  and  Will  Wimble.  Prithee  do  not  send  us 
up  any  more  stories  of  a  cock  and  a  bull,  nor 

frighten  the  town  with  spirits  and  witches. _ 

Thy  speculations  begin  to  smell  confoundedly  of 


CTATOR. 

woods  and  meadows.  If  thou  dost  not  come  up 
quickly,  we  shall  conclude  that  thou  art  in  love 
with  one  of  Sir  Roger’s  dairy-maids.  Service  to 
the  knight.  Sir  Andrew  is  grown  the  cock  of  the 
club  since  he  left  us,  and  if  he  does  not  return 
quickly  will  make  every  mother’s  son  of  us  com- 
monwealth’s-men. 

“  Lear  Spec.,  thine  eternally, 

“Will  Honeycomb. 


No.  132.]  WEDNESDAY,  AUGUST  1,  1711. 

Qui,  aut  tempus  quid  postulet  non  videt,  aut  plura  loqui¬ 
tur,  aut  se  ostentat,  aut  eorum  quibuscum  est  rationem  non 
habet,  is  ineptus  esse  dicitur. — Tull. 

That  man  may  be  called  impertinent,  who  considers  not  the 
circumstances  ol  time,  or  engrosses  the  conversation,  or  makes 
himself  the  subject  of  his  discourse,  or  pays  no  regard  to  the 
company  he  is  in. 

Having  notified  to  my  good  friend  Sir  Roger 
that  I  should  set  out  for  London  the  next  day,  his 
horses  were  ready  at  the  appointed  hour  in  the 
evening’  and  attended  by  one  of  his  grooms,  I 
arrived  at  the  county-town  at  twilight,  in  order  to 
be  ready  for  the  stage-coach  the  day  following. 
As  soon  as  we  arrived  at  the  inn,  the  servant  who 
waited  upon  me  inquired  of  the  chamberlain  in 
my  hearing  what  company  he  had  for  the  coach? 
The  fellow  answered,  “Mrs.  Betty  Arable,  the 
great  fortune,  and  the  widow  her  mother;  a  re¬ 
cruiting  officer  (who  took  a  place  because  they 
were  to  go)  ;  young  ’Squire  Quickset,  her  cousin 
(that  her  mother  wished  her  to  be  married  to); 
Ephraim  the  Quaker,  her  guardian  ;  and  a  gentle¬ 
man  that  had  studied  himself  dumb  from  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley’s.”  I  observed  by  what  he  said 
ot  myself,  that  according  to  his  office  he  dealt 
much  in  intelligence ;  and  doubted  not  but  there 
was’  some  foundation  for  his  reports  of  the  rest  of 
the  company,  as  well  as  for  the  whimsical  account 
he  gave  of  me.  The  next  morning  at  day-break 
we  were  all  called ;  and  I,  who  know  my  own 
natural  shyness,  and  endeavor  to  be  as  little  liable 
to  be  disputed  with  as  possible,  dressed  immedi¬ 
ately  that  I  might  make  no  one  wait.  The  first 
preparation  for  our  setting  out  was,  that  the  cap¬ 
tain  s  half-pike  was  placed  near  the  coachman,  and 
a  drum  behind  the  coach.  In  the  meantime  the 
drummer,  the  captain’s  equipage,  was  very  loud, 
“that  none  of  the  captain’s  things  should  be  placed 
so  as  to  be  spoiled ;”  upon  which  his  cloak-bag 
was  fixed  in  the  seat  of  the  coach;  and  the  captain 
himself,  according  to  a  frequent,  though  invidious 
behavior  of  military  men,  ordered  his  man  to  look 
sharp  that  none  but  one  of  the  ladies  should  have 
the  place  he  had  taken  fronting  the  coach-box. 

We  were  in  some  little  time  fixed  in  our  seats, 
and  sat  with  that  dislike  which  people  not  too 
good-natured  usually  conceive  of  each  other  at 
first  sight.  The  coach  jumbled  us  insensibly  into 
some  sort  of  familiarity :  and  we  had  not  moved 
above  two  miles,  when  the  widow  asked  the  cap¬ 
tain  what  success  he  had  in  his  recruiting?  The 
officer,  with  a  frankness  he  believed  very  graceful, 
told  her,  “that  indeed  he  had  but  very  little  luck’ 
and  had  suffered  much  by  desertion,  therefore 
should  be  glad  to  end  his  warfare  in  the  service 
of  her  or  her  fair  daughter.  In  a  word,”  continued 
he,  “I  am  a  soldier,  and  to  be  plain  is  my  charac¬ 
ter :  you  see  me.  Madam,  young,  sound,  and  im¬ 
pudent  ;  take  me  yourself,  widow,  or  give  me  to 
her,  I  will  be  wholly  at  your  disposal.  1  am  a 
soldier  of  fortune,  ha!” — This  was  followed  by  a 
vain  laugh  of  his  own,  and  a  deep  silence  of  all 
the  rest  of  the  company.  I  had  nothing  left  for 
it  but  to  fall  fast  asleep,  which  I  did  with  all 
speed.  “Come,”  said  he,  “resolve  upon  it,  we 


182 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


will  make  a  wedding  at  the  next  town  :  we  will 
make  this  pleasant  companion  who  is  fallen  asleep, 
to  be  the  bride-man;  and,”  giving  the  Quaker  a 
clap  on  the  knee,  he  concluded,  “this  sly  saint, 
who,  I  will  warrant  you,  understands  what  is  what 
as  well  as  you  or  I,  widow,  shall  give  the  bride  as 
father.”  The  Quaker,  who  happened  to  be  a  man 
of  smartness,  answered,  “Friend,  I  take  it  in  good 
part  that  thou  hast  given  me  the  authority  of  a 
father  over  this  comely  and  virtuous  child ;  and  1 
must  assure  thee,  that  if  I  have  the  giving  her,  I 
shall  not  bestow  her  on  thee.  Thy  mirth,  friend, 
savoreth  of  folly  ;  thou  art  a  person  of  a  light 
mind;  thy  drum  is  a  type  of  thee — it  soundeth 
because  it  is  empty.  "Verily,  it  is  not  from  thy 
fullness,  but  thy  emptiness,  that  thou  hast  spoken 
this  day.  Friend,  friend,  we  have  hired  this  coach 
in  partnership  with  thee,  to  carry  us  to  the  great 
city  ;  we  cannot  go  any  other  way.  This  worthy 
mother  must  hear  thee  if  thou  wilt  needs  utter  thy 
follies  ;  wre  cannot  help  it,  friend,  I  say  :  if  thou 
wilt,  vTe  must  hear  thee  ;  but  if  thou  wert  a  man 
of  understanding,  thou  wouldst  not  take  advan¬ 
tage  of  thy  courageous  countenance  to  abash  us 
children  of  peace.— Thou  art,  thou  sayest,  a  sol¬ 
dier  ;  give  quarter  to  us,  who  cannot  resist  thee. 
Why  didst  thou  fleer  at  our  friend,  who  feigned 
himself  asleep?  He  said  nothing;  but  how  dost  thou 
know  what  he  containeth?  It  thou  speakest  im¬ 
proper  things  in  the  hearing  of  this  virtuous 
young  virgin,  consider  it  is  an  outrage  against  a 
distressed  person  that  cannot  get  from  thee ;  to 
speak  indiscreetly  what  we  are  obliged  to  hear, 
by  being  hasped  up  with  thee  in  this  public 
vehicle,  is  in  some  degree  assaulting  on  the  high¬ 
road.”  . 

Here  Ephraim  paused,  and  the  captain  with  a 
happy  and  uncommon  impudence  (which  can  be 
convicted  and  support  itself  at  the  same  time) 
cries,  “Faith,  friend,  I  thank  thee;  I  should  have 
been  a  little  impertinent  if  thou  hadst  not  repri¬ 
manded  me.  Come,  thou  art,  I  see,  a  smoky  old 
fellow,  and  I  will  be  very  orderly  the  ensuing  part 
of  my  journey.  I  was  going  to  give  myself  airs, 
but,  ladies,  I  beg  pardon.” 

The  captain  was  so  little  out  of  humor,  and  our 
company  was  so  far  from  being  soured  by  this 
little  ruffle,  that  Ephraim  and  he  took  a  particular 
delight  in  being  agreeable  to  each  other  for  the 
future ;  and  assumed  their  different  provinces  in 
the  conduct  of  the  company.  Our  reckonings, 
apartments,  and  accommodation,  fell  under  Ephra¬ 
im;  and  the  captain  looked  to  all  disputes  upon 
the  road,  as  the  good  behavior  of  our  coachman, 
and  the  right  we  had.  of  taking  place,  as  going  to 
London,  of  all  vehicles  coming  from  thence.  The 
occurrences  we  met  with  were  ordinary,  and  very 
little  happened  which  could  entertain  by  the  re¬ 
lation  of  them :  but  when  I  considered  the  com¬ 
pany  we  were  in,  I  took  it  for  no  small  good- 
fortune,  that  the  whole  journey  was  not  spent  in 
impertinences,  which  to  one  part  of  us  might  be 
an  entertainment,  to  the  other  a  suffering.  What 
therefore  Ephraim  said  when  we  were  almost  ar¬ 
rived  at  London,  had  to  me  an  air  not  only  of 
good  understanding,  but  good  breeding.  Upon 
the  young  lady’s  expressing  her  satisfaction  in  the 
journey,  and  declaring  how  delightful  it  had 
been  to  her,  Ephraim  declared  himself  as  fol¬ 
lows:  “There  is  no  ordinary  part  of  human  life 
which  expresseth  so  much  a  good  mind,  and  a 
right  inward  man,  as  his  behavior  upon  meeting 
with  strangers,  especially  such  as  may  seem  the 
most  unsuitable  companions  to  him :  such  a  man, 
when  he  falleth  in  the  way  with  persons  of  sim¬ 
plicity  and  innocence,  however  knowing  he  may 
be  in  the  ways  of  men,  will  not  vaunt  himself 


thereof,  but  will  the  rather  hide  his  superiority  to 
them,  that  he  may  not  be  painful  unto  them.  My 
good  friend,”  continued  he,  turning  to  the  officer, 
“thee  and  I  are  to  part  by  and  by,  and  peradven- 
ture  we  may  never  meet  again  ;  but  be  advised  by 
a  plain  man:  modes  and  apparel  are  but  trifles  to 
the  real  man,  therefore  do  not  think  such  a  man  as 
thyself  terrible  for  thy  garb,  nor  such  a  one  as  me 
contemptible  for  mine.  When  two  such  as  thee 
and  I  meet,  with  affections  as  we  ought  to  have 
toward  each  other,  thou  shouldst  reioice  to  see  my 
peaceable  demeanor,  and  I  should  be  glad  to  see 
thy  strength  and  ability  to  protect  me  in  it.”  T. 


No.  133.]  THURSDAY,  AUGUST  2,  1711. 

Quis  desiderio  sit  pudor,  aut  modus 
Tmn  chari  capitis  ? — Hor.  1  Od.  xxiv,  1. 

Such  was  his  worth,  our  loss  is  such, 

We  cannot  love  too  well,  or  grieve  too  much. 

Oldisworth. 

There  is  a  sort  of  delight,  which  is  alternately 
mixed  with  terror  and  sorrow  in  the  contemplation 
of  death.  The  soul  has  its  curiosity  more  than 
ordinarily  awakened,  when  it  turns  its  thoughts 
upon  the  conduct  of  such  who  have  behaved  them¬ 
selves  with  an  equal,  a  resigned,  a  cheerful,  a  gen¬ 
erous,  or  heroic  temper  in  that  extremity.  We  are 
affected  with  these  respective  manners  of  beha¬ 
vior,  as  we  secretly  believe  the  part  ot  the  dying 
person  imitated  by  ourselves,  or  such  as  we  im¬ 
agine  ourselves  more  particularly  capable  of.  Men 
of  exalted  minds  march  before  us  like  princes,  and 
are  to  the  ordinary  race  of  mankind  rather  subjects 
of  their  admiration  than  example.  However, 
there  are  no  ideas  strike  more  forcibly  upon  our 
imaginations,  than  those  which  are  raised  from 
reflections  upon  the  exits  of  great  and  excellent 
men.  Innocent  men  who  have  suffered  as  crimi¬ 
nals,  though  they  were  benefactors  to  human 
society,  seem  to  be  persons  of  the  highest  dis¬ 
tinction,  among  the  vastly  greater  number  of 
human  race,  the  dead.  When  the  iniquity  of  the 
times  brought  Socrates  to  his  execution,  how  great 
and  wonderful  is  it  to  behold  him,  unsupported 
by  anything  but  the  testimony  of  his  own  con¬ 
science  and  conjectures  of  hereafter,  receive  the 
poison  with  an  air  of  warmth  and  good-humor, 
and,  as  if  going  on  an  agreeable  journey,  bespeak 
some  deity  to  make  it  fortunate! 

When  Phocion’s  good  actions  had  met  with  the 
like  reward  from  his  country,  and  he  was  led  to 
death  with  many  other  of  his  friends,  they  be¬ 
wailing  their  fate,  he  vralking  composedly  toward 
the  place  of  his  execution,  how  gracefully  does  he 
support  his  illustrious  character  to  the  very  last 
instant!  One  of  the  rabble  spitting  at  him  as  he 
passed,  with  his  usual  authority  he  called  to  know 
if  no  one  was  ready  to  teach  this  fellow  how  to 
behave  himself.  When  a  poor-spirited  creature 
that  died  at  the  same  time  for  his  crimes,  bemoan¬ 
ed  himself  unmanfully,  he  rebuked  him  with  this 
question,  “Is  it  no  consolation  to  such  a  man  as 
thou  art  to  die  with  Phocion?”  At  the  instant 
when  he  was  to  die,  they  asked  what  commands 
he  had  for  his  son  :  he  answered,  “To  forget  this 
injury  of  the  Athenians.”  Niocles,  his  friend, 
under  the  same  sentence,  desired  he  might  drink 
the  potion  before  him  :  Phocion  said  “because  he 
never  had  denied  him  anything,  he  would  not 
even  this,  the  most  difficult  request  he  had  ever 
made.” 

These  instances  were  very  noble  and  great,  and 
the  reflections  of  those  sublime  spirits  had  made 
deatli  to  them  what  it  is  really  intended  to  be  by 
the  Author  of  nature,  a  relief  from  a  various  being, 
ever  subject  to  sorrows  and  difficulties. 

Epaminondas,  the  Theban  general,  having  re- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


ceived  in  fi<dit  a  mortal  stab  with  a  sword,  which 
was  left  in  his  body,  lay  in  that  posture  till  he  had 
intelligence  that  his  troops  had  obtained  the 
victory,  and  then  permitted  it  to  be  drawn  out,  at 
which  instant  he  expressed  himself  in  this  manner: 
“I  his  is  not  the  end  of  my  life,  my  fellow-sol¬ 
diers;  it  is  now  your  Epamiuondas  is  born,  who 
dies  in  so  much  glory.” 

It  were  an  endless  labor  to  collect  the  accounts, 
with  which  all  ages  have  filled  the  world,  of  noble 
and  heroic  minds  that  have  resigned  this  being, 
as  if  the  termination  of  life  were  but  an  ordinary 
occurrence  of  it. 

This  commonplace  way  of  thinking  I  fell  into 
from  an  awkward  endeavor  to  throw  off  a  real 
and  fresh  affliction,  by  turning  over  books  in  a 
melancholy  mood ;  but  it  is  not  easy  to  remove 
riefs  which  touch  the  heart,  by  applying  reme- 
ies  which  only  entertain  the  imagination.  As 
therefore  this  paper  is  to  consist  of  anything  which 
concerns  human  life,  I  cannot  help  letting  the 
present  subject  regard  what  has  been  the  last 
object  of  my  eyes,  though  an  entertainment  of 
sorrow. 

I  went  this  evening  to  visit  a  friend,  with  a 
design  to  rally  him,  upon  a  story  I  had  heard  of 
his  intending  to  steal  a  marriage  without  the  pri¬ 
vity  of  us  his  intimate  friends  and  acquaintance. 
I  came  into  his  apartment  with  that  intimacy 
which  I  have  done  for  very  many  years,  and  walk¬ 
ed  directly  into  his  bed-chamber,  where  I  found 
my  friend  in  the  agonies  of  death. — What  could  I 
do?  The  innocent  mirth  of  my  thoughts  struck 
upon  me  like  the  most  flagitious  wickedness:  I  in 
vain  called  upon  him ;  he  was  senseless,  and  too 
far  spent  to  have  the  least  knowledge  of  my  sorrow, 
or  any  pain  in  himself.  Give  me  leave  then  to 
transcribe  my  soliloquy,  as  I  stood  by  his  mother, 
dumb  with  the  weight  of  grief  for  a  son  who  was 
her  honor  and  her  comfort,  and  never  till  that  hour 
since  his  birth  had  been  a  moment’s  sorrow  to 
her. 

“How  surprising  is  the  change!  From  the  pos¬ 
session  of  vigorous  life  and  strength,  to  be  re¬ 
duced  in  a  few  hours  to  this  fatal  extremity! 
Those  lips  which  look  so  pale  and  livid,  within 
these  few  days  gave  delight  to  all  who  heard  their 
utterance;  it  was  the  business,  the  purpose  of  his 
being,  next  to  obeying  him  to  whom  he  is  gone, 
to  please  and  instruct,  and  that  for  no  other  end 
but  to  please  and  instruct.  Kindness  was  the 
motive  of  his  actions,  and  with  all  the  capacity 
requisite  for  making  a  figure  in  a  contentious 
world,  moderation,  good-nature,  affability,  temper¬ 
ance,  and  chastity,  were  the  arts  of  his"  excellent 
life. — There  as  he  lies  in  helpless  agony,  no  wise 
man  who  knew  him  so  well  as  I,  but  would  re¬ 
sign  all  the  world  can  bestow  to  be  so  near  the 
end  of  such  a  life.  Why  does  my  heart  so  little 
obey  my  reason  as  to  lament  thee,  thou  excellent 
man? — Heaven  receive  him  or  restore  him! — Thy 
beloved  mother,  thy  obliged  friends,  thy  helpless 
servants,  stand  around  thee  without  distinction. 
How  much  wouldst  thou,  hadst  thou  thy  senses,  say 
to  each  of  us! 

“  But  now  that  good  heart  bursts,  and  he  is  at 
rest.  With  that  breath  expired  a  soul  who  never 
indulged  a  passion  unfit  for  the  place  he  is  gone 
to.  Where  are  now  thy  plans  of  justice,  of  truth, 
of  honor  ?  Of  what  use  the  volumes  thou  hast 
collated,  the  arguments  thou  hast  invented,  the 
examples  thou  hast  followed  ?  Poor  were  the  ex¬ 
pectations  of  the  studious,  the  modest,  and  the 
good,  if  the  reward  of  their  labors  were  only  to 
be  expected  from  man.  No,  my  friend;  thy 
intended  pleadings,  thy  intended  good  offices  to 
thy  friends,  thy  intended  services  to  thy  country. 


183 

are  already  performed  (as  to  thy  concern  in  them) 
in  his  sight,  before  whom  the  past,  present,  and 
future  appear  at  one  view.  While  others  with 
their  talents  were  tormented  with  ambition,  with 
vain -glory,  with  envy,  with  emulation — how  well 
didst  thou  turn  thy  mind  to  its  own  improvement 
in  things  out  of  the  power  of  fortune:  in  probity, 
in  integrity,  in  the  practice  and  study  of  justice  I 
How  silent  thy  passage,  how  private  thy  journey, 
how  glorious  thy  end!  ‘Many  have  I  known 
more  famous,  some  more  knowing,  not  one  so  in¬ 
nocent.’  ”  — R. 


No.  134  ]  FRIDAY,  AUGUST  3,  1711. 

- Opiferque  per  orbem 

Dicor -  Ovid.  Met.,  i,  521. 

And  am  the  great  physician  call’d  below. — Dryden. 

During  my  absence  in  the  country,  several 
packets  have  been  left  for  me,  which  were  not  for¬ 
warded  to  me,  because  I  was  expected  every  day 
in  town.  The  author  of  the  following  letter  dated 
from  Tower-hill,  having  sometimes  been  enter¬ 
tained  with  some  learned  gentlemen  in  plush- 
doublets,*  who  have  vended  their  wares  from  a 
stage  in  that  place,  has  pleasantly  enough  ad¬ 
dressed  to  me  as  no  less  a  sage  in  morality,  than 
those  are  in  physic.  To  comply  with  his  kind 
inclination  to  make  my  cures  famous,  I  shall  give 
you  his  testimonial  of  my  great  abilities  at  large 
in  his  own  words. 

“Sir,  Tower-hill,  July  5,  1711. 

“Your  saying  the  other  day  there  is  something 
wonderful  in  the  narrowness  of  those  minds 
which  can  be  pleased,  and  be  barren  of  bounty  to 
those  who  please  them,  makes  me  in  pain  that  I 
am  not  a  man  of  power.  If  I  were,  you  should 
soon  see  how  much  I  approve  your  speculations. 
In  the  meantime,  I  beg  leave  to  supply  that  ina¬ 
bility  with  the  empty  tribute  of  an  honest  mind, 
by  telling  you  plainly,  I  love  and  thank  you  for 
your  daily  refreshments.  I  constantly  peruse 
your  paper  as  I  smoke  my  morning’s  pipe 
(though  I  cannot  forbear  reading  the  motto  be¬ 
fore  I  fill  and  light),  and  really  it  gives  a  grateful 
relish  to  every  whiff ;  each  paragraph  is  fraught 
either  with  useful  or  delightful  notions,  ana  I 
never  fail  of  being  highly  diverted  or  improved. 
The  variety  of  your  subject  surprises  me  as  much 
as  a  box  of  pictures  did  formerly  in  which  there 
was  only  one  face,  that,  by  pulling  some  pieces 
of  isinglass  over  it,  was  changed  into  a  grave 
senator  or  a  Merry-Andrew,  a  patched  lady  or  a 
nun,  a  beau  or  a  black-a-moor,  a  prude  or  a  co¬ 
quette,  a  country  esquire  or  a  conjurer,  with  many 
other  different  representations  very  entertaining 
(as  you  are),  though  still  the  same  at  the  bottom. 
This  w'as  a  childish  amusement,  when  I  was  car¬ 
ried  awav  with  outward  appearance  ;  but  you 
make  a  deeper  impression,  and  affect  the  secret 
springs  of  the  mind  ;  you  charm  the  fancy,  soothe 
the  passions,  and  insensibly  lead  the  reader  to 
that  sweetness  of  temper  that  you  so  well  describe  ; 
vou  rouse  generosity  with  that  spirit,  and  inculcate 
humanity  with  that  ease,  that  he  must  be  miserably 
stupid  that  is  not  affected  by  you.  I  cannot  say, 
indeed,  that  you  have  put  impertinence  to  silence, 
or  vanity  out  of  countenance ;  but  methinks, 
you  have  bid  as  fair  for  it  as  any  man  that  ever 
appeared  upon  a  public  stage  ;  and  offer  an  in¬ 
fallible  cure  of  vice  and  folly,  for  the  price  of  one 
enny.  And  since  it  is  usual  for  those  who  receive 
enefit  by  such  famous  operators,  to  publish  an 
advertisement  that  others  may  reap  the  same 


*  Viz :  Quack-doctors. 


184 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


advantage,  I  think  myself  obliged  to  declare  to  all 
the  world,  that  having  for  a  long  time  been  sple¬ 
netic,  ill-natured,  froward,  suspicious  and  unso¬ 
ciable — by  the  application  of  your  medicines, 
taken  only  with  half  an  ounce  of  right  Virginia 
tobacco  for  six  successive  mornings,  I  am  become 
open,  obliging,  officious,  frank,  and  hospitable. 

I  am, 

“  Your  humble  servant  and  great  admirer, 

“George  Trusty.” 

The  careful  father  and  humble  petitioner  here¬ 
after  mentioned,  who  are  under  difficulties  about 
the  just  management  of  fans,  will  soon  receive 
proper  advertisements  relating  to  the  professors 
in  tnat  behalf,  with  their  places  of  abode  and  me¬ 
thods  of  teaching. 

“Sir,  July  5,  1711. 

“  In  your  Spectator  of  June  the  27th,  you  tran¬ 
scribe  a  letter  sent  to  you  from  a  new  sort  of 
muster-master,  who  teaches  ladies  the  whole  exer¬ 
cise  of  the  fan.  I  have  a  daughter  just  come  to 
town,  who  though  she  has  always  held  a  fan  in 
her  hand  at  proper  times,  yet  she  knows  no  more 
howto  use  it  according  to  true  discipline,  than 
an  awkward  school-boy  does  to  make  use  of  his 
new  sword.  I  have  sent  for  her  on  purpose  to 
learn  the  exercise,  she  being  already  very  well 
accomplished  in  all  other  arts  which  are  neces¬ 
sary  for  a  young  lady  to  understand  ;  my  request 
is,  that  you  will  speak  to  your  correspondent  on 
my  behalf,  and  in  your  next  paper  let  me  know 
wliat  he  expects,  either  by  the  month  or  the  quar¬ 
ter  for  teaching  ;  and  where  he  keeps  his  place 
of  rendezvous.  I  have  a  son  too,  whom  I  would 
fain  have  taught  to  gallant  fans,  and  should  be 
glad  to  know  what  the  gentleman  will  have  for 
teaching  them  both,  I  finding  fans  for  practice  at 
my  own  expense.  This  information  will  in  the 
highest  manner  oblige,  Sir,  your  most  humble 
servant,  “  William  Wiseacre.” 

“As  soon  as  my  son  is  perfect  in  this  art 
(which  I  hope  will  be  in  a  year’s  time,  for  the 
boy  is  pretty  apt),  I  design  he  shall  learn  to  ride 
the  great  horse  (although  he  is  not  yet  above 
twenty  years  old),  if  his  mother,  whose  darling 
he  is,  will  venture  him.” 

“To  the  Spectator. 

“  The  humble  Petition  of  Benjamin  Easy ,  Gent. 

“  8HOWETH, 

“  That  it  was  your  petitioner’s  misfortune  to 
walk  to  Hackney  church  last  Sunday,  where  to 
his  great  amazement  he  met  with  a  soldier  of  your 
own  training  ;  she  furls  a  fan,  recovers  a  fan,  and 
goes  through  the  whole  exercise  of  it  to  admira¬ 
tion.  This  well-managed  officer  of  yours  has,  to 
my  knowledge,  been  the  ruin  of  above  five  young 
gentlemen  beside  myself,  and  still  goes  on  lay¬ 
ing  waste  wheresoever  she  comes,  whereby  the 
whole  village  is  in  great  danger.  Our  humble 
request  is  therefore,  that  this  bold  Amazon  be 
ordered  immediately  to  lay  down  her  arms,  or 
that  you  would  issue  forth  an  order,  that  we  who 
have  been  thus  injured  may  meet  at  .the  place  of 
general  rendezvous,  and  there  be  taught  to  ma¬ 
nage  our  snuff-boxes,  in  such  a  manner  as  we 
may  be  an  equal  match  for  her ; 

“  And  your  petitioner  shall  ever  pray,”  etc. 

R. 


No.  135.]  SATURDAY,  AUGUST  4,  1711. 

Est  brevitate  opus,  ut  currat  sententia - 

Hob.  1  Sat.  x,  a. 

Let  brevity  dispatch  the  rapid  thought. 

I  have  somewhere  read  of  an  eminent  person, 
who  used  in  his  private  offices  of  devotion  to 
give  thanks  to  Heaven  that  he  was  born  a 
Frent  hman  :  for  my  own  part,  I  look  upon  it  as  a 
peculiar  blessing  that  I  was  born  an  Englishman. 
Among  many  other  reasons,  I  think  myself  very 
happy  in  my  country,  as  the  language  of  it  is 
wonderfully  adapted  to  a  man  who  is  sparing  of 
his  words,  and  an  enemy  to  loquacity. 

As  I  have  frequently  reflected  on  my  good  for¬ 
tune  in  this  particular,  I  shall  communicate  to  the 
public  my  speculations  on  the  English  tongue, 
not  doubting  but  they  will  be  acceptable  to  all 
my  curious  readers. 

The  English  delight  in  silence  more  than  any 
other  European  nation,  if  the  remarks  which  are 
made  on  us  by  foreigners  are  true.  Our  discourse 
is  not  kept  up  in  conversation,  but  falls  into 
more  pauses  and  intervals  than  in  our  neighbor¬ 
ing  countries ;  as  it  is  observed,  that  the  matter 
of  our  writings  is  thrown  much  closer  together, 
and  lies  in  a  narrower  compass  than  is  usual  in 
the  works  of  foreign  authors  ;  for,  to  favor  our 
natural  taciturnity,  when  we  are  obliged  to  utter 
our  thoughts,  we  do  it  in  the  shortest  way  we  are 
able,  and  give  as  quick  a  birth  to  our  conceptions 
as  possible. 

This  humor  shows  itself  in  several  remarks  that 
we  may  make  upon  the  English  language.  As 
first  of  all  by  its  abounding  in  monosyllables, 
whicfy  gives  us  an  opportunity  of  delivering  our 
thoughts  in  few  sounds.  This  indeed  takes  off 
from  the  elegance  of  our  tongue,  but  at  the  same 
time  expresses  our  ideas  in  the  readiest  manner, 
and  consequently  answers  the  first  design  of 
speech  better  than  the  multitude  of  Syllables, 
which  makes  the  words  of  other  languages  more 
tunable  and  sonorous.  The  sounds  of  our  Eng¬ 
lish  words  are  commonly  like  those  of  string- 
music,  short  and  transient,  which  rise  and  perish 
upon  a  single  touch ;  those  of  other  languages  are 
like  the  notes  of  wind-instruments,  sweet  and 
swelling,  and  lengthened  out  into  a  variety  of 
modulation. 

In  the  next  place  we  may  observe,  that  where 
the  words  are  not  monosyllables,  we  often  make 
them  so,  so  much  as  lies  in  our  power,  by  our 
rapidity  of  pronunciation  ;  as  it  generally  hap¬ 
pens  in  most  of  our  long  words  which  are  de¬ 
rived  from  the  Latin,  where  we  contract  the 
length  of  the  syllables  that  gives  them  a  grave 
and  solemn  air  in  their  own  language,  to  make 
them  more  proper  for  dispatch,  and  more  con¬ 
formable  to  the  genius  of  our  tongue.  This  we 
may  find  in  a  multitude  of  words,  as  “  liberty, 
conspiracy,  theater,  orator,”  etc. 

The  same  natural  aversion  to  loquacity  has  of 
late  years  made  a  very  considerable  alteration  in 
our  language,  by  closing  in  one  syllable  the  ter¬ 
mination  of  our  preterperfect  tense,  as  in  these 
words,  “drown’d,  walk’d,  arriv’d,”  for  “drowned, 
walked,  arrived,”  which  has  very  much  disfi¬ 
gured  the  tongue,  and  turned  a  tenth  part  of  our 
smoothest  words  into  so  many  clusters  of  conso¬ 
nants.  This  is  the  more  remarkable,  because  the 
want  of  vowels  in  our  language  has  been  the 
general  complaint  of  our  politest  authors,  who 
nevertheless  are  the  men  that  have  made  these 
retrenchments,  and  consequently  very  much  in¬ 
creased  our  former  scarcity. 

This  reflection  on  the  words  that  end  in  ed,  I 
have  heard  in  conversation  from  one  of  the  greatest 


THE  SPE 

geniuses  this  age  has  produced  *  I  think  we 
may  add  to  the  foregoing  observation,  the  change 
which  has  happened  in  our  language,  by  the 
abbreviation  of  several  words  that  are  terminated 
in  “  eth,”  by  substituting  an  s  in  the  room  of  the 
last  syllable,  as  in  “  drowns,  walks,  arrives,” 
and  innumerable  other  words,  which  in  the  pro¬ 
nunciation  of  our  forefathers  were  “  drowneth, 
walketh,  arriveth.”  This  has  wonderfully  mul¬ 
tiplied  a  letter  which  was  before  too  frequent  in 
the  English  tongue,  and  added  to  that  hissing  in 
our  language,  which  is  taken  so  much  notice  of 
by  foreigners  ;  but  at  the  same  time  humors  our 
taciturnity,  and  eases  us  of  many  superfluous 
syllables. 

I  might  here  observe,  that  the  same  single  letter 
on  many  occasions  does  the  office  of  a  whole 
word,  and  represents  the  “his”  and  “her”  of 
our  forefathers.  There  is  no  doubt  but  the  ear  of 
a  foreigner,  which  is  the  best  judge  in  this  case, 
would  very  much  disapprove  of  such  innovations, 
which  indeed  we  do  ourselves  in  some  measure, 
by  retaining  the  old  termination  in  writing,  and 
in  all  solemn  offices  of  our  religion. 

As  in  the  instances  I  have  given  we  have  epi¬ 
tomized  many  of  our  particular  words  to  the  de¬ 
triment  of  our  tongue,  so  on  other  occasions  we 
have  drawn  two  words  into  one,  which  has  likewise 
very  much  untuned  our  language,  and  clogged  it 
with  consonants  —  as  “mayn’t  can’t,  shan’t, 
won’t,”  and  the  like,  for  “  may  not,  cannot,  shall 
not,  will  not,”  etc. 

__  It  is  perhaps  this  humor  of  speaking  no  more 
than  we  needs  must,  which  has  so  miserably  cur¬ 
tailed  some  of  our  words,  that  in  familiar  writ¬ 
ings  and  conversations  they  often  lose  all  but 
their  first  syllables,  as  in  “mob,  rep.  pos.  incog.” 
and  the  like ;  and  as  all  ridiculous  words  make 
their  first  entry  into  a  language  by  familiar 
phrases,  I  dare  not  answer  for  these,"  that  they 
will  not  in  time  be  looked  upon  as  a  part  of  our 
tongue.  We  see  some  of  our  poets  have  been  so 
indiscreet  as  to  imitate  Hudibras’s  doggerel  ex¬ 
pressions  in  their  serious  compositions,  by  throw¬ 
ing  out  the  signs  of  our  substantives  which  are 
essential  to  the  English  language.  Nay,  this 
humor  of  shortening  our  language  had  once  run 
so  far,  that  some  of  our  celebrated  authors,  among 
whom  we  may  reckon  Sir  Roger  L’Estrange  in 
particular,  began  to  prune  their  words  of  all 
superfluous  letters,  as  they  termed  them,  in  order 
to  adjust  the  spelling  to  the  pronunciation  ; 
which  would  have  confounded  all  our  etymolo¬ 
gies,  and  have  quite  destroyed  our  tongue. 

We  may  here  likewise  observe,  that  our  proper 
names,  when  familiarized  in  English,  generally 
dwindle  to  monosyllables,  whereas  in  other 
modern  languages  they  receive  a  softer  turn  on 
this  occasion,  by  the  addition  of  a  new  syllable. — 
Nick,  in  Italian,  is  Nicolini  :  Jack,  in  French, 
Jeannot ;  and  so  of  the  rest. 

There  is  another  particular  in  our  language 
which  is  a  great  instance  of  our  frugality  of 
woids,  and  that  is  the  suppressing  of  several  par¬ 
ticles  hich  must  be  produced  in  other  tongues  to 
make  a  sentence  intelligible.  This  perplexes  the 
best  writers,  when  they  find  the  relatives  ‘whom,’ 
‘which,’  or  ‘they,’  at  their  mercy,  whether  they 
h&ve  admission,  or  not ;  and  will  never  be  de- 
cided  until  we  have  something  like  an  academy, 
that  by  the  best  authorities  and  rules  drawn  from 
the  analogy  of  languages,  shall  settle  all  contro¬ 
versies  between  grammar  and  idiom. 


*  This  was  probably  Dean  Swift,  who  has  made  the  same 
observation  in  his  proposal  for  correcting,  improving,  and 
ascertaining  the  English  tongue,  etc.  See  Swift’s  Works. 


CTATOR.  185 

I  have  only  considered  our  language  as  it  shows 
the  genius  and  natural  temper  of  the  English, 
wdiich  is  modest,  thoughtful  and  sincere,  and 
which  perhaps  may  recommend  the  people,  though 
it  has  spoiled  the  tongue.  We  might  perhaps  car¬ 
ry  the  same  thought  into  other  languages,  and  de¬ 
duce  a  great  part  of  what  is  peculiar  to  them 
from  the  genius  of  the  people  who  speak  them. 
It  is  certain,  the  light  talkative  humor  of  the 
French  has  not  a  little  infected  their  tongue,  wrhich 
might  be  shown  by  many  instances;  as  the  genius 
of  the  Italians,  which  is  so  much  addicted  to  music 
and  ceremony,  has  moulded  all  their  words  and 
phrases  to  those  particular  uses.  The  stateliness 
and  gravity  of  the  Spaniards  shows  itself  to  per¬ 
fection  in  the  solemnity  of  their  language  ;  and 
the  blunt  honest  humor  of  the  German  sounds  bet¬ 
ter  in  the  roughness  of  the  High-Dutch,  than  it 
would  in  a  politer  tongue. — C. 


No.  136.]  MONDAY,  AUGUST  6,  1711. 

- Parthis  mendacior. — Hor.  2  Ep.  i,  112. 

A  greater  liar  Parthia  never  bred. 

According  to  the  request  of  this  strange  fellow, 
I  shall  print  the  following  letter  : 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  shall  without  any  manner  of  preface  or  apol¬ 
ogy  acquaint  you,  that  I  am,  and  ever  have  been, 
from  my  youth  upward,  one  of  the  greatest  liars 
this  island  has  produced.  I  have  read  all  the  mo¬ 
ralists  upon  the  subject,  but  could  never  find  any 
effect  their  discourses  had  upon  me,  but  to  add  to 
my  misfortune  by  new  thoughts  and  ideas,  and 
making  me  more  ready  in  my  language,  and  capa¬ 
ble  of  sometimes  mixing  seeming  truths  with  my 
improbabilities.  With  this  strong  passion  toward 
falsehood  in  this  kind,  there  does  not  live  an  hon- 
ester  man,  or  a  sincerer  friend ;  but  my  imagina¬ 
tion  runs  away  with  me;  and  whatever  is  started, 
I  have  such  a  scene  of  adventures  appear  in  an 
instant  before  me,  that  I  cannot  help  uttering 
them,  though,  to  my  immediate  confusion,  I  can¬ 
not  but  know  I  am  liable  to  be  detected  by  the 
first  man  I  meet. 

“  Upon  occasion  of  the  mention  of  the  battle  of 
Pultowa,*  I  could  not  forbear  giving  an  account 
of  a  kinsman  of  mine,  a  young  merchant  who  was 
bred  at  Moscow,  that  had  too  much  mettle  to  at¬ 
tend  books  of  entries  and  accounts,  when  there  was 
so  active  a  scene  in  the  country  where  he  resided, 
and  followed  the  Czar  as  a  volunteer.  This  warm 
youth  (born  at  the  instant  the  thing  was  spoken  of) 
was  the  man  who  unhorsed  the  Swedish  general;  he 
was  the  occasion  that  the  Muscovites  kept  their 
fire  in  so  soldier-like  a  manner;  and  brought  up 
those  troops  which  were  covered  from  the  enemy 
at  the  beginning  of  the  day;  beside  this,  he  had  at 
last  the  good  fortune  to  be  the  man  who  took  Count 
Piper. f  With  all  this  fire  I  knew  my  cousin  to 
be  the  civilest  creature  in  the  world.  He  never 
made  any  impertinent  show  of  his  valor,  and  then 
he  had  an  excellent  genius  for  the  world  in  every 
other  kind.  I  had  letters  from  him  (here  I  felt 
in  my  pockets)  that  exactly  spoke  the  Czar’s 
character,  which  I  knew  perfectly  well ;  and  I 
could  not  forbear  concluding,  that  I  lay  with  his 
imperial  majesty  twice  or  thrice  a  week  all  the 
while  he  lodged  at  Deptford. t  What  is  worse 
than  all  this,  it  is  impossible  to  speak  to  me  but 

*  Fought  July  8, 1709,  between  Charles  XII,  of  Sweden,  and 
Peter  I,  Emperor  of  Russia;  wherein  Charles  was  entirely 
defeated. 

+  Prime  Minister  of  Charles  XII. 

*  In  the  spring  of  the  year  1698. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


186 


occasion  of  coming  out  with 


you  give  me  some 
one  lie  or  other,  that  has  neither  wit,  humor,  pros¬ 
pect  of  interest,  or  any  other  motive  that  I  can 
think  of  in  nature.  The  other  day,  when  one 
was  commending  an  eminent  and  learned  divine, 
what  occasion  in  the  world  had  I  to  say,  ‘Me- 
thinks  he  would  look  more  venerable  if  he  were 
not  so  fair  a  man  V  I  remember  the  company 
smiled.  I  have  seen  the  gentleman  since,  and  he  is 
coal  black.  I  have  intimations  every  day  in  my  life 
that  nobody  believes  me;  yet  I  am  never  the  better. 

I  was  saying  something  the  other  day  to  an  old 
friend  at  Will’s  coffee-house,  and  he  made  me  no 
manner  of  answer;  but  told  me  that  an  acquaint¬ 
ance  of  Tully  the  orator  having  two  or  three  times 
together  said  to  him,  without  receiving  any  ans¬ 
wer,  ‘that  upon  his  honor  he  was  but  that  very 
month  forty  years  of  age,’  Tully  answered,  ‘  Sure¬ 
ly  you  think  me  the  most  incredulous  man  in  the 
world,  if  I  do  not  believe  what  you  have  told  me 
every  day  these  ten  years.’  The  mischief  of  it  is 
I  find  myself  wonderfully  inclined  to  have  been 
present  at  every  occurrence  that  is  spoken  of  be¬ 
fore  me;  this  has  led  me  into  many  inconveniences, 
but  indeed  they  have  been  the  fewer,  because  I  am 
no  ill-natured  man,  and  never  speak  things  to  any 
man’s  disadvantage.  I  never  directly  defame,  but 
I  do  what  is  as  bad  in  the  consequence,  for  I  have 
often  made  a  man  say  such  and  such  a  lively  ex¬ 
pression,  who  was  born  a  mere  elder  brother. 
When  one  has  said  in  my  hearing,  ‘  such  a  one  is 
no  wiser  than  he  should  be,’  I  immediately  have 
replied,  ‘Now  ’faith,  I  cannot  see  that ;  he  said  a 
very  good  thing  to  my  lord  such-a-one,  upon  such 
an  occasion,’  and  the  like.  Such  an  honest  dolt 
as  this  has  been  watched  in  every  expression  he 
uttered,  upon  my  recommendation  of  him,  and  con¬ 
sequently  been  subject  to  the  more  ridicule.  I 
once  endeavored  to  cure  myself  of  this  impertinent 
quality,  and  resolved  to  hold  my  tongue  for  seven 
days  together  ;  I  did  so  ;  but  then  I  had  so  many 
winks  and  unnecessary  distortions  of  my  face  upon 
what  anybody  else  said,  that  I  found  I  only  forbore 
the  expression,  and  that  I  still  lied  in  my  heart  to 
every  man  I  met  with.  You  are  to  know  one 
thing  (which  I  believe  you  will  say  is  a  pity  con¬ 
sidering  the  use  I  should  have  made  of  it),  I 
never  traveled  in  my  life;  but  I  do  not  know  whe¬ 
ther  I  could  have  spoken  of  any  foreign  country 
with  more  familiarity  than  I  do  at  present,  in  com¬ 
pany  who  are  strangers  to  me.  I  have  cursed  the 
inns  in  Germany;  commended  the  brothels  at  Ve¬ 
nice — the  freedom  of  conversation  in  France  ;  and 
though  I  was  never  out  of  this  dear  town,  and 
fifty  miles  about  it,  have  been  three  nights  togeth¬ 
er  dogged  by  bravos,  for  an  intrigue  with  a  car¬ 
dinal’s  mistress  at  Rome. 

*  “  It  were  endless  to  give  you  particulars  of  this 
kind ;  but  I  can  assure  you,  Mr.  Spectator,  there 
are  about  twenty  or  thirty  of  us  in  this  town — I 
mean  by  this  town  the  cities  of  London  and  W est- 
minster — I  say  there  are  in  town  a  sufficient  num¬ 
ber  of  us  to  make  a  society  among  ourselves  ;  and 
since  we  cannot  be  believed  any  longer,  I  beg  of 
you  to  print  this  my  letter,  that  we  may  meet  to¬ 
gether,  and  be  under  such  regulation  as  there  may 
be  no  occasion  for  belief  or  confidence  among  us. 
If  you  think  fit,  we  might  be  called  ‘the  histo¬ 
rians,’  for  liar  is  become  a  very  harsh  word.  And 
that  a  member  of  the  society  may  not  hereafter  be 
ill  received  by  the  rest  of  the  world,  I  desire  you 
would  explain  a  little  this  sort  of  men,  and  not 
let  us  historians  be  ranked,  as  we  are  in  the  ima¬ 
ginations  of  ordinary  people,  among  common 
liars,  makebates,  impostors  and  incendiaries. — 
For  your  instruction  herein,  you  are  to  know  that 
a  historian  in  conversation  is  only  a  person  of 


so  pregnant  a  fancy,  that  he  cannot  be  contented 
with  ordinary  occurrences.  I  know  a  man  of 
quality  of  our  order,  who  is  of  the  wrong  side  of 
forty-three,  and  has  been  of  that  age,  according 
to  Tully’s  jest,  for  some  years  since,  whose  vein 
is  upon  the  romantic.  Give  him  the  least  occa¬ 
sion,  and  he  will  tell  you  something  so  very  par¬ 
ticular  that  happened  in  such  a  year,  and  in  such 
company,  where  by-the-bye  was  present  such  a 
one,  who  was  afterward  made  such  a  thing.  Out 
of  all  these  circumstances,  in  the  best  language  in 
the  world,  he  will  join  together  with  such  proba¬ 
ble  incidents  an  account  that  shows  a  person  of 
the  deepest  penetration,  the  honestest  mind,  and 
withal  something  so  humble  when  he  speaks  of 
himself,  that  you  would  admire.  Dear  Sir,  why 
should  this  be  lying  ?  there  is  nothing  so  instruct¬ 
ive.  He  has  withal  the  gravest  aspect — some¬ 
thing  so  very  venerable  and  great !  Another  of 
these  historians  is  a  young  man  whom  we  would 
take  in,  though  he  extremely  wants  parts:  as  peo¬ 
ple  send  children  (before  they  can  learn  any¬ 
thing)  to  school,  to  keep  them  out  of  harm’s  way. 
He  tells  things  which  have  nothing  at  all  in  them, 
and  can  neither  please  nor  displease,  but  merely 
take  up  your  time  to  no  manner  of  purpose,  no 
manner  of  delight ;  but  he  is  good-natured,  and 
does  it  because  he  loves  to  be  saying  something 
to  you,  and  entertain  you. 

“  I  could  name  you  a  soldier  that  hath  done 
very  great  things  without  slaughter  ;  he  is  prodi¬ 
giously  dull  and  slow  of  head,  but  what  he  can 
say  is  forever  false,  so  that  we  must  have  him. 

“  Give  me  leave  to  tell  you  of  one  more,  who  is 
a  lover  ;  he  is  the  most  afflicted  creature  in  the 
world  lest  what  happened  between  him  and  a 
great  beauty  should  ever  be  known.  Yet  again 
he  comforts  himself,  ‘  Hang  the  jade  her  woman. 
If  money  can  keep  the  slut  trusty,  I  will  do  it, 
though  I  mortgage  every  acre  ;  Antony  and  Cleo¬ 
patra  for  that ;  All  for  Love  and  the  World  well 
Lost.’ 

“  Then,  Sir,  there  is  my  little  merchant,  honest 
Indigo  of  the  ’Change,  there  is  my  man  for  loss 
and  gain  ;  there  is  tare  and  tret,  there  is  lying  all 
round  the  globe;  he  has  such  a  prodigious  intelli¬ 
gence,  he  knows  all  the  French  are  doing,  or  what 
we  intend  or  ought  to  intend,  and  has  it  from 
such  hands.  But,  alas,  whither  am  I  running  ! — 
while  I  complain,  while  I  remonstrate  to  you,  even 
all  this  is  a  lie,  and  there  is  not  one  such  person 
of  quality,  lover,  soldier,  or  merchant,  as  I  have 
now  described  in  the  whole  world  that  I  know  of. 
But  I  will  catch  myself  once  in  my  life,  and  in 
spite  of  nature  speak  one  truth,  to  wit,  that  I  am, 

T.  “  Your  humble  servant,”  etc. 


No.  137.]  TUESDAY,  AUGUST  7,  1711 

At  htec  etiam  servis  semper  libera  fuerunt,  timerent,  gau- 
derent,  dolerent,  suo  potius  quam  alterius  arbitrio. 

Tull.  Epist. 

Even  slaves  were  always  at  liberty  to  fear,  rejoice,  and 
grieve,  at  their  own  rather  than  another’s  pleasure. 

It  is  no  small  concern  to  me,  that  I  find  so 
many  complaints  from  that  part  of  mankind 
whose  portion  it  is  to  live  in  servitude,  that  those 
whom  they  depend  upon  will  not  allow  them  to 
be  even  as  happy  as  their  condition  will  admit  of. 
There  are,  as  these  unhappy  correspondents  in¬ 
form  me,  masters  who  are  offended  at  a  cheerful 
countenance,  and  think  a  servant  is  broke  loose 
from  them,  if  he  does  not  preserve  the  utmost 
awe  in  their  presence.  There  is  one  who  says,  if 
he  looks  satisfied,  his  master  asks  him,  “What 
makes  him  so  pert  this  morning?”  if  a  little 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


sour,  “Hark  ye,  Sirrah,  are  not  you  paid  your 
wages  ?”  The  poor  creatures  live  in  the  iuost 
extreme  misery  together  ;  the  master  knows  not 
how  to  preserve  respect,  nor  the  servant  how  to 
give  it.  It  seems  this  person  is  of  so  sullen  a  na¬ 
ture  that  he  knows  but  little  satisfaction  in  the 
midst  of  a  plentiful  fortune,  and  secretly  frets  to  see 
any  appearance  of  content  in  one  that  lives  upon 
the  hundredth  part  of  his  income,  while  he  is  un¬ 
happy  in  the  possession  of  the  whole.  Uneasy 
persons,  who  cannot  possess  their  own  minds, 
vent  their  spleen  upon  all  who  depend  upon  them: 
which,  I  think,  is  expressed  in  a  lively  manner  in 
the  following  letters : 

"Sir,  August  2,  1711. 

“  I  have  read  your  Spectator  of  the  third  of  the 
last  month,  and  wish  1  had  the  happiness  of  being 
preferred  to  serve  so  good  a  master  as  Sir  Roger. 
The  character  of  my  master  is  the  very  reverse  of 
that  good  and  gentle  knight’s.  All  his  directions 
are  given,  and  his  mind  revealed  by  way  of  con¬ 
traries  :  as  when  anything  is  to  be  remembered, 
with  a  peculiar  cast  of  face  he  cries,  ‘  13e  sure  to 
forget  now.’  If  I  am  to  make  haste  back,  ‘  Do  not 
come  these  two  hours  ;  be  sure  to  call  by  the  way 
upon  some  of  your  companions.’  Then  another 
excellent  way  of  his  is,  if  he  sets  me  anything  to 
do,  which  he  knows  must  necessarily  take  up  half 
a  day,  he  calls  ten  times  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
to  know  whether  I  have  done  yet.  This  is  his  man¬ 
ner;  and  the  same  perverseness  runs  through  all  his 
actions,  according  as  the  circumstances  vary.  Be¬ 
side  all  this,  he  is  so  suspicious,  that  he  submits 
himself  to  the  drudgery  of  a  spy.  He  is  as  unhap¬ 
py  himself  as  he  makes  his  servants  ;  he  is  con¬ 
stantly  watching  us,  and  we  differ  no  more  in  plea¬ 
sure  and  liberty  than  as  a  jailer  and  a  prisoner.  He 
lays  traps  for  faults  ;  and  no  sooner  makes  a  dis¬ 
covery,  out  falls  into  such  language,  as  I  am  more 
ashamed  of  for  coming  from  him,  than  for  being 
directed  to  me.  This,  Sir,  is  a  short  sketch  of  a 
master  I  have  served  upward  of  nine  years  ;  and 
though  I  have  never  wronged  him,  I  confess  my 
despair  of  pleasing  him  has  very  much  abated  my 
endeavor  to  do  it.  If  you  will  give  me  leave  to 
steal  a  sentence  out  of  my  master’s  Clarendon,  I 
shall  tell  you  mv  case  in  a  word,  ‘  being  used  worse 
than  I  deserved,  I  cared  less  to  deserve  well  than 
I  had  done.’ 

“  I  am.  Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

“  Ralph  Valet.” 

“  Dear  Mr.  Specter, 

“I  am  the  next  thing  to  a  lady’s  woman,  and 
am  under  both  my  lady  and  her  woman.  I  am  so 
used  by  them  both,  that  I  should  be  very  glad  to 
see  them  in  the  Specter.  My  lady  herself  is  of  no 
mind  in  the  world,  and  for  that  reason  her  woman 
is  of  twenty  minds  in  a  moment.  My  lady  is  one 
that  never  knows  what  to  do  with  herself;  she 
pulls  on  and  puts  off  everything  she  wears  twenty 
times  before  she  resolves  upon  it  for  that  day.  I 
stand  at  one  end  of  the  room  and  reach  things  to 
her  woman.  When  my  lady  asks  for  a  thing,  I 
hear,  and  have  half  brought  it,  when  the  woman 
meets  me  in  the  middle  of  the  room  to  receive  it, 
and  at  that  instant  she  says,  ‘No,  she  will  not 
have  it.  I  hen  I  go  back,  and  her  woman  comes 
up  to  her,  and  by  this  time  she  will  have  that  and 
two  or  three  things  more  in  an  instant.  The  wo¬ 
man  and  I  run  to  each  other ;  I  am  loaded  and 
delivering  the  things  to  her,  when  my  lady  says 
she  wants  none  of  all  these  things,  and  we  are  the 
dullest  creatures  in  the  world,  and  she  the  unhap- 
piest  woman  living,  for  she  shall  not  be  dressed 
in  any  time.  Thus  we  stand,  not  knowing  what 


187 

to  do,  when  our  good  lady,  with  all  the  patience 
in  the  world,  tells  us  as  plain  as  she  can  speak, 
that  she  will  have  temper  because  we  have  no 
manner  of  understanding ;  and  begins  again  to 
dress,  and  see  if  we  can  find  out,  of  ourselves, 
what  we  are  to  do.  When  she  is  dressed  she 
goes  to  dinner,  and  after  she  has  disliked  every¬ 
thing  there  she  calls  for  her  coach,  then  com¬ 
mands  it  in  again,  and  then  she  will  not  go  out  at 
all,  and  then  will  go,  too,  and  orders  the  chariot. 
Now,  good  Mr.  Specter,  I  desire  you  would,  in  the 
behalf  of  all  who  serve  froward  ladies,  give  out 
in  your  paper  that  nothing  can  be  done  without  al¬ 
lowing  time  for  it,  and  that  one  cannot  be  back 
again  with  what  one  was  sent  for,  if  one  is  called 
back  before  one  can  go  a  step  for  what  they  want. 
And  if  you  please,  let  them  know  that  all  mis¬ 
tresses  are  as  like  as  all  servants. 

“I  am  your  loving  friend, 

“Patience  Giddy.” 

These  are  great  calamities  ;  but  I  met  the  other 
day  in  the  Five  fields,  toward  Chelsea,  a  pleas¬ 
anter  tyrant  than  either  of  the  above  represented. 
A  fat  fellow  was  puffing  on  in  his  open  waistcoat; 
a  boy  of  fourteen  in  a  livery,  carrying  after  him 
his  cloak,  upper-coat,  hat,  wig,  and  sword.  The 
poor  lad  was  ready  to  sink  with  the  weight,  and 
could  not  keep  up  with  his  master,  who  turned 
back  every  half  furlong,  and  wondered  what  made 
the  lazy  young  dog  lag  behind. 

There  is  something  very  unaccountable,  that 
people  cannot  put  themselves  in  the  condition  of 
the  persons  below  them,  when  they  consider  the 
commands  they  give.  But  there  is  nothing  more 
common,  than  to  see  a  fellow  (who  if  he  were 
reduced  to  it,  would  not  be  hired  by  any  man  liv¬ 
ing)  lament  that  he  is  troubled  with  the  most 
worthless  dogs  in  nature. 

It  would,  perhaps,  be  running  too  far  out  of 
common  life  to  urge,  that  he  who  is  not  master 
of  himself  and  his  own  passions,  cannot  be  a 
proper  master  of  another.  Equanimity  in  a  man’s 
own  words  and  actions,  will  easily  diffuse  itself 
through  his  whole  family.  Pamphilio  has  the 
happiest  household  of  any  man  I  know,  and  that 
proceeds  from  the  humane  regard  he  has  to  them 
in  their  private  persons,  as  well  as  in  respect  that 
they  are  his  servants.  If  there  be  any  occasion, 
wherein  they  may  in  themselves  be  supposed  to 
be  unfit  to  attend  to  their  master’s  concerns  hJ 
reason  of  any  attention  to  their  own,  he  is  so 
good  as  to  place  himself  in  their  condition.  I 
thought  it  very  becoming  in  him,  when  at  dinner 
the  other  day,  he  made  an  apology  for  want  of 
more  attendants.  He  said,  “  One  of  my  footmen 
is  gone  to  the  wedding  of  his  sister,  and  the  other 
I  do  not  expect  to  wait,  because  his  father  died 
but  two  days  ago.” — T. 


No.  138.]  WEDNESDAY,  AUGUST  8,  1711. 

Utitur  in  re  non  dubia  testibus  non  necessariis. — Tull. 

He  uses  unnecessary  proofs  in  an  indisputable  point. 

One  meets  now  and  then  with  persons  who  are 
extremely  learned  and  knotty  in  expounding  clear 
cases.  Tully  tells  us  of  an  author  that  spent 
some  pages  to  prove  that  generals  could  not  per¬ 
form  the  great  enterprises  which  have  made  them 
so  illustrious,  if  they  had  not  had  men.  He 
asserted  also,  it  seems,  that  a  minister  at  home, 
no  more  than  a  commander  abroad,  could  do  any¬ 
thing  without  other  men  were  his  instruments  and 
assistants.  On  this  occasion  he  produces  the 
example  of  Themistocles,  Pericles,  Cyrus,  and 
Alexander  himself,  whom  he  denies  to  have  been 
capable  of  effecting  what  they  did,  except  they 


lgg  THE  SPE  ( 

had  been  followed  by  others.  It  is  pleasant ; 
enough  to  see  such  persons  contend  without  op¬ 
ponents,  and  triumph  without  victory.  _  j 

The  author  above-mentioned  by  the  orator  is 
placed  forever  in  a  very  ridiculous  light,  and  we 
meet  every  day  in  conversation. such  as  deserve 
the  same  kind  of  renown,  for  troubling  those  with 
whom  they  converse  with  the  like  certainties. 
The  persons  that  I  have  always  thought  to  deserve 
the  highest  admiration  in  this  kind  are  your  or¬ 
dinary  story-tellers,  who  are  most  religiously  care¬ 
ful  of  keeping  to  the  truth  in  every  particular 
circumstance  of  a  narration,  whether  it  concerns 
the  main  end  or  not.  A  gentleman  whom  I  had 
the  honor  to  be  in  company  with  the  other  day, 
upon  some  occasion  that  he  was  pleased  to  take, 
said,  he  remembered  a  very  pretty  repartee  made 
by  a  very  witty  man  in  King  Charles’s  time  upon 
the  like*  occasion.  “  I  remember,”  said  he,  upon 
entering  into  the  tale,  “  much  about  the  time  of 
Oates’s  plot,  that  a  cousin-german  of  mine  and  I 
were  at  the  Bear  in  Holborn.  No,  I  am  out,  it 
was  at  the  Cross-keys;  but  Jack  Thomson  was 
there,  for  he  was  very  great  with  the  gentleman 
who  made  the  answer.  But  I  am  sure  it  was 
spoken  somewhere  thereabouts,  for  we  drank 
a  bottle  in  that  neighborhood  every  evening ; 
but  no  matter  for  all  that,  the  thing  is  the  same  ; 
but - ” 

He  was  going  on  to  settle  the  geography  of  the 
jest  when  I  left  the  room,  wondering  at  this  odd 
turn  of  head,  which  can  play  away  its  words  with 
uttering  nothing  to  the  purpose,  still  observing  its 
own  impertinences,  and  yet  proceeding  in  them. 

I  do  not  question  but  he  informed  the  rest  of  his 
audience,  who  had  more  patience  than  I,  of  the 
birth  and  parentage,  as  well  as  the  collateral  alli¬ 
ances  of  his  family  who  made  the  repartee,  and 
of  him  who  provoked  him  to  it. 

It  is  no  small  misfortune  to  any  who  have  a 
just  value  for  their  time,  when  this  quality  of  be¬ 
ing  so  very  circumstantial,  and  careful  to  be  exact, 
happens  to  show  itself  in  a  man  whose  quality 
obliges  them  to  attend  his  proofs  that  it  is  now 
day,  and  the  like.  But  this  is  augmented  when 
the  same  genius  gets  into  authority,  as  it  often 
does.  Nay,  I  have  known  it  more  than  once  as¬ 
cend  the  very  pulpit.  One  of  this  sort  taking  it 
in  his  head  to  be  a  great  admirer  of  Dr.  Tillotson 
and  Dr.  Beveridge,  never  failed  of  proving  out  of 
these  great  authors,  things  which  no  man  living 
would  have  denied  him  upon  his  own  single 
authority.  One  day,  resolving  to  come  to  the 
point  in  hand,  he  said,  “According  to  that  excel¬ 
lent  divine  ”  I  will  enter  upon  the  matter,  or  in 
his  words,  in  his  fifteenth  sermon  of  the  folio 
edition,  page  160, - 

“  I  shall  briefly  explain  the  words,  and  then 
consider  the  matter  contained  in  them.” 

This  honest  gentleman  needed  not,  one  would 
think,  strain  his  modesty  so  far  as  to  alter  his 
design  of  “  entering  upon  the  matter,”  to  that  of 
“  briefly  explaining.”  But  so  it  was,  that  he 
would  not  even  be  contented  with  that  authority, 
but  added  also  the  other  divine  to  strengthen  his 
method,  and  told  us,  with  the  pious  and  learned 
Dr.  Beveridge,  page  4th  of  his  ninth  volume,  “  I 
shall  endeavor  to  make  it  as  plain  as  I  can  from 
the  words  which  I  have  now  read,  wherein  for 

that  purpose  we  shall  consider - ”  This  wiseacre 

was  reckoned  by  the  parish,  who  did  not  under¬ 
stand  him,  a  most  excellent  preacher  :  but  that  he 
read  too  much,  and  was  so  humble  that  he  did  not 
trust  enough  to  his  own  parts. 

Next  to  these  ingenious  gentlemen,  who  argue 
for  what  nobody  can  deny  them,  are  to  be  ranked 
a  sort  of  people  who  do  not  indeed  attempt  to 


1TATOR. 

prove  insignificant  things,  but  are  ever  laboring  to 
raise  arguments  with  you  about  matters  you  will 
give  up  to  them  without  the  least  controversy. 
One  of  these  people  told  a  gentleman  who  said  he 
saw  Mr.  Such-a-one  go  this  morning  at  nine  of  the 
clock  toward  the  Gravel-pits  :  “  Sir,  I  must  beg 
your  pardon  for  that,  for  though  I  am  very  loth 
to  have  any  dispute  with  you,  yet  I  must  take  the 
liberty  to  tell  you  it  was  nine  when  I  saw  him  at 
St.  James’s.”  When  men  of  this  genius  are 
pretty  far  gone  in  learning,  they  will  put  you  to 
prove  that  snow  is  white,  and  when  you  are  upon 
that  topic  can  say  that  there  is  really  no  such 
thing  as  color  in  nature  ;  in  a  word,  they  can  turn 
what  little  knowledge  they  have  into  a  ready 
capacity  of  raising  doubts  ;  into  a  capacity  of 
being  always  frivolous  and  always  unanswerable. 
It  was  of  two  disputants  of  this  impertinent  and 
laborious  kind  that  the  cynic  said,  “  one  of  these 
fellows  is  milking  a  ram,  and  the  other  holds  the 
pail.” 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

“  The  exercise  of  the  snuff-box,  according  to 
the  most  fashionable  airs  and  motions,  in  opposi¬ 
tion  to  the  exercise  of  the  fan,  will  be  taught  with 
the  best  plain  or  perfumed  snuff,  at  Charles  Lil¬ 
lie’s,  perfumer,  at  the  corner  of  Beaufort’s  build¬ 
ings,  in  the  Strand,  and  attendance  given  for  the 
benefit  of  the  young  merchants  about  the  Exchange 
for  two  hours  every  day  at  noon,  except  Saturdays, 
at  a  toy -shop  near  Garraway’s  coffee-house.  There 
will  be  likewise  taught  the  ceremony  of  the  snuff¬ 
box,  or  rules  for  offering  snuff  to  a  stranger,  a 
friend,  or  a  mistress,  according  to  the  degrees  of 
familiarity  or  distance,  with  an  explanation  of  the 
careless,  the  scornful,  the  politic,  and  the  surly 
pinch,  and  the  gestures  proper  to  each  of  them. 

“N.  B.  The  undertaker  does  not  question  but 
in  a  short  time  to  have  formed  a  body  of  regular 
snuffboxes  ready  to  meet  and  make  head  against 
all  the  regiment  of  fans  which  have  been  lately 
disciplined,  and  are  now  in  motion.” — T. 


No.  139.]  THURSDAY,  AUGUST  9,  1711. 

Yera  gloria  radices  agit,  atque  etiam  propagatur;  ficta 
omnia  celeriter,  tanquam  liosculi,  decidunt,  nec  simulatum 
potest  quidquam  esse  diuturnum. — Tull. 

True  glory  takes  root,  and  even  spreads;  all  false  pre¬ 
tenses,  like  flowers,  fall  to  the  ground;  nor  can  any  counter¬ 
feit  last  long. 

Of  all  the  affections  which  attend  human  life, 
the  love  of  glory  is  the  most  ardent.  According 
as  this  is  cultivated  in  princes,  it  produces  the 
greatest  good  or  the  greatest  evil.  Where  sover¬ 
eigns  have  it  by  impressions  received  from  educa¬ 
tion  only,  it  creates  an  ambitious  rather  than  a 
noble  mind  :  where  it  is  the  natural  bent  of  the 
prince’s  inclination,  it  prompts  him  to  the  pursuit 
of  things  truly  glorious.  The  two  greatest  men 
now  in  Europe  (according  to  the  common  accepta¬ 
tion  of  the  word  great)  are  Lewis  King  of  France, 
and  Peter  Emperor  of  Russia.  As  it  is  certain 
that  all  fame  does  not  arise  from  the  practice  of 
virtue,  it  is,  methinks,  no  unpleasing  amusement 
to  examine  the  glory  of  these  potentates,  and  dis¬ 
tinguish  that  which  is  empty,  perishing  and  fri¬ 
volous,  from  what  is  solid,  lasting,  and  important. 

Lewis  of  France  had  his  infancy  attended  by 
crafty  and  worldly  men,  who  made  extent  of  ter¬ 
ritory  the  most  glorious  instance  of  power,  and 
mistook  the  spreading  of  fame  for  the  acquisition 
of  honor.  The  young  monarch’s  heart  was  by 
such  conversation  easily  deluded  into  a  fondness 
for  vain  glory,  and  upon  these  unjust  principles 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


to  form  or  fall  in  with  suitable  projects  of  inva¬ 
sion,  rapine,  murder,  and  all  the  guilts  that  at¬ 
tend  war  when  it  is  unjust.  At  the  same  time 
this  tyranny  was  laid,  sciences  and  arts  were  en¬ 
couraged  in  the  most  generous  manner,  as  if  men 
of  higher  faculties  were  to  be  bribed  to  permit  the 
massacre  of  the  rest  of  the  world.  Every  super¬ 
structure  which  the  court  of  France  built  upon 
their  first  designs,  which  were  in  themselves  vi¬ 
cious,  was  suitable  to  its  false  foundation.  The 
ostentation  of  riches,  the  vanity  of  equipage, 
shame  of  poverty,  and  ignorance  of  modesty, 
were  the  common  arts  of  life  ;  the  generous  love 
of  one  woman  was  changed  into  gallantry  for 
all  the  sex,  and  friendships  among  men  turned 
into  commerces  of  interest,  or  mere  professions. 
“  hile  these  were  the  rules  of  life,  perjuries  in 
the  prince,  and  a  general  corruption  of  manners 
in  the  subject,  were  the  snares  in  which  France 
has  entangled  all  her  neighbors.”  With  such 
false  colors  have  the  eyes  of  Lewis  been  en¬ 
chanted,  from  the  debauchery  of  his  early  youth 
to  the  superstition  of  his  present  old  age. *  Hence 
it  is,  that  he  has  the  patience  to  have  statues 
erected  to  his  prowess,  his  valor,  his  fortitude, 
and  in  the  softness  and  luxury  of  a  court  to  be 
applauded  for  magnanimity  and  enterprise  in  mil¬ 
itary  achievements. 

Peter  Alexovitz  of  Russia,  when  he  came  to 
years  of  manhood,  though  he  found  himself  em¬ 
peror  of  a  vast  and  numerous  people,  master  of 
an  endless  territory,  absolute  commander  of  the 
lives  and  fortunes  of  his  subjects,  in  the  midst  of 
this  unbounded  power  and  greatness,  turned  his 
thoughts  upon  himself  and  people  with  sorrow. 
Sordid  ignorance  and  a  brute  manner  of  life,  this 
generous  prince  beheld  and  contemned,  from  the 
light  of  his  own  genius.  His  judgment  suggested 
this  to  him,  and  his  courage  prompted  him  to 
amend  it.  In  order  to  this,  he  did  not  send  to 
the  nation  from  whence  the  rest  of  the  world  has 
borrowed  its  politeness,  but  himself  left  his  dia¬ 
dem  to  learn  the  true  way  to  glory  and  honor, 
and  application  to  useful  arts,  wherein  to  employ 
the  laborious,  the  simple,  the  honest  part  of  his 
people.  Mechanic  employments  and  operations 
were  very  justly  the  first  objects  of  his  favor  and 
observation.  With  this  glorious  intention  he  trav¬ 
eled  into  foreign  nations  in  an  obscure  manner, 
above  receiving  little  honors  where  he  sojourned, 
but  prying  into  what  was  of  more  consequence, 
their  arts  of  peace  and  of  war.  By  this  means  has 
this  great  prince  laid  the  foundation  of  a  great 
and  lasting  fame,  by  personal  labor,  personal 
knowledge,  personal  valor.  It  would  be  injury  to 
any  of  antiquity  to  name  them  with  him.  Who 
but  himself  ever -left  a  throne  to  learn  to  sit  in  it 
with  more  grace?  Who  ever  thought  himself 
mean  in  absolute  power,  till  he  had  learned  to 
use  it  ? 

If  we  consider  this  wonderful  person,  it  is  per¬ 
plexity  to  know  where  to  begin  his  encomium. 
Others  may  in  a  metaphorical  or  philosophic  sense 
bo  said  to  command  themselves,  but  this  emperor 
is  also  literally  under  his  own  command.  How 
generous  and  how  good  was  his  entering  his  own 
name  as  a  private  man  in  the  army  he  raised,  that 
none  in  it  might  expect  to  outrun  the  steps  with 
which  he  himself  advanced!  By  such  measures 
this  god-like  prince  learned  to  conquer,  learned  to 
use  his  conquests.  How  terrible  has  he  appeared 
in  battle,  how  gentle  in  victory  !  Shall  then  the 
base  arts  of  the  Frenchman  be  held  polite,  and 
the  honest  labors  of  the  Russian  barbarous  ?  *  No  • 
barbarity  is  the  ignorance  of  true  honor,  or  placing 
anything  instead  of  it.  The  unjust  prince  is  ig¬ 


189 

noble  and  barbarous,  the  good  prince  only  re¬ 
nowned  and  glorious. 

Though  men  may  impose  upon  themselves  what 
they  please  by  their  corrupt  imaginations,  truth 
will  ever  keep  its  station  :  and  as  glory  is  nothing 
else  but  the  shadow  of  virtue,  it  will  certainly 
disappear  at  the  departure  of  virtue.  But  how 
carefully  ought  the  true  notions  of  it  to  be  pre¬ 
served,  and  how  industrious  should  we  be  to  en¬ 
courage  any  impulses  toward  it !  The  Westmins¬ 
ter  school-boy  that  said  the  other  day  he  could 
not  sleep  or  play  for  the  colors  in  the  hall,*  ought 
to  be  free  from  receiving  a  blow  forever. 

But  let  us  consider  what  is  truly  glorious  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  author  I  have  to-day  quoted  in  the 
front  of  my  paper. 

The  perfection  of  glory,  says  Tully,  consists  in 
these  three  particulars  :  “  That  the  people  love  us  ; 
that  they  have  confidence  in  us  ;  that  being  af¬ 
fected  with  a  certain  admiration  toward  us,  they 
think  we  deserve  honor.”  This  was  spoken  of 
greatness  in  the  commonwealth.  But  if  one  were 
to  form  a  consummate  glory  under  our  constitu¬ 
tion,  one  must  add  to  the  above-mentioned  felici¬ 
ties  a  certain  necessary  inexistence,  and  disrelish 
of  all  the  rest,  without  the  prince’s  favor.  He 
should,  methinks,  have  riches,  power,  honor, 
command,  glory ;  but  riches,  power,  honor,  com¬ 
mand,  and  glory,  should  have  no  charms,  but  as 
accompanied  with  the  affection  of  his  prince.  He 
should,  methinks,  be  popular  because  a  favorite, 
and  a  favorite  because  popular.  Were  it  not  to 
make  the  character  too  imaginary,  I  would  give 
him  sovereignty  over  some  foreign  territory,  and 
make  him  esteem  that  an  empty  addition  without 
the  kind  regards  of  his  own  prince.  One  may 
merely  have  an  idea  of  a  man  thus  composed  and 
circumstantiated,  and  if  he  were  so  made  for  pow¬ 
er  without  an  incapacity!  of  giving  jealousy,  he 
would  be  also  glorious  without  possibility  of  re¬ 
ceiving  disgrace.  This  humility  and  this  import¬ 
ance  must  make  his  glory  immortal. 

These  thoughts  are  apt  to  draw  me  beyond  the 
usual  length  of  this  paper ;  but  if  I  could  sup¬ 
pose  such  rhapsodies  could  outlive  the  common 
fate  of  ordinary  things,  I  would  say  these  sketch¬ 
es  and  faint  images  of  glory  were  drawn  in 
August,  1711,  when  John,  Duke  of  Marlborough, 
made  that  memorable  march  wherein  he  took  the 
French  lines  without  bloodshed. — T. 


No.  140.]  FRIDAY,  AUGUST  10,  1711. 

- Anirnum  curis  nunc  hue,  nunc  dividit  illuc. 

V  irg.  jEn.,  iv,  285. 

This  way  and  that  the  anxious  mind  is  torn. 

When  I  acquaint  my  reader  that  I  have  many 
other  letters  not  yet  acknowledged,  I  believe  he 
will  own  what  I  have  a  mind  he  should  believe, 
that  I  have  no  small  charge  upon  me,  but  am  a 
person  of  some  consequence  in  this  world.  I 
shall  therefore  employ  the  present  hour  oniy  in 
reading  petitions  in  the  order  as  follows:— 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  have  lost  so  much  time  already,  that  I  desire, 
upon  the  receipt  hereof,  you  will  sit  down  imme¬ 
diately  and  give  me  your  answer.  And  I  would 
know  of  you  whether  a  pretender  of  mine  really 
loves  me.  As  well  as  I  can,  I  will  describe  his 


*  The  colors  taken  at  Blenheim,  in  1704,  were  fixed  up  in 
V>  estminster-hall,  after  having  been  carried  in  procession 
through  the  city. 

t  The  sense  seems  to  require  “  without  a  capacity,”  but  all 
the  copies  read  as  here. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


190 


manners.  When  he  sees  me  he  is  always  talking 
of  constancy,  but  vouchsafes  to  visit  me  but  once 
a  fortnight,  and  then  is  always  in  haste  to  begone. 
When  1  am  sick,  I  hear  he  says  he  is  mightily 
concerned,  but  neither  comes  nor  sends,  because, 
as  he  tells  his  acquaintance  with  a  sigh,  he  does 
not  care  to  let  me  know  all  the  power  I  have  over 
him,  and  how  impossible  it  is  for  him  to  live  with¬ 
out  me.  When  he  leaves  the  town,  he  writes  once 
in  six  weeks,  desires  to  hear  from  me,  complains 
of  the  torment  of  absence,  speaks  of  flames,  tor¬ 
tures,  languishings,  and  extasies.  He  has  the 
cant  of  an  impatient  lover,  but  keeps  the  pace  of 
a  lukewarm  one.  You  know  I  must  not  go  faster 
than  he  does,  and  to  move  at  this  rate  is  as  tedi¬ 
ous  as  counting  a  great  clock.  But  you  are  to 
know  he  is  rich,  and  my  mother  says,  as  he  is  slow 
he  is  sure  ;  he  will  love  me  long,  if  he  love  me 
little  ;  but  I  appeal  to  you  whether  he  loves  at  all. 
Your  neglected,  humble  servant, 

“Lydia  Novell.” 

“  All  these  fellows  who  have  money  are  ex¬ 
tremely  saucy  and  cold  ;  pray,  Sir,  tell  them  of  it.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  have  been  delighted  with  nothing  more 
through  the  whole  course  of  your  writings,  than 
the  substantial  account  you  lately  gave  of  wit, 
and  I  could  wish  you  would  take  some  other  oppor¬ 
tunity  to  express  further  the  corrupt  taste  the  age 
is  run  into  ;  which  I  am  chiefly  apt  to  attribute  to 
the  prevalency  of  a  few  popular  authors,  whose 
merit  in  some  respects  lias  given  a  sanction  to 
their  faults  in  others.  Thus  the  imitators  of  Mil- 
ton  seem  to  place  all  the  excellency  of  that  sort  of 
writing  either  in  the  uncouth  or  antique  words,  or 
something  else  which  was  highly  vicious,  though 
pardonable  in  that  great  man.*  The  admirers  of 
what  we  call  point,  or  turn,  look  upon  it  as  the 
particular  happiness  to  which  Cowley,  Ovid,  and 
others,  owe  their  reputation,  and  therefore  endea¬ 
vor  to  imitate  them  only  in  such  instances.  What 
is  just,  proper,  and  natural,  does  not  seem  to  be 
the  question  with  them,  but  by  what  means  a 
quaint  antithesis  may  be  brought  about,  how  one 
word  may  be  made  to  look  two  ways,  and  what 
will  be  the  consequence  of  a  forced  allusion. 
Now,  though  such  authors  appear  to  me  to  resem¬ 
ble  those  who  make  themselves  fine,  instead  of 
being  well-dressed,  or  graceful  :  yet  the  mischief 
is,  that  these  beauties  in  them,  which  I  call  ble¬ 
mishes,  are  thought  to  proceed  from  luxuriance  of 
fancy  and  overflowing  of  good  sense.  In  one 
word,  they  have  the  character  of  being  too  witty  ; 
but  if  you  would  acquaint  the  world  they  are  not 
witty  at  all,  you  would,  among  others,  oblige,  Sir, 
“  Your  most  benevolent  reader, 

“R.  D.” 

“  Sir, 

“  I  am  a  young  woman,  and  reckoned  pretty ; 
therefore  you  will  pardon  me  that  I  trouble  you  to 
decide  a  wager  between  me  and  a  cousin  of  mine, 
who  is  always  contradicting  one  because  he  un¬ 
derstands  Latin  :  pray.  Sir,  is  Dimple  spelt  with 
a  single  or  double  p  ?  I  am,  Sir, 

“  Your  very  humble  servant, 

“  Betty  Saunter.” 

“  Pray,  Sir,  direct  thus,  ‘  To  the  kind  Querist.’ 
and  leave  it  at  Mr.  Lillie’s,  for  I  do  not  care  to  be 
known  in  the  thing  at  all.  I  am,  Sir,  again,  your 
humble  servant.” 


“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  must  needs  tell  you  there  are  several  of  your 
papers  I  do  not  much  like.  You  are  often  so  nice 
there  is  no  enduring  you,  and  so  learned  there  is 
no  understanding  you.  What  have  you  to  do 
with  our  petticoats  V  Your  humble  servant, 

“  Parthenope.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Last  night,  as  I  was  walking  in  the  Park,  I  met 
a  couple  of  friends.  ‘Prithee,  Jack,’  says  one 
of  them,  ‘let  us  go  and  drink  a  glass  of  wine, 
for  I  am  fit  for  nothing  else.’  This  put  me  upon 
reflecting  on  the  many  miscarriages  which  happen 
in  conversations  over  wine,  when  men  go  to  the 
bottle  to  remove  such  humors  as  it  only  stirs  up 
and  awakens.  This  I  could  not  attribute  more  to 
anything  than  to  the  humor  of  putting  company 
upon  others  which  men  do  not  like  themselves. 
Pray,  Sir,  declare  in  your  papers,  that  he  who  is  a 
troublesome  companion  to  himself,  will  not  be  an 
agreeable  one  to  others.  Let  people  reason  them¬ 
selves  into  good  humor  before  they  impose  them¬ 
selves  upon  their  friends.  Pray,  Sir,  be  as  elo¬ 
quent  as  you  can  upon  this  subject,  and  do  human 
life  so  much  good,  as  to  argue  powerfully,  that  it 
is  not  every  one  that  can  swallow  who  is  fit  to 
drink  a  glass  of  wine. 

“  Your  most  humble  servant.” 

“  Sir, 

“  I  this  morning  cast  my  eye  upon  your  paper 
concerning  the  expense  of  time.  You  are  very 
obliging  to  the  women,  especially  those  who  are 
not  young  and  past  gallantry,  by  touching  so 
gently  upon  gaming  :  therefore  I  hope  you  do  not 
think  it  wrong  to  employ  a  little  leisure  time  in 
that  diversion  ;  but  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  you 
say  something  upon  the  behavior  of  some  of  the 
female  gamesters. 

“I  have  observed  ladies,  who  in  all  other  re¬ 
spects  are  gentle,  good-humored,  and  the  very 
pinks  of  good  breeding  ;  who,  as  soon  as  the 
ombre-table  is  called  for,  and  sit  down  to  their 
business,  are  immediately  transmigrated  into  the 
veriest  wasps  in  nature. 

“You  must  know  I  keep  my  temper,  and  win 
their  money  ;  but  am  out  of  countenance  to  take 
it,  it  makes  them  so  very  uneasy.  Be  pleased, 
dear  Sir,  to  instruct  them  to  lose  with  a  better 
grace,  and  you  will  oblige,  Yours, 

“  Rachel  Basto.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Your  kindness  to  Leonora  in  one  of  your  pa¬ 
pers,  has  given  me  encouragement  to  do  myself 
the  honor  of  writing  to  you.  The  great  regard 
you  have  so  often  expressed  for  the  instruction, 
and  improvement  of  our  sex  will,  I  hope,  in  your 
own  opinion,  sufficiently  excuse  me  from  making 
any  apology  for  the  impertinence  of  this  letter. 
The  great  desire  I  have  to  embellish  my  mind  with 
some  of  those  graces  which  you  say  are  so  becom¬ 
ing,  and  which  you  assert  reading  helps  us  to,  has 
made  me  uneasy  until  I  am  put  in  a  capacity  of 
attaining  them.  This,  Sir,  I  shall  never  think 
myself  in,  until  you  shall  be  pleased  to  recom¬ 
mend  some  author  or  authors  to  my  perusal. 

“I  thought  indeed,  when  I  first  cast  my  eye  on 
Leonora’s  letter,  that  I  should  have  had  no  occa¬ 
sion  for  requesting  it  of  you  ;  but  to  my  very 
great  concern,  I  found  on  the  perusal  of  that  Spec¬ 
tator,  I  was  entirely  disappointed,  and  am  as 
much  at  a  loss  how  to  make  use  of  my  time  for 
that  end  as  ever.  Pray,  Sir,  oblige  me  at  least 
with  one  scene,  as  you  were  pleased  to  entertain 
Leonora  with  your  prologue.  I  write  to  you  not 
only  my  own  sentiments,  but  also  those  of  several 


*  So  Philips  in  his  Cyder  is  careful  to  misspell  the  words 
“orchat,  sovran,”  after  Milton,  etc. 


THE  SPE 

others  of  my  acquaintance,  who  are  as  little 
pleased  with  the  ordinary  manner  of  spending 
one  s  time  as  mvself  :  and  if  a  fervent  desire  after 
knowledge,  and  a  great  sense  of  our  present  ig¬ 
norance,  may  be  thought  a  good  presage  and  earn¬ 
est  of  improvement,  you  may  look  upon  your  time 
you  shall  bestow  in  answering  this  request  not 
thrown  away  to  no  purpose.  And  I  cannot  but 
add  that,  unless  you  have  a  particular  and  more 
than  ordinary  regard  for  Leonora,  I  have  a  better 
title  to  your  favor  than  she  :  since  I  do  not  con¬ 
tent  myself  with  a  tea-table  reading  of  your  pa¬ 
pers,  but  it  is  my  entertainment  very  often  when 
alone  in  my  closet.  To  show  I  am  capable  of  im¬ 
provement,  and  hate  flattery,  I  acknowledge  I  do 
not  like  some  of  your  papers  ;  but  even  there  I 
am  readier  to  call  in  question  my  own  shallow 
understanding  than  Mr.  Spectator’s  profound 
judgment. 

“  I  am.  Sir,  your  already  (and  in  hopes  of  being 
more  your)  obliged  servant, 

“  Parthenia.” 

This  last  letter  is  written  with  so  urgent  and 
serious  an  air,  that  I  cannot  but  think  it  incum¬ 
bent  upon  me  to  comply  with  her  commands, 
which  I  shall  do  very  suddenly. — T. 


No.  141.]  SATURDAY,  AUGUST  11,  1711. 

- Migravit  ab  aure  voluptas 

Omnis. — Hor.,  1  Ep.  ii,  187. 

Taste,  that  eternal  wanderer,  that  flies 

From  head  to  ears,  and  now  from  ears  to  eyes. — Pope. 

In  the  present  emptiness  of  the  town,  I  have 
several  applications  from  the  lower  part  of  the 
players,  to  admit  suffering  to  pass  for  acting. 
They  in  very  obliging  terms  desire  me  to  let  a 
fall  on  the  ground,  a  stumble,  or  a  good  slap  on 
the  back,  be  reckoned  a  jest.  These  gambols  I 
shall  tolerate  for  a  season,  because  I  hope  the  evil 
cannot  continue  longer  than  until  the  people  of 
condition  and  taste  return  to  town.  The  method, 
some  time  ago,  was  to  entertain  that  part  of  the 
audience  who  have  no  faculty  above  that  of  eye¬ 
sight  with  rope-dancers,  and  tumblers ;  which 
was  a  way  discreet  enough,  because  it  prevented 
confusion  and  distinguished  such  as  could  show 
all  the  postures  which  the  body  is  capable  of, 
from  those  who  were  to  represent  all  the  passions 
to  which  the  mind  is  subject.  But  though  this 
was  prudently  settled,  corporeal  and  intellectual 
actors  ought  to  be  kept  at  a  still  wider  distance 
than  to  appear  on  the  same  stage  at  all ;  for  which 
reason  I  must  propose  some  methods  for  the  im¬ 
provement  of  the  bear-garden,  by  dismissing  all 
bodily  actors  to  that  quarter. 

.  cases  of  greater  moment,  where  men  appear 
in  public,  the  consequence  and  importance  of  the 
thing  can  bear  them  out.  And  though  a  pleader 
or  preacher  is  hoarse  or  awkward,  the  weight  of 
his  matter  commands  respect  and  attention ;  but 
in  theatrical  speaking,  if  the  performer  is  not  ex¬ 
actly  proper  and  graceful,  he  is  utterly  ridiculous. 
In  cases  where  there  is  little  else  expected  but  the 
pleasure  of  the  ears  and  eyes,  the  least  diminution 
of  that  pleasure  is  the  highest  offense.  In  actincr, 
barely  to  perform  the  part  is  not  commendable, 
but  to  be  the  least  out  is  contemptible.  To  avoid 
these  difficulties  and  delicacies,  I  am  informed, 
that  while  I  was  out  of  town,  the  actors  have 
flown  in  the  air,  and  played  such  pranks,  and  run 
such  hazards,  that  none  but  the  servants  of  the 
fire-office,  tilers,  and  masons,  could  have  been  able 


CTATOR.  191 

to  perform  the  like.*  The  author  of  the  following 
letter,  it  seems,  has  been  of  the  audience  at  one  of 
these  entertainments,  and  has  accordingly  com¬ 
plained  to  me  upon  it :  but  I  think  he  has  been  to 
the  utmost  degree  severe  against  what  is  excep¬ 
tionable  in  the  play  he  mentions,  without  dwelling 
so  much  as  he  might  have  done  on  the  author’s 
most  excellent  talent  of  humor.  The  pleasant 
pictures  he  has  drawn  of  life  should  have  been 
more  kindly  mentioned,  at  the  same  time  that  he 
banishes  his  witches,  who  are  too  dull  devils  to 
be  attacked  with  so  much  warmth. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“Upon  a  report  that  Moll  White  had  followed 
you  to  town,  and  was  to  act  a  part  in  the  Lanca¬ 
shire  Witches,  I  went  last  week  to  see  that  play. 
It  was  my  fortune  to  sit  next  to  a  country  justice 
of  the  peace,  a  neighbor  (as  he  said)  of  Sir  Roger’s, 
who  pretended  to  show  her  to  us  in  one  of  the 
dances.  There  was  witchcraft  enough  in  the  en¬ 
tertainment  almost  to  incline  me  to  believe  him ; 
Ben  Jonsonf  was  almost  lamed  ;  voung  Bullockf 
narrowly  saved  his  neck :  the  audience  was  asto¬ 
nished  ;  and  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine,  a  person 
of  worth,  whom  I  would  have  bowed  to  in  the  pit, 
at  two  yards  distance,  did  not  know  me. 

“If  you  were  what  the  country  people  reported 
ou — a  white  witch — I  could  have  wished  you  had 
een  there  to  have  exercised  that  rabble  of  broom¬ 
sticks  with  which  we  were  haunted  for  above  three 
hours.  I  could  have  allowed  them  to  set  Clod  in 
the  tree,  to  have  scared  the  sportsmen,  plagued 
the  justice,  and  employed  honest  Teague  with  his 
holy  water 4  This  was  the  proper  use  of  them  in 
comedy,  if  the  author  had  stopped  here ;  but  I 
cannot  conceive  what  relation  the  sacrifice  of  the 
black  lamb,  and  the  ceremonies  of  their  worship 
to  the  devil, £  have  to  the  business  of  mirth  and 
humor. 

“The  gentleman  who  wrote  this  play,  and  has 
drawn  some  characters  in  it  very  justly,  appears 
to  have  been  misled  in  his  witchcraft  by  an  un¬ 
wary  following  the  inimitable  Shakspeare.  The 
incantations  in  Macbeth  have  a  solemnity  admi¬ 
rably  adapted  to  the  occasion  of  that  tragedy,  and 
fill  the  mind  with  a  suitable  horror;  beside  that 
the  witches  are  a  part  of  the  story  itself,  as  we 
find  it  very  particularly  related  in  Hector  Boetius, 
from  whom  he  seems  to  have  taken  it.  This 
therefore  is  a  proper  machine  where  the  business 
is  dark,  horrid,,  and  bloody;  but  it  is  extremely 
foreign  from  the  affair  of  comedy.  Subjects  of  this 
kind,  which  are  in  themselves  disagreeable,  can  at 
no  time  become  entertaining,  but  by  passing 
through  an  imagination  like  Sliakspeare’s  to  form 
them  ;  for  which  reason  Mr.  Dryden  would  not 
allow  even  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  capable  of 
imitating  him. 

But  Shakspeare’s  magic  could  not  copied  be: 

Within  that  circle  none  durst  walk  but  he. 

“  I  should  not,  however,  have  troubled  you  with 
these  remarks,  if  there  were  not  something  else  in 
this  comedy,  which  wants  to  be  exercised  more 
than  the  witches :  I  mean  the  freedom  of  some 
passages,  which  I  should  have  overlooked  if  I  had 
not  observed  that  those  jests  can  raise  the  loudest 
mirth,  though  they  are  painful  to  right  sense,  and 
an  outrage  upon  modesty. 

“We  must  attribute  such  liberties  to  the  taste 
of  that  age  :  but  indeed  by  such  representations  a 


*  Alluding  to  Skadwell’s  comedy  of  the  Lancashire  Witches, 
which  had  been  lately  acted  several  times,  and  was  adver¬ 
tised  for  the  very  night  in  which  this  Spectator  is  dated, 
f  The  names  of  two  actors  then  upon  the  stage, 
j  Different  incidents  in  the  play  of  the  Lancashire  Witches 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


192 

poet  sacrifices  the  best  part  of  liis  audience  to  the 
worst;  and,  as  one  would  think,  neglects  the 
boxes,  to  write  to  the  orange-wenches. 

“  I  must  not  conclude  till  I  have  taken  notice 
of  the  moral  with  which  this  coined j  ends.  The 
two  young  ladies  having  given  a  notable  example 
of  outwitting  those  who  had  a  right  in  the  dispo¬ 
sal  of  them,  and  marrying  without  the  consent  of 
parents — one  of  the  injured  parties,  who  is  easily 
reconciled,  winds  up  all  with  this  remark, 

- Design  whate’er  we  will, 

There  is  a  fate  which  overrules  us  still.* 

“We  are  to  suppose  that  the  gallants  are  men 
of  merit,  but  if  they  ldtd  been  rakes,  the  excuse 
might  have  served  as  well.  Hans  Carvel’s  wife 
was  of  the  same  principle,  but  has  expressed  it 
with  a  delicacy  which  shows  she  is  not  serious  in 
her  excuse,  but  in  a  sort  of  humorous  philosophy 
turns  off  the  thought  of  her  guilt,  and  says. 

That  if  weak  women  go  astray, 

Their  stars  are  more  in  fault  than  they. 

“  This  no  doubt  is  a  full  reparation,  and  dis¬ 
misses  the  audience  with  very  edifying  impres¬ 
sions. 

“  These  things  fall  under  a  province  you  have 
partly  pursued  already,  and  therefore  demands 
your  animadversion,  for  the  regulating  so  noble 
an  entertainment  as  that  of  the  stage.  It  were  to 
be  wished  that  all  who  write  for  it  hereafter  would 
raise  their  genius,  by  the  ambition  of  pleasing 
people  of  the  best  understanding ;  and  leave 
others  to  show  nothing  of  the  human  species  but 
risibility,  to  seek  their  diversion  at  the  bear-gar¬ 
dens,  or  some  other  privileged  place,  where  reason 
and  good  manners  have  no  right  to  disturb  them. 

“I  am,  etc.” 

“August  8,  1711.”  T. 


No.  142.]  MONDAY,  AUGUST  13,  1711. 

Irrupta  tenet  copula - Hor.  1  Od.  xiii,  12. 

Whom  love’s  unbroken  bond  unites. 

The  following  being  genuine,  and  the  images 
of  a  worthy  passion,  I  am  willing  to  give  the  old 
lady’s  admonition  to  myself,  and  the  representa¬ 
tion  of  her  own  happiness,  a  place  in  my  writings. 

“Mr.  Spectator,  August  9,  1711. 

“  I  am  now  in  the  sixty-seventh  year  of  my  age, 
and  read  you  with  approbation  ;  but  methinks  you 
do  not  strike  at  the  root  of  the  greatest  evil  in  life, 
which  is  the  false  notion  of  gallantry  in  love.  It 
is,  and  has  long  been,  upon  a  very  ill  foot ;  but  I 
who  have  been  a  wife  forty  years,  and  was  bred 
up  in  a  way  that  has  made  me  ever  since  very 
happy,  see  through  the  folly  of  it.  In  a  word, 
Sir,  when  I  was  a  young  woman,  all  who  avoided 
the  vices  of  the  age  were  very  carefully  educated, 
and  all  fantastical  objects  were  turned  out  of  our 
sight.  The  tapestry -hangings,  with  the  great  and 
venerable  simplicity  of  the  Scripture  stories,  had 
better  effects  than  now  the  loves  of  Venus  and 
Adonis,  or  Bacchus  and  Ariadne,  in  your  fine  pre¬ 
sent  prints.  The  gentleman  I  am  married  to  made 
love  to  me  in  rapture,  but  it  was  the  rapture  of  a 
Christian  and  a  man  of  honor,  not  of  a  romantic 
hero  or  a  whining  coxcomb.  This  put  our  life 
upon  a  right  basis.  To  give  you  an  idea  of  our 
regard  one  to  another,  I  inclose  to  you  several 
of  his  letters,  written  forty  years  ago,  when  my 
lover;  and  one  written  the  other  day,  after  so 
many  years’  cohabitation. 

“Your  servant, 

“Andromache.” 


“Madam,  August  7,  1671. 

“If  my  vigilance,  and  ten  thousand  wishes  for 
your  welfare  and  repose,  could  have  any  force, 
you  last  night  slept  in  security,  and  had  every 
good  angel  in  your  attendance.  To  have  my 
thoughts  ever  fixed  on  you,  to  live  in  constant  fear 
of  every  accident  to  which  human  life  is  liable, 
and  to  send  up  my  hourly  prayers  to  avert  them 
from  you  ;  I  say,  Madam,  thus  to  suffer,  is  what  I 
do  for  her  who  is  in  pain  at  my  approach,  and 
calls  all  my  tender  sorrow  impertinence.  Y ou  are 
now  before  my  eyes,  my  eyes  that  are  ready  to 
flow  with  tenderness,  but  cannot  give  relief  to  my 
gushing  heart,  that  dictates  what  I  am  now  say¬ 
ing,  and  yearns  to  tell  you  all  its  acliings.  How 
art  thou,  oh  my  soul,  stolen  from  thyself !  how  is 
all  my  attention  broken !  my  books  are  blank 
paper,  and  my  friends  intruders.  I  have  no  hope 
of  quiet  but  from  your  pity.  To  grant  it  would 
make  more  for  your  triumph.  To  give  pain  is  the 
tyranny,  to  make  happy  the  true  empire  of  beauty. 
If  you  would  consider  aright,  you  would  find  an 
agreeable  change  in  dismissing  the  attendance  of 
a  slave,  to  receive  the  complaisance  of  a  compa¬ 
nion.  I  bear  the  former  in  hopes  of  the  latter  con¬ 
dition.  As  I  live  in  chains  without  murmuring 
at  the  power  which  inflicts  them,  so  I  could  enjoy 
freedom  without  forgetting  the  mercy  that  gave  it. 

“  I  am,  Madam. 

“Your  most  devoted,  most  obedient  servant.” 

“  Though  I  made  him  no  declarations  in  his 
favor,  you  see  he  had  hopes  of  me  when  he  wrote 
this  in  the  month  following  : — 

“  Madam,  September  3, 1 671 . 

“  Before  the  light  this  morning  dawned  upon 
the  earth  I  awoke,  and  lay  in  expectation  of  its 
return,  not  that  it  could  give  any  new  sense  of  joy 
to  me,  but  as  I  hoped  it  would  bless  you  with  its 
cheerful  face,  after  a  quiet  which  I  wished  you 
last  night.  If  my  prayers  are  heard,. the  day  ap¬ 
peared  with  all  the  influence  of  a  merciful  Creator 
upon  your  person  and  actions.  Let  others,  my 
lovely  charmer,  talk  of  a  blind  being  that  disposes 
their  hearts  ;  I  contemn  their  low  images  of  love. 
I  have  not  a  thought  which  relates  to  you,  that  I 
cannot  with  confidence  beseech  the  All-seeing 
Power  to  bless  me  in.  May  he  direct  you  in  all 
your  steps,  and  reward  your  innocence,  your  sanc¬ 
tity  of  manners,  your  prudent  youth,  and  becom¬ 
ing  piety,  with  the  continuance  of  his  grace  and 
protection.  This  is  an  unusual  language  to 
ladies  ;  but  you  have  a  mind  elevated  above  the 
giddy  notions  of  a  sex  ensnared  by  flattery,  and 
misled  by  a  false  and  short  adoration  into  a  solid 
and  long  contempt.  Beauty,  my  fairest  creature, 
palls  in  the  possession,  but  I  love  also  your  mind; 
your  soul  is  as  dear  to  me  as  my  own  ;  and  if  the 
advantages  of  a  liberal  education,  some  know¬ 
ledge,  and  as  much  contempt  of  the  world,  joined 
with  the  endeavors  toward  a  life  of  strict  virtue 
and  religion,  can  qualify  me  to  raise  new  ideas  in 
a  breast  so  well  disposed  as  yours  is,  our  days 
will  pass  away  with  joy;  and  old  age,  instead  of 
introducing  melancholy  prospects  of  decay,  give 
us  hope  of  eternal  youth  in  a  better  life.  I  have 
but  few  minutes  from  the  duty  of  my  employment 
to  write  in,  and  without  time  to  read  over  what  I 
have  written  ;  therefore  beseech  you  to  pardon  the 
first  hints  of  my  mind,  which  I  have  expressed  in 
so  little  order. 

“  I  am,  dearest  creature, 

“  Your  most  obedient,  most  devoted  servant,”* 


*  The  concluding  distitch  of  Shadwell’s  play. 


*  Richard  Steele. 


THE  SPE 

“The  two  next  were  written  after  the  day  for 
our  marriage  was  fixed  : — 

“Madam,  September  25th,  1671. 

“  It  is  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  be  in 
love,  and  yet  attend  business.  As  for  me,  all  that 
speak  to  me  find  me  out,  and  I  must  lock  myself 
up,  or  other  people  will  do  it  for  me.  A  gentle¬ 
man  asked  me  this  morning,  *  What  news  from 
Holland?’  and  I  answered,  ‘She  is  exquisitely 
handsome.’  Another  desired  to  know  when  I  had 
been  last  at  Windsor;  I  replied,  ‘She  designs  to 
go  with  me.’  Prithee,  allow  me  at  least  to  kiss 
your  hand  before  the  appointed  day,  that  my  mind 
may  be  in  some  composure.  Methinks  I  could 
write  a  volume  to  you,  but  all  the  language  on 
earth  would  fail  in  saying  how  much,  and  with 
what  disinterested  passion. 

“  I  am  ever  yours.”* 

“Dear  Creature,  September  30,  1671, 

seven  in  the  morning. 

“  Next  to  the  influence  of  heaven,  I  am  to  thank 
you  that  I  see  the  returning  day  with  pleasure. 
To  pass  my  evenings  in  so  sweet  a  conversation, 
and  have  the  esteem  of  a  woman  of  your  merit, 
has  in  it  a  particularity  of  happiness  no  more  to 
be  expressed  than  returned.  But  I  am,  my  lovely 
creature,  contented  to  be  on  the  obliged  side,  and 
to  employ  all  my  days  in  new  endeavors  to  con¬ 
vince  you  and  all  the  world  of  the  sense  I  have  of 
your  condescension  in  choosing, 

“Madam,  your  most  faithful, 

most  obedient,  humble  servant.”* 

“  He  was,  when  he  wrote  the  following  letter, 
as  agreeable  and  pleasant  a  man  as  any  in  Eng¬ 
land  : — 

“  Madam,  October  20,  1671, 

“  I  beg  pardon  that  my  paper  is  not  finer,  but  I 
am  forced  to  write  from  a  coffee-house  where  I  am 
attending  about  business.  There  is  a  dirty  crowd 
of  busy  faces  all  around  me  talking  of  money, 
while  all  my  ambition,  all  my  wealth,  is  love  : 
love,  which  animates  my  heart,  sweetens  my 
humor,  enlarges  my  soul,  and  affects  every  action 
of  my  life.  It  is  to  my  lovely  charmer  I  owe  that 
many  noble  ideas  are  continually  affixed  to  my 
words  and  actions  :  it  is  the  natural  effect  of  that 
generous  passion  to  create  in  the  admirers  some 
similitude  of  the  object  admired ;  thus,  my  dear, 
am  I  every  day  to  improve  from  so  sweet  a  com¬ 
panion.  Look  up,  my  fair  one,  to  that  heaven 
which  made  thee  such,  and  join  with  me  to  im¬ 
plore  its  influence  on  our  tender,  innocent  hours, 
and  beseech  the  author  of  love  to  bless  the  rites 
he  has  ordained,  and  mingle  with  our  happiness 
a  just  sense  of  our  transient  condition,  and  a  re¬ 
signation  to  his  will,  which  only  can  regulate  our 
minds  to  a  steady  endeavor  to  please  him  and 
each  other. 

“  I  am,  forever,  your  faithful  servant.”* 

“  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  more  letters  at 
this  time,  but  if  you  saw  the  poor  withered  hand 
which  sends  you  these  minutes,  I  am  sure  you 
would  smile  to  think  that  there  is  one  who  is  so 
gallant  as  to  speak  of  it  still  as  so  welcome  a 
present,  after  forty  years’  possession  of  the  woman 
whom  he  writes  to. 

“Madam,  June  23,  1711. 

“  I  heartily  beg  your  pardon  for  my  omission 
to  write  yesterday.*  It  was  no  failure  of  my  ten- 


CTATOR.  193 

der  regard  for  you;  but  having  been  very  much 
perplexed  in  my  thoughts  on  the  subject  of  my 
last,  made  me  determine  to  suspend  speaking  of 
it  until  I  came  myself.  But,  my  lovely  creature, 
know  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  age,  or  misfortune, 
or  any  other  accident  wdiich  hangs  over  human 
life,  to  take  from  me  the  pleasing  esteem  I  have 
for  you,  or  the  memory  of  the  bright  figure  you 
appeared  in,  when  you  gave  your  hand  and  heart 
to, 

“  Madam,  your  most  grateful  husband, 

and  obedient  servant.” — T.* 


No.  143.]  TUESDAY,  AUGUST  14,  1711. 

Non  est  vivere,  sed  valere,  vita. — Martial,  Epig.  lxx,  6. 

For  life  is  only  life,  when  blest  with  health. 

It  is  an  unreasonable  thing  some  men  expect 
of  their  acquaintance.  They  are  ever  complain¬ 
ing  that  they  are  out  of  order,  or  displeased,  or 
they  know  not  how,  and  are  so  far  from  letting 
that  be  a  reason  for  retiring  to  their  own  homes, 
that  they  make  it  their  argument  for  coming  into 
company.  What  has  anybody  to  do  with  ac¬ 
counts  of  a  man’s  being  indisposed,  but  his  phy¬ 
sician?  If  a  man  laments  in  company,  where 
the  rest  are  in  humor  enough  to  enjoy  themselves, 
he  should  not  take  it  ill  if  a  servant  is  ordered  to 
present  him  with  a  porringer  of  caudle  or  posset- 
drink,  by  way  of  admonition  that  he  go  home  to 
bed.  That  part  of  life  which  we  ordinarily  un¬ 
derstand  by  the  word  conversation,  is  an  indul¬ 
gence  to  the  sociable  part  of  our  make  ;  and 
should  incline  us  to  bring  our  proportion  of  good¬ 
will  or  good-humor  among  the  friends  we  meet 
with,  and  not  to  trouble  them  with  relations 
which  must  of  necessity  oblige  them  to  a  real  or 
feigned  affliction.  Cares,  distresses,  diseases, 
uneasinesses,  and  dislikes  of  our  own,  are  by  no 
means  to  be  obtruded  upon  our  friends.  If  we 
would  consider  how  little  of  this  vicissitude  of 
motion  and  rest,  which  we  call  life,  is  spent  with 
satisfaction,  we  should  be  more  tender  of  our 
friends  than  to  bring  them  little  sorrows  which 
do  not  belong  to  them,  There  is  no  real  life  but 
cheerful  life  ;  therefore  valetudinarians  should  be 
sworn,  before  they  enter  into  company,  not  to  say 
a  word  of  themselves  until  the  meeting  breaks  up. 
It  is  not  here  pretended  that  we  should  be  always 
sitting  with  chaplets  of  flowers  round  our  heads, 
or  be  crowned  with  roses  in  order  to  make  our 
entertainment  agreeable  to  us  ;  but  if  (as  it  is 
usually  observed)  they  who  resolve  to  be  merry, 
seldom  are  so  ;  it  will  be  much  more  unlikely  for 
us  to  be  well  pleased,  if  they  are  admitted  who 
are  always  complaining  they  are  sad.  Whatever 
we  do,  we  should  keep  up  the  cheerfulness  of 
our  spirits,  and  never  let  them  sink  below  an  incli¬ 
nation  at  least  to  be  well  pleased.  The  way  to  this, 
is  to  keep  our  bodies  in  exercise,  our  minds  at  ease. 
That  insipid  state  "wherein  neither  are  in  vigor,  is 
not  to  be  accounted  any  part  of  our  portion  of 
being.  When  we  are  in  the  satisfaction  of  some 
innocent  pleasure,  or  pursuit  of  some  laudable 
design,  we  are  in  the  possession  of  life,  of  human 
life.  Fortune  will  give  us  disappointments 
enough,  and  nature  is  attended  with  infirmities 
enough,  without  our  adding  to  the  unhappy  side 
of  our  account  by  our  spleen  or  ill-humor.  Poor 
Cottilus,  among  so  many  real  evils,  a  chronical 


*  Richard  Steele. 

f  The  letters  in  this  No.  142,  are  all  genuine,  written  origin¬ 
ally  hy  Steele,  and  actually  sent,  with  but  little  variation,  to 
Mrs.  Seurlock,  afterward  Lady  Steele.  See  Steele’s  Letters, 
vol.  i,  p.  11,  et  seq.,  cr.  Svo.,  1787,  2  vols. 


13 


♦Richard  Steele. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


194 

distemper  and  a  narrow  fortune,  is  never  heard  to 
complain.  That  equal  spirit  of  his,  which  any 
man  may  have,  that,  like  him,  will  conquer  pride, 
vanity,  and  affectation,  and  follow  nature,  is  not 
to  he  broken,  because  it  has  no  points  to  contend 
for.  To  be  anxious  for  nothing  but  what  nature 
demands  as  necessary,  if  it  is  not  the  way  to  an 
estate,  is  the  way  to  what  men  aim  at  by  getting 
an  estate.  This  temper  will  preserve  health  in 
the  body,  as  well  as  tranquillity  in  the  mind. 
Cottilus  sees  the  world  in  a  hurry,  with  the  same 
scorn  that  a  sober  person  sees  a  man  drunk. 
Had  he  been  contented  with  what  he  ought  to 
have  been,  how  could,  says  he,  such  a  one  have 
met  with  such  a  disappointment  ?  If  another 
had  valued  his  mistress  for  what  he  ought  to  have 
loved  her,  he  had  not  been  in  her  power.  If  her 
virtue  had  had  a  part  of  his  passion,  her  levity 
had  been  his  cure;  she  could  not  then  have  been 
false  and  amiable  at  the  same  time. 

Since  we  cannot  promise  ourselves  constant 
health,  let  us  endeavor  at  such  a  temper  as  may 
be  our  best  support  in  the  decay  of  it.  Uranius 
has  arrived  at  that  composure  of  soul,  and 
wrought  himself  up  to  such  a  neglect  of  every¬ 
thing  with  which  the  generality  of  mankind  is 
enchanted,  that  nothing  but  acute  pains  can  give 
him  disturbance,  and  against  those  too  he  will 
tell  his  intimate  friends  he  has  a  secret  which 
gives  him  present  ease.  Uranius  is  so  thoroughly 
persuaded  of  another  life,  and  endeavors  so  sin¬ 
cerely  to  secure  an  interest  in  it,  that  he  looks 
upon  pain  but  as  a  quickening  of  his  pace  to  a 
home,  where  he  shall  be  better  provided  for  than 
in  his  present  apartment.  Instead  of  the  melan¬ 
choly  views  which  others  are  apt  to  give  them¬ 
selves,  he  will  tell  you  that  he  has  forgot  he  is 
mortal,  nor  will  he  think  of  himself  as  such.  He 
thinks  at  the  time  of  his  birth  he  entered  into  an 
eternal  being  ;  and  the  short  article  of  death  he 
will  not  allow  an  interruption  of  life  ;  since  that 
moment  is  not  of  half  the  duration  as  his  ordinary 
sleep.  Thus  is  his  being  one  uniform  and  consis¬ 
tent  series  of  cheerful  diversions  and  moderate 
cares,  without  fear  or  hope  of  futurity.  Health  to 
him  is  more  than  pleasure  to  another  man,  and 
sickness  less  affecting  to  him  than  indisposition 
is  to  others. 

I  must  confess,  if  one  does  not  regard  life  after 
this  manner,  none  but  idiots  can  pass  it  away 
with  any  tolerable  patience.  Take  a  fine  lady 
who  is  of  a  delicate  frame,  and  you  may  observe, 
from  the  hour  she  rises,  a  certain  weariness  of  all 
that  passes  about  her.  I  know  more  than  one 
who  is  much  too  nice  to  be  quite  alive.  They 
are  sick  of  such  strange  frightful  people  they 
meet ;  one  is  so  awkward,  and  another  so  dis¬ 
agreeable,  that  it  looks  like  a  penance  to  breathe 
the  same  air  with  them.  You  see  this  is  so  very 
true,  that  a  great  part  of  ceremony  and  good 
breeding  among  the  ladies  turns  upon  their  un¬ 
easiness  ;  and  I  will  undertake,  if  the  how-do- 
e-servants  of  our  women  were  to  make  a  weekly 
ill  of  sickness,  as  the  parish-clerks  do  of  mor¬ 
tality,  you  would  not  find  in  an  account  of  seven 
days,  one  in  thirty  that  was  not  downright  sick 
or  indisposed,  or  but  a  very  little  better  than  she 
was,  and  so  forth. 

It  is  certain,  that  to  enjoy  life  and  health  as  a 
constant  feast,  we  should  not  think  pleasure  ne¬ 
cessary  ;  but,  if  possible,  to  arrive  at  an  equality 
of  mind.  It  is  as  mean  to  be  overjoyed  upon 
occasions  of  good  fortune,  as  to  be  dejected  in 
circumstances  of  distress.  Laughter  in  one  con¬ 
dition,  is  as  unmanly  as  weeping  in  another.  We 
should  not  form  our  minds  to  expect  transport  on 
every  occasion,  but  know  how  to  make  it  enjoy¬ 


ment  to  be  out  of  pain.  Ambition,  envy,  vagrant 
desire,  or  impertinent  mirth,  will  take  up  our 
minds,  without  we  can  possess  ourselves  in  that 
sobriety  of  heart  which  is  above  all  pleasures, 
and  can  be  felt  much  better  than  described.  But 
the  ready  way,  I  believe,  to  the  right  enjoyment 
of  life  is,  by  a  prospect  toward  another,  to  have 
but  a  very  mean  opinion  of  it.  A  great  author 
of  our  time*  has  set  this  in  an  excellent  light, 
when,  with  a  philosophical  pity  of  human  life, 
he  spoke  of  it  in  his  Theory  of  the  Earth  in  the 
following  manner  : 

“  For  what  is  this  life  but  a  circulation  of  little 
mean  actions  ?  We  lie  down  and  rise  again, 
dress  and  undress,  feed  and  wax  hungry,  work  or 
play,  and  are  weary,  and  then  we  lie  down  again, 
and  the  circle  returns.  We  spend  the  day  in 
trifles,  and  when  the  night  comes  we  throw  our¬ 
selves  into  the  bed  of  folly,  among  dreams,  and 
broken  thoughts,  and  wila  imaginations.  Our 
reason  lies  asleep  by  us,  and  we  are  for  the  time 
as  arrant  brutes  as  those  that  sleep  in  the  stalls  or 
in  the  field.  Are  not  the  capacities  of  man 
higher  than  these  ?  And  ought  not  his  ambition 
and  expectations  to  be  greater  ?  Let  us  be  adven¬ 
turers  for  another  world.  It  is  at  least  a  fair  and 
noble  chance  ;  and  there  is  nothing  in  this  worth 
our  thoughts  or  our  passions.  If  we  should  be 
disappointed,  we  are  still  no  worse  than  the  rest 
of  our  fellow-mortals  ;  and  if  we  succeed  in  our 
expectations,  we  are  eternally  happy.” — T. 


No.  144.]  WEDNESDAY,  AUGUST  15,  1711. 

- Noris  quam  elegans  formarum  “Spectator”  siem. 

Ter.  Eun.,  Act.  iii,  Sc.  5. 

You  shall  see  how  nice  a  judge  of  beauty  I  am. 

Beauty  has  been  the  delight  and  torment  of  the 
world  ever  since  it  began.  The  philosophers  have 
felt  its  influence  so  sensibly,  that  almost  every  one 
of  them  has  left  us  some  saying  or  other,  which 
intimated  that  he  knew  too  well  the  power  of  it. 
Onef  has  told  us,  that  a  graceful  person  is  a  more 
powerful  recommendation  than  the  best  letter  that 
can  be  written  in  your  favor.  Another}  desires 
the  possessor  of  it  to  consider  it  as  a  mere  gift 
of  nature,  and  not  any  perfection  of  his  own.  A 
third§  calls  it  a  “short-lived  tyranny;”  afourth||  a 
“silent  fraud,”  because  it  imposes  upon  us  with¬ 
out  the  help  of  language ;  but  I  think  Carneades 
spoke  as  much  like  a  philosopher  as  any  of  them, 
though  more  like  a  lover,  when  he  calls  it  “roy¬ 
alty  without  force. ”1T  It  is  not  indeed  to  be  de¬ 
nied,  but  there  is  something  irresistible  in  a  beau¬ 
teous  form;  the  most  severe  will  not  pretend,  that 
they  do  not  feel  an  immediate  prepossession  in 
favor  of  the  handsome.  No  one  denies  them  the 
rivilege  of  being  first  heard,  and  being  regarded 
efore  others  in  matters  of  ordinary  consideration. 
At  the  same  time  the  handsome  should  consider 
that  it  is  a  possession,  as  it  were,  foreign  to  them. 
No  one  can  give  it  himself,  or  preserve  it  when 
they  have  it.  Yet  so  it  is,  that  people  can  bear 
any  quality  in  the  world  better  than  beauty.  It  is 
the  consolation  of  all  who  are  naturally  too  much 
affected  with  the  force  of  it,  that  a  little  attention, 
if  a  man  behave  with  judgment,  will  cure  them. 
Handsome  people  usually  are  so  fantastically 
pleased  with  themselves,  that  if  they  do  not  kill 
at  first  sight,  as  the  phrase  is,  a  second  interview 
disarms  them  of  all  their  jtower.  But  I  shall 

*  Dr.  Thomas  Burnet,  master  of  the  Charter-house.  Theo- 
ria  Telluris,  4to.,  Amst.,  1699,  p.  241. 

f  Aristotle.  J  Plato.  g  Socrates.  ||  Theophrastus. 

Rather,  “A  sovereignty  that  needs  no  military  force;” 
this  is  the  proper  meaning  of  the  original. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


make  this  paper  rather  a  warning-piece  to  give 
notice  where  the  danger  is,  than  to  propose  in¬ 
stinct  1011s  how  to  avoid  it  when  you  have  fallen 
in  the  way  of  it.  Handsome  men  shall  be  the 
subject  of  another  chapter,  the  women  shall  take 
up  the  present  discourse. 

Amaryllis,  who  has  been  in  town  but  one  win¬ 
ter,  is  extremely  improved  in  the  arts  of  o-0od 
breeding,  without  leaving  nature.  She  has  not 
lost  the  native  simplicity  of  her  aspect,  to  substi¬ 
tute  that  patience  of  being  stared  at,  which  is  the 
usual  triumph  and  distinction  of  a  town  lady. 
In  public  assemblies  you  meet  her  careless  eye 
diverting  itself  with  the  objects  around  her,  insen¬ 
sible  that  she  herself  is  one  of  the  brightest  in 
the  place. 

Dulcissa  is  quite  another  make;  she  is  almost  a 
beauty  by  nature,  but  more  than  one  by  art.  If  it 
were  possible  for  her  to  let  her  fan  or  any  limb 
about  her  rest,  she  would  do  some  part  of  the  exe¬ 
cution  she  meditates;  but  though  she  designs  her¬ 
self  a  prey,  she  will  not  stay  to  be  taken.  No 
painter  can  give  you  words  for  the  different  as¬ 
pects  of  Dulcissa  in  half  a  moment,  wherever  she 
appears  :  so  little  does  she  accomplish  what  she 
takes  so  much  pains  for,  to  be  gay  and  careless. 

Merab  is  attended  with  all  the  charms  of  wo¬ 
men  and  accomplishments  of  man.  It  is  not  to 
be  doubted  but  she  has  a  great  deal  of  wit,  if  she 
were  not  such  a  beauty;  and  she  would  have  more 
beauty  had  she  not  so  much  wit.  Affectation  pre¬ 
vents  her  excellences  from  walking  together.  If  she 
has  a  mind  to  speak  such  a  thing,  it  must  be  done 
with  such  an  air  of  her  body  ;  and  if  she  has  an 
inclination  to  look  very  careless,  there  is  such  a 
smart  thing  to  be  said  at  the  same  time,  that 
the  design  of  being  admired  destroys  itself. — 
Thus  the  unhappy  Merab,  though  a  wit  and  beau¬ 
ty,  is  allowed  to  be  neither,  because  she  will  al¬ 
ways  be  both. 

Albacinda  has  the  skill  as  well  as  the  power  of 
pleasing.  Her  form  is  majestic,  but  her  aspect 
humble.  All  good  men  should  beware  of  the  de¬ 
stroyer.  She  will  speak  to  you  like  your  sister, 
until  she  has  you  sure  :  but  is  the  most  vexatious 
of  tyrants  when  you  are  so.  Her  familiarity  of 
behavior,  her  indifferent  questions  and  general 
conversation,  make  the  silly  part  of  her  votaries 
full  of  hopes,  while  the  wise  fly  from  her  power. 
She  well  knows  she  is  too  beautiful  and  too  witty 
to  be  indifferent  to  any  who  converse  with  her, 
and  therefore  knows  she  does  not  lessen  herself 
by  familiarity,  but  gain»  occasions  of  admiration 
by  seeming  ignorance  of  her  perfections. 

,  ..'?u<^os^a  a<ids  to  the  height  of  her  stature  a  no¬ 
bility  of  spirit  which  still  distinguishes  her  above 
the  rest  of  her  sex.  Beauty  in  others  is  lovely,  in 
others  agreeable,  in  others  attractive;  but  in  Eu- 
dosia  it  is  commanding.  Love  toward  Eudosia  is 
a  sentiment  like  the  love  of  glory.  The  lovers  of 
other  women  are  softened  into  fondness — the  ad- 
mil  ers  of  Eudosia  exalted  into  ambition. 

Eucratia  presents  herself  to  the  imagination 
with  a  more  kindly  pleasure,  and,  as  she  is  woman, 
her  praise  is  wholly  feminine.  If  we  were  to 
form  an  image  of  dignity  in  a  man,  we  should 
give  him  wisdom  and  valor,  as  being  essential  to 
the  character  of  manhood.  In  like  manner,  if  you 
describe  a  right  woman  in  a  laudable  sense,  she 
should  have  gentle  softness,  tender  fear,  and  all 
those  parts  of  life  which  distinguish  her  from  the 
other  sex;  with  some  subordination  to  it,  but  such 
an  inferiority  that  makes  her  still  more  lovely. 
Eucratia  is  that  creature — she  is  all  over  woman, 
kindness  is  all  her  art,  and  beauty  all  her  arms! 
Her  look,  her  voice,  her  gesture,  and  whole  be¬ 
havior,  is  truly  feminine.  A  goodness  mixed 


195 

with  fear  gives  a  tincture  to  all  her  behavior.  It 
would  be  savage  to  offend  her,  and  cruelty  to  use 
art  to  gain  her.  Others  are  beautiful,  but,  Eucratia, 
thou  art  beauty ! 

Omniamante  is  made  for  deceit;  she  lias  an  as¬ 
pect  as  innocent  as  the  famed  Lucrece,  but  a  mind 
as  wild  as  the  more  tamed  Cleopatra.  Her  face 
speaks  a  vestal,  but  her  heart  a  Messalina.  Who 
that  beheld  Omniamante’s  negligent,  unobserving 
air,  would  believe  that  she  hid  under  that  regard- 
loss  mannei  the  witty  prostitute,  the  rapacious 
wench,  the  prodigal  courtesan?  She  can,  when 
she  pleases,  adorn  those  eyes  with  tears  like  an 
intant  that  is  chid;  she  can  cast  down  that  pretty 
face  in  confusion,  while  you  rage  with  jealousy, 
and  storm  at  her  perfidiousness:  she  can  wipe  her 
eyes,  tremble  and  look  frightened,  until  you  fancy 
yourself  a  brute  for  your  rage,  own  yourself  an 
offender,  beg  pardon,  and  make  her  new  presents. 

But  I  go  too  far  in  reporting  only  the  dangers  in 
beholding  the  beauteous,  which  I  design  for  the 
instruction  of  the  fair  as  well  as  their  beholders  ; 
and  shall  end  this  rhapsody  with  mentioning  what 
I  thought  was  well  enough  said  of  an  ancient 
sage*  to  a  beautiful  youth,  whom  he  saw  admir¬ 
ing  his  own  figure  in  brass.  “What,”  said  the 
philosopher,  “could  that  image  of  yours  say  for 
itself  if  it  could  speak?” — “It  might  say,”  ans¬ 
wered  the  youth,  “that  it  is  very  beautiful.”  “And 
are  not  you  ashamed,”  replied  the  cynic,  “to  value 
yourselt  upon  that  only  of  which  a  piece  of  brass 
is  capable?” — T 


No.  145.]  THURSDAY,  AUGUST  16,  1711. 

Stultitiam  patiuntur  opes. — IIor.  1  Ep.  xviii,  20. 

Their  folly  pleads  the  privilege  of  wealth. 

If  the  following  enormities  are  not  amended 
upon  the  first  mentioning,  I  desire  farther  notice 
from  my  correspondents. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  discourse  the 
other  day  upon  frivolous  disputants,  who  with 
great  warmth  and  enumeration  of  many  circum¬ 
stances  and  authorities,  undertake  to  prove  matters 
which  nobody  living  denies.  You  cannot  em¬ 
ploy  yourself  more  usefully  than  in  adjusting  the 
laws  of  disputation  in  coffee-houses  and  accidental 
companies,  as  well  as  in  more  formal  debates. 
Among  many  other  things  which  your  own  ex¬ 
perience  must  suggest  to  you,  it  will  be  very 
obliging  if  you  please  to  take  notice  of  wagerers. 
I  will  not  here  repeat  what  Hudibras  says  of  such 
disputants,  which  is  so  true,  that  it  is  almost  pro¬ 
verbial;  but  shall  only  acquaint  you  with  a  set  of 
young  fellows  of  the  inns  of  court,  whose  fathers 
have  provided  for  them  so  plentifully,  that  they 
need  not  be  very  anxious  to  get  law  into  their 
heads  for  the  service  of  their  country  at  the  bar; 
but  are  of  those  who  are  sent  (as  the  phrase  of 
parents  is)  to  the  Temple  to  know  how  to  ‘keep 
their  own.’  One  of  these  gentlemen  is  very  loud 
and  captious  at  a  coffee-house  which  I  frequent, 
and  being  in  his  nature  troubled  with  a  humor 
of  contradiction,  though  withal  excessively  igno¬ 
rant,  he  has  found  a  way  to  indulge  this  temper, 
go  on  in  idleness  and  ignorance,  and  yet  still  give 
himself  the  air  of  a  very  learned  and  knowing 
man,  by  the  strength  of  his  pocket.  The  mis¬ 
fortune  of  the  thing  is,  I  have,  as  it  happens 
sometimes,  a  greater  stock  of  learning  than  of 
money.  The  gentleman  I  am  speaking  of  takes 
advantage  of  the  narrowness  of  my  circumstances 


*  Antisthenes,  the  founder  of  the  sect  of  Cynic  philosophers. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


196 

in  such  a  manner,  that  he  has  read  all  that  I  can  j 
pretend  to,  and  runs  me  down  with  such  a  positive 
air,  and  with  such  powerful  arguments;  that  from  ! 
a  very  learned  person  I  am  thought  a  mere  pre¬ 
tender.  Not  long  ago  1  was  relating  that  I  had 
read  such  a  passage  in  Tacitus:  up  starts  my 
young  gentleman  in  a  full  company,  and  pulling 
out  his  purse  offered  to  lay  me  ten  guineas,  to  be 
staked  immediately  in  that  gentleman’s  hands 
(pointing  to  one  smoking  at  another  table),  that  I 
was  utterly  mistaken.  I  was  dumb  for  want  of 
ten  guineas;  he  went  on  unmercifully  to  triumph 
over  my  ignorance  how  to  take  him  up,  and  told 
the  whole  room  he  had  read  Tacitus  twenty  times 
over,  and  such  a  remarkable  incident  as  that  could 
not  escape  him.  He  has  at  this  time  three  con¬ 
siderable  wagers  depending  between  him  and  some 
of  his  companions  who  are  rich  enough  to  hold 
an  argument  with  him.  He  has  five  guineas  upon 
questions  in  geography — two  that  the  Isle  of 
Wight  is  a  peninsula,  and  three  guineas  to  one 
that  the  world  is  round.  We  have  a  gentleman 
comes  to  our  coffee-house,  who  deals  mightily  in 
antique  scandal;  my  disputant  has  laid  him  twenty 
pieces  upon  a  point  of  history,  to  wit,  that  Cfesar 
never  lay  with  Cato’s  sister,  as  is  scandalously  re¬ 
ported  by  some  people. 

“There  are  several  of  this  sort  of  fellows  in 
town,  who  wager  themselves  into  statesmen,  histo¬ 
rians,  geographers,  mathematicians,  and  every 
other  art,  when  the  persons  with  whom  they  talk 
have  not  wealth  equal  to  their  learning.  I  beg  of 
you  to  prevent  in  these  youngsters  this  compen¬ 
dious  way  of  wisdom,  which  costs  other  people 
so  much  time  atid  pains;  and  you  will  oblige 
“Your  humble  servant.” 

“Coffee-house,  near  the  Temple.” 

“Mr  Spectator,  Aug.  12,  1711. 

“Here’s  a  young  gentleman  that  sings  opera- 
tunes  or  whistles  in  a  full  house.  Pray  let  him 
know  that  he  has  no  right  to  act  here  as  if  he  were 
in  an  empty  room.  Be  pleased  to  divide  the 
spaces  of  a  public  room  and  certify  whistlers, 
singers,  and  common  orators,  that  are  heard  farther 
than  their  portion  of  the  room,  comes  to,  that  the 
law  is  open  and  that  there  is  an  equity  which  will 
relieve  us  from  such  as  interrupt  us  in  our  lawful 
discourse,  as  much  as  against  such  who  stop  us 
on  the  road.  I  take  these  persons,  Mr.  Spectator, 
to  be  such  trespassers  as  the  officer  in  your  stage¬ 
coach,  and  am  of  the  same  sentiment  with  counselor 
Ephraim.  It  is  true  the  young  man  is  rich,  and, 
as  the  vulgar  say,  needs  not  care  for  anybody;  but 
sure  that  is  no  authority  for  him  to  go  whistle  where 
he  pleases. 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant. 

“P.  S.  I  have  chambers  in  the  Temple,  and  here 
are  students  that  learn  upon  the  hautboy;  pray  de¬ 
sire  the  benchers,  that  all  lawyers  who  are  pro¬ 
ficients  in  wind-musicjnay  lodge  to  the  Thames.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“We  are  a  company  of  young  women  who  pass 
our  time  very  much  together,  and  obliged  by  the 
mercenary  humor  of  the  men  to  be  as  mercenarily 
inclined  as  they  are.  There  visits  among  us  an 
old  bachelor  whom  each  of  us  has  a  mind  to. 
The  fellow  is  rich,  and  knows  he  may  have  any 
of  us,  therefore  is  particular  to  none,  but  exces¬ 
sively  ill-bred.  His  pleasantry  consists  in  romp¬ 
ing;  he  snatches  kisses  by  surprise,  puts  his  hands 
in  our  necks,  tears  our  fans,  robs  us  of  our  rib¬ 
bons,  forces  letters  out  of  our  hands,  looks  into 
any  of  our  papers,  and  a  thousand  other  rude¬ 
nesses.  Now  what  I  will  desire  of  you  is,  to 
acquaint  him,  by  printing  this,  that  if  he  does  not 


marry  one  of  us  very  suddenly,  we  have  all 
agreed,  the  next  time  he  pretends  to  be  merry,  to 
affront  him,  and  use  him  like  a  clown  as  he  is. 
In  the  name  of  the  sisterhood  I  take  my  leave  of 
you,  and  am  as  they  all  are, 

“Your  constant  reader,  and  well-wisher.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  and  several  others  of  your  female  readers 
have  conformed  ourselves  to  your  rules,  even  to 
our  very  dress.  There  is  not  one  of  us  but  has 
reduced  our  outward  petticoat  to  its  ancient  size¬ 
able  circumference,  though  indeed  we  retain  still 
a  quilted  one  underneath ;  which  makes  us  not 
altogether  unconformable  to  the  fashion  ;  but  it  is 
on  condition  Mr.  Spectator  extends  not  his  cen¬ 
sure  so  far.  But  we  find  you  men  secretly  ap¬ 
prove  our  practice,  by  imitating  our  pyramidical 
form.  The  skirt  of  your  fashionable  coats  forms 
as  large  a  circumference  as  our  petticoats;  as  these 
are  set  out  with  whalebone,  so  are  those  with  wire, 
to  increase  and  sustain  a  bunch  of  fold  that  hangs 
down  on  each  side;  and  the  hat,  I  perceive,  is  de¬ 
creased  in  just  proportion  to  our  head-dresses. 
We  make  a  regular  figure,  but  I  defy  your  mathe¬ 
matics  to  give  name  to  the  form  you  appear  in. 
Your  architecture  is  mere  Gothic,  and  betrays  a 
worse  genius  than  ours ;  therefore  if  you  are 
partial  to  your  own  sex,  I  shall  be  less  than  I  am 
now  “Your  humble  servant.” — T. 


No.  146.]  FRIDAY,  AUGUST  17,  1711. 

Nemo  vir  magnus  sine  aliquo  afflatu  divino  unquam  fuit. 

Toll. 

No  man  was  ever  great  without  some  degree  of  inspiration. 

We  know  the  highest  pleasure  our  minds  are 
capable  of  enjoying  with  composure,  when  we 
read  sublime  thoughts  communicated  to  us  by  men 
of  great  genius  and  eloquence:  such  is  the  enter¬ 
tainment  we  meet  with  in  the  philosophic  parts 
of  Cicero’s  writings.  Truth  and  good  sense  have 
there  so  charming  a  dress,  that  they  could  hardly 
be  more  agreeably  represented  with  the  addition 
of  poetical  fiction,  and  the  power  of  numbers. 
This  ancient  author,  and  a  modern  one,  have  fallen 
into  my  hands  within  these  few  days;  and  the  im¬ 
pressions  they  have  left  upon  me  have  at  the 
present  quite  spoiled  me  for  a  merry  fellow.  The 
modern  is  that  admirable  writer,  the  author  of 
The  Theory  of  Earth.  The  subjects  with  which 
I  have  lately  been  entertained  in  them  both  bear 
a  near  affinity;  they  are  upon  inquiries  into  here¬ 
after,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  latter  seem  to  me  to 
be  raised  above  those  of  the  former,  in  proportion 
to  his  advantages  of  scripture  and  revelation.  If 
I  had  a  mind  to  it,  I  could  not  at  present  talk  of 
anything  else;  therefore  I  shall  translate  a  passage 
in  the  one,  and  transcribe  a  paragraph  out  of  the 
other,  for  the  speculation  of  this  day.  Cicero 
tells  us,*  that  Plato  reports  Socrates,  upon  re¬ 
ceiving  his  sentence,  to  have  spoken  to  his  judges 
in  the  following  manner: 

“  I  have  great  hopes,  0  my  judges,  that  it  is 
infinitely  to  my  advantage  that  1  am  sent  to  death; 
for  it  must  of  necessity  be,  that  one  of  these  two 
things  must  be  the  consequence.  Death  must 
take  away  all  these  senses,  or  convey  me  to  an¬ 
other  life.  If  all  sense  is  to  be  taken  away,  and 
death  is  no  more  than  that  profound  sleep  without 
dreams,  in  which  we  are  sometimes  buried,  oh, 
heavens  !  how  desirable  it  is  to  die  !  How  many 
days  do  we  know  in  life  preferable  to  such  a  state? 
But  if  it  be  true  that  death  is  but  a  passage  to 


*  Tusculan.  Question,  lib.  1. 


THE  SPE 

Places  which  they  who  live  before  us  do  now  in¬ 
habit,  how  much  still  happier  is  it  to  go  from 
those  who  call  themselves  judges  to  appear  before 
those  that  really  are  such  ;  before  Minos,  Rhada- 
manthus,  vLacus,  and  Triptolemus,  and  to  meet 
men  who  have  lived  with  justice  and  truth !  Is 
this,  do  you  think,  no  happy  journey?  Do  you 
think  it  nothing  to  speak  with  Orpheus,  Musseus, 
Homer,  and  Hesiod  ?  I  would,  indeed,  suffer 
many  deaths  to  enjoy  these  things.  With  what 
particular  delight  should  I  talk  to  Palamedes, 
Ajax,  and  others,  who  like  me  have  suffered  by 
the  iniquity  of  their  judges.  I  should  examine 
the  wisdom  of  that  great  prince  who  carried  such 
mighty  forces  against  Troy ;  and  argue  with  Ulys¬ 
ses  and  Sisyphus  upon  difficult  points,  as  I  have 
in  conversation  here,  without  being  in  danger  of 
being  Qmidemned.  But  let  not  those  among  you 
who  hav^  pronounced  me  an  innocent  man  be 
afraid  of  death.  No  harm  can  arrive  at  a  good 
man,  whether  dead  or  living  ;  his  affairs  are  al¬ 
ways  under  the  direction  of  the  gods  ;  nor  will  I 
believe  the  fate  which  is  allotted  to  me  myself 
tills  day  to  have  arrived  by  chance  ;  nor  have  I 
aught  to  say  either  against  my  judges  or  accusers, 

but  that  they  thought  they  did  me  an  injury. - 

But  I  detain  you  too  long  ;  it  is  time  that  I  retire 
to  death,  and  you  to  your  affairs  of  life  ;  which 
of  us  has  the,  better  is  known  to  the  gods,  but  to 
no  mortal  man.” 

The  divine  Socrates  is  here  represented  in  a  fig¬ 
ure  worthy  his  great  wisdom  and  philosophy, 
worthy  the  greatest  mere  man  that  ever  breathed. 
But  the  modern  discourse  is  written  upon  a  sub¬ 
ject  no  less  than  the  dissolution  of  nature  itself. 

0  how  glorious  is  the  old  age  of  that  great  man, 
who  has  spent  his  time  in  such  contemplations  as 
has  made  this  being,  what  only  it  should  be,  an 
education  for  heaven !  Pie  has,  according  to  the 
lights  of  reason  and  revelation  which  seemed  to 
him  clearest,  traced  the  steps  of  Omnipotence. 
He  has,  with  a  celestial  ambition,  as  far  as  it  is 
consistent  with  humility  and  devotion,  examined 
the  ways  of  Providence  from  the  creation  to  the 
dissolution  of  the  visible  world.  How  pleasing 
must  have  been  the  speculation,  to  observe  Nature 
and  Providence  move  together,  the  physical  and  mo¬ 
ral  world  march  the  same  pace:  to  observe  paradise 
and  eternal  spring  the  seat  of  innocence,  troubled 
seasons  and  angry  skies  the  portion  of  wickedness 
and  vice!  When  this  admirable  author  has  re¬ 
viewed  all  that  is  past,  or  is  to  come,  which  re¬ 
lates  to  the  habitable  world,  and  run  through  the 
whole  fate  of  it,  how  could  a  guardian  angel,  that 
had  attended  it  through  all  its  courses  or  changes, 
speak  more  emphatically  at  the  end  of  his  charge’ 
than  does  our  author  when  he  makes,  as  it  were, 
a  funeral  oration  over  this  globe,  looking  to  the 
point  where  it  once  stood  ? 

“  Let  us  only,  if  you  please,  to  take  leave  of 
this  subject,  reflect  upon  this  occasion  on  the  va¬ 
nity  and  transient  glory  of  this  habitable  world. 
How,  by  the  force  of  one  element  breaking  loose 
upon  the  rest,  all  the  varieties  of  nature,  all  the 
works  of  art,  all  the  labors  of  men  are  reduced  to 
nothing.  All  that  we  admired  and  adored  before, 
as  great  arid  magnificent,  is  obliterated  or  van¬ 
ished ;  and  another  form  and  face  of  things,  plain 
simple,  and  everywhere  the  same,  overspreads  the 
whole  earth.  Where  are  now  the  great  empires  of 
the  world,  and  their  great  imperial  cities?  their 
pillars,  trophies,  and  monuments  of  glory  ?  show 
me  where  they  stood,  read  the  inscription,  tell  me 
the  victor’s  name.  What  remains,  what  impres¬ 
sions,  w^iat  difference,  or  distinction,  do  you  see 
in  this  mass  of  fire  ?  Rome  itself,  eternal 'Rome, 
the  great  city,  the  empress  of  the  world,  whose 


CTATOR.  197 

|  domination  and  superstition,  ancient  and  modern, 
make  a  great  part  of  the  history  of  this  earth, 
I  what  is  become  of  her  now  ?  She  laid  her  foun- 
[  dations  deep,  and  her  palaces  were  strong  and 
sumptuous.  ‘  She  glorified  herself  and  lived  de¬ 
liciously,  and  said  in  her  heart,  I  sit  a  queen,  and 
shall  see  no  sorrow.’  But  her  hour  is  come,  she  is 
wiped  away  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  buried 
in  everlasting  oblivion.  But  it  is  not  cities  only, 
and  works  of  men’s  hands  ;  but  the  everlasting 
hills,  the  mountains  and  rocks  of  the  earth,  are 
melted  as  wax  before  the  sun,  and  ‘  their  place  is 
nowhere  found.’  Here  stood  the  Alps,  the  load  of 
the  earth  that  covered  many  countries,  and  reached 
their  arms  from  the  ocean  to  the  Black  Sea  ;  this 
huge  mass  of  stone  is  softened  and  dissolved  as  a 
tender  cloud  into  rain.  Here  stood  the  African 
mountains,  and  Atlas  with  his  top  above  the 
clouds ;  there  was  frozen  Caucasus,  and  Taurus, 
and  Imaus,  and  the  mountains  of  Asia  ;  and  yon¬ 
der,  toward  the  north,  sttfod  the  Riphman  hills, 
clothed  in  ice  and  snow.  All  these  are  vanished’ 
dropt  away  as  the  snow  upon  their  heads.  ‘  Great 
and  marvelous  are  thy  works,  just  and  true  are 
thy  ways,  thou  King  of  saints!  hallelujah.’”* 

T. 


No.  147.]  SATURDAY,  AUGUST  18, 1711. 

Pronunciato  est  vocis,  et  vultus  est  gestus  moderatio  cum 
venustate. — Toll. 

Good  delivery  is  a  graceful  management  of  the  voice,  coun¬ 
tenance,  and  gesture. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  well  reading  of  the  Common-prayer  is  of 
so  great  importance,  and  so  much  neglected,  that 
I  take  the  liberty  to  offer  to  your  consideration 
some  particulars  on  that  subject.  And  what  more 
worthy  your  observation  than  this  ?  A  thing  so 
public,  and  of  so  high  consequence.  It  is  indeed 
wonderful,  that  the  fifequent  exercise  of  it  should 
not  make  the  performers  of  that  duty  more  expert 
in  it.  This  inability,  as  I  conceive,  proceeds  from 
the  little  care  that  is  taken  of  their  reading  while 
boys,  and  at  school,  where,  when  they  have  got 
into  Latin,  they  are  looked  upon  as  above  Eng¬ 
lish,  the  reading  of  which  is  wholly  neglected,  or 
at  least  read  to  very  little  purpose,  without  any 
due  observations  made  to  them  of  the  proper  ac¬ 
cent  and  manner  of  reading  ;  by  this  means  they 
have  acquired  such  ill  habits  as  will  not  easily  be 
removed.  The  only  way  that  I  know  of  to  remedy 
this,  is  to  propose  some  person  of  great  ability 
that  way  as  a  pattern  for  them  ;  example  being 
more  effectual  to  convince  the  learned,  as  well  as 
instruct  the  ignorant. 

“You  must  know,  Sir,  I  have  been  a  constant 
frequenter  of  the  service  of  the  Church  of  Eng¬ 
land  for  above  these  four  years  last  past,  and  until 
Sunday  was  sevennight  never  discovered,  to  so 
great  a  degree,  the  excellency  of  the  Common  - 
Prayer.  When,  being  at  St.  James’  Garlick  Hillf 
church,  I  heard  the  service  read  so  distinctly,  so 
emphatically,  and  so  fervently,  that  it  was  next  to 
an  impossibility  to  be  inattentive.  My  eyes  and 
my  thoughts  could  not  wander  as  usual,  but  were 
confined  to  my  prayers.  I  then  considered  I  ad¬ 
dressed  myself  to  the  Almighty,  ,and  not  to  a 
beautiful  face.  And  when  I  reflected  on  my 
former  performances  of  that  duty,  I  found  I  had 


*  Burnet’s  Theory  of  the  Earth,  16S4,  fol.,  hook  III,  chap. 

12,  p.  110,  111.  ’  ’  ’  * 

t  Or  Garlick-hithe.  The  rector  of  this  parish  at  that  time 
was  Mr.  Philip  Stubbs,  afterward  archdeacon  of  St.  Albans, 
whose  excellent  manner  of  performing  the  service  was  long 
remembered  by  the  parishioners. 


198 


THE  SPE 

ran  it  over  as  a  matter  of  form,  in  comparison  to 
the  manner  in  which  I  then  discharged  it.  My 
mind  was  really  affected,  and  fervent  wishes  ac¬ 
companied  ray  words.  The  Confession  was  read 
with  such  resigned  humility,  the  Absolution  with 
such  a  comfortable  authority,  the  Thanksgivings 
with  such  a  religious  joy,  as  made  me  feel  those 
affections  of  the  mind  in  a  manner  I  never  did  be¬ 
fore.  To  remedy  therefore  the  grievance  above 
complained  of,  I  humbly  propose,  that  this  excel¬ 
lent  reader,  upon  the  next  and  every  annual 
assembly  of  the  clergy  of  Sion-college,  and  all 
other  conventions,  should  read  prayers  before 
them.  |  For  then  those  that  are  afraid  of  stretching 
their  mouths,  and  spoiling  their  soft  voices,  will 
learn  to  read  with  clearness,  loudness  and  strength. 
Others  that  affect  a  rakish,  negligent  air,  by  fold¬ 
ing  their  arms,  and  lolling  on  their  books,  will  be 
taught  a  decent  behavior,  and  comely  erection  of 
body.  Those  that  read  so  fast  as  if  impatient  of 
their  work,  may  learn  to  speak  deliberately.' 
There  is  another  sort  of  persons,  whom  I  call' 
Pindaric  readers,  at  being  confined  to  no  set  mea¬ 
sure  :  these  pronounce  five  or  six  words  with  great j 
deliberation,  and  the  five  or  six  subsequent  -ones 
with  as  great  celerity  ;  the  first  part  of  a  sentence 
with  a  very  exalted  voice,  and  tire  latter  part  with 
a  submissive  one  :  sometimes  again,  with  one  sort 
of  a  tone,  and  immediately  after  with  a  very  dif¬ 
ferent  one.  These  gentlemen  will  learn  of  my 
admired  reader  an  evenness  of  voice  and  delivery; 
and  all  who  are  innocent  of  these  affectations, 
but  read  with  such  an  indifferency  as  if  they  did 
not  understand  the  language,  may  then  be  in¬ 
formed  of  the  art  of  reading  movingly  and  fervent^ 
ly,  how  to  place  the  emphasis  and  give  the  proper 
accent  to  each  word,  and  how  to  vary  the  voice 
according  to  the  nature  of  the  sentence.  There  is 
certainly  a  very  great  difference  between  the  read¬ 
ing  a  prayer  and  a  gazette,  which  I  beg  of  you  to 
inform  a  set  of  readers,  who  affect,  forsooth,  a  cer¬ 
tain  gentleman-like  familiarity  of  tone,  and  mend 
the  language  as  they  go  on,  crying,  instead  of 
‘  pardoneth  and  absolveth,’  ‘  pardons  and  ab¬ 
solves.’  These  are  often  pretty  classical  scholars, 
and  would  think  it  an  unpardonable  sin  to  read 
Virgil  or  Martial  with  so  little  taste  as  they  do  di¬ 
vine  service. 

“This  indifference  seems  to  me  to  arise  from 
the  endeavor  of  avoiding  the  imputation  of  cant, 
and  the  false  notion  of  it.  It  will  be  proper, 
therefore,  to  trace  the  origin  and  signification  of 
this  word.  ‘  Cant’  is  by  some  people,  derived 
from  one  Andrew  Cant,  who,  they  say,  was  a 
Presbyterian  minister  in  some  illiterate  part  of 
Scotland,  who  by  exercise  and  use  had  obtained 
the  faculty,  alias  gift,  of  talking  in  the  pulpit  in 
such  a  dialect,  that  it  is  said  he  was  understood 
by  none  but  his  own  congregation,  and  not  by  all 
of  them.  Since  Master  Cant’s  time,  it  has  been 
understood  in  a  larger  sense,  and  signifies  all  sud¬ 
den  exclamations,  whinings,  unusual  tones,  and 
in  fine  all  praying  and  preaching,  like  the  un¬ 
learned  of  the  Presbyterians.  But  I  hope  a  proper 
elevation  of  voice,  a  due  emphasis  and  accent,  are 
not  to  come  within  this  description.  So  that  our 
readers  may  still  be  as  unlike  the  Presbyterians  as 
they  please.  The  dissenters  (I  mean  such  as  I 
have  heard)  do  indeed  elevate  their  voices,  but  it 
is  with  sudden  jumps  from  the  lower  to  the  high¬ 
er  part  of  them  ;  and  that  with  so  little  sense  or 
skill,  that  their  elevation  and  cadence  is  bawling 
and  muttering.  They  make  use  of  an  emphasis, 
but  so  improperly,  that  it  is  often  placed  on  some 
very  insignificant  particle,  as  upon  ‘  if ’or  ‘  and.’ 
Now  if  these  improprieties  have  so  great  an  effect 
on  the  people  as  we  see  they  have,  how  great  an 


CTATOR. 

influence  would  the  service  of  our  church,  con¬ 
taining  the  best  prayers  that  ever  were  composed, 
and  that  in  terms  most  affecting,  most  humble, 
and  most  expressive  of  our  wants,  and  depend¬ 
ence  on  the  object  of  our  worship,  disposed  in 
most  proper  order,  and  void  of  all  confusion  ; 
what  influence,  I  say,  would  these  prayers  have* 
were  they  delivered  with  a  due  emphasis  and  ap¬ 
posite  rising  and  variation  of  voice,  the  sentence 
concluded  with  a  gentle  cadence,  and,  in  a  word, 
with  such  an  accent  and  turn  of  speech  as  is  pe¬ 
culiar  to  prayer  ? 

“  As  the  matter  of  worship  is  now  managed,  in 
dissenting  congregations,  you  find  insignificant 
words  and  phrases  raised  by  a  lively  vehemence  ; 
in  our  own  churches,  the  most  exalted  sense  de- 
reciated,  by  a  dispassionate  indolence.  1  reraem- 

er  to  have  heard  Dr.  S - e*  say  in  his  pulpit,  of 

the  Common-Prayer,  that,  at  least,  it  was  as  per¬ 
fect  as  anything  of  human  institution.  If  the 
gentlemen  who  err  in  this  kind  would  please  to 
recollect  the  many  pleasantries  they  have  read 
upon  those  who  recite  good  things  with  an  ill 
grace,  they  would  go  on  to  think,  that  what,  in 
that  case  is  only  ridiculous,  in  themselves  is  im¬ 
pious.  But  leaving  this  to  their  own  reflections,  I 
shall  conclude  this  trouble  with  what  Caesar  said 
upon  the  irregularity  of  tone  in  one  who  read  be¬ 
fore  him,  ‘  Do  you  read  or  sing  ?  If  you  sing, 
you  sing  very  ill.’t 

T.  “Your  most  humble  servant.” 


No.  148.]  MONDAY,  AUGUST  20,  1711. 

- Exempta  juvat  spinis  e  pluribus  una. 

Hor.  2  Ep.  ii,  212. 

Better  one  thorn  pluck'd  out,  than  all  remain. 

My  correspondents  assure  me,  that  the  enormi¬ 
ties  which  they  lately  complained  of,  and  I  pub¬ 
lished  an  account  of,  are  so  far  from  being  amend¬ 
ed,  that  new  evils  arise  every  day  to  interrupt 
their  conversation,  in  contempt  oi  my  reproofs. 
My  friend  who  writes  from  the  coffee-house  near 
the  Temple,  informs  me  that  the  gentleman  who 
constantly  sings  a  voluntary  in  spite  of  the  whole 
company,  was  more  musical  than  ordinary  after 
reading  my  paper  ;  and  has  not  been  contented 
with  that,  but  has  danced  up  to  the  glass  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  practiced  minuet  steps  to 
his  own  humming.  The  incorrigible  creature  has 
gone  still  farther,  and  in  the  open  coffee-house, 
with  one  hand  extended  as  leading  a  lady  in  it, 
he  has  danced  both  French  and  country-dances, 
and  admonished  his  supposed  partner  by  smiles 
and  nods  to  hold  up  her  head  and  fall  back,  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  respective  facings  and  evolutions 
of  the  dance.  Before  this  gentleman  began  this 
his  exercise,  he  was  pleased  to  clear  his  throat  by 
coughing  and  spitting  a  full  half  hour  ;  and  as 
soon  as  he  struck  up,  he  appealed  to  an  attorney’s 
clerk  in  the  room,  whether  he  hit  as  he  ought, 
“Since  you  from  death  have  saved  me?”  and  then 
asked  the  young  fellow  (pointing  to  a  chancery- 
bill  under  his  arm),  whether  that  was  an  opera 
score  he  carried  or  not? — without  staying  for  an 
answer,  he  fell  into  the  exercise  above-mentioned, 
and  practiced  his  airs  to  the  full  house  who  were 
turned  upon  him,  without  the  least  shame  or  re¬ 
pentance  for  his  former  transgressions. 

I  am  to  the  last  degree  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with 
this  young  fellow,  except  I  declare  him  an  out¬ 
law,  and  pronounce  it  penal  for  any  one  to  speak 


*  Probably  Dr.  Sinai  ridge, 
t  Si  legis,  cantas :  si  cantos,  male  cantos. 


190 


THE  SPE 

to  him  in  the  said  house  which  he  frequents,  and 
direct  that  he  be  obliged  to  drink  his  tea  and 
coffee  without  sugar,  and  not  receive  from  any 
person  whatsoever  anything  above  mere  necessa¬ 
ries.  * 

As  we  in  England  are  a  sober  people,  and  gene¬ 
rally  inclined  rather  to  a  certain  bashfulness  of 
behavior  in  public,  it  is  amazing  whence  some  fel¬ 
lows  come  whom  one  meets  with  in  this  town; 
they  do  not  at  all  seem'  to  be  the  growth  of  our 
island ;  the  pert,  the  talkative,  all  such  as  have  no 
sense  of  the  observation  of  others,  are  certainly 
of  foreign  extraction.  As -for  my  own  part,  I  am 
as  much  surprised  when  I  see  a  talkative  English¬ 
man,  as  I  should  be  to  see  the  Indian  pine  grow¬ 
ing  on  one  of  our  quickset  hedges.  Where  these 
creatures  get  sun  enough,  to  make  them  such 
lively  animals  and  dull  men,  is  above  my  philo¬ 
sophy. 

T  here  are  another  kind  of  impertinents  which  a 
man  is  perplexed  with  in  mixed  company,  and 
those  are  your  loud  speakers.  These  treat  man¬ 
kind  as  if  they  were  all  deaf;  they  do  not  express 
but  declare  themselves.  Many  of  these  are  guilty 
of  this  outrage  out  of  vanity,  because  they  think 
all  they  say  is  well ;  or  they  have  their  own  per¬ 
sons  in  such  veneration,  that  they  believe  nothing 
which  concerns  them  can  be  insignificant  to  any¬ 
body  else.  For  these  people’s  sake,  I  have  often 
lamented  that  we  cannot  close  our  ears  with  as 
much  ease  as  we  can  our  eyes.  It  is  very  uneasy 
that  we  must  necessarily  be  under  persecution. 
Next  to  these  bawlers,  is  a  troublesome  creature 
who  comes  with  the  air  of  your  friend  and  your 
intimate,  and  that  is  your  whisperer.  There  is 
one  of  them  at  a  coffee-house  which  I  myself  fre¬ 
quent,  who  observing  me  to  be  a  man  pretty  well 
made  for  secrets,  gets  by  me,  and  with  a  whisper 
tells  me  things  which  all  the  town  knows.  It  is 
no  very  hard  matter  to  guess  at  the  source  of  this 
impertinence,  which  is  nothing  else  but  a  method 
or  mechanic  art  of  being  wise.  Y ou  never  see  any 
frequent  in  it,  whom  you  can  suppose  to  have  any¬ 
thing  in  the  world  to  do.  These  persons  are 
worse  than  bawlers,  as  much  as  a  secret  enemy  is 
more  dangerous  than  a  declared  one.  I  wish  that 
my  coffee-house  friend  would  take  this  for  arfcinti- 
mation,  that  I  have  not  heard  a  word  he  told 
me  for  these  several  years  ;  whereas  he  now  thinks 
me  the  most  trusty  repository  of  his  secrets.  The 
whisperers  have  a  pleasant  way  of  ending  the 
close  conversation  with  saying  aloud,  "  Do  not 
you  think  so?”  Then  whisper  again,  and  then 
aloud,  “  But  you  know  that  person;”  then  whisper 
again.  The  thing  would  be  well  enough,  if  they 
whispered  to  keep  the  folly  of  what  they  say 
among  friends  ;  but,  alas,  they  do  it  to  preserve 
the  importance  of  their  thoughts.  I  am  sure  I 
could  name  you  more  than  one  person  whom  no 
man  living  ever  heard  talk  upon  any  subject  in 
nature,  or  ever  saw  in  his  whole  life  with  a  book 
in  his  hand,  that,  I  know  not  how,  can  whisper 
something  like  knowledge  of  what  has  and  does 
)ass  in  the  world ;  which  you  would  think  he 
earned  from  some  familiar  spirit  that  did  not 
think  him  worthy  to  receive  the  whole  story.  But 
in  truth  whisperers  deal  only  in  half  accounts  of 
what  they  entertain  you  with.  A  great  help  to 
their  discourse  is,  “  That  the  town  says,  and  peo¬ 
ple  begin  to  Talk  very  freely,  and  they  had  it  from 
persons  too  considerable  to  be  named,  what  they 
will  tell  you  when  things  are  riper.”  My  friend 
has  winked  upon  me  any  day  since  1  came  to 
town  last,  and  has  communicated  to  me  as  a  secret, 
that  he  designed  in  a  very  short  time  to  tell  me  a 
secret ;  but  i  shall  know  what  he  means,  he  now 
assures  me,  in  less  than  a  fortnight’s  time. 


CTATOR. 

But  I  must  not  omit  the  dearer  part  of  man¬ 
kind,  I  mean  the  ladies,  to  take  up  a  whole  paper 
upon  grievances  which  concern  the  men  only ; 
but  shall  humbly  propose,  that  we  change  fools 
for  an  experiment  only.  A  certain  s6t  of  ladies 
complain  they  are  frequently  perplexed  with  a 
visitant,  who  affects  to  be  wiser  than  they  are  ; 
which  character  he  hopes  to  preserve  by  an  obstin¬ 
ate  gravity,  and  great  guard  against  discovering 
hiwopinion  upon  any  occasion  whatsoever.  A 
gainful  silence  has  hitherto  gained  him  no  farther 
advantage,  than  that  as  he  might,  if  he  had  be¬ 
haved  himself  with  freedom,  been  excepted  against 
but  as  to  this  and  that  particular,  he  now  offends 
in  the  whole.  To  relieve  these  ladies,  my  good 
friends  and  correspondents,  I  shall  exchange  my 
dancing  outlaw  for  thgir  dumb  visitant,  and  assign 
the  silent  gentleman  all  the  haunts  of  the  dancer ; 
in  order  to  which,  I  have  sent  them  by  the  penny- 
post  the  following  letters  for  their  conduct  in  their 
new  conversations : — 

itfSlR, 

:<  “  I  have,  you  may  be  sure,  heard  of  your  irregu¬ 
larities  witiiout  regard  to  my  observations  upon 
you  ;  but  shall  not  treat  you  with  so  much  rigor 
as  you  deserve.  If  you  will  give  yourself  the 
trouble  to  repair  to  the  place  mentioned  in  the 
postscript*  to  this  letter  at  seven  this  evening, 
you  will  be  conducted  into  a  spacious  room,  well- 
lighted,  where  there  are  ladies  and  music.  You 
will  see  a  young  lady  laughing  next  the  window 
to  the  street ;  you  may  take  her  out,  for  she  loves 
you  as  well  as  she  does  any  man,  though  she 
never  saw  you  before.  She  never  thought  in  her 
life,  any  more  than  yourself.  She  will  not  be 
surprised  when  you  accost  her,  nor  concerned 
when  you  leave  her.  Hasten  from  a  place  where 
you  are  laughed  at,  to  one  where  you  will  be 
admired.  You  are  of  no  consequence,  therefore 
go  where  you  will  be  welcome  for  being  so. 

»*».  •  “  Your  humble  servant.” 

“  Sir, 

“  The  ladies  whom  you  visit,  think  a  wise  man 
the  most  impertinent  creature  living,  therefore 
you  cannot  be  offended  that  they  are  displeased 
with  you.  Why  will  you  take  pains  to  appear 
wise,  where  you  would  not  be  the  more  esteemed 
for  being  really  so  ?  Come  to  us  ;  forget  the  gig¬ 
glers  ;  let  your  inclination  go  along  with  you 
whether  you  speak  or  are  silent ;  and  let  all  such 
women  as  are  in  a  clan  or  sisterhood,  go  their  own 
way;  there  is  no  room  for  you  in  that  company 
who  are  of  the  common  taste  of  the  sex. 

“  For  women  born  to  be  controll’d 
Stoop  to  the  forward  and  the  bold; 

Affect  the  haughty  and  the  proud, 

The  gay,  the  frolic,  and  the  loud.”f 


No.  149.]  TUESDAY,  AUGUST  21,  1711. 

Cui  in  manu  sit  quern  esse  dementem  velit, 

Quern  sapere,  quem  sanari,  quern  hi  morbum  injici. 
Quem  contra  amari,  quem  accersiri,  quem  expeti. 

Caxtj.  apud  Tmx. 

Who  has  it  in  her  power  to  make  men  mad, 

Or  wise,  or  sick,  or  well:  and  who  can  choose 
The  object  of  her  appetite  at  pleasure. 

The  following  letter,  and  my  answer,  shall  take 
up  the  present  speculation  : — 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  the  young  widow  of  a  country  gentle¬ 
man,  who  has  left  me  entire  mistress  of  a  large 


*No  postscript  in  the  Spect.,  in  f. 
t  Waller. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


200 

fortune,  which  he  agreed  to  as  an  equivalent  for 
the  difference  in  our  years.  In  these  circumstances 
it  is  not  extraordinary  to  have  a  crowd  of  ad¬ 
mirers;  which  I  have  abridged  in  my  own  thoughts, 
and  reduced  to  a  couple  of  candidates  only,  both 
young,  and  neither  of  them  disagreeable  in  their 
persons  :  according  to  the  common  way  of  com¬ 
puting,  in  one  the  estate  more  than  deserves  my 
fortune,  in  the  other  my  fortune  more  than  de¬ 
serves  the  estate.  When  I  consider  the  first,  I 
own  I  am  so  far  a  woman  I  cannot  avoid  being 
delighted  with  the  thoughts  of  living  great ;  but 
then  he  seems  to  receive  such  a  degree  of  courage 
from  the  knowledge  of  what  he  has,  he  looks  as 
if  he  was  going  to  confer  an  obligation  on  me  ; 
and  the  readiness  he  accosts  me  with,  makes  me 
jealous  I  am  only  hearing  a  repetition  of  the 
same  things  he  had  said  to  a  hundred  women  be¬ 
fore.  When  I  consider  the  other,  I  see  myself  ap¬ 
proached  with  so  much  modesty  and  respect,  and 
such  a  doubt  of  himself,  as  betrays,  methinks, 
an  affection  within,  and  a  belief  at  the  same  time 
that  he  himself  would  be  the  only  gainer  by  my 
consent.  What  an  unexceptionable  husband  could 
I  make  out  of  both  !  but  since  that  is  impossible, 
I  beg  to  be  concluded  by  your  opinion.  It  is  ab¬ 
solutely  in  your  power  to  dispose  of 

“  Your  most  obedient  servant, 

“  Sylvia.” 

“  Madam, 

“You  do  me  great  honor  in  your  application 
to  me  on  this  important  occasion  ;  I  shall  there¬ 
fore  talk  to  you  with  the  tenderness  of  a  father, 
in  gratitude  for  your  giving  me  the  authority  of 
one.  You  do  not  seem  to  make  any  great  distinc¬ 
tion  between  these  gentlemen  as  to  their  persons  ; 
the  whole  question  lies  upon  their  circumstances 
and  behavior.  If  the  one  is  less  respectful  because 
he  is  rich,  and  the  other  more  obsequious  because 
he  is  not  so,  they  are  in  that  point  moved  by  the 
same  principle,  the  consideration  of  fortune,  and 
ou  must  place  them  in  each  other’s  circumstances 
efore  you  can  judge  of  their  inclination.  To 
avoid  confusion  in  discussing  this  point,  I  will 
call  the  richer  man  Strephon,  and  the  other  Florio. 
If  you  believe  Florio  with  Strephon’s  estate  would 
behave  himself  as  he  does  now,  Florio  is  certainly 
our  man  ;  but  if  you  think  Strephon,  were  he  in 
lorio’s  condition,  would  be  as  obsequious  as 
Florio  is  now,  you  ought  for  your  own  sake  to 
choose  Strephon  ;  for  where  the  men  are  equal, 
there  is  no  doubt  riches  ought  to  be  a  reason  for 
preference.  After  this  manner,  my  dear  child,  I 
would  have  you  abstract  them  from  their  circum¬ 
stances  ;  for  you  are  to  take  it  for  granted,  that  he 
who  is  very  humble  only  because  he  is  poor,  is  the 
very  same  man  in  nature,  with  him  who  is  haughty 
because  he  is  rich. 

“  When  you  have  gone  thus  far,  as  to  consider 
the  figure  they  make  toward  you  ;  you  will  please, 
my  dear,  next  to  consider  the  appearance  you 
make  toward  them.  If  they  are  men  of  discern¬ 
ing,  they  can  observe  the  motives  of  your  heart : 
and  Florio  can  see  when  he  is  disregarded  only 
upon  account  of  fortune,  which  makes  you  to  him 
a  mercenary  creature  ;  and  you  are  still  the  same 
thing  to  Strephon,  in  taking  him  for  his  wealth 
only;  you  are  therefore  to  consider  whether  you 
had  rather  oblige,  than  receive  an  obligation. 

“  The  marriage  life  is  always  an  insipid,  a  vex¬ 
atious,  or  a  happy  condition.  The  first  is,  when 
two  people  of  no  genius  or  taste  for  themselves 
meet  together,  upon  such  a  settlement  as  has  been 
thought  reasonable  by  parents  and  conveyancers 
from  an  exact  valuation  of  the  land  and  cash  of 
both  parties.  In  this  case  the  young  lady’s  per¬ 
son  is  no  more  regarded  than  the  house  and  im¬ 


provements  in  purchase  of  an  estate ;  but  she 
goes  with  her  fortune,  rather  than  her  fortune 
with  her.  These  make  up  the  crowd  or  vulgar  of 
the  rich,  and  fill  up  the  lumber  of  the  human 
race,  without  beneficence  toward  those  below  them, 
or  respect  toward  those  above  them  ;  and  lead  a 
despicable,  independent,  and  useless  life,  without 
sense  of  the  laws  of  kindness,  good-nature,  mutual 
offices,  and  the  elegant  satisfactions  which  flow 
from  reason  and  virtue.  ' 

“  The  vexatious  life  arises  from  a  conjunction, 
of  two  people  of  quick  taste  and  resentment,  put 
together  for  reasons  well  known  to  their  friends, 
in  which  especial  care  is  taken  to  avoid  (what 
they  think  the  chief  of  evils)  poverty,  and  insure 
to  them  riches,  with  every  evil  beside.  These 
good  people  live  in  a  constant  constraint  before 
company,  and  too  great  familiarity  alone.  When 
they  are  within  observation,  they  fret  at  each 
other’s  carriage  and  behavior ;  when  alone,  they 
revile  each  other’s  person  and  conduct.  In  com¬ 
pany  they  are  in  a  purgatory,  when  only  together 
in  a  hell. 

“  The  happy  marriage  is,  when  two  persons 
meet  and  voluntarily  make  choice  of  each  other 
without  principally  regarding  or  neglecting  the 
circumstances  of  fortune  or  beauty.  These  may 
still  love  in  spite  of  adversity  or  sickness :  the 
former  we  may  in  some  measure  defend  ourselves 
from,  the  other  is  the  portion  of  our  very  make. 
When  you  have  a  true  notion  of  this  sort  of  pas¬ 
sion,  your  humor  of  living  great  will  vanish  out 
of  your  imagination,  and  you  will  find  love  lias 
nothing  to  do  with  state.  Solitude,  with  the  per¬ 
son  beloved,  has  a  pleasure,  even  in  a  woman’s 
mind,  beyond  show  or  pomp.  You  are  therefore 
to  consider  which  of  your  lovers  will  like  you 
best  undressed  ;  which  will  bear  with  you  most 
when  out  of  humor ;  and  your  wmy  to  this  is  to 
ask  of  yourself,  which  of  them  you  value  most 
for  his  own  sake  ?  and  by  that  judge  which  gives 
the  greatest  instances  of  his  valuing  you  for  your¬ 
self  only. 

“After  you  have  expressed  some  sense  of  the 
humble  approach  of  Florio,  and  a  little  distain  at 
Strephon’s  assurance  in  his  address,  you  cry  out, 
‘What  an  unexceptionable  husband  could  I  make 
out  of  both  !’  It  would  therefore,  methinks,  be  a 
good  way  to  determine  yourself.  Take  him  in 
whom  what  you  like  is  not  transferable  to  another; 
for  if  you  choose  otherwise,  there  is  no  hopes 
your  husband  will  ever  have  what  you  liked  in 
his  rival ;  but  intrinsic  qualities  in  one  man  may 
very  probably  purchase  everything  that  is  adven¬ 
titious  to  another.  In  plainer  terms  ;  he  whom 
you  take  for  his  personal  perfections  will  sooner 
arrive  at  the  gifts  of  fortune,  than  he  whom  you 
take  for  the  sake  of  his  fortune  attain  to  personal 
perfections.  If  Strephon  is  not  as  accomplished 
and  agreeable  as  Florio,  marriage  to  you  will  never 
make  him  so  ;  but  marriage  to  you  may  make 
Florio  as  rich  as  Strephon.  Therefore  to  make 
a  sure  purchase,  employ  fortune  upon  certainties, 
but  do  not  sacrifice  certainties  to  fortune. 

“  I  am,  your  most  obedient, 

T.  “  Humble  servant.” 


Ho.  150.]  WEDNESDAY,  AUGUST  22,  1711. 

Nil  habct  infelix  paupertas  durius  in  se 

Quam  quod  ridiculos  homines  facit - 

Juv.,  Sat.  iii,  152. 

Want  is  the  scorn  of  every  wealthy  fool, 

And  wit  in  rags  is  turn’d  to  ridicule. — Drydf.n. 

As  I  was  walking  in  my  chamber  the  morning 
before  I  went  last  into  the  country,  I  heard  the 
hawkers  with  great  vehemence  crying  about  a 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


pnper,  entitled,  The  Ninety-nine  Plagues  of  an 
Empty  Purse.  I  had  indeed  some  time  before 
observed  that  the  orators  of  Grub-street  had  dealt 
very  much  in  plagues.  They  have  already  pub¬ 
lished  m  the  same  month,  The  Plagues  of  Matri¬ 
mony,  The  Plagues  of  a  Single  Life,  The  Nine¬ 
teen  Plagues  of  a  Chambermaid,  The  Plagues  of 
a  Coachman,  The  Plagues  of  a  Footman,  and  The 
Hague  of  Plagues.  The  success  these  several 
plagues  met  with,  probably  gave  occasion  to  the 
above-mentioned  poem  on  an  empty  purse.  How¬ 
ever  that  be,  the  same  noise  so  frequently  repeated 
under  my  window,  drew  me  insensibly  to  think 
on  some  of  those  inconveniences  and  mortifica¬ 
tions  which  usually  attend  on  poverty,  and,  in 
short,  gave  birtli  to  the  present  speculation  ;  for 
alter  my  tancy  had  run  over  the  most  obvious  and 
common  calamities  which  men  of  mean  fortunes 
aie  liable  to,  it  descends  to  those  little  insults  and 
contempts  which,  though  they  may  seem  to  dwin¬ 
dle  into  nothing  when  a  man  offers  to  describe 
them,  are  perhaps  in  themselves  more  cutting  and 
insuperable  than  the  former.  Juvenal,  with  a 
great  deal  of  humor  and  reason,  tells  us,  that 
nothing  bore  harder  upon  a  poor  man  in  his  time, 
than  the  continual  ridicule  which  his  habit  and 
dress  afforded  to  the  beaux  of  Rome  : 


201 


Quid,  quod  materiam  praebet  causasque  jocorum 
Omnibus  Lie  idem;  si  foeda  et  seissa  lacerna, 

Si  toga  sordidula  est,  et  rupta  calceus  alter 
Pelle  patet,  vel  si  consuto  vulnere  crassum 
Atque  recens  linum  ostendit  non  una  cicatrix. 

Juv.,  Sat.  iii,  147. 

Add  that  the  rich  have  still  a  gibe  in  store, 

And  will  be  monstrous  witty  on  the  poor ; 

For  the  torn  surtout  and  the  tatter’d  vest. 

The  wretch  and  all  his  wardrobe  are  a  jest; 

The  greasy  gown  sullied  with  often  turning, 

Oives  a  good  hint  to  say  the  man’s  in  mourning; 

Or  if  the  shoe  is  ript,  or  patch  is  put, 

He  s  wounded,  see  the  plaster  on  his  foot. — Dryden. 

It  is  on  this  occasion  that  he  afterward  adds 
the  reflection  which  I  have  chosen  for  my  motto. 

Want  is  the  scorn  of  every  wealthy  fool, 

And  wit  in  rags  is  turn’d  to  ridicule. — Dryden. 

It  must  be  confessed,  that  few  things  make  a 
man  appear  more  despicable,  or  more  prejudice 
his  hearers  against  what  he  is  going  to  offer,  than 
an  awkward  or  pitiful  dress;  insomuch  that  I  fan¬ 
cy,  had  Tully  himself  pronounced  one  of  his  ora¬ 
tions  with  a  blanket  about  his  shoulders,  more 
people  would  have  laughed  at  his  dress  than  have 
admired  his  eloquence.  This  last  reflection  made 
me  tvonder  at  a  set  of  men,  who,  without  being 
subjected  to  it  by  the  unkindness  of  their  fortunes, 
are  contented  to  draw  upon  themselves  the  ridicule 
of  the  world  in  this  particular.  I  mean  such  as 
take  it  into  their  heads  that  the  first  regular  step 
to  be  a  wit  is  to  commence  a  sloven.  It  is  certain 
nothing  has  so  much  debased  that  which  must 
have  been  otherwise  so  great  a  character;  and 
1  know  not  how  to  account  for  it,  unless  it  may 
possibly  be  in  complaisance  to  those  narrow  minds 
who  can  have  no  notion  of  the  same  persons  pos¬ 
sessing  different  accomplishments  ;  or  that  it  is  a 
son  of  sacrifice  which  some  men  are  contented  to 
make  to  calumny,  by  allowing  it  to  fasten  on  one 
part  of  their  character,  while  they  are  endeavoring 
to  establish  another.  & 

.  Yet  however  unaccountable  this  foolish  custom 

is,  I  am  afraid  it  could  plead  a  long  prescription  • 
and  probably  give  too  much  occasion  for  the  vul¬ 
gar  definition  still  remaining  among  us  of  a  hea¬ 
then  philosopher. 

I  have  seen  the  speech  of  a  Terra  filius,  spoken 
in  King  Charles  the  Second’s  reign  ;  in  which  he 
describes  two  very  eminent  men,  who  were  per¬ 
haps  the  greatest  scholars  of  their  age  ;  and  after 


having  mentioned  the  entire  friendship  between 
them,  concludes  that,  “  they  had  but  one  mind 
one  purse,  one  chamber,  and  one  hat.”  Hie  men 
of  business  were  also  infected  with  a  sort  of  sin¬ 
gularity  little  better  than  this.  I  have  heard  my 
father  say,  that  a  broad  brimmed  hat,  short  hair, 
and  unfolded  handkerchief,  were  in  his  time  abso- 
utely  necessary  to  denote  a  “  notable  man  ;”  and 
that  he  had  known  two  or  three,  who  aspired  to 
the  character  of  “very  notable,”  wear  shoe  strings 
with  great  success.  & 

i  T°^eA°n0r  of  °ur  Present  age,  it  must  be  al¬ 
lowed,  that  some  of  our  greatest  geniuses  for  wit 

and  business  hav?  almost  entirely  broken  the  neck 

of  these  absurdities. 

Victor,  after  having  dispatched  the  most  im¬ 
portant  affairs  of  the  commonwealth,  has  appear- 
i  at  a"  assembly,  where  all  the  ladies  have  de¬ 
clared  him  the  genteelest  man  in  the  company  • 
and  in  Atticus,*  though  every  way  one  of  the 
greatest  geniuses  the  age  has  produced,  one  sees 
nothing  particular  in  his  dress  or  carriage  to  de¬ 
note  his  pretensions  to  wit  and  learning  :  so  that 
at  present  a  man  may  venture  to  cock  up  his  hat 
and  wear  a  fashionable  wig,  without  being  taken 
for  a  rake  or  a  fool. 

The  medium  between  a  fop  and  a  sloven  is  what 
a  man  of  sense  would  endeavor  to  keep  ;  yet  I  re¬ 
member  Mr.  Osborn  advises  his  son  to  appear  in 
ns  habit  rather  above  than  below  his  fortune  -  and 
tells  him  that  he  will  find  a  handsome  suit  of 
clothes  always  procures  some  additional  respect.f 
I  have  indeed  myself  observed  that  my  banker 
ever  bows  lowest  to  me  when  I  wear  my  full-bot¬ 
tomed  wig  ;  and  writes  me  “Mr.”  or  “Esq  ”  ac¬ 
cording  as  he  sees  me  dressed. 

I  shall  conclude  this  paper  with  an  adventure 
which  I  was  myself  an  eye-witness  of  very  lately 
I  happened  the  other  day  to  call  in  at  a  cele¬ 
brated  coffee-house  near  the  Temple.  I  had  not 
been  there  long  when  there  came  in  an  elderly 
man  very  meanly  dressed,  and  sat  down  by  me;  he 
had  a  threadbare  loose  coat  on,  which  it  was  plain 
he  wore  to  keep  himself  warm,  and  not  to  favor 
his  under  suit,  which  seemed  to  have  been  at  least 
its  cotemporary  ;  his  short  wig  and  hat  were  both 
answerable  to  the  rest  of  his  apparel.  He  was  no 
sooner  seated  than  he  called  for  a  dish  of  tea;  but 
as  several  gentlemen  in  the  room  wanted  other 
things,  the  boys  of  the  house  did  not  think  them¬ 
selves  at  leisure  to  mind  him.  I  could  observe 
the  old  fellow  was  very  uneasy  at  the  affront,  and 
at  his  being  obliged  to  repeat  his  commands  sev¬ 
eral  times  to  no  purpose ;  until  at  last  one  of  the 
lads  presented  him  with  some  stale  tea  in  a  broken 
dish,  accompanied  with  a  plate  of  brown  sugar  ; 
which  so  raised  his  indignation,  that  after  several 
obliging  appellations  of  dog  and  rascal,  he  asked 
him  aloud  before  the  whole  company,  “why  he 
should  be  used  with  less  respect  than  that  fop 
tnGTG  l  pointing  to  o,  WGll-drossod.  young  gentle- 
man  who  was  drinking  tea  at  the  opposite^ table. 
The  boy  of  the  house  replied  with  a  good  deal  of 
pertness,  that  his  master  had  two  sorts  of  cus¬ 
tomers,  and  that  the  gentleman  at  the  other  table 
had  given  him  many  a  sixpence  for  wiping  his 
shoes.  By  this  time  the  young  Templar,  who 
found  his  honor  concerned  in  the  dispute,  and 
til  at  the  eyes  of  the  whole  coffee-house  were  upon 
him,  had  thrown  aside  a  paper  he  held  in  his 
hand,  and  was  coming  toward  us,  while  we  at  the 
table,  made  what  haste  we  could  to  get  awav  from 
the  impending  quarrel,  but  we  were  alfof  us 
surprised  to  see  him,  as  he  approached  nearer,  put 

*  Probably  Mr.  Addison. 

t  Advice  to  a  Son  by  Francis  Osborn,  Esq.,  part  1,  sect,  23. 


202 


THE  SPE 

on  an  air  of  deference  and  respect.  To  whom 
the  old  man  said,  “Hark  you,  sirrah,  I  will  pay 
off  your  extravagant  bills  once  more,  but  will  take 
effectual  care  for  the  future,  that  your  prodigality 
shall  not  spirit  up  a  parcel  of  rascals  to  insult 

your  father.”  . 

Though  I  by  no  means  approve  either  the  im¬ 
pudence  of  the  servants  or  the  extravagance  of 
the  son,  I  cannot  but  think  the  old  gentleman  was 
in  some  measure  justly  served  for  walking  in  mas¬ 
querade,  I  mean  in  appearing  in  a  dress  so  much 
beneath  his  quality  and  estate. — X. 


Ho.  151.]  THURSDAY,  AUGUST  23,  1711. 

Maximas  A'irtutes  jacere  omnes  necesse  est  voluptate  domi- 
nante. — Tull,  de  Fin. 

Where  pleasure  prevails,  all  the  greatest  virtues  will  lose 
their  power. 

I  know  no  one  character  that  gives  reason  a 
greater  shock,  at  the  same  time  that  it  presents  a 
good  ridiculous  image  to  the  imagination,  than 
that  of  a  man  of  wit  and  pleasure  about  the  town. 
This  description  of  a  man  of  fashion,  spoken  by 
some  with  a  mixture  of  scorn  and  ridicule,,  by 
others  with  great  gravity  as  a  laudable  distinc¬ 
tion,  is  in  everybody’s  mouth  that  spends  any 
time  in  conversation.  My  friend,  Will  Honey¬ 
comb,  has  this  expression  very  frequently  ;  and  I 
never  could  understand  by  the  story  which  fol¬ 
lows  upon  his  mention  of  such  a  one,  but  that  his 
man  of  wit  and  pleasure  was  either  a  drunkard 
too  old  for  wenching,  or  a  young  lewd  fellow  with 
some  liveliness,  who  would  converse  with  you, 
receive  kind  offices  of  you,  at  the  same  time  de¬ 
bauch  your  sister,  or  lie  with  your  wife.  Accord¬ 
ing  to  this  description,  a  man  of  wit,  when  he 
could  have  wenches  for  crowns  apiece  which  he 
liked  quite  as  well,  would  be  so  extravagant  as 
to  bribe  servants,  make  false  friendships,  fight. re¬ 
lations  ;  I  say,  according  to  him,  plain  and  sim¬ 
ple  vice  was  too  little  for  a  man  of  wit  and  plea¬ 
sure  ;  but  he  would  leave  an  easy  and  accessible 
wickedness,  to  come  at  the  same  thing  with  only 
the  addition  of  certain  falsehood  and  possible 
murder.  Will  thinks  the  town  grown  very  dull, 
in  that  we  do  not  hear  so  much  as  we  used,  to  do 
of  these  coxcombs,  whom  (without  observing  it) 
he  describes  as  the  most  infamous  rogues  in  na¬ 
ture,  with  relation  to  friendship,  love,  or  conver¬ 
sation.  .  . 

When  pleasure  is  made  the  chief  pursuit  of  life, 
it  will  necessarily  follow  that  such  monsters  as 
these  will  arise  from  a  constant  application  to 
such  blandishments  as  naturally  root  out  the  force 
of  reason  and  reflection,  and  substitute  in  their 
place  a  general  impatience  of  thought,  and  a  con¬ 
stant  pruriency  of  inordinate  desire. 

Pleasure,  when  it  is  a  man’s  chief  purpose,  dis¬ 
appoints  itself ;  and  the  constant  application  to  it 
palls  the  faculty  of  enjoying  it,  though  it  leaves 
the  sense  of  our  inability  for  that  we  wish,  with  a 
disrelish  of  everything  else.  Thus  the  interme¬ 
diate  seasons  of  the  man  of  pleasure  are  more 
heavy  than  one  would  impose  upon  the  vilest 
criminal.  Take  him  when  he  is  awaked  too. soon 
after  a  debauch,  or  disappointed  in  following  a 
worthless  woman  without  truth,  and  there  is  no 
man  living  whose  being  is  such  a  weight  of  vex¬ 
ation  as  his  is.  He  is  an  utter  stranger  to  the 
pleasing  reflections  in  the  evening  of  a  well-spent 
day,  or  the  gladness  of  heart  or  quickness  of  spirit 
in  the  morning  after  a  profound  sleep  or  indolent 
slumbers.  He  is  not  to  be  at  ease  any  longer  than 
he  can  keep  reason  and  good  sense  without  his 
curtains  ;  otherwise  he  will  be  haunted  w  ith  the 


CTATOR. 

reflection,  that  he  could  not  believe  such  a  one  the 
woman  that  upon  trial  he  found  her.  What  has 
he  got  by  his  conquest,  but  to  think  meanly  of 
her  for  whom  a  day  or  two  before  he  had  the  high¬ 
est  honor  ?  And  of  himself  for  perhaps  wrong¬ 
ing  the  man  whom  of  all  men  living  he  himself 
would  least  willingly  have  injured  ? 

Pleasure  seizes  the  whole  man  who  addicts  him¬ 
self  to  it,  and  will  not  give  him  leisure  for  any 
good  office  in  life  which  contradicts  the  gayety  oi 
the  present  hour.  You  may  indeed  observe  in 
people  of  pleasure  a  certain  complacency  and  ab¬ 
sence  of  all  severity,  which  the  habit  of  a  loose 
unconcerned  life  gives  them  ;  but  tell  the  man  of 
pleasure  your  secret  wants,  cares,  or  sorrows,  and 
you  will  find  that  he  has  given  up  the  delicacy  of 
his  passions  to  the  cravings  of  his  appetites.  He 
little  knows  the  perfect  joy  he  loses,  for  the  dis¬ 
appointing  gratifications  which  he  pursues.  He 
looks  at  Pleasure  as  she  approaches,  and  comes  to 
him  with  the  recommendation  of  warm  wishes, 
gay  looks,  and  graceful  motion  ;  but  he  does  not 
observe  how  she  leaves  his  presence  with  disorder, 
impotence,  downcast  shame,  and  conscious  imper¬ 
fection.  She  makes  our  youth  inglorious,  our  age 
shameful. 

Will  Honeycomb  gives  us  twenty  intimations 
in  an  evening  of  several  hags  whose  bloom  was 
given  up  to  his  arms  ;  and  would  raise  a  value  to 
himself  for  having  had,  as  the  phrase  is,  “  very 
good  women.”  Will’s  good  women  are  the  com¬ 
fort  of  his  heart,  and  support  him,  I  warrant,  by 
the  memory  of  past  interviews  with  persons  of 
their  condition  !  No,  there  is  not  in  the  world  an 
occasion  wherein  vice  makes  so  fantastical  a  fig¬ 
ure,  as  at  the  meeting  of  two  old  people  who  have 
been  partners  in  unwarrantable  pleasure.  To  tell 
a  toothless  old  lady  that  she  once  had  a  good  set, 
or  a  defunct  wencher  that  he  was  the  admired 
thing  of  the  town,  are  satires  instead  of  applauses; 
but,  on  the  other  side,  consider  the  old  age  of 
those  who  have  passed  their  days  in  labor,  indus¬ 
try,  and  virtue,  their  decays  make  them  but  ap¬ 
pear  the  more  venerable,  and  the  imperfections  of 
their  bodies  are  beheld  as  a  misfortune  to  human 
society  that  their  make  is  so  little  durable. 

But  to  return  more  directly  to  my  man  of  wit 
and  pleasure.  In  all  orders  of  men,  wherever  this 
is  the  chief  character,  the  person  who  wears  it  is 
a  negligent  friend,  father,  and  husband,  and  en¬ 
tails  poverty  on  his  unhappy  descendants.  Mort¬ 
gages,  diseases,  and  settlements,  are  the  legacies 
a  man  of  wit  and  pleasure  leaves  to  his  family. 
All  the  poor  rogues  that  make  such  lamentable 
speeches  after  every  sessions  at  Tyburn,  were,  in 
their  way,  men  of  wit  and  pleasure  before  they 
fell  into"  the  adventures  which  brought  them 
thither. 

Irresolution  and  procrastination  in  all  a  man’s 
affairs,  are  the  natural  effects  of  being  addicted  to 
pleasure.  Dishonor  to  the  gentleman,  and  bank¬ 
ruptcy  to  the  trader,  are  the  portion  of  either 
whose  chief  purpose  of  life  is  delight.  The  chief 
cause  that  this  pursuit  has  been  in  all  ages  received 
with  so  much  quarter  from  the  soberer  part  of 
mankind,  has  been,  that  some  men  of  great  talents 
have  sacrificed  themselves  to  it.  3  he  shining 
qualities  of  such  people  have  given  a  beauty  to 
whatever  they  were  engaged  in,  and  a  mixture  of 
wit  has  recommended  madness.  For  let  any  man 
who  knows  what  it  is  to  have  passed  much  time 
in  a  series  of  jollity,  mirth,  wit,  or  humorous  en¬ 
tertainments,  look  back  at  what  he  was  all  that 
while  a-doing,  and  he  will  find  that  he  has  been 
at  one  instant  sharp  to  some  man  he  is  sorry  to 
have  offended  ;  impertinent  to  some  one  it  was 
cruelty  to  treat  with  such  freedom,  ungraoefully 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


noisy  at  such  a  time,  unskillfully  open  at  such  a 
time  ;  unmercifully  calumnious  at  such  a  time  ; 
and,  from  the  whole  course  of  his  applauded  sat¬ 
isfactions,  unable  in  the  end  to  recollect  any  cir¬ 
cumstance  which  can  add  to  the  enjoyment  of  his 
own  mind  alone,  or  which  he  would  put  his  char¬ 
acter  upon  with  other  men.  Thus  it  is  with  those 
who  are  best  made  for  becoming  pleasures  ;  but 
how  monstrous  is  it  in  the  generality  of  mankind 
who  pretend  this  way,  without  genius  or  inclina¬ 
tion  toward  it!  The  scene,  then,  is  wild  to  an 
extravagance  :  this  is,  as  if  fools  should  mimic 
madmen.  Pleasure  of  this  kind  is  the  intemper¬ 
ate  meals  and  loud  jollities  of  the  common  rate 
of  country  gentlemen,  whose  practice  and  way  of 
enjoyment  is  to  put  an  end  as  fast  as  they  can,  to 
that  little  particle  of  reason  they  have  when  they 
are  sober.  These  men  of  wit  and  pleasure  dis¬ 
patch  their  senses  as  fast  as  possible,  by  drinking 
until  they  cannot  taste,  smoking  until  they  cannot 
see,  and  roaring  until  they  cannot  hear. — T. 


Ho.  152.]  FRIDAY,  AUGUST  24,  1711. 

Like  leaves  on  trees  the  race  of  man  is  found. 

Pope’s  IIom. 

There  is  no  sort  of  people  whose  conversation 
is  so  pleasant  as  that  of  military  men,  who  derive 
their  courage  and  magnanimity  from  thought  and 
reflection.  The  many  adventures  which  attend 
their  way  of  life  makes  their  conversation  so  full 
of  incidents,  and  gives  them  so  frank  an  air  in 
speaking  of  what  they  have  been  witnesses  of, 
that  no  company  can  be  more  amiable  than  that 
of  men  of  sense  who  are  soldiers.  There  is  a  cer¬ 
tain  irregular  way  in  their  narrations  or  discourse, 
which  has  something  more  warm  and  pleasing 
than  we  meet  with  among  men  who  are  used  to 
adjust  and  methodize  their  thoughts. 

I  was  this  evening  walking  in  the  fields  with 
my  friend  Captain  Sentry,  and  I  could  not,  from 
the  many  relations  which  I  drew  him  into  of  what 
passed  when  he  was  in  the  service,  forbear  express¬ 
ing  my  wonder,  that  the  “  fear  of  death,”  which 
we,  the  rest  of  mankind,  arm  ourselves  against 
with  so  much  contemplation,  reason,  and  philoso¬ 
phy,  should  appear  so  little  in  camps,  that  com¬ 
mon  men  march  into  open  breaches,  meet  opposite 
battalions,  not  only  without  reluctance,  but  with 
alacrity.  My  friend  answered  what  I  said  in  the 
following  manner  :  “  What  you  wonder  at  may 
very  naturally  be  the  subject  of  admiration  to  all 
who  are  not  conversant  in  camps  ;  but  when  a 
man  has  spent  some  time  in  that  way  of  life,  he 
observes  a  certain  mechanic  courage  which  the 
ordinary  race  of  men  become  masters  of  from  act¬ 
ing  always  in  a  crowd.  They  see  indeed  many 
drop,  but  then  they  see  many  more  alive ;  they 
observe  themselves  escape  very  narrowly,  and 
they  do  not  know  why  they  should  not  again. 
Beside  which  general  way  of  loose  thinking,  they 
usually  spend  the  other  part  of  their  time  in 
pleasures  upon  which  their  minds  are  so  entirely 
bent,  that  short  labors  or  dangers  are  but  a  cheap 
purchase  ot  jollity,  triumph,  victory,  fresh  quar¬ 
ters,  new  scenes,  and  uncommon  adventures. 
Sucli  are  the  thoughts  of  the  executive  part  of  an 
aimy,  and  indeed  of  the  gross  of  mankind  in 
gi  iicial,  but  #none  ot  these  men  of  mechanical 
courage  have  ever  made  any  great  figure  in  the 
profession  of  arms.  Those  who  are  formed  for 
command,  are  such  as  have  reasoned  themselves, 
out  of  a  consideration  of  greater  good  than  length 
of  days,  into  such  a  negligence  of  their  being, °  as 
to  make  it  their  first  position,  that  it  is  one  day  to 
be  resigned  ; — and  since  it  is,  in  the  prosecution 


203 

|  of  worthy  actions  and  service  of  mankind,  they 
I  can  put  it  to  habitual  hazard.  The  event  of  our 
,  designs,  say  they,  as  it  relates  to  others,  is  uncer¬ 
tain  ;  but  as  it  relates  to  ourselves  it  must  be  pros¬ 
perous,  while  we  are  in  the  pursuit  of  our  duty, 
and  within  the  terms  upon  which  Providence  has 
ensured  our  happiness,  whether  we  die  or  live, 
j  All  that  nature  has  prescribed  must  be  good  ;  and 
|  as  death  is  near  to  us,  it  is  absurdity  to  fear  it. 
Fear  loses  its  purpose  when  we  are  sure  it  cannot 
!  preserve  us,  and  wTe  should  draw  resolution  to 
meet  it  from  the  impossibility  to  escape  it.  With¬ 
out  a  resignation  to  the  necessity  of  dying,  there 
can  be  no  capacity  in  man  to  attempt  anything 
that  is  glorious  :  but  when  they  have  once  attained 
to  that  perfection,  the  pleasures  of  a  life  spent  in 
martial  adventures  are  as  great  as  any  of  which 
the  human  mind  is  capable.  The  force  of  reason 
gives  a  certain  beauty  mixed  with  conscience  of 
well-doing  and  thirst  of  glory  to  all  which  before 
was  terrible  and  ghastly  to  the  imagination.  Add 
to  this,  that  the  fellowship  of  danger,  the  com¬ 
mon  good  of  mankind,  the  general  cause,  and  the 
manifest  virtue  you  may  observe  in  so  many  men 
who  made  no  figure  until  that  day,  are  so  many 
incentives  to  destroy  the  little  considerations  of 
their  own  persons.  Such  are  the  heroic  part  of 
soldiers,  who  are  qualified  for  leaders.  As  to  the 
rest  whom  I  before  spoke  of,  I  know  not  how  it 
is,  but  they  arrive  at  a  certain  habit  of  being  void 
of  thought,  insomuch  that  on  occasion  of  the  most 
imminent  danger  they  are  still  in  the  same  indiffe¬ 
rence.  Hay,  I  remember  an  instance  of  a  gay 
Frenchman,*  who  was  led  on  in  battle  by  a  supe¬ 
rior  officer  (whose  conduct  it  was  his  custom  to 
speak  of  always  with  contempt  and  raillery),  and 
in  the  beginning  of  the  action  received  a  wound 
he  was  sensible  was  mortal ;  his  reflection  on  this 
occasion  was,  ‘  I  wish  I  could  live  another  hour, 
to  see  how  this  blundering  coxcomb  will  get  clear 
of  this  business.’ 

“  I  remember  two  young  fellows  who  rode  in 
the  same  squadron  of  a  troop  of  horse,  who  were 
ever  together ;  they  ate,  they  drank,  they  intrigued; 
in  a  word,  all  their  passions  and  affections  seemed 
to  tend  the  same  way,  and  they  appeared  service¬ 
able  to  each  other  in  them.  We  were  in  the  dusk 
of  the  evening  to  march  over  a  river,  and  the 
troop  these  gentlemen  belonged  to  were  to  be 
transported  in  a  ferry-boat,  as  fast  as  they  could. 
One  of  the  friends  was  now  in  the  boat,  while  the 
other  was  drawn  up  with  others  by  the  water-side, 
waiting  the  return  of  the  boat.  A  disorder  hap¬ 
pened  in  the  passage  by  an  unruly  horse ;  and  a 
gentleman  who  had  the  rein  of  his  horse  negli¬ 
gently  under  his  arm,  was  forced  into  the  water 
by  his  horse’s  jumping  over.  The  friend  on  the 
shore  cried  out,  ‘Who  is  that  drowned,  trow?’  He 
was  immediately  answered,  ‘Your  friend  Harry 
Thompson.’  He  very  gravely  replied,  ‘Ay,  he 
had  a  mad  horse.’  This  short  epithet  from  such 
a  familiar,  without  more  words,  gave  me,  at  that 
time  under  twenty,  a  very  moderate  opinion  of  the 
friendship  of  companions.  Thus  is  affection  and 
every  other  motive  of  life  in  the  generality  rooted 
out  by  the  present  busy  scene  about  them  ;  they 
lament  no  man  whose  capacity  can  be  supplied  by 
another;  and  where  men  converse  without  deli¬ 
cacy,  the  next  man  you  meet  will  serve  as  well  as 
he  whom  you  have  lived  with  half  your  life.  To 
such  the  devastation  of  countries,  the  misery  of 
inhabitants,  the  cries  of  the  pillaged,  and  the  silent 
sorrow  of  the  great  unfortunate,  are  ordinary  ob- 


^  *  Tlie  Frenchman  here  alluded  to  was  the  Chevalier  de 
Flourilles,  a  lieutenant-general  under  the  Prince  of  Conde,  at 
the  battle  of  Senelf,  in  1674. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


204 

jects  ;  their  minds  are  bent  upon  the  little  gratifi¬ 
cations  of  their  own  senses  and  appetites,  forgetful 
of  compassion,  insensible  of  glory,  avoiding  only 
shame  ;  their  whole  hearts  taken  up  with  the  tri¬ 
vial  hope  of  me  ting  and  being  merry.  These 
are  the  people  who  make  up  the  gross  of  the  sol 
diery.  But  the  fine  gentleman  in  that  band  of 
men  is  such  a  one  as  I  have  now  in  my  eye,  who 
is  foremost  in  all  danger  to  which  he  is  ordered. 
His  officers  are  his  friends  and  companions,  as 
they  are  men  of  honor  and  gentlemen  ;  the  private 
men  his  brethren,  as  they  are  of  his  species.  He 
is  beloved  of  all  that  behold  him.  They  wish 
him  in  danger  as  he  views  their  ranks,  that  they 
may  have  occasions  to  save  him  at  their  crwn 
hazard.  Mutual  love  is  the  order  of  the  files 
where  he  commands;  every  man,  afraid  for  him¬ 
self  and  his  neighbor,  not  lest  their  commander 
should  punish  them,  but  lest  he  should  be  offend¬ 
ed.  Such  is  his  regiment  who  knows  mankind, 
and  feels  their  distresses  so  far  as  to  prevent  them. 
Just  in  distributing  what  is  their  due,  he  would 
think  himself  below  their  tailor  to  wear  a  snip  of 
their  clothes  in  lace  upon  his  own  ;  and  below  the 
most  rapacious  agent  should  he  enjoy  a  farthing 
above  his  own  pay.  Go  on,  brave  man!  immortal 
glory  is  thy  fortune,  and  immortal  happiness  thy 
reward.” — T. 


No.  153.]  SATURDAY,  AUGUST  25,  1711. 

Habet  natui'a  ufc  aliarum  omnium  rerum  sic  vivendi  mo- 
dum,  senectus  autem  peracto  aetatis  est  tanquam  tabulae. 
Cujus  defatigationcm  fugere  debemus,  Praesertim.  adjuncta 
eatietate. — Tull,  de  Senect. 

Life,  as  well  as  all  other  things,  hath  its  bounds  assigned 
by  nature;  and  its  conclusion,  like  the  last  act  of  a  play,  is 
old  age,  the  fatigue  of  which  we  ought  to  shun,  especially 
when  our  appetites  are  fully  satisfied. 

Of  all  the  impertinent  wishes  which  we  hear 
expressed  in  conversation,  there  is  not  one  more 
unworthy  a  gentleman  or  a  man  of  liberal  educa¬ 
tion,  than  that  of  wishing  one’s  self  younger.  I 
have  observed  this  wish  is  usually  made  upon 
sight  of  some  object  which  gives  the  idea  of  a  past 
action,  that  it  is  no  dishonor  to  us  that  we  cannot 
now  repeat ;  or  else  on  what  was  in  itself  shame¬ 
ful  when  we  performed  it.  It  is  a  certain  sign  of 
a  foolish  or  a  dissolute  mind  if  we  Avant  our  youth 
again  only  for  the  strength  of  bones  and  sineAVS 
which  we  once  were  masters  of.  It  is  (as  my 
author  has  it)  as  absurd  in  an  old  man  to  Avish  for 
the  strength  of  youth,  as  it  would  be  in  a  young 
man  to  Avish  for  the  strength  of  a  bull  or  a  horse. 
These  Avishes  are  both  equally  out  of  nature,  which 
should  direct  in  all  things  that  are  not  contradic¬ 
tory  to  justice,  law,  and  reason.  But  though 
every  old  man  has  been  young,  and  every  young 
one  hopes  to  be  old,  there  seems  to  be  a  most  un¬ 
natural  misunderstanding  between  those  two 
stages  of  life.  This  unhappy  want  of  commerce 
arises  from  the  insolent  arrogance  or  exultation  in 
youth,  and  the  irrational  despondence  or  self-pity 
in  age.  A  young  man  Avhose  passion  and  ambi¬ 
tion  is  to  be  good  and  wise,  and  an  old  one  Avho 
has  no  inclination  to  be  lewd  or  debauched,  are 
quite  unconcerned  in  this  speculation  ;  but  the 
cocking  young  fellow  who  treads  upon  the  toes 
of  his  elders,  and  the  old  felloAv  Avho  envies  the 
saucy  pride  he  sees  him  in,  are  the  objects  of  our 
present  contempt  and  derision.  Contempt  and 
derision  are  harsh  Avords  ;  but  in  what  manner  can 
one  give  advice  to  a  youth  in  the  pursuit  and  pos¬ 
session  of  sensual  pleasures,  or  afford  pity  to  an 
old  man  in  the  impotence  and  desire  of  enjoying 
them?  When  young  men  in  public  places  betray 
in  their  deportment  an  abandoned  resignation  to 


their  appetites,  they  give  to  sober  minds  a  prospect 
of  a  despicable  age,  which,  if  not  interrupted  by 
death  in  the  midst  of  their  follies,  must  certainly 
come.  When  an  old  man  beAvails  the  loss  of  sucn 
gratifications  Avhich  are  past,  he  discovers  a  mon¬ 
strous  inclination  to  that  Avhich  it  is  not  in  the 
course  of  Providence  to  recall.  The  state  of  an 
old  man,  Avho  is  dissatisfied  merely  for  his  being 
such,  is  the  most  out  of  all  measures  of  reason  and 
good  sense  of  any  being  we  have  any  account  of 
from  the  highest  angel  to  the  lowest  Avorm.  How 
miserable  is  the  contemplation  to  consider  a  libidi¬ 
nous  old  man  (Avhile  all  created  beings,  beside 
himself  and  devils,  are  following  the  order  of  Pro¬ 
vidence)  fretting  at  the  course  of  things,  and  being 
almost  the  sole  malcontent  in  the  creation.  But 
let  us  a  little  reflect  upon  what  he  has  lost  by  the 
number  of  years.  The  passions  which  he  had  in 
youth  are  not  to  be  obeyed  as  they  Avere  then,  but 
reason  is  more  powerful  now  Avithout  the  distur¬ 
bance  of  them.  An  old  gentleman,  the  other  day, 
in  discourse  Avitli  a  friend  of  his  (reflecting  upon 
son*;  adventures  they  had  in  youth  together)  cried 
out,  “Oh  Jack,  those  Avere  happy  days!”  “That 
is  true,”  replied  his  friend,  “but  rnethinks  we  go 
about  our  business  more  quietly  than  Ave  did  then.” 
One  would  think  it  should  be  no  small  satisfac¬ 
tion  to  have  gone  so  far  in  our  journey  that  the 
heat  of  the  day  is  over  Avith  us.  When  life  itself 
is  a  fever,  as  it  is  in  licentious  youth,  the  plea¬ 
sures  of  it  are  no  other  than  the  dreams  of  a  man 
in  that  distemper;  and  it  is  as  absurd  to  Avish  the 
return  of  that  season  of  life,  as  for  a  man  in  health 
to  be  sorry  for  the  loss  of  gilded  palaces,  fairy 
Avalks,  and  flowery  pastures,  with  which  he  remem¬ 
bers  he  Avas  entertained  in  the  troubled  slumbers 
of  a  fit  of  sickness. 

As  to  all  the  rational  and  worthy  pleasures  of 
our  being  —  the  conscience  of  a  good  fame,  the 
contemplation  of  another  life,  the  respect  and  com¬ 
merce  of  honest  men,  our  capacities  for  such  enjoy¬ 
ments  are  enlarged  by  years.  While  health  en¬ 
dures,  the  latter  part  of  life,  in  the  eye  of  reason, 
is  certainly  the  more  eligible.  The  memory  of  a 
well-spent  youth  gives  a  peaceable,  unmixed,  and 
elegant  pleasure  to  the  mind  ;  and  to  such  who  are 
so  unfortunate  as  not  to  be  able  to  look  back  on 
youth  Avith  satisfaction,  they  may  give  themselves 
no  little  consolation  that  they  are  under  no  temp¬ 
tation  to  repeat  their  follies,  and  that  they  at  pre¬ 
sent  despise  them.  It  was  prettily  said,  “  He  that 
Avould  be  long  an  old  man,  must  begin  early  to  be 
one :”  it  is  too  late  to  resign  a  thing  after  a  man  is 
robbed  of  it ;  therefore  it  is  necessary  that  before 
the  arrival  of  age  Ave  bid  adieu  to  the  pursuits  of 
youth,  otlierAvise  sensual  habits  Avill  live  in  our 
imaginations,  when  our  limbs  cannot  be  subser¬ 
vient  to  them.  The  poor  felloAv  Avho  lost  his  arm 
last  siege,  Avill  tell  you,  he  feels  the  fingers  that 
are  buried  in  Flanders  ache  every  cold  morning  at 
Chelsea. 

The  fond  humor  of  appearing  in  the  gay  and 
fashionable  world,  and  being  applauded  for  trivial 
excellencies,  is  what  makes  youth  have  age  in  con¬ 
tempt,  and  makes  age  resign  Avith  so  ill  a  grace 
the  qualifications  of  youth  ;  but  this  in  both  sexsfes 
is  inverting  all  things,  and  turning  the  natural 
course  of  our  minds,  Avhiqh  should  build  their  ap¬ 
probations  and  dislikes  upon  what  nature  and 
reason  dictate,  into  chimera  and  confusion. 

Age  in  a  virtuous  person,  of  either  sex,  carries 
in  it  an  authority  which  makes  it  preferable  to  all 
the  pleasures  of  youth.  If  to  be  saluted,  and  at¬ 
tended,  and  consulted  with  deference,  are  instances 
of  pleasure,  they  are  such  as  never  fail  a  virtuous 
old  age.  In  the  enumeration  of  the  imperfections 
and  advantages  of  the  younger  and  later  years  of 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


man,  they  are  so  near  in  their  condition,  that,  me- 
thinks,  it  should  be  incredible  we  see  so  little 
commerce  of  kindness  between  them.  If  we  con¬ 
sider  youth  and  age  with  Tully,  regarding  the 
affinity  to  death,  youth  has  many  more  chances  to 
be  near  it  than  age  ;  what  youth  can  say  more  than 
an  old  man,  “he  shall  live  until  night?”  Youth 
catches  distempers  more  easily,  its  sickness  is 
more  violent,  and  its  recovery  more  doubtful.  The 
youth  indeed  hopes  for  more  days,  so  cannot  the 
old  man.  The  youth’s  hopes  are  ill-grounded  ; 
for  w  hat  is  more  foolish  than  to  place  any  confi¬ 
dence  upon  an  uncertainty?  But  the  old  man  has 
not  room  so  much  as  to  hope  ;  he  is  still  happier 
than  the  youth  ;  he  has  already  enjoyed  what  the 
other  does  but  hope  for.  One  wishes  to  live  long, 
the  other  has  lived  long.  But,  alas  !  is  there  any¬ 
thing  in  human  life,  the  duration  of  which  can  be 
called  long?  There  is  nothing  which  must  end, 
to  be  valued  for  its  continuance.  If  hours,  days, 
months,  and  years  pass  away,  it  is  no  matter  what 
hour,  what  day,  what  month,  or  what  year  we  die. 
The  applause  of  a  good  actor  is  due  to  him  at 
whatever  scene  of  the  play  he  makes  his  exit.  It 
is  thus  in  the  life  of  a  man  of  sense;  a  short  life 
is  sufficient  to  manifest  himself  a  man  of  honor 
and  virtue  ;  when  he  ceases  to  be  such  he  has  lived 
too  long;  and  while  he  is  such,  it  is  of  no  conse¬ 
quence  to  him  how  long  he  shall  be  so,  provided 
lie  is  so  to  his  life’s  end. — T. 


205 


Ho.  154.]  MONDAY,  AUGUST  27,  1711. 

Nemo  repente  fuit  turpissimus -  Juv.,  Sat.  ii,  83. 

No  man  e’er  reach’d  the  heights  of  vice  at  first. — Tate. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“You  are  frequent  in  the  mention  of  matters 
which  concern  the  feminine  world,  and  take  upon 
you  to  be  very  severe  against  men  upon  all  those 
occasions:  but  all  this  while  I  am  afraid  you  have 
been  very  little  conversant  with  women,  or  you 
would  know  the  generality  of  them  are  not  so 
angry  as  you  imagine  at  th.e  general  vices  among 
us.  I  am  apt  to  believe  (begging  your  pardon) 
that  you  are  still  what  I  myself  was  once,  a  queer 
modest  fellow ;  and  therefore,  for  your  informa¬ 
tion,  shall  give  you  a  short  account  of  myself, 
and  the  reasons  why  I  was  forced  to  wench,  drink, 
play  and  do  everything  which  are  necessary  to  the 
character  of  a  man  of  wit  and  pleasure,  to  be  well 
with  the  ladies. 

“You  are  to  know,  then,  that  I  was  bred  a  gen¬ 
tleman,  and  had  the  finishing  part  of  my  educa¬ 
tion  under  a  man  of  great  probity,  wit,  and  learn¬ 
ing,  in  one  of  our  universities.  I  will  not  deny 
but  this  made  my  behavior  and  mien  bear  in  it  a 
figure  of  thought  rather  than  action;  and  a  man  of 
a  quiet  contrary  character  who  never  thought  in 
his  life,  rallied  me  one  day  upon  it,  and  said,  ‘he 
believed  I  was  still  a  virgin.’  There  was  a  young 
ladv  of  virtue  present,  and  I  was  not  displeased 
to  favor  the  insinuation;  but  it  had  a  quite  con- 
tiary  efiect  from  what  I  expected.  I  was  ever 
after  treated  with  great  coldness  both  by  that  lady 
and  all  the  rest  of  my  acquaintance.  In  a  very 
little  time  I  never  came  into  a  room  but  I  coulcl 
hear  a  whisper,  ‘Here  comes  the  maid.’  A  girl  of 
humor  would  on  some  occasion  say,  ‘Why5,  how 
do  you  know  more  than  any  of  us?’  An  expres¬ 
sion  of  that  kind  was  generally  followed  by  a 
loud  laugh.  In  a  word,  for  no  other  fault  in  the 
world  than  that  they  really  thought  me  as  in¬ 
nocent  as  themselves,  I  became  of  no  consequence 
among  them,  and  was  received  always  upon  the 
foot  of  a  jest.  This  made  so  strong  an  impression 


|  upon  me,  that  I  resolved  to  be  as  agreeable  as  the 
best  ot  the  men  who  laughed  at  me;  but  I  observed 
it  was  nonsense  for  me  to  be  impudent  at  first 
among  those  who  knew  me.  My  character  for 
modesty  was  so  notorious  wherever  I  had  hitherto 
appeared,  that  I  resolved  to  show  my  new  face  in 
new  quarters  of  the  world.  My  first  step  I  chose 
with  judgment;  fori  went  to  Astrop,*  and  came 
down  among  a  crowd  of  academics,  at  one  dash, 
the  impudentest  fellow  they  had  ever  seen  in  their 
lives.  Flushed  with  this  success,  I  made  love, 
and  was  happy.  Upon  this  conquest  I  thought  it 
would  be  unlike  a  gentleman  to  stay  long  with  my 
mistress,  and  crossed  the  country  to  Bury.f  I 
could  give  you  a  very  good  account  of  myself  at 
that  place  also.  At  these  two  ended  my  first  sum¬ 
mer  of  gallantry.  — The  winter  following,  you 
would  wonder  at  it,  but  I  relapsed  into  modesty 
upon  coming  among  people  of  figure  in  London, 
yet  not  so  much  but  that  the  ladies  who  had  for¬ 
merly  laughed  at  me,  said,  ‘Bless  us,  how  wonder¬ 
fully  that  gentleman  is  improved!’  Some  famil¬ 
iarities  about  the  play-houses  toward  the  end  of 
the  ensuing  winter,  made  me  conceive  new  hopes 
of  adventures.  And  instead  of  returning  the  next 
summer  to  Astrop  or  Bury,  I  thought  myself 
qualified  to  go  to  Epsom,  and  followed  a  young 
woman,  whose  relations  were  jealous  of  my  place 
m  her  favor,  to  Scarborough.  I  carried  my  point, 
and  in  my  third  year  aspired  to  go  to  Tunbridge, 
and  in  the  autumn  of  the  same  year  made  my  ap¬ 
pearance  at  Bath.  I  was  now  got  into  the  way  of 
talk  proper  for  ladies,  and  was  run  into  a  vast 
acquaintance  among  them,  which  I  always  im¬ 
proved  to  the  best  advantage.  In  all  this  course  of 
time,  and  some  years  following,  I  found  a  sober 
modest  man  was  always  looked  upon  by  both 
sexes  as  a  precise  unfashioned  fellow  of  no  life  or 
spirit.  It  was  ordinary  for  a  man  who  had  been 
drunk  in  good  company,  or  passed  a  night  with  a 
wench,  to  speak  of  it  next  day  before  women  for 
whom  he  had  the  greatest  respect.  He  was  re¬ 
proved,  perhaps,  with  a  blow  of  the  fan,  or  with 
an  ‘Oh  fie!’  but  the  angry  lady  still  preserved  an 
apparent  approbation  in  her  countenance.  He 
was  called  a  strange  wicked  fellow  a  sad  wretch; 
he  shrugs  his  shoulders,  swears,  receives  another 
blow,  swears  again  he  did  not  know  he  swore,  and 
all  was  well.  You  might  often  see  men  game  in 
the  presence  of  women,  and  throw  at  once  for 
more  than  they  were  worth,  to  recommend  them¬ 
selves  as  men  of  spirit.  I  found  by  long  ex¬ 
perience,  that  the  loosest  principles  and  the  most 
abandoned  behavior,  carried  all  before  them  in 
pretensions  to  women  of  fortune.  y  The  encourage¬ 
ment  given  to  people  of  this  stamp,  made  me  soon 
throw  off  the  remaining  impressions  of  a  sober 
education.  In  the  above-mentioned  places,  as 
well  as  in  town,  I  always  kept  company  with 
those  who  lived  most  at  large;  and  in  due  process 
of  time  I  was  a  very  pretty  rake  among  the  men, 
and  a  very  pretty  fellow  among  the  women.  I 
must  confess,  I  had  some  melancholy  hours  upon 
the  account  of  the  narrowness  of  my  fortune,  but 
my  conscience  at  the  same  time  gave  me  the  com¬ 
fort  that  I  had  qualified  myself  for  marrying  a 
fortune. 

“When  I  had  lived  in  this  manner  some  time, 
and  became  thus  accomplished,  I  was  now  in  the 
twenty-seventh  year  of  my  age,  and  about  the 
forty-seventh  of  my  constitution,  my  health  and 
estate  wasting  very  fast;  when  I  happened  to  fall 
into  the  company  of  a  very  pretty  young  lady  in 

*  Astrop-wells,  in  Oxfordshire ;  into  which  Doctor  Radcliffe 
“  put  a  toad.’’ 

t  Bury-fair.  A  place  of  fashionable  resort. 


t 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


206 

her  own  disposal.  I  entertained  the  company,  as 
we  men  of  gallantry  generally  do,  with  the  many 
haps  and  disasters,  watchings  under  windows, 
escapes  from  jealous  husbands,  and  several  other 
perils.  The  young  thing  was  wonderfully  charm¬ 
ed  with  one  that  knew  the  world  so  well,  and 
talked  so  fine:  with  Desdernona,  all  her  lover  said 
affected  her ;  ‘it  was  strange  ;  it  was  wondrous 
strange/  In  a  word,  I  saw  the  impression  I  had 
made  upon  her,  and  with  a  very  little  application 
the  pretty  thing  has  married  me.  There  is  so 
much  charm  in  her  innocence  and  beauty,  that  I 
do  now  as  much  detest  the  course  I  have  been  in 
for  many  years,  as  ever  I  did  before  I  entered 
into  it. 

“  What  I  intend,  Mr.  Spectator,  by  writing  all 
this  to  you,  is  that  you  would,  before  you  go  any 
farther  with  your  panegyrics  on  the  fair  sex,  give 
them  some  lectures  upon  their  silly  approbations. 
It  is  that  I  am  weary  of  vice,  and  that  it  was 
not  my  natural  way,  that  I  am  now  so  far  recovered 
as  not  to  bring  this  dear  believing  creature  to  con¬ 
tempt  and  poverty  for  her  generosity  to  me.  At 
the  same  time  tell  the  youth  of  good  education  of 
our  sex,  that  they  take  too  little  care  of  improving 
themselves  in  little  things.  A  good  air  at  enter¬ 
ing  into  a  room,  a  proper  audacity  in  expressing 
himself  with  gayety  and  gracefulness,  would  make 
a  young  gentleman  of  virtue  and  sense  capable  ot 
discountenancing  the  shallow  rogues,  that  shine 
among  the  women. 

“Mr.  Spectator,  I  do  not  doubt  but  you  are  a 
very  sagacious  person,  but  you  are  so  great  with 
Tully  of  late,  tliat  I  fear  you  will  contemn  these 
things  as  matters  of  no  consequence :  but  believe 
me,  Sir,  they  are  of  the  highest  importance  to 
human  life ;  and  if  you  can  do  anything  toward 
opening  fair  eyes,  you  will  lay  an  obligation  upon 
all  your  cotemporaries  who  are  fathers,  hus¬ 
bands,  or  brothers  to  females. 

“Your  most  affectionate,  humble  servant, 

T.  “Simon  Honeycomb.” 


Mo.  155.]  TUESDAY,  AUGUST  28,  1711. 

- Ilae  nugre  seria  ducunt 

In  mala -  Hon.,  Ars.  Poet.,  y,  451. 

These  things  which  now  seem  frivolous  and  slight, 

Will  prove  of  serious  consequence. — Roscommon. 

I  have  more  than  once  taken  notice  of  an  inde¬ 
cent  license  taken  in  discourse,  wherein  the  con¬ 
versation  on  one  part  is  involuntary,  and  the 
effect  of  some  necessary  circumstance.  This  hap¬ 
pens  in  traveling  together  in  the  same  hired  coach, 
sitting  near  each  other  in  any  public  assembly,  or 
the  like.  I  have,  upon  making  observations  of 
this  sort,  received  innumerable  messages  from 
that  part  of  the  fair  sex  whose  lot  in  life  it  is  to 
be  of  any  trade  or  public  way  of  life.  They  are 
all,  to  a  woman,  urgent  with  me  to  lay  before  the 
world  the  unhappy  circumstances  they  are  under, 
from  the  unreasonable  liberty  which  is  taken  in 
their  presence,  to  talk  on  what  subject  is  thought 
fit  by  every  coxcomb  who  wants  understanding  or 
breeding.  One  or  two  of  these  complaints  I  shall 
set  down. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  keep  a  coffee-house,  and  am  one  of  those 
whom  you  have  thought  fit  to  mention  as  an  Idol 
some  time  ago.  I  suffered  a  good  deal  of  raillery 
upon  that  occasion;  but  shall  heartily  forgive  you, 
who  are  the  cause  of  it,  if  you  will  do  me  justice 
in  another  point.  What  I  ask  of  you  is,  to  ac¬ 
quaint  my  customers  (who  are  otherwise  very 
good  ones)  that  I  am  unavoidably  hasped  in  my 
bar  and  cannot  help  hearing  the  improper  dis¬ 


courses  they  are  pleased  to  entertain  me  with. 
They  strive  who  shall  say  the  most  immodest 
things  in  my  hearing.  At  the  same  time  half  a 
dozen  of  them  loll  at  the  bar  staring  just  in  my 
face,  ready  to  interpret  my  looks  and  gestures  ac¬ 
cording  to  their  own  imaginations.  In  this  pas¬ 
sive  condition  I  know  not  where  to  cast  my  eyes, 
place  my  hands,  or  what  to  employ  myself  in. 
But  this  confusion  is  to  be  a  jest,  and  I  hear  them 
say  in  the  end,  with  an  insipid  air  of  mirth  and 
subtlety,  ‘Let  her  alone;  she  knows  as  well  as  we, 
for  all  she  looks  so/  Good  Mr.  Spectator,  per¬ 
suade  gentlemen  that  it  is  out  of  all  decency.  Say 
it  is  possible  a  woman  may  be  modest  and  yet 
keep  a  public-house.  Be  pleased  to  argue,  that  in 
truth  the  affront  is  the  more  unpardonable  because 
I  am  obliged  to  suffer  it,  and  cannot  fly  from  it. 

I  do  assure  you,  Sir,  the  cheerfulness  of  life  which 
would  arise  from  the  honest  gain  I  have,  is  utter¬ 
ly  lost  on  me  from  the  endless,  flat,  impertinent 
pleasantries  which  I  hear  from  morning  to  night. 
In  a  word,  it  is  too  much  for  me  to  bear;  and  I  de¬ 
sire  you  to  acquaint  them,  that  I  will  keep  pen 
and  ink  at  the  bar,  and  write  down  all  they  say  to 
me,  and  send  it  to  you  for  the  press.  It  is  pos¬ 
sible  when  they  see  how  empty  what  they  speak, 
without  the  advantage  of  an  impudent  counte¬ 
nance  and  gesture,  will  appear,  they  may  come  to 
some  sense  of  themselves  ,and  the  insults  they  are 
guilty  of  toward  me.** 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant, 

“The  Idol.” 

This  representation  is  so  just,  that  it  is  hard  to 
speak  of  it  without  an  indignation  which  per¬ 
haps  would  appear  too  elevated  to  such  as  can  be 
guilty  of  this  inhuman  treatment,  where  they  see 
they  affront  a  modest,  plain,  and  ingenuous  be¬ 
havior.  This  correspondent  is  not  the  only  suf¬ 
ferer  in  this  kind,  for  I  have  long  letters  both 
from  the  Royal  and  Hew  Exchange  on  the  same 
subject.  They  tell  me  that  a  young  fop  cannot 
buy  a  pair  of  gloves,  but  he  is  at  the  same  time 
straining  at  some  ingenious  ribaldry  to  say  to  the 
young  woman  who  helps  them  on.  It  is  no  small 
addition  to  the  calamity  that  the  rogues  buy  as 
hard  as  the  plainest  and  modestest  customers  they 
have;  beside  which,  they  loll  upon  their  counters 
half  an  hour  longer  than  they  need,  to  drive  away 
other  customers,  who  are  to  share  their  imperti¬ 
nences  with  the  milliner,  or  go  to  another  shop. 
Letters  from  ’Change-alley  are  full  of  the  same 
evil;  and  the  girls  tell  me,  except  I  can  chase  some 
eminent  merchants  from  their  shops  they  shall  in 
a  short  time  fail.  It  is  very  unaccountable,  that 
men  can  have  so  little  deference  to  all  mankind 
who  pass  by  them,  as  to  bear  being  seen  toying 
by  twos  and  threes  at  a  time,  with  no  other  pur¬ 
pose  but  to  appear  gay  enough  to  keep  up  a  light 
conversation  or  common-place  jests,  to  the  injury 
of  her  whose  credit  is  certainly  hurt  by  it,  though 
their  own  may  be  strong  enough  to  bear  it.  When 
we  come  to  have  exact  accounts  of  these  conver¬ 
sations,  it  is  not  to  be  doubted  but  that  their  dis¬ 
courses  will  raise  the  usual  style  of  buying  and 
selling.  Instead  of  the  plain  downright  lying, 
and  asking  and  bidding  so  unequally  to  what  they 
will  really  give  and  take,  we  may  hope  to  have 
from  these  fine  folks  an  exchange  of  compliments. 
There  must  certainly  be  a  great  deal  of  pleasant 
difference  between  the  commerce  of  lovers,  and 
that  of  all  other  dealers,  who  are  in  a  kind,  ad¬ 
versaries.  A  sealed  bond,  or  a  bank-note,  would 
be  a  pretty  gallantry  to  convey  unseen  into  the 
hands  of  one  whom  a  director  is  charmed  with; 
otherwise  the  city-loiterers  are  still  more  unreason¬ 
able  than  those  at  the  other  end  of  the  town.  At 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


the  New  Exchange  they  are  eloquent  for  want  of 
cash,  but  in  the  citv  they  ought  with  cash  to  sup¬ 
ply  their  want  of  eloquence. 

If  one  mi  "lit  be  serious  on  this  prevailing  folly, 
one  might  observe  that  it  is  a  melancholy  thing’ 
when  the  world  is  mercenary  even  to  the  buying 
and  selling  our  very  persons;  that  young  womeif, 
though  they  have  never  so  great  attractions  from 
nature,  are  never  the  nearer  being  happily  dispos¬ 
ed  of  in  marriage ;  I  say,  it  is  very  hard  under 
this  necessity,  it  shall  not  be  possible  for  them  to 
go  into  a  way  of  trade  for  their  maintenance,  but 
their  very  excellencies  and  personal  perfections 
shall  be  a  disadvantage  to  them,  and  subject  them 
to  be  treated  as  if  they  stood  there  to  sell  their 
persons  to  prostitution.  There  cannot  be  a  more 
melancholy  circumstance  to  one  who  has  made 
any  observation  in  the  world,  than  one  of  those 
erring  creatures  exposed  to  bankruptcy.  When 
that  happens,  none  of  those  toying  fools  will  do 
any  more  *han  any  other  man  they  meet,  to  pre¬ 
serve  her  from  infamy,  insult,  and  distemper.  A 
woman  is  naturally  more  helpless  than  the  other 
sex;  and  a  man  of  honor  and  sense  should  have 
this  in  his  view  in  all  manner  of  commerce  with 
her.  Were  this  well  weighed,  inconsideration, 
ribaldry,  and  nonsense,  would  not  be  more  natural 
to  entertain  women  with,  than  men;  and  it  would 
be  as  much  impertinence  to  go  into  a  shop  of  one  of 
these  young  women  without  buying,  as  into  that 
of  any  other  trader.  I  shall  end  this  speculation 
with  a  letter  I  have  received  from  a  pretty  milliner 
in  the  city. 


207 


“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  have  read  your  account  of  beauties,  and  was 
not  a  little  surprised  to  find  no  character  of 
myself  in  it.  I  do  assure  you  I  have  little  else  to 
do  but  to  give  audience,  as  I  am  such.  Here  are 
merchants  of  no  small  consideration  who  call  in 
as  certainly  as  they  go  to  ’  Change,  to  say  some¬ 
thing  of  my  roguish  eye.  And  here  is  one  who 
makes  me  once  or  twice  a  week  tumble  over  all 
my  goods,  and  then  owns  it  was  only  gallantry 
to  see  me  act  with  these  pretty  hands":  then  lays 
out  three-pence  in  a  little  ribbon  for  his  wrist- 
bandstand  thinks  he  is  a  man  of  great  vivacity. 
There  is  an  ugly  thing  not  far  off  me,  whose  shop 
is  frequented  only  by  people  of  business,  that  is 
all  day  long  as  busy  as  possible.  Must  I,  that 
am  a  beauty,  be  treated  with  for  nothing  but  my 
beauty  ?  Be  pleased  to  assign  rates  to  my  kind 
glances,  or  make  all  pay  who  come  to  see  me,  or 
I  shall  be  undone  by  ray  admirers  for  want  of 
customers.  Albacinda,  Eudosia,  and  all  the  rest, 
would  be  used  just  as  we  are,  if  they  were  in  our 
condition  ;  therefore  pray  consider  the  distress 
of  us  the  lower  order  of  beauties,  and  I  shall  be 
“  Your  obliged,  humble  servant.” — T. 


No.  156.]  WEDNESDAY,  AUGUST  29,  1711. 

- Sed  tu  simul  obligasti 

Perfidum  votis  caput,  enitescis 

Pulchrior  multo.— IIor.  2  Od.  viii,  5. 

- But  thou, 

When  once  thou  hast  broke  some  tender  vow. 

All  peijur  d,  dost  more  charming  growl 

I  no  not  think  anything  could  make  a  plea¬ 
santer  entertainment,  than  the  history  of  the 
reigning  favorites  among  the  women  from  time 
to  time  about  this  town.  In  such  an  account 
we  ought  to  have  a  faithful  confession  of  each 
lady  for  what  she  liked  such  and  such  a  man,  and 
he  ought  to  tell  us  by  what  particular  action 
or  dress  he  believed  he  should  be  most  successful. 
As  for  my  part,  I  have  always  made  as  easy  a 


judgment  when  a  man  dresses  for  the  ladies,  .as 
when  he  is  equipped  for  hunting  or  coursing:  — 
the  woman’s  man  is  a  person  in  his  air  and  be¬ 
havior  quite  different  from  the  rest  of  our 
species  ;  his  garb  is  more  loose  and  negligent,  his 
manner  more  soft  and  indolent ;  that  is  to  say,  in 
both  these  cases  there  is  an  apparent  endeavor  to 
appear  unconcerned  and  careless.  In  catching 
buds  the  fowlers  have  a  method  of  imitating 
their  voices  to  bring  them  to  the  snare  ;  and  your 
women’s  men  have  always  a  similitude  of  the 
creatures  they  hope  to  betray,  in  their  own  con¬ 
versation.  A  woman’s  man  is  very  knowing  in 
all  that  passes  from  one  family  to  another,  °has 
pretty  little  officiousnesses,  is  not  at  a  loss  what  is 
good  for  a  cold,  and  it  is  not  amiss  if  he  has  a 
bottle  of  spirits  in  his  pocket  in  case  of  any 
sudden  indisposition. 

Curiosity  having  been  my  prevailing  passion, 
and  indeed  the  sole  entertainment  of  my  life,  I 
have  sometimes  made  it  my  business  to  examine' 
the  course  of  intrigues  as  well  as  the  manners 
and  accomplishments  of  such  as  have  been  most 
successful  that  way.  In  all  my  observation,  I 
never  knew  a  man  of  good  understanding  a  gene¬ 
ral  favorite  ;  some  singularity  in  his  behavior, 
some  whim  in  his  way  of  life,  and  what  would 
have  made  him  ridiculous  among  the  men,  has 
recommended  him  to  the  other  sex.  I  should 
be  very  sorry  to  offend  a  people  so  fortunate  as 
those  of  whom  I  am  speaking  ;  but  let  any  one 
look  over  the  old  beaux,  and  he  will  find  the  man 
of  success  was  remarkable  for  quarreling  imper¬ 
tinently  for  their  sakes,  for  dressing  unlike  the 
rest  of  the  world,  or  passing  his  days  in  an  in¬ 
sipid  assiduity  about  the  fair  sex  to  gain  the 
figure  he  had  made  among  them.  Add  to  this, 
that  he  must  have’  the  reputation  of  being  well 
with  other  women,  to  please  any  one  woman  of 
gallantry;  for  you  are  to  know,  that  there  is 
mighty  ambition  among  the  lighter  part  of  the 
sex,  to  gain  slaves  from  the  dominion  of  others. 
My  friend  Will  Honeycomb  says  it  was  a  com¬ 
mon  bite  with  him,  to  lay  suspicions  that  he  was 
'avored  by  a  lady’s  enemy,  (that  is,  some  rival 
Deauty,)  to  be  well  with  herself.  A  little  spite  is 
natural  to  a  great  beauty  :  and  it  is  ordinary  to 
snap  up  a  disagreeable  fellow  lest  another  should 
have  him.  That  impudent  toad  Bareface  fares 
well  among  all  the  ladies  he  converses  with,  for 
no  other  reason  in  the  world  but  that  he  has  the 
skill  to  keep  them  from  explanation  with  one 
another.  Did  they  know  there  is'  not  one  who 
likes  him  in  her  heart,  each  would  declare  her 
scorn  of  him  the  next  moment ;  but  he  is  well 
received  by  them  because  it  is  the  fashion,  and 
opposition  to  each  other  brings  them  insensibly 
into  an  imitation  of  each  other.  What  adds  to 
him  the  greatest  grace,  is,  that  the  pleasant  thief, 
as  they  call  him,  is  the  most  inconstant  creature 
living,  has  a  most  wonderful  deal  of  wit  and 
humor,  and  never  wants  something  to  say  ;  be¬ 
side  all  which,  he  has  a  most  spiteful,  dangerous 
tongue  if  you  should  provoke  him. 

To  make  a  woman’s  man,  he  must  not  be  a  man 
of  sense,  or  a  fool ;  the  business  is  to  entertain, 
and  it  is  much  better  to  have  a  faculty  of  arguing, 
than  a  capacity  of  judging  right.  But  the  plea¬ 
santest  of  all  the  women’s  equipage  are  your 
regular  visitants  ;  these  are  volunteers  in  theii 
service,  without  hopes  of  pay  or  preferment.  It 
is  enough  that  they  can  lead  out  from  a  pub¬ 
lic  place,  they  are  admitted  on  a  public  day, 
and  can  be  allowed  to  pass  away  part  of  that 
heavy  load,  their  time,  in  the  company  of  the 
fair.  But  commend  me  above  all  others  to  those 
who  are  known  for  your  ruiners  of  ladies  •  these 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


208 

are  the  choicest  spirits  which  our  age  produces. 
We  have  several  of  these  irresistible  gentlemen 
among  us  when  the  company  is  in  town.  These 
fellows  are  accomplished  with  the  knowledge  of 
the  ordinary  occurrences  about  court  and  town, 
have  that  sort  of  good  breeding  which  is  exclu¬ 
sive  of  all  morality,  and  consists  only  in  being 
publicly  decent,  privately  dissolute. 

It  is  wonderful  how  far  a  fond  opinion  of  her¬ 
self  can  carry  a  woman,  to  make  her  have  the 
least  regard  to  a  professed  known  woman’s  man  ; 
but  as  scarce  one  of  all  the  women  who  are  in 
the  tour  of  gallantries  ever  hears  anything  of  what 
is  the  common  sense  of  sober  minds,  but  are  en¬ 
tertained  with  a  continual  round  of  flatteries,  they 
cannot  be  mistresses  of  themselves  enough  to 
make  arguments  for  their  own  conduct  from  the 
behavior  of  these  men  to  others.  It  is  so  far  oth¬ 
erwise,  that  a  general  fame  for  falsehood  in  this 
kind,  is  a  recommendation  ;  and  the.  coxcomb, 
loaded  with  the  favors  of  many  others,  is  received 
like  a  victor  that  disdains  his  trophies,  to  be  a 
victim  to  the  present  charmer. 

If  you  see  a  man  more  full  of  gesture  than  or¬ 
dinary  in  a  public  assembly,  if  loud  upon  no  oc¬ 
casion,  if  negligent  of  the  company  round  him, 
and  yet  laying  wait  for  destroying  by  that  negli¬ 
gence,  you  may  take  it  for  granted  that  he  has  ru¬ 
ined  many  a  fair  one.  The  woman’s  man  express¬ 
es  himself  wholly  in  that  motion  which  we  call 
strutting.  An  elevated  chest,  a  pinched  hat,  a 
measurable  step,  and  a  sly  surveying  eye,  are  the 
marks  of  him.  How  and  then  you  see  a  gentle¬ 
man  with  all  these  accomplishments  :  but,  alas, 
any  one  of  them  is  enough  to  undo  thousands  : 
when  a  gentleman  with  such  perfections  adds  to 
it  suitable  learning,  there  should  be  public  warn¬ 
ing  of  his  residence  in  town,  that  we  may  remove 
our  wives  and  daughters.  It  happens  sometimes 
that  such  a  tine  man  has  read  all  the  miscellany 
poems,  a  few  of  our  comedies,  and  has  the  trans¬ 
lation  of  Ovid’s  Epistles  by  heart.  “  Oh  if  it  were 
possible  that  such  a  one  could  be  as  true  as  he  is 
charming  ;  but  that  is  too  much,  the  women  will 
share  such  a  dear  false  man  :  a  little  gallantry  to 
hear  him  talk  one  would  indulge  one’s  self  in,  let 
him  reckon  the  sticks  of  one’s  fan,  say  something 
of  the  Cupids  in  it ;  and  then  call  one  so  many 
soft  names  which  a  man  of  his  learning  has  at  his 
fingers’  ends.  There  sure  is  some  excuse  for 
frailty,  when  attacked  by  such  force  against  a 
weak  woman.”  Such  is  the  soliloquy  of  many  a 
lady  one  might  name,  at  the  sight  of  one  of  those 
who  makes  it  no  iniquity  to  go  on  from  day  to 
day  in  the  sin  of  woman-slaughter. . 

It  is  certain  that  people  are  got  into  a  way  of 
affectation,  with  a  manner  of  overlooking  the  most 
solid  virtues,  and  admiring  the  most  trivial  excel¬ 
lencies.  The  woman  is  so  far  from  expecting  to 
be  contemned  for  being  a  very  injudicious  silly 
animal,  that  while  she  can  preserve  her  features 
and  her  mien,  she  knows  she  is  still  the  object  of 
desire  ;  and  there  is  a  sort  of  secret  ambition, 
from  reading  frivolous  books,  and  keeping  as  fri¬ 
volous  company,  each  side  to  be  amiable  in  per¬ 
fection,  and  arrive  at  the  characters  of  the  Dear 
Deceiver  and  the  Perjured  Fair. — T. 


No.  157.]  THURSDAY,  AUGUST  30,  1711. 

- Genius,  natale  comes  qui  temperat  astrum, 

Katuras  Deus  human®  mortalis  in  unum 

Quodque  caput -  Hor.  2  Ep.  ii,  187. 

IMITATED. 

- That  directing  pow’r, 

Who  forms  the  genius  in  the  natal  hour: 

That  God  of  nature,  who,  within  us  still, 

Inclines  our  action,  not  constrains  our  will. — Pope. 

I  am  very  much  at  a  loss  to  express  by  any 
word  that  occurs  to  me  in  our  language,  that 
which  is  understood  by  indoles  in  Latin.  The  na¬ 
tural  disposition  to  any  particular  art,  science,  pro¬ 
fession,  or  trade,  is  very  much  to  be  consulted  in 
the  care  of  youth,  and  studied  by  men  for  their 
own  conduct  when  they  form  to  themselves  any 
scheme  of  life.  It  is  wonderfully  hard,  indeed,  for 
a  man  to  judge  of  his  own  capacity  impartially. 
That  may  look  great  to  me  which  may  appear 
little  to  another  ;  and  I  may  be  carried  by  fond¬ 
ness  toward  myself  so  far,  as  to  attempt  things  too 
high  for  my  talents  and  accomplishments.  But  it 
is  not,  methinks,so  very  difficult  a  matter  to  make 
a  judgment  of  the  abilities  of  others,  especially 
of  those  who  are  in  their  infancy.  My  common¬ 
place  book  directs  me  on  this  occasion  to  mention 
the  dawning  of  greatness  in  Alexander,  who  being 
asked  in  his  youth  to  contend  for  a  prize  in  the 
Olympic  games,  answered  he  would  if  he  had 
kings  to  run  against  him.  Cassius,  who  was  one 
of  the  conspirators  against  Cfesar,  gave  as  great  a 
proof  of  his  temper,  when  in  his  childhood  he 
struck  a  play-fellow,  the  son  of  Sylla,  for  saying 
his  father  was  master  of  the  Roman  people.  Scipio 
is  reported  to  have  answered,  when  some  flatterers 
at  supper  were  asking  him  what  the  Romans 
should  do  for  a  general  after  his  death,  “Take 
Marius.”  Marius  was  then  a  very  boy,  and  had 
given  no  instances  of  his  valor  ;  but  it  was  visible 
to  Scipio,  from  the  manners  of  the  youth,  that  he 
had  a  soul  for  the  attempt  and  execution  of  great 
undertakings.  I  must  confess  I  have  very  often 
with  much  sorrow,  bewailed  the  misfortune  of  the 
children  of  Great  Britain,  when  I  consider  the  ig¬ 
norance  and  undiscerning  of  the  generality  of 
schoolmasters.  The  boasted  liberty  we  talk  of,  is 
but  a  mean  reward  for  the  long  servitude,  the  many 
heart-aches  and  terrors,  to  which  our  childhood  is 
exposed  in  going  through  a  grammar-school. 
Many  of  these  stupid  tyrants  exercise  their  cruel¬ 
ty  without  any  manner  of  distinction  of  the  ca¬ 
pacities  of  children,  or  the  intention  of  parents  in 
their  behalf.  There  are  many  excellent  tempers 
which  are  worthy  to  be  nourished  and  cultivated 
with  all  possible  diligence  and  care,  that  were 
never  designed  to  be  acquainted  with  Aristotle, 
Tully,  or  Virgil ;  and  there  are  as  many  who  have 
capacities  for  understanding  every  word  those 
great  persons  have  written,  and  yet  were  not  bom  to 
have  any  relish  of  their  writings.  For  want  of 
this  common  and  obvious  discerning  in  those  who 
have  the  care  of  youth,  we  have  so  many  hundred 
unaccountable  creatures  every  age  whipped  up 
into  great  scholars,  that  are  forever  near  a  right 
understanding,  and  will  never  arrive  at  it.  These 
are  the  scandal  of  letters,  and  these  are  generally 
the  men  who  are  to  teach  others.  The  sense  of 
shame  and  honor  is  enough  to  keep  the  world  it¬ 
self  in  order  without  corporal  punishment,  much 
more  to  train  the  minds  of  uncorrupted  and  inno¬ 
cent  children.  It  happens,  I  doubt  not,  more 
than  once  in  a  year,  that  a  lad  is  chastised  for  a 
blockhead,  when  it  is  good  apprehension  that 
makes  him  incapable  of  knowing  what  his  teach¬ 
er  means.  A  brisk  imagination  very  often  may 
suggest  an  error,  which  a,lad  could  not  have  fallen 
into,  if  he  had  been  as  heavy  in  conjecturing  as 


THE  SPECTATOR, 


his  master  in  explaining.  But  there  is  no  mercy 
even  toward  a  wrong  interpretation  of  his  mean- 
mg  ;  tlie  sufferings  of  the  scholar’s  body  are  to 
rectify  the  mistakes  of  his  mind. 

I  am  confident  that  no  boy,  who  will  not  be 
allured  to  letters  without  blows,  will  ever  be 
brought  to  anything  with  them.  A  great  or  £ood 
mind  must  necessarily  be  the  worse  for  such  indig'- 
mties;  and  it  is  a  sad  change,  to  lose  of  its  virtde 
for  the  improvement  of  its  knowledge.  No  one 
who  has  gone  through  what  they  call  a  great 
school,  but  must  remember  to  have  seen  children 
ot  excellent  and  ingenuous  natures  (as  has  after¬ 
ward  appeared  in  their  manhood):  I  say  no  man 
has  passed  through  this  way  of  education  but 
must  nave  seen  an  ingenuous  creature,  expiring 
With  shame  with  pale  looks,  beseeching  sorrow, 
and  silent  tears,  throw  up  its  honest  eyes,  and 
kneel  on  its  tender  knees  to  an  inexorable  block¬ 
head  to  be  forgiven  the  false  quantity  of  a  word 
m  making  a  Latin  verse.  The  child  is  punished 
and  the  next  day  he  commits  a  like  crime,  and  so 
a  third  with  the  same  consequence.  I  would  fain 
ask  any  reasonable  man,  whether  this  lad,  in  the 
simplicity  of  his  native  innocence,  full  of  shame 
and  capable  of  any  impression  from  that  grace  of 
soul,  was  not  fitter  for  any  purpose  in  this  life 
than  after  that  spark  of  virtue  is  extinguished  in 
him,  though  he  is  able  to  write  twenty  verses  in 
an  evening. 

Seneca  says,  after  his  exalted  way  of  talking 
As  the  immortal  gods  never  learnt  any  virtue 
though  they  are  indued  with  all  that  is  good  •  so 
there  are  some  men  who  have  so  natural  a  propen¬ 
sity  to  what  they  should  follow,  that  they  learn  it 
almost  as  soon  as  they  hear  it.”  Plants  and  vege- 
taoles  are  cultivated  into  the  production  of  finer 
traits  than  they  would  yield  without  that  care  • 
and  yet  we  cannot  entertain  hopes  of  producing  a 
tender,  conscious  spirit  into  acts  of  virtue,  with¬ 
out  the  same  methods  as  are  used  to  cut  timber 
or  give  new  shape  to  a  piece  of  stone. 

It  is  wholly  to  this  dreadful  practice,  that  we 
may  attribute  a  certain  hardiness  and  ferocity 
which  some  men,  though  liberally  educated,  carry 
about  them  in  all  their  behavior.  To  be  bred  like 
a  gentleman,  and  punished  like  a  malefactor,  must 
as  we  see  it  does,  produce  that  illiberal  sauciness 
which  we  see  sometimes  in  men  of  letters. 

The  Spartan  boy  who  suffered  the  fox  (which 
he  had  stolen  and  hid  under  his  coat)  to  eat  into 
his  bowels,  I  dare  say  had  not  half  the  wit  or  pet¬ 
ulance  which  we  learn  at  great  schools  among  us  : 
but  the  glorious  sense  of  honor,  or  rather  fear  of 
shame,  which  he  demonstrated  in  that  action,  was 
worth  all  the  learning  in  the  world  without  it. 

It  is  methinks,  a  very  melancholy  considera¬ 
tion  that  a  little  negligence  can  spoil  us,  but 
great  industry  is  necessary  to  improve  us;  the 
most  excellent  natures  are  soon  depreciated,  but 

ZnA TPvf -f  aremOIlg  1before  they  are  exalted  into 
g  od  habits.  To  help  this  by  punishments,  is 

the  same  thing  as  killing  a  man  to  cure  him  of  a 

inSiwPer  ’  ^hen  he  COmes  to  sufFer  punishment 
m  that  one  circumstance,  he  is  brought  below  the 

existence  of  a  rational  creature,  and  is  in  the  state 

J>rate  to*  raoves  only  by  the  admonition  of 
thi?  n  .But  “nce  this  custom  of  educating  by 
the  lash  is  suffered  by  the  gentry  of  Great  Britain, 

I  would  prevail  only  that  honest  heavy  lads  may 
be  dismissed  from  slavery  sooner  than ‘'they  are  at 
present  and  not  whipped  on  to  their  fourteenth  or 
fifteenth  year,  whether  they  expect  any  progress 
fiom  them  or  not.  Let  the  child’s  capacity  be 
forthwith  examined,  and  he  sent  to  some  mechanic 
way  of  life,  without  respect  to  his  birth,  if  nature 
designed  him  for  nothing  higher  :  let  him  go  be- 
14  ° 


209 


f°i  e  he  has  innocently  suffered,  and  is  debased  into 
a  dereliction  of  mind  for  being  what  it  is  no  guilt 
to  be,  a  plain  man.  I  would  not  here  be  supposed 
to  have  said,  that  our  learned  men  of  either  robe 
who  have  been  whipped  at  school,  are  not  still 
men  of  noble  and  liberal  minds ;  but  I  am  sure 
they  would  have  been  much  more  so  than  they 
are,  had  they  never  suffered  that  infamy. 

But  though  there  is  so  little  care,  as  I  have  ob¬ 
served,  taken,  or  observation  made  of  the  natural 
strain  of  men,  it  is  no  small  comfort  to  me,  as  a 
spectator,  that  there  is  any  right  value  set  upon 
the  bona  indoles  of  other  animals  ;  as  appears  by 
the  following  advertisement  handed  about  the 
county  of  Lincoln,  and  subscribed  by  Enos  Tho¬ 
mas,  a  person  whom  I  have  not  the  honor  to  know 

but  suppose  to  be  profoundly  learned  in  horse¬ 
flesh: — 

“A  chesnut  horse  called  Caesar,  bred  by  James 
Darcy,  Esquire,  at  Sedbury,  near  Richmond,  in 
the  county  of  York  ;  his  grandam  was  his  old 
royal  mare,  and  got  by  Blunderbuss,  which  was 
got  by  Helmsley  Turk,  and  he  got  by  Mr.  Cou- 
rants  Arabian,  which  got  Mr.  Minshul’s  Jew’s- 
I  rump.  Mr.  Caesar  sold  him  to  a  nobleman  (com¬ 
ing  five  years  old,  when  he  had  but  one  sweat)  for 
three  hundred  guineas.  A  guinea  a  leap  and  trial, 
and  a  shilling  the  man.  “Enos  Thomas.” 


No.  158.]  FRIDAY,  AUGUST  31,  1711. 

-Nos  hasc  novimus  esse  nihil.— Martial,  xiii,  2. 


We  know  these  things  to  he  mere  trifles. 


Out  of  a  firm  regard  to  impartiality,  I  print  these 
letters,  let  them  make  for  me  or  not. 


‘Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  have  observed  through  the  whole  course  of 
your  rhapsodies  (as,  you  once  very  well  called 
them)  you  are  very  industrious  to  overthrow  all 
that  many  your  superiors,  who  have  gone  before 
you,  have  made  their  rule  of  writing.  I  am  now 
between  fifty  and  sixty,  and  had  the  honor  to  be 
well  with  the  first  men  of  taste  and  gallantry  in 
the  joyous  reign  of  Charles  the  Second.  We  then 
had,  I  humbly  presume,  as  good  understandings 
among  us  as  any  now  can  pretend  to.  As  for 
yourself,  Mr.  Spectator,  you  seem  with  the  utmost 
arrogance  to  undermine  the  very  fundamentals 
upon  which  we  conducted  ourselves.  It  is  mon¬ 
strous  to  set  up  for  a  man  of  wit,  and  yet  deny  that 
honor  in  a  woman  is  anything  else  but  peevish¬ 
ness,  that  inclination  is  “  not”*  the  best  rule  of 
life,  or  virtue  and  vice  anything  else  but  health 
and  disease.  We  had  no  more  to  do  but  to  put  a 
lady  into  a  good  humor,  and  all  we  could  wish 
followed  of  course.  Then,  again,  your  Tully,  and 
your  discourses  of  another  life,  are  the  very  bane 
of  mirth  and  good  humor.  Prithee  do  not  value 
thyself  on  thy  reason  at  that  exorbitant  rate,  and 
the  dignity  of  human  nature  ;  take  my  word  for 
it,  a  setting-dog  has  as  good  reason  as  any  man 
in  England.  Had  you  (as  by  your  diurnals  one 
would  think  you  do)  set  up  for  being  in  vogue  in 
town,  you  should  have  fallen  in  with  the  bent  of 
passion  and  appetite  ;  your  songs  had  then  been 
in  every  pretty  mouth  in  England,  and  your  little 
distiches  had  been  the  maxims  of  the  fair  and  the 
witty  to  walk  by  :  but,  alas.  Sir,  what  can  you 
hope  for  from  entertaining  people  with  what  must 
needs  make  them  like  themselves  worse  than  they 
did  before  they  read  you  ?  Had  you  made  it  your 


*  Spect.  in  folio.  Altered  in  the  8vo.  of  1712,  when  “not” 
was  left  out. 


210  THE  SPEC 

business  to  describe  Corinna  charming,  though  in¬ 
constant  ;  to  find  something  in  human  nature 
itself  to  make  Zoilus  excuse  himself  for  being 
fond  of  her ;  and  to  make  every  man  in  good 
commerce  with  his  own  reflections,  you  had  done 
something  worthy  our  applause  ;  but  indeed.  Sir, 
we  shall  not  commend  you  for  disapproving  us.  I 
have  a  great  deal  more  to  say  to  you,  but  I  shall 
sum  it  all  up  in  this  one  remark.  In  short.  Sir, 
you  do  not  write  like  a  gentleman. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  other  day  as  we  were  several  of  us  at  a 
tea-table,  and  according  to  custom  and  your  own 
advice  had  the  Spectator  read  among  us.  It  was 
that  paper  wherein  you  are  pleased  to  treat  with 
great  freedom  that  character  which  you  call  a  wo¬ 
man’s  man.  We  gave  up  all  the  kinds  you  have 
mentioned,  except  those  who,  you  say,  are  our 
constant  visitants.  I  was  upon  the  occasion  com¬ 
missioned  by  the  company  to  write  to  you  and  tell 
you,  ‘  that  we  shall  not  part  with  the  men  we 
have  at  present,  until  the  men  of  sense  think  fit 
to  relieve  them,  and  give  us  their  company  in  their 
stead.’  You  cannot  imagine  but  that  we  love  to 
hear  reason  and  good  sense  better  than  the  ribald¬ 
ry  we  are  at  present  entertained  with,  but  we  must 
have  company,  and  among  us  very  inconsiderable 
is  better  than  none  at  all.  We  are  made  for  the 
cements  of  society,  and  came  into  the  world  to 
create  relations  among  mankind ;  and  solitude  is 
an  unnatural  being  to  us.  If  the  men  of  good 
understanding  would  forget  a  little  of  their  seve¬ 
rity,  they  would  find  their  account  in  it ;  and 
their  wisdom  would  have  a  pleasure  in  it,  to  which 
they  are  now  strangers.  It  is  natural  among  us, 
when  men  have  a  true  relish  of  our  company  and 
our  value,  to  say  everything  with  a  better  grace ; 
and  there  is  without  designing  it  something  orna¬ 
mental  in  what  men  utter  before  women,  which  is 
lost  or  neglected  in  conversations  of  men  only. 
Give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  Sir,  it  would  do  you  no 
great  harm  if  you  yourself  came  a  little  more  into 
our  company  :  it  would  certainly  cure  you  of  a 
certain  positive  and  determining  manner  in  which 
you  talk  sometimes.  In  hopes  of  your  amend¬ 
ment, 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  gentle  reader.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Your  professed  regard  to  the  fair  sex  may,  per¬ 
haps,  make  them  value  your  admonitions  when 
they  will  not  those  of  other  men.  I  desire  you. 
Sir,  to  repeat  some  lectures  upon  subjects  which 
you  have  now  and  then  in  a  cursory  manner  only 
'just  touched.  I  would  have  a  Spectator  wholly 
written  upon  good  breeding  ;  and  after  you  have 
asserted  that  time  and  place  are  to  be  very  much 
considered  in  all  our  actions,  it  will  be  proper  to 
dwell  upon  behavior  at  church.  On  Sunday  last, 
a  grave  and  reverend  man  preached  at  our  church. 
There  was  something  particular  in  his  accent,  but 
without  any  manner  of  affectation.  This  particu¬ 
larity  a  set  of  gigglers  thought  the  most  necessary 
thing  to  be  taken  notice  of  in  his  whole  discourse, 
and  made  it  an  occasion  of  mirth  during  the  whole 
time  of  sermon.  You  should  see  one  of  them 
ready  to  burst  behind  a  fan,  another  pointing  to  a 
companion  in  another  seat,  and  a  fourth  with  an 
arch  composure,  as  if  she  would  if  possible  stifle 
her  laughter.  There  were  many  gentlemen  who 
looked  it  them  steadfastly,  but  this  they  took  for 
ogling  and  admiring  them.  There  was  one  of 
the  merry  ones  in  particular,  that  found  out  but 
just  then  that  she  had  but  five  fingers,  for  she  fell 
a  reckoning  the  pretty  pieces  of  ivory  over  and 


TATOR. 

over  again,  to  find  herself  employment  and  not 
laugh  out.  Would  it  not  be  expedient,  Mr.  Spec¬ 
tator,  that  the  churchwarden  should  hold  up  his 
wand  on  these  occasions,  and  keep  the  decency  of 
the  place  as  a  magistrate  does  the  peace  in  a  tu¬ 
mult  elsewhere  ?  ” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  a  woman’s  man,  and  read  with  a  very 
fine  lady  your  paper,  wherein  you  fall  upon  us 
whom  you  envy  :  what  do  you  think  I  did  ?  You 
must  know  she  was  dressing :  I  read  the  Spectator 
to  her,  and  she  laughed  at  the  places  where  she 
thought  I  was  touched  ;  I  threw  away  your  moral, 
and  taking  up  her  girdle,  cried  out. 

Give  me  but  what  this  ribbon  bound, 

Take  all  the  rest  the  “ sun”*  goes  round.f 

“  She  smiled,  Sir,  and  said  you  were  a  pedant; 
so  say  of  me  what  you  please,  read  Seneca  and 
quote  him  against  me  if  you  think  fit, 

T.  “I  am.  Sir,  your  humble  servant.” 


No.  159.]  SATURDAY,  SEPTEMBER  1,  1711. 

- Omnem,  quae  nunc  obducta  tuenti 

Mortales  hebetat  visus  tibi,  et  humida  eircum 
Caligat,  nubem  eripiam -  Virg.  iEn.,  ii,  604. 

The  cloud,  which  intercepting  the  clear  light, 

Hangs  o’er  thy  eyes,  and  blunts  thy  mortal  sight, 

I  will  remove - 

When  I  was  at  Grand  Cairo,  I  picked  up  several 
oriental  manuscripts,  which  I  have  still  by  me. 
Among  others  I  met  with  one  entitled,  The  Visions 
of  Mirza,  which  I  have  read  over  with  great  plea¬ 
sure.  I  intend  to  give  it  to  the  public  when  I 
have  no  other  entertainment  for  them  ;  and  shall 
begin  with  the  first  vision,  which  I  have  transla¬ 
ted  word  for  word  as  follows  : 

“  On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which  accord¬ 
ing  to  the  custom  of  my  forefathers  I  always  keep 
holy,  after  having  washed  myself,  and  offered  up 
my  morning  devotions,  I  ascended  the  high  hills 
of  Bagdad,  in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in 
meditation  and  prayer.  As  I  was  here  airing  my¬ 
self  on  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  I  fell  into  a 
profound  contemplation  on  the  vanity  of  human 
fife;  and  passing  from  one  thought  to  another, 
‘Surely,’  said  I,  ‘man  is  but  a  shadow,  and  life  a 
dream.’  While  I  was  thus  musing,  I  cast  my 
eyes,  toward  the  summit  of  a  rock  that  was  not 
far  from  me,  where  I  discovered  one  in  the  habit 
of  a  shepherd,  with  a  little  musical  instrument  in 
his  hand.  As  I  looked  upon  him  he  applied  it  to 
his  lips,  and  began  to  play  upon  it.  The  sound 
of  it  was  exceeding  sweet,  and  wrought  into  a  va¬ 
riety  of  tunes  that  were  inexpressibly  melodious, 
and  altogether  different  from  anything  I  had  ever 
heard.  They  put  me  in  mind  of  those  heavenly 
airs  that  are  played  to  the  departed  souls  of  good 
men  upon  their  first  arrival  in  Paradise,  to  wear 
out  the  impressions  of  the  last  agonies,  and  quali¬ 
fy  them  for  the  pleasures  of  that  happy  place. 
My  heart  melted  away  in  secret  raptures. 

“  I  had  been  often  told  that  the  rock  before  me 
was  the  haunt  of  genius ;  and  that  several  had 
been  entertained  with  music  who  had  passed  by 
it,  but  never  heard  that  the  musician  had  before 
made  himself  visible.  When  he  had  raised  my 
thoughts  by  those  transporting  airs  which  he 
played,  to  taste  the  pleasures  of  his  conversation, 
as  I  looked  upon  him  like  one  astonished,  he 
beckoned  to  me,  and  by  the  waving  of  his  hand 
directed  me  to  approach  the  place  where  he  sat.  I 
drew  near  with  that  reverence  which  is  due  to  a 


*  World. 


f  From  Waller’s  verses  on  a  lady’s  girdle. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


superior  nature  ;  and  as  my  heart  was  entirely  sub¬ 
dued  by  the  captivating  strains  I  had  heard “  I  fell 
down  at  his  feet  and  wept.  The  genius  smiled 
upon  me  with  a  look  of  compassion  and  affability 
that  familiarized  him  to  my  imagination,  and  at 
or!f.e  ^spelled  all  the  fearg  and  apprehensions 
with  which  I  approached  him.  He  lifted  me  from 
the  ground  and  taking  me  by  the  hand,  ‘  Mirza,’ 
said  lie,  ‘  I  have  heard  thee  in  thy  soliloquies  : 
follow  me.  ^ 

‘‘He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the 
rock,  and  placing  me  on  the  top  of  it— ‘  Cast  thy 
eyes  eastward,’  said  he,  ‘  and  tell  me  what  thou 
seest.  ‘  1  see,’  said  I,  ‘  a  huge  valley,  and  a  pro¬ 
digious  tide  of  water  rolling  through  it.’ — ‘  The 
valley  that  thou  seest.’  said  be  ‘  is  tbe  Vnlo  ^ e 


211 


valley  that  thou  seest,’ said  he,  ‘  is~  the  Yale  of 
Misery,  and  the  tide  of  water  that  thou  seest  is 
part  of  the  great  tide  of  eternity.’— ‘  What  is  the 
reason,  said  I,  ‘  that  the  tide  I  see  rises  out  of  a 
thick  mist  at  one  end,  and  again  loses  itself  in  a 
thick  mist  at  the  other  ?’ — ‘  What  thou  seest,’  said 
he,  ‘  is  that  portion  of  eternity  which  is  called 
time,  measured  out  by  the  sun,  and  reaching  from 
the  bevinnino-  of  the  world  to  itc  —  > 


the  beginning  of  the  world  to  its  consummation. 
Examine  now,’  said  he,  ‘  this  sea  that  is  bounded 


_ '  ; — >  13  uuuuueu 

with  darkness  at  both  ends,  and  tell  me  what  thou 
discoverest  in  it.’— ‘  I  see  a  bridge,’  said  I,  ‘stand- 
mg  in  the  midst  of  the  tide.’ — ‘  The  bridge  thou 
seest,  said  he,  ‘is  human  ljfe ;  consider  it  atten¬ 
tively.  Upon  a  more  leisurely  survey  of  it,  I 
found  that  it  consisted  of  threescore  and  ten  entire 
arches,  with  several  broken  arches,  which,  added 
to  those  that  were  entire,  made  up  the  number 
about  a  hundred.  As  I  was  counting  the  arches, 
tie  genius  told  me  that  this  bridge  consisted  at 
hrst  ot  a  thousand  arches  :  but  that  a  great  flood 
swept  awny  the  rest,  and  left  the  bridge  in  the  ru¬ 
inous  conaition  I  now  beheld  it.  ‘  Rut  tell  me 

farther,^  said  he,  ‘  wrhat  thou  discoverest  on  it.’ _ ‘I 

f66  mui*^udes  people  passing  over  it,’  said  I, 
‘and  a  black  cloud  hanging  on  each  end  of  it  ’ 
As  I  looked  more  attentively,  I  saw  several  of  the 
passengers  dropping  through  the  bridge  into  the 
great  tide  that  flowed  underneath  it :  and,  upon 
farther  examination,  perceived  there  were  innu¬ 
merable  trap -doors  that  lay  concealed  in  the 
bridge,  which  the  passengers  no  sooner  trod  upon, 
but  they  fell  through  them  into  the  tide,  and  imme¬ 
diately  disappeared.  These  hidden  pitfalls  were 
set  very  thick  at  the  entrance  of  the  bridge,  so 
that  throngs  of  people  no  sooner  broke  through 
the  cloud,  but  many  of  them  fell  into  them.  They 
grew  thinner  toward  the  middle,  but  multiplied 
and  lay  closer  together  toward  the  end  of  the 
arches  that  were  entire. 

“There  were  indeed  some  persons,  but  their 
number  was  very  small,  that  continued  a  kind  of 
hobbling  march  on  the  broken  arches,  but  fell 
through  one  after  another,  being  quite  tired  and 
spent  with  so  long  a  walk. 

“I  passed  some  time  in  the  contemplation  of  this 
wondeiful  structure,  and  the  great  variety  of  ob- 
jects  which  it  presented.  My  heart  was  filled 
w  it  l  a  deep  melancholy  to  see  several  dropping 
unexpectedly  in  the  midst  of  mirth  and  jollity, 
and  catching  at  everything  that  stood  by  them  to 
save  themselves.  Some  were  looking  up  toward 
hea\  en  in  a  thoughtful  posture,  and  in  the  midst 
of  a  speculation  stumbled  and  fell  out  of  sight 
Multitudes  were  very  busy  in  the  pursuit  of  bubbles 
that  glittered  in  their  eyes  and  danced  before  them- 
but  often  when  they  thought  themselves  within 
the  reach  of  them,  their  footing  failed,  and  down 
they  sank.  In  this  confusion  of  objects,  I  observ¬ 
ed  some  with  scimitars  in  their  hands,  and  others 
with  urinals,  who  ran  to  and  fro  upon  the  bridge 
thrusting  several  persons  on  trap-aoors  which  aid 


not  seem  to  lie  in  their  way,  and  which  they  might 
them  eSCal)C(^  *lfu^  th<‘y  not  been  thus  forced  upon 

“  I  he  genius  seeing  me  indulge  myself  on  this 
melancholy  prospect,  told  me  I  had  dwelt  long 
enough  upon  it.  ‘  Take  thine  eyes  off  the  bridge/ 
said  he,  ‘and  tell  me  if  thou  yet  seest  anything 
hou  dost  not  comprehend.’  Upon  looking  up, 
What  mean,’  said  1  ‘those  great  flights  ofU 
that  are  perpetually  hovering  about  the  bridge,  and 
settling  upon  it  from  time  to  time?  1  see  vultures 
harpms  ravens,  cormorants,  and  among  many 
other  feathered  creatures  several  little  winged 
bovs,  that  perch  in  great  numbers  upon  the  middle 
arches.  —‘These,’  said  the  genius,  are  ‘  Envy, 
Avarice,  Superstition,  Despair,  Love,  with  the  like 
cares  and  passions  that  infest  human  life.’ 

“I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  ‘Alas,’  said  I, 
man  was  made  in  vain !  how  is  he  given  away 
to  misery  and  mortality!  tortured  in  life,  and  swal¬ 
lowed  up  in  death!’  The  genius,  being  moved 
with  compassion  toward  me,  bid  me  quit  so  un¬ 
comfortable  a  prospect.  ‘Look  no  more,’  said  he 
‘on  man  in  the  first  stage  of  his  existence,  in  his 
setting  out  for  eternity;  but  cast  thine  eye  on  that 
thick  mist  into  which  the  tide  bears  the  several 
generations  of  mortals  that  fall  into  it.’  I  directed 
my  sight  as  I  was  ordered,  and  (whether  or  no  the 
good  genius  strengthened  it  with  any  supernatu¬ 
ral  force,  or  dissipated  part  of  the  mist  that  was 
before  too  thick  for  the  eye  to  penetrate)  I  saw  the 
valley  opening  at  the  farther  end,  and  spreading 
torth  into  an  immense  ocean,  that  had  a  huge  rock 
of  adamant  running  through  the  midst  of  it,  and 
dividing  it  into  two  equal  parts.  The  clouds  still 
rested  on  one  half  of  it,  insomuch  that  I  could 
discover  nothing  in  it:  but  the  other  appeared  to 
me  a  vast  ocean  planted  with  innumerable  islands 
that  were  covered  with  fruits  and  flowers,  and 
interwoven  with  a  thousand  little  shining  seas 
that  ran  among  them.  I  could  see  persons  dressed 
m  glorious  habits  with  garlands  upon  their  heads 
passing  among  the  trees,  lying  down  by  the  sides 
ot  fountains,  or  resting  on  beds  of  flowers ;  and 
could  hear  a  confused  harmony  of  singing-birds,  ' 
falling  waters,  human  voices,  and  musical  instru¬ 
ments  Gladness  grew  in  me  upon  the  discovery 
of  so  delightful  a  scene.  I  wished  for  the -wings 
of  an  eagle,  that  I  might  fly  away  to  those  happy 
seats :  but  the  genius  told  me  there  was  no  pas¬ 
sage  to  them,  except  through  the  gates  of  death 
that  I  saw  opening  every  moment  upon  the  bridge. 

‘  Ihe  islands,’  said  he,  ‘that  lie  so  fresh  and  green- 
before  thee,  and  with  which  the  whole  face  of  the 
ocean  appears  spotted  as  far  as  thou  canst  see,  are 
more  in  number  than  the  sands  on  the  sea-shore  • 
there  are  myriads  of  islands  behind  those  which- 
thou  here  discoverest,  reaching  farther  than  thine 
eye,  or  even  thine  imagination  can  extend  itself. 
These  are  the  mansions  of  good  men  after  death 
who,  according  to  the  degree  and  kinds  of  virtue 
in  which  they  excelled,  are  distributed  among 
these  several  islands;  which  abound  with  plea¬ 
sures  of  different  kinds  and  degrees,  suitable  to 
the  relishes  and  perfections  of  those  who  are 
settled  in  them  ;  every  island  is  a  paradise  accom¬ 
modated  to  its  respective  inhabitants.  Are  not 
these,  0  Mirza,  habitations  worth  contending  for? 
Does  life  appear  miserable,  that  gives  thee  oppor¬ 
tunities  of  earning  such  a  reward?  Is  death  to  be 
feared,  that  will  convey  thee  to  so  happy  an  exist¬ 
ence  ?  Think  not  man  was  made  in  vain,  who  has 
such  an  eternity  reserved  for  him.’  I  gazed  with 
inexpressible  pleasure  on  these  hajipy  islands. 

At  length,  said  I,  show  me  now,  I  beseech  thee, 
the  secrets  that  lie  hid  under  those  dark  clouds 
which  cover  the  ocean  on  the  other  side  of  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


212 

rock  of  adamant.  The  genius  making  me  no  an¬ 
swer,  I  turned  about  to  address  myself  to  him  a 
second  time,  but  I  found  that  he  had  left  me .  I 
then  turned  again  to  the  vision  which  I  had  been 
so  long  contemplating ;  but  instead  of  the  rolling 
tide,  the  arched  bridge,  and  the  happy  islands,  I 
saw  nothing  but  the  long  hollow  valley  of  Bagdad, 
with  oxen,  sheep,  and  camels,  grazing  upon  the 

sides  of  it.”  G- 

The  End  of  the  First  Vision  of  Mirza. 


No.  160.]  MONDAY,  SEPTEMBER  3,  1711. 

- Cui  mens  divinior,  atque  os 

Maena  sonaturum  des  nomini3  hujus  honorem. 

Hor.  1  Sat.  iv,  43. 

On  bim  confer  the  Poet’s  sacred  name, 

Whose  lofty  voice  proclaims  the  heavenly  flame. 

There  is  no  character  more  frequently  given  to 
a  writer,  than  that  of  being  a  genius.  I  have 
heard  many  a  little  sonnetteer  called  a  fine  genius. 
There  is  not  a  heroic  scribbler  in  the  nation,  that 
has  not  his  admirers  who  think  him  a  great 
genius;  and  as  for  your  smatterers  in  tragedy, 
there  is  scarce  a  man  among  them  who  is  not  cried 
up  by  one  or  other  for  a  prodigious  genius. 

My  design  in  this  paper  is  to  consider  what  is 
properly  a  great  genius,  and  throw  some  thoughts 
together  on  so  uncommon  a  subject. 

Among  great  geniuses,  those  lew  draw  the  admi¬ 
ration  of  all  the  world  upon  them,  and  stand  up 
as  the  prodigies  of  mankind,  who  by  the  mere 
strength  of  natural  parts,  and  without  any  assist¬ 
ance  of  art  or  learning,  have  produced  works  that 
were  the  delight  of  their  own  times,  and  the  won¬ 
der  of  posterity.  There  appears  something  nobly 
wild  and  extravagant  in  these  great  natural 
geniuses,  that  is  infinitely  more  beautiful  than  all 
turn  and  polishing  of  what  the  French  call  a  bel 
esprit,  by  which  they  would  express  a  genius  re¬ 
fined  by  conversation,  reflection,  and  the  reading 
of  the  most  polite  authors.  The  greatest  genius 
which  runs  through  the  arts  and  sciences,  takes  a 
kind  of  tincture  from  them,  and  falls  unavoidably 
into  imitation. 

Many  of  these  great  natural  geniuses  that  were 
never  disciplined  and  broken  by  rules  of  art,  are 
to  be  found  among  the  ancients,  and  in  particular 
among  those  of  the  more  eastern  parts  of  the 
world.  Homer  has  innumerable  flights  that  Virgi . 
was  not  able  to  reach;  and  in  the  Old  Testament 
we  find  several  passages  more  elevated  and  sublime 
than  any  in  Homer.  At  the  same  time  that  we 
allow  a  greater  and  more  daring  genius  to  the  an¬ 
cients,  we  must  own  that  the  greatest  of  them  very 
much  failed  in,  or,  if  you  will,  that  they  were 
much  above,  the  nicety  and  correctness  of  the 
moderns.  In  their  similitudes  and  allusions,  pro¬ 
vided  there  was  a  likeness,  they  did  not  much 
trouble  themselves  about  the  decency  of  the  com¬ 
parison  :  thus  Solomon  resembles  the  nose  of  his 
beloved  to  the  tower  of  Lebanon,  which  looketh 
toward  Damascus  ;  as  the  coming  of  a  thief  in  the 
night,  is  a  similitude  of  the  same  kind  in  the  New 
Testament.  It  would  be  endless  to  make  collec¬ 
tions  of  this  nature ;  Homer  illustrates  one  of  his 
heroes  encompassed  with  the  enemy,  by  an  ass  in 
a  field  of  corn  that  has  his  sides  belabored  by  all 
the  boys  of  the  village  without  stirring  a  foot  for 
it ;  and  another  of  them  tossing  to  and  fro  in  his 
bed  and  burning  with  resentment,  to  a  piece  of 
flesh  broiled  on  the  coals.  This  particular  failure 
in  the  ancients  opens  a  large  field  of  raillery  to 
the  little  wits,  who  can  laugh  at  an  indecency,  but 
not  relish  the  sublime  in  these  sorts  of  writing. 
The  present  emperor  of  Persia,  conformably  to 


this  eastern  way  of  thinking,  amidst  a  great  many 
pompous  titles,  denominates  himself  “the  sun  of 
glory,”  and  “the  nutmeg  of  delight.”  In  short, 
to  cut  off  all  caviling  against  the  ancients,  and 
particularly  those  of  the  warmer  climates,  who 
bad  most  heat  and  life  in  their  imaginations,  we 
are  to  consider  that  the  rule  of  observing  what  the 
French  call  the  bienstance  in  an  allusion,  has  been 
found  out  of  later  years,  and  in  the  colder  regions 
of  the  world ;  where  we  could  make  some  amends 
for  our  want  of  force  and  spirit,  by  a  scrupulous 
nicety  and  exactness  in  our  compositions.  Our 
countryman,  Shakspeare,  was  a  remarkable  in¬ 
stance  of  this  first  kind  of  great  geniuses.. 

I  cannot  quit  this  head  without  observing  that 
Pindar  was  a  great  genius  of  the  first  class,  who 
was  hurried  on  by  a  natural  fire  and  impetuosity 
to  vast  conceptions  of  things  and  noble  sallies  of 
imagination.  At  the  same  time,  can  anything  be 
more  ridiculous  than  for  men  of  a  sober  and  mode¬ 
rate  fancy  to  imitate  this  poet’s  way  of  wiiting, 
in  those  monstrous  compositions  which  go  among 
us  under  the  name  of  Pindarics?  When  I  see 
people  copying  works,  which,  as  Horace  has  repre¬ 
sented  them,  are  singular  in  their  kind,  and  inimi¬ 
table  ;  when  I  see  men  following  irregularities  by 
rule,  and  by  the  little  tricks  of  art  straining  after 
the  most  unbounded  flights  of  nature,  I  cannot 
but  apply  to  them  that  passage  in  Terence  : 

- Incerta  haec  si  tu  postules 

Ratione  certa  facere,  nihilo  plus  agas, 

Quam  si  des  operam,  ut  cum  ratione  insanias. 

Etjn.,  act  1,  sc.  1. 

You  may  as  well  pretend  to  be  mad  and  in  your  senses  at 
the  same  time,  as  to  think  of  reducing  these  uncertain  things 
to  any  certainty  by  reason. 

In  short,  a  modern  Pindaric  writer,  compared 
with  Pindar,  is  like  a  sister  among  the  Camisars* 
compared  with  Virgil’s  Sibyl :  there  is  the  distor¬ 
tion,  grimace,  and  outward  figure,  but  nothing  of 
that  divine  impulse  which  raises  the  mind  above 
itself,  and  makes  the  sounds  more  than  human.. 

There  is  another  kind  of  great  geniuses  which 
I  shall  place  in  a  second  class,  not  as  I  think 
them  inferior  to  the  first,  but  only  for  distinction  s 
sake,  as  they  are  of  a  different  kind.  The  second 
class  of  great  geniuses  are  those  that  have  formed 
themselves  by  rules,  and  submitted  the  greatness 
of  their  natural  talents  to  the  corrections  and  re¬ 
straints  of  art.  Such  among  the  Greeks  were 
Plato  and  Aristotle ;  among  the  Romans,  Virgil 
and  Tully;  among  the  English,  Milton  and  Sir 
Francis  Bacon. 

The  genius  in  both  these  classes  of  authors  may 
be  equally  great,  but  shows  itself  after  a  different 
manner.  In  the  first,  it  is  like  a  rich  soil  in  a 
happy  climate,  that  produces  a  whole  wilderness 
of  noble  plants  rising  in  a  thousand  beautiful 
landscapes  without  any  certain  order  or  regularity. 
In  the  other  it  is  the  same  rich  soil  under  the  same 
happy  climate,  that  has  been  laid  out  in  walks  and 
parterres,  and  cut  into  shape  and  beauty  by  the 
skill  of  the  gardener. 

The  great  danger  in  the  latter  kind  of  geniuses  is, 
lest  they  cramp  their  own  abilities  too  much  by 
imitation,  and  form  themselves  altogether  upon 
models,  without  giving  the  full  play  to  their  own 


*  More  commonly  known  by  the  name  of  the  French  Pro¬ 
phets,  a  set  of  enthusiasts  originally  of  the  Cevennes  in 
France,  who  came  into  England  about  the  year  1707,  and  had 
at  first  a  considerable  number  of  votaries.  A  fuller  account 
of  the  rise  and  progress  of  this  strange  sect  may  be  gained 
from  two  pamphlets:  one  in  French,  entitled. “ Le  Theatre 
sacre  de  Cevennes,  ou  Recit  de  diverses  Merveilles  nouvelle- 
ment  operees  dans  cette  Partie  de  la  Province  de  Languedoc. 
Lond.,  1707,  12mo.”  The  other  in  English,  viz.  “A  Brayd 
plucked  from  the  Burning;  exemplified  in  the  unparalleled 
case  of  Samuel  Keimer,  etc.,  London,  1718, 12mo.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


natural  parts.  An  imitation  of  the  best  authois 
is  not  to  compare  with  a  good  original ;  and  I  be¬ 
lieve  we  may  observe  that  very  few  writers  make 
an  extraordinary  figure  in  the  world,  who  have  not 
something  in  their  way  of  thinking  or  expressing 
themselves,  that  is  peculiar  to  them,  and  entirely 
their  own. 

It  is  odd,  to  consider  what  great  geniuses  are 
sometimes  thrown  away  upon  trifles. 

“  I  once  saw  a  shepherd,”  says  a  famous  Italian 
author,  “  who  used  to  divert  himself  in  his  soli¬ 
tudes  with  tossing  up  eggs  and  catching  them 
again  without  breaking  them  :  in  which  he  had 
arrived  to  so  great  a  degree  of  perfection,  that  he 
would  keep  up  four  at  a  time  for  several  minutes 
together  playing  in  the  air,  and  falling  into  his 
hands  by  turns.  I  think,”  says  the  author,  “  I 
never  saw  a  greater  severity  than  in  the  man’s 
face ;  for  by  his  wonderful  perseverance  and  appli¬ 
cation,  he  had  contracted  the  seriousness  and  gra¬ 
vity  of  a  privy-counselor;  and  I  could  not  but 
reflect  with  myself,  that  the  same  assiduity  and 
attention,  had  they  been  rightly  applied,  f  might’* 
have  made  him  a  greater  mathematician  than  Ar¬ 
chimedes.” 


No.  161.]  TUESDAY,  SEPTEMBER  4,  1711. 

Ipse  dies  agitat  festos,  fususque  per  herbain, 

Ignis  ubi  in  medio  et  socii  cratera  coronant, 

Te  libans,  Lenaee,  yocat;  pecorisque  magistris 
Velocis  jaculi  certamina  ponit  in  ulmo, 

Corporaque  agresti  nudat  praadura  palasstra. 

Hanc  olim  veteres  vitam  coluere  Sabini, 

Hanc  Remus  et  frater.  Sic  fortis  Etruria  crevit, 

Scilicet  et  rerum  facta  est  pulcherrima  Roma. 

Virg.  Georg.,  ii,  527. 
Himself,  in  rustic  pomp,  on  holydays, 

To  rural  pow’rs  a  just  oblation  pays; 

And  on  the  green  his  careless  limbs  displays : 

The  hearth  is  in  the  midst :  the  herdsmen,  round 
The  cheerful  fire,  provoke  his  health  in  goblets  crown’d. 
He  calls  on  Bacchus,  and  propounds  the  prize, 

The  groom  his  fellow-groom  at  buts  defies, 

And  bends  his  bow,  and  levels  with  his  eyes : 

Or,  stript  for  wrestling,  smears  his  limbs  with  oil, 

And  watches  with  a  trip  his  foe  to  foil. 

Such  was  the  life  the  frugal  Sabines  led ; 

So  Remus  and  his  brother  king  were  bred : 

From  whom  th’  austere  Etrurian  virtue  rose ; 

And  this  rude  life  our  homely  fathers  chose ; 

Old  Rome  from  such  a  race  deriv’d  her  birth, 

The  seat  of  empire,  and  the  conquer’d  earth. — Dryden. 

I  am  glad  that  my  late  going  into  the  country 
has  increased  the  number  of  my  correspondents, 
one  of  whom  sends  me  the  following  letter  : 

“  Sir, 

“  Though  you  are  pleased  to  retire  from  us  so 
soon  into  the  city,  I  hope  you  will  not  think  the 
affairs  of  the  country  altogether  unworthy  of  your 
inspection  for  the  future.  I  had  the  honor  of  see- 
ing  your  short  face  at  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley’s, 
and  have  ever  since  thought  your  person  and 
writings  both  extraordinary.  Had  you  stayed 
there  a  few  days  longer,  you  would  have  seen  a 
country  wake,  which  you  know  in  most  parts  of 
England  is  the  eve-feast  of  the  dedication  of  our 
churches.  I  was  last  week  at  one  of  these  assem¬ 
blies  which  was  held  in  a  neighboring  parish  • 
w  here  I  found  their  green  covered  with  a  promis¬ 
cuous  multitude  of  all  ages  and  both  sexes,  who 
esteem  one  another  more  or  less  the  following  part 
of  the  year,  according  as  they  distinguish  them- 
selves  at  tli is  time.  *1  he  whole  company  were  in 
their  holiday  clothes,  and  divided  into  several 
parties,  all  of  them  endeavoring  to  show  them¬ 
selves  in  those  exercises  wherein  they  excelled 
and  to  gain  the  approbation  of  the  lookers-on.  ’ 

“I  found  a  ring  of  cudgel  players,  who  were 


213 

breaking  one  another’s  heads  in  order  to  make 
some  impression  on  their  mistress’  hearts.  I  ob¬ 
served  a  lusty  young  fellow,  who  had  the  misfor¬ 
tune  of  a  broken  pate ;  but  what  considerably 
added  to  the  anguish  of  the  wound,  was  his  over¬ 
hearing  an  old  man  who  shook  his  head,  and  said, 
‘  1  hat  he  questioned  now  if  Black  Kate  would 
marry  him  these  three  years.’  I  was  diverted 
from  a  farther  observation  of  these  combatants  by 
a  foot-ball  match,  which  was  on  the  other  side  of 
the  green  :  where  Tom  Short  behaved  himself  so 
well,  that  most  people  seemed  to  agree,  ‘  it  was  im¬ 
possible  that  he  should  remain  a  bachelor  until 
the  next  wake.’  Having  played  many  a  match 
myself,  I  could  have  looked  longer  on  this  sport, 
had  I  not  observed  a  country  girl,  who  was  posted 
on  an  eminence  at  some  distance  from  me,  and  was 
making  so  many  odd  grimaces,  and  writhing  and 
distorting  her  whole  body  in  so  strange  a  manner, 
as  made  me  very  desirous  to  know  the  meaning  of 
it.  Upon  my  coming  up  to  her,  I  found  that  she 
was  overlooking  a  ring  of  wrestlers,  and  that  her 
sweetheart,  a  person  of  small  stature,  was  con¬ 
tending  with  a  huge  brawny  fellow,  who  twirled 
him  about,  and  shook  the  little  man  so  violently, 
that  by  a  secret  sympathy  of  hearts  it  produced 
all  those  agitations  in  the  person  of  his  mistress, 
who,  I  dare  say,  like  Celia  in  Shakspeare  on  the 
same  occasion,  could  have  wished  herself  f  invis¬ 
ible  to  catch  the  strong  fellow  by  the  leg.’*  The 
squire  of  the  parish  treats  the  whole  company 
every  year  with  a  hogshead  of  ale  ;  and  proposes 
a  beaver  hat  as  a  recompense  to  him  who  gives  most 
falls.  This  has  raised  such  a  spirit  of  emulation 
in  the  youth  of  the  place,  that  some  of  them  have 
rendered  themselves  very  expert  at  this  exercise  i 
and  I  was  often  surprised  to  see  a  fellow’s  heels 
%  UP>  by  a  trip  which  was  given  him  so  smartly 
that  I  could  scarcely  discern  it.  I  found  that  the 
old  wrestlers  seldom  entered  the  ring  until  some 
one  was  grown  formidable  by  having  thrown  two 
or  three  of  his  opponents  ;  but  kept  themselves  as 
it  were  a  reserved  body  to  defend  the  hat,  which 
is  always  hung  up  by  the  person  who  gets  it  in 
one  of  the  most  conspicuous  parts  of  the  house, 
and  looked  upon  by  the  whole  family  as  redound¬ 
ing  much  more  to  their  honor  than  a  coat  of  arms. 
There  was  a  fellow  who  was  so  busy  in  regulating 
all  the  ceremonies,  and  seemed  to  carry  such  an 
air  of  importance  in  his  looks,  that  I  could  not 
help  inquiring  who  he  was,  and  was  immediately 
answered,  ‘  That  he  did  not  value  himself  upon 
nothing,  for  that  he  and  his  ancestors  had  won  so 
many  hats,  that  his  parlor  looked  like  a  haber¬ 
dasher’s  shop.’  However,  this  thirst  of  glory  in 
them  all  was  the  reason  that  no  one  man  stood 
‘  lord  of  the  ring  ’  for  above  three  falls  while  I  was 
among  them. 

“  The  young  maids  who  were  not  lookers-on  at 
these  exercises,  were  themselves  engaged  in  some 
diversion  ;  and  upon  my  asking  a  farmer’s  son  of 
my  own  parish  what  he  was  gazing  at  with  so 
much  attention,  he  told  me,  ‘  That  he  was  seeino1 
Betty  Welch,’  whom  I  knew  to  be  his  sweetheart 
‘  pitch  a  bar.’ 

“  In  short,  I  found  the  men  endeavored  to  show 
the  women  they  were  no  cowards,  and  that  the 
whole  company  strove  to  recommend  themselves 
to  each  other,  by  making  it  appear  that  they  were 
all  in  a  perfect  state  of  health,  and  fit' to  undergo 
any  fatigues  of  bodily  labor. 

“Your  judgment  upon  this  method  of  love 
and  gallantry,  as  it  is  at  present  practiced  among 
us  in  the  country,  will  very  much  oblige, 

“  Sir,  yours,”  etc. 


*  “  Would,”  Spect.  in  folio. 


*“As  You  Like  it,”  act  i,  sc.  6. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


214 

If  I  would  here  put  on  the  scholar  and  politi¬ 
cian,  I  might  inform  my  readers  how  these  bodily 
exercises  or  games  were  formerly  encouraged  in 
all  the  commonwealths  of  Greece  ;  from  whence 
the  Romans  afterward  borrowed  their  pentathlum, 
which  was  composed  of  running,  wrestling,  leap¬ 
ing,  throwing,  and  boxing,  though  the  prizes  were 
generally  nothing  but  a  crown  of  cypress  or  pars¬ 
ley,  hats  not  being  in  fashion  in  those  days  :  that 
there  is  an  old  statute,  which  obliges  every  man 
in  England,  having  such  an  estate,  to  keep  and 
exercise  the  long-bow  :  by  which  means  our  an¬ 
cestors  excelled  all  other  nations  in  the  use  of 
that  weapon,  and  we  had  all  the  real  advantages, 
without  the  inconvenience  of  a  standing  army ; 
and  that  I  once  met  with  a  book  of  projects,  in 
which  the  author  considering  to  what  noble  ends 
that  spirit  of  emulation,  which  so  remarkably 
shows  itself  among  our  common  people  in  these 
wakes,  might  be  directed,  proposes  that  for  the  im¬ 
provement  of  all  our  handicraft  trades  there  should 
be  annual  prizes  set  up  for  sucii  persons  as  were 
most  excellent  in  their  several  arts.  But  laying 
aside  all  these  political  considerations,  which 
might  tempt  me  to  pass  the  limits  of  my  paper,  I 
confess  the  greatest  benefit  and  convenience  that  I 
can  observe  in  these  country  festivals,  is  the  bring¬ 
ing  young  people  together,  and  giving  them  an 
opportunity  of  showing  themselves  in  the  most 
advantageous  light.  A  country  fellow  that  throws 
his  rival  upon  bis  back,  has  generally  as  good 
success  with  their  common  mistress  ;  as  nothing 
is  more  usual  than  for  a  nimble-footed  wench  to 
get  a  husband  at  the  same  time  that  she  wins  a 
smock.  Love  and  marriages  are  the  natural  ef¬ 
fects  of  these  anniversary  assemblies.  I  must 
therefore  very  much  approve  the  method  by  which 
my  correspondent  tells  me  each  sex  endeavors  to 
recommend  itself  to  the  other,  since  nothing  seems 
more  likely  to  promise  a  healthy  offspring,  or  a 
happy  cohabitation.  And  I  believe  I  may  assure 
my  country  friend,  that  there  has  been  many  a 
court  lady  who  would  be  contented  to  exchange 
her  crazy  young  husband  for  Tom  Short,  and 
several  men  of  quality  who  would  have  parted 
with  a  tender  yoke-fellow  for  Black  Kate. 

I  am  the  more  pleased  with  having  love  made 
the  principal  end  and  design  of  these  meetings, 
as  it  seems  to  be  most  agreeable  to  the  intent  for 
which  they  were  at  first  instituted,  as  we  are  in¬ 
formed  by  the  learned  Dr.  Kennet,*  with  whose 
words  I  shall  conclude  my  present  paper. 

“  These  wakes,”  says  he,  “were  in  imitation  of 
the  ancient  love-feasts  ;  and  were  first  established 
in  England  by  Pope  Gregory  the  Great,  who,  in 
an  epistle  to  Melitus  the  abbot,  gave  orders  that 
they  should  be  kept  in  sheds  or  arbories  made  up 
with  the  branches  or  boughs  of  trees  around  the 
church.” 

He  adds,  “  that  this  laudable  custom  of  wakes 
prevailed  for  many  ages,  until  the  nice  Puritans 
began  to  exclaim  against  it  as  a  remnant  of  popery; 
and  by  degrees  the  precise  humor  grew  so  popu¬ 
lar,  that  at  an  Exeter  assizes  the  Lord  Chief  Baron 
Walter  made  an  order  for  the  suppression  of  all 
wakes ;  but  on  Bishop  Laud’s  complaining  of 
this  innovating  humor,  the  king  commanded  the 
order  to  be  reversed.” — X. 


*In  his  Parochial  Antiquities,  4to.,  1695,  p.  610,  614. 


No.  162.]  WEDNESDAY,  SEPTEMBER  5/1711. 

- Servetur  ad  imum, 

Qualis  ab  incepto  processerit,  et  sibi  constet. 

Hoe.,  Ars.  Poet.,  v,  126. 

Keep  one  consistent  plan  from  end  to  end. 

Nothing  that  is  not  a  real  crime  makes  a  man 
appear  so  contemptible  and  little  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world  as  inconstancy,  especially  when  it  re¬ 
gards  religion  or  party.  In  either  of  these  cases, 
though  a  man  perhaps  does  but  his  duty  in  chang¬ 
ing  his  side,  he  not  only  makes  himself  hated  by 
those  he  left,  but  is  seldom  heartily  esteemed  by 
those  he  comes  over  to. 

In  these  great  articles  of  life,  therefore,  a  man’s 
conviction  ought  to  be  very  strong,  and  if  possi¬ 
ble  so  well  timed,  that  worldly  advantages  may 
seem  to  have  no  share  in  it,  or  mankind  will  be 
ill-natured  enough  to  think  he  does  not  change 
sides  out  of  principle,  but  either  out  of  levity  of 
temper,  or  prospects  of  interest.  Converts  and 
renegadoes  of  all  kinds  should  take  particular 
care  to  let  the  world  see  they  act  upon  honorable 
motives  :  or,  whatever  approbations  they  may  re¬ 
ceive  from  themselves,  and  applauses  irom  those 
they  converse  with,  they  may  be  very  well  assured 
Bat  they  are  the  scorn  of  all  good  men,  and  the 
public  marks  of  infamy  and  derision. 

Irresolution  on  the  schemes  of  life  which  offer 
themselves  to  our  choice,  and  inconstancy  in 
pursuing  them,  are  the  greatest  and  most  univer¬ 
sal  causes  of  all  our  disquiet  and  unhappiness. 
When  ambition  pulls  one  way,  interest  another, 
inclination  a  third,  and  perhaps  reason  contrary 
to  all,  a  man  is  likely  to  pass  his  time  but  ill  who 
has  so  many  different  parties  to  please.  When 
the  mind  hovers  among  such  a  variety  of  allure¬ 
ments,  one  had  better  settle  on  a  way  of  life  that 
is  not  the  very  best  we  might  have  chosen,  than 
grow  old  without  determining  our  choice,  and  go 
out  of  the  world  as  the  greatest  part  of  mankind 
do,  before  we  have  resolved  how  to  live  in  it. 
There  is  but  one  method  of  setting  ourselves  at  rest 
in  this  particular,  and  that  is  by  adhering  stead¬ 
fastly  to  one  great  end  as  the  chief  and  ultimate 
aim  of  all  our  pursuits.  If  we  are  firmly  resolved 
to  live  up  to  the  dictates  of  reason,  without  any 
regard  to  wealth,  reputation,  or  the  like  considera¬ 
tions,  any  more  than  as  they  fall  in  with  our 
principal  design,  we  may  go  through  life  with 
steadiness  and  pleasure  ;  but  if  we  act  by  several 
broken  views,  and  will  not  only  be  virtuous,  but 
wealthy,  popular,  and  everything  that  has  a  value 
set  upon  it  by  the  world,  we  shall  live  and  die  in 
misery  and  repentance. 

One  would  take  more  than  ordinary  care  to 
guard  one’s  self  against  this  particular  imperfec¬ 
tion,  because  it  is  that  which  our  nature  very 
strongly  inclines  us  to  ;  for  if  we  examine  our¬ 
selves  thoroughly,  we  shall  find  that  we  are  the 
most  changeable  beings  in  the  universe.  In  re¬ 
spect  of  our  understanding,  we  often  embrace  and 
reject  the  very  same  opinions  ;  whereas  beings 
above  and  beneath  us  have  probably  no  opinions 
at  all,  or,  at  least,  no  wavering  and  uncertainties  in 
those  they  have.  Our  superiors  are  guided  by  in¬ 
tuition,  and  our  inferiors  by  instinct.  In  respect 
of  our  wills,  we  fall  into  crimes  and  recover  out  of 
them,  are  amiable  or  odious  in  the  eyes  of  our 
great  Judge,  and  pass  our  whole  life  in  offending 
and  asking  pardon.  On  the  contrary,  the  beings 
underneath  us  are  not  capable  of  sinning,  nor  those 
above  us  of  repenting.  The  one  is  out  of  the 
possibilities  of  duty,  and  the  other  fixed  in  an 
eternal  course  of  sin,  or  an  eternal  course  of 
virtue. 

There  is  scarce  a  state  of  life,  or  stage  in.  it. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


215 


which  does  not  produce  changes  and  revolutions 
in  the  mind  of  man.  Our  schemes  of  thought  in 
infancy  are  lost  in  those  of  youth  ;  these  too  take 
a  different  turn  in  manhood,  until  old  age  often 
leads  us  back  into  our  former  infancy.  A  new 
title  or  an  unexpected  success  throws  us  out  of 
ourselves,  and  in  a  manner  destroys  our  iden¬ 
tity.  A  cloudy  day,  or  a  little  sunshine,  have 
as  great  an  influence  on  many  constitutions,  as 
the  most  real  blessing  or  misfortunes.  A  dream 
varies  our  being,  and  changes  our  condition  while 
it  lasts  ;  and  every  passion,  not  to  mention  health 
and  sickness,  and  the  greater  alterations  in  body 
and  mind,  makes  us  appear  almost  different  crea¬ 
tures.  If  a  man  is  so  distinguished  among  other 
beings  by  this  infirmity,  what  can  we  think  of 
such  as  make  themselves  remarkable  for  it  even 
among  their  own  species?  It  is  a  very  trifling 
character  to  be  one  o£  the  most  variable  beings  of 
the  most  variable  kind,  especially  if  we  consider 
that  he  who  is  the  great  standard  of  perfection 
has  in  him  no  shadow  of  change,  but  “  is  the 
same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever.” 

As  this  mutability  of  temper  and  inconsistency 
with  ourselves  is  the  greatest  weakness  of  human 
nature,  so  it  makes  the  person  who  is  remarkable 
for  it  in  a  very  particular  manner,  more  ridiculous 
than  any  other  infirmity  whatsoever,  as  it  sets 
him  in  a  greater  variety  of  foolish  lights,  and  dis¬ 
tinguishes  him  from  himself  by  an  opposition  of 
party-colored  characters.  The  most  humorous 
character  in  Horace  is  founded  upon  this  uneven¬ 
ness  of  temper,  and  irregularity  of  conduct : 

- - - Sardus  habebat 

Ille  Tigellius  hoc :  Caesar,  qui  cogere  posset, 

Si  peteret  per  amicitiam  patris,  atque  suam,  non 
Quidquam  proficeret :  si  collibuisset,  ab  ovo 
Usque  ad  mala  citaret,  Io  Bacche,  modo  summa 
\  oce,  modo  hac,  resonat  quae  ehordis  quatuor  ima, 

Nil  aequale  homini  fuit  illi :  saepe  velut  qui 
Currebat  fugiens  hostem:  persaepe  velut  qui 
Junonis  sacra  ferret :  habebat  saepe  ducentos, 

Saepe  decern  servos :  modo  reges  atque  tetrarchas, 

Omnia  magna  loquens :  modo  sit  rnihi  mensa  tripes,  et 
Concha  salis  puri,  et  toga,  quae  defendere  frigus, 

Quamvis  craesa,  queat.  Deces  centena  dedisses 
Huic  parco,  paucis  contento,  quinque  diebus 
Nil  erat  in  loculis.  Noctes  vigilabat  ad  ipsum 
Mane:  diem  totum  stertebat.  Nil  fuit  unquam 
Sic  impar  sibi -  Hor.  1  Sat.  iii. 

Instead  of  translating  this  passage  in  Horace,  I 
shall  entertain  my  English  reader  with  the  de¬ 
scription  of  a  parallel  character,  that  is  wonder¬ 
fully  well  finished  by  Mr.  Dryden,  and  raised 
upon  the  same  foundation  : 

In  the  first  rank  of  these  did  Zimri  stand : 

A  man  so  various,  that  he  seemed  to  be 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind’s  epitome. 

Stiff  in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong ; 

\V  as  everything  by  starts  and  nothing  long: 

But  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon, 

A\  as  chemist,  fiddler,  statesman,  and  buffoon : 
then  all  for  women,  painting,  rhyming,  drinking, 
.beside  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thinking. 

Blest  madman  who  could  every  hour  employ, 

\\  ith  something  new  to  wish,  or  to  enjoy!* 


No.  163.]  THURSDAY,  SEPTEMBER  6,  1711. 


Si  quid  ego  adjuero,  curamve  levasso 
time  nunc  te  coquit,  et  versat  sub  pectore  fixa, 
-hcquid  erit  pretii? — Exx.  apud  Tullium. 


Say,  will  you  thank  me  if  I  bring  you  rest, 

And  ease  the  torture  of  your  troubled  breast? 

Inquiries  after  happiness,  and  rules  for  attain¬ 
ing  it,  are  not  so  necessary  and  useful  to  mankind 
as  the  arts  of  consolation,  and  supporting  one’s  self 
under  affliction.  The  utmost  we  can  hope  for  in 


From  Dryden’s  “Absalom  and  Achitophel.”  Perhaps  it  is 
needless  to  mention,  that  this  character  was  meant  for  Goorsre 
'  nhers,  duke  of  Buckingham,  author  of  the  liehearsal. 


this  world  is  contentment ;  if  we  aim  at  anything 
higher,  we  shall  meet  with  nothing  but  grief  and 
disappointment.  A  man  should  direct  all  his 
studies  and  endeavors  at  making  himself  easy 
now,  and  happy  hereafter. 

The  truth  ol  it  is,  if  all  the  happiness  that  is 
dispersed  through  the  whole  race  of  mankind  in 
this  world  were  drawn  together,  and  put  into  the 
possession  of  any  single  man,  it  would  not  make 
a  very  happy  being.  Though,  on  the  contrary,  if 
the  miseries  of  the  whole  species  were  fixed  in  a 
single  person,  they  would  make  a  very  miserable 
one. 

I  am  engaged  in  this  subject  by  the  following 
letter,  which,  though  subscribed  by  a  fictitious 
name,  I  have  reason  to  believe  is  not  imaginary  : 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  one  of  your  disciples,  and  endeavor  to 
live  up  to  your  rules,  which  I  hope  will  incline 
you  to  pity  my  condition.  I  shall  open  it  to  you 
in  a  very  few  words.  About  three  years  since,  a 
gentleman,  whom  I  am  sure,  you  yourself  would 
have  approved,  made  his  addresses  to  me.  He 
had  everything  to  recommend  him  but  an  estate ; 
so  that  my  friends,  who  all  of  them  applauded  hii 
person,  would  not  for  the  sake  of  both  of  us  favor 
his  passion.  For  my  own  part,  I  resigned  myself 
up  entirely  to  the  direction  of  those  who  knew 
the  world  much  better  than  myself,  but  still  lived 
in  hopes  that  some  juncture  or  other  would  make 
me  happy  in  the  man  whom,  in  my  heart,  I  pre¬ 
ferred  to  all  the  world;  being  determined,  if  I 
could  not  have  him,  to  have  nobody  else.  About 
three  months  ago  I  received  a  letter  from  him,  ac¬ 
quainting  me,  that  by  the  death  of  an  uncle  lie 
had  a  considerable  estate  left  him,  which  he  said 
was  welcome  to  him  upon  no  other  account,  but 
as  he  hoped  it  would  remove  all  difficulties  that 
lay  in  the  way  to  our  mutual  happiness.  You 
may  well  suppose,  Sir,  with  how  much  joy  I  re¬ 
ceived  this  letter,  which  was  followed  by  several 
others  filled  with  those  expressions  of  love  and 
joy,  which  I  verily  believed  nobody  felt  more  sin¬ 
cerely,  nor  knew  better  how  to  describe,  than  the 
gentleman  I  am  speaking  of.  But,  Sir,  how  shall 
I  be  able  to  tell  it  you !  by  the  last  week’s  post  I 
received  a  letter  from  an  intimate  friend  of  this 
unhappy  gentleman,  acquainting  me,  that  as  he 
had  just  settled  his  affairs!  and  was  preparing  for 
his  journey,  he  fell  sick  of  a  fever  and  died.  It 
is  impossible  to  express  to  you  the  distress  I  am 
in  upon  this  occasion.  I  can  only  have  recourse 
to  my  devotions,  and  to  the  reading  of  good  books 
for  my  consolation;  and  as  I  always  take  a  par¬ 
ticular  delight  in  those  frequent  advices  and  ad¬ 
monitions  which  you  give  the  public,  it  would  be 
a  very  great  piece  of  charity  in  you  to  lend  me 
your  assistance  in  this  conjuncture.  If,  after  the 
reading  of  this  letter,  you  find  yourself  in  a 
humor,  rather  to  rally  and  ridicule,  than  to  com¬ 
fort  me,  I  desire  you  would  throw  it  into  the  fire, 
and  think  no  more  of  it;  but  if  you  are  touched 
with  my  misfortune,  which  is  greater  than  I  know 
how  to  bear,  your  counsels  may  very  much  sup¬ 
port  and  will  infinitely  oblige  the  afflicted 

“  Leonora.” 

A  disappointment  in  love  is  more  hard  to  get 
over  than  any  other ;  the  passion  itself  so  softens 
and  subdues  the  heart,  that  it  disables  it  from 
struggling  or  bearing  up  against  the  woes  and  dis¬ 
tresses  which  befall  it.  The  mind  meets  with 
other  misfortunes  in  her  whole  strength ;  she 
stands  collected  within  herself,  and  sustains  the 
shock  with  all  the  force  which  is  natural  to  her;  but 
a  heart  in  love  has  its  foundation  sapped,  and 


THE  SPE  CTATOR. 


216 

immediately  sinks  under  the  weight  of  accidents 
that  are  disagreeable  to  its  favorite  passion. 

In  afflictions  men  generally  draw  their  consola¬ 
tions  out  of  books  of  morality,  which  indeed  are 
of  great  use  to  fortify  and  strengthen  the  mind 
against  the  impressions  of  sorrow.  Monsieur  St. 
Evremont,  who  does  not  approve  of  this  method, 
recommends  authors  who  are  apt  to  stir  up  mirth  in 
the  mind  of  the  readers,  and  fancies  Don  Quixote 
can  give  more  relief  to  a  heavy  heart  than  Plu¬ 
tarch  or  Seneca,  as  it  is  much  easier  to  divert  grief 
than  to  conquer  it.  This  doubtless  may  have  its 
effects  on  some  tempers.  I  should  rather  have 
recourse  to  authors  of  a  quite  contrary  kind,  that 
give  us  instances  of  calamities  and  misfortunes, 
and  show  human  nature  in  its  greatest  distresses. 

If  the  afflictions  we  groan  under  be  very  heavy, 
we  shall  find  some  consolation  in  the  society  of 
as  great  sufferers  as  ourselves,  especially  when  we 
find  our  companions  men  of  virtue  and  merit.  If 
our  afflictions  are  light,  we  shall  be  comforted  by 
the  comparison  we  make  between  ourselves  and 
our  fellow-sufferers.  A  loss  at  sea,  a  fit  of  sick¬ 
ness,  or  the  death  of  a  friend,  are  such  trifles, 
when  we  consider  whole  kingdoms  laid  in  ashes, 
families  put  to  the  sword,  wretches  shut  up  in 
dungeons,  and  the  like  calamities  of  mankind, 
that  we  are  out  of  countenance  for  our  own  weak¬ 
ness,  if  we  sink  under  such  little  strokes  of  for¬ 
tune. 

Let  the  disconsolate  Leonora  consider,  that  at 
the  very  time  in  which  she  languishes  for  the  loss 
of  her  deceased  lover,  there  are  persons  in  several 
parts  of  the  world  just  perishing  in  shipwreck ; 
others  crying  out  for  mercy  in  the  terrors  of  a 
death-bed  repentance ;  others  lying  under  the  tor¬ 
tures  of  an  infamous  execution,  or  the  like  dread¬ 
ful  calamities;  and  she  will  find  her  sorrows  van¬ 
ish  at  the  appearance  of  those  which  are  so  much 
greater  and  more  astonishing. 

I  would  farther  propose  to  the  consideration  of 
my  afflicted  disciple,  that  possibly  what  she  now 
looks  upon  as  the  greatest  misfortune,  is  not 
really  such  in  itself.  For  my  own  part,  I  ques¬ 
tion  not  but  our  souls  in  a  separate  state  will  look 
back  on  their  lives  in  quite  another  view,  than 
what  they  had  of  them  in  the  body;  and  what 
they  now  consider  as  misfortunes  and  disap¬ 
pointments,  will  very  often  appear  to  have  been 
escapes  and  blessings. 

The  mind  that  hath  any  cast  toward  devotion, 
naturally  flies  to  it  in  its  afflictions. 

When  I  was  in  France  I  heard  a  very  remark¬ 
able  story  of  two  lovers,  which  I  shall  relate  at 
length  in  my  to-morrow’s  paper,  not  only  because 
the  circumstances  of  it  are  extraordinary,  but  be¬ 
cause  it  may  serve  as  an  illustration  to  all  that 
can  be  said  on  this  last  head,  and  show  the  power 
of  religion  in  abating  that  particular  anguish  which 
seems  to  lie  so  heavily  on  Leonora.  The  story 
was  told  me  by  a  priest,  as  I  traveled  with  him  in 
a  stage-coach.  I  shall  give  it  my  reader  as  well 
as  I  can  remember,  in  his  own  words,  after  I 
have  premised,  that  if  consolations  may  be  drawn 
from  a  wrong  religion,  and  a  misguided  devotion, 
they  cannot  but  flow  much  more  naturally  from 
those  which  are  founded  upon  reason  and  estab¬ 
lished  in  good  sense. — L. 


No.  164.]  FRIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  7,  1711. 

Ilia;  quis  ct  me,  inquit,  miser  am,  et  te  perdidit,  Orpheu  t 
Jamque  yale;  feror  ingenti  circumdata  nocte, 

Invalidasque  tibi  tendens  heu!  non  tua  pa-lmas. 

Virg.,  iv  Georg.,  404. 

Then  thus  the  bride :  Wliat  fury  seiz’d  on  thee, 

Unhappy  man!  to  lose  thyself  and  me? 

And  now  farewell !  involy’d  in  shades  of  night, 

Forever  I  am  ravish’d  from  thy  sight : 

In  vain  I  reach  my  feeble  hands  to  join 

In  sweet  embraces,  ah !  no  longer  thine. — Dryden. 

Constantia  was  a  woman  of  extraordinary  wit 
and  beauty,  but  very  unhappy  in  a  father,  who 
having  arrived  at  great  riches  by  his  own  indus¬ 
try,  took  delight  in  nothing  butnis  money.  Theo¬ 
dosius*  was  the  younger  son  of  a  decayed  family, 
of  great  parts  and  learning  improved  by  a  genteel 
and  virtuous  education.  When  he  was  in  the 
twentieth  year  of  his  age  he  became  acquainted  with 
Constantia,  who  had  not  then  passed  her  fifteenth. 
As  he  lived  but  a  few  miles  distant  from  her 
father’s  house,  he  had  frequent  opportunities  of  - 
seeing  her;  and  by  the  advantages  of  a  good  per¬ 
son  and  pleasing  conversation,  made  such  an  im¬ 
pression  on  her  heart  as  it  was  impossible  for  time 
to  efface.  He  was  himself  no  less  smitten  with 
Constantia.  A  long  acquaintance  made  them  still 
discover  new  beauties  in  each  other,  and  by  de¬ 
grees  raised  in  them  that  mutual  passion  which 
had  an  influence  on  their  following  lives.  It  un¬ 
fortunately  happened,  that  in  the  midst  of  this 
intercourse  of  love  and  friendship,  between  Theo¬ 
dosius  and  Constantia,  there  broke  out  an  irre¬ 
parable  quarrel  between  their  parents,  the  one 
valuing  himself  too  much  upon  his  birth,  and  the 
other  upon  his  possessions.  The  father  of  Con¬ 
stantia  was  so  incensed  at  the  father  of  Theodo¬ 
sius,  that  he  contracted  an  unreasonable  aversion 
toward  his  son,  insomuch  that  he  forbade  him  his 
house,  and  charged  his  daughter,  upon  her  duty, 
never  to  see  him  more.  In  the  meantime,  to 
break  off  all  communication  between  the  two 
lovers,  whom  he  knew  entertained  secret  hopes  of 
some  favorable  opportunity  that  should  bring 
them  together,  he  found  out  a  young  gentleman 
of  good  fortune  and  an  agreeable  person,  whom  he 
pitched  upon  as  a  husband  for  his  daughter.  He 
soon  concerted  this  affair  so  well,  that  he  told 
Constantia  it  was  his  design  to  marry  her  to  such 
a  gentleman,  and  that  her  wedding  should  be 
celebrated  on  such  a  day.  Constantia,  who  was 
overawed  with  the  authority  of  her  father,  and 
unable  to  object  anything  against  so  advantageous 
a  match,  received  the  proposal  with  a  profound 
silence,  which  her  father  commended  in  her,  as 
the  most  decent  manner  of  a  virgin’s  giving  her 
consent  to  an  overture  of  that  kind.  The  noise 
of  this  intended  marriage  soon  reached  Theodo¬ 
sius,  who,  after  a  long  tumult  of  passions,  which 
naturally  rise  in  a  lover’s  heart  on  such  an  occa¬ 
sion,  wrote  the  following  letter  to  Constantia  : 

“  The  thought  of  my  Constantia,  which  for 
some  years  has  been  my  only  happiness,  is  now 
become  a  greater  torment  to  me  than  I  am  able  to 
bear.  Must  I  then  live  to  see  you  another’s  ? 
The  streams,  the  fields,  and  meadows,  where  we 
have  so  often  talked  together,  grow  painful  to 
me;  life  itself  is  become  a  burden.  May  you  long 
be  happy  in  the  world,  but  forget  that  there  was 
ever  such  a  man  in  it  as  Theodosius.” 

This  letter  was  conveyed  to  Constantia  that 
very  evening,  who  fainted  at  the  reading  of  it; 


*  The  Theodosius  and  Constantia  of  Dr.  Langhorne,  a  col¬ 
lection  of  letters,  in  2  vols.  12mo.,  takes  its  rise  from  this 
paper. 


THE  SPECTATOR 


and  the  next  morning  she  was  much  more  alarmed 
by  two  °r  three  messengers,  that  came  to  her 
father  s  Uouse,  one  after  another,  to  inquire  if  they 
had  heard  anything  of  Theodosius,  who  it  seems 
had  left  his  chamber  about  midnight,  and  could 
nowhere  be  found.  The  deep  melancholy  which 
had  hung  upon  his  mind  some  time  before,  made 
them  apprehend  the  worst  that  could  befall  him. 
uonstantia,  who  knew  that  nothing  but  the  report 
of  her  marriage  could  have  driven  him  to  such 
extremities,  was  not  to  be  comforted.  She  now 
accused  herself  for  having  so  tamely  given  an  ear 
to  the  proposal  of  a  husband,  ana  looked  upon 
the  new  lover  as  the  murderer  of  Theodosius.  In 
shoit,  she  resolved  to  suffer  the  utmost  effects  of 
her  father  s  displeasure,  rather,  than  comply  with 
a  marriage  whicli  appeared  to  her  so  full  of  guilt 
aP“  hotTor.  The  father,  seeing  himself  entirely 
rid  of  Theodosius,  and  likely  to  keep  a  conside¬ 
rable  portion  in  his  family,  was  not  very  much 
concernea  at  the  obstinate  refusal  of  his  daughter; 
and  did  not  find  it  very  difficult  to  excuse  him¬ 
self  upon  that  account  to  his  intended  son-in-law, 
who  had  all  along  regarded  this  alliance  rather  as 
a  marriage  of  convenience  than  of  love.  Con¬ 
stantia  had  now  no  relief  but  in  her  devotions 
and  exetcises  of  religion,  to  which  her  afflictions 
had  so  entirely  subjected  her  mind,  that  after  some 
years  had  abated  the  violence  of  her  sorrows,  and 
settled  her  thoughts  in  a  kind  of  tranquillity,  she 
resolved  to  pass  the  remainder  of  her  days  in  a 
convent.  Her  father  was  not  displeased  with  a 
resolution  which  would  save  money  in  his  family, 
and  readily  complied  with  his  daughter’s  inten¬ 
tions.  Accordingly,  in  the  twenty-fifth  year  of 
her  age,  while  her  beauty  was  yet  in  all  its  height 
and  bloom,  he  carried  her  to  a  neighboring  city, 
in  older  to  look  out  a  sisterhood  of  nuns  among 
■*v  horn  to  place  his  daughter.  There  was  in  this 
place  a  father  of  a  convent  who  was  very  much 
renowned  for  his  piety  and  exemplary  life;  and 
as  it  is  usual  in  the  Romish  church  for  those  who 
are  under  any  great  affliction,  or  trouble  of  mind, 
to  apply  themselves  to  the  most  eminent  confes¬ 
sors  for  pardon  and  consolation,  our  beautiful 
votary  took  the  opportunity  of  confessing  herself 
to  this  celebrated  father. 

We  must  now  return  to  Theodosius,  who,  the 
verv  morning  that  the  above-mentioned  inquiries 
had  been  made  after  him,  arrived  at  a  religious 
house  in  the  city  where  now  Constantia  resided; 
an<“  during  that  secrecy  and  concealment  of  the 
lathers  ol  the  convent,  which  is  very  usual  upon 
any  extraordinary  occasion,  he  made  himself  one 
ol  the  order,  with  a  private  vow  never  to  inquire 
alter  Constantia  ;  whom  he  looked  upon  as  given 
away  to  his  rival  upon  the  day  on  which,  accord¬ 
ing  to  common  fame,  their  marriage  was  to  have 
been  solemnized.  Having  in  his  youth  made  a 
good  progress  in  learning,  that  he  might  dedicate 
ninself  more  entirely  to  religion,  he  entered  into 
holy  orders,  and  in  a  few  years  became  renowned 
for  his  sanctity  of  life,  and  those  pious  sentiments 
which  he  inspired  into  all  who  conversed  with 
urn.  It  was  this  holy  man  to  whom  Constantia 
had  determ, ned  to  apply  herself  in  confession, 
though  neither  she  nor  any  other,  beside  the  prio^ 
of  the  convent,  knew  anything  of  his  name  or 
family  1  he  gay,  the  amiable  Theodosius  had 
now  taken  upon  him  the  name  of  Father  Francis 
and  was  so  tar  concealed  in  a  long  beard,  a  shaven 
head,  and  a  religious  habit,  that  it  was  impossible 
to  discover  the  man  of  the  world  in  the  venerable 
conventual. 

•  As  he  wa«  one  morning  shut  up  in  his  confes¬ 
sional  Constantia,  kneeling  by  him,  opened  the 
state  of  her  soul  to  him ;  and  after  liavino-  o-iven 


217 


him  the  history  of  a  life  full  of  innocence,  she 
burst  out  into  tears,  and  entered  upon  that  part  of 
her  story  in  which  he  himself  had  so  great  a 
share.  “My  behavior,”  says  she,  “has,  I  fear, 
been  the  death  of  a  man  who  had  no  other  fault 
but  that  of  loving  me  too  much.  Heaven  only 
knows  how  dear  he  was  to  me  while  he  lived,  and 
how  bitter  the  remembrance  of  him  has  been  to 
me  since  his  death.”  She  here  paused,  and  lifted 
up  her  eyes  that  streamed  with  tears  toward  the 
father ;  w  ho  was  so  moved  witli  the  sense  of  her 
soi rows,  that  he  could  only  command  his  voice, 
which  was  broke  with  sighs  and  sobbings,  so  far 
as  to  bid  her  proceed.  She  followed  his  direc¬ 
tions,  and  in  a  Hood  of  tears  poured  out  her  heart 
before  him.  The  father  could  not  forbear  weep¬ 
ing  aloud,  insomuch  that  in  the  agonies  of  his 
grief  the  seat  shook  under  him.  Constantia,  who 
thought  the  good  man  was  thus  moved  by  his 
compassion  toward  her,  and  by  the  horror  of  her 
guilt,  proceeded  with  the  utmost  contrition  to  ac¬ 
quaint  him  with  that  vow  of  virginity  in  which 
she  was  going  to  engage  herself,  as  the  proper 
atonement  for  her  sins,  and  the  only  sacrifice  she 
could  make  to  the  memory  of  Theodosius.  The 
father,  who  by  this  time  had  pretty  well  composed 
himself,  burst  out  again  in  tears  upon  hearing  that 
name  to  which  he  had  been  so  long  disused,  and 
upon  receiving  this  instance  of  an  unparalleled 
fidelity  from  one  who  he  thought  had  several 
years  since  given  herself  up  to  the  possession  of 
another.  Amidst  the  interruptions  of  his  sorrow, 
seeing  his  penitent  overwhelmed  with  grief,  he 
was  only  able  to  bid  her  from  time  to  time  be  com¬ 
forted;  to  tell  her  that  her  sins  were  forgiven  her — 
that  her  guilt  was  not  so  great  as  she  apprehend¬ 
ed — that  she  should  not  suffer  herself  to  be  af¬ 
flicted  above  measure.  After  which  he  recovered 
himself  enough  to  give  her  the  absolution  in  form; 
directing  her  at  the  same  time  to  repair  to  him 
again  the  next  day,  that  he  might  encourage  her 
in  the  pious  resolution  she  had  taken,  and  give 
her  suitable  exhortations  for  her  behavior  in  it. 
Constantia  retired,  and  the  next  morning  renewed 
her  applications.  Theodosius,  having  manned 
his  soul  with  proper  thoughts  and  reflections,  ex¬ 
erted  himself  on  this  occasion  in  the  best  manner 
he  could  to  animate  his  penitent  in  the  course  of 
life  she  was  entering  upon,  and  wear  out  of  her 
mind  those  groundless  fears  and  apprehensions 
which  had  taken  possession  of  it;  concluding  with 
a  promise  to  her  that  he  would  from  time  to  time 
continue  his  admonitions  when  she  should  have 
taken  upon  her  the  holy  vail.  “  The  rules  of  our 
respective  orders,”  says  he,  “  will  not  permit  that 
I  should  see  you,  but  ^ou  may  assure  yourself  not 
only  of  having  a  place  in  my  prayers,  but  of  receiv¬ 
ing  such  frequent  instructions  as  I  can  convey  to 
you  by  letters.  Go  on  cheerfully  in  the  glorious 
course  you  have  undertaken,  and  you  will  quickly 
find  such  a  peace  and  satisfaction  in  your  mind, 
which  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  world  to 


give. 


Constantia’s  heart  was  so  elevated  with  the  dis¬ 
course  of  Father  Francis,  that  the  very  next  day 
she  entered  upon  her  vow.  As  soon  as  the  so¬ 
lemnities  of  her  reception  were  over,  she  retired, 
as  it  is  usual,  with  the  abbess  into  her  own  apart¬ 
ment. 

The  abbess  had  been  informed  the  night  before 
of  all  that  had  passed  between  her  novitiate  and 
Father  Francis  :  from  whom  she  now  delivered  to 
her  the  following  letter  : 

“  As  the  first  fruits  of  those  joys  and  consola¬ 
tions  which  you  may  expect  from  the  life  you  are 
now  engaged  in,  I  must  acquaint  you  that  Theo¬ 
dosius,  whose  death  sits  so  heavy  upon  your 


218  THE  SPE 

thoughts,  is  still  alive  ;  and  that  the  father,  to 
whom  you  have  confessed  yourself,  was  once  that 
Theodosius  whom  you  so  much  lament.  The 
love  which  we  have  had  for  one  another  will 
make  us  more  happy  in  its  disappointment  than  it 
could  have  done  in  its  success.  Providence  has 
disposed  of  us  for  our  advantage,  though  not  ac¬ 
cording  to  our  wishes.  Consider  your  Theodosius 
still  as  dead,  but  assure  yourself  of  one  who  will 
not  cease  to  pray  for  you  in  Father 

“  Francis.” 

Constantia  saw  that  the  hand-writing  agreed 
with  the  contents  of  the  letter:  and  upon  reflect¬ 
ing  on  the  voice  of  the  person,  the  behavior,  and 
above  all,  the  extreme  sorrow  of  the  father  during 
her  confession,  she  discovered  Theodosius  in 
every  particular.  After  having  wept  with  tears  of 
joy,  “  It  is  enough,”  says  she,  “  Theodosius  is 
still  in  being :  I  shall  live  with  comfort  and  die 
in  peace.” 

The  letters  which  the  father  sent  her  afterward, 
are  yet  extant  in  the  nunnery  where  she  resided  ; 
and  are  often  read  to  the  young  religious,  in  order 
to  inspire  them  with  good  resolutions  and  senti¬ 
ments  of  virtue.  It  so  happened,  that  after  Con¬ 
stantia  had  lived  about  ten  years  in  the  cloister,  a 
violent  fever  broke  out  in  the  place,  which  swept 
away  great  multitudes,  and  among  others  Theodo¬ 
sius.  Upon  his  death-bed  he  sent  his  benediction 
in  a  very  moving  manner  to  Constantia,  who  at 
that  time  was  so  far  gone  in  the  same  fatal  dis¬ 
temper,  that  she  lay  delirious.  Upon  the  interval 
which  generally  precedes  death  in  sickness  of  this 
nature,  the  abbess,  finding  that  the  physicians  had 
given  her  over,  told  her  that  Theodosius  was  just 
gone  before  her,  and  that  he  had  sent  her  his  ben¬ 
ediction  in  his  last  moments.  Constantia  received 
it  with  pleasure.  “And  now,”  says  she,  “If  I  do 
not  ask  anything  improper,  let  me  be  buried  by 
Theodosius.  My  vow  reaches  no  farther  than  the 
grave;  what  I  asx  is,  I  hope,  no  violation  of  it. 

She  died  soon  after,  and  was  interred  according 
to  her  request.  . 

Their  tombs  are  still  to  be  seen,  with  a  short 
Latin  inscription  over  them,  to  the  lollowing  pur¬ 
pose  : 

“Here  lie  the  bodies  of  Father  Francis  and  Sis¬ 
ter  Constance.  They  were  lovely  in  their  lives, 
and  in  their  deaths  they  were  not  divided.”— C. 

-  L. 

Ho.  165.]  SATURDAY,  SEPTEMBER  8,  1711. 

- Si  forte  necesse  est, 

Fingere  cinctutis  non  exandita  Cethegis 
Continget:  dabiturque  licentia  sumpta  pudenter. 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  v,  4S. 

- If  you  would  unheard-of  things  express, 

Invent  new  words;  we  can  indulge  a  muse, 

Until  the  license  rise  to  an  abuse. — Creech. 

I  have  often  wished,  that  as  in  our  constitution 
there  are  several  persons  whose  business  is  to 
watch  over  our  laws,  our  liberties,  and  commerce, 
certain  men  might  be  set  apart  as  superintend¬ 
ents  of  our  language,  to  hinder  any  words  of  a 
foreign  coin  from  passing  among  us;  and  in  partic¬ 
ular  to  prohibit  any  French  phrases  from  becoming 
current  in  this  kingdom,  when  those  of  our  own 
stamp  are  altogether  as  valuable.  The  present 
war  has  so  adulterated  our  tongue  with  strange 
words,  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  one  of  our 
great-grandfathers  to  know  what  his  posterity 
have  been  doing,  were  he  to  read  their  exploits  in 
a  modern  newspaper.  Our  warriors  are  very  in¬ 
dustrious  in  propagating  the  French  language,  at 
the  same  time  that  they  are  so  gloriously  success- 


CTATOR. 

ful  in  beating  down  their  power.  Our  soldiers 
are  men  of  strong  heads  for  action,  and  perform 
such  feats  as  they  are  not  able  to  express.  They 
want  words  in  their  own  tongue  to  tell  us  what 
it  is  they  achieve,  and  therefore  send  us  over  ac¬ 
counts  of  their  performances  in  a  jargon  of  phrases 
which  they  learn  among  their  conquered  enemies. 
They  ought  however  to  be  provided  with  secreta¬ 
ries,  and  assisted  by  our  foreign  ministers,  to  tell 
their  story  for  them  in  plain  English,  and  to  let 
us  know  in  our  mother  tongue  what  it  is  our 
brave  countrymen  are  about.  The  French  would 
indeed  be  in  the  right  to  publish  the  news  of  the 
present  war  in  the  English  phrases,  and  make 
their  campaigns  unintelligible.  Their  people 
might  flatter  themselves  that  things  are  not  so 
bad  as  they  really  are,  were  they  thus  palliated 
with  foreign  terms,  and  thrown  into  shades  and 
obscurity;  but  the  English  cannot  be  too  clear  in 
their  narrative  of  those  actions  which  have  raised 
their  country  to  a  higher  pitch  of  glory  than  it 
ever  yet  arrived  at,  and  which  will  be  still  the 
more  admired  the  better  they  are  explained. 

For  my  part,  by  that  time  a  siege  is  carried  on 
two  or  three  days,  I  am  altogether  lost  and  bewil¬ 
dered  in  it,  and  meet  with  so  many  inexplicable 
difficulties,  that  I  scarce  know  which  side  has  the 
better  of  it,  until  I  am  informed  by  the  Tower 
guns  that  the  place  is  surrendered.  I  do  indeed 
make  some  allowances  for  this  part  of  the  war  : 
fortifications  have  been  foreign  inventions,  and 
upon  that  abound  in  foreign  terms.  But  when 
we  have  won  battles  which  may  be  described  in 
our  own  language,  why  are  our  papers  filled  with 
so  many  unintelligible  exploits,  and  the  French 
obliged  to  lend  us  a  part  of  their  tongue  before 
we  can  know  how  they  are  conquered  ?  They 
must  be  made  accessory  to  their  own  disgrace,  as 
the  Britons  were  formerly  so  artificially  wrought 
in  the  curtain  of  the  Roman  theater,  that  they 
seemed  to  draw  it  up  in  order  to  give  the  specta¬ 
tors  an  opportunity  of  seeing  their  own  defeat 
celebrated  upon  the  stage:  for  so  Mr.  Dryden  has 
translated  that  verse  in  Virgil : 

Purpurea  iutexti  tollunt  aulsea  Britanni. — Georg,  iii,  25. 

Which  interwoven  Britons  seem  to  raise, 

And  show  the  triumph  that  their  shame  displays. 

The  histories  of  all  our  former  wars  are  trans¬ 
mitted  to  us  in  our  vernacular  idiom,  to  use  the 
phrase  of  a  great  modern  critic .*  I  do  not  find  in 
any  of  our  chronicles,  that  Edward  the  Third 
ever  ‘reconnoitered’  the  enemy,  though  he  often  dis¬ 
covered  the  posture  of  the  French,  and  as  often  van¬ 
quished  them  in  battle.  The  Black  Prince  passed 
many  a  river  without  the  help  of  ‘  pontoons,’ 
and  filled  a  ditch  with  fagots  as  successfully  as 
the  generals  of  our  times  do  it  with  ‘fascines.’  Our 
commanders  lose  half  their  praise,  and  our  people 
half  their  joy,  by  means  of  those  hard  words  and 
dark  expressions  in  which  our  newspapers  do  so 
much  abound.  I  have  seen  many  a  prudent  citi¬ 
zen,  after  having  read  every  article,  inquire  of  his 
next  neighbor  what  news  the  mail  had  brought. 

I  remember  in  that  remarkable  year,  when  our 
country  was  delivered  from  the  greatest  fears  and 
apprehensions,  and  raised  to  the  greatest  height 
of  gladness  it  had  ever  felt  since  it  was  a  na¬ 
tion, — I  mean  the  year  of  Blenheim, — I  had  the 
copy  of  a  letter  sent  me  out  of  the  country,  which 
was  written  from  a  young  gentleman  in  the  ai  my 
to  his  father,  a  man  of  good  estate  and  plain 
sense.  As  the  letter  was  very  modishly  checker¬ 
ed  with  this  modern  military  eloquence,  I  shall 
present  my  reader  with  a  copy  of  it : 


Dr.  Richard  Bentley. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


219 


“  SlE, 

“  Upon  the  junction  of  the  French  and  Bavarian 
armies,  they  took  post  behind  a  great  morass, 
which  they  thought  impracticable.  Our  general 
the  next  day  sent  a  party  of  horse  to  ‘  reconnoiter’ 
them  from  a  little  ‘hauteur,’  at  about  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  s  distance  from  the  army,  who  returned 
ain  to  the  camp  unobserved  through  several 
efiles,’  in  one  of  which  they  met  with  a  party 
of  French  that  had  been  ‘marauding,’  and  made 
them  all  prisoners  at  discretion.  The  day  after  a 
drum  arrived  at  our  camp,  with  a  message  which 
he  would  communicate  to  none  but  the  general ; 
he  was  followed  by  a  trumpet,  who,  they  say,  be¬ 
haved  himself  very  saucilv,  with  a  message  from 
the  Duke  of  Bavaria.  The  next  morning  our 
army,  being  divided  into  two  ‘corps,’  made  a 
movement  toward  the  enemy.  You  will  hear  in 
the  public  prints  how  we  treated  them,  with  the 
other  circumstances  of  that  glorious  day.  I  had 
the  good  fortune  to  be  in  that  regiment  that  push¬ 
ed  the  ‘gens  d’armes.’  Several  French  battalions, 
which  some  say  were  a  ‘  corps  de  reserve,’  made  a 
show  of  resistance ;  but  it  only  proyed  a  ‘  gascon¬ 
ade,’  for  upon  our  preparing  to  fill  up  a  little 
‘  fosse,’  in  order  to  attack  them,  they  beat  the 
‘chamade,’  and  sent  us  a  ‘carte  blanche.’  Their 
*  commandant,’  with  a  great  many  other  general 
officers,  and  troops  without  number,  are  made  pri¬ 
soners  of  war,  and  will,  I  believe,  give  you  a 
visit  in  England,  the  ‘  cartel’  not  being  yet  settled, 
ftot  questioning  but  these  particulars  will  be  very 
welcome  to  you,  I  congratulate  you  upon  them, 
and  am  your  most  dutiful  son,”  etc. 

The  father  of  the  young  gentleman,  upon  the 
perusal  of  the  letter,  found  it  contained  great 
news  but  could  not  guess  what  it  was.  He  im¬ 
mediately  communicated  it  to  the  curate  of  the 
parish,  who,  upon  the  reading  of  it,  being  vexed 
to  see  anything  he  could  not  understand,  fell  into 
a  kind  of  passion,  and  told  him,  that  his  son  had 
sent  him  a  letter  that  was  neither  fish,  flesh,  nor 
good  red-herring.  “I  wish,”  says  he,  “the  cap¬ 
tain  may  be  ‘  compos  mentis:’  he  talks  of  a  saucy 
trumpet,  and  a  drum  that  carries  messages  ;  then 
who  is  this  ‘carte  blanche?’  He  must  either  banter 
us,  or  he  is  out  of  his  senses.”  The  father,  who 
always  looked  upon  the  curate  as  a  learned  man, 
began  to  fret  inwardly  at  his  son’s  usage,  and  pro¬ 
ducing  a  letter  which  he  had  written  to  him  about 
three  posts  before:  “You  see  here,”  says  he, 
“when  he  writes  for  money  he  knows  how  to  speak 
intelligibly  enough;  there  is  no  man  in  England 
can  express  himself  clearer,  when  he  wants  a  new 
furniture  for  his  horse.”  In  short,  the  old  man 
was  so  puzzled  upon  the  point,  that  it  might  have 
fared  ill  wTith  his  son,  had  he  not  seen  all  the 
prints  about  three  days  after  filled  with  the  same 
terms  of  art,  and  that  Charles  only  wrote  like 
other  men. — L. 


No.  166.]  MONDAY,  SEPTEMBER  10,  1711. 

~  Quod  nee  Jovis  ira,  nec  ignis. 

Nec  poterit  ferruin,  nec  edax  abolere  vetustas. 

Ovid,  Met.  xv,  871. 

— - - Which  nor  dreads  the  rage 

Of  tempests,  fire,  or  war,  or  wasting  age.— Welsted. 

Aristotle  tells  us,  that  the  world  is  a  copy  or 
transcript  of  those  ideas  which  are  in  the  mind 
of  the  first  Being,  and  that  those  ideas  which  are  in 
the  mind  of  man  are  a  transcript  of  the  world.  To 
this  we  may  add,  that  words  are  the  transcript  of 
those  ideas  which  are  in  the  mind  of  man,  and 
that  writing  or  printing  is  the  transcript  of  words. 

As  the  Supreme  Being  has  expressed,  and  as  it 
were,  printed  his  ideas  in  the  creation,  men  express 


their  ideas  in  books,  which  by  this  great  inven¬ 
tion  of  these  latter  ages  may  last  as  long  as  the 
sun  and  moon,  and  perish  only  in  the  general 
wreck  of  nature.  Thus  Cowley,  in  his  poem  on 
the  Resurrection,  mentioning  the  destruction  of 
the  universe  has  these  admirable  lines: 

Now  all  the  wide-extended  sky, 

And  all  th’  harmonious  worlds  on  high, 

And  Virgil’s  Sacred  work  shall  die. 

There  is  no  other  method  of  fixing  those 
thoughts  which  arise  and  disappear  in  the  mind 
of  man,  and  tiansmitting  them  to  the  last  periods 
of  time;  no  other  method  of  giving  a  permanency 
to  our  ideas  and  preserving  the  knowledge  of  any 
particular  person,  when  his  body  is  mixed  with 
the  common  mass  of  matter,  and  his  soul  retired 
into  the  world  of  spirits.  Books  are  the  legacies 
that  a  great  genius  leaves  to  mankind,  which  are 
delivered  down  from  generation  to  generation,  as 
presents  to  the  posterity  of  those  who  are  yet 
unborn. 

All  other  arts  of  perpetuating  our  ideas  continue 
but  a  short  time.  Statues  can  last  but  a  few  thou¬ 
sands  of  years,  edifices  fewer,  and  colors  still 
fewer  than  edifices.  Michael  Angelo,  Fontana, 
and  Raphael,  will  hereafter  be  what  Phidias,  Vi¬ 
truvius,  and  Apelles  are  at  present;  the  names  of 
great  statuaries,  architects,  and  painters,  whose 
works  are  lost.  The  several  arts  are  expressed  in 
mouldering  materials.  Nature  sinks  under  them, 
and  is  not  able  to  support  the  ideas  which  are  im¬ 
pressed  upon  it. 

The  circumstance  which  gives  authors  an  ad¬ 
vantage  above  all  these  great  masters  is  this,  that 
they  can  multiply  their  originals:  or  rather  can 
make  copies  of  their  works,  to  what  number  they 
please,  which  shall  be  as  valuable  as  the  originals 
themselves.  This  gives  a  great  author  something 
like  a  prospect  of  eternity,  but  at  the  same  time  de¬ 
prives  him  of  those  other  advantages  which  artists 
meet  with.  The  artist  finds  greater  returns  in  profit, 
as  the  author  in  fame.  What  an  inestimable  price 
would  a  Virgil  or  a  Homer,  a  Cicero  or  an  Aris¬ 
totle  bear,  were  their  works,  like  a  statue,  a  build- 
ing,  or  a  picture,  to  be  confined  only  in  one  place, 
and  made  the  property  of  a  single  person ! 

If  writings  are  thus  durable,  and  may  pass  from 
age  to  age  through  the  whole  course  of  time,  how 
careful  should  an  author  be  of  committing  any¬ 
thing  to  print  that  may  corrupt  posterity,  and 
poison  the  minds  of  men  with  vice  and  error! 
Writers  of  great  talents,  who  employ  their  parts 
in  propagating  immorality,  and  seasoning  vicious 
sentiments  with  wit  and  humor,  are  to  be  looked 
upon  as  the  pests  of  society,  and  the  enemies  of 
mankind.  They  leave  books  behind  them  (as  it 
is  said  of  those  who  die  in  distempers,  which 
breed  an  ill-will  toward  their  own  species),  to 
scatter  infection  and  destroy  their  posterity.  They 
act  the  counterparts  of  a  Confucius  or  a  Socrates  ; 
and  seem  to  have  been  sent  into  the  world  to  de¬ 
prave  human  nature,  and  sink  it  into  the  condition 
of  brutality. 

I  have  seen  some  Roman  Catholic  authors  who 
tell  us  that  vicious  writers  continue  in  purgatory 
so  long  as  the  influence  of  their  writings  continues 
upon  posterity :  “for  purgatory,  ”  say  they,  “  is 
nothing  else  but  a  cleansing  us  of  our  sins,  which 
cannot  be  said  to  be  done  away,  so  long  as  they 
continue  to  operate,  and  corrupt  mankind.  The 
vicious  author,”  say  they,  “sins  after  death  ;  and 
so  long  as  he  continues  to  sin,  so  long  must  he  ex¬ 
pect  to  be  punished.”  Though  the  Roman  Catho¬ 
lic  notion  of  purgatory  be  indeed  very  ridiculous, 
one  cannot  but  think,  that  if  the  soul  after  death 
has  any  knowledge  of  what  passes  in  this  world, 
that  of  an  immoral  writer  would  receive  much 


220 


THE  SPE 

more  regret  from  the  sense  of  corrupting,  than 
satisfaction  from  the  thought  of  pleasing,  his  sur¬ 
viving  admirers. 

To  take  off  from  the  severity  of  this  speculation, 

I  shal]  conclude  this  paper  with  a  story  of  an 
atheistical  author,  who  at  a  time  whenhe  lay  dan¬ 
gerously  sick,  and  had  desired  the  assistance  ol  a 
neighboring  curate,  confessed  to  him  with  great 
contrition,  that  nothing  sat  more  heavy  at  his  heart 
than  the  sense  of  his  having  seduced  the  age  by 
his  writings,  and  that  their  evil  influence  was 
likely  to  continue  even  after  his  death.  The 
curate  upon  farther  examination  finding  the  peni¬ 
tent  in  the  utmost  agonies  of  despair,  and  being 
himself  a  man  of  learning,  told  him,  that  he 
hoped  his  case  was  not  so  desperate  as  he  ap¬ 
prehended,  since  he  found  that  he  was  so  very 
sensible  of  his  fault,  and  so  sincerely  repented  of 
it.  The  penitent  still  urged  the  evil  tendency  of 
his  book  to  subvert  all  religion,  and  the  little 
ground  of  hope  there  could  be  for  one  whose 
writings  would  continue  to  do  mischief  when  his 
body  was  laid  in  ashes.  The  curate,  finding  no 
other  way  of  comforting  him,  told  him  that  he  did 
well  in  being  afflicted  for  the  evil  design  with 
which  he  published  his  book;  but  that  he  ought 
to  be  very  thankful  that  there  was  no  danger  of 
its  doing  any  hurt:  that  his  cause  was  so  very  bad, 
and  his  arguments  so  weak,  that  he  did  not  ap¬ 
prehend  any  ill  effects  of  it:  in  short,  that  he  might 
rest  satisfied  his  book  could  do  no  more  mischief 
after  his  death,  than  it  had  done  while  he  was 
living.  To  which  he  added,  for  his  farther  satis¬ 
faction,  that  he  did  not  believe  any  beside  his  par¬ 
ticular  friends  and  acquaintance  had  ever  been  at 
the  pains  of  reading  it,  or  that  anybody  after  his 
death  would  ever  inquire  after  it.  The  dying  man 
had  still  so  much  of  the  frailty  of  an  author  in 
him,  as  to  be  cut  to  the  heart  with  these  consola¬ 
tions;  and,  without  answering  the  good  man, 
asked  his  friends  about  him  (with  a  peevishness 
that  is  natural  to  a  sick  person)  where  they  had  pick¬ 
ed  up  such  a  blockhead?  and  whether  they  thought 
him  a  proper  person  to  attend  one  in  his  condition? 
The  curate,  finding  that  the  author  did  not  expect 
to  be  dealt  with  as  a  real  and  sincere  penitent,  but 
as  a  penitent  of  importance,  after  a  short  admoni¬ 
tion  withdrew  ;  not  questioning  but  he  should  be 
again  sent  for  if  the  sickness  grew  desperate. 
The  author  however  recovered,  and  has  since 
written  two  or  three  other  tracts  with  the  same 
spirit,  and  very  luckily  for  his  poor  soul,  with  the 
same  success.* — C. 


No.  167.]  TUESDAY,  SEPTEMBER  11,  1711. 

- Fuit  haud  ignobilis  Argis, 

Qui  se  credebat  miros  audire  tragoedos, 

In  vacuo  leetus  sessor,  plausorque  theatro ; 

Csetera  qui  vitae  servaret  munia  recto 
More ;  bonus  sane  vicinus,  amabilis  bospes,  _ 

Comis  in  uxorem ;  posset  qui  ignoscere  servis, 

Et  signo  lseso  non  insanire  lagenae ; 

Posset  qui  rupem  et  puteum  vitare  patentem. 

Hie,  ubi  cognatorum  opibus  curisque  refectus, 
Expulit  elleboro  morbum  bilemque  meraco, 

Et  redit  ad  sese;  Pol  me  occidistis,  amici, 

Non  servajstis,  ait;  cui,  sic  extorta  voluptas, 

Et  demptus  per  vim  mentis  gratissimus  error. 

Hor.  2  Ep,  ii,  128. 

IMITATED. 

There  liv’d  in  Primo  Georgii  (they  record) 

A  worthy  member,  no  small  fool,  a  lord ; 

Who,  though  the  house  was  up,  delighted  sate, 

Heard,  noted,  answer’d  as  in  full  debate ; 

In  all  but  this,  a  man  of  sober  life, 

Pond  of  his  friend,  and  civil  to  his  wife ; 


*  The  atheistical  writer  here  alluded  to,  might,  perhaps,  be 
Mr.  Poland,  who  is  said,  by  a  writer  in  the  Examiner,  to  have 
been  the  butt  of  the  Tatler,  and  for  the  same  reasons,  probar 
bly,  of  the  Spectator. 


)TATOR. 

Not  quite  a  madman,  though  a  pasty  fell, 

And  much  too  wise  to  walk  into  a  well. 

Him  the  damn'd  doctor  and  his  friends  immur’d; 

They  bled,  they  cupp’d,  they  purg’d,  in  short  they  cur’d, 

Whereat  the  gentleman  began  to  stare - 

“  My  friends,”  he  cried:  “pox  take  you  for  your  caret 
That  from  a  patriot  of  distinguish’d  note, 

Have  bled  and  purg’d  me  to  a  simple  vote.” — Pope. 

The  unhappy  force  of  an  imagination  unguided 
by  the  check  of  reason  and  judgment,  was  the 
subject  of  a  former  speculation.  My  reader  may 
remember  that  he  has  seen  in  one  of  my  papers  a 
complaint  of  an  unfortunate  gentleman,  who  was 
unable  to  contain  himself  (when  any  ordinary 
matter  was  laid  before  him)  from  adding  a  few 
circumstances  to  enliven  plain  narrative.  That 
correspondent  was  a  person  of  too  warm  a  com¬ 
plexion  to  be  satisfied  with  things  merely  as  they 
stood  in  nature,  and  therefore  formed  incidents 
which  should  have  happened  to  have  pleased  him 
in  the  story.  The  same  ungoverned  fancy  which 
pushed  that  correspondent  on,  in  spite  of  himself, 
to  relate  public  and  notorious  falsehoods,  makes 
the  author  of  the  following  letter  do  the  same  in 
private;  one  is  a  prating,  the  other  a  silent  liar. 

There  is  little  pursued  in  the  errors  of  either  of 
these  worthies,  but  mere  present  amusement  :  but 
the  folly  of  him  who  lets  his  fancy  place  him  in 
distant  scenes  untroubled  and  uninterrupted,  is 
very  much  preferable  to  that  of  him  who  is  ever 
forcing  a  belief,  and  defending  his  untruths  with 
new  inventions.  But  I  shall  hasten  to  let  this 
liar  in*,  soliloquy,  who  calls  himself  a  castle- 
builder,  describe  himself  with  the  same  unre¬ 
servedness  as  formerly  appeared  in  my  correspon¬ 
dent  above-mentioned.  If  a  man  were  to  be 
serious  on  this  subject,  he  might  give  very  grave 
admonitions  to  those  who  are  following  anything 
in  this  life,  on  which  they  think  to  place  their 
hearts,  and  tell  them  they  are  really  castle-builders. 
Fame,  glory,  wealth,  honor,  have  in  the  prospect 
pleasing  illusions;  but  they  who  come  to  possess 
any  of  them  will  find  they  are  ingredients  toward 
happiness,  to  be  regarded  only  in  the  second  place: 
and  that  when  they  are  valued  in  the  first  degree 
they  are  as  disappointing  as  any  of  the  phantoms 
in  the  following  letter: — 

“Mr.  Spectator,  September  6,  1711. 

“I  am  a  fellow  of  a  very  odd  frame  of  mind,  as 
you  will  find  by  the  sequel;  and  think  myself  fool 
enough  to  deserve  a  place  in  your  paper.  I  am 
unhappily  far  gone  in  building,  and  am  one  of 
that  species  of  men  who  are  properly  denominated 
castle  builders,  who  scorn  to  be  beholden  to  the  earth 
for  a  foundation,  or  dig  in  the  bowels  of  it  for 
materials ;  but  erect  their  structures  in  the  most 
unstable  of  elements,  the  air  ;  fancy  alone  laying 
the  line,  marking  the  extent,  and  shaping  the 
model.  It  would  be  difficult  to  enumerate  what 
august  palaces  and  stately  prorticos  have  grown 
under  my  forming  imagination,  or  what  verdant 
meadows  and  shady  groves  have  started  into 
being  by  the  powerful  feat  of  a  warm  fancy.  A 
castle-builder  is  even  just  what  he  pleases,  and  as 
such  I  have  grasped  imaginary  scepters,  and  de¬ 
livered  uncontrollable  edicts,  from  a  throne  to 
which  conquered  nations  yielded  obeisance.  I 
have  made  I  know  not  how  many  inroads  into 
France,  and  ravaged  the  very  Heart  of  that 
kingdom  ;  I  have  dined  in  the  Louvre,  and  drank 
champagne  at  Versailles;  and  I  would  have  you 
take  notice,  I  am  not  only  able  to  vanquish  a  peo- 
le  already  ‘cowed’  and  accustomed  to  flight  but 
could,  Almanzor-like,*  drive  the  British  general 


*  Alluding  to  a  furious  character  in  Dryden’s  Conquest  of 
Granada, 


221 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


from  the  field,  were  I  less  a  Protestant,  or  had 
ever  been  affronted  by  the  confederates.  There  is 
no  art  or  profession,  whose  most  celebrated  mas¬ 
ters  1  have  not  eclipsed.  Wherever  I  have  afford- 
ed  iny  salutary  presence,  fevers  have  ceased  to 
burn  and  agues  to  shake  the  human  fabric.  When 
an  eloquent  fit  has  been  upon  me,  an  apt  gesture 
and  proper  cadence  have  animated  each  sentence, 
and  gazing  crowds  have  found  their  passions 
worked  up  into  rage,  or  soothed  into  a  calm.  I 
am  short,  and  not  very  well  made;  yet  upon  sight 
of  a  fine  woman,  I  have  stretched  into  proper 
stature,  and  killed  with  a  good  air  and  mien. 
These  are  the  gay  phantoms  that  dance  before  my 
waking  eyes,  and  compose  my  day-dreams.  I 
should  be  the  most  contented,  happy  man  alive, 
were  the  chimerical  happiness  which  springs  from 
the  paintings  of  fancy  less  fleeting  and  transitory. 
But  alas!  it  is  with  grief  of  mind  I  tell  you,  the 
least  breath  of  wind  has  often  demolished  my 
magnificent  edifices,  swept  away  my  groves,  and 
left  no  more  trace  of  them  than  if  they  had  never 
been.  My  exchequer  has  sunk  and  vanished  by  a 
rap  on  my  door;  .the  salutation  of  a  friend  has 
cost  me  a  whole  continent;  and  in  the  same  moment 
I  have  been  pulled  by  the  sleeve,  my  crown  has 
fallen  from  my  head.  The  ill  consequence  of  these 
reveries  is  inconceivably  great,  seeing  the  loss  of 
imaginary  possessions  makes  impressions  of  real 
woe.  .  Beside,  bad  economy  is  visible  and  apparent 
in  builders  of  invisible  mansions.  My  tenants’ 
advertisements  of  ruins  and  dilapidations  often 
cast  a  damp  on  my  spirits,  even  in  the  instant 
when  the  sun  in  all  his  splendor,  gilds  my  eastern 
alaces.  Add  to  this,  the  pensive  drudgery  in 
uilding,  and  constant  grasping  aerial  trowels, 
distracts  and  shatters  the  mind,  and  the  fond 
builder  of  Babels  is  often  cursed  with  an  inco¬ 
herent  diversity  and  confusion  of  thoughts.  I  do 
not  know  to  whom  I  can  more  properly  apply  my¬ 
self  for  relief  from  this  fantastical  evil,  than  to 
yourself ;  whom  I  earnestly  implore  to  accom¬ 
modate  me  with  a  method  how  to  settle  my  head 
and  cool  my  brain-pan.  A  dissertation  on  castle- 
building  may  not  only  be  serviceable  to  myself, 
but  all  architects,  who  display  their  skill  in  the 
thin  element.  Such  a  favor  would  oblige  me  to 
make  my  next  soliloquy  not  contain  the  praises 
of  my  dear  self,  but  of  the  Spectator,  who  shall, 
by  complying  with  this,  make  me 

“His  obliged,humble  servant, 

T-  “Vitruvius.” 


No.  168.]  WEDNESDAY,  SEPT.  12,  1711. 

- Pectus  pracceptis  format  amicis.—HoR.  2  Ep.  i,  128. 

Forms  the  soft  bosom  with  the  gentlest  art. — Pope. 

.  It  would  be  arrogance  to  neglect  the  applica¬ 
tion  of  my  correspondents  so  far,  as  not  sometimes 
to  insert  their  animadversions  upon  my  paper; 
that  ol  this  day  shall  be  therefore  wholly  composed 
of  the  hints  which  they  have  sent  me. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  send  you  this  to  congratulate  your  late 
choice  of  a  subject,  for  treating  on  which  you  de- 
sei  vc  public  thanks  ;  I  mean  that  on  those  licensed 
tyiants  the  schoolmasters.  If  you  can  disarm 
them  of  their  rods,  you  will  certainly  have  your  old 
age  reverenced  by  all  the  young  gentlemen  of 
Great  Britain  who  are  now  between  seven  and  se¬ 
venteen  years.  You  may  boast  that  the  incompa¬ 
rably  wise  Quintilian  and  you  are  of  one  mind  in 
this  particular.  ‘  Si  cui  est  (says  he)  mens  tarn 
illiberalis  ut  objurgatione  non  corrigatur,  is  etiam  ad 
plagas,  ut  pessima  quceque  mancipia,  durabitur;y  i.  e. 


‘  If  any  child  be  of  so  disingenuous  a  nature,  as 
not  to  stand  corrected  by  reproof,  he,  like  the  very 
worst  ot  slaves,  will  be  hardened  even  against 
blows  themselves.’  And  afterward,  ‘  Pudet  dicere 
in  quce  probra  nefandi  homines  isto  ccedendi  jure  abu- 
tantur;  i.  e.  ‘  1  blush  to  say  how  shamefully  those 
wicked  men  abuse  the  power  of  correction.’ 

\  T,ls  ^red  myself,  Sir,  in  a  very  great  school,* 
of  which  the  master  was  a  Welshman,  but  cer¬ 
tainly  descended  from  a  Spanish  family,  as  plain¬ 
ly appeared  from  his  temper  as  well  as  his  name. f 
^  \^GJ0U  ju<^£e  what  sort  of  a  schoolmaster 
a  Welshman  ingrafted  on  a  Spaniard  would  make. 
So  very  dreadful  had  he  made  himself  to  me,  that 
although  it  is  above  twenty  years  since  I  felt  his 
heavy  hand,  yet  still  once  a  month  at  least  I 
dream  of  him,  so  strong  an  impression  did  he 
make  on  my  mind.  It  is  a  sign  he  has  fully  ter- 
lified  me  waking,  who  still  continues  to  haunt  me 
sleeping. 

“  And  yet  I  may  say  without  vanity,  that  the 
business  of  the  school  was  what  I  did  without 
great  difficulty ;  and  I  was  not  remarkably  un¬ 
lucky  ;  and  yet  such  was  the  master’s  severity, 
that  once  a  month,  or  oftener,  I  suffered  as  much 
as  would  have  satisfied  the  law  of  the  land  for  a 
petty  larceny. 

“  Many  a  white  and  tender  hand,  which  the 
fond  mother  had  passionately  kissed  a  thousand 
and  a  thousand  times,  have  I  seen  whipped  until 
it  was  covered  with  blood  ;  perhaps  for  smiling, 
or  for  going  a  yard  and  a  half  out  of  a  gate,  or 
for  writing  an  o  for  an  a,  or  an  a  for  an  o.  These 
were  our  great  faults !  Many  a  brave  and  noble 
spirit  has  been  there  broken  ;  others  have  run  from 
thence,  and  were  never  heard  of  afterward.  It  is 
a  worthy  attempt  to  undertake  the  cause  of  dis- 
tiessed  youth  ;  and  it  is  a  noble  piece  of  knight- 
enantry  to  enter  the  list  against  so  many  armed 
pedagogues..  It  is  pity  but  we  had  a  set  of  men, 
polite  in  their  behavior  and  method  of  teaching, 
who  should  be  put  into  a  condition  of  being  above 
flattering  or  fearing  the  parents  of  those  they  in- 
stiuct.  We  might  then  possibly  see  learning  be¬ 
come  a  pleasure,  and  children  delighting  them¬ 
selves  in  that  which  they  now  abhor  for  coming 
upon  such  hard  terms  to  them.  What  would  be 
still  a  greater  happiness  arising  from  the  care  of 
such  instructors,  would  be,  that  we  should  have 
no  more  pedants,  nor  any  bred  to  learning  who 
had  not  genius  for  it. 

“  I  am,  with  the  utmost  sincerity.  Sir, 

“Your  most  affectionate,  humble  servant.” 

“Mr.  Spectator,  Richmond,  Sept.  5,  1711. 

“  I  am  a  boy,  of  fourteen  years  of  age,  and  have 
for  this  last  year  been  under  the  tuition  of  a  doc¬ 
tor  of  divinity,  who  has  taken  the  school  of  this 
place  under  his  cared  From  the  gentleman’s 
great  tenderness  to  me  and  friendship  to  my  father, 

I  am  very  happy  in  learning  my  book  with  plea¬ 
sure.  We  never  leave  off  our  diversions  any 
farther  than  to  salute  him  at  hours  of  play  when 
he  pleases  to  look  on.  It  is  impossible  for  any  of 
us  to  love  our  own  parents  better  than  we  do  him. 
He  never  gives  any  of  us  a  harsh  word,  and  we 
think  it  the  greatest  punishment  in  the  world 
when  he  will  not  speak  to  any  of  us.  My  bro¬ 
ther  and  I  are  both  together  inditing  this  let¬ 
ter.  He  is  a  year  older  than  I  am,  but  is  now 
ready  to  break  his  heart  that  the  doctor  has  not 


*Eton. 

f  Dr.  Charles  Eoderick,  master,  the  provost  of  Eton-school, 
and  afterward  master  of  King’s  College,  Cambridge. 

JThis  was  Dr.  Nicholas  Brady,  who  joined  in  the  new 
version  of  the  Psalms,  and  was  author  of  several  volumes 
of  sermons. 


222  THE  SPE 

taken  any  notice  of  him  these  three  days.  If  you 
please  to  print  this  he  will  see  it,  and,  we  hope, 
takino-  it  for  my  brother’s  earnest  desire  to  be  re¬ 
stored*  to  his  favor,  he  will  again  smile  upon  him. 

“  Your  most  obedient  servant,  T.  S.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  You  have  represented  several  sort  of  imperti- 
nents  singly;  I  wish  you  would  now  proceed 
and  describe  some  of  them  in  sets.  It  often  hap¬ 
pens  in  public  assemblies,  that  a  party  who  came 
thither  together,  or  whose  impertinences  are  of 
an  equal  pitch,  act  in  concert,  and  are  so  full  of 
themselves  as  to  give  disturbance  to  all  that  are 
about  them.  Sometimes  you  have  a  set  of  whis¬ 
perers  who  lay  their  heaas  together  in  order  to 
sacrifice  every  body  within  their  observation  ; 
sometimes  a  set  of  laughers  that  keep  up  an  insi¬ 
pid  mirth  in  their  own  corner,  and  by  their  noise 
and  gestures  show  they  have  no  respect  for  the 
rest  of  the  company.  You  frequently  meet  with 
these  sets  at  the  opera,  the  play,  the  water-works,* 
and  other  public  meetings,  where  their  whole 
business  is  to  draw  off  the  attention  of  the  spec¬ 
tators  from  the  entertainment  and  to  fix  it  upon 
themselves  ;  and  it  is  to  be  observed  that  the  im¬ 
pertinence  is  ever  loudest,  when  the  set  happens 
to  be  made  up  of  three  or  four  females  who  have 
got  what  you  call  a  woman’s  man  among  them. 

“  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  from  whom  people  of 
fortune  should  learn  this  behavior,  unless  it  be 
from  the  footmen  who  keep  their  places  at  a  new 
play,  and  are  often  seen  passing  away  their  time 
in  sets  at  all-fours  in  the  face  of  a  full  house,  and 
with  a  perfect  disregard  to  the  people  of  quality 
sitting  on  each  side  of  them. 

“  For  preserving  therefore  the  decency  of  public 
assemblies,  methinks  it  would  be  but  reasonable 
that  those  who  disturb  others  should  pay  at  least 
a  double  price  for  their  places  ;  or  rather,  women 
of  birth  and  distinction  should  be  informed,  that 
a  levity  of  behavior  in  the  eyes  of  people  of  under¬ 
standing  degrades  them  below  their  meanest  at¬ 
tendants  ;  and  gentlemen  should  know  that  a  fine 
coat  is  a  livery,  when  the  person  Avho  wears  it  dis¬ 
covers  no  higher  sense  than  that  of  a  footman. 

“  I  am.  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant.” 

“Bedfordshire,  Sept.  1,  1711. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  one  of  tflose  whom  everybody  calls  a 
poacher,  and  sometimes  go  out  to  course  with  a 
brace  of  greyhounds,  a  mastiff,  and  a  spaniel  or 
two  ;  and  when  I  am  weary  with  coursing,  and 
have  killed  hares  enough,!  go  to  an  alehouse  to 
refresh  myself.  I  beg  the  favor  of  you  (as  you 
set  up  for  a  reformer)  to  send  us  word  how  many 
dogs  you  will  allow  us  to  go  with,  how  many  full 
pots  of  ale  to  drink,  and  how  many  hares  to  kill 
in  a  day,  and  you  will  do  a  great  piece  of  service 
to  all  the  sportsmen.  Be  quick,  then,  for  the  time 
of  coursing  is  come  on.  Yours  in  haste, 

T.  “  Isaac  Hedgeditch.” 

*  This  was  the  Water-theater,  a  famous  show  of  those 
times,  invented  by  one  Mr.  Winstanley,  and  exhibited  at  the 
lower  end  of  Piccadilly;  consisting  of  sea-gods,  goddesses, 
nymphs,  mermaids,  tritons,  etc.,  playing  and  spouting  out 
water,  and  fire  mingled  with  water,  etc.,  performed  every 
evening  between  five  and  six. 

f  Enow. 


CT  ATOR. 

No.  169.]  THURSDAY,  SEPTEMBER  13,  1711. 

Sic  vita  erat :  facile  omnes  perferre  ac  pati : 

Cum  quibus  erat  cunque  una,  his  sese  dedere 
Eorum  obsequi  studiis:  adversus  neiniui; 

Nunquam  praeponens  se  aliis.  Ita  faeillime 

Sine  invidia  invenias  laudem- - 

Ter.  Andr.,  act  1,  sc.  1. 

His  manner  of  life  was  this:  to  bear  with  everybody’s 
humors;  to  comply  with  the  inclinations  and  pursuits  of 
those  he  conversed  with;  to  contradict  nobody;  never  to  as¬ 
sume  a  superiority  over  others.  This  is  the  ready  way  to 
gain  applause  without  exciting  envy. 

Man  is  subject  to  innumerable  pains  and  sor¬ 
rows  by  the  very  condition  of  humanity,  and  yet, 
as  if  nature  had  not  sown  evils  enough  in  life, 
we  are  continually  adding  grief  to  grief,  and  ag¬ 
gravating  the  common  calamity  by  our  cruel  treat¬ 
ment  of  one  another.  Every  man’s  natural  weight 
of  afflictions  is  still  made  more  heavy  by  the  envy, 
malice,  treachery,  or  injustice  of  his  neighbor. 
At  the  same  time  that  the  storm  beats  upon  the 
whole  species,  we  are  falling  foul  upon  one 
another. 

Half  the  misery  of  human  life  might  be  extin¬ 
guished,  would  men  alleviate  the  general  curse 
they  lie  under,  by  mutual  offices  of  compassion, 
benevolence,  and  humanity.  There  is  nothing, 
therefore,  which  we  ought  more  to  encourage  in 
ourselves  and  others,  than  that  disposition  of 
mind  which  in  our  language  goes  under  the  title 
of  good-nature,  and  which  I  shall  choose  for  the 
subject  of  this  day’s  speculation. 

Good-nature  is  more  agreeable  in  conversation 
than  wit,  and  gives  a  certain  air  to  the  counten¬ 
ance,  which  is  more  amiable  than  beauty.  It 
shows  virtue  in  the  fairest  light,  takes  off  in  some 
measure  from  the  deformity  of  vice,  and  makes 
even  folly  and  impertinence  supportable. 

There  is  no  society  or  conversation  to  be  kept  up 
in  the  world  without  good-nature,  or  something 
which  must  bear  its  appearance,  and  supply  its 
place.  For  this  reason  mankind  have  been  forced 
to  invent  a  kind  of  artificial  humanity,  which  is 
what  we  express  by  the  word  good-breeding.  For 
if  we  examine  thoroughly  the  idea  of  what  we 
call  so,  we  shall  find  it  to  be  nothing  else  but  an 
imitation  and  mimicry  of  good-nature,  or,  in 
other  terms,  affability,  complaisance,  and  easiness 
of  temper  reduced  into  an  art. 

These  exterior  shows  and  appearances  of  huma¬ 
nity  render  a  man  wonderfully  popular  and  be¬ 
loved,  when  they  are  founded  upon  a  real  good¬ 
nature  ;  but  without  it,  are  like  hypocrisy  in  reli¬ 
gion,  or  a  bare  form  of  holiness,  which,  when  it  is 
discovered,  makes  a  man  more  detestable  than 
professed  impiety. 

Good-nature  is  generally  born  with  us  ;  health, 
prosperity,  and  kind  treatment  from  the  world  are 
the  great  cherishers  of  it  where  they  find  it ;  but 
nothing  is  capable  of  forcing  it  up,  where  it  does 
not  grow  of  itself.  It  is  one  of  the  blessings  of  a 
happy  constitution,  which  education  may  improve, 
but  not  produce. 

Xenophon,  in  the  life  of  his  imaginary  prince, 
whom  he  describes  as  a  pattern  for  real  ones,  is 
always  celebrating  the  philanthropy  or  good-na¬ 
ture  of  his  hero,  which  he  tells  us  he  brought  into 
the  world  with  him,  and  gives  many  remarkable 
instances  of  it  in  his  childhood,  as  well  as  in  all 
the  several  parts  of  his  life.*  Nay,  on  his  death¬ 
bed,  he  describes  him  as  being  pleased,  that  while 
his  soul  returned  to  him  who  made  it,  his  body 
should  incorporate  with  the  great  mother  of  all 
things,  and  by  that  means  become  beneficial  to  all 
mankind.  For  which  reason  he  gives  his  sons  a 


*  Xenoph.  De  Cyri  Instit.,  lib.  viii,  cap.  vii,  ec.  3,  edit.  J.  A 
Em.  8vo.,  tom.  i,  p.  550. 


THE  SPECTATOR.  one 

Wo.  170.]  FRIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  14,  1711. 


positive  order  not  to  enshrine  it  in  gold  or  silver, 
but  to  lay  it  in  the  earth  as  soon  as  the  life  was 
gone  out  of  it. 

An  instance  of  such  an  overflowing  of  hu¬ 
manity,  such  an  exuberant  love  to  mankind, 
could  not  have  entered  into  the  imagination  of 
a  writer,  who  had  not  a  soul  filled  with  great 
ideas,  and  a  general  benevolence  to  mankind. 

In  that  celebrated  passage  of  Sallust,  where 
Gassar  and  Cato  are  placed  in  such  beautiful,  but 
opposite  lights,*  Caesar’s  character  is  chiefly 
made  up  of  good-nature,  as  it  showed  itself  in 
all  its  forms  toward  his  friends  or  his  enemies, 
his  servants  or  dependents,  the  guilty  or  the 
distressed.  As  for  Cato’s  character,  it  is  ra¬ 
ther  awful  than  amiable.  Justice  seems  most 
agreeable  to  the  nature  of  God,  and  mercy  to  that 
ot  man.  A  being  who  has  nothing  to  pardon  in 
himself,  may  reward  every  man  according  to  his 
works;  but  he  whose  very  best  actions  must  be 
seen  with  grains  of  allowance,  cannot  be  too 
mild,  moderate,  and  forgiving.  For  this  reason, 
among  all  the  monstrous  characters  in  human 
nature,  there  is  none  so  odious,  nor  indeed  so 
exquisitely  ridiculous,  as  that  of  a  rigid,  severe 
temper  in  a  worthless  man. 

.  T  ,s  PaI"t  of  good-nature,  however,  which  con¬ 
sists  in  the  pardoning  and  overlooking  of  faults, 
is  to  be  exercised  only  in  doing  ourselves  justice, 
and  that  too  in  the  ordinary  commerce  and  occur¬ 
rences  of  life  :  for  in  the  public  administrations 
of  justice,  mercy  to  one  may  be  cruelty  to 
others.  J 

It  is  grown  almost  into  a  maxim,  that  good- 
natured  men  are  not  always  men  of  the  most  wit. 
This  observation,  in  my  opinion,  has  no  founda¬ 
tion  in  nature.  The  greatest  wits  I  have  con¬ 
versed  with,  are  men  eminent  for  their  humanity. 

I  take,  therefore,  this  remark  to  have  been  occa¬ 
sioned  by  two  reasons.  First,  because  ill -nature 
among  ordinary  observers  passes  for  wit.  A 
spiteful  saying  gratifies  so  many  little  passions 
in  those  who  hear  it,  that  it  generally  meets  with 
a  good  reception.  The  laugh  rises  upon  it,  and 
the  man  who  utters  it  is  looked  upon  as  a  shrewd 
satirist.  This  may  be  one  reason,  why  a  great 
many  pleasant  companions  appear  so  surprisingly 
dull,  when  they  have  endeavored  to  be  merry3 in 
print  ;  the  public  being  more  just  than  private 
clubs  or  assemblies,  in  distinguishing  between 
what  is  wit,  and  what  is  ill-nature. 

Another  reason  why  the  good-natured  man  may 
sometimes  bring  his  wit  in  question,  is,  perhaps, 
because  he  is  apt  to  be  moved  with  compassion 
tor  those  misfortunes  or  infirmities,  which  another 
would  turn  into  ridicule,  and  by  that  means  gain 
the  reputation  of  a  wit.  The  ill-natured  man, 
though  but  of  equal  parts,  gives  himself  a  larger 
field  to  expatiate  in  ;  he  exposes  those  failings  in 
human  nature  which  the  other  would  cast  a  vail 
over,  laughs  at  vices  which  the  other  either  ex¬ 
cuses  or  conceals,  gives  utterance  to  reflections 
which  the  other  stifles,  falls  indifferently  upon 
triends  or  enemies,  exposes  the  person  who  has 
obliged  him,  and  in  short,  sticks  at  nothing  that 
may  establish  his  character  as  a  wit.  It  is  no 
wonder,  therefore,  that  he  succeeds  in  it  better 
thmi  the  man  of  humanity,+  as  a  person  who 
makes  use  of  indirect  methods  is  more  likely  to 
grow  rich  than  the  fair  trader.— L. 


*  Sallust.  Bell.  Catil.,  c.  liv. 

f  If  Dr.  Swift’s  wit  was  to  be  subjected  to  this  scrutiny  it 
would  be  circumscribed  within  a  very  narrow  compass  The 
chief  source  from  which  it  sprung  was  the  indignation  that 
gnawed  his  heart. 


In  amoro  lime  omnia  insunt  vitia:  injuria?, 
feuspiciones,  iniuikitke,  iuduciaj, 

Bellum,  pax  rursum -  Ter.  Eun.,  act  i,  sc.  1. 

In  love  are  all  these  ills:  suspicions,  quarrels, 
rongs,  reconcilements,  war,  and  peace  again  — Coi.eman. 

Upon  looking  over  the  letters  of  my  female 
coi  lespondents,  I  find  several  from  women  com 
plaining  of  jealous  husbands,  and  at  the  same 
time  protesting  their  own  innocence  ;  and  desir¬ 
ing  my  advice  on  this  occasion.  I  shall  therefore 
take  this  subject  into  my  consideration  ;  and  the 
";illjn8jy>  because  I  find  that  the  Marquis 
of  Halifax,  who  in  his  Advice  to  a  Daughter,  lias 
instructed  a  wife  how  to  behave  herself&toward  a 
false,  an  intemperate,  a  choleric,  a  sullen,  a  covet¬ 
ous  or  a  silly  husband,  has  not  spoken  one  word 
of  a  jealous  husband. 

“  Jealousy  is  that  pain  which  a  man  feels  from 
the  apprehension  that  he  is  not  equally  beloved 
by  the  person  whom  he  entirely  loves.”  Now 
because  our  inward  passions  and  inclinations  can 
never  make  themselves  visible,  it  is  impossible 
for  a  jealous  man  to  be  thoroughly  cured  of  his 
suspicions.  His  thoughts  hang  at  best  in  a  state 
of  doubtfulness  and  uncertainty  ;  and  are  never 
capable  of  receiving  any  satisfaction  on  the  ad¬ 
vantageous  side;  so  that  his  inquiries  are  most 
successful  when  they  discover  nothing.  His 
pleasure  arises  from  his  disappointments,  and  his 
life  is  spent  in  pursuit  of  a  secret  that  destroys 
his  happiness  if  he  chance  to  find  it. 

.  -Am  aident  love  is  always  a  strong  ingredient 
m  his  passion ;  for  the  same  affection  which  stirs 
up  the  jealous  man’s  desires,  and  gives  the  party 
beloved  so  beautiful  a  figure  in  his  imagination, 
makes  him  believe  she  kindles  the  same  passion 
in  others,  and  appears  as  amiable  to  all  beholders. 
And  as  jealousy  thus  arises  from  an  extraordinary 
love,  it  is  of  so  delicate  a  nature,  that  it  scorns  to 
take  up  with  anything  less  than  an  equal  return 
of  love.  Not  the  warmest  expressions  of  affec¬ 
tion,  the  softest  and  most  tender  hypocrisy  are 
able  to  give  any  satisfaction  where  we  are  not 
persuaded  that  the  affection  is  real,  and  the  satis¬ 
faction  mutual.  For  the  jealous  man  wishes  him¬ 
self  a  kind  of  deity  to  the  person  he  loves.  He 
would  be  the  only  pleasure  of  her  senses,  the 
employment  of  her  thoughts,  and  is  angry  at 
everything  she  admires,  or  takes  delight  in,  be¬ 
side  himself. 

Phaedra’s  request  to  his  mistress,  upon  his  leav¬ 
ing  her  for  three  days,  is  inimitably  beautiful  and 
natural: 

Cum  milite  isto  praesens,  absens  ut  sies : 

Dies  noctesque  me  ames :  me  desideres :  ' 

Me  somnies :  me  expectes :  de  me  cogites : 

Me  speres :  me  te  obleetes :  mecurn  tota  sis : 

Meus  fac  sis  postremo  animus,  quando  ego  sum  tuus. 

Ter.  Eun.,  act  i,  sc.  2. 

Be  with  yon  soldier  present,  as  if  absent. 

All  night  and  day  love  me :  still  long  for  me : 

Dream,  ponder  still  “  on  ”  me :  wish,  hope  for  me 
Delight  in  me :  be  all  in  all  with  me : 

Give  your  whole  heart,  for  mine’s  all  yours,  to  me. 

Coleman. 

The  jealous  man’s  disease  is  of  so  malignant  a 
nature,  that  it  converts  all  it  takes  into  its  own 
nourishment.  A  cool  behavior  sets  him  on  the 
rack,  and  is  interpreted  as  an  instance  of  aversion 
or  indifference  ;  a  fond  one  raises  his  suspicions, 
and  looks  too  much  like  dissimulation  and  arti¬ 
fice.  If  the  person  he  loves  be  cheerful,  her 
thoughts  must  be  employed  on  another;  and  if 
sad,  she  is  certainly  thinking  on  himself.  In 
short,  there  is  no  word  or  gesture  so  insignificant, 

I  but  it  gives  him  new  hints,  feeds  his  suspicions. 


224 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


and  furnishes  him  with  fresh  matters  of  discovery : 
so  that  if  we  consider  the  effects  of  his  passion,  one 
would  rather  think  it  proceeded  from  an  invete¬ 
rate  hatred,  than  an  excess  of  love ;  for  certainly 
none  can  meet  with  more  disquietude  and  unea¬ 
siness  than  a  suspected  wife,  if  wTe  except  the 
jealous  husband. 

But  the  great  unhappiness  of  this  passion  is, 
that  it  naturally  tends  to  alienate  the  affection 
which  it  is  so  solicitous  to  engross ;  and  that  for 
these  two  reasons,  because  it  lays  too  great  a  con¬ 
straint  on  the  words  and  actions  of  the  suspected 
person,  and  at  the  same  time  shows  you  have  no 
honorable  opinion  of  her ;  both  of  which  are 
strong  motives  to  aversion. 

Nor  is  this  the  worst  effect  of  jealousy;  for  it 
often  draws  after  it  a  more  fatal  train  of  conse¬ 
quences,  and  makes  the  person  you  suspect  guilty 
of  the  very  crimes  you  are  so  much  afraid  of. 
It  is  very  natural  for  such  who  are  treated  ill  and 
upbraided  falsely,  to  find  out  an  intimate  friend 
that  will  hear  their  complaints,  condole  their 
sufferings,  and  endeavor  to  soothe  and  assuage 
their  secret  resentments.  Beside,  jealousy  puts 
a  woman  often  in  mind  of  an  ill  thing  that  she 
would  not  otherwise  perhaps  have  thought  of, 
and  fills  her  imagination  with  such  an  unlucky 
idea,  as  in  time  grows  familiar,  excites  desire, 
and  loses  all  the  shame  and  horror  which  might 
at  first  attend  it.  Nor  is  it  a  wonder  if  she  who 
suffers  wrongfully  in  a  man’s  opinion  of  her,  and 
has  therefore  nothing  to  forfeit  in  his  esteem,  re¬ 
solves  to  give  him  reason  for  his  suspicions,  and 
to  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  the  crime,  since  she  must 
undergo  the  ignominy.  Such  probably  were  the 
considerations  that  directed  the  wise  man  in  his 
advice  to  husbands  :  “  Be  not  jealous  over  the 
wife  of  thy  bosom,  and  teach  her  not  an  evil 
lesson  against  thyself.”* 

And  here  among  the  other  torments  which  this 
passion  produces,  we  may  usually  observe  that 
none  are  greater  mourners  than  jealous  men, 
when  the  person  who  provokes  their  jealousy  is 
taken  from  them.  Then  it  is  that  their  love 
breaks  out  furiously,  and  throws  off  all  the  mix¬ 
tures  of  suspicion  which  choked  and  smothered 
it  before.  The  beautiful  parts  of  the  character 
rise  uppermost  in  the  jealous  husband’s  memory, 
and  upbraid  him  with  the  ill-usage  of  so  divine  a 
creature  as  was  once  in  his  possession  ;  while  all 
the  little  imperfections,  that  were  before  so  un¬ 
easy  to  him,  wear  off  from  his  remembrance,  and 
show  themselves  no  more. 

We  may  see  by  what  has  been  said,  that  jeal¬ 
ousy  takes  the  deepest  root  in  men  of  amorous 
dispositions  ;  and  of  these  we  find  three  kinds 
who  are  most  overrun  with  it. 

The  first  are  those  who  are  conscious  to  them¬ 
selves  of  any  infirmity,  whether  it  be  weakness, 
old  age,  deformity,  ignorance,  or  the  like.  These 
men  are  so  well  acquainted  with  the  unamiable 
part  of  themselves,  that  they  have  not  the  con¬ 
fidence  to  think  they  are  really  beloved ;  and  are 
so  distrustful  of  their  own  merits,  that  all  fond¬ 
ness  towards  them  puts  them  out  of  countenance, 
and  looks  like  a  jest  upon  their  persons.  They 
grow  suspicious  on  their  first  looking  in  a  glass, 
and  are  stung  with  jealousy  at  the  si^ht  of  a 
wrinkle.  A  handsome  fellow  immediately  alarms 
them,  and  everything  that  looks  young,  or  gay, 
turns  their  thoughts  upon  their  wives. 

A  second  sort  of  men,  who  are  most  liable  to 
this  passion,  are  those  of  cunning,  wary,  and  dis¬ 
trustful  tempers.  It  is  a  fault  very  justly  found 
in  histories  composed  by  politicians,  that  they 


leave  nothing  to  chance  or  humor,  but  are  still 
for  deriving  every  action  from  some  plot  or  con¬ 
trivance,  for  drawing  up  a  perpetual  scheme  of 
causes  and  events,  and  preserving  a  constant  cor¬ 
respondence  between  the  camp  and  the  council- 
table.  And  thus  it  happens  in  the  affairs  of  love 
with  men  of  too  refined  a  thought.  They  put  a 
construction  on  a  look,  and  find  out  a  design  in  a 
smile  ;  they  give  new  senses  and  significations 
to  words  and  actions ;  and  are  ever  tormenting 
themselves  with  fancies  of  their  own  raising. 
They  generally  act  in  a  disguise  themselves,  and 
therefore  mistake  all  outward  shows  and  appear¬ 
ances  for  hypocrisy  in  others  ;  so  that  I  believe 
no  men  see  less  of  the  truth  and  reality  of  things, 
than  these  great  refiners  upon  incidents,  who  are 
so  wonderfully  subtile  and  over-wise  in  their  con¬ 
ceptions. 

Now  what  these  men  fancy  they  know  of  wo¬ 
men  by  reflection,  your  lewd  and  vicious  men 
believe  they  have  learned  by  experience.  They 
have  seen  the  poor  husband  so  misled  by  tricks 
and  artifices,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  inquiries 
so  lost  and  bewildered  in  a  crooked  intrigue,  that 
they  still  suspect  an  underplot  in  every  female 
action  ;  and  especially  where  they  see  any  re¬ 
semblance  in  the  behavior  of  two  persons,  are 
apt  to  fancy  it  proceeds  from  the  same  design  in 
both.  These  men  therefore  bear  hard  upon  the 
suspected  party,  pursue  her  close  through  all  her 
turnings  and  windings,  and  are  too  well  acquaint¬ 
ed  with  the  chase,  to  be  flung  off  by  any  false 
steps,  or  doubles.  Beside,  their  acquaintance 
and  conversation  has  lain  wholly  among  the  vin 
cious  part  of  womankind,  and  therefore  it  is  no 
wonder  they  censure  all  alike,  and  look  upon  the 
whole  sex  as  a  species  of  impostors.  But  if,  not¬ 
withstanding  their  private  experience,  they  can 
get  over  these  prejudices,  and  entertain  a  favor¬ 
able  opinion  of  some  women  ;  yet  their  own  loose 
desires  will  stir  up  new  suspicions  from  another 
side,  and  make  them  believe  all  men  subject  to 
the  same  inclinations  with  themselves. 

Whether  these  or  other  motives  are  most  predo 
minant,  we  learn  from  the  modern  histories  of 
America,  as  well  as  from  our  own  experience  in 
this  part  of  the  world,  that  jealousy  is  no  northern 
passion,  but  rages  most  in  those  nations  that  lie 
nearest  the  influence  of  the  sun.  It  is  a  misfor¬ 
tune  for  a  woman  to  be  born  between  the  tropics  ; 
for  there  lie  the  hottest  regions  of  jealousy,  which 
as  you  come  northward  cools  all  along  with  the 
climate,  till  you  scarce  meet  with  anything  like 
it  in  the  polar  circle.  Our  own  nation  is  very 
temperately  situated  in  this  respect;  and  if  we 
meet  with  some  few  disordered  with  the  violence 
of  this  passion,  they  are  not  the  proper  growth 
of  our  country,  but  are  many  degrees  nearer  the 
sun  in  their  constitutions  than  in  their  climate. 

After  this  frightful  account  of  jealousy,  and  the 

Eersons  who  are  most  subject  to  it,  it  will  be 
ut  fair  to  show  by  what  means  the  passion  may 
be  best  allayed,  and  those  who  are  possessed 
with  it  set  at  ease.  Other  faults  indeed  are  not 
under  the  wife’s  jurisdiction,  and  should,  if  pos¬ 
sible,  escape  her  observation  ;  but  jealousy  calls 
upon  her  particularly  for  its  cure,  and  deserves 
all  her  art  and  application  in  the  attempt.  Be¬ 
side  she  has  this  for  her  encouragement,  that  her 
endeavors  will  be  always  pleasing,  and  that  she 
will  still  find  the  affection  of  her  husband  rising 
toward  her  in  proportion  as  his  doubts  and  sus¬ 
picions  vanish ;  for,  as  we  have  seen  all  along, 
there  is  so  great  a  mixture  of  love  and  jealousy  as 
is  well  worth  the  separating.  But  this  shall  be 
the  subject  of  another  paper. — L. 


*  Ecclesiasticus,  Lx,  1. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


225 


No  171. J  SATURDAY,  SEPTEMBER  15,  1711. 

Credula  res  amor  est— - 

Ovid.  Met.,  vii,  826. 

Love  is  a  credulous  passion. 

Having  in  my  yesterday’s  paper  discovered  the 
nature  of  jealousy,  and  pointed  out  the  persons 
who  are  most  subject  to  it,  I  must  here  apply  my¬ 
self  to  my  fair  correspondents,  who  desire  to  live 
well  with  a  jealous  husband,  and  to  ease  his  mind 
of  its  unjust  suspicions. 

The  first  rule  I  shall  propose  to  be  observed  is, 
that  you  never  seem  to  dislike  in  another  what 
the  jealous  man  is  himself  guilty  of,  or  to  admire 
anything  in  which  he  himself  does  not  excel.  A 
jealous  man  is  very  quick  in  his  applications  ;  he 
knows  how  to  find  a  double  edge  in  an  invective, 
and  to  draw  a  satire  on  himself  out  of  a  panegyric 
on  another.  He  does  not  trouble  himself  to  con¬ 
sider  the  person,  but  to  direct  the  character ;  and 
is  secretly  pleased  or  confounded,  as  he  finds  more 
or  less  of  nimself  in  it.  The  commendation  of 
anything  in  another  stirs  up  his  jealousy,  as  it 
shows  you  have  a  value  for  others  beside  himself ; 
but  the  commendation  of  that,  which  he  himself 
wants,  inflames  him  more,  as  it  shows  that  in 
some  respects  you  prefer  others  before  him. 
Jealousy  is  admirably  described  in  this  view  by 
Horace  in  his  ode  to  Lydia : 

Quum  tu,  Lydia,  Telephi 
Cervicem  roseam,  et  cerea  Telephi 
Laudas  brachia,  veb  mecum 
Fervens  difficili  bile  tumet  jecur : 

Tunc  nec  mens  mihi.  nec  color 
Certa  sede  manet ;  humor  et  in  genas 
Furtim  labitur,  arguens 
Quam  lentis  peditus  macerer  ignibus. 

1  Od.,  xiii,  1. 

When  Telephus  his  youthful  charms, 

His  rosy  neck  and  winding  arms, 

With  endless  rapture  you  recite, 

And  in  the  pleasing  name  delight; 

My  heart  inflamed  by  jealous  heats, 

With  numberless  resentments  beats : 

From  my  pale  cheek  the  color  flies, 

And  all  the  man  within  me  dies : 

By  turns  my  hidden  grief  appears 
In  rising  sighs  and  falling  tears. 

That  show  too  well  the  warm  desires, 

The  silent,  slow,  consuming  fires, 

Which  on  my  inmost  vitals  prey, 

And  melt  my  very  soul  away. 

The  jealous  man  is  not  indeed  angry  if  you  dis¬ 
like  another ;  but  if  you  find  those  faults  which 
are  to  be  found  in  his  own  character,  you  discover 
not  only  your  dislike  of  another  but  of  himself. 
In  short,  he  is  so  desirous  of  engrossing  all  your 
love,  that  he  is  grieved  at  the  want  of  any  charm, 
which  he  believes  has  power  to  raise  it ;  and  if  lie 
finds  by  your  censures  on  others  that  he  is  not  so 
agreeable  in  your  opinion  as  he  might  be,  he  natu¬ 
rally  concludes  you  could  love  him  better  if  he 
had  other  qualifications,  and  that  by  consequence 
your  affection  does  not  rise  so  high  as  he  thinks  it 
ought.  If  therefore  his  temper  be  grave  or  sullen, 
you  must  not  be  too  much  pleased  with  a  jest,  or 
transported  with  anvthing  that  is  gay  and  divert- 
ing.  If  his  beauty  be  none  of  the  best,  you  must 
be  a  pr ofessed  admirer  of  prudence,  or  any  other 
quality  he  is  master  of,  or  at  least  vain  enough  to 
j  think  he  is. 

In  the  next  place,  you  must  be  sure  to  be  free 
and  open  in  your  conversation  with  him,  and  to 
let  m  light  upon  your  actions,  to  unravel  all  your 
designs,  and  discover  every  secret,  however  triflino- 
or  indifferent.  A  jealous  husband  has  a  particu¬ 
lar  aversion  to  winks  and  whispers  ;  and  if  he 
does  not  see  to  the  bottom  of  everything,  will  be 
sure  to  go  beyond  it  in  his  fears  and  suspicions. 
He  will  always  expect  to  be  your  chief  confidant  ; 
and  where  he  finds  himself  kept  out  of  a  secret’ 


will  believe  there  is  more  in  it  than  there  should 
be.  And  here  it  is  of  great  concern,  that  you  pre¬ 
serve  the  character  of  your  sincerity  uniform  and 
of  a  piece ;  for  if  he  once  finds  a  false  gloss  put 
upon  any  single  action,  he  quickly  suspects  all 
the  rest ;  his  working  imagination  immediately 
takes  a  false  hint,  and  runs  off  with  it  into  several 
remote  consequences,  till  he  has  proved  very  inge¬ 
nious  in  working  out  his  own  misery. 

If  both  these  methods  fail,  the  best  way  will  be 
to  let  him  see  you  are  much  cast  down  and  afflicted 
for  the  ill  opinion  he  entertains  of  you,  and  the 
disquietudes  he  himself  suffers  for  your  sake. 
There  are  many  who  take  a  kind  of  barbarous 
pleasure  in  the  jealousy  of  those  who  love  them, 
that  insult  over  an  aching  heart,  and  triumph  in 
their  charms,  which  are  able  to  excite  so  much 
uneasiness : 

Ardeat  ipsa  licet,  tormentis  gaudet  amantis. 

Juv.,  Sat.  vi,  208. 

Though  equal  pains  her  peace  of  mind  destroy, 

A  lover’s  torments  give  her  spiteful  joy. 

But  these  often  carry  the  humor  so  far,  till  their 
affected  coldness  and  indifference  quite  kills  all 
the  fondness  of  a  lover,  and  are  then  sure  to  meet 
in  their  turn  with  all  the  contempt  and  scorn  that 
is  due  to  so  insolent  a  behavior.  On  the  contrary, 
it  is  very  probable  a  melancholy,  dejected  carriage’ 
the  usual  effects  of  injured  innocence,  may  soften 
the  jealous  husband  into  pity,  make  him  sen¬ 
sible  of  the  wrong  he  does  you,  and  work  out  of 
his  mind  all  those  fears  and  suspicions  that  make 
you  both  unhappy.  At  least  it  will  have  this 
good  effect,  that  he  will  keep  his  jealousy  to  him¬ 
self,  and  repine  in  private,  either  because  he  is 
sensible  it  is  a  weakness,  and  will  therefore  hide 
it  from  your  knowledge,  or  because  he  will  be  apt 
to  fear  some  ill  effect  it  may  produce  in  cooling 
your  love  toward  him,  or  diverting  it  to  another. 

There  is  still  another  secret  that  can  never  fail, 
if  you  can  once  get  it  believed,  and  which  is  often 
practiced  by  women  of  greater  cunning  than  vir¬ 
tue.  This  is  to  change  sides  for  a  while  with  the 
jealous  man,  and  to  turn  his  own  passion  upon 
himself ;  to  take  some  occasion  of  growing  jealous 
of  him,  and  to  follow  the  example  he  himself  hath 
set  you.  This  counterfeited  jealousy  will  bring 
him  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  if  he  thinks  it  real ; 
for  he  knows  experimentally  how  much  love  goes 
along  with  this  passion,  and  will  beside  feel  some- 
thing  like  the  satisfaction  of  a  revenge,  in  seeing 
you  undergo  all  his  own  tortures.  But  this,  in¬ 
deed,  is  an  artifice  so  difficult,  and  at  the  same 
time  so  disingenuous,  that  it  ought  never  to  be  put 
in  practice  but  by  such  as  have  skill  enough  to 
cover  the  deceit,  and  innocence  to  render  it  ex¬ 
cusable. 

I  shall  conclude  this  essay  with  the  story  of 
Herod  and  Mariamne,  as  I  have  collected  it  out 
of  Josephus;*  which  may  serve  almost  as  an  ex¬ 
ample  to  whatever  can  be  said  on  this  subject. 

Mariamne  had  all  the  charms  that  beauty,  birth, 
wit,  and  youth,  could  give  a  woman,  and  Herod 
all  the  love  that  such  charms  are  able  to  raise  in  a 
warm  and  amorous  disposition.  In  the  midst  of 
this  his  fondness  for  Mariamne,  he  put  her  brotliei 
to  death,  as  he  did  her  father  not  many  years 
after.  The  barbarity  of  the  action  was  represented 
to  Mark  Antony,  who  immediately  summoned 
Herod  into  Egypt,  to  answer  for  the  crime  that 
was  there  laid  to  his  charge.  Herod  attributed 
the  summons  to  Antony’s  desire  of  Mariamne, 
whom,  therefore,  before  his  departure,  he  gave 
into  the  custody  of  his  uncle  Joseph,  with  private 


*  Antiquities  of  the  Jews,  book  xv,  chap.  3,  sect.  6,  6,9, 
chap.  7,  sect.  1,  2,  etc. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


226 

orders  to  put  her  to  death,  if  any  such  violence 
was'  offered  to  himself.  This  Joseph  was  much 
delighted  with  Mariamne’s  conversation,  and  en¬ 
deavored,  with  all  his  art  and  rhetoric,  to  set  out 
the  excess  of  Herod’s  passion  for  her ;  but  when 
he  still  found  her  cold  and  incredulous,  he  incon¬ 
siderately  told  her,  as  a  certain  instance  of  her 
lord’s  affection,  the  private  orders  he  had  left  be¬ 
hind  him,  which  plainly  showed,  according  to 
Joseph’s  interpretation,  that  he  could  neither  live 
nor  die  without  her.  This  barbarous  instance  of 
a  wild  unreasonable  passion,  quite  put  out,  for  a 
time,  those  little  remains  of  affection  she  still  had 
for  her  lord.  Her  thoughts  were  so  wholly  taken 
up  with  the  cruelty  of  his  orders,  that  she  could 
not  consider  the  kindness  that  produced  them, 
and  therefore  represented  him  in  her  imagination, 
rather  under  the  frightful  idea  of  a  murderer  than 
a  lover. 

Herod  was  at  length  acquitted  and  dismissed 
by  Mark  Antony,  when  his  soul  was  all  in  flames 
for  his  Mariamne  ;  but  before  their  meeting  he  was 
not  a  little  alarmed  at  the  report  he  had  heard  of 
his  uncle’s  conversation  ana  familiarity  with  her 
in  his  absence.  This  therefore  was  the  first  dis¬ 
course  he  entertained  her  with,  in  which  she  found 
it  no  easy  matter  to  quiet  his  suspicions.  But  at 
last  he  appeared  so  well  satisfied  of  her  innocence, 
that  from  reproaches  and  wranglings  he  fell  to  tears 
and  embraces.  Both  of  them  wept  very  tenderly 
at  their  reconciliation,  and  Herod  poured  out  his 
whole  soul  to  her  in  the  warmest  protestations  of 
love  and  constancy;  when  amidst  all  his  sighs 
and  languishings  she  asked  him,  whether  the  pri¬ 
vate  orders  he  left  with  his  uncle  Joseph  were  an 
instance  of  such  an  inflamed  affection.  The  jea¬ 
lous  king  was  immediately  roused  at  so  unex- 
ected  a  question,  and  concluded  his  uncle  must 
ave  been  too  familiar  with  her,  before  he  would 
have  discovered  such  a  secret.  In  short,  he  put 
his  uncle  to  death,  and  very  difficultly  prevailed 
upon  himself  to  spare  Mariamne. 

After  this  he  was  forced  on  a  second  journey 
into  Egypt,  when  he  committed  his  lady  to  the 
care  of  Sohemus,  with  the  same  private  orders  he 
had  before  given  his  uncle,  if  any  mischief  befell 
himself.  In  the  meanwhile  Mariamne  so  won 
upon  Sohemus  by  her  presents  and  obliging  con¬ 
versation,  that  she  drew  all  the  secret  from  him, 
with  which  Herod  had  intrusted  him  ;  so  that  after 
his  return,  when  he  flew  to  her  with  all  the  tran¬ 
sports  of  joy  and  love,  she  received  him  coldly 
with  sighs  and  tears,  and  all  the  marks  of  indiffe¬ 
rence  and  aversion.  This  reception  so  stirred  up 
his  indignation,  that  he  had  certainly  slain  her 
with  his  own  hands,  had  not  he  feared  he  himself 
should  have  become  the  greater  sufferer  by  it.  It 
was  not  long  after  this,  when  he  had  another  vio¬ 
lent  return  of  love  upon  him  :  Mariamne  was 
therefore  sent  for  to  him,  whom  he  endeavored  to 
soften  and  reconcile  with  all  possible  conjugal  car¬ 
esses  and  endearments  ;  but  she  declined  his  em¬ 
braces,  and  answered  all  his  fondness  with  bitter 
invectives  for  the  death  of  her  father,  and  her 
brother.  This  behavior  so  incensed  Herod,  that  he 
very  hardly  refrained  from  striking  her ;  when  in 
the  heat  of  their  quarrel  there  came  in  a  witness, 
suborned  by  some  of  Mariamne’s  enemies,  who 
accused  her  to  the  king  of  a  design  to  poison  him. 
Herod  was  now  prepared  to  hear  ’anything  in  her 
rejudice,  and  immediately  ordered  her  servant  to 
e  stretched  upon  the  rack ;  who  in  the  extremity 
of  his  torture  confessed,  that  his  mistress’s  aver¬ 
sion  to  the  king  arose  from  something  Sohemus 
had  told  her;  but  as  for  any  design  of  poisoning, 
he  utterly  disowned  the  least  knowledge  of  it. 
This  confession  quickly  proved  fatal  to  Sohemus, 


who  now  lay  under  the  same  suspicions  and  sen¬ 
tence  that  Joseph  had  before  him,  on  the  like  oc¬ 
casion.  Nor  would  Herod  rest  here ;  but  accused 
her  with  great  vehemence  of  a  design  upon  his 
life,  and,  by  his  authority  with  the  judges,  had 
her  publicly  condemned  and  executed.  Herod 
soon  after  her  death  grew  melancholy  and  dejected, 
retiring  from  the  public  administration  of  affairs 
into  a  solitary  forest,  and  there  abandoning  him¬ 
self  to  all  the  black  considerations,  which  natu¬ 
rally  arise  from  a  passion  made  up  of  love,  re¬ 
morse,  pity,  and  despair.  He  used  to  rave  for  his 
Mariamne,  and  to  call  upon  her  in  his  distracted 
fits :  and  in  all  probability  would  soon  have  fol¬ 
lowed  her,  had  not  his  thoughts  been  seasonably 
called  off  from  so  sad  an  object  by  public  storms, 
which  at  that  time  very  nearly  threatened  him. — L. 


No.  172.]  MONDAY,  SEPTEMBER  17,  1711. 

Non  solum  scientia,  qu®  est  remota  a  justitia,  calliditaa 
potius  quam  sapientia  est  appellanda ;  verum  etiam  animus 
paratus  ad  periculum,  si  sua  cupiditate,  non  utilitate  com- 
muni,  impellitur,  audaciae  potius  nomen  habeat,  quam  forti- 
tudinis - Plato  apud  Tull. 

As  knowledge,  without  justice,  ought  to  be  called  cunning, 
rather  than  wisdom ;  so  a  mind  prepared  to  meet  danger,  if 
excited  by  its  own  eagerness,  and  not  the  public  good,  de¬ 
serves  the  name  of  audacity,  rather  than  that  of  fortitude. 

There  can  be  no  greater  injury  to  human  so¬ 
ciety  than  that  good  talents  among  the  men  should 
be  held  honorable  to  those  who  are  endowed  with 
them  without  any  regard  how  they  are  applied. 
The  gifts  of  nature  and  accomplishments  of  art 
are  valuable  but  as  they  are  exerted  in  the  interest 
of  virtue,  or  governed  by  the  rules  of  honor.  We 
ought  to  abstract  our  minds  from  the  observation 
of  an  excellence  in  those  we  converse  with  till,  we 
have  taken  some  notice,  or  received  some  good  in¬ 
formation  of  the  disposition  of  their  minds:  other¬ 
wise  the  beauty  of  their  persons,  or  the  charms  of 
their  wit,  may  make  us  fond  of  those  whom  our 
reason  and  judgment  will  tell  us  we  ought  to 
abhor. 

When  we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  thus  carried 
away  by  mere  beauty  or  mere  wit,  Omniamante, 
with  all  her  vice,  will  bear  away  as  much  of  our 
good  will  as  the  most  innocent  virgin,  or  discreet- 
est  matron ;  and  there  cannot  be  a  more  abject 
slavery  in  this  world,  than  to  dote  upon  what  we 
think  we  ought  to  condemn.  Yet  this  must  be 
our  condition  in  all  the  parts  of  life,  if  we  suffer 
ourselves  to  approve  anything  but  what  tends  to 
the  promotion  of  what  is  good  and  honorable.  If 
we  would  take  true  pains  with  ourselves  to  con¬ 
sider  all  things  by  the  light  of  reason  and  justice, 
though  a  man  were  in  the  height  of  youth  and 
amorous  inclinations,  he  would  look  upon  a  co¬ 
quette  with  the  same  contempt,  or  indifference,  as 
he  would  upon  a  coxcomb.  The  wanton  carriage 
in  a  woman  would  disappoint  her  of  the  admira¬ 
tion  she  aims  at;  and  the  vain  dress  or  discourse 
of  a  man  would  destroy  the  comeliness  of  his 
shape,  or  goodness  of  his  understanding.  I  say 
the  goodness  of  his  understanding;  for  it  is  no 
less  common  to  see  men  of  sense  commence  cox¬ 
combs,  than  beautiful  women  become  immodest. 
When  this  happens  in  either,  the  favor  we  are 
naturally  inclined  to  give  to  the  good  qualities 
they  have  from  nature  should  abate  in  proportion. 
But  however  just  it  is  to  measure  the  value  of  men 
by  the  application  of  their  talents,  and  not  by  the 
eminence  of  those  qualities  abstracted  fr ora  their 
use:  I  say,  however  just  such  a  way  of  judging  is, 
in  all  ages  as  well  as  this,  the  contrary  has  pre¬ 
vailed  upon  the  generality  of  mankind.  How 
many  lewd  devices  have  been  preserved  from  one 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


age  to  another,  which  had  perished  as  soon  as  they 
were  made,  if  painters  and  sculptors  had  been 
esteemed  as  much  for  ,the  purpose  as  the  execution 
of  then  designs!1  Modest  and  well-governed  im¬ 
aginations  have  by  this  means  lost  the  represen- 
tation  of  ten  thousand  charming  portraitures, 
filled  with  images  of  innate  truth,  generous  zeal, 
courageous  faith,  and  tender  humanity;  instead 
of  which  satyrs,  furies,  and  monsters  are  recom- 
mended  by  those  arts  to  a  shameful  eternity 
1  he  unjust  application  of  laudable  talents  is 
tolerated  in  the  general  opinion  of  men,  not  only 
in  such  cases  as  are  here  mentioned,  but  also  in 
matters  which  concern  ordinary  life.  If  a  lawyer 
were  to  be  esteemed  only  as  he  uses  his  parts  in 
eontendmg  for  justice,  and  were  immediately  des¬ 
picable  when  he  appeared  in  a  cause  which  he 
could  not  but  know  was  an  unjust  one,  how  honor¬ 
able  would  his  character  be  ?  And  how  honorable 
is  it.  in  such  among  us,  who  follow  the  profession 
no  otherwise,  than  as  laboring  to  protect  the  in¬ 
jured,  to  subdue  the  oppressor,  to  imprison  the 
careless  debtor,  and  do  right  to  the  painful  arti- 
“Cer  ?  But  many  of  this  excellent  character  are 
overlooked  by  the  greater  number;  who  affect 
covering  a  weak  place  in  a  client’s  title,  diverting 
the  course  of  an  inquiry,  or  finding  a  skillful 
refuge  to  palliate  a  falsehood  :  yet  it  is  still  called 
eloquence  in  the  latter,  though  thus  unjustly  em¬ 
ployed  :  but  resolution  in  an  assassin  is  accord- 
ing  to  leason  quite  as  laudable,  as  knowledge  and 
wisdom  exercised  in  the  defense  of  an  ill  cause. 

Were  the  intention  steadfastly  considered  as  the 
measure  of  approbation,  all  falsehood  would  soon 
be  out  of  countenance;  and  an  address  in  impos- 
mg  upon  mankind,  would  be  as  contemptible  in 
one  state  of  life  as  another.  A  couple  of  cour¬ 
tiers  making  professions  of  esteem,  would  make 
the  same  figure  after  a  breach  of  promise,  as  two 
knights  of  the  post  convicted  of  perjury.  But 
conversation  is  fallen  so  low  in  point  of  morality, 
that— as  they  say  in  a  bargain,  “let  the  buyer 
look  to  it  so  in  friendship,  he  is  the  man  in 
danger  who  is  most  apt  to  believe.  He  is  the 
more  likely  to  suffer  in  the  commerce,  who  begins 
with  the  obligation  of  being  the  more  ready  to 
enter  into  it.  J 

But  those  men  only  are  truly  great,  who  place 
their  ambition  rather  in  acquiring  to  themselves 
the  conscience  of  worthy  enterprises,  than  in  the 
prospect  of  glory  which  attends  them.  These  ex¬ 
alted  spirits  would  rather  be  secretly  the  authors 
of  events  which  are  serviceable  to  mankind,  than, 
without  being  such,  to  have  the  public  fame  of  it. 
Where  therefore  an  eminent  merit  is  robbed  by 
artifice  or  detraction,  it  does  but  increase  by  such 
endeavors  of  its  enemies.  The  impotent  pains 
which  are  taken  to  sully  it,  or  diffuse  it  among  a 
crowd  to  the  injury  of  a  single  person,  will  na¬ 
turally  produce  the  contrary  effect;  the  fire  will 
blaze  out,  and  burn  up  all  that  attempt  to  smother 
what  they  cannot  extinguish. 

There  is  but  one  thing  necessary  to  keep  the 
possession  of  true  glory,  which  is,  to  hear  the 
opposers  of  it  with  patience,  and  preserve  the 
virtue  by  which  it  was  acquired.  When  a 
man  is  thoroughly  persuaded  that  he  ought  neither 
to  admiie,  wish  for,  or  pursue  anything  but  what 
is  exactly  his  duty,  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  sea¬ 
sons,  persons,  or  accidents,  to  diminish  his  value 
He  only  is  a  great  man  who  can  neglect  the  ap¬ 
plause  of  the  multitude,  and  enjoy  himself  inde¬ 
pendent  of  its  favor.  This  is  indeed  an  arduous 
task;  but  it  should  comfort  a  glorious  spirit,  that 
it  is  the  nighest  step  to  which  human  nature  can 
arrive.  Triumph,  applause,  acclamation,  are  dear 
to  the  mind  of  man ;  but  it  is  still  a  more  exqui- 


227 


;  site  delight  to  say  to  yourself,  you  have  done  well, 
j  than  to  hear  the  whole  human  race  pronounce  you 
glonous,  except  you  yourself  can  join  with  them 
in  vour  own  reflections.  A  mind  thus  equal  and 
uniform  may  be  deserted  by  little  fashionable  ad¬ 
mirers  and  followers,  but  will  ever  be  had  in  rev¬ 
erence  by  souls  like  itself.  The  branches  of  the 
oak  endure  all  the  seasons  of  the  year,  though  its 
leaves  fall . off  in  autumn;  and  these  too  will  be 
restored  with  the  returning  spring. _ T 


Ho.  173.]  TUESDAY,  SEPTEMBER  18,  1711. 

~ — ^Remove  fera  monstra,  tuaique 
Saxificos  vultus,  quacunque  ea,  tolle  Medusa. 

Ovid.  Met.,  v,  215. 

Hence  with  those  monstrous  features,  and,  0!  spare 
That  Gorgon’s  look  and  petrifying  stare. — P. 

In  a  late  paper  I  mentioned  the  project  of  an 
ingenious  author  for  the  erecting  of  several  handi¬ 
craft  prizes  to  be  contended  for  by  our  British  ar¬ 
tisans,  and  the  influence  they  might  have  toward 
the  improvement  of  our  several  manufactures.  I 
have  since  that  been  very  much  surprised  by  the 
following  advertisement,  which  I  find  in  the  Post¬ 
boy  of  the  11th  instant,  and  again  repeated  in  the 
Postboy  of  the  15th  : 

“  On  the  9th  of  October  next  will  be  run  for  upon 
Colsehill-heath,  in  Warwickshire,  a  plate  of  six 
guineas  value,  three  heats,  by  any  horse,  mare,  or 
gelding,  that  hath  not  won  above  the  value  of  5 /.• 
the  winning  horse  to  be  sold  for  10/.,  to  carry  ten 
stone  weight,  if  fourteen  hands  high;  if  above  or 
under  to  carry  or  be  allowed  weight  for  inches, 
and  to  be  entered  Friday  the  5th  at  the  Swan 
m  Colsehill,  before  six  in  the  evening.  Also  a 
plate  of  less  value  to  be  run  for  by  asses.  The 
same  day  a  gold  ring  to  be  grinned  for  by  men.” 

The  first  of  these  diversions  that  is  to  be  ex¬ 
hibited  by  the  10/.  race-liorses,  may  probably  have 
its  use;  but  the  two  last,  in  which  the  asses  and 
men  are  concerned,  seem  to  me  altogether  extraor¬ 
dinary  and  unaccountable.  Why  they  should 
keep  running  asses  at  Colsehill,  or  how  making 
mouths  turn  to  account  in  Warwickshire,  more 
than  in  any  other  parts  of  England,  I  cannot  com¬ 
prehend.  I  have  looked  over  all  the  Olympic 
games,  and  do  not  find  anything  in  them  like  an 
ass-race,  or  a  match  at  grinning.  However  it  be, 

I  am  informed  that  several  asses  are  now  kept  in 
body-clothes,  and  sweated  every  morning  upon 
the  heath;  and  that  all  the  country  fellows  within 
ten  miles  of  the  Swan  grin  an  hour  or  two  in 
their  glasses  every  morning,  in  order  to  qualify 
themselves  for  the  9th  of  October.  The  prize 
which  is  proposed  to  be  grinned  for  has  raised 
such  an  ambition  among  the  common  people  of 
out-grinning  one  another,  that  many  very  discern¬ 
ing  persons  are  afraid  it  should  spoil  most  of  the 
faces  in  the  county;  and  that  a  Warwickshire 
man  will  be  known  by  his  grin,  as  Roman  Catho¬ 
lics  imagine  a  Kentish  man  is  by  his  tail.  The 
gold  ring,  which  is  made  the  prize  of  deformity, 
is  just  the  reverse  of  the  golden  apple  that  was 
formerly  made  the  prize  of  beauty,  and  should 
carry  for  its  posy  the  old  motto  inverted  : 


“  Detur  tetriori, 


Jf 


Or,  to  accommodate  it  to  the  capacity  of  the  com¬ 
batants, 

The  frightfuH’st  grinner 
Be  the  winner. 

In  the  meanwhile  I  would  advise  a  Dutch 
painter  to  be  present  at  this  great  controversy  of 
faces,  in  order  to  make  a  collection  of  the  most 
remarkable  grins  that  shall  be  there  exhibited. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


228 

I  must  not  here  omit  an  account  which  I  lately 
received  of  one  of  these  grinning  matches  from  a 
gentleman,  who,  upon  reading  the  above-men¬ 
tioned  advertisement,  entertained  a  coffee-house 
with  the  following  narrative  : — Upon  the  taking 
of  Namur,  amidst  other  public  rejoicings  made 
on  that  occasion,  there  was  a  gold  ring  given  by 
a  whig  justice  of  peace  to  be  grinned  for.  The 
first  competitor  that  entered  the  lists  was  a  black 
swarthy  Frenchman,  who  accidentally  passed  that 
way;  and  being  a  man  naturally  of  a  withered 
look,  and  hard  features,  promised  himself  good 
success.  He  was  placed  upon  a  table  in  the  great 
point  of  view,  and  looking  upon  the  company  like 
Milton’s  Death, 

Grinn’d  horribly  a  ghastly  smile : - 

His  muscles  were  so  drawn  together  on  each 
side  of  his  face,  that  he  showed  twenty  teeth  at  a 
grin,  and  put  the  country  in  some  pain,  lest  a 
foreigner  should  carry  away  the  honor  of  the  day; 
but  upon  a  farther  trial  they  found  he  was  master 
only  of  the  merry  grin. 

The  next  that  mounted  the  table  was  a  malcon¬ 
tent  in  those  days,  and  a  great  master  in  the  whole 
art  of  grinning,  but  particularly  excelled  in  the 
angry  grin.  He  did  his  part  so  well,  that  he  is 
said  to  have  made  half  a  dozen  women  miscarry; 
but  the  justice  being  apprised  by  one  who  stood 
near  him,  that  the  fellow  who  grinned  in  his  face 
was  a  Jacobite,  and  being  unwilling  that  a  disaf¬ 
fected  person  should  win  the  gold  ring,  and  be 
looked  upon  as  the  best  grinner  in  the  country,  he 
ordered  the  oaths  to  be  tendered  unto  him  upon 
his  quitting  the  table,  which  the  grinner  refusing, 
he  was  set  aside  as  an  unqiiaiified  person.  There 
were  several  other  grotesque  figures  that  pre¬ 
sented  themselves,  which  it  would  be  too  tedious 
to  describe.  I  must  not  however  omit  a  plow¬ 
man,  who  lived  in  the  further  part  of  the  country, 
and  being  very  lucky  in  a  pair  of  long  lantern- 
jaws,  wrung  his  face  into  such  a  hideous  grimace, 
that  every  feature  of  it  appeared  under  a  different 
distortion.  The  whole  company  stood  astonished 
at  such  a  complicated  grin,  and  were  ready  to 
assign  the  prize  to  him,  had  it  not  been  proved 
by  one  of  his  antagonists,  that  he  had  practiced 
with  verjuice  for  some  days  before,  and  had  a 
crab  found  upon  him  at  the  very  time  of  grinning ; 
upon  which  the  best  judges  of  grinning  declared 
it  as  their  opinion,  that  he  was  not  to  be  looked 
upon  as  a  fair  grinner,  and  thei'efore  ordered  him 
to  be  set  aside  as  a  cheat. 

The  prize,  it  seems,  at  length  fell  upon  a  cob¬ 
bler,  Giles  Gorgon  by  name,  who  produced  seve¬ 
ral  new  grins  of  his  own  invention,  having  been 
used  to  cut  faces  for  many  years  together  over  his 
last.  At  the  very  first  grin  he  cast  every  human 
feature  out  of  his  countenance,  at  the  second  he 
became  the  face  of  a  spout,  at  the  third  a  baboon, 
at  the  fourth  the  head  of  a  bass  viol,  and  at  the 
fifth  a  pair  of  nut-crackers.  The  whole  assembly 
wondered  at  his  accomplishments,  and  bestowed 
the  ring  on  him  unanimously;  but  what  he  esteem¬ 
ed  more  than  all  the  rest,  a  country  wench,  whom 
he  had  wooed  in  vain  for  above  five  years  before, 
was  so  charmed  with  his  grins,  and  the  applauses 
which  he  received  on  all  sides,  that  she  married 
him  the  week  following,  and  to  this  day  wears 
the  prize  upon  her  finger,  the  cobbler  having 
made  use  of  it  as  his  wedding-ring. 

This  paper  might  perhaps  seem  very  imperti¬ 
nent,  if  it  grew  serious  in  the  conclusion.  It 
would  nevertheless  leave  to  the  consideration  of 
those  who  are  the  patrons  of  this  monstrous  trial 
of  skill,  whether  or  no  they  are  not  guilty,  in 
some  measure,  of  an  affront  to  their  species,  in 


treating  after  this  manner  the  “  human  face 
divine,”  and  turning  that  part  of  us,  which  has 
so  great  an  image  impressed  upon  it,  into  the  im¬ 
age  of  a  monkey;  whether  the  raising  such  silly 
competitions  among  the  ignorant,  proposing  prizes 
for  such  useless  accomplishments,  filling  the  com* 
mon  people’s  heads  with  such  senseless  ambitions, 
and  inspiring  them  with  such  absurd  ideas  of  su¬ 
periority  and  pre-eminence  has  not  in  it  something 
immoral,  as  well  as  ridiculous. — L. 


No.  174.]  WEDNESDAY,  SEPT.  19,  1711. 

IIecc  memini  et  victum  frustra  contendere  Thyrsin. 

Yirg.  Eel.,  vii,  69. 

The  whole  debate  in  memory  I  retain, 

When  Thyrsis  argued  warmly,  but  in  vain.— P. 

There  is  scarce  anything  more  common  than 
animosities  between  parties  that  cannot  subsist 
but  by  their  agreement :  this  was  well  represented 
in  the  sedition  of  the  members  of  the  human  body 
in  the  old  Roman  fable.*  It  is  often  the  case  of 
lesser  confederate  states  against  a  superior  power, 
which  are  hardly  held  together  though  their  una- 
nimity  is  necessary  for  their  common  safety  ;  and 
this  is  always  the  case  of  the  landed  and  trading 
interests  of  Great  Britain :  the  trader  is  fed  by 
the  product  of  the  land,  and  the  landed  man  can¬ 
not  be  clothed  but  by  the  skill  of  the  trader;  and 
yet  those  interests  are  ever  jarring. 

We  had  last  winter  an  instance  of  this  at  our 
club,  in  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  and  Sir  Andrew 
Freeport,  between  whom  there  is  generally  a  con¬ 
stant,  though  friendly,  opposition  of  opinions.  It 
happened  that  one  of  the  company,  in  an  histori¬ 
cal  discourse,  was  observing  that  Carthaginian 
faith  was  a  proverbial  phrase  to  intimate  breach 
of  leagues.  Sir  Roger  said  it  could  hardly  be 
otherwise  :  that  the  Carthaginians  were  the  greatest 
traders  in  the  world;  and  as  gain  is  the  chief  end 
of  such  a  people,  they  never  pursue  any  other; 
the  means  to  it  are  never  regarded  :  they  will,  if  it 
comes  easily,  get  money  honestly;  but  if  not,  they 
will  not  scruple  to  attain  it  by  fraud,  or  cozenage: 
and  indeed,  what  is  the  whole  business  of  the 
trader’s  account,  but  to  overreach  him  who  trusts 
to  his  memory  ?  But  were  that  not  so,  what  can 
there  great  and  noble  be  expected  from  him  whose 
attention  is  forever  fixed  upon  balancing  his 
books,  and  watching  over  his  expenses?  And  at 
best,  let  frugality  and  parsimony  be  the  virtues  of 
the  merchant,  how  much  is  his  punctual  dealing 
below  a  gentleman’s  charity  to  the  poor,  or  hospi¬ 
tality  among  his  neighbors ! 

Captain  Sentry  observed  Sir  Andrew  very  dili¬ 
gent  in  hearing  Sir  Roger,  and  had  a  mind  to  turn 
the  discourse,  by  taking  notice — in  general,  from 
the  highest  to  the  lowest  parts  of  human  society, 
there  was  a  secret,  though  unjust  way,  among 
men,  of  indulging  the  seeds  of  ill-nature  and  envy, 
by  comparing  their  own  state  of  life  to  that 
of  another,  and  grudging  the  approach  of  their 
neighbor  to  their  own  happiness ;  and,  on  the 
other  side,  he,  who  is  less  at  his  ease,  repines  at 
the  other,  who  he  thinks  has  unjustly  the  advant¬ 
age  over  him.  Thus  the  civil  and  military  lists 
look  upon  each  other  with  much  ill-nature  ;  the 
soldier  repines  at  the  courtier’s  power,  and  the 
courtier  rallies  the  soldier’s  honor  ;  or,  to  come 
to  lower  instances,  the  private  men  in  the  horse 
and  foot  of  an  army,  the  carmen  and  coachmen  in 
the  city  streets,  mutually  look  upon  each  other 
with  ill-will,  when  they  are  in  competition  for 
quarters,  or  the  way  in  their  respective  motions. 


*  Livii.  Hist.  Dec.,  I,  lib.  ii,  cap.  ii. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


U 


It  is  very  well,  good  captain,”  interrupted  Sir 
Andreev :  vo  u  may  attempt  to  turn  the  discourse 
it  you  think  fit;  but  I  must  however  have  a  word 
or  two  with  Sir  Roger,  who,  I  see,  thinks  he  has 
paid  me  off,  and  been  very  severe  upon  the  mer- 

^emhi'd  Q-S  R  1  not>”  continued  he,  “  at  this  time 
remind  Sir  Roger  of  the  great  and  noble  monu- 
ments  of  charity  and  public  spirit,  which  have 
been  erected  by  merchants  since  the  reformation, 
but  at  present  content  myself  with  what  he  allows 

taffTny  ai!d  fru£alit7-  If  it  were  consist¬ 
ent  with  the  quality  of  so  ancient  a  baronet  as  Sir 
oger,  to  keep  an  account,  or  measure  things  by 
the  most  infallible  way,  that  of  numbers,  he 
would  prefer  our  parsimony  to  his  hospitality.  If 
to  drink  so  many  hogsheads  is  to  be  hospitable, 
e  do  not  contend  for  the  fame  of  that  virtue  : 
Dut  it  would  be  worth  while  to  consider  whether 
so  many  artificers,  at  work  ten  days  together  by 
my  appointment,  or  so  many  peasants  made  merry 
on  bir  Roger’s  charge,  are  the  men  more  obliged  ? 

I  believe  the  families  of  the  artificers  will  thank 
me  more  than  the  household  of  the  peasants  shall 
Mr  Hoger.  Sir  Roger  gives  to  his  men,  but  I 
place  mine  above  the  necessity  or  obligation  of 
my  bounty  I  am  in  very  little  pain  for  the  Ro¬ 
man  proverb  upon  the  Carthaginian  traders ;  the 
Homans  were  their  professed  enemies ;  I  am  only 
sorry  no  Carthaginian  histories  have  come  to  our 
ands  ;  we  might  have  been  taught  perhaps  by 
them  some  proverbs  against  the  Roman  generosi¬ 
ty,  in  righting,  for,  and  bestowing,  other  people’s 
goods.  But  since  Sir  Roger  has  taken  occasion, 
trom  an  old  proverb,  to  be  out  of  humor  with 
merchants,  it  should  be  no  offense  to  offer  one  not 
quite  so  old  in  their  defense.  When  a  man  hap- 
pens  to  break  in  Holland,  they  say  of  him,  that 
be  has  not  kept  true  accounts.’  This  phrase, 
peiliaps,  among  us  would  appear  a  soft  or  humo¬ 
rous  way  of  speaking,  but  with  that  exact  nation 
it  bears  the  highest  reproach.  For  a  man  to  be 
mistaken  m  the  calculation  of  his  expense,  in  his 
ability  to  answer  future  demands,  or  to  be  imper¬ 
tinently  sanguine  in  putting  his  credit  to  too  great 
adventure,  are  all  instances  of  as  much  infamy,  as 
with  gayer  nations  to  be  failing  in  courage,  or 
common  honesty. 

.  y  umbers  are  so  much  the  measure  of  every¬ 
thing  that  is  valuable,  that  it  is  not  possible  to 
demonstrate  the  success  of  any  action,  or  the  pru¬ 
dence  ot  any  undertaking  without  them.  I  say 
this  m  answer  to  what  Sir  Roger  is  pleased  to  say, 
tnat  little  that  is  truly  noble  can  be  expected  from 
one. who  is  ever  poring  on  his  cash-book,  or  bal- 
ncmg  ns  accounts.’  When  I  have  my  returns 
from  abroad,  I  can  tell  to  a  shilling,  by  the  help 
o  numbers  the  profit  or  loss  by  my  adventure  ; 
but  I  ought  also  to  be  able  to  show  that  I  had 
reason  for  making  it,  either  from  my  own  experi- 
ence,  or  that  of  other  people,  or  from  a  reasonable 
piesumption  that  my  returns  will  be  sufficient  to 
answer  my  expense  and  hazard ;  and  this  is  never 
to  be  done  without  the  skill  of  numbers.  For  in- 

wTfnV  am  *?,  trade  to  Turkey,  I  ought  before- 

t0  kn°w  the,  d«mand  of  our  manufactures 
there,  as  well  as  of  their  silks,  in  England  and 
the  customary  prices  that  are  given  ior  both  in 
each  country  I  ought  to  have  a  clear  knowledge 
of  these  matters  beforehand,  that  I  may  presume 
upon  sufficient  returns  to  answer  the  charge  of  the 

fitf!ed  °Utf’  the  freiSht  and  insurance 
out  and  home,  the  customs  to  the  Queen,  and  the 

interest  of  my  own  money,  and  beside  all  these 
expenses  a  reasonable  profit  to  myself.  How  what 
is  there  of  scandal  in  this  skill  ?  What  has  the 
merchant  done,  that  he  should  be  so  little  in  the 
good  graces  of  Sir  Roger?  He  throws  down  no 


229 


man  s  inclosures,  and  tramples  upon  no  man’s 
corn  ;  he  takes  nothing  from  the  industrious  labo- 
ier ;  he  pays  the  poor  man  for  his  work  ;  he  com¬ 
municates  lus  profit  with  mankind  ;  by  the  prepa¬ 
ration  of  his  cargo,  and  the  manufacture  of  liis 
returns,  he  furnishes  employment  and  subsistence 
t°  Skater  numbers  than  the  richest  nobleman;  and 
even  the  nobleman  is  obliged  to  him  for  finding 
out  foreign  markets  for  the  produce  of  his  estate, 
and  for  making  a  great  addition  to  his  rents  ;  and 
yet  it  is  certain  that  none  of  all  these  things  could 

be  done  by  lam  without  the  exercise  of  his  skill  in 
numbers. 

“  Tkis  i®  tj16  economy  of  the  merchant ;  and  the 
conduct  of  the  gentleman  must  be  the  same,  un¬ 
less,  by  scorning  to  be  the  steward,  he  resolves  the 
stewaid  shall  be  the  gentleman.  The  gentleman, 
no  more  than  the  merchant,  is  able,  without  the 
help  of  numbers,  to  account  for  the  success  of  any 
action,  or  the  prudence  of  any  adventure.  If  for 
instance,  the  chase  is  his  whole  adventure,  his 
only  returns  must  be  the  stag’s  horns  in  the  great 

wr-H.  *  ,  tke  £?x’s  nose  uPon  the  stable-door. 
Without  doubt  Sir  Roger  knows  the  full  value  of 
these  returns  ;  and  if  beforehand  he  had  compu¬ 
ted  the  charges  of  the  chase,  a  gentleman  of  his 
discretion  would  certainly  have  hanged  up  all  his 
dogs  ;  he  would  never  have  brought  back  so  many 
fane  lioises  to  the  kennel ;  he  would  never  have 
gone  so  often,  like  a  blast,  over  fields  of  corn.  If 
such  too  had  been  the  conduct  of  all  his  ancestors, 
he  might  truly  have  boasted  at  this  day,  that  the 
antiquity  of  his  family  had  never  been  sullied  by 
a  ti ade  ;  a  merchant  had  never  been  permitted  with 
his  whole  estate  to  purchase  room  for  his  picture 
in  the  gallery  of  the  Coverley’s,  or  to  claim  his 
descent  from  the  maid  of  honor.  But  it  is  very 
happy  for  Sir  Roger  that  the  merchant  paid  so 
deal  for  his  ambition.  It  is  the  misfortune  of 
many  other  gentlemen  to  turn  out  of  the  seats  of 
their  ancestors,  to  make  way  for  such  new  masters 
as  have  been  more  exact  in  their  accounts  than 
themselves  ;  and  certainly  he  deserves  the  estate 
a  great  deal  better  who  has  got  it  by  his  industry, 
than  he  who  has  lost  it  by  his  negligence.” 


Ho.  175.]  THURSDAY,  SEPTEMBER  20, 1711. 

Proximus  a  tectis  ignis  defenditur  a?gre. _ 

Ovid.  Rem.  Arm.,  y,  625. 

To  save  your  house  from  neighb’ring  fire  is  hard.— Tate. 

I  shall  this  day  entertain  my  readers  with  two 
or  three  letters  I  have  received  from  my  corres¬ 
pondents  :  the  first  discovers  to  me  a  species  of 
females  which  have  hitherto  escaped  my  notice 
and  is  as  follows  : 


“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  a  young  gentleman  of  a  competent  for¬ 
tune,  and  a  sufficient  taste  of  learning,  to  spend 
five  or  six  hours  every  day  very  agreeably  among 
my  books.  That  I  might  have  nothing  to  divert 
me  from  my  studies,  and  to  avoid  the  noises  of 
coaches  and  chairmen,  I  have  taken  lodgings  in  a 
veiy  nanow  street  not  far  from  Wliitehall  ;  but  it 
is  my  misfortune  to  be  so  posted,  that  my  lodg¬ 
ings  are  directly  opposite  to  those  of  a  Jezebel. 
You  are  to  know,  Sir,  that  a  Jezebel  (so  called  by 
the  neighborhood  from  displaying  her  pernicious 
charms  at  her  window)  appears  constantly  dressed 
at  her  sash,  and  has  a  thousand  little  tricks  and 
fooleries,  to  attract  the  eyes  of  all  the  idle  young 
fellows  in  the  neighborhood.  I  have  seen  more 
than  six  persons  at  once  from  their  several  win¬ 
dows  observing  the  Jezebel  I  am  now  complaining 


I 


230  THE  SPE 

of.  I  at  first  looked  on  her  myself  with  the  high¬ 
est  contempt,  could  divert  myself  with  her  airs  for 
half  an  hour,  and  afterward  take  up  my  Plutarch 
with  great  tranquillity  of  mind  ;  but  was  a  little 
vexed  to  find  that  in  less  than  a  month  she  had 
considerably  stolen  upon  my  time,  so  that  I  re¬ 
solved  to  look  at  her  no  more.  But  the  Jezebel, 
who,  as  I  suppose,  might  think  it  a  diminution  to 
her  honor  to  have  the  number  of  her  gazers  les¬ 
sened,  resolved  not  to  part  with  me  so,  and  began 
to  play  so  many  new  tricks  at  her  window,  that  it 
was  impossible  for  me  to  forbear  observing  her.  I 
verily  believe  she  put  herself  to  the  expense  of  a 
new  Avax  baby  on  purpose  to  plague  me  ;  she  used 
to  dandle  and  play  with  this  figure  as  imperti¬ 
nently  as  if  it  had  been  a  real  child :  sometimes 
she  Avotild  let  fall  a  glove  or  a  pin-cushion  in  the 
street,  and  shut  or  open  her  casement  three  or  four 
times  in  a  minute.  When  I  had  almost  weaned 
myself  from  this,  she  came  in  her  shift  sleeves, 
and  dressed  at  the  window.  I  had  no  way  left, 
but  to  let  down  the  curtains,  which  I  submitted 
to,  though  it  considerably  darkened  my  room,  and 
was  pleased  to  think  that  I  had  at  last  got  the  bet¬ 
ter  of  her  ;  but  was  surprised  the  next  morning  to 
hear  her  talking  out  of  her  window  quite  across 
the  street,  Avith  another  woman  that  lodges  over 
me.  I  am  since  informed  that  she  made  her  a 
visit,  and  got  acquainted  with  her  within  three 
hours  after  the  fall  of  my  window-curtains. 

“Sir,  I  am  plagued  every  moment  in  the  day, 
one  way  or  other,  in  my  oAvn  chambers  ;  and  the 
Jezebel  has  the  satisfaction  to  know,  that  though 
I  am  not  looking  at  her,  I  am  listening  to  her  im¬ 
pertinent  dialogues,  that  pass  over  my  head.  I 
would  immediately  change  my  lodgings,  but  that 
I  think  it  might  look  like  a  plain  confession  that 
I  am  conquered  ;  and  beside  this,  I  am  told  that 
most  quarters  of  the  town  are  infested  with  these 
creatures.  If  they  are  so,  I  am  sure  it  is  such  an 
abuse,  as  a  lover  of  learning  and  silence  ought  to 
take  notice  of.  “  I  am,  Sir,  yours,”  etc. 

I  am  afraid  by  some  lines  in  this  letter,  that  my 
oung  student  is  touched  with  a  distemper  Avhich 
e  hardly  seems  to  dream  of,  and  is  too  far  gone 
in  it  to  receive  advice.  HoAvever,  I  shall  animad¬ 
vert  in  due  time,  on  the  abuse  which  he  mentions, 
having  myself  observed  a  nest  of  Jezebels  near 
the  Temple,  Avho  make  it  their  diversion  to  draw 
up  the  eyes  of  young  Templars,  that  at  the  same 
time  they  may  see  them  stumble  in  an  unlucky 
gutter  Avhich  runs  undej  the  window. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  have  lately  read  the  conclusion  of  your  forty- 
seventh  speculation  upon  butts  with  great  plea¬ 
sure  and  have  ever  since  been  thoroughly  persuaded 
that  one  of  those  gentlemen  is  extremely  neces¬ 
sary  to  enliven  conversation.  I  had  an  entertain¬ 
ment  last  week  upon  the  water  for  a  lady  to  whom 
I  make  my  addresses,  Avith  several  of  our  friends 
of  both  sexes.  To  divert  the  company  in  general, 
and  to  shoAAr  my  mistress  in  particular  my  genius 
for  raillery,  I  took  one  of  the  most  celebrated  butts 
in  town  along  wTith  me.  It  is  Avith  the  utmost 
shame  and  confusion  that  I  must  acquaint  you 
with  the  sequel  of  my  adventure.  As  soon  as  we 
were  got  into  the  boat,  I  played  a  sentence  or  two 
at  my  butt,  which  I  thought  very  smart,  when  my 
ill-genius,  who  I  verily  believe  inspired  him  pure¬ 
ly  for  my  destruction,  suggested  to  him  such  a  re¬ 
ply,  as  got  all  the  laughter  on  his  side.  I  was 
dashed  at  so  unexpected  a  turn ;  which  the  butt 
perceiving,  resolved  not  to  let  me  recover  myself, 
and  pursuing  his  victory,  rallied  and  tossed  me  ip 
a  most  unmerciful  and  barbarous  manner  until 


CTATOR. 

avc  came  to  Chelsea.  I  had  some  small  success 
Avhile  we  Avere  eating  cheese-cakes  ;  but  coming 
home,  he  renewed  his  attacks  with  his  former  good 
fortune,  and  equal  diversion  to  the  whole  compa¬ 
ny.  In  short,  Sir,  I  must  ingenuously  own  that  I 
never  Avas  so  handled  in  all  my  life  ;  and  to  com¬ 
plete  my  misfortune,  I  am  since  told  that  the  butt, 
flushed  Avith  his  late  victory,  has  made  a  visit  or 
two  to  the  dear  object  of  my  wishes,  so  that  I  am 
at  once  in  danger  of  losing  all  my  pretensions  to 
wit,  and  my  mistress  into  the  bargain.  This,  Sir, 
is  a  true  account  of  my  present  troubles,  which 
you  are  the  more  obliged  to  assist  me  in,  as  you 
were  yourself  in  a  great  measure  the  cause  of 
them,  by  recommending  to  us  an  instrument,  and 
not  instructing  us  at  the  same  time  how  to  play 
upon  it. 

“  I  have  been  thinking  whether  it  might  not  be 
highly  convenient,  that  all  butts  should  wear  an 
inscription  affixed  to  some  part  of  their  bodies, 
showing  on  which  side  they  are  to  be  come  at, 
and  if  any  of  them  are  persons  of  unequal  tem¬ 
pers,  there  should  be  some  method  taken  to  inform 
the  world  at  Avhat  time  it  is  safe  to  attack  them, 
and  when  you  had  best  let  them  alone.  But,  sub¬ 
mitting  these  matters  to  your  more  serious  consid¬ 
eration, 

“  I  am,  Sir,  yours,”  etc. 

I  have,  indeed,  seen  and  heard  of  several  young 
gentlemen  under  the  same  misfortune  with  my 
present  correspondent.  The  best  rule  I  can  lay 
doAvn  for  them  to  avoid  the  like  calamities  for  the 
future,  is  thoroughly  to  consider,  not  only  whether 
their  companions  are  weak,  but  whether  themselves 
are  wits.  (I 

The  following  letter  comes  to  me  from  Exeter, 
and  being  credibly  informed  that  what  it  contains 
is  matter  of  fact,  I  shall  give  it  my  readers  as  it 
was  sent  to  me; 

“Mr.  Spectator,  Exeter,  Sept.  7. 

“  You  were  pleased  in  a  late  speculation  to  take 
notice  of  the  incon\Tenience  we  lie  under  in  the 
country,  in  not  being  able  to  keep  pace  with  the 
fashions.  But  there  is  another  misfortune  which 
we  are  subject  to,  and  is  no  less  grievous  than  the 
former,  which  has  hitherto  escaped  your  observa¬ 
tion.  I  mean  the  having  things  palmed  upon  us 
for  London  fashions,  which  were  never  once  heard 
of  there. 

“A  lady  of  this  place  had  some  time  since  a 
box  of  the  newest  ribbons  sent  doAvn  by  the  coach. 
Whether  it  Avas  her  OAvn  malicious  invention,  or 
the  wantonness  of  a  London  milliner,  I  am  not 
able  to  inform  you  ;  but,  among  the  rest,  there 
was  one  cherry-colored  ribbon,  consisting  of  about 
half  a  dozen  yards,  made  up  in  the  figure  of  a 
small  headdress.  The  aforesaid  lady  had  the  as¬ 
surance  to  affirm,  amid  a  circle  of  female  inquis¬ 
itors  who  were  present  at  the  opening  of  the  box, 
that  this  was  the  newest  fashion  worn  at  court. 
Accordingly,  the  next  Sunday,  Ave  had  several  fe¬ 
males,  who  came  to  church  with  their  heads 
dressed  wholly  in  ribbons,  and  looked  like  so 
many  victims  ready  to  be  sacrificed.  This  is  still 
a  reigning  mode  among  us.  At  the  same  time  we 
have  a  set  of  gentlemen  who  take  the  liberty  to 
appear  in  all  public  places  without  any  buttons  to 
their  coats,  which  they  supply  Avith  several  little 
silver  hasps,  though  our  freshest  advices  from 
London  make  no  mention  of  any  such  fashion  ; 
and  Ave  are  sometimes  shy  of  affording  matter  to 
the  button-makers  for  a  second  petition. 

“  What  I  Avould  humbly  propose  to  the  public  is, 
that  there  may  be  a  society  erected  in  London,  to 
consist  of  the  most  skillful  persons  of  both  sexes, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


for  the  inspection  of  modes  and  fashions;  and 
that  hereafter  no  person  or  persons  shall  presume 
to  appear  singularly  habited  in  any  part  of  the 
country,  without  a  testimonial  from  the  aforesaid 
society,  that  their  dress  is  answerable  to  the  mode 
at  London.  By  this  means.  Sir,  we  shall  know  a 
little  whereabout  we  are. 

“if  you  could  bring  this  matter  to  bear,  you 
would  very  much  oblige  great  numbers  of  your 
country  friends :  and  among  the  rest,  your  very 
humble  servant, 

X.  “Jack  Modish.” 


No.  176.]  FRIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  21,  1711. 

Parvula,  pumilio  (charitou  mia),  tota  merum  sal. 

Lucr.,  iv,  1155. 

A  little,  pretty,  witty,  charming  she ! 

There  are,  in  the  following  letter  piatters,  which 
I,  a  bachelor,  cannot  be  supposed  to  be  acquainted 
with  :  therefore  shall  not  pretend  to  explain  upon 
it  until  further  consideration,  but  leave  the  author 
of  the  epistle  to  express  his  condition  his  own  way. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  do  not  deny  but  you  appear  in  many  of 
your  papers  to  understand  human  life  pretty  well; 
but  there  are  very  many  things  which  you  cannot 
possibly  have  a  true  notion  of,  in  a  single  life, 
these  are  such  as  respect  the  married  state  ;  other¬ 
wise  I  cannot  account  for  your  haying  overlooked 
a  very  good  sort  of  people,  which  are  commonly 
called  iir  scorn  ‘the  Hen-pecked.’  You  are  to 
understand  that  I  am  one  of  those  innocent  mor¬ 
tals  who  suffer  derision  under  that  word,  for  being 
governed  by  the  best  of  wives.  It  would  be 
worth  your  consideration  to  enter  into  the  nature 
of  affection  itself,  and  tell  us,  according  to  your 
philosophy,  why  it  is  that  our  dears  shall  ao  as 
they  will  with  us  ;  shall  be  froward,  ill-natured, 
assuming  ;  sometimes  whine,  at  others  rail,  then 
swoon  away,  then  come  to  life,  have  the  use  of 
speech  to  the  greatest  fluency  imaginable,  and  then 
sink  away  again,  and  all  because  they  fear  we  do 
not  love  them  enough  ;  that  is,  the  poor  things 
love  us  so  heartily,  that  they  cannot  think  it  pos¬ 
sible  we  should  be  able  to  love  them  in  so  great 
a  degree,  which  makes  them  take  on  so.  I  say, 
Sir,  a  true  good-natured  man,  whom  rakes  and 
libertines  call  hen-pecked,  shall  fall  into  all  these 
different  modes  with  his  dear  life,  and  at  the  same 
time  see  they  are  wholly  put  on  ;  and  yet  not  be 
hard-hearted  enough  to  tell  the  dear  good  creature 
that  she  is  a  hypocrite. 

“  This  sort  of  good  men  is  very  frequent  in  the 
populous  and  wealthy  city  of  London,  and  is  the 
true  hen-pecked  man.  The  kind  creature  cannot 
break  through  his  kindnesses  so  far  as  to  come  to 
an  explanation  with  the  tender  soul,  and  therefore 
goes  on  to  comfort  her  when  nothing  ails  her,  to 
appease  her  when  she  is  not  angry,  and  to  give 
her  his  cash  when  he  knows  she  does  not  want  it; 
rather  than  be  uneasy  for  a  whole  month,  which 
is  computed  by  hard-hearted  men,  the  space  of 
time  which  a  froward  woman  takes  to  come  to 
herself,  if  you  have  courage  to  stand  out. 

“  There  are  indeed  several  other  species  of  the 
hen-pecked,  and  in  my  opinion  they  are  certainly 
the  best  subjects  the  queen  has  ;  and  for  that  rea¬ 
son  I  take  it  to  be  your  duty  to  keep  us  above 
contempt. 

“  I  do  not  know  whether  I  make  myself  under¬ 
stood  in  the  representation  of  a  hen-pecked  life, 
but  I  shall  take  leave  to  give  you  an  account  of 
myself,  and  my  own  spouse.  You  are  to  know 
that  I  am  reckoned  no  fool,  have  on  several  occa¬ 
sions  been  tried  whether  I  will  take  ill-usage, 
and  the  event  has  been  to  my  advantage ;  and 


231 

yet  there  is  not  such  a  slave  in  Turkey  as  I 
am  to  my  dear.  She  has  a  good  share  of  wit,  and 
is  what  you  call  a  very  pretty  agreeable  woman. 
I  perfectly  dote  on  her,  and  my  affection  to  her 
gives  me  all  the  anxieties  imaginable  but  that  of 
jealousy.  My  being  thus  confident  of  her,  I  take, 
as  much  as  I  can  judge  of  my  heart,  to  be  the  rea¬ 
son,  that  whatever  she  does,  though  it  be  ever  so 
much  against  my  inclination,  there  is  still  left 
something  in  her  manner  that  is  amiable.  She 
will  sometimes  look  at  me  with  an  assumed  gran¬ 
deur,  and  pretend  to  resent  that  I  have  not  had 
respect  enough  for  her  opinion  in  such  an  in¬ 
stance  in  company.  I  cannot  but  smile  at  the 
pretty  anger  she  is  in,  and  then  she  pretends  she 
is  used  like  a  child.  In  a  word,  our  great  debate 
is,  which  has  the  superiority  in  point  of  under¬ 
standing.  She  is  eternally  forming  an  argument 
of  debate :  to  which  I  very  indolently  answer, 

‘  Thou  art  mighty  pretty.’  To  this  she  answers, 
‘All  the  world  but  you  think  I  have  as  much 
sense  as  yourself.’  I  repeat  to  her,  ‘  Indeed  you 
are  pretty.’  Upon  this  there  is  no  patience  ;  she 
will  throw  down  anything  about  her,  stamp,  and 
pull  off  her  head-clothes.  ‘  Fie,  my  dear,’  say  I, 

‘  how  can  a  woman  of  your  sense  fall  into  such  an 
intemperate  rage  ?’  This  is  an  argument  that 
never  fails.  ‘Indeed,  my  dear,’  says  she,  ‘you 
make  me  mad  sometimes,  so  you  do,  with  the  silly 
way  you  have  of  treating  me  like  a  pretty  idiot.  ‘ 
Well,  what  have  I  got  by  putting  her  in  a  good 
humor?  Nothing,  but  that  I  must  convince  her 
of  my  good  opinion  by  my  practice  ;  and  then  1 
am  to  give  her  possession  of  my  little  ready 
money,  and,  for  a  day  and  a  half  following,  dis¬ 
like  all  she  dislikes,  and  extol  everything  she  ap¬ 
proves.  I  am  so  exquisitely  fond  of  this  darling, 
that  I  seldom  see  any  of  my  friends,  am  uneasy 
in  all  companies  till  I  see  her  again  ;  and  when  I 
come  home  she  is  in  the  dumps,  because  she  says 
she  is  sure  I  came  so  soon  only  because  I  think 
her  handsome.  I  dare  not  upon  this  occasion 
laugh ;  but  though  I  am  one  of  the  warmest 
churchmen  in  the  kingdom,  I  am  forced  to  rail  at 
the  times,  because  she  is  a  violent  Whig.  Upon 
this  we  talk  politics  so  long,  that  she  is  convinced 
I  kiss  her  for  her  wisdom.  It  is  a  common  prac¬ 
tice  with  me  to  ask  her  some  question  concerning 
the  constitution,  which  she  answers  me  in  general 
out  of  Harrington’s  Oceana.  Then  I  commend 
her  strange  memory,  and  her  arm  is  immediately 
locked  in  mine.  While  I  keep  her  in  this  temper 
she  plays  before  me,  sometimes  dancing  in  the 
midst  of  the  room,  sometimes  striking  an  air  at 
her  spinnet,  varying  her  posture  and  her  charms 
in  such  a  manner  that  I  am  in  continual  pleasure. 
She  will  play  the  fool  if  I  allow  her  to  be  wise  ; 
but  if  she  suspects  I  like  her  for  her  trifling,  she 
immediately  grows  grave. 

“  These  are  the  toils  in  which  I  am  taken,  and 
I  carry  off  my  servitude  as  well  as  most  men  ; 
but  my  application  to  you  is  in  behalf  of  the  hen¬ 
pecked  in  general,  and  I  desire  a  dissertation  from 
you  in  defense  of  us.  You  have,  as  I  am  informed, 
very  good  authorities  in  our  favor,  and  hope  you 
will  not  omit  the  mention  of  the  renowned  So¬ 
crates,  and  his  philosophic  resignation  to  his  wife 
Xantippe.  This  would  be  a  very  good  office  to 
the  world  in  general,  for  the  hen-pecked  are  pow¬ 
erful  in  their  qualities  and  numbers,  not  only  in 
cities,  but  in  courts  ;  in  the  latter  they  are  ever 
the  most  obsequious,  in  the  former  the  most 
wealthy  of  all  men.  When  you  have  considered 
wedlock  thoroughly,  you  ought  to  enter  into  the 
suburbs  of  matrimony,  and  give  us  an  account  of 
the  thraldom  of  kind  keepers,  and  irresolute  lov- 
I  ers ;  the  keepers  who  cannot  quit  their  fair  ones, 


THE  SPE  CTATOR. 


232 

though  they  see  their  approaching  ruin  ;  the  lovers 
who  dare  not  marry,  though  they  know  they  never 
shall  be  happy  without  the  mistresses  whom  they 
cannot  purchase  on  other  terms. 

“  What  will  be  a  greater  embellishment  to  your 
discourse  will  be,  that  you  may  find  instances  of 
the  haughty,  the  proud,  the  frolic,  the  stubborn, 
who  are  each  of  them  in  secret  downright  slaves 
to  their  wives  or  mistresses.  I  must  beg  of  you 
in  the  last  place  to  dwell  upon  this,  that  the  wise 
and  valiant  in  all  ages  have  been  hen-pecked  ; 
and  that  the  sturdy  tempers  who  are  not  slaves  to 
affection,  owe  that  exemption  to  their  being  en¬ 
thralled  by  ambition,  avarice,  or  some  meaner 
passion.  I  have  ten  thousand  thousand  things 
more  to  say,  but  my  wife  sees  me  writing,  and 
will,  according  to  custom,  be  consulted,  it  I  do 
not  seal  this  immediately.  “  Yours, 

T.  “Nathaniel  Henroost.” 


No.  177.]  SATURDAY,  SEPTEMBER  22,  1711. 

- Quis  enim  bonus,  aut  face  dignus 

Arcana,  qualem  Cereris  vult  esse  sacerdos, 

Ulla  aliena  sibi  credat  mala? -  Juv.,  Sat.  xv,  140. 

Who  can  all  sense  of  others’  ills  escape, 

Is  but  a  brute,  at  best,  in  human  shape.— Tate. 

In  one  of  my  last  week’s  papers  I  treated  of  ! 
good-nature,  as  it  is  the  effect  of  constitution  ;  I  | 
shall  now  speak  of  it  as  a  moral  virtue.  The  first 
may  make  a  man  easy  in  himself  and  agreeable  to 
others,  but  implies  no  merit  in  him  that  is  pos¬ 
sessed  of  it.  A  man  is  no  more  to  be  praised 
upon  this  account,  than  because  he  has  a  regular 
pulse,  or  a  good  digestion.  This  good-nature, 
however,  in  the  constitution,  which  Mr.  Dryden 
somewhere  calls  a  “milkiness  of  blood,”  is  an 
admirable  groundwork  for  the  other.  In  order, 
therefore,  to  try  our  good-nature,  whether  it  arises 
from  the  body  or  the  mind,  whether  it  be  founded 
in  the  animal  or  rational  part  of  our  nature  :  in  a 
word,  whether  it  be  such  as  is  entitled  to  any  other 
reward,  beside  that  secret  satisfaction  and  con¬ 
tentment  of  mind  which  is  essential  to  it,  and  the 
kind  reception  it  procures  us  in  the  world,  we 
must  examine  it  by  the  following  rules  : 

First;  whether  it  acts  with  steadiness  and  uni¬ 
formity  in  sickness  and  in  health,  in  prosperity 
and  in  adversity ;  if  otherwise,  it  is  to  be  looked 
upon  as  nothing  else  but  an  irradiation  of  the 
mind  from  some  new  supply  of  spirits,  or  a  more 
kindly  circulation  of  the  blood.  Sir  Francis  Bacon 
mentions  a  cunning  solicitor,  who  would  never 
ask  a  favor  of  a  great  man  before  dinner  ;  but  took 
care  to  prefer  his  petition  at  a  time  when  the  party 
petitioned  had  his  mind  free  from  care,  and  his 
appetites  in  good  humor.  Such  a  transient,  tem¬ 
porary  good-nature  as  this,  is  not  that  philan¬ 
thropy,  that  love  of  mankind,  which  deserves 
the  title  of  a  moral  virtue. 

The  next  way  of  a  man’s  bringing  his  good¬ 
nature  to  the  test,  is  to  consider  whether  it  operates 
according  to  the  rules  of  reason  and  duty  :  for  if, 
notwithstanding  its  general  benevolence  to  man¬ 
kind,  it  makes  no  distinction  between  its  objects, 
if  it  exerts  itself  promiscuously  toward  the  de¬ 
serving  and  the  undeserving,  if  it  relieves  alike 
the  idle  and  the  indigent,  if  it  gives  itself  up  to 
the  first  petitioner  and  lights  upon  any  one  rather 
by  accident  than  choice,  it  may  pass  for  an  amiable 
instinct,  but  must  not  assume  the  name  of  a  moral 
virtue. 

The  third  trial  of  good-nature  will  be  the  ex¬ 
amining  ourselves,  whether  or  no  we  are  able  to 
exert  it  to  our  own  disadvantage,  and  employ  it 
on  proper  objects,  notwithstanding  any  little  pain, 


want,  or  inconvenience  which  may  arise  to  our¬ 
selves  from  it.  In  a  word,  whether  we  are  willing 
to  risk  any  part  of  our  fortune,  our  reputation, 
or  health,  or  ease,  for  the  benefit  of  mankind. 
Among  all  these  expressions  of  good-nature  I 
shall  single  out  that  which  goes  under  the  general 
name  of  charity,  as  it  consists  in  relieving  the 
indigent ;  that  being  a  trial  of  this  kind  which 
offers  itself  to  us  almost  at  all  times,  and  in  every 
place.  ■  £• 

I  should  propose  it  as  a  rule,  to  every  one  who 
is  provided  with  any  competency  of  fortune  more 
than  sufficient  for  the  necessaries  of  life,  to  lay 
aside  a  certain  portion  of  his  income  for  the  use 
of  the  poor.  This  I  would  look  upon  as  an  offer¬ 
ing  to  Him  who  has  a  right  to  the  whole,  for  the 
use  of  those  whom,  in  the  passage  hereafter  men¬ 
tioned,  he  has  described  as  his  own  representa¬ 
tives  upon  earth.  At  the  same  time  we  should 
manage  our  charity  with  such  prudence  and  cau¬ 
tion,  that  we  may  not  hurt  our  own  friends  or 
relations,  while  we  are  doing  good  to  those  who 
are  strangers  to  us. 

This  may  possibly  be  explained  better  by  an  ex¬ 
ample  than  by  a  rule. 

Eugenius  is  a  man  of  a  universal  good-nature  ; 
and  generous  beyond  the  extent  of  his  fortune  ; 
but  withal  so  prudent  in  the  economy  of  his  af¬ 
fairs,  that  what  goes  out  in  charity  is  made  up  by 
good  management.  Eugenius  has  what  the  world 
calls  £200  a  year  ;  but  never  values  himself  above 
nine  score,  as  not  thinking  he  has  a  right  to  the 
tenth  part,  which  he  always  appropriates  to  char¬ 
itable  uses.  To  this  sum  he  frequently  makes 
other  voluntary  additions,  insomuch  that  in  a  good 
ear,  for  such  he  accounts  those  in  which  he  has 
een  able  to  make  greater  bounties  than  ordinary, 
he  has  given  above  twice  that  sum  to  the  sickly 
and  indigent.  Eugenius  prescribes  to  himself 
many  particular  days  of  fasting  and  abstinence, 
in  order  to  increase  his  private  bank  of  charity, 
and  sets  aside  what  would  be  the  current  expenses 
of  those  times  for  the  use  of  the  poor. .  He  often 
goes  afoot  where  his  business  calls  him,  and  at 
the  end  of  his  walk  has  given  a  shilling,  which 
in  his  ordinary  methods  of  expense  would  have 
gone  for  coach-hire,  to  the  first  necessitous  person 
that  has  fallen  in  his  way.  I  have  known  him, 
when  he  has  been  going  to  a  play  or  an  opera, 
divert  the  money,  which  was  designed  for  that 
purpose,  upon  an  object  of  charity  whom  he  has 
met  with  in  the  street ;  and  afterward  pass  his 
evening  in  a  coffee-house,  or  at  a  friend’s  fire-side, 
with  much  greater  satisfaction  to  himself,  than  he 
could  have  received  from  the  most  exquisite  en¬ 
tertainments  of  the  theater.  By  these  means  he 
is  generous  without  impoverishing  himself,  and 
enjoys  his  estate  by  making  it  the  property  of 
others. 

There  are  few  men  so  cramped  in  their  private 
affairs,  who  may  not  be  charitable  after  this  man¬ 
ner,  without  any  disadvantage  to  themselves,  or 
prejudice  to  their  families.  It  is  but  sometimes 
sacrificing  a  diversion  or  convenience  to  the  poor, 
and  turning  the  usual  course  of  our  expenses  into 
a  better  channel.  This  is,  1  think,  not  only  the 
most  prudent  and  convenient,  but  the  most  meri¬ 
torious  piece  of  charity,  which  we  can  put  in 
practice.  By  this  method,  we  in  some  measure 
share  the  necessities  of  the  poor  at  the  same  time 
that  we  relieve  them,  and  make  ourselves  not  only 
their  patrons,  but  their  fellow-sufferers. 

Sir  Thomas  Brown,  in  the  last  part  of  his  Re- 
ligio  Medici,  in  which  he  describes  his  charity 
in  several  heroic  instances,  and  with  a  noble  heat 
of  sentiment,  mentions  that  verse  in  the  Proverbs 
of  Solomon,  “He  that  giveth  to  the  poor,  lendeth 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


233 


to  the  Lord  There  is  more  rhetoric  in  that 
one  sentence,  says  he,  than  in  a  library  of  ser¬ 
mons;  and,  indeed,  if  those  sentences  were  under¬ 
stood  by  the  reader,  with  the  same  emphasis  as 
they  are  delivered  by  the  author,  we  needed  not 
those  volumes  of  instructions,  but  might  be  hon¬ 
est  by  an  epitome. f 

This  passage  of  Scripture  is,  indeed,  wonder¬ 
fully  persuasive  ;  but  I  think  the  same  thought  is 
carried  much  farther  in  the  New  Testament, 
where  our  Savior  tells  us,  in  a  most  pathetic  man¬ 
ner,  that  he  shall  hereafter  regard  the  clothing  of 
the  naked,  the  feeding  of  the  hungry,  and  the  vis¬ 
iting  of  the  imprisoned,  as  offices  done  to  himself, 
and  reward  them  accordingly. $  Pursuant  to  those 
passages  in  Holy  Scripture,  I  have  somewhere 
met  with  the  epitaph  of  a  charitable  man,  which 
has  very  much  pleased  me.  I  cannot  recollect  the 
words,  but  the  sense  of  it  is  to  this  purpose  : 
What  I  spent  1  lost ;  what  I  possessed  is  left  to 
others;  what  I  gave  away  remains  with  me.§ 

Since  I  am  thus  insensibly  engaged  in  sacred 
writ,  I  cannot  forbear  making  an  extract  of  sev¬ 
eral  passages  which  1  have  always  read  wTith  great 
delight  in  the  Book  of  Job.  It  is  the  account 
which  that  holy  man  gives  of  his  behavior  in  the 
days  of  his  prosperity,  and  if  considered  only  as 
a  human  composition,  is  a  finer  picture  of  a  char¬ 
itable  and  good-natured  man  than  is  to  be  met 
with  in  any  other  author. 

“  Oh  that  I  were  as  in  months  past,  as  in  the 
days  when  God  preserved  me  :  when  his  candle 
shined  upon  my  head,  and  when  by  his  light  I 
walked  through  darkness  ;  when  the  Almighty 
was  yet  with  me  ;  when  my  children  were  about 
me;  when  I  washed  my  steps  with  butter,  and  the 
rock  poured  me  out  rivers  of  oil. 

“  When  the  ear  heard  me,  then  it  blessed  me  ; 
and  when  the  eye  saw  me,  it  gave  witness  to  me. 
Because  I  delivered  the  poor  that  cried,  and  the 
fatherless,  and  him  that  had  none  to  help  him. 
The  blessing  of  him  that  was  ready  to  perish 
came  upon  me,  and  I  caused  the  widow’s  heart  to 
sing  for  joy.  I  was  eyes  to  the  blind,  and  feet 
was  I  to  the  lame;  I  was  a  father  to  the  poor,  and 
the  cause  which  I  knew  not  I  searched  out,  Did 
not  I  weep  for  him  that  was  in  trouble  ?  was  not 
my  soul  grieved  for  the  poor  ?  Let  me  be  weigh¬ 
ed  in  an  even  balance,  that  God  may  know  mine 
integrity.  If  I  did  despise  the  cause  of  my  man¬ 
servant  or  of  my  maid-servant  when  they  contend¬ 
ed  with  me;  what  then  shall  I  do  when  God  riseth 
up  ?  and  when  he  visiteth,  what  shall  I  answer 
him  ?  Did  not  he  that  made  me  in  the  womb, 
make  him  ?  and  did  not  one  fashion  us  in  the 
womb  ?  If  I  have  withheld  the  poor  from  their 
desire,  or  have  caused  the  eyes  of  the  widow  to 
fail :  Or  have  eaten  my  morsel  myself  alone,  and 
the  fatherless  hath  not  eaten  thereof :  If  I  have 
seen  any  perish  for  want  of  clothing,  or  any  poor 
without  covering ;  If  his  loins  have  not  blessed 
me,  and  if  he  were  not  warmed  with  the  fleece  of 
my  sheep:  If  I  have  lifted  up  my  hand  against  the 
fatherless,  when  I  saw  my  help  in  the  gate  ;  then 
let  mine  arm  fall  from  my  shoulder-blade,  and 
mine  arm  be  broken  from  the  bone.  If  I  have  re¬ 
joiced  at  the  destruction  of  him  that  hated  me,  or 


*Prov.,  xix,  17. 

T  Brown’s  Eel.  Medici,  part  II,  sect.  13,  f.,  1659,  p.  29. 

I  Matt.,  xxv,  31,  et  seq. 

i  The  epitaph  alluded  to  is  (or  was)  in  St.  George’s  Church 

at  Doncaster  in  Yorkshire,  and  runs  in  old  English  thus : _ 

How  now,  who  is  heare  ?  That  I  spent,  that  I  had ; 

I,  Robin  of  Doncastere,  That  I  gave,  that  I  have ; 

And  Margaret  ray  feare  That  I  left,  that  I  lost. 

A.  D.,  1579. 

Quoth  Robertus  Byrks,  who  in  this  world  did  reign  three¬ 
score  years  and  seven,  and  yet  lived  not  one. 


lifted  up  myself  when  evil  found  him  :  (neither 
have  I  suffered  my  mouth  to  sin,  by  wishing  a 
curse  to  his  soul).  The  stranger  did  not  lodge  in 
the  street ;  but  I  opened  my  doors  to  the  traveler. 
If  my  land  cry  against  me,  or  that  the  furrows 
likewise  therefore  complain  :  If  I  have  eaten  the 
fruits  thereof  without  money,  or  have  caused  the 
owners  thereof  to  lose  their  life  ;  let  thistles  grow 
instead  of  wheat,  and  cockle  instead  of  barley.”* 


No.  178.]  MONDAY,  SEPTEMBER  24,  1711. 

-Hor.  2  Ep.  ii,  133.  • 


Comis  in  uxorem— 

Civil  to  his  wife. — Pope. 

I  cannot  defer  taking  notice  of  this  letter  : — 
“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  but  too  good  a  judge  of  your  paper  of 
the  15th  instant,  which  is  a  master-piece  ;  1  mean 
that  of  jealousy  :  but  I  think  it  unworthy  of  you 
to  speak  of  that  torture  in  the  breast  of  a  man, 
and  not  to  mention  also  the  pangs  of  it  in  the 
heart  of  a  woman.  You  have  very  judiciously, 
and  with  the  greatest  penetration  imaginable, 
considered  it  as  woman  is  the  creature  of  whom 
the  diffidence  is  raised ;  but  not  a  word  of  a  man, 
who  is  so  unmerciful  as  to  move  jealousy  in  his 
wife,  and  not  care  whether  she  is  so  or  not.  It  is 
possible  you  may  not  believe  there  are  such  ty¬ 
rants  in  the  world ;  but  alas,  I  can  tell  you  of  a 
man  who  is  ever  out  of  humor  in  his  wife’s  com¬ 
pany,  and  the  pleasantest  man  in  the  world  every¬ 
where  else  ;  the  greatest  sloven  at  home  when  he 
appears  to  none  but  his  family,  and  most  exactly 
well  dressed  in  all  other  places.  Alas,  Sir,  is  it  of 
course,  that  to  deliver  one’s  self  wholly  into  a  man’s 
power  without  possibility  of  appeal  to  any  other  ju¬ 
risdiction  but  his  own  reflections,  is  so  little  an  ob¬ 
ligation  to  a  gentleman,  that  he  can  be  offended 
and  fall  into  a  rage,  because  my  heart  swells  tears 
into  my  eyes  when  I  see  him  in  a  cloudy  mood  ? 
I  pretend  to  no  succor,  and  hope  for  no  relief  but 
from  himself  ;  and  yet  he  that  has  sense  and  jus¬ 
tice  in  everything  else,  never  reflects,  that  to  come 
home  only  to  sleep  off  an  intemperance,  and 
spend  all  the  time  he  is  there  as  if  it  were  a  pun¬ 
ishment,  cannot  but  give  the  anguish  of  a  jealous 
mind.  He  always  leaves  his  home  as  if  he  were 
going  to  a  court,  and  returns  as  if  he  were  enter¬ 
ing  a  jail.  I  could  add  to  this,  that  from  his  com- 

Eand  his  usual  discourse,  he  does  not  scruple 
j  thought  an  abandoned  man,  as  to  his  mo¬ 
rals.  Your  own  imagination  will  say  enough  to 
you  concerning  the  condition  of  me  his  wife;  and 
I  wish  you  would  be  so  good  as  to  represent  to 
him,  for  he  is  not  ill-natured,  and  reads  you 
much,  that  the  moment  I  hear  the  door  shut  after 
him,  I  throw  myself  upon  my  bed,  and  drown 
the  child  he  is  so  fond  of  with  my  tears,  and  often 
frighten  it  with  my  cries  ;  that  I  curse  my  being  ; 
that  I  run  to  my  glass  all  over  bathed  in  sorrows, 
and  help  the  utterance  of  my  inward  anguish  by 
beholding  the  gush  of  my  own  calamities  as  my 
tears  fall  from  my  eyes.  This  looks  like  an  ima¬ 
gined  picture  to  tell  you,  but  indeed  this  is  one  of 
my  pastimes.  Hitherto  I  have  only  told  you  the 
general  temper  of  my  mind,  how  shall  I  give  you 
an  account  of  the  distraction  of  it  ?  Could  you 
but  conceive  how  cruel  I  am  one  moment  in  my 
resentment,  and  at  the  ensuing  minute  when  I 
place  him  in  the  condition  my  anger  would  bring 
him  to,  how  compassionate  ;  it  would  give  you 
some  notion  how  miserable  I  am,  and  how  little  I 


*  Job,  xxix,  2,  etc.;  xxx,  25,  etc.;  xxxi,  6,  etc.,  passim. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


234 

deserve  it.  When  I  remonstrate  with  the  great¬ 
est  gentleness  that  is  possible  against  unhand¬ 
some  appearances,  and  that  married  persons  are 
under  particular  rules  ;  when  he  is  in  the  best  hu¬ 
mor  to  receive  this,  I  am  answered  only,  That  I 
expose  my  own  reputation  and  sense  if  I  appear 
jealous.  I  wish,  good  Sir,  you  would  take,  this 
into  serious  consideration,  and  admonish  hus¬ 
bands  and  wives  what  ‘terms  they  ought  to  keep 
toward  each  other.  Your  thoughts  on  this  im¬ 
portant  subject  will  have  the  greatest  reward,  that 
which  descends  on  such  as  feel  the  sorrows  of  the 
afflicted.  Give  me  leave  to  subscribe  myself, 

“Your  unfortunate  humble  servant, 

“  Celinda.” 

I  had  it  in  my  thoughts,  before  I  received  the  let¬ 
ter  of  this  lady,  to  consider  this  dreadful  passion  in 
the  mind  of  a  woman;  and  the  smart  she  seems  to 
feel  does  not  abate  the  inclination  I  had  to  recom¬ 
mend  to  husbands  a  more  regular  behavior,  than  to 
give  the  most  exquisite  of  torments  to  those  who 
love  them,  nay,  whose  torments  would  be  abated 
if  they  did  not  love  them. 

It  is  wonderful  to  observe  how  little  is  made  of 
this  inexpressible  injury,  and  how  easily  men  get 
into  a  habit  of  being  least  agreeable,  where  they 
are  most  obliged  to  be  so.  But  this  subject  de¬ 
serves  a  distinct  speculation,  and  I  shall  observe 
for  a  day  or  two  the  behavior  of  two  or  three  hap¬ 
py  pairs  I  am  acquainted  with,  before  I  pretend 
to  make  a  system  of  conjugal  morality.  I  design 
in  the  first  place  to  go  a  few  miles  out  of  town, 
and  there  I  know  where  to  meet  one  who  practices 
all  the  parts  of  a  fine  gentleman  in  the  duty  of  a 
husband.  When  he  was  a  bachelor,  much  busi¬ 
ness  made  him  particularly  negligent  in  his  habit; 
but  now  there  is  no  young  lover  living  so  exact  in 
the  care  of  his  person.  One  who  asked  why  he 
was  so  long  washing  his  mouth,  and  so  delicate 
in  the  choice  and  wearing  of  his  linen,  was  an¬ 
swered  :  “  Because  there  is  a  woman  of  merit 
obliged  to  receive  me  kindly,  and  I  think  it  incum¬ 
bent  upon  me  to  make  her  inclination  go  along 
with  her  duty.” 

If  a  man  would  give  himself  leave  to  think,  he 
would  not  be  so  unreasonable  as  to  expect  de¬ 
bauchery  and  innocence  could  live  in  commerce 
together  :  or  hope  that  flesh  and  blood  is  capable 
of  so  strict  an  alliance,  as  that  a  fine  woman  must 
go  on  to  improve  herself  till  she  is  as  good  and  im- 
assive  as  an  angel,  only  to  preserve  fidelity  to  a 
rute  and  a  satyr.  The  lady  who  desires  me  for 
her  sake  to  end  one  of  my  papers  with  the  follow¬ 
ing  letter,  I  am  persuaded  thinks  such  a  perseve¬ 
rance  very  impracticable  : 

“  Husband, 

“  Stay  more  at  home.  I  know  where  you  visited 
at  seven  of  the  clock  on  Thursday  evening.  The 
colonel  whom  you  charged  me  to  see  no  more  is  in 
town. 

T.  “Martha  Housewife.” 


No.  179.]  TUESDAY,  SEPTEMBER  25,  1711. 

Centurse  seniorum  agitant  expertia  frugis : 

Celsi  prastereunt  austera  poemata  rhamnes, 

Omne  tulit  punctual  qui  miscuit  utile  dulci, 
Lectorem  delectando,  pariterque  monendo. 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  v,  341. 

Old  age  is  only  fond  of  moral  truth, 

Lectures  too  grave  disgust  aspiring  youth ; 

But  he  who  blends  instruction  with  delight, 

Wins  every  reader,  nor  in  vain  shall  write. — P. 

1  may  cast  my  readers  under  two  general  divis¬ 
ions,  the  mercurial  and  the  saturnine.  The  first 
are  the  gay  part  of  my  disciples,  who  require 


speculations  of  wit  and  humor  ;  the  others  are 
those  of  a  more  solemn  and  sober  turn,  who  find 
no  pleasure  but  in  papers  of  morality  and  sound 
sense.  The  former  call  everything  that  is  serious, 
stupid ;  the  latter  look  upon  everything  as  imper¬ 
tinent  that  is  ludicrous.  Were  I  always  grave, 
one  half  of  my  readers  would  fall  off  from  me  ; 
were  I  always  merry,  I  should  lose  the  other.  I 
make  it,  therefore,  my  endeavor  to  find  out  enter¬ 
tainments  for  both  kinds,  and  by  that  means,  per¬ 
haps,  consult  the  good  of  both,  more  than  I  should 
do,  did  I  always  write  to  the  particular  taste  of 
either.  As  they  neither  of  them  know  what  I 
proceed  upon,  the  sprightly  reader,  who  takes  up 
my  paper  in  order  to  be  diverted,  very  often  finds 
himself  engaged  unawares  in  a  serious  and  profit¬ 
able  course  of  thinking  ;  as,  on  the  contrary,  the 
thoughtful  man  who,  perhaps,  may  hope  to  find 
something  solid,  and  full  of  deep  reflection,  is  very 
often  insensibly  betrayed  into  a  fit  of  mirth.  In 
a  word,  the  reader  sits  down  to  my  entertainment 
without  knowing  his  bill  of  fare,  and  has  there¬ 
fore  at  least  the  pleasure  of  hoping  there  may  be 
a  dish  to  his  palate. 

I  must  confess,  were  I  left  to  myself,  I  would 
rather  aim  at  instructing  than  diverting;  but  if  we 
will  be  useful  to  the  world,  we  must  take  it  as  we 
find  it.  Authors  of  professed  severity  discourage 
the  looser  part  of  mankind  from  having  anything 
to  do  with  their  writings.  A  man  must  have  vir¬ 
tue  in  him,  before  he  will  enter  upon  the  reading 
of  a  Seneca  or  an  Epictetus.  The  very  title  of  a 
moral  treatise  has  something  in  it  austere  and 
shocking  to  the  careless  and  inconsiderate. 

For  this  reason  several  unthinking  persons  fall 
in  my  way  who  would  give  no  attention  to  lectures 
delivered  with  a  religious,  serious  or  a  philoso¬ 
phic  gravity.  They  are  insnared  into  sentiments 
of  wisdom  and  virtue  when  they  do  not  think  of 
it;  and  if  by  that  means  they  arrive  only  at  such 
a  degree  of  consideration  as  may  dispose  them  to 
listen  to  more  studied  and  elaborate  discourses,  I 
shall  not  think  my  speculations  useless.  I  might 
likewise  observe,  that  the  gloominess  in  which 
sometimes  the  minds  of  the  best  men  are  involved, 
very  often  stands  in  need  of  such  little  incitements 
to  mirth  and  laughter,  as  are  apt  to  disperse  me¬ 
lancholy,  and  put  our  faculties  in  good  humor. 
To  which  some  will  add,  that  the  British  climate, 
more  than  any  other,  makes  entertainments  of  this 
nature  in  a  manner  necessary. 

If  what  I  have  here  said  does  not  recommend, 
it  will  at  least  excuse,  the  variety  of  my  specu¬ 
lations.  I  would  not  willingly  laugh  but  in  order 
to  instruct,  or  if  I  may  sometimes  fail  in  this 
point,  when  my  mirth  ceases  to  be  innocent.  A 
scrupulous  conduct  in  this  particular  has,  perhaps, 
more  merit  in  it  than  the  generality  of  readers 
imagine ;  did  they  know  how  many  thoughts  oc¬ 
cur  in  a  point  of  humor,  which  a  discreet  author 
in  modesty  suppresses  ;  how  many  strokes  of  rail 
lery  present  themselves,  which  could  not  fail  to 
please  the  ordinary  taste  of  mankind,  but  are 
stifled  in  their  birth  by  reason  of  some  remote 
tendency  which  they  carry  in  them  to  corrupt  the 
minds  of  those  who  read  them:  did  they  know 
how  many  glances  of  ill-nature  are  industriously 
avoided  for  fear  of  doing  injury  to  the  reputation 
of  another,  they  would  be  apt  to  think  kindly  of 
those  writers  who  endeavor  to  make  themselves 
diverting,  without  being  immoral.  One  may  ap¬ 
ply  to  these  authors  that  passage  of  Waller: 

Poets  lose  half  the  praise  they  would  have  got, 

Were  it  but  known  what  they  discreetly  blot. 

As  nothing  is  more  easy  than  to  be  a  wit,  with 
all  the  above-mentioned  liberties,  it  requires  some 


THE  SPE 

.  genius  and  invention  to  appear  such  without 
them. 

What  I  have  here  said  is  not  only  in  regard  to 
the  public,  but  with  an  eye  to  my  particular  cor¬ 
respondent,  who  has  sent  me  the  following  letter, 
which  I  have  castrated  in  some  places  upon  these 
considerations : 

“Sir; 

“Having  lately  seen  your  discourse  upon  a 
match  of  grinning,  I  cannot  forbear  giving  you  an 
account  ot  a  whistling  match,  which,  with  many 
others,  I  was  entertained  with  about  three  years 
since  at  the  Bath.  The  prize  was  a  guinea,  to  be 
conferred  upon  the  ablest  Whistler,  that  is,  on  him 
who  could  whistle  clearest,  and  go  through  his 
time  without  laughing,  to  which  at  the  same  time  he 
was  provoked  by  the  antic  postures  of  a  merry- 
andrew,  who  was  to  stand  upon  the  stage  and 
play  his  tricks  in  the  eye  of  the  performer.  There 
were  three  competitors  for  the  guinea.  The  first 
was  a  plowman  of  a  very  promising  aspect ;  his 
features  were  steady,  and  his  muscles  composed 
in  so  inflexible  stupidity,  that  upon  his  first  ap¬ 
pearance  every  one  gave  the  guinea  for  lost.  The 
pickled-herring  however  found  the  way  to  shake 
lim;  for  upon  his  whistling  a  country  jig,  this  un¬ 
lucky  wag  danced  to  it  with  such  a  variety  of  dis¬ 
tortions  and  grimace,  that  the  countryman  could 
not  forbear  smiling  upon  him,  and  by  that  means 
spoiled  his  whistle,  and  lost  the  prize. 

_  “The  next  that  mounted  the  stage  was  an  under¬ 
citizen  of  the  Bath,  a  person  remarkable  among 
the  inferior  people  of  that  place  for  his  great 
wisdom,  and  his  broad  band.*  He  contracted  his 
mouth  with  much  gravity,  and,  that  he  might  dis- 
ose  his  mind  to  be  more  serious  than  ordinary, 
egan  the  tune  of  the  Children  in  the  Wood.  He 
went  through  part  of  it  with  good  success,  when 
on  a  sudden  the  wit  at  his  elbow,  who  had  ap¬ 
peared  wonderfully  grave  and  attentive  for  some 
time,  gave  him  a  touch  upon  the  left  shoulder,  and 
stared  him  in  the  face  with  so  bewitching  a  grin, 
that  the  whistler  relaxed  his  fibers  into  a  kind  of 
simper,  and  at  length  burst  out  into  an  open  laugh. 
The  third  who  entered  the  lists  was  a  footman, 
who  in  defiance  of  the  merry-andrew  and  all  his 
arts,  whistled  a  Scotch  tune,  and  an  Italian  sonata, 
with  so  settled  a  countenance  that  he  bore  away 
the  prize  to  the  great  admiration  of  some  hun¬ 
dreds  of  persons,  who,  as  well  as  myself,  were 
present  at  this  trial  of  skill.  Now,  Sir,  I  humbly 
conceive,  what  you  have  determined  of  the  grin- 
ners,  the  whistlers  ought  to  be  encouraged,  not 
only  as  their  art  is  practice  without  distortion,  but 
as  it  improves  country-music,  promotes  gravity, 
and  teaches  ordinary  people  to  keep  their  counte¬ 
nances,  if  they  see  anything  ridiculous  in  their 
betters;  beside  that  it  seems  an  entertainment  very 
particularly  adapted  to  the  Bath,  as  it  is  usual  for 
a  rider  to  whistle  to  his  horse  when  he  would 
make  his  water  pass. 

“I  am,  Sir,”  etc. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

“After  haying  dispatched  these  two  important 
points  ot  grinning  and  whistling,  I  hope  you  will 
oblige  the  world  with  some  reflections  upon  yawn¬ 
ing,  as  I  have  seen  it  practiced  on  a  twelfth-night 
among  other  Christmas  gambols  at  the  house  of  a 
vety  worthy  gentleman,  who  always  entertains 
his  tenants  at  that  time  of  the  year.  They  yawn 
for  a  Cheshire  cheese,  and  began  about  midnight, 
when  the  whole  company  is  disposed  to  be  drowsy! 
He  that  yawns  widest,  and  at  the  same  time  so 


CTATOR.  235 

naturally  as  to  produce  the  most  yawns  among 
the  spectators,  carries  home  the  cheese.  If  you 
handle  this  subject  as  you  ought,  I  question  not 
but  your  paper  will  set  half  the  kingdom  a  yawn¬ 
ing,  though  I  dare  promise  you  it  will  neVer  make 
anybody  fall  asleep.” — L. 


No.  180.]  WEDNESDAY,  SEPT.  26,  1711. 

- Delirant  reges,  plectuntur  Achivi. 

Hor.  1  Ep.  ii,  14. 

The  monarch’s  folly  makes  the  people  rue. — P. 

The  following  letter  has  so  much  weight  and 
good  sense,  that  I  cannot  forbear  inserting  it, 
though  it  relates  to  a  hardened  sinner,  whom  I 
have  very  little  hopes  of  reforming,  viz :  Louis 
XIY,  of  France. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“Amidst  the  variety  of  subjects  of  which  you 
have  treated,  I  could  wish  it  had  fallen  in  your 
way  to  expose  the  vanity  of  conquests.  This 
thought  would  naturally  lead  one  to  the  French 
king,  who  has  been  generally  esteemed  the  great¬ 
est  conqueror  of  our  age,  till  her  majesty’s  armies 
had  torn  from  him  so  many  of  his  countries,  and 
deprived  him  of  the  fruit  of  all  his  former  victories. 
For  my  own  part,  if  I  were  to  draw  his  picture,  I 
should  be  for  taking  him  no  lower  than  to  the 
peace  of  Ryswick,  just  at  the  end  of  his  triumphs, 
and  before  his  reverse  of  fortune:  and  even  then  I 
should  not  forbear  thinking  his  ambition  had 
been  vain,  and  unprofitable  to  himself  and  his 
people. 

“As  for  himself,  it  is  certain  he  can  have  gained 
nothing  by  his  conquests,  if  they  have  not  render¬ 
ed  him  master  of  more  subjects,  more  riches,  or 
greater  power.  What  I  shall  be  able  to  offer  upon 
these  heads,  I  resolve  to  submit  to  your  considera¬ 
tion. 

“To  begin  then  with  his  increase  of  subjects. 
From  the  time  he  came  of  age,  and  has  been  a 
manager  for  himself,  all  the  people  he  had  ac¬ 
quired  were  such  only  as  he  had  reduced  by  his 
wars,  and  were  left  in  his  possession  by  the  peace; 
he  had  conquered  not  above  one-third  of  Flanders, 
and  consequently  no  more  than  one-third  part  of 
the  inhabitants  of  that  province. 

“About  one  hundred  years  ago  the  houses  in 
that  country  were  all  numbered,  and  by  a  just 
computation  the  inhabitants  of  all  sorts  could  not 
then  exceed  750, 000  souls.  And  if  any  man  will 
consider  the  desolation  by  almost  perpetual  wars, 
the  numerous  armies  that  have  lived  almost  ever 
since  at  discretion  upon  the  people,  and  how  much 
of  their  commerce  has  been  removed  for  more  se¬ 
curity  to  other  places,  he  will  have  little  reason 
to  imagine  that  their  numbers  have  since  increas¬ 
ed;  and  therefore  with  one-third  part  of  that  pro¬ 
vince  that  prince  can  have  gained  no  more  than 
one-third  part  of  the  inhabitants,  or  250,000  new 
subjects,  even  though  it  should  be  supposed  they 
were  all  contented  to  live  still  in  their  native 
country,  and  transfer  their  allegiance  to  a  new 
master. 

“The  fertility  of  this  province,  its  convenient 
situation  for  trade  and  commerce,  its  capacity  for 
furnishing  employment  and  subsistence  to  great 
numbers,  and  the  vast  armies  that  have  been 
mai  ntained  here,  make  it  credible  that  the  remaining 
two-thirds  of  Flanders  are  equal  to  all  his  other 
conquests;  and  consequently  by  all,  he  cannot  have 
gained  more  than  750,000  new  subjects,  men,  wo¬ 
men,  and  children,  especially  if  a  reduction  shall 
be  made  of  such  as  have  retired  from  the  con 
queror,  to  live  under  their  old  masters. 


*  In  1707. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


236 

“It  is  time  now  to  set  liis  loss  against  his  profit, 
and  to  show  for  the  new  subjects  lie  had  acquired, 
how  many  old  ones  he  had  lost  in  the  acquisition. 
I  think  that  in  his  wars  he  has  seldom  brought 
less  into  the  field,  in  all  places,  than  200,000 
fighting  men,  beside  what  has  been  left  in  gar¬ 
risons;  and  I  think  the  common  computation  is, 
that  of  an  army,  at  the  end  of  a  campaign,  with¬ 
out  sieges  or  battles,  scarce  four-fifths  can  be  mus¬ 
tered  of  those  that  came  into  the  field  at  the 
beginning  of  the  year.  His  wars  at  several  times, 
until  the  last  peace,  have  held  about  twenty  years; 
and  if  40,000  yearly  lost,  or  a  fifth  part  of  his 
armies,  are  to  be  multiplied  by  20,  he  cannot  have 
lost  less  than  800,000  of  his  old  subjects,  and  all 
able-bodied  men;  a  greater  number  than  the  new 
subjects  he  had  acquired. 

“But  this  loss  is  not  all.  Providence  seems  to 
have  equally  divided  the  whole  mass  of  mankind 
into  different  sexes,  that  every  woman  may  have 
her  husband,  and  that  both  may  equally  contribute 
to  the  continuance  of  the  species.  It  follows  then, 
that  for  all  the  men  that  have  been  lost,  as  many 
women  must  have  lived  single,  and  it  were  but 
charity  to  believe,  they  have  not  done  all  the  ser¬ 
vice  they  were  capable  of  doing  in  their  genera¬ 
tion.  In  so  long  a  course  of  years  great  part  of 
them  must  have  died,  and  all  the  rest  must  go  off 
at  last,  without  leaving  any  representatives  be¬ 
hind.  By  this  account  he  must  have  lost  not  only 
800,000  subjects,  but  double  that  number,  and  all 
the  increase  that  was  reasonably  to  be  expected 
from  it. 

“  It  is  said  in  the  last  war  there  was  a  famine 
in  his  kingdom  which  swept  away  two  millions 
of  his  people.  This  is  hardly  credible.  If  the 
loss  was  only  one-fifth  part  of  that  sum,  it  was 
very  great.  But  it  is  no  wonder  there  should 
be  famine,  where  so  much  of  the  people’s  sub¬ 
stance  is  taken  away  for  the  king’s  use,  that  they 
have  not  sufficient  left  to  provide  against  acci¬ 
dents  :  where  so  many  of  the  men  are  taken  from 
the  plow  to  serve  the  king  in  his  wars,  and  a 
great  part  of  the  tillage  is  left  to  the  weaker 
hands  of  so  many  women  and  children.  What¬ 
ever  was  the  loss,  it  must  undoubtedly  be  placed 
to  the  account  of  his  ambition. 

“  And  so  must  also  the  destruction  or  banish¬ 
ment  of  3  or  400,000  of  his  reformed  subjects  ;  he 
could  have  no  other  reasons  for  valuing  those 
lives  so  very  cheap  but  only  to  recommend  him¬ 
self  to  the  bjgotry  of  the  Spanish  nation. 

“  How  should  there  be  industry  in  a  country 
where  all  property  is  precarious  ?  What  subject 
will  sow  his  land,  that  his  prince  may  reap  the 
whole  harvest?  Parsimony  and  frugality  must 
be  strangers  to  such  a  people ;  for  will  any  man 
save  to-day,  what  he  has  reason  to  fear  will  be 
taken  from  him  to-morrow?  And  where  is  the 
encouragment  for  marrying  ?  Will  any  man  think 
of  raising  children  without  any  assurance  of  cloth¬ 
ing  for  their  backs,  or  so  much  as  food  for  their 
bellies?  And  thus,  by  his  fatal  ambition,  he  must 
have  lessened  the  number  of  his  subjects,  not 
only  by  slaughter  and  destruction,  but,  by  pre¬ 
venting  their  very  births,  he  has  done  as  much  as 
was  possible  toward  destroying  posterity  itself. 

“  Is  this  then  the  great,  the  invincible  Louis  ? 
This  the  immortal  man,  the  tout  puissant,  or  the 
almighty,  as  his  flatterers  have  called  him?  Is 
this  the  man  that  is  so  celebrated  for  his  con¬ 
quests  ?  For  every  subject  he  has  acquired,  has 
ne  not  lost  three  that  were  his  inheritance  ?  Are 
not  his  troops  fewer,  and  those  neither  so  well 
fed,  or  clothed,  or  paid,  as  they  were  formerly, 
though  lie  has  now  so  much  greater  cause  to  exert 
himself  ?  And  what  can  be  the  reason  of  all  this. 


but  that  his  revenue  is  a  great  deal  less,  his  sub¬ 
jects  are  either  poorer,  or  not  so  many  to  be 
plundered  by  constant  taxes  for  his  use  ? 

“  It  is  well  for  him  he  had  found  out  a  way  to 
steal  a  kingdom  ;*  if  he  had  gone  on  conquering 
as  he  did  before,  his  ruin  had  been  long  since  fin¬ 
ished.  This  brings  to  my  mind  a  saying  of 
King  Pyrrhus,  after  he  had  a  second  time  beat  the 
Romans  in  a  pitched  battle,  and  was  compli¬ 
mented  by  his  generals ;  ‘  Y es,’  says  he,  *  such 
another  victory,  and  I  am  quite  undone.’  And 
since  I  have  mentioned  Pyrrhus,  I  will  end  with 
a  very  good,  though  known  story  of  this  ambitious 
madman.  When  he  had  shown  the  utmost  fond¬ 
ness  for  his  expedition  against  the  Romans, 
Cineas,  his  chief  minister,  asked  him  what  he 
proposed  to  himself  by  this  war  ?  ‘  Why,’  says 

Pyrrhus,  ‘  to  conquer  the  Romans,  and  reduce  all 
Italy  to  my  obedience.’  ‘  What  then  ?’  says  Ci¬ 
neas.  ‘  To  pass  over  into  Sicily,’  says  Pyrrhus, 
‘  and  then  all  the  Sicilians  must  be  our  subjects.’ 
‘And  what  does  your  majesty  intend  next?’ 
‘Why  truly  ;’  says  the  king,  ‘to  conquer  Carthage 
and  make  myself  master  of  all  Africa.’  ‘  And 
what,  Sir,’  says  the  minister,  ‘  is  to  be  the  end  of 
all  your  expeditions  ?’  ‘  Why  then,’  says  the 

king,  ‘  for  the  rest  of  our  lives  we  will  sit  down 
to  good  wine.’  ‘  How,  Sir,’  replied  Cineas,  ‘  to 
better  than  we  have  now  before  us  ?  Have  we  not 
already  as  much  as  we  can  drink  ?’ 

“  Riot  and  excess  are  not  the  becoming  charac¬ 
ters  of  princes;  but  if  Pyrrhus  and  Louis  had  de¬ 
bauched  like  Yitellius,  they  had  been  less  hurtful 
to  their  people. 

“  Your  humble  servant, 

T.  “  Philarithmus.’’ 


Ho.  181.]  THURSDAY,  SEPT.  27,  1711. 

His  lacrymis  vitam  damus,  et  miserescimus  ultro. 

Virg.  iEn.,  ii,  145. 

Mov’d  by  these  tears,  we  pity  and  protect. 

I  am  more  pleased  with  a  letter  that  is  filled 
with  touches  of  nature  than  of  wit.  The  follow¬ 
ing  one  is  of  this  kind  : 

“Sir, 

“Among  all  the  distresses  which  happen  in 
families,  I  do  not  remember  that  you  have  touched 
upon  the  marriage  of  children  without  the  consent 
of  their  parents.  I  am  one  of  these  unfortunate 
persons.  I  was  about  fifteen  when  I  took  the  lib¬ 
erty  to  choose  for  myself ;  and  have  ever  since 
languished  under  the  displeasure  of  an  inexorable 
father,  who,  though  he  sees  me  happy  in  the  best 
of  husbands,  and  blessed  with  very  fine  children, 
can  never  be  prevailed  upon  to  forgive  me.  He 
was  so  kind  to  me  before  this  unhappy  accident, 
that  indeed  it  makes  my  breach  of  duty  in  some 
measure  inexcusable;  and  at  the  same  time  creates 
in  me  such  a  tenderness  toward  him,  that  I  love 
him  above  all  things,  and  would  die  to  be  recon¬ 
ciled  to  him.  I  have  thrown  myself  at  his  feet, 
and  besought  him  with  tears  to  pardon  me;  but  he 
always  pushes  me  away,  and  spurns  me  from  him. 
I  have  written  several  letters  to  him,  but  he  will 
neither  open  nor  receive  them.  About  two  years 
ago  I  sent  my  little  boy  to  him,  dressed  in  new 
apparel;  but  the  child  returned  to  me  crying,  be¬ 
cause  he  said  his  grandfather  would  not  see  him, 
and  had  ordered  him  to  be  put  out  of  his  house. 
My  mother  is  won  over  to  my  side,  but  dares  not 

*  The  kingdom  of  Spain,  seized  by  Louis  XIV,  in  1701,  for 
his  grandson,  as  left  him  by  the  will  of  Charles  II,  which  the 
enemies  of  Trance  looked  upon  as  forged,  or  made  when 
Charles  was  “  non  compos.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


mention  me  to  my  father,  for  fear  of  provoking 
him.  About  a  month  ago  he  lay  sick  upon  his 
bed,  and  in  great  danger  of  his  life  ;  I  was  pierced 
to  the  heart  at  the  news,  and  could  not  forbear 
going  to  inquire  after  his  health.  My  mother  took 
this  opportunity  of  speaking  in  my  behalf:  she 
told  him,  with  abundance  of  tears,  that  I  was 
come  to  see  him,  that  I  could  not  speak  to  her  for 
weeping,  and  that  I  should  certainly  break  my 
heart  it  he  refused  at  that  time  to  give  me  his 
blessing,  and  be  reconciled  to  me.  He  Avas  so  far 
from  relenting  toward  me,  that  he  bid  her  speak 
no  more  of  me,  unless  she  had  a  mind  to  disturb 
him  in  his  last  moments;  for,  Sir,  you  must  know 
that  he  has  the  reputation  of  an  honest  and  reli¬ 
gious  man,  which  makes  my  misfortune  so  much 
the  greater.  God  be  thanked  he  has  since  recov¬ 
ered:  but  his  severe  usage  has  given  me  such  a 
blow  that  I  shall  soon  sink  under  it,  unless  I  may 
be  relieved  by  any  impressions  which  the  reading 
of  this  in  your  paper  may  make  upon  him. 

“  I  am,”  etc. 

Of  all  hardnesses  of  heart  there  is  none  so  in¬ 
excusable  as  that  of  parents  toward  their  children. 
An  obstinate,  inflexible,  unforgiving  temper  is 
odious  upon  all  occasions;  but  here  it  is  unnatu¬ 
ral.  The  love,  tenderness,  and  compassion  which 
are  apt  to  arise  in  us  toward  those  who  depend 
upon  us,  is  that  by  which  the  whole  world  of  life 
is  upheld.  The  supreme  Being,  by  the  transcen¬ 
dent  excellency  and  goodness  of  his  nature,  ex¬ 
tends  his  mercy  toward  all  his  works;  and  because 
his  creatures  have  not  such  a  spontaneous  benevo¬ 
lence  and  compassion  toward  those  who  are  under 
their  care  and  protection,  he  has  implanted  in  them 
an  instinct,  that  supplies  the  place  of  this  inhe¬ 
rent  goodness.  I  have  illustrated  this  kind  of 
instinct  in  former  papers,  and  have  shown  how  it 
runs  through  all  the  species  of  brute  creatures,  as 
indeed  the  whole  animal  creation  subsists  by  it. 

This  instinct  in  man  is  more  general  and  uncir¬ 
cumscribed  than  in  brutes,  as  being  enlarged  by 
the  dictates  of  reason  and  duty.  For  if  we  con¬ 
sider  ourselves  attentively,  we  shall  find  that  we 
are  not  only  inclined  to  love  those  who  descend 
from  us,  but  that  we  bear  a  kind  of  natural  affec¬ 
tion  to  everything  which  relies  upon  us  for  its 
good  and  preservation.  Dependence  is  a  perpe¬ 
tual  call  upon  humanity,  and  a  greater  incitement 
to  tenderness  and  pity,  than  any  other  motive 
whatsoever. 

The  man,  therefore,  who,  notwithstanding  any 
passion  or  resentment,  can  overcome  this  powerful 
instinct,  and  extinguish  natural  affection,  debases 
his  mind  even  below  brutality,  frustrates,  as  much 
as  in  him  lies,  the  great  design  of  Providence, 
and  strikes  out  of  his  nature  one  of  the  most 
divine  principles  that  is  planted  in  it. 

Among  innumerable  arguments  which  might  be 
brought  against  such  an  unreasonable  proceeding, 

I  shall  only  insist  on  one.  We  make  it  the  condi¬ 
tion  of  our  forgiveness  that  we  forgive  others.  In 
our  very  prayers  we  desire  no  more  than  to  be 
treated  by  this  kind  of  retaliation.  The  case 
therefore  before  us  seems  to  be  what  they  call  a 
“  case  in  point;”  the  relation  between  the  child 
and  father,  being  what  comes  nearest  to  that  be¬ 
tween  a  creature  and  its /Creator.  If  the  father  is 
inexorable  to  the  child  who  has  offended,  let  the 
offense  be  of  never  so  high  a  nature,  how  will  he 
address  himself  to  the  supreme  Being,  under  the 
tender  appellation  of  a  father,  and  desire  of  him 
such  a  forgiveness  as  he  himself  refuses  to  grant  ? 

To  this  I  might  add  many  other  religious,  as 
well  as  many  prudential  considerations;  but  if  the 
last  mentioned  motive  does  not  prevail,  I  despair 


237 

of  succeeding  by  any  other,  and  shall  therefore 
conclude  my  paper  with  a  very  remarkable  story, 
which  is  recorded  in  an  old  chronicle  published 
by  Freher,  among  the  writers  of  the  German 
history. 

Eginhart,  who  was  secretary  to  Charles  the 
Great,  became  exceedingly  popular  by  his  behavior 
in  that  post.  His  great  abilities  gained  him  the 
favor  of  his  master,  and  the  esteem  of  the  whole 
court.  Imma,  the  daughter  of  the  emperor,  was 
so  pleased  with  his  person  and  conversation,  that 
she  fell  in  love  with  him.  As  she  was  one  of  the 
greatest  beauties  of  the  age,  Eginhart  answered 
her  with  a  more  than  equal  return  of  passion. 
They  stifled  their  flames  for  some  time,  under  the 
apprehension  of  the  fatal  consequences  that  might 
ensue.  Eginhart  at  length  resolving  to  hazard 
all  rather  than  live  deprived  of  one  whom  his 
heart  was  so  much  set  upon,  conveyed  himself 
one  night  into  the  princess’s  apartment,  and 
knocking  gently  at  the  door,  was  admitted  as  a 
person  who  had  something  to  communicate  to  her 
trom  the  emperor.  He  was  with  her  in  private 
most  part  of  the  night;  but  upon  his  preparing  to 
go  away  about  break  of  day,  he  observed  that 
there  had  fallen  a  great  snow  during  his  stay  with 
the  princess.  This  very  much  perplexed,  him, 
lest  the  prints  of  his  feet  in  the  snow  might  make 
discoveries  to  the  king,  who  often  used  to  visit 
his  daughter  in  the  morning.  He  acquainted  the 
Princess  Imma  with  his  fears :  who  after  some 
consultations  upon  the  matter,  prevailed  upon 
him  to  let  her  carry  him  through  the  snow  upon  her 
own  shoulders.  It  happened  that  the  emperor,  not 
being  able  to  sleep,  was  at  that  time  up  and  walk¬ 
ing  in  his  chamber,  when  upon  looking  through 
the  window  he  perceived  his  daughter  tottering 
under  her  burden  and  carrying  his  first  minister 
across  the  snow;  which  she  had  no  sooner  done, 
but  she  returned  again  with  the  utmost  speed  to 
her  own  apartment.  The  emperor  was  exceed¬ 
ingly  troubled  and  astonished  at  this  accident; 
but  resolved  to  speak  nothing  of  it  until  a  proper 
opportunity.  In  the  meantime,  Eginhart  know¬ 
ing  that  what  he  had  done  could  not  be  long  a 
secret,  determined  to  retire  from  court;  and  in 
order  to  it  begged  the  emperor  that  he  would  be 
pleased  to  dismiss  him,  pretending  a  kind  of  dis¬ 
content  at  his  not  having  been  rewarded  for  his 
long  services.  The  emperor  would  not  give  a 
direct  answer  to  his  petition,  but  told  him  he 
would  think  of  it,  and  appointed  a  certain  day 
when  he  would  let  him  know  his  pleasure.  He 
then  called  together  the  most  faithful  of  his  coun¬ 
selors,  and  acquainting  them  with  his  secretary’s 
crime,  asked  them  their  advice  in  so  delicate  an 
affair.  They  most  of  them  gave  their  opinion, 
that  the  person  could  not  be  too  severely  punish¬ 
ed,  who  had  thus  dishonored  his  master.  Upon 
the  whole  debate,  the  emperor  declared  it  was  his 
opinion,  that  Eginhart’s  punishment  would  rather 
increase  than  diminish  the  shame  of  his  family, 
and  that  therefore  he  thought  it  the  most  advisa¬ 
ble  to  wear  out  the  memory  of  the  fact,  by  marry¬ 
ing  him  to  his  daughter.  Accordingly  Eginhart 
was  called  in,  and  acquainted  by  the  emperor, 
that  he  should  no  longer  have  any  pretense  of 
complaining  his  services  were  not  rewarded,  for 
that  the  Princess  Imma  should  be  given  him  in 
marriage,  with  a  dower  suitable  to  her  quality; 
which  was  soon  after  performed  accordingly. — L. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


238 

No.  182.]  FRIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  28,  1711. 

Plus  aloes  quam  mellis  habet - Juv.,  Sat.  vi,  180. 

The  bitter  overbalances  the  sweet. 

As  all  parts  of  human  life  come  under  my  ob¬ 
servation,  my  reader  must  not  make  uncharitable 
inferences  from  my  speaking  knowingly  of  that 
sort  of  crime  which  is  at  present  treated  of.  He 
will,  I  hope,  suppose  I  know  it  only  from  the  let¬ 
ters  of  correspondents,  two  of  which  you  shall 
have  as  follow  : 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  It  is  wonderful  to  me,  that  among  the  many 
enormities  which  you  have  treated  of,  you  have 
not  mentioned  that  of  wenching,  and  particularly 
the  ensnaring  part.  I  mean  that  it  is  a  thing  very 
fit  for  your  pen,  to  expose  the  villany  of  the  prac¬ 
tice  of  deluding  women.  You  are  to  know,  Sir, 
that  I  myself  am  a  woman  who  have  been  one  of 
the  unhappy  that  have  fallen  into  this  misfortune, 
and  that  by  the  insinuation  of  a  very  worthless 
fellow,  who  served  others  in  the  same  manner, 
both  before  my  ruin  and  since  that  time.  I  had, 
as  soon  as  the  rascal  left  me,  so  much  indignation 
and  resolution  as  not  to  go  upon  the  town,  as  the 
phrase  is,  but  took  to  work  for  my  living  in  an 
obscure  place,  out  of  the  knowledge  of  all  with 
whom  I  was  before  acquainted. 

“  It  is  the  ordinary  practice  and  business  of  life 
with  a  set  of  idle  fellows  about  this  town  to  write 
letters,  send  messages,  and  form  appointments 
with  little  raw  unthinking  girls,  and  leave  them 
after  possession  of  them,  without  any  mercy,  to 
shame,  infamy,  poverty,  and  disease.  Were  you 
to  read  the  nauseous  impertinences  which  are 
written  on  these  occasions,  and  to  see  the  silly 
creatures  sighing  over  them,  it  could  not  but  be 
matter  of  mirth  as  well  as  pity.  A  little  ’prentice 
girl  of  mine  has  been  for  some  time  applied  to  by 
an  Irish  fellow,  who  dresses  very  fine,  and  struts 
in  a  lace  coat,  and  is  the  admiration  of  seam¬ 
stresses,  who  are  under  age  in  town.  Ever  since 
I  had  some  knowledge  of  the  matter,  I  have  de¬ 
barred  my  ’prentice  from  pen,  ink,  and  paper. 
But  the  other  day  he  bespoke  some  cravats  of  me: 
I  went  out  of  the  shop,  and  left  his  mistress  to 
ut  them  up  in  a  band-box  in  order  to  be  sent  to 
im  when  his  man  called.  When  I  came  into  the 
shop  again,  I  took  occasion  to  send  her  away,  and 
found  in  the  bottom  of  the  box  written  these 
words,  ‘  Why  would  you  ruin  a  harmless  creature 
that  loves  you  ?’  then  in  the  lid,  ‘  There  is  no  re¬ 
sisting  Strephon  I  searched  a  little  further,  and 
found  in  the  rim  of  the  box,  ‘At  eleven  o’clock  at 
night  come  in  a  hackney-coach  at  the  end  of  our 
street.’  This  was  enough  to  alarm  me  ;  I  sent 
away  the  things,  and  took  my  measures  accord¬ 
ingly.  An  hour  or  two  before  the  appointed  time, 
I  examined  my  young  lady,  and  found  her  trunk 
stuffed  Avith  impertinent  letters  and  an  old  scroll 
of  parchment  in  Latin,  which  her  lover  had  sent 
her  as  a  settlement  of  fifty  pounds  a  year.  Among 
other  things,  there  Avas  also  the  best  lace  I  had 
in  my  shop  to  make  him  a  present  for  cravats.  I 
was  very  glad  of  this  latter  circumstance,  because 
I  could  very  conscientiously  SA\rear  against  him 
that  he  had  enticed  my  servant  away,  and  was 
her  accomplice  in  robbing  me  :  I  procured  a  war¬ 
rant  against  him  accordingly.  Everything  was 
now  prepared,  and  the  tender  hour  of  love  ap¬ 
proaching,  I  Avho  had  acted  for  myself  in  my 
youth  the  same  senseless  part,  knew  Iioav  to  man¬ 
age  accordingly  ;  therefore,  after  having  locked 
up  my  maid,  and  not  being  so  much  unlike  her 
in  height  and  shape,  as  in  a  huddled  way  not  to 
pass  for  her,  I  delivered  the  bundle  designed  to 


be  carried  off,  to  her  lover  s  man,  who  came  with 
the  signal  to  receive  them.  Thus  I  followed  after 
to  the  coach,  where  when  I  saw  his  master  take 
them  in,  I  cried  out,  thieves  !  thieves !  and  the 
constable  with  his  attendants  seized  my  expecting 
lover.  I  kept  myself  unobserved  until  I  saw  the 
crowd  sufficiently  increased,  and  then  appeared  to 
declare  the  goods  to  be  mine;  and  had  the  satis¬ 
faction  to  see  my  man  of  mode  put  into  the 
round-house,  with  the  stolen  wares  by  him,  to  be 
produced  in  evidence  against  him  the  next  morn¬ 
ing.  This  matter  is  notoriously  known  to  be  fact; 
and  I  have  been  contented  to  save  my  ’prentice, 
and  take  a  year’s  rent  of  this  mortified  lover,  not 
to  appear  further  in  the  matter.  This  was  some 
penance;  but,  Sir,  is  this  enough  for  a  villany  of 
much  more  pernicious  consequence  than  the  trifles 
for  which  he  was  to  have  been  indicted  ?  Should 
not  you,  and  all  men  of  any  parts  or  honor,  put 
things  upon  so  right  a  foot,  as  that  such  a  rascal 
should  not  laugh  at  the  imputation  of  what  he 
was  really  guilty,  and  dread  being  accused  of  that 
for  Avhich  he  Avas  arrested. 

In  a  word,  Sir,  it  is  in  the  power  of  you,  and 
such  as  I  hope  you  are,  to  make  it  as  infamous  to 
rob  a  poor  creature  of  her  honor  as  her  clothes.  I 
leave  this  to  your  consideration,  only  take  leave 
(which  I  cannot  do  without  sighing)  to  remark  to 
you  that  if  this  had  been  the  sense  of  mankind 
thirty  years  ago,  I  should  have  avoided  a  life  spent 
in  poverty  and  shame. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant, 

“  Alice  Threadneedle.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator,  Round  House,  Sept.  9. 

“I  am  a  man  of  pleasure  about  town,  but  by 
the  stupidity  of  a  dull  rogue  of  a  justice  of  peace, 
and  an  insolent  constable,  upon  the  oath  of  an  old 
harridan,  am  imprisoned  here  for  theft,  when  I 
designed  only  fornication.  The  midnight  magis¬ 
trate,  as  he  conveyed  me  along,  had  you  in  his 
mouth,  and  said  this  Avould  make  a  pure  story  for 
the  Spectator.  I  hope.  Sir,  you  won’t  pretend  to 
wit,  and  take  the  part  of  dull  rogues  of  business. 
The  world  is  so  altered  of  late  years,  that  there 
was  not  a  man  who  would  knock  down  a  watch¬ 
man  in  my  behalf,  but  I  was  carried  off  with  as 
much  triumph  as  if  I  had  been  a  pickpocket.  At 
this  rate  there  is  an  end  of  all  the  wit  and  humor 
in  the  Avorld.  The  time  was,  when  all  the  honest 
Avhoremasters  in  the  neighborhood  would  have 
rose  against  the  cuckolds  in  my  rescue.  If  forni¬ 
cation  is  to  be  scandalous,  half  the  fine  things  that 
have  been  Avritten  by  most  of  the  wits  of  the  last  age 
may  be  burned  by  the  common  hangman.  Harkee, 
Mr.  Spec.,  do  not  be  queer:  after  having  done 
some  things  pretty  well,  don’t  begin  to  write  at 
that  rate  that  no  gentleman  can  read  thee.  Be 
true  to  loAm,  and  burn  your  Seneca.  You  do  not 
expect  me  to  write  my  name  from  hence,  but  I  am, 
T.  “Your  unknown,  humble  servant,”  etc. 


No.  183.]  SATURDAY,  SEPTEMBER  29,  ±711. 

Sometimes  fair  truth  in  fiction  we  disguise ; 

Sometimes  present  her  naked  to  men’s  eyes. 

Pope’s  Hom. 

Fables  were  the  first  pieces  of  wit  that  made 
their  appearance  in  the  world,  and  have  been  still 
highly  valued,  not  only  in  times  of  the  greatest 
simplicity,  but  among  the  most  polite  ages  of 
mankind.  Jotham’s  fable  of  the  trees*  is  the  old¬ 
est  that  is  extant,  and  as  beautiful  as  any  which 
have  been  made  since  that  time.  Nathan’s  fable 


*  Judges  ix,  8 — 15. 


of  the  poor  man  and  his  lamb*  is  likewise  more 
ancient  than  any  that  is  extant,  beside  the  above- 
mentioned,  and  had  so  good  an  effect,  as  to  con¬ 
vey  instruction  to  the  ear  of  a  king,  without  of¬ 
fending  it,  and  to  bring  a  man  after  God’s  own 
heart  to  a  right  sense  of  his  guilt  and  his  duty. 
We  find  HSsop  in  the  most  distant  ages  of  Greece  ; 
and  if  we  look  into  the  very  beginnings  of  the 
commonwealth  of  Rome,f  we  see  a  mutiny  among 
the  common  people  appeased  by  a  fable  of  the 
belly  and  the  limbs,  which  was  indeed  very  proper 
to  gain  the  attention  of  an  incensed  rabble,  at  a 
time  when  perhaps  they  would  have  torn  to  pieces 
any  man  who  had  preached  the  same  doctrine 
to  them  in  an  open  and  direct  manner.  As  fables 
took  their  birth  in  the  very  infancy  of  learning, 
they  never  flourished  more  than  when  learning 
was  at  its  greatest  height.  To  justify  this  asser¬ 
tion,  I  shall  put  my  reader  in  mind  of  Horace,  the 
greatest  wit  and  critic  in  the  Augustan  age  ;  and 
of  Boileau,  the  most  correct  poet  among  the  mod¬ 
erns  ;  not  to  mention  La  Fontaine,  who  by  this 
way  of  writing  is  come  more  into  vogue  than  any 
other  author  of  our  times. 

The  fables  I  have  here  mentioned  are  raised  al¬ 
together  upon  brutes  and  vegetables,  with  some 
of  our  own  species  mixed  among  them,  when  the 
moral  hath  so  required.  But  beside  this  kind  of 
fable,  there  is  another  in  which  the  actors  are  pas¬ 
sions,  virtues,  vices,  and  other  imaginary  persons 
of  the  like  nature.  Some  of  the  ancient  critics 
will  have  it,  that  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  of  Ho¬ 
mer,  are  fables  of  this  nature :  and  that  the  sev¬ 
eral  names  of  gods  and  heroes  are  nothing  else 
but  the  affections  of  the  mind  in  a  visible  shape 
and  character.  Thus  they  tell  us,  that  Achilles, 
in  the  first  Iliad,  represents  anger,  or  the  irascible 
part  of  human  nature  ;  that  upon  drawing  his 
sword  against  his  superior  in  a  full  assembly, 
Pallas  is  only  another  name  for  reason,  which 
checks  and  advises  him  upon  that  occasion  ;  and 
at  her  first  appearance  touches  him  upon  the  head, 
that  part  of  the  man  being  looked  upon  as  the  seat 
of  reason.  And  thus  of  the  rest  of  the  poem. 
As  for  the  Odyssey,  I  think  it  is  plain  that  Ho¬ 
race  considered  it  as  one  of  these  allegorical  fables, 
by  the  moral  which  he  has  given  us  of  several 
parts  of  it.  The  greatest  Italian  wits  have  ap¬ 
plied  themselves  to  the  writing  of  this  latter  kind 
of  fables.  Spenser’s  Fairy-Queen  is  one  continued 
series  of  them  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of 
that  admirable  work.  If  we  look  into  the  finest 
prose  authors  of  antiquity,  such  as  Cicero,  Plato, 
Xenophon,  and  many  others,  we  shall  find  that 
this  was  likewise  their  favorite  kind  of  fable.  I 
shall  only  further  observe  upon  it,  that  the  first 
of  this  sort  that  made  any  considerable  figure  in 
the  world,  was  that  of  Hercules  meeting  with 
Pleasure  and  Virtue  :  which  was  invented  by 
Prodicus,  who  lived  before  Socrates,  and  in  the 
first  dawnings  of  philosophy.  He  used  to  travel 
through  Greece  by  virtue  of  this  fable,  which  pro¬ 
cured  him  a  kind  reception  in  all  the  market 
towns,  where  he  never  failed  telling  it  as  soon  as 
he  had  gathered  an  audience  about  him. 

After  this  short  preface,  which  I  have  made  up 
of  such  materials  as  my  memory  does  at  present 
suggest  to  me,  before  I  present  my  reader  with  a 
fable  of  this  kind,  which  I  design  as  the  enter¬ 
tainment  of  the  present  paper,  I  must  in  a  few 
words  open  the  occasion  of  it. 

In  the  account  which  Plato  gives  us  of  the  con¬ 
versation  and  behavior  of  Socrates,  the  moraine 
he  was  to  die,  he  tells  the  following  circumstance: 


239 

When  Socrates  “his”  fetters  were  knocked  off, 
(as  was  usual  to  be  done  on  the  day  that  the  con¬ 
demned  person  was  to  be  executed),  being  seated 
in  the  midst  of  his  disciples,  and  laying  one  of 
his  legs  over  the  other,  in  a  very  unconcerned  pos¬ 
ture,  lie  began  to  rub  it  where  it  had  been  galled 
by  the  iron  ;  and  whether  it  was  to  show  the  in¬ 
difference  with  which  he  entertained  the  thoughts 
of  his  approaching  death,  or  (after  his  usual  man¬ 
ner),  to  take  every  occasion  of  philosophizing 
upon  some  useful  subject,  he  observed  the  plea¬ 
sure  of  that  sensation  which  now  arose  in  those 
very  parts  of  his  leg,  that  just  before  had  been  so 
much  pained  by  the  fetter.  Upon  this  he  reflected 
on  the  nature  of  pleasure  and  pain  in  general,  and 
how  constantly  they  succeed  one  another.  To 
this  he  added,  that  if  a  man  of  a  good  genius  for  a 
fable  were  to  represent  the  nature  of  pleasure  and 
pain  in  that  way  of  writing,  he  would  probably 
join  them  together  after  such  a  manner,  that  it 
would  be  impossible  for  the  one  to  come  into  any 
place  without  being  followed  by  the  other. 

It  is  possible,  that  if  Plato  had  thought  it  proper 
at  such  a  time  to  describe  Socrates  launching  out 
into  a  discourse  which  was  not  of  a  piece  with  the 
business  of  the  day,  he  would  have  enlarged  upon 
this  hint,  and  have  drawn  it  out  into  some  beau¬ 
tiful  allegory  or  fable.  But  since  he  has  not  done 
it,  I  shall  attempt  to  write  one  myself  in  the  spirit 
of  that  divine  author. 

“There  were  two  families  which  from  the  be¬ 
ginning  of  the  world  were  as  opposite  to  each 
other  as  light  and  darkness.  The  one  of  them 
lived  in  heaven,  and  the  other  in  hell.  The 
youngest  descendant  of  the  first  family  was  Plea¬ 
sure,  who  was  the  daughter  of  Happiness,  who 
was  the  child  of  Virtue,  who  was  the  offspring  of 
the  Gods.  These,  as  I  said  before,  had  their  ha¬ 
bitation  in  heaven.  The  youngest  of  the  oppo¬ 
site  family  was  Pain,  who  was  the  son  of  Misery, 
who  was  the  child  of  Vice,  who  was  the  offspring 
of  the  Furies.  The  habitation  of  this  race  of 
beings  was  in  hell. 

“  The  middle  station  of  nature  between  these 
two  opposite  extremes  was  the  earth,  which  was 
inhabited  by  creatures  of  a  middle  kind,  neither 
so  virtuous  as  the  one,  nor  so  vicious  as  the  other, 
but  partaking  of  the  good  and  bad  qualities  of 
these  two  opposite  families.  Jupiter  considering 
that  the  species,  commonly  called  man,  was  too 
virtuous  to  be  miserable,  and  too  vicious  to  be 
happy  ;  that  he  might  make  a  distinction  between 
the  good  and  the  bad,  ordered  the  two  youngest 
of  the  above  mentioned  families.  Pleasure,  who 
was  the  daughter  of  Happiness,  and  Pain,  who 
was  the  son  of  Misery,  to  meet  one  another  upon 
this  part  of  nature  which  lay  in  the  half-way  be¬ 
tween  them,  having  promised  to  settle  it  upon 
them  both,  provided  they  could  agree  upon  the 
division  of  it,  so  as  to  share  mankind  between 
them. 

“  Pleasure  and  Pain  were  no  sooner  met  in  their 
new  habitation,  but  they  immediately  agreed  upon 
this  point,  that  Pleasure  should  take  possession 
of  the  virtuous,  and  Pain  of  the  vicious  part  of 
that  species  which  was  given  up  to  them.  But 
upon  examining  to  which  of  them  any  individual 
they  met  with  belonged,  they  found  each  of  them 
had  a  right  to  him  :  for  that,  contrary  to  what  they 
had  seen  in  their  old  places  of  residence,  there 
was  no  person  so  vicious  who  had  not  some  good 
in  him,  nor  any  person  so  virtuous  who  had  not 
in  him  some  evil.  The  truth  of  it  is,  they  gener¬ 
ally  found  upon  search,  that  in  the  most  vicious 
man  Pleasure  might  lay  claim  to  a  hundredth 
part,  and  that  in  the  most  virtuous  man  Pain 
might  come  in  for  at  least  two-thirds.  This  they 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


*2  Sam.,  xii,  1 — 4. 

t  Liv.  Hist.,  lib.  ii,  sect.  32,  etc.  Florus,  lib.  i,  c.  23. 


240  THE  SPECTATOR, 

saw  would  occasion  endless  disputes  between 


them,  unless  they  could  come  to  some  accommo¬ 
dation.  To  this  end  there  was  a  marriage  pro¬ 
posed  between  them,  and  at  length  concluded. 
By  this  means  it  is  that  we  find  pleasure  and  pain 
are  such  constant  yoke-fellows  ;  and  that  they 
either  make  their  visits  together,  or  are  never  far 
asunder.  If  Pain  comes  into  a  heart,  he  is  quickly 
followed  by  Pleasure ;  and  if  Pleasure  enters,  you 
may  be  sure  Pain  is  not  far  off. 

“  But  notwithstanding  this  marriage  was  very 
convenient  for  the  twro  parties,  it  did  not  seem  to 
answer  the  intention  of  Jupiter  in  sending  them 
among  mankind.  To  remedy,  therefore,  this  in¬ 
convenience,  it  was  stipulated  between  them  by 
article,  and  confirmed  by  the  consent  of  each  fa¬ 
mily,  that  notwithstanding  they  here  possessed 
the  species  indifferently  ;  upon  the  death  of  every 
single  person,  if  he  was  found  to  have  in  him  a 
certain  proportion  of  evil,  he  should  be  dispatched 
into  the  infernal  regions  by  a  passport  from  Pain, 
there  to  dwell  with  Misery,  Vice,  and  the  Furies. 
Or,  on  the  contrary,  if  he  had  in  him  a  certain  pro- 
ortion  of  good,  he  should  be  dispatched  into 
eaven  by  a  passport  from  Pleasure,  there  to  dwell 
with  Happiness,  Virtue,  and  the  Gods.” 


No.  184.]  MONDAY,  OCTOBER  1,  1711. 

- Operc  in  longo  fas  est  obrepere  somnum. 

Hor.  Ars.  Poet.,  v,  360. 

- Who  labors  long  may  be  allowed  sleep. 

When  a  man  has  discovered  a  new  vein  of  hu¬ 
mor,  it  often  carries  him  much  further  than  he  ex¬ 
pected  from  it.  My  correspondents  take  the  hint 
I  give  them,  and  pursue  it  into  speculations  which 
I  never  thought  of  at  my  first  starting  it.  This 
has  been  the  fate  of  my  paper  on  the  match  of 
grinning,  which  has  already  produced  a  second 
paper  on  parallel  subjects,  and  brought  me  the 
following  letter  by  the  last  post.  I  shall  not  pre¬ 
mise  anything  to  it  further,  than  that  it  is  built  on 
matter  of  fact,  and  is  as  follows: 

“  Sir, 

“You  have  already  obliged  the  world  with  a 
discourse  upon  grinning,  and  have  since  proceeded 
to  whistling,  from  whence  you  at  length  came  to 
yawning  ;  from  this  I  think  you  may  make  a  very 
natural  transition  to  sleeping.  I  therefore  recom¬ 
mend  to  you  for  the  subject  of  a  paper  the  follow¬ 
ing  advertisement,  which  about  two  months  ago 
was  given  into  everybody’s  hands,  and  may  be 
seen,  with  some  additions,  in  the  Daily  Courant 
of  August  the  9th.: 

“  ‘  Nicholas  Hart,  who  slept  last  year  in  St. 
Bartholomew’s  Hospital,  intends  to  sleep  this  year 
at  the  Cock  and  Bottle  in  Little-Britain.’ 

“  Having  since  inquired  into  the  matter  of  fact, 
I  find  that  the  above-mentioned  Nicholas  Hart  is 
every  year  seized  with  a  periodical  fit  of  sleeping, 
which  begins  upon  the  fifth  of  August,  and  ends 
on  the  eleventh  of  the  same  month:  That 

On  the  first  of  that  month  he  grew  dull; 

On  the  second,  appeared  drowsy ; 

On  the  third,  fell  a  yawning  ; 

On  the  fourth,  began  to  nod  ; 

On  the  fifth,  dropped  asleep  ; 

On  the  sixth,  was  heard  to  snore  ; 

On  the  seventh,  turned  himself  in  his  bed  ; 

On  the  eighth,  recovered  his  former  posture ; 

On  the  ninth,  fell  a  stretching 

On  the  tenth,  about  midnight,  awaked  ; 

On  the  eleventh  in  the  morning,  called  for  a  lit¬ 
tle  small  beer. 

“  This  account  I  have  extracted  out  of  the  jour¬ 
nal  of  this  sleeping  worthy,  as  it  has  been  faith¬ 
fully  kept  by  a  gentleman  of  Lincoln’s-inn,  who 


has  undertaken  to  be  his  historiographer.  I  have 
sent  it  to  you,  not  only  as  it  represents  the  actions 
of  Nicholas  Hart,  but  as  it  seems  a  very  natural  pic¬ 
ture  of  the  life  of  many  an  honest  English  gentle¬ 
man,  whose  whole  history  very  often  consists  of 
yawning,  nodding,  stretching,  turning,  sleeping, 
drinking,  and  the  like  extraordinary  particulars. 

I  do  not  question,  Sir,  that  if  you  pleased,  you 
could  put  an  advertisement  not  unlike  the  above- 
mentioned,  of  several  men  of  figure  ;  that  Mr.  J ohn 
Sucli-a-one,  gentleman,  or  Thomas  Such-a-one, 
esquire,  who  slept  in  the  country  last  summer,  in¬ 
tends  to  sleep  in  town  this  winter.  The  worst  of 
it  is,  that  the  drowsy  part  of  our  species  is  chiefly 
made  up  of  very  honest  gentlemen,  who  live  qui¬ 
etly  among  their  neighbors,  without  ever  disturb¬ 
ing  the  public  peace.  They  are  drones  without 
stings.  I  could  heartily  wish,  that  several  turbu¬ 
lent^  restless,  ambitious  spirits,  would  for  a  while 
change  places  with  these  good  men,  and  enter 
themselves  into  Nicholas  Hart’s  fraternity.  Could 
one  but  lay  asleep  a  few  busy  heads  which  I  could 
name,  from  the  first  of  November  next  to  the  first 
of  May  ensuing,*  I  question  not  but  it  would  very 
much  redound  to  the  quiet  of  particular  persons, 
as  well  as  to  the  benefit  of  the  public. 

“But  to  return  to  Nicholas  Hart:  I  believe,  Sir, 
you  will  think  it  a  very  extraordinary  circum¬ 
stance  for  a  man  to  gain  his  livelihood  by  sleep¬ 
ing,  and  that  rest  should  procure  a  man  sustenance 
as  well  as  industry  ;  yet  so  it  is,  that  Nicholas  got 
last  year  enough  to  support  himself  for  a  twelve- 
month.  I  am  likewise  informed  that  he  has  this 
year  had  a  very  comfortable  nap.  The  poets  value 
themselves  very  much  for  sleeping  on  Parnassus, 
but  I  never  heard  they  got  a  groat  by  it.  On  the 
contrary,  our  friend  Nicholas  gets  more  by  sleep¬ 
ing  than  he  could  by  working,  and  may  be  more 
properly  said,  than  ever  Homer  was,  to  have  had 
golden *  dreams.  Juvenal  indeed  mentions  a 
drowsy  husband  who  raised  an  estate  by  snoring, 
but  then  he  is  represented  to  have  slept  what 
the  common  people  call  a  dog’s  sleep ;  or  if 
his  sleep  was  real,  his  wife  was  awake,  and 
about  her  business.  Your  pen,  which  loves 
to  moralize  upon  all  subjects,  may  raise  some¬ 
thing,  methinks,  on  this  circumstance  also,  and 
point  out  to  us  those  set  of  men,  who,  instead 
of  growing  rich  by  an  honest  industry,  recom¬ 
mend  themselves  to  the  favors  of  the  great,  by 
making  themselves  agreeable  companions  in  the 
participations  of  luxury  and  pleasure. 

“  I  must  further  acquaint  you.  Sir,  that  one  of 
the  most  eminent  pens  in  Grub-street  is  now  em¬ 
ployed  in  writing  the  dream  of  this  miraculous 
sleeper,  which  I  hear  will  be  of  a  more  than  ordi¬ 
nary  length,  as  it  must  contain  all  the  particulars 
that  are  supposed  to  have  passed  in  his  imagina¬ 
tion  during  so  long  a  sleep.  He  is  said  to  have 
gone  already  through  three  days  and  three  nights 
of  it,  and  to  have  comprised  in  them  the  most  re¬ 
markable  passages  of  the  four  first  empires  of  the 
world.  If  he  can  keep  free  from  party-strokes, 
his  work  may  be  of  use  ;  but  this  I  much  doubt, 
having  been  informed  by  one  of  his  friends  and 
confidants,  that  he  has  spoken  some  things  of 
Nimrod  with  too  great  freedom. 

“  I  am  ever,  Sir,”  etc. — L. 


No.  185.]  TUESDAY,  OCT.  2,  1711. 

Tantsene  animis  coelestibus  ir®  ? 

ViRG.  iEn.,  i,  15. 

And  dwells  such  fury  in  celestial  breasts  ? 

There  is  nothing  in  which  men  more  deceive 
themselves  than  in  what  the  world  calls  zeal. 


*  The  time  in  which  the  parliament  usually  site. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


There  are  so  many  passions  which  hide  them¬ 
selves  under  it,  and  so  many  mischiefs  arising 
from  it,  that  some  have  gone  so  far  as  to  say  it 
would  have  been  for  the  benefit  of  mankind  if  it 
had  never  been  reckoned  in  the  catalogue  of  vir¬ 
tues.  It  is  certain,  where  it  is  once  laudable  and 
prudential,  it  is  a  hundred  times  criminal  and 
erroneous:  nor  can  it  be  otherwise,  if  we  consider 
that  it  operates  with  equal  violence  in  all  reli¬ 
gions,  however  opposite  they  may  be  to  one 
another,  and  in  all  the  subdivisions  of  each  reli¬ 
gion  in  particular. 

We  are  told  by  some  of  the  Jewish  rabbins, 
that  the  first  murder  was  occasioned  by  a  reli¬ 
gious  controversy ;  and  if  we  had  the  whole  his¬ 
tory  of  zeal  from  the  days  of  Cain  to  our  own 
times,  we  should  see  it  filled  with  so  many  scenes 
of  slaughter  and  bloodshed,  as  would  make  a 
wise  man  very  careful  how  lie  suffers  himself  to 
be  actuated  by  such  a  principle  when  it  only  re¬ 
gards  matters  of  opinion  and  speculation. 

I  would  have  every  zealous  man  examine  his 
heart  thoroughly,  and,  I  believe,  he  will  often 
find,  that  what  he  calls  a  zeal  for  his  religion, 
is  either  pride,  interest,  or  ill-nature.  A  man  who 
differs  from  another  in  opinion,  sets  himself 
above  him  in  his  own  judgment,  and  in  several 
particulars  pretends  to  be  the  wiser  person.  This 
is  a  great  provocation  to  the  proud  man,  and 
gives  a  very  keen  edge  to  what  he  calls  his  zeal. 
And  that  this  is  the  case  very  often,  we  may  ob¬ 
serve  from  the  behavior  of  some  of  the  most  zeal¬ 
ous  for  orthodoxy,  who  have  often  great  friend¬ 
ships  and  intimacies  with  vicious,  immoral  men, 
provided  they  do  but  agree  with  them  in  the  same 
scheme  of  belief.  The  reason  is,  because  the 
vicious  believer  gives  the  precedency  to  the  vir¬ 
tuous  man,  and  allows  the  good  Christian  to  be 
the  worthier  person,  at  the  same  time  that  he 
cannot  come  up  to  his  perfection.  This  we  find 
exemplified  in  that  trite  passage  which  we  see 
quoted  in  almost  every  system  of  ethics,  though 
upon  another  occasion  : 


241 


•Yideo  meliora  proboque, 


Doteriora  sequor 


Ovid.  Met,,  vii,  20. 

I  see  the  right,  and  I  approve  it  too ; 

Condemn  the  wrong,  and  yet  the  wrong  pursue. — Tate. 


On  the  contrary,  it  is  certain,  if  our  zeal  were 
true  and  genuine,  we  should  be  much  more  angry 
with  a  sinner  than  a  heretic;  since  there  are 
several  cases  which  may  excuse  the  latter  before 
his  great  Judge,  but  none  which  can  excuse  the 
former. 

Interest  is  likewise  a  great  inflamer  and  sets  a 
i  man  on  persecution  under  the  color  of  zeal.  For 
this  reason  we  find  none  are  so  forward  to  pro- 
mote  the  true  worship  by  fire  and  sword,  as  those 
who  find  their  present  account  in  it.  But  I  shall 
extend,  the  word  interest  to  a  larger  meaning  than 
what  is  generally  given  it,  as  it  relates  to  our 
spiritual  safety  and  welfare,  as  well  as  to  our 
emporal.  A  man  is  glad  to  gain  numbers  on  his 
side,  as  they  serve  to  strengthen  him  in  his  pri¬ 
vate  opinions  Every  proselyte  is  like  a  new 
argument  for  the  establishment  of  his  faith.  It 
makes  him  be heve  that  his  principles  carry  con¬ 
viction  with  them,  and  are  the  more  likely  to  be 
tiue,  when  he  finds  they  are  conformable  to  the 
reason  of  others,  as  well  as  to  his  own.  And 
that  this  temper  of  mind  deludes  a  man  very 
often  into  an  opinion  of  his  zeal,  may  appear 
from  the  common  behavior  of  the  atheist,  who 
maintains  and  spreads  his  opinions  with  as  much 
neat  as  those  who  believe  they  do  it  only  out  of  a 
passion  for  God’s  glory. 

Ill-nature  is  another  dreadful  imitator  of  zeal. — 
16 


Many  a  good  man  may  have  a  natural  rancor  and 
malice  in  his  heart,  which  has  been  in  some 
measure  quelled  and  subdued  by  religion :  but  if 
it  finds  pretense  of  breaking  out,  which  does 
not  seem  to  him  inconsistent  with  the  duties  of 
a  Christian,  it  throws  off  all  restraint,  and  rages 
*n  fui7-  Zeal  is,  therefore,  a  great  ease  to  a 
malicious  man,  by  making  him  believe  he  does 
God  service,  while  he  is  gratifying  the  bent  of  a 
perverse,  revengeful  temper.  For  this  reason  we 
find,  that  most  of  the  massacres  and  devastations 
which  have  been  in  the  world,  have  taken  their 
rise  from  a  furious  pretended  zeal. 

I  love  to  see  a  man  zealous  in  a  good  matter, 
and  especially  when  his  zeal  shows  itself  for  ad¬ 
vancing  morality,  and  promoting  the  happiness 
of  mankind.  But  when  I  find  the  instruments 
he  works  with  are  racks  and  gibbets,  galleys  and 
dungeons :  when  he  imprisons  men’s  persons, 
confiscates  their  estates,  ruins  their  families,  and 
burns  the  body  to  save  the  soul,  I  cannot  stick  to 
pronounce  of  such  a  one,  that  (whatever  he  may 
think  of  his  faith  and  religion),  his  faith  is  vain, 
and  his  religion  unprofitable. 

After  having  treated  of  these  false  zealots  in 
religion,  I  cannot  forbear  mentioning  a  monstrous 
species  of  men,  who  one  would  not  think  had  any 
existence  in  nature,  were  they  not  to  be  met  with 
in  ordinary  conversation — I  mean  the  zealots  in 
atheism.  One  would  fancy  that  these  men,  though 
they  fall  short,  in  every  other  respect,  of  those 
who  make  a  profesion  of  religion,  would  at  least 
outshine  them  in  this  particular,  and  be  exempt 
from  that  single  fault  which  seems  to  grow  out 
of  the  imprudent  fervors  of  religion.  But  so  it 
is,  that  infidelity  is  propagated  with  as  much 
fierceness  and  contention,  wrath  and  indignation, 
as  if  the  safety  of  mankind  depended  upon  it. 
There  is  something  so  ridiculous  and  perverse  in 
this  kind  of  zealots,  that  one  does  not  know  how 
to  set  them  out  in  their  proper  colors.  They  are 
a  sort  of  gamesters  who  are  eternally  upon  the 
fret,  though  they  play  for  nothing.  They  are 
perpetually  teasing  their  friends  to  come  over  to 
them,  though  at  the  same  time  they  allow  that 
neither  of  them  shall  get  anything  by  the  bargain. 
In  short,  the  zeal  of  spreading  atheism  is,  if  pos¬ 
sible,  more  absurd  than  atheism  itself. 

Since  I  have  mentioned  this  unaccountable  zeal 
which  appears  in  atheists  and  infidels,  I  must 
further  observe,  that  they  are  likewise  in  a  most 
particular  manner  possessed  with  the  spirit  of 
bigotry.  They  are  wedded  to  opinions  full  of 
contradiction  and  impossibility,  and  at  the  same 
time  look  upon  the  smallest  difficulty  in  an  article 
of  faith  as  a  sufficient  reason  for  rejecting  it. 
Notions  that  fall  in  with  the  common  reason  of 
mankind,  that  are  conformable  to  the  sense  of  all 
ages,  and  all  nations,  not  to  mention  their  ten¬ 
dency  for  promoting  the  happiness  of  societies, 
or  ox  particular  persons,  are  exploded  as  errors 
and  prejudices  ;  and  schemes  erected  in  their  stead 
that  are  altogether  monstrous  and  irrational,  and 
require  the  most  extravagant  credulity  to  embrace 
them.  I  would  fain  ask  one  of  these  bigoted  in¬ 
fidels,  supposing  all  the  great  points  of  atheism, 
as  the  casual  or  eternal  formation  of  the  world,  the 
materiality  of  a  thinking  substance,  the  mortality 
of  the  soul,  the  fortuitous  organization  of  the 
body,  the  motions  and  gravitation  of  matter, 
with  the  like  particulars,  were  laid  together  and 
formed  into  a  kind  of  creed,  according  to  the 
opinions  of  the  most  celebrated  atheists  ;  I  say, 
supposing  such  a  creed  as  this  were  formed,  and 
imposed  upon  any  one  people  in  the  world,  whe¬ 
ther  it  would  not  require  an  infinitely  greater 
measure  of  faith,  than  any  set  of  articles  which 


242 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


ad- 


they  so  violently  oppose.  Let  me  therefore 
vise  this  generation  of  wranglers,  for  their  own 
and  for  the  public  good,  to  act  at  least  so  con¬ 
sistently  with  themselves,  as  not  to  burn  with 
zeal  for  irreligion,  and  with  bigotry  for  nonsense. 

C. 


No.  186.]  WEDNESDAY,  OCTOBER  3,  1711. 


Coelum  ipsum  petimus  stultitia—  Hor.  3  Od.  i. 
High  Heaven  itself  our  impious  rage  assails. — d?. 


38. 


Upon  my  return  to  my  lodgings  last  night,  I 
found  a  letter  from  my  worthy  friend  the  clergy¬ 
man,  whom  I  have  given  some  account  of  in  my 
former  papers.  He  tells  me  in  it  that  he  was 
particularly  pleased  with  the  latter  part  of  my 
yesterday’s  speculation  ;  and  at  the  same  time 
inclosed  the  following  essay,  which  he  desires  me 
to  publish  as  the  sequel  to  that  discourse.  It  con¬ 
sists  partly  of  uncommon  reflections,  and  partly 
of  such  as  have  been  already  used,  but  now  set  in 
a  stronger  light. 

“  A  believer  may  be  excused  by  the  most  har¬ 
dened  atheist  for  endeavoring  to  make  him  a  con¬ 
vert,  because  he  does  it  with  an  eye  to  both  their 
interests.  The  atheist  is  inexcusable  who  tries  to 
gain  over  a  believer,  because  he  does  not  propose 
the  doing  himself  or  the  believer  any  good  by 
such  a  conversion. 

“  The  prospect  of  a  future  state  is  the  secret 
comfort  and  refreshment  of  my  soul ;  it  is  that 
which  makes  nature  look  gay  about  me ;  it  doubles 
all  my  pleasures,  and  supports  me  under  all  my 
afflictions.  I  can  look  at  disappointments  and 
misfortunes,  pain  and  sickness,  death  itself,  and 
what  is  worse  than  death,  the  loss  of  those  who 
are  dearest  to  me,  with  indifference,  so  long  as  I 
keep  in  view  the  pleasures  of  eternity,  and  the 
state  of  being  in  which  there  will  be  no  fears  nor 
apprehensions,  pains  nor  sorrows,  sickness  nor 
separation.  Why  will  any  man  be  so  imperti¬ 
nently  officious  as  to  tell  me  all  this  is  only  fancy 
and  delusion?  Is  there  any  merit  in  being  the 
messenger  of  ill  news  ?  If  it  is  a  dream,  let  me 
enjoy  it,  since  it  makes  me  both  the  happier  and 
better  man. 

“  I  must  confess  I  do  not  know  how  to  trust  a 
man  who  believes  neither  heaven  nor  hell,  or  in 
other  words,  a  future  state  of  rewards  and  punish¬ 
ments.  Not  only  natural  self-love,  but  reason, 
directs  us  to  promote  our  own  interests  above  all 
things.  It  can  never  be  for  the  interest  of  a  be¬ 
liever  to  do  me  a  mischief,  because  he  is  sure  upon 
the  balance  of  accounts  to  find  himself  a  loser  by 
it.  On  the  contrary,  if  he  considers  his  own 
welfare  in  his  behavior  toward  me,  it  will  lead 
him  to  do  me  all  the  good  he  can,  and  at  the  same 
time  restrain  him  from  doing  me  any  injury.  An 
unbeliever  does  not  act  like  a  reasonable  creature, 
if  he  favors  me  contrary  to  his  present  interest, 
or  does  not  distress  me  when  it  turns  to  his  pres¬ 
ent  advantage.  Honor  and  good-nature  may  in¬ 
deed  tie  up  his  hands  ;  but  as  these  would  be 
very  much  strengthened  by  reason  and  principle, 
so  without  them  they  are  only  instincts,  or  wa¬ 
vering,  unsettled  notions,  which  rest  on  no  foun- 
•  dation. 

“  Infidelity  has  been  attacked  with  so  good  suc¬ 
cess  of  late  years,  that  it  is  driven  out  of  all  its 
outworks.  The  atheist  has  not  found  his  post 
tenable,  and  is  therefore  retired  into  deism,  and  a 
disbelief  of  revealed  religion  only.  But  the  truth 
of  it  is,  the  greatest  number  of  this  set  of  men 
are  those  who,  for  want  of  a  virtuous  education,  or 
examining  the  grounds  of  religion,  know  so  very 


little  of  the  matter  in  question,  that  their  infi¬ 
delity  is  but  another  term  for  their  ignorance. 

“As  folly  and  inconsiderateness  are  the  founda¬ 
tions  of  infidelity,  the  great  pillars  and  supports 
of  it  are  either  a  vanity  of  appearing  wiser  than 
the  rest  of  mankind,  or  an  ostentation  of  courage 
in  despising  the  terrors  of  another  world,  which 
have  so  great  an  influence  on  what  they  call 
weaker  minds;  or  an  aversion  to  a  belief  that  must 
cut  them  off  from  many  of  those  pleasures  they 
propose  to  themselves,  and  fill  them  with  remorse 
for  many  of  those  they  have  already  tasted. 

“The  great  received  articles  of  the  Christian  re¬ 
ligion  have  been  so  clearly  proved,  from  the 
authority  of  that  divine  revelation  in  which  they 
are  delivered,  that  it  is  impossible  for  those  who 
have  ears  to  hear,  and  eyes  to  see,  not  to  be  con¬ 
vinced  of  them.  But  were  it  possible  for  any¬ 
thing  in  the  Christian  faith  to  be  erroneous,  I  can 
find  no  ill  consequences  in  adhering  to  it.  The 
great  points  of  the  incarnation  and  sufferings  of 
our  Savior  produce  naturally  such  habits  of  virtue 
in  the  mind  of  man,  that,  I  say,  supposing  it 
were  possible  for  us  to  be  mistaken  in  them,  the 
infidel  himself  must  at  least  allow,  that  no  other 
system  of  religion  could  so  effectually  contribute 
to  the  heightening  of  morality.  They  give  us 
great  ideas  of  the  dignity  of  human  nature,  and 
of  the  love  which  the  Supreme  Being  bears  to  his 
creatures,  and  consequently  engage  us  in  the 
highest  acts  of  duty  toward  our  Creator,  our 
neighbor,  and  ourselves.  How  many  noble  argu¬ 
ments  has  St.  Paul  raised  from  the  chief  articles 
of  our  religion,  for  the  advancing  of  morality  in 
its  three  great  branches !  To  give  a  single  ex¬ 
ample  in  each  kind.  What  can  be  a  stronger 
motive  to  a  firm  trust  and  reliance  on  the  mercies 
of  our  Maker,  than  the  giving  us  his  Son  to  suf¬ 
fer  for  us?  What  can  make  us  love  and  esteem 
even  the  most  inconsiderable  of  mankind,  more 
than  the  thought  that  Christ  died  for  him?  Or 
what  dispose  us  to  set  a  stricter  guard  upon  the 
purity  of  our  hearts,  than  our  being  members  of 
Christ,  and  a  part  of  the  society  of  which  that 
immaculate  person  is  the  head?  But  these  are 
only  a  specimen  of  those  admirable  enforcements 
of  morality,  which  the  apostle  has  drawn  from  the 
history  of  our  blessed  Savior. 

“If  our  modern  infidels  considered  these  mat¬ 
ters  with  that  candor  and  seriousness  which  they 
deserve,  we  should  not  see  them  act  with  such  a 
spirit  of  bitterness,  arrogance,  and  malice.  They 
would  not  be  raising  such  insignificant  cavils, 
doubts,  and  scruples,  as  may  be  started  against 
everything  that  is  not  capable  of  mathematical 
demonstration;  in  order  to  unsettle  the  mind  of  the 
ignorant,  disturb  the  public  peace,  subvert  mo¬ 
rality,  and  throw  all  things  into  confusion  and 
disorder.  If  none  of  these  reflections  can  have  any 
influence  on  them,  there  is  one  that  perhaps  may, 
because  it  is  adapted  to  their  vanity,  by  which 
they  seem  to  be  guided  much  more  than  their 
reason.  I  would  therefore  have  them  consider, 
that  the  wisest  and  best  of  men,  in  all  ages  of  the 
world,  have  been  those  who  lived  up  to  the  re¬ 
ligion  of  their  country,  when  they  saw  nothing  in 
it  opposite  to  morality,  and  to  the  best  lights  they 
had  of  the  divine  nature.  Pythagoras’s  first  rule 
directs  us  to  worship  the  gods  ‘as  it  is  ordained 
by  law,’  for  that  is  the  most  natural  interpretation 
of  the  precept.  Socrates,  who  was  the  most  re¬ 
nowned  among  the  heathens,  both  for  wisdom 
and  virtue,  in  his  last  moments  desires  his  friends 
to  offer  a  cock  to  iEsculapius :  doubtless  out  of  a 
submissive  deference  to  the  established  worship 
of  his  country.  Xenophon  tells  us,  that  his  prince 
(whom  he  sets  forth  as  a  pattern  of  perfection), 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


when  he  found  his  death  approaching,  offered  sa¬ 
crifices  on  the  mountains  to  the  Persian  Jupiter, 
and  the  Sun,  ‘according  to  the  custom  of  the  Per¬ 
sians;  for  those  are  the  words  of  the  historian.* 
Nay,  the  Epicureans  and  atomical  philosophers 
showed  a  very  remarkable  modesty  in  this  particu¬ 
lar;  for  though  the  being  of  a  God  was  entirely  re¬ 
pugnant  to  their  schemes  of  natural  philosophy, 
they  conten^d  themselves  with  the  denial  of  a 
Providence,  asserting  at  the  same  time  the  ex¬ 
istence  of  gods  in  general  ;  because  they  would 
not  shock  the  common  belief  of  mankind,  and  the 
religion  of  their  country.” — L. 


No.  187.]  THURSDAY,  OCTOBER  4,  1711. 

- Miseri  quibus 

Intent  ata  nites -  Hor.  1  Od.  v,  2. 

Ah,  wretched  they!  whom  Pyrrha’s  smile 

And  unsuspected  arts  beguile ! — Duncome. 

The  intelligence  given  by  this  correspondent  is 
so  important  and  useful,  in  order  to  avoid  the  per¬ 
sons  he  speaks  of,  that  I  shall  insert  his  letter  at 
length. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  do  not  know  that  you  have  ever  touched 
upon  a  certain  species  of  women,  whom  we  ordi¬ 
narily  call  jilts.  You  cannot  possibly  go  upon  a 
more  useful  work,  than  the  consideration  of  these 
dangerous  animals.  The  coquette  is  indeed  one 
degree  toward  the  jilt;  but  the  heart  of  the  former 
is  bent  upon  admiring  herself,  and  giving  false 
hopes  to  her  lovers;  but  the  latter  is  not  contented 
to  be  extremely  amiable,  but  she  must  add  to  that 
advantage  a  certain  delight  in  being  a  torment  to 
others.  Thus  Avhen  her  lover  is  in  full  expectation 
of  success,  the  jilt  shall  meet  him  with  a  sudden 
indifference  and  admiration  in  her  face  atjiis  being 
surprised  that  he  is  received  like  a  stranger,  and 
a  cast  of  her  head  another  way  with  a  pleasant 
scorn  of  the  fellow’s  insolence.  It  is  very  prob¬ 
able  the  lover  goes  home  utterly  astonished  and 
dejected,  sits  down  to  his  scrutoire,  sends  her  word 
in  the  most  abject  terms,  that  he  knows  not  what 
he  has  done,  that  all  which  was  desirable  in  this 
life  is  so  suddenly  vanished  from  him,  that  the 
charmer  of  his  soul  should  withdraw  the  vital 
heat  from  the  heart  which  pants  for  her.  He  con¬ 
tinues  a  mournful  absence  for  some  time,  pining 
in  secret,  and  out  of  humor  with  all  things  that 
he  meets  with.  At  length  he  takes  a  resolution  to 
try  his  fate,  and  explains  with  her  resolutely  upon 
her  unaccountable  carriage.  He  walks  up  to  her 
apartment,  with  a  thousand  inquietudes,  and 
doubts  in  what  manner  he  shall  meet  the  first  cast 
of  her  eye;  when  upon  his  first  appearance  she 
flies  toward  him,  wonders  where  he  has  been,  ac¬ 
cuses  him  of  his  absence,  and  treats  him  with  a 
familiarity  as  surprising  as  her  former  coldness. 
This  good  correspondence  continues  until  the 
lady  observes  the  lover  grows  happy  in  it,  and 
then  she  interrupts  it  with  some  new  inconsistency 
of  behavior.  For  (as  I  just  now  said)  the  hap¬ 
piness  of  a  jilt  consists  only  in  the  power  of 
making  others  uneasy.  But  such  is  the  folly  of 
this  sect  of  women,  that  they  carry  on  this  pretty 
skittish  behavior,  until  they  have  no  charms  left  to 
render  it  supportable.  Corinna,  that  used  to  torment 
all  who  conversed  with  her  with  false  glances,  and 
little  heedless  unguarded  motions,  that  were  to 
betray  some  inclination  toward  the  man  she  would 
insnare,  finds  at  present  all  she  attempts  that  way 


*  Xenopb.  Cyropaed.,  lib.  8,  p.  500.  Ed.  Hutchins,  1747,  8to. 


243 

unregarded;  and  is  obliged  to  indulge  the  pit  in 
her  constitution,  by  laying  artificial  plots,  writing 
perplexing  letters  from  unknown  hands,  and 
making  all  the  young  fellows  in  love  with  her, 
until  they  find  out  who  she  is.  Thus,  as  before 
she  gave  torment  by  disguising  her  inclination, 
she  is  now  obliged  to  do  it  by  hiding  her  person. 

“As  for  my  own  part,  Mr.  Spectator,  it  has  been 
my  unhappy  fate  to  be  jilted  from  my  youth  up¬ 
ward;  and  as  my  taste  has  been  very  much  toward 
intrigue,  and  having  intelligence  with  women  oi 
wit,  iny  whole  life  has  passed  away  in  a  series  of 
impositions.  I  shall,  for  the  benefit  of  the  present 
race  of  young  men,  give  some  account  of  my 
loves.  I  know  not  whether  you  have  ever  heard 
of  the  famous  girl  gbout  town  called  Kitty.  This 
creature  (for  I  must  take  shame  upon  myself)  was 
my  mistress  in  the  days  when  keeping  was  in 
fashion.  Kitty,  under  the  appearance  of  being 
wild,  thoughtless,  and  irregular  in  all  her  words 
and  actions,  concealed  the  most  accomplished  jilt 
ol  her  time.  Her  negligence  had  to  me  a  charm 
in  it  like  that  of  chastity,  and  want  of  desires 
seemed  as  great  a  merit  as  the  conquest  of  them. 
1  he  air  she  gave  herself  was  that  of  a  romping 
girl,  and  whenever  I  talked  to  her  with  any  turn 
of  fondness,  she  would  immediately  snatch  off  my 
periwig,  try  it  upon  herself  in  the  glass,  clap  her 
arms  a-kimbo,  draw  my  sword,  and  make  passes 
on  the  wall,  take  off  my  cravat,  and  seize  it  to 
make  some  other  use  of  the  lace,  or  run  into  some 
other  unaccountable  rompishness,  until  the  time  I 
had  appointed  to  pass  away  with  her  was  over. 
I  went  from  her  full  of  pleasure  at  the  reflection 
that  I  had  the  keeping  of  so  much  beauty  in  a 
woman  who,  as  she  was  too  heedless  to  please  me, 
was  also  too  inattentive  to  form  a  design  to  wrong 
me.  Long  did  I  divert  every  hour  that  hung 
heavy  upon  me  in  the  company  of  this  creature, 
whom  1  looked  upon  as  neither  guilty  nor  inno¬ 
cent,  but  could  laugh'  at  myself  for  my  unac¬ 
countable  pleasure  in  an  expense  upon  her,  until 
in  the  end  it  appeared  my  pretty  insensible  was 
with  child  by  my  footman. 

“This  accident  roused  me  into  disdain  against 
all  libertine  women,  under  what  appearance  so¬ 
ever  they  hid  their  insincerity,  and  I  resolved 
after  that  time  to  converse  with  none  but  those 
who  lived  within  the  rules  of  decency  and  honor. 
To  this  end  I  formed  myself  into  a  more  regular 
turn  of  behavior,  and  began  to  make  visits,  fre¬ 
quent  assemblies,  and  lead  our  ladies  from  the 
theaters,  with  all  the  other  insignificant  duties 
which  the  professed  servants  of  the  fair  place 
themselves  in  constant  readiness  to  perform.  In 
a  very  little  time  (having  a  plentiful  fortune), 
fathers  and  mothers  began  to  regard  me  as  a  good 
match,  and  I  found  easy  admittance  into  the  best 
families  in  town  to  observe  their  daughters;  but  I, 
who  was  born  to  follow  the  fair  to  no  purpose, 
have  by  the  force  of  my  ill  stars,  made  my  ap¬ 
plication  to  three  jilts  successively. 

“Hyaena  is  one  of  those  who  form  themselves 
into  a  melancholy  and  indolent  air,  and  endea¬ 
vor  to  gain  admirers  from  their  inattention  to  all 
around  them.  Hyaena  can  loll  in  her  coach,  with 
something  so  fixed  in  her  countenance,  that  it  is 
impossible  to  conceive  her  meditation  is  employed 
only  on  her  dress,  and  her  charms  in  that  posture. 
If  it  were  not  too  coarse  a  simile,  I  should  say, 
Hyaena,  in  the  figure  she  affects  to  appear  in,  is  a 
spider  in  the  midst  of  a  cobweb,  that  is  sure  to 
destroy  every  fly  that  approaches  it.  The  net 
Hyaena  throws  is  so  fine,  that  you  are  taken  in  it 
before  you  can  observe  any  part  of  her  work.  I 
attempted  her  for  a  long  ana  weary  season,  but  I 
found  her  passion  went  no  further  than  to  be  ad- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


244 

mired;  and  she  is  of  that  unreasonable  temper,  as 
not  to  value  the  inconstancy  of  her  lovers,  pro¬ 
vided  she  can  boast  she  once  had  their  addresses. 

“Biblis  was  the  second  I  aimed  at,  and  her  va¬ 
nity  lay  in  purchasing  the  adorers  of  others,  and 
not  in  rejoicing  in  their  love  itself.  Biblis  is  no 
man’s  mistress,  but  every  woman’s  rival.  As  soon 
as  I  found  this,  I  fell  in  love  with  Chloe,  who  is 
my  present  pleasure  and  torment.  I  have  written 
to  her,  danced  with  her,  and  fought  for  her,  and 
have  been  her  man  in  the  sight  and  expectation 
of  the  whole  town  these  three  years,  and  thought 
myself  near  the  end  of  my  wishes;  when  the  other 
day  she  called  me  into  her  closet,  and  told  me, 
with  a  very  grave  face,  that  she  was  a  woman  of 
honor,  and  scorned  to  deceive  a  man  who  loved 
her  with  so  much  sincerity  as  she  saw  I  did,  and 
therefore  she  must  inform  me  that  she  was  by 
nature  the  most  inconstant  creature  breathing,  and 
begged  me  not  to  marry  her;  if  I  insisted  upon  it, 
I  should;  but  that  she  was  lately  fallen  in  love 
with  another.  What  to  do  or  say  I  know  not,  but 
desire  you  to  inform  me,  and  you  will  infinitely 
oblige, 

“Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

0.  “Charles  Yellow.” 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

Mr.  Sly,  haberdasher  of  hats,  at  the  corner  of 
Devereux-court,  in  the  Strand,  gives  notice,  that 
he  has  prepared  very  neat  hats,  rubbers  and 
brushes,  for  the  use  of  young  tradesmen  in  the  last 
year  of  apprenticeship,  at  reasonable  rates. — T. 


No.  188.]  FRIDAY,  OCTOBER  5,  1711. 

Laitus  sum  laudari  a  te  laudato  viro. — Tull. 

It  gives  me  pleasure  to  be  praised  by  you,  'whom  all  men 
praise. 

He  is  a  very  unhappy  man  who  sets  his  heart 
upon  being  admired  by  the  multitude,  or  affects  a 
general  and  undistinguishing  applause  among  men. 
What  pious  men  call  the  testimony  of  a  good,  con¬ 
science,  should  be  the  measure  of  our  ambition  in 
this  kind;  that  is  to  say,  a  man  of  spirit  should 
contemn  the  praise  of  the  ignorant,  and  like  being 
applauded  for  nothing  but  what  he  knows  in  his 
own  heart  he  deserves.  Beside  which,  the  charac¬ 
ter  of  the  person  who  commends  you  is  to  be  con¬ 
sidered,  before  you  set  a  value  upon  his  esteem. 
The  praise  of  an  ignorant  man  is  only  good-will, 
and  you  should  receive  his  kindness  as  he  is  a 
good  neighbor  in  society,  and  not  as  a  good  judge 
of  your  actions  in  point  of  fame  and  reputation. 
The  satirist  said  very  well  of  popular  praise  and 
acclamations,  “Give  the  tinkers  and  cobblers  their 
presents  again,  and  learn  to  live  of  yourself.”* 
It  is  an  argument  of  a  loose  and  ungoverned  mind 
to  be  affected  with  the  promiscuous  approbation 
of  the  generality  of  mankind;  and  a  man  of  virtue 
should  be  too  delicate  for  so  coarse  an  appetite  of 
fame.  Men  of  honor  should  endeavor  only  to 
please  the  worthy,  and  the  man  of  merit  should 
desire  to  be  tried  only  by  his-peers.  I  thought  it 
a  noble  sentiment  which  I  heard  yesterday  uttered 
in  conversation:  “I  know,”  said  a  gentleman,  “a 
way  to  be  greater  than  any  man.  If  he  has  worth 
in  him,  I  can  rejoice  in  his  superiority  to  me  ;  and 
that  satisfaction  is  a  greater  act  of  the  soul  in  me, 
than  any  in  him  which  can  possibly  appear  to 
me.”  This  thought  could  proceed  but  from  a 
candid  and  generous  spirit ;  and  the  approbation 
of  such  minds  is  what  may  be  esteemed  true 


*  — - Tollat  sua  munera  cerdo : 

Tecum  habita. -  Pers.,  Sat.  iv,  51. 


praise:  for  with  the  common  race  of  men  there  is 
nothing  commendable  but  what  they  themselves 
may  hope  to  be  partakers  of,  and  arrive  at ;  but 
the  motive  truly  glorious  is,  when  the  mind  is  set 
rather  to  do  things  laudable,  than  to  purchase  re¬ 
putation.  Where  there  is  that  sincerity  as  the 
foundation  of  a  good  name,  the  kind  opinion  of 
virtuous  men  will  be  an  unsought,  but  a  necessary 
consequence.  The  Lacedaemonians,  though  a 
plain  people,  and  no  pretenders  to  politeness,  had 
a  certain  delicacy  in  their  sense  of  glory,  and 
sacrificed  to  the  Muses  when  they  entered  upon 
any  great  enterprise.  They  would  have  the  com¬ 
memoration  of  their  actions  be  transmitted  by  the 
purest  and  most  untainted  memorialists.  The 
din  which  attends  victories  and  public  triumphs, 
is  by  far  less  eligible  than  the  recital  of  the  actions 
of  great  men  by  honest  and  wise  historians.  It  is 
a  frivolous  pleasure  to  be  the  admiration  of  gap¬ 
ing  crowds;  but  to  have  the  approbation  of  a  good 
man  in  the  cool  reflections  of  his  closet,  is  a  grati¬ 
fication  worthy  a  heroic  spirit.  The  applause  of 
the  crowd  makes  the  head  giddy,  but  the  attesta¬ 
tion  of  a  reasonable  man  makes  the  heart  glad. 

What  makes  the  love  of  popular  or  general 
praise  still  more  ridiculous,  is  that  it  is  usually 
given  for  circumstances  which  are  foreign  to  the 
persons  admired;  Thus  they  are  the  ordinary  at¬ 
tendants  on  power  and  riches,  which  may  be  taken 
out  of  one  man’s  hands,  and  put  into  another’s. 
The  application  only,  and  not  the  possession, 
makes  those  outward  things  honorable.  The  vul¬ 
gar  and  men  of  sense  agree  in  admiring  men  for 
having  what  they  themselves  would  rather  be  pos¬ 
sessed  of ;  the  wise  man  applauds  him  whom  he 
thinks  most  virtuous,  the  rest  of  the  world,  him 
who  is  most  wealthy. 

When  a  man  is  in  this  way  of  thinking,  I  do 
not  know  what  can  occur  to  one  more  monstrous, 
than  to  see  persons  of  ingenuity  address  their 
services  and  performances  to  men  no  way  addicted 
to  liberal  arts.  In  these  cases,  the  praise  on  one 
hand,  and  the  patronage  on  the  other,  are  equally 
the  objects  of  ridicule.  Dedications  to  ignorant 
men  are  as  absurd  as  any  of  the  speeches  of  Bul- 
finch  in  the  Droll.  Such  an  address  one  is  apt  to 
translate  into  other  words  ;  and  when  the  different 
parties  are  thoroughly  considered,  the  panegyric 
generally  implies  no  more  than  if  the  author 
should  say  to  the  patron  ;  “  My  very  good  lord, 
you  and  I  can  never  understand  one  another ; 
therefore  I  humbly  desire  we  may  be  intimate 
friends  for  the  future.” 

The  rich  may  as  well  ask  to  borrow  of  the 
oor,  as  the  man  of  virtue  and  merit  hope  for  ad- 
ition  to  his  character  from  any  but  such  as  him¬ 
self.  He  that  commends  another  engages  so  much 
of  his  own  reputation  as  he  gives  to  that  person 
commended  ;  and  he  that  has  nothing  laudable  in 
himself  is  not  of  ability  to  be  such  a  surety. 
The  wise  Phocion  was  so  sensible  how  dangerous 
it  was  to  be  touched  with  what  the  multitude 
approved,  that  upon  a  general  acclamation  made 
when  he  was  making  an  oration,  lie  turned  to  an 
intelligent  friend  who  stood  near  him,  and  asked 
in  a  surprised  manner,  “What  slip  have  I  made?” 

I  shall  conclude  this  paper  with  a  billet  which 
has  fallen  into  my  hands,  and  was  written  to  a 
lady  from  a  gentleman  whom  she  had  highly 
commended.  The  author  of  it  had  formerly  been 
her  lover.  When  all  possibility  of  commerce  be¬ 
tween  them  on  the  subject  of  love  was  cut  off,  she 
spoke  so  handsomely  of  him,  as  to  give  occasion 
to  this  letter. 

“  Madam, 

“I  should  be  insensible,  to  a  stupidity,  if  I 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


245 


could  forbear  making  my  acknowledgments  for 
your  late  mention  of  me  with  so  much  applause. 
It  is,  I  think,  your  fate  to  give  me  new  senti¬ 
ments  :  as  you  formerly  inspired  me  with  the 
true  sense  of  love,  so  do  you  now  with  the  true 
sense  of  glory.  As  desire  had  the  least  part  in  the 
passion  I  heretofore  professed  toward  you,  so  has 
vanity  no  share  in  the  glory  to  which  you  have 
now  raised  me.  Innocence,  knowledge,  beauty, 
virtue,  sincerity,  and  discretion,  are  the  constant 
ornaments  of  her  who  has  said  this  of  me.  Fame 
is  a  babbler,  but  I  have  arrived  at  the  highest 
lory  in  this  world,  the  commendation  of  the  most 
eserving  person  in  it.” — T. 


No.  189.]  SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  6,  1711. 

- Patriae  pietatis  imago. — Tiro.  2En.,  x,  824. 

An  image  of  paternal  tenderness. 

The  following  letter  being  written  to  my  book¬ 
seller,  upon  a  subject  of  which  I  treated  some  time 
since,  I  shall  publish  it  in  this  paper,  together 
with  the  letter  that  was  inclosed  in  it : — 

“Mr.  Buckley, 

“  Mr.  Spectator  having  of  late  descanted  upon 
the  cruelty  of  parents  to  their  children,  I  have 
been  induced  (at  the  request  of  several  of  Mr. 
Spectator’s  admirers)  to  inclose  this  letter,  which 
I  assure  you  is  the  original  from  a  father  to  his 
own  son,  notwithstanding  the  latter  gave  but  lit¬ 
tle  or  no  provocation.  It  would  be  wonderfully 
obliging  to  the  world,  if  Mr.  Spectator  would 
give  us  his  opinion  of  .it  in  some  of  his  specula¬ 
tions,  and  particularly  to  (Mr.  Buckley), 

“  Your  humble  servant.” 

“  Sirrah, 

“You  are  a  saucy,  audacious  rascal,  and  both 
fool  and  mad,  and  i  care  not  a  farthing  whether 
you  comply  or  no  ;  that  does  not  raze  out  my  im¬ 
pressions  of  your  insolence,  going  about  railing 
at  me,  and  the  next  day  to  solicit  my  favor. 
These  are  inconsistencies,  such  as  discover  thy 
reason  depraved.  To  be  brief,  I  never  desire  to 
see  your  face  ;  and,  sirrah,  if  you  go  to  the  work- 
house,  it  is  no  disgrace  to  me  for  you  to  be  sup¬ 
ported  there  ;  and  if  you  starve  in  the  streets,  I’ll 
never  give  anything  underhand  in  your  behalf. 
If  I  have  anything  more  of  your  scribbling  non¬ 
sense,  I’ll  break  your  head  the  first  time  I  set 
sight  on  you.  You  are  a  stubborn  beast ;  is  this 
your  gratitude  for  my  giving  you  money?  You 
rogue,  I’ll  better  your  judgment,  and  give  you  a 
greater  sense  of  your  duty  to  (I  regret  to  say) 
your  father,  etc. 

“P.  S.  It’s  prudent  for  you  to  keep  out  of  my 
sight ;  for  to  reproach  me  that  might  overcomes 
right,  on  the  outside  of  your  letter,  I  shall  give 
you  a  great  knock  on  the  skull  for  it.” 

Y  as  there  ever  such  an  image  of  paternal  ten¬ 
derness  !  It  wras  usual  among  some  of  the  Greeks 
to  make  their  slaves  drink  to  excess,  and  then  ex¬ 
pose  them  to  their  children,  who  by  that  means 
conceived  an  early  aversion  to  a  vice  which  makes 
men  appear  so  monstrous  and  irrational.  I  have 
exposed  this  picture  of  an  unnatural  father  with 
the  same  intention,  that  its  deformity  may  deter 
others  from  its  resemblance.  If  the  reader  has  a 
mind  to  see  a  father  of  the  same  stamp  repre¬ 
sented  in  the  most  exquisite  strokes  of  humor,  he 
may  meet  with  it  in  one  of  the  finest  comedies 
that  ever  appeared  upon  the  English  stage :  I 
mean  the  part  of  Sir  Sampson  in  Love  for  Love. 

I  must  not,  however,  engage  myself  blindly  on 
the  side  of  the  son,  to  whom  the  fond  letter  above 


written  was  directed.  His  father  calls  him  a 
“  saucy  and  audacious  rascal  ”  in  the  first  line, 
and  I  am  afraid,  upon  examination,  he  will  prove 
but  an  ungracious  youth.  “  To  go  about  railing” 
at  his  father,  and  to  find  no  other  place  but  “  the 
outside  of  his  letter  ”  to  tell  him  “  that  might 
overcomes  right,”  if  it  does  not  discover  “Iiis 
reason  to  be  depraved,”  and  “that  he  is  either 
fool  or  mad,  ’  as  the  choleric  old  gentleman  tells 
him,  we  may  at  least  allow  that  the  father  will  do 
very  well  in  endeavoring  to  “  better  his  judgment, 
and  give  him  a  greater  sense  of  his  duty.”  But 
whether  this  may  be  brought  about  by  “  break¬ 
ing  his  head,”  or  “  giving  him  a  great  knock  on 
the  skull,  ought,  I  think,  to  be  well  considered. 
Upon  the  -whole,  I  wish  the  father  has  not  met 
with  his  match,  and  that  he  may  not  be  as  equally 
paired  with  his  son,  as  the  mother  in  V irgil : —  ” 

- Crudelis  tu  quoque  mater : 

Crudelis  mater  magis,  an  puer  improbus  ille  ? 

Improbus  ille  puer,  crudelis  tu  quoque  mater. 

Eel.,  xiii,  48. 

0  barbarous  mother,  thirsting  to  destroy ! 

More  cruel  was  the  mother  or  the  boy  ? 

Both,  both  alike  delighted  to  destroy, 

Th’  unnatural  mother,  and  the  ruthless  boy. 

I  Warton. 

Or  like  the  crow  and  her  egg  in  the  Greek  pro¬ 
verb  : — 

Bad  the  crow,  bad  the  egg. 

I  must  here  take  notice  of  a  letter  which  I  have 
received  from  an  unknown  correspondent,  upon 
the  subject  of  my  paper,  upon  which  the  foregoing 
letter  is  likewise  founded.  The  writer  of  it  seems 
very  much  concerned  lest  the  paper  should  seem 
to  give  encouragement  to  the  disobedience  of  chil¬ 
dren  toward  their  parents  ;  but  if  the  writer  of  it 
will  take  the  painsto  read  it  over  again  atten¬ 
tively,  I  dare  say  his  apprehensions  will  vanish. 
Pardon  and  reconciliation  are  all  the  penitent 
daughter  requests,  and  all  that  I  contend  for  in 
her  behalf ;  and  in  this  case  I  may  use  the  saying 
of  an  eminent  wit,  who,  upon  some  great  man’s 
pressing  him  to  forgive  his  daughter,  who  had 
married  against  his  consent,  told  them  he  could 
refuse  nothing  to  their  instances,  but  that  he  would 
have  them  remember  there  was  difference  between 
giving  and  forgiving. 

I  must  confess,  in  all  controversies  between 
parents  and  their  children,  I  am  naturally  preju¬ 
diced  in  favor  of  the  former.  The  obligations  on 
that  side  can  never  be  acquitted,  and  I  think  it  is 
one  of  the  greatest  reflections  upon  human  nature, 
that  paternal  instinct  should  be  a  stronger  motive 
to  love  than  filial  gratitude  ;  that  the  receiving  of 
favors  should  be  a  less  inducement  to  a  good  will, 
tenderness,  and  commiseration,  than  the  confer¬ 
ring  of  them  ;  and  that  the  taking  care  of  any 
person  should  endear  the  child  or  dependent  more 
to  the  parent  or  benefactor,  than  the  parent  or 
benefactor  to  the  child  or  dependent  :  yet  so  it 
happens,  that  for  one  cruel  parent  we  meet  with  a 
thousand  undutiful  children.  This  is,  indeed, 
wonderfully  contrived  (as  I  have  formerly  ob¬ 
served)  for  the  support  of  every  living  species  : 
but  at  the  same  time  that  it  shows  the  wisdom  of 
the  Creator,  it  discovers  the  imperfection  and  de¬ 
generacy  of  the  creature. 

The  obedience  of  children  to  their  parents  is  the 
basis  of  all  government,  and  set  forth  as  the  mea¬ 
sure  of  that  obedience  which  we  owe  to  those 
whom  Providence  hath  placed  over  us. 

It  is  father  Le  Compte,  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
who  tells  us  how  want  of  duty  in  this  particular 
is  punished  among  the  Chinese,  insomuch  that  if 
a  son  should  be  known  to  kill,  or  so  much  as  to 
strike  his  father,  not  only  the  criminal,  but  his 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


246 


whole  family  would  be  rooted  out,  nay,  the  inhab¬ 
itants  of  the  place  where  he  lived  would  be  put  to 
the  sword,  nay,  the  place  itself  would  be  razed  to 
the  ground,  and  its  foundations  sown  with  salt. 
For,  say  they,  there  must  have  been  an  utter  de¬ 
pravation  of  manners  in  that  clan  or  society  of 
people  who  could  have  bred  up  among  them  so 
lorrid  an  offender.  To  this  I  shall  add  a  passage 
out  of  the  first  book  of  Herodotus.  That  histor¬ 
ian,  in  his  account  of  the  Persian  customs  and 
religion,  tells  us,  it  is  their  opinion  that  no  man 
ever  killed  his  father,  or  that  it  is  possible  such  a 
crime  should  be  in  nature  ;  but  that  if  anything 
like  it  should  ever  happen,  they  conclude  that  the 
reputed  son  must  have  been  illegitimate,  supposi¬ 
titious,  or  begotten  in  adultery.  Their  opinion 
in  this  particular  shows  sufficiently  what  a  notion 
they  must  have  had  of  undutifulness  in  general. 


No.  190.]  MONDAY,  OCTOBER  8,  1711. 

Servitus  crescit  nova -  Hor.  2  Od.  viii,  18. 

A  slavery  to  former  times  unknown. 

Since  I  madq  some  reflections  upon  the  general 
negligence  used  in  the  case  of  regard  toward 
women,  or,  in  other  words,  since  I  talked  of  wench¬ 
ing,  I  have  had  epistles  upon  that  subject,  which 
I  shall,  for  the  present  entertainment,  insert  as 
they  lie  before  me. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“As  your  speculations  are  not  confined  to  any 
part  of  human  life,  but  concern  the  wicked  as  well 
as  the  good,  I  must  desire  your  favorable  accept¬ 
ance  of  what  I,  a  poor  strolling  girl  about  town, 
have  to  say  to  you.  I  was  told  by  a  Roman  Cath¬ 
olic  gentleman  who  picked  me  up  last  week,  and 
who,  I  hope  is  absolved  for  what  passed  between 
us  ;  I  say,  I  was  told  by  such  a  person,  who  en¬ 
deavored.  to  convert  me  to  his  own  religion,  that 
in  countries  where  popery  prevails,  beside  the 
advantages  of  licensed  stews,  there  are  large  en¬ 
dowments  given  for  the  Incurabili,  I  think  he 
called  them,  such  as  are  past  all  remedy,  and  are 
allowed  such  maintenance  and  support  as  to  keep 
them  without  further  care  until  they  expire.  This 
manner  of  treating  poor  sinners  has,  methinks, 
great  humanity  in  it ;  and  as  you  are  a  person 
who  pretend  to  carry  your  reflections,  upon  all 
subjects  whatever  that  occur  to  you,  with  candor, 
and  act  above  the  sense  of  what  misinterpreta¬ 
tion  you  may  meet  with,  I  beg  the  favor  of  you 
to  lay  before  all  the  world  the  unhappy  condition 
of  us  poor  vagrants,  who  are  really  in  a  way  of 
labor  instead  of  idleness.  There  are  crowds  of 
us  whose  manner  of  livelihood  has  long  ceased  to 
be  pleasing  to  us  :  and  who  would  willingly  lead 
a  new  life,  if  the  rigor  of  the  virtuous  did  not  for¬ 
ever  expel  us  from  coming  into  the  world  again. 
As  it  now  happens,  to  the  eternal  infamy  of  the 
male  sex,  falsehood  among  you  is  not  reproachful, 
but  credulity  in  women  is  infamous. 

“Give  me  leave,  Sir,  to  give  you  my  history. 
You  are  to  know  that  I  am  a  daughter  of  a  man 
of  a  good  reputation,  tenant  to  a  man  of  quality. 
The  heir  of  this  great  house  took  it  in  his  head  to 
cast  a  favorable  eye  upon  me,  and  succeeded.  I 
do  not  pretend  to  say  he  promised  me  marriage  : 
I  was  not  a  creature  silly  enough  to  be  taken  by 
so  foolish  a  story:  but  lie  ran  away  with  me  up  to 
this  town,  and  introduced  me  to  a  grave  matron, 
with  whom  I  boarded  for  a  day  or  two  with  great 
gravity,  and  was  not  a  little  pleased  with  the 
change  of  my  condition,  from  that  of  a  country 
life  to  the  finest  company,  as  I  believed,  in  the 


whole  world.  My  humble  servant  made  me  un¬ 
derstand  that  I  should  always  be  kept  in  the  plen¬ 
tiful  condition  I  then  enjoyed  :  when  after  a  verjr 
great  fondness  toward  me,  he  one  day  took  his 
leave  of  me  for  four  or  five  days.  In  the  evening 
of  the  same  day  my  good  landlady  came  to  me, 
and  observing  me  very  pensive,  began  to  comfort 
me,  and  with  a  smile  told  me  I  must  see  the 
world.  When  I  was  deaf  to  all  she  could  say  to 
divert  me,  she  began  to  tell  me  with  a  very  frank 
air  that  I  must  be  treated  as  I  ought,  and  not  take 
these  squeamish  humors  upon  me,  for  my  friend 
had  left  me  to  the  town  ;  and,  as  their  phrase  is, 
she  expected  I  would  see  company,  or  I  must  be 
treated  like  what  I  had  brought  myself  to.  This 
put  me  into  a  fit  of  crying;  and  I  immediately,  in 
a  true  sense  of  my  condition,  threw  myself  on  the 
floor,  deploring  my  fate,  calling  upon  all  that  was 
good  and  sacred  to  succor  me.  While  I  was  in 
all  this  agony,  I  observed  a  decrepid  old  fellow 
come  into  the  room,  and  looking  with  a  sense  of 
pleasure  in  his  face  at  all  my  vehemence  and  trans¬ 
port.  In  a  pause  of  my  distresses  I  heard  him 
say  to  the  shameless  old  woman  who  stood  by  me, 

‘  She  is  certainly  a  new  face,  or  else  she  acts  it 
rarely.’  With  that  the  gentlewoman,  who  was 
making  her  market  of  me,  in  all  the  turns  of  my 
person,  the  heaves  of  my  passion,  and  the  suitable 
changes  of  my  posture,  took  occasion  to  commend 
my  neck,  my  shape,  my  eyes,  my  limbs.  All  this 
was  accompanied  with  such  speeches  as  you  may 
have  heard  horse-coursers  make  in  the  sale  of 
nags,  when  they  are  warranted  for  their  sound¬ 
ness.  You  understand  by  this  time  that  I  was 
left  in  a  brothel,  and  exposed  to  the  next  bidder 
who  could  purchase  me  of  my  patroness.  This 
is  so  much  the  work  of  hell  :  the  pleasure  in  the 
possession  of  us  wenches  abates  in  proportion  to 
the  degrees  we  go  beyond  the  bounds  of  inno¬ 
cence;  and  no  man  is  gratified,  if  there  is  nothing 
left  for  him  to  debauch.  Well,  Sir,  my  first  man, 
when  I  came  upon  the  town,  was  Sir  Jeoffry  Foi¬ 
ble,  who  was  extremely  lavish  to  me  of  his  mo¬ 
ney,  and  took  such  a  fancy  to  me  that  he  would 
have  carried  me  off,  if  my  patroness  would  have 
taken  any  reasonable  terms  for  me  ;  but  as  he 
was  old,  his  covetousness  was  his  strongest  pas¬ 
sion,  and  poor  I  was  soon  left  exposed  to  be  the 
common  refuse  of  all  the  rakes  and  debauchees  in 
town.  I  cannot  tell  whether  you  will  do  me  jus¬ 
tice  or  no,  till  I  see  whether  you  print  this  or  not; 
otherwise,  as  I  now  live  with  Sal.*  I  could  give 
you  a  very  just  account  of  who  and  wha  is  togeth¬ 
er  in  this  town.  You  perhaps  wont  believe  it ; 
but  I  know  of  one  who  pretends  to  be  a  very  good 
Protestant,  who  lies  with  a  Roman  Catholic  :  but 
more  of  this  hereafter,  as  you  please  me.  There 
do  come  to  our  house  the  greatest  politicians  of 
the  age  ;  and  Sal  is  more  shrewd  than  anybody 
thinks.  Nobody  can  believe  that  such  wise  men 
could  go  to  bawdy-houses  out  of  idle  purposes. 
I  have  heard  them  often  talk  of  Augustus  Ciesar, 
who  had  intrigues  with  the  wives  of  senators,  not 
out  of  wantonness  but  stratagem. 

“  It  is  a  thousand  pities  you  should  be  so  se¬ 
verely  virtuous  as  I  fear  you  are  ;  otherwise,  after 
one  visit  or  two,  you  would  soon  understand  that 
we  women  of  the  town  are  not  such  useless  cor¬ 
respondents  as  you  may  imagine  :  you  have  un¬ 
doubtedly  heard  that  it  was  a  courtesan  who  dis¬ 
covered  Catiline's  conspiracy.  If  you  print  this 
I’ll  tell  you  more :  and  am  in  the  meantime, 

“  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant, 

“  Rebecca  Nettletop.” 


*  A  celebrated  courtesan  and  procuress  of  those  times. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


“  Me.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  an  idle  young  woman  that  would  work 
ray  livelihood,  but  that  I  am  kept  in  such  a  man¬ 
ner  as  I  cannot  stir  out.  My  tyrant  is  an  old  jeal¬ 
ous  fellow,  who  allows  me  nothing  to  appear  in. 
I  have  but  one  shoe  and  one  slipper ;  no  head¬ 
dress.  and  no  upper  petticoat.  As  you  set  up  for 
a  reformer,  I  desire  you  would  take  me  out  of  this 
wicked  way,  and  keep  me  yourself. 

“  Eve  Afterday.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  to  complain  to  you  of  a  set  of  imperti¬ 
nent  coxcombs,  who  visit  the  apartments  of  us 
women  of  the  town,  only,  as  they  call  it,  to  see 
the  world.  I  must  confess  to  you,  this  to  men  of 
delicacy  might  have  an  effect  to  cure  them  ;  but 
as  they  are  stupid,  noisy,  and  drunken  fellows,  it 
tends  only  to  make  vice  in  themselves,  as  they 
think,  pleasant  and  humorous,  and  at  the  same 
time  nauseous  in  us.  I  shall,  Sir,  hereafter,  from 
time  to  time  give  you  the  names  of  these  wretches 
who  pretend  to  enter  our  houses  merely  as  Specta¬ 
tors.  These  men  think  it  wit  to  use  us  ill  :  pray 
tell  them,  however  worthy  we  are  of  such  treat¬ 
ment,  it  is  unworthy  them  to  be  guilty  of  it  to¬ 
ward  us.  Pray,  Sir,  take  notice  of  this,  and  pity 
the  oppressed  :  I  wish  we  could  add  to  it,  the  in¬ 
nocent.”  T. 


No.  191.]  TUESDAY,  OCTOBER  9,  1711. 

- Deluding  vision  of  the  night. — Pope.  . 

Some  ludicrous  schoolmen  have  put  the  case, 
that  if  an  ass  were  placed  between  two  bundles  of 
hav,  which  affected,  his  senses  equally  on  each 
side,  and  tempted  him  in  the  very  same  degree, 
whether  it  would  be  possible  for  him  to  eat  of 
either.  They  generally  determine  this  question  to 
the  disadvantage  of  the  ass,  who,  they  say,  would 
starve  in  the  midst  of  plenty,  as  not  having  a 
single  grain  of  free-will  to  determine  him  more  to 
the  one  than  to  the  other.  The  bundle  of  hay  on 
either  side  striking  his  sight  and  smell  in  the  same 
proportion,  would  keep  him  in  perpetual  suspense, 
like  the  two  magnets,  which  travelers  have  told 
us,  are  placed  one  of  them  in  the  roof,  and  the 
other  in  the  floor  of  Mahomet’s  burying-place  at 
Mecca,  and  by  that  means,  say  they,  pull  the  im¬ 
postor’s  iron  coffin  with  such  an  equal  attraction, 
that  it  hangs  in  the  air  between  both  of  them.  As 
for  the  ass’s  behavior  in  such  nice  circumstances, 
whether  he  would  starve  sooner  than  violate  his 
neutrality  to  the  two  bundles  of  hay,  I  shall  not 
presume  to  determine;  but  only  take  notice  of  the 
conduct  of  our  own  species  in  the  same  perplexity. 
When  a  man  has  a  mind  to  venture  his  money  in 
a  lottery,  every  figure  of  it  appears  equally  allur¬ 
ing,  and  as  likely  to  succeed  as  any  of  its  fellows. 
They  all  of  them  have  the  same  pretensions  to 
good  luck,  stand  upon  the  same  foot  of  competi¬ 
tion,  and  no  manner  of  reason  can  be  given  why 
a  man  should  prefer  one  to  the  other  before  the 
lottery  is  drawn.  In  this  case,  therefore,  caprice 
very  often  acts  in  the  place  of  reason,  and  forms 
to  itself  some  groundless,  imaginary  motive,  where 
real  and  substantial  ones  are  wanting.  I  know  a 
well-meaning  man  that  is  very  well  pleased  to 
risk  his  good  fortune  upon  the  number  1711,  be¬ 
cause  it  is  the  vear  of  our  Lord.  I  am  acquainted 
witli  a  tacker  that  would  give  a  good  deal  for  the 
number  134.* *  On  the  contrary,  I  have  been  told 

*In  the  year  1704  a  bill  was  brought  into  the  house  of 
commons  against  occasional  conformity;  and  in  order  to  make 
it  pass  through  the  house  of  lords,  it  was  proposed  to  tack  it 
to  a  money-bill.  This  occasioned  warm  debates,  and  at 


247 

of  a  certain  zealous  dissenter,  who  being  a  great 
enemy  to  popery,  and  believing  that  bad  men  are 
the  most  fortunate  in  this  world,  will  lay  two  to 
one  on  the  number  666  against  any  other  number, 
because,  says  he,  it  is  the  number  of  the  beast.* 
Several  would  prefer  the  number  12,000  before 
any  other,  as  it  is  the  number  of  the  pounds  in 
the  great  prize.  In  short,  some  are  pleased  to 
find  their  own  age  in  their  number;  some  that  have 
got  a  number  which  makes  a  pretty  appearance  in 
the  ciphers ;  and  others,  because  it  is  the  same 
number  that  succeeded  in  the  last  lottery.  Each 
of  these,  upon  no  other  grounds,  thinks  he  stands 
fairest  for  the  great  lot,  and  that  he  is  possessed  of 
what  may  not  be  improperly  called  “the  golden 
number.  ”f 

These  principles  of  election  are  the  pastimes 
and  extravagances  of  human  reason,  which  is  of 
so  busy  a  nature,  that  it  will  be  exerting  itself  in 
the  meanest  trifles,  and  working  even  when  it 
wants  materials.  The  wisest  of  men  are  some¬ 
times  actedj  by  such  unaccountable  motives,  as 
the  life  of  the  fool  and  the  superstitious  is  guided 
by  nothing  else. 

I  am  surprised  that  none  of  the  fortune-tellers, 
or,  as  the  French  call  them,  the  Diseurs  de  bonne 
Aventure,  who  publish  their  bills  in  every 
quarter  of  the  town,  have  turned  our  lotteries  to 
their  advantage.  Did  any  of  them  set  up  for  a 
caster  of  fortunate  figures,  what  might  he  not  get 
by  his  pretended  discoveries  and  predictions? 

I  remember  among  the  advertisements  in  the 
Post-Boy  of  September  the  27th,  I  was  surprised 
to  see  the  following  one: 

“This  is  to  give  notice,  that  ten  shillings  over 
and  above  the  market  price,  will  be  given  for  the 
ticket  in  the  1 ,500,000?.  lottery,  No.  132,  by  Nath. 
Cliff,  at  the  Bible  and  Three  Crowns  in  Cheap- 
side.” 

This  advertisement  has  given  great  matter  of 
speculation  to  coffee-house  theorists.  Mr.  Cliff’s 
principles  and  conversation  have  been  canvassed 
upon  this  occasion,  and  various  conjectures  made 
why  he  should  thus  set  his  heart  upon  No.  132. 
I  have  examined  all  the  powers  in  those  numbers, 
broken  them  into  fractions,  extracted  the  square 
and  cube  root,  divided  and  multiplied  them  all 
ways,  but  could  not  arrive  at  the  secret  until  about 
three  days  ago,  when  I  received  the  following  letter 
from  an  unknown  hand;  by  which  I  find  that  Mr. 
Nath.  Cliff  is  only  the  agent,  and  not  the  prin¬ 
cipal,  in  this  advertisement. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  the  person  that  lately  advertised  I  would 
give  ten  shillings  more  than  the  current  price  for 
the  ticket  No.  132  in  the  lottery  now  drawing; 
which  is  a  secret  I  have  communicated  to  some 
friends,  who  rally  me  incessantly  upon  that  ac 
count.  You  must  know  I  have  but  one  ticket,  for 
which  reason,  and  a  certain  dream  I  have  lately 
had  more  than  once,  I  resolved  it  should  be  the 
number  I  most  approved.  I  am  so  positive  that  I 
have  pitched  upon  the  great  lot,  that  I  could 
almost  lay  all  I  am  worth  upon  it.  My  visions 
are  so  frequent  and  strong  upon  this  occasion, 
that  I  have  not  only  possessed  the  lot,  but  dis¬ 
posed  of  the  money  which  in  all  probability  it 
will  sell  for.  This  morning  in  particular,  I  set  up 
an  equipage  which  I  look  upon  to  be  the  gayest 
in  the  town ;  the  liveries  are  very  rich,  but  not 


length  it  was  put  to  the  vote ;  when  134  were  for  tacking, 
but  a  large  majority  being  against  it,  the  motion  was  over 
ruled,  and  the  bill  miscarried. 

*  In  the  ltevelations.  See  ch.  xiii,  ver.  18. 

Alluding  to  the  number  so  called  in  the  Calendar. 
Actuated. 


THE  SPECTATOR 


248 

gaudy.  I  should  be  very  glad  to  see  a  speculation 
or  two  upon  lottery  subjects,  in  which  you  would 
oblige  all  people  concerned,  and  in  particular, 

“Your  most  humble  Servant, 
“George  Gosling.” 

“P.  S.  Dear  Spec.,  if  I  get  the  12,000  pounds. 
I’ll  make  thee  a  handsome  present.” 

After  having  wished  my  correspondent  good 
luck,  and  thanked  him  for  his  intended  kindness, 
I  shall  for  this  time  dismiss  the  subject  of  the 
lottery,  and  only  observe,  that  the  greatest  part 
of  mankind  are  in  some  degree  guilty  of  my 
friend  Gosling’s  extravagance.  We  are  apt  to  rely 
upon  future  prospects,  and  become  really  ex¬ 
pensive  while  we  are  only  rich  in  possibility.  We 
live  up  to  our  expectations,  not  to  our  possessions, 
and  make  a  figure  proportionable  to  what  we  may 
be,  not  what  we  are.  We  outrun  our  present  in¬ 
come,  as  not  doubting  to  disburse*  ourselves  out 
of  the  profits  of  some  future  place,  project,  or  re¬ 
version  that  we  have  in  view.  It  is  through  this 
temper  of  mind,  which  is  so  common  among  us, 
that  we  see  tradesmen  break,  who  have  met  with 
no  misfortunes  in  their  business  ;  and  men  of 
estates  reduced  to  poverty,  who  have  never  suf¬ 
fered  from  losses  or  repairs,  tenants,  taxes,  or  law¬ 
suits.  In  short,  it  is  this  foolish,  sanguine  temper, 
this  depending  upon  contingent  futurities,  that 
occasions  romantic  generosity,  chimerical  gran¬ 
deur,  senseless  ostentation,  and  generally  ends  in 
beggary  and  ruin.  The  man  who  will  live  above 
his  present  circumstances  is  in  great  danger  of 
living  in  a  little  time  much  beneath  them;  or,  as 
the  Italian  proverb  runs,  “The  man  who  lives  by 
hope,  will  die  by  hunger.” 

It  should  be  an  indispensable  rule  in  life,  to  con¬ 
tract  our  desires  to  our  present  condition,  and, 
whatever  may  be  our  expectations,  to  live  within 
the  compass  of  what  we  actually  possess.  It  will 
be  time  enough  to  enjoy  an  estate  when  it  comes 
into  our  hands;  but  if  we  anticipate  our  good  for¬ 
tune,  we  shall  lose  the  pleasure  of  it  when  it  ar¬ 
rives,  and  may  possibly  never  possess  what  we 
have  so  foolishly  counted  upon. — L. 


Ho.  192.]  WEDNESDAY,  OCT.  10,  1711. 

- Uno  ore  omnes  omnia 

Bona  dicere,  et  laudare  fortunas  meas, 

Qui  gnatum  haberem  tali  ingenio  prseditum. 

Ter.  Andr.,  act.,  sc.  1. 

- All  the  world 

With  one  accord  said  all  good  things,  and  prais’d 
My  happy  fortunes,  who  possess  a  son 
So  good,  so  liberally  disposed. - Colman. 

I  stood  the  other  day,  and  beheld  a  father  sitting 
in  the  middle  of  a  room  with  a  large  family  of 
children  about  him  :  and  methought  I  could  ob¬ 
serve  in  his  countenance  different  motions  of  de¬ 
light,  as  he  turned  his  eye  toward  the  one  or  the 
other  of  them.  The  man  is  a  person  moderate  in 
his  designs  for  their  preferment  and  welfare  ;  and 
as  he  has  an  easy  fortune  he  is  not  solicitous  to 
make  a  great  one.  His  eldest  son  is  a  child  of  a 
very  towardly  disposition,  and  as  much  as  the 
father  loves  him,  I  dare  say  he  will  never  be  a 
knave  to  improve  his  fortune.  I  do  not  know  any 
man  who  has  a  juster  relish  of  life  than  the  per¬ 
son  I  am  speaking  of,  or  keeps  a  better  guard 
against  the  terrors  of  want,  or  the  hopes  of  gain. 
It  is  usual,  in  a  crowd  of  children,  for  the  parent 
to  name  out  of  his  own  flock  all  the  great  officers 


of  the  kingdom.  There  is  something  so  very  sur¬ 
prising  in  the  parts  of  a  child  of  a  man’s  own, 
that  there  is  nothing  too  great  to  be  expected  from 
his  endowments.  I  know  a  good  woman  who  has 
but  three  sons,  and  there  is,  she  says,  nothing  she 
expected  with  more  certainty,  than  that  she  shall 
see  one  of  them  a  bishop,  the  other  a  judge,  and 
the  third  a  court-physician.  The  hunfor  is,  that 
anything  which  can  happen  to  any  man’s  child,  is 
expected  by  every  man  for  his  own.  But  my 
friend,  whom  I  am  going  to  speak  of,  does  not 
flatter  himself  with  such  vain  expectations,  but 
has  his  eye  more  upon  the  virtue  and  disposition 
of  his  children  than  their  advancement  or  wealth. 
Good  habits  are  what  will  certainly  improve  a 
man’s  fortune  and  reputation  ;  but,  on  the  other 
side,  affluence  of  fortune  will  not  as  probably  pro¬ 
duce  good  affections  of  the  mind. 

It  is  very  natural  for  a  man  of  a  kind  disposi¬ 
tion  to  amuse  himself  with  the  promises  his  ima¬ 
gination  makes  to  him  of  the  future  condition  of 
his  children,  and  to  represent  to  himself  the  figure 
they  shall  bear  in  the  world  after  he  has  left  it. 
When  his  prospects  of  this  kind  are  agreeable,  his 
fondness  gives  as  it  were  a  longer  date  to  his  own 
life ;  and  the  survivorship  of  a  worthy  man  in 
his  son,  is  a  pleasure  scarce  inferior  to  the  hopes 
of  the  continuance  of  his  own  life.  That  man  is 
happy  who  can  believe  of  his  son,  that  he  will  es¬ 
cape  the  follies  and  indiscretions  of  which  he  him¬ 
self  was  guilty,  and  pursue  and  improve  every¬ 
thing  that  was  valuable  in  him.  The  continuance 
of  his  virtue  is  much  more  to  be  regarded  than 
that  of  his  life  ;  but  it  is  the  most  lanlentable  of 
all  reflections,  to  think  that  the  heir  of  a  man’s 
fortune,  is  such  a  one  as  will  be  a  stranger  to  his 
friends,  alienated  from  the  same  interests,  and  a 
promoter  of  everything  which  he  himself  dis¬ 
approved.  An  estate  in  possession  of  such  a  suc¬ 
cessor  to  a  good  man,  is  worse  than  laid  waste; 
and  the  family,  of  which  he  is  the  head,  is  in  a 
more  deplorable  condition  than  that  of  being  ex¬ 
tinct. 

When  I  visit  the  agreeable  seat  of  my  honored 
friend  Ruricola,  and  walk  from  room  to  room  re¬ 
volving  many  pleasing  occurrences,  and  the  ex¬ 
pressions  of  many  just  sentiments  I  have  heard 
him  utter,  and  see  the  booby  his  heir  in  pain, 
while  he  is  doing  the  honors  of  his  house  to  the 
friend  of  his  father,  the  heaviness  it  gives  one  is 
not  to  be  expressed.  Want  of  genius  is  not  to  be 
imputed  to  any  man,  but  want  of  humanity  is  a 
man’s  own  fault.  The  son  of  Ruricola  (whose 
life  was  one  continued  series  of  worthy  actions, 
and  gentleman-like  inclinations)  is  the  companion 
of  drunken  clowns,  and  knows  no  sense  of  praise 
but  in  the  flattery  he  receives  from  his  own  ser¬ 
vants  ;  his  pleasures  are  mean  and  inordinate,  his 
language  base  and  filthy,  his  behavior  rough  and 
absurd.  Is  this  creature  to  be  accounted  the  suc¬ 
cessor  of  a  man  of  virtue,  wit,  and  breeding?  At 
the  same  time  that  I  have  this  melancholy  pros¬ 
pect  at  the  house  where  I  miss  my  old  friend,  I 
can  go  to  a  gentleman’s  not  far  off,  where  he  has  a 
daughter  who  is  the  picture  both  of  his  body  and 
mind,  but  both  improved  with  the  beauty  and 
modesty  peculiar  to  her  sex.  It  is  she  who  sup¬ 
plies  the  loss  of  her  father  to  the  world ;  she, 
without  his  name  or  fortune,  is  a  truer  memorial 
of  him,  than  her  brother  who  succeeds  him  in 
both.  Such  an  offspring  as  the  eldest  son  of  my 
friend  perpetuates  his  father  in  the  same  manner 
as  the  appearance  of  his  ghost  would  :  it  is  indeed 
Ruricola,  but  it  is  Ruricola  grown  frightful. 

I  know  not  to  what  to  attribute  the  brutal  turn 
which  this  young  man  has  taken,  except  it  may 
be  to  a  certain  severity  and  distance  which  his 


*  Disburse  seems  to  stand  here  for  reimburse. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


father  used  toward  him,  and  might  perhaps  have 
occasioned  a  dislike  to  those  modes  of  life,  which 
were  not  made  amiable  to  him  bv  freedom  and 
affability. 

We  may  promise  ourselves  that  no  such  excres¬ 
cence  will  appear  in  the  family  of  the  Cornelii, 
where  the  father  lives  with  his  sons  like  their  eld¬ 
est  brother,  and  the  sons  converse  with  him  as  if 
they  did  it  for  no  other  reason  but  that  he  is  the 
wisest  man  of  their  acquaintance.  As  the  Corne¬ 
lii*  are  eminent  traders,  their  good  correspondence 
with  each  other  is  useful  to  all  that  know  them,  as 
well  as  to  themselves  :  and  their  friendship,  good¬ 
will,  and  kind  offices,  are  disposed  of  jointly  as 
well  as  their  fortune,  so  that  no  one  ever  obliged 
one  of  them,  who  had  not  the  obligation  multi¬ 
plied  in  returns  from  them  all. 

It  is  the  most  beautiful  object  the  eyes  of  man 
can  behold  to  see  a  man  of  worth  and  his  son  live 
in  an  entire  unreserved  correspondence.  The  mu¬ 
tual  kindness  and  affection  between  them,  give  an 
inexpressible  satisfaction  to  all  who  know  them. 
It  is  a  sublime  pleasure  which  increases  by  the 
participation.  It  is  as  sacred  as  friendship,  as 
pleasurable  as  love,  and  as  joyful  as  religion. 
This  state  of  mind  does  not  only  dissipate  sorrow, 
which  would  be  extreme  without  it,  but  enlarges 
pleasures  which  would  otherwise  be  contemptible. 
The  most  indifferent  thing  has  its  force  and  beauty 
when  it  is  spoke  by  a  kind  father,  and  an  insigni¬ 
ficant  trifle  has  its  weight  when  offered  by  a  duti¬ 
ful  child.  I  know  not  how  to  express  it,  but  I 
think  I  may  call  it  a  “  transplanted  self-love.” 
All  the  enjoyments  and  sufferings  which  a  man 
meets  with  are  regarded  only  as  they  concern  him 
in  the  relation  he  has  to  another.  A  man’s  very 
honor  receives  a  new  value  to  him,  when  he  thinks 
that,  when  he  is  in  his  grave,  it  will  be  had  in  re¬ 
membrance  that  such  an  action  was  done  by  such- 
a-one’s  father.  Such  considerations  sweeten  the 
old  man’s  evening,  and  his  soliloquy  delights  him 
when  he  can  say  to  himself,  “No  man  can  tell  my 
child,  his  father  was  either  unmerciful,  or  unjust. 
My  son  shall  meet  many  a  man  who  shall  say  to 
him,  ‘I  was  obliged  to  thy  father:  and  be  my 
child  a  friend  to  his  child  forever.’  ” 

It  is  not  in  the  power  of  all  men  to  leave  illus¬ 
trious  names  or  great  fortunes  to  their  posterity, 
but  they  can  very  much  conduce  to  their  having 
industry,  probity,  valor,  and  justice.  It  is  in 
every  man’s  power  to  leave  his  son  the  honor  of 
descending  from  a  virtuous  man,  and  add  the 
blessings  of  heaven  to  whatever  he  leaves  him.  I 
shall  end  this  rhapsody  with  a  letter  to  an  excel¬ 
lent  young  man  of  my  acquaintance,  who  has 
lately  lost  a  worthy  father. 

“Dear  Sir, 

“I  know  no  part  of  life  more  impertinent  than 
the  office  of  administering  consolation  :  I  will  not 
enter  into  it,  for  I  cannot  but  applaud  your  grief. 
The  virtuous  principles  you  had  from  that  excel¬ 
lent  man,  whom  you  have  lost,  have  wrought  in 
you  as  they  ou^ht,  to  make  a  youth  of  three-and- 
twenty  incapable  of  comfort  upon  coming  into 
possession  of  a  great  fortune.  I  doubt  not  but 
you  will  honor  his  memory  by  a  modest  enjoy¬ 
ment  of  his  estate  ;  and  scorn  to  triumph  over  his 
grave,  by  employing  in  riot,  excess,  and  debauch- 


*  By  the  Cornelii,  the  Spectator  is  supposed  to  mean  the 
family  of  the  Eyles’s,  merchants  of  distinction;  of  whom 
Francis  Kyles,  Esq.,  the  father,  who  was  a  director  of  the 
East  India  Company,  and  alderman  of  London,  was  created  a 
baronet  1  George  I.  Ilis  eldest  surviving  son,  Sir  John 
Eyles,  Bart.,  was  afterward  lord-mayor  in  1727 :  and  another 
of  his  sons,  Sir  Joseph  Eyles,  Knt.,  was  sheriff  of  London  in 


249 

ery,  what  he  purchased  with  so  much  industry, 
prudence,  and  Avisdom.  This  is  the  true  way  to 
show  the  sense  you  have  of  your  loss,  and  to  take 
away  the  distress  of  others  upon  the  occasion. 
You  cannot  recall  your  father  by  your  grief,  but 
you  may  revive  him  to  his  friends  by  your  con¬ 
duct.”  rp> 


No.  193.]  THURSDAY,  OCTOBER  11,  1711. 

Ingentem  forihus  domus  alta  superbis 

Mane  salutantum  totis  vomit  sodibus  undam. 

ViRG.  Georg.,  ii,  461. 

His  lordship’s  palace  view,  whose  portals  proud 

Each  morning  vomit  forth  a  cringing  crowd. 

Warton,  etc. 

When  we  look  round  us,  and  behold  the  strange 
variety  of  faces  and  persons  which  fill  the  streets 
with  business  and  hurry,  it  is  no  unpleasant 
amusement  to  make  guesses  at  their  different  pur¬ 
suits,  and  judge  by  their  countenances  what  it  is 
that  so  anxiously  engages  their  present  attention. 
Of  all  this  busy  crowd,  there  are  none  who  would 
give  a  man  inclined  to  such  inquiries  better  di¬ 
version  tor  his  thoughts,  than  those  whom  we 
call  good  courtiers,  and  such  as  are  assiduous  at 
the  levees  of  great  men.  These  worthies  are  got 
into  a  habit  of  being  servile  Avith  an  air,  and  enjoy 
a  certain  vanity  in  being  known  for  understanding 
how  the  world  passes.  In  the  pleasure  of  this 
they  can  rise  early,  go  abroad  sleek  and  well- 
dressed,  with  no  other  hope  or  purpose,  but  to 
make  a  bow  to  a  man  in  court  favor,  and  be 
thought,  by  some  insignificant  smile  of  his,  not  a 
little  engaged  in  his  interests  and  fortunes.  It  is 
wondrous,  that  a  man  can  get  over  the  natural  ex¬ 
istence  and  possession  of  his  own  mind  so  far  as 
to  take  delight  either  in  paying  or  receiving  such 
cold  and  repeated  civilities.  But  what  maintains 
the  humor  is,  that  outward  show  is  what  most 
men  pursue,  rather  than  real  happiness.  Thus 
both  the  idol,  and  idolater,  equally  impose  upon 
themselves  in  pleasing  their  imaginations  this 
way.  But  as  there  are  very  many  of  her  majesty’s 
good  subjects  who  are  extremely  uneasy  at  their 
own  seats  in  the  country,  wffiere  all  from  the  skies 
to  the  center  of  the  earth  is  their  own,  and  have  a 
mighty  longing  to  shine  in  courts,  or  to  be  part¬ 
ners  in  the  power  of  the  world  ;  I  say,  for  the 
benefit  of  these,  and  others  who  hanker  after  being 
in  the  whisper  with  great  men,  and  vexing  their 
neighbors  with  the  changes  they  would  be  capable 
of  making  in  the  appearance  of  a  country  ses¬ 
sions,  it  would  not,  methinks,  be  amiss  to  give  an 
account  of  that  market  for  preferment,  a  great 
man’s  levee. 

For  aught  I  know,  this  commerce  between  the 
mighty  and  their  slaves,  very  justly  represented, 
might  do  so  much  good,  as  to  incline  the  great  to 
regard  business  rather  than  ostentation  ;  and  make 
the  little  know  the  use  of  their  time  too  well  to 
spend  it  in  vain  applications  and  addresses.  The 
famous  doctor  in  Moorfields,  who  gained  so  much 
reputation  for  his  horary  predictions,  is  said  to 
have  had  in  his  parlor  different  ropes  to  little  bells 
which  hung  in  the  room  above  stairs,  where  the 
doctor  thought  fit  to  be  oraculous.  If  a  girl  had 
been  deceived  by  her  lover,  one  bell  was  pulled  ; 
and  it  a  peasant  had  lost  a  cow,  the  servant  rang 
another.  This  method  was  kept  in  respect  to  all 
other  passions  and  concerns,  and  the  skillful  waiter 
below  sifted  the  inquirer,  and  gave  the  doctor  no¬ 
tice  accordingly.  The  levee  of  a  great  man  is 
laid  after  the  same  manner,  and  twenty  whispers, 
false  alarms,  and  private  intimations,  pass  back¬ 
ward  and  forward  from  the  porter,  the  valet,  and 
the  patron  himself,  before  the  gaping  crew,  who 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


250 

are  to  pay  their  court,  are  gathered  together. 
When  the  scene  is  ready,  the  doors  fly  open  and 
discover  his  lordship.  ^ 

There  are  several  ways  of  making  this  first  ap¬ 
pearance.  You  may  be  either  half-dressed,  and 
washing  yourself,  which  is  indeed  the  most  stately; 
but  this  way  of  opening  is  peculiar  to  military 
men,  in  whom  there  is  something  graceful  in  ex¬ 
posing  themselves  naked  :  but  the  politicians,  or 
civil  officers,  have  usually  affected  to  be  more  re¬ 
served,  and  preserve  a  certain  chastity  of  deport¬ 
ment.  Whether  it  be  hierogdyphical  or  not,  this 
difference  in  the  military  ana  civil  list,  I  will  not 
say  ;  but  have  ever  understood  the  fact  to  be,  that 
the  close  minister  is  buttoned  up,  and  the  brave 
officer  open-breasted  on  these  occasions. 

However  that  is,  I  humbly  conceive  the  business 
of  a  levee  is  to  receive  the  acknowledgments  of  a 
multitude,  that  a  man  is  wise,  bounteous,  valiant, 
and  powerful.  When  the  first  shot  of  eyes  is 
made,  it  is  wonderful  to  observe  how  much  sub¬ 
mission  the  patron’s  modesty  can  bear,  and  how 
much  servitude  the  client’s  spirit  can  descend  to. 
In  the  vast  multiplicity  of  business,  and  the 
crowd  about  him,  my  lord’s  parts  are  usually  so 
great,  that,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  whole 
assembly,  he  has  something  to  say  to  every  man 
there,  and  that  so  suitable  to  his  capacity  as  any 
man  may  judge  that  it  is  not  without  talents  men 
can  arrive  at  great  employments.  I  have  known  a 
great  man  ask  a  flag-officer,  which  way  was  the 
wind  ;  a  commander  of  horse,  the  present  price  of 
oats  :  and  a  stock-jobber,  at  what  discount  such  a 
fund  was,  with  as  much  ease  as  if  he  had  been 
bred  to  each  of  those  several  ways  of  life.  Now 
this  is  extremely  obliging  ;  for  at  the  same  time 
that  the  patron  informs  himself  of  matters,  he 
gives  the  person  of  whom  he  inquires  an  opportu¬ 
nity  to  exert  himself.  What  adds  to  the  pomp  of 
those  interviews  is,  that  it  is  performed  with  the 
greatest  silence  and  order  imaginable.  The  pa¬ 
tron  is  usually  in  the  midst  of  the  room,  and  some 
humble  person  gives  him  a  whisper,  which  his 
lordship  answers  aloud,  “It  is  well.  Yes,  I  am 
of  your  opinion.  Pray  inform  yourself  further, 
you  may  be  sure  of  my  part  in  it.”  This  happy 
man  is  dismissed,  and  my  lord  can  turn  himself 
to  a  business  of  a  quite  different  nature,  and  off¬ 
hand  give  as  good  an  answer  as  any  great  man  is 
obliged  to.  For  the  chief  point  is  to  keep  in  ge¬ 
nerals  ;  and  if  there  be  anything  offered  that  is 
particular,  to  be  in  haste. 

But  we  are  now  in  the  height  of  the  affair,  and 
my  lord’s  creatures  have  all  had  their  whispers 
round  to  keep  up  the  farce  of  the  tiling,  and  the 
dumb-show  is  become  more  general.  He  casts  his 
eye  to  that  corner,  and  there  to  Mr.  Such-a-one  ; 
to  the  other,  “  And  when  did  you  come  to  town  ?  ” 
And  perhaps  just  before  he  nods  to  another  ;  and 
enters  with  him,  “  But,  Sir,  I  am  glad  to  see  you, 
now  I  think  of  it.”  Each  of  those  are  happy  for  the 
next  four-and-twenty  hours  ;  and  those  who  bow 
in  ranks  undistinguished,  and  by  dozens  at  a 
time,  think  they  have  very  good  prospects  if  they 
may  hope  to  arrive  at  such  notices  half  a  year 
hence. 

The  satirist  says,  there  is  seldom  common  sense 
in  high  fortune  ;*  and  one  would  think,  to  behold 
a  levee,  that  the  great  were  not  only  infatuated 
with  their  station,  but  also  that  they  believed  all 
below  were  seized  too  ;  else  how  is  it  possible 
they  could  think  of  imposing  upon  themselves 
and  others  in  such  a  degree,  as  to  set  up  a  levee 
for  anything  but  a  direct  farce?  But  such  is  the 


*  Ilarus  enim  ferme  sensus  communis  in  ilia 
Eortuna  —  J uv.,  viii,  73. 


weakness  of  our  nature,  that  when  men  are  a  little 
exalted  in  their  condition,  they  immediately  con¬ 
ceive  they  have  additional  senses,  and  their  capa¬ 
cities  enlarged  not  only  above  other  men,  but 
above  human  comprehension  itself.  Thus  it  is  or¬ 
dinary  to  see  a  great  man  attend  one  listening, 
bow  to  one  at  a  distance,  and  call  to  a  third  at  the 
same  instant.  A  girl  in  new  ribbons  is  not  more 
taken  with  herself,  nor  does  she  betray  more  ap¬ 
parent  coquetries,  than  even  a  wise  man  in  such  a 
circumstance  of  courtship.  I  do  not  know  any¬ 
thing  that  I  ever  thought  so  very  distasteful  as  the 
affectation  which  is  recorded  of  Caesar,  to  wit : 
that  he  would  dictate  to  three  several  writers 
at  the  same  time.  This  was  an  ambition  below 
the  greatness  and  candor  of  his  mind.  He  indeed 
(if  any  man  had  pretensions  to  greater  faculties 
than  any  other  mortal)  was  the  person  ;  but  such 
a  way  of  acting  is  childish,  and  inconsistent  with 
the  manner  of  our  being.  It  appears  from  the 
very  nature  of  things,  that  there  cannot  be  any¬ 
thing  effectually  dispatched  in  the  distraction  of  a 
public  levee  ;  but  the  whole  seems  to  be  a  conspi¬ 
racy  of  a  set  of  servile  slaves,  to  give  up  their 
own  liberty  to  take  away  their  patron’s  under¬ 
standing. — T. 


No.  194.]  FRIDAY,  OCTOBER  12,  1711. 

- Difficili  bile  tumet  jecur. — Hor.  1  Od.  xiii,  4. 

With  jealous  pangs  my  bosom  swells. 

The  present  paper  shall  consist  of  two  letters 
which  observe  upon  faults  that  are  easily  cured 
both  in  love  and  friendship.  In  the  latter,  as  far 
as  it  merely  regards  conversation,  the  person  who 
neglects  visiting  an  agreeable  friend  is  punished 
in  the  very  transgression  ;  for  a  good  companion 
is  not  found  in  every  room  we  go  into.  But  the 
case  of  love  is  of  a  more  delicate  nature,  and  the 
anxiety  is  inexpressible,  if  every  little  instance  of 
kindness  is  not  reciprocal.  There  are  things  in 
this  sort  of  commerce  which  there  are  not  words 
to  express,  and  a  man  may  not  possibly  know  how 
to  represent  what  may  yet  tear  his  heart  into  ten 
thousand  tortures.  To  be  grave  to  a  man’s  mirth, 
inattentive  to  his  discourse,  or  to  interrupt  either 
with  something  that  argues  a  disinclination  to  be 
entertained  by  him,  has  in  it  something  so  disa¬ 
greeable,  that  the  utmost  steps  which  may  be 
made  in  further  enmity  cannot  give  greater  tor¬ 
ment.  The  gay  Corinna,  who  sets  up  for  an  indif¬ 
ference  and  becoming  heedlessness,  gives  her 
husband  all  the  torment  imaginable  out  of  mere 
indolence,  with  this  peculiar  vanity,  that  she  is  to 
look  as  gay  as  a  maid  in  the  character  of  a  wife. 
It  is  no  matter  what  is  the  reason  of  a  man’s  grief, 
if  it  be  heavy  as  it  is.  Her  unhappy  man  is  con¬ 
vinced  that  she  means  him  no  dishonor,  but  pines 
to  death  because  she  will  not  have  so  much  defer¬ 
ence  to  him  as  to  avoid  the  appearances  of  it.  The 
author  of  the  following  letter  is  perplexed  with  an 
injury  that  is  in  a  degree  yet  less  criminal,  and  yet 
the  source  of  the  utmost  unhappiness. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  have  read  your  papers  which  relate  to  jeal¬ 
ousy,  and  desire  your  advice  in  my  case,  which 
you  will  say  is  not  common.  I  have  a  wife,  of 
whose  virtue  I  am  not  in  the  least  doubtful ;  yet  I 
cannot  be  satisfied  she  loves  me,  which  gives  me 
as  great  uneasiness  as  being  faulty  the  other  way 
would  do.  I  know  not  whether  I  am  not  yet  more 
miserable  than  in  that  case,  for  she  keeps  posses¬ 
sion  of  my  heart,  without  the  return  of  hers.  I 
would  desire  your  observations  upon  that  temper 
J  in  some  women,  who  will  not  condescend  to  con- 


THE  SPE 

vince  their  husbands  of  their  innocence  or  their 
love,  but  are  wholly  negligent  of  what  reflections 
the  poor  men  make  upon  their  conduct  (so  they 
cannot  call  it  criminal),  when  at  the  same  time  a 
little  tenderness  of  behavior,  or  regard  to  show  an 
inclination  to  please  them,  would  make  them  en¬ 
tirely  at  ease.  Do  not  such  women  deserve  all  the 
misinterpretation  which  they  neglect  to  avoid? 
Or  are  they  not  in  the  actual  practice  of  guilt,  who 
care  not  whether  they  are  thought  guilty  or  not  ? 
If  my  wife  does  the  most  ordinary  thing,  as  visit¬ 
ing  her  sister,  or  taking  the  air  with  her  mother, 
it  is  always  carried  with  the  air  of  a  secret.  Then 
she  will  sometimes  tell  a  thing  of  no  consequence, 
as  if  it  was  only  want  of  memory  made  her  con¬ 
ceal  it  before ;  and  this  only  to  dally  with  my 
anxiety.  I  have  complained  to  her  of  this  beha¬ 
vior  in  the  gentlest  terms  imaginable,  and  be- 
seeched  her  not  to  use  him,  who  desired  only  to 
live  with  her  like  an  indulgent  friend,  as  the  most 
morose  and  unsociable  husband  in  the  world.  It 
is  no  easy  matter  to  describe  our  circumstance,  but 
it  is  miserable  with  this  aggravation,  that  it  might 
be  easily  mended,  and  yet  no  remedy  endeavored. 
She  reads  you,  and  there  is  a  phrase  or  two  in  this 
letter  which  she  will  know  came  from  me.  If  we 
enter  into  an  explanation  which  may  tend  to  our 
future  quiet  by  your  means,  you  shall  have  our 
joint  thanks :  in  the  meantime  I  am  (as  much  as 
I  can  in  this  ambiguous  condition  be  anything), 
Sir, 

“  Your  humble  Servant.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Give  me  leave  to  make  you  a  present  of  a  cha¬ 
racter  not  yet  described  in  your  papers,  which  is 
that  of  a  man  who  treats  his  friend  with  the  same 
odd  variety  which  a  fantastical  female  tyrant  prac¬ 
tices  toward  her  lover.  I  have  for  some  time  had 
a  friendship  with  one  of  those  mercurial  persons. 
The  rogue  I  know  loves  me,  yet  takes  advantage 
of  my  fondness  for  him  to  use  me  as  he  pleases. 
We  are  by  turns  the  best  friends  and  greatest 
strangers  imaginable.  Sometimes  you  would 
think  us  inseparable  ;  at  other  times  he  avoids  me 
for  a  long  time,  yet  neither  he  nor  I  know  why. 
When  we  meet  next  by  chance,  he  is  amazed  he 
has  not  seen  me,  is  impatient  for  an  appointment 
the  same  evening;  and  when  I  expect  he  would 
have  kept  it,  I  have  known  him  slip  away  to 
another  place  ;  where  he  has  sat  reading  the  news; 
when  there  is  no  post ;  smoking  his  pipe,  which 
he  seldom  cares  for  ;  and  staring  about  him  in 
company  with  whom  he  has  had  nothing  to  do,  as 
if  he  wondered  how  he  came  there. 

“  That  I  may  state  my  case  to  you  the  more  fully, 

I  shall  transcribe  some  short  minutes  I  have  taken 
of  him  in  my  almanac  since  last  spring  ;  for  you 
must  know  there  are  certain  seasons  of  the  year, 
according  to  which,  I  will  not  say  our  friendship, 
but  the  enjoyment  of  it  rises  or  falls.  In  March 
and  April  he  was  as  various  as  the  weather  ;  in 
May  and  part  of  June,  I  found  him  the  sprightli- 
est  fellow  in  the  world  :  in  the  dog-days  he  was 
much  upon  the  indolent ;  in  September  very  agree¬ 
able,  but  very  busy  ;  and  since  the  glass  fell  last 
to  changeable,  he  has  made  three  appointments 
with  me,  and  broke  them  every  one.  However,  I 
have  good  hopes  ol  him  this  winter,  especially  if 
you  will  lend  me  your  assistance  to  reform  him, 
which  will  be  a  great  ease  and  pleasure  to,  Sir, 

“  \  our  most  humble  servant.” 

“  October  9,  1711.” 

T. 


CTATOR.  *  .  251 

No.  195.]  SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  13,  1711. 

Fools  not  to  know  that  half  exceeds  the  whole, 

How  blest  the  sparing  meal  and  temperate  bowl! 

There  is  a  storv  in  the  Arabian  Nights  Tales 
of  a  king  who  had  long  languished  under  an  ill 
habit  of  body,  and  had  taken  abundance  of  reme¬ 
dies  to  no  purpose.  At  length,  says  the  fable,  a 
physician  cured  him  by  the  following  method  ;  he 
took  a  hollow  ball  of  wood,  and  filled  it  with  se¬ 
veral  drugs  ;  after  which  he  closed  it  up  so  artifi¬ 
cially  that  nothing  appeared.  He  likewise  took  a 
mall,  and  after  having  hollowed  the  handle,  and 
that  part  which  strikes  the  ball,  he  inclosed  in 
them  several  drugs  after  the  same  manner  as  in 
the  ball  itself.  He  then  ordered  the  Sultan,  who 
was  his  patient,  to  exercise  himself  early  in  the 
morning  with  these  rightly  prepared  instruments, 
till  such  time  as  he  should  sweat ;  when,  as  the 
story  goes,  the  virtue  of  the  medicaments  perspir¬ 
ing  through  the  wood  had  so  good  an  influence  on 
the  Sultan’s  constitution,  that  they  cured  him  of 
an  indisposition  which  all  the  compositions  he 
had  taken  inwardly  had  not  been  able  to  remove. 
This  eastern  allegory  is  finely  contrived  to  show 
us  how  beneficial  bodily  labor  is  to  health,  and 
that  exercise  is  the  most  effectual  physic.  I  have 
described  in  my  hundred  and  fifteenth  paper,  from 
the  general  structure  and  mechanism  of  a  human 
body,  how  absolutely  necessary  exercise  is  for  its 
preservation.  I  shall  in  this  place  recommend 
another  great  preservative  of  health,  which  in 
many  cases  produces  the  same  effects  as  exercise, 
and  may,  in  some  measure,  supply  its  place,  where 
opportunities  of  exercise  are  wanting.  The  pre¬ 
servative  I  am  speaking  of  is  temperance,  which 
has  those  particular  advantages  above  all  other 
means  of  health,  that  it  may  be  practiced  by  all 
ranks  and  conditions,  at  any  season,  or  in  any 
place.  It  is  a  kind  of  regimen  into  which  every 
man  may  put  himself,  without  interruption  to 
business,  expense  of  money,  or  loss  of  time.  If 
exercise  throws  off  all  superfluities,  temperance 
prevents  them  ;  if  exercise  clears  the  vessels,  tem¬ 
perance  neither  satiates  nor  overstrains  them  ;  if 
exercise  raises  proper  ferments  in  the  humors, 
and  promotes  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  tem¬ 
perance  gives  nature  her  full  play,  and  enables 
her  to  exert  herself  in  all  her  force  and  vigor  ;  if 
exercise  dissipates  a  growing  distemper,  temper¬ 
ance  starves  it. 

Physic  for  the  most  part  is  nothing  else  but  the 
substitute  of  exercise  or  temperance.  Medicines 
are  indeed  absolutely  necessary  in  acute  distemp¬ 
ers,  that  cannot  wait  the  slow  operations  of  these 
two  great  instruments  of  health  ;  but  did  men 
live  in  an  habitual  course  of  exercise  and  temper¬ 
ance,  there  could  be  but  little  occasion  for  them. 
Accordingly  we  find  that  those  parts  of  the  world 
are  the  most  healthy,  where  they  subsist  by  the 
chase  ;  and  that  men  lived  longest  when  theirlives 
were  employed  in  hunting,  and  when  they  had 
little  food  beside  what  they  caught.  Blistering, 
cupping,  bleeding,  are  seldom  of  use  but  to  the 
idle  and  intemperate  ;  as  all  those  inward  appli¬ 
cations  which  are  so  much  in  practice  among  us, 
are  for  the  most  part  nothing  else  but  expedients 
to  make  luxury  consistent  with  health.  The 
apothecary  is  perpetually  employed  in  counter¬ 
mining  the  cook  and  the  vintner.  It  is  said  of 
Diogenes,  that  meeting  a  young  man  who  was 
going  to  a  feast,  he  took  him  up  in  the  street  and 
carried  him  to  his  own  friends,  as  one  who  was 
running  into  imminent  danger,  had  not  he  pre¬ 
vented  him.*  What  would  that  philosopher  have 
said,  had  he  been  present  at  the  gluttony  of  a 


*  Diog.  Laert.,  Yitse  Pliilosoph.,  lib.  vi,  cap.  2,  n.  6. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


252 


modern  meal  ?  would  not  he  have  thought  the 
master  of  a  family  mad,  and  have  begged  his  ser¬ 
vants  to  tie  down  his  hands,  had  he  seen  him  de¬ 
vour  a  fowl,  fish,  and  flesh  ;  swallow  oil  and  vine¬ 
gar,  wines  and  spices ;  throw  down  salads  of 
twenty  different  herbs,  sauces  of  a  hundred  ingre¬ 
dients,  confections  and  fruits  of  numberless  sweets 
and  flavors  ?  What  unnatural  motions  and  coun¬ 
ter-ferments  must  such  a  medley  of  intemperance 
produce  in  the  body  ?  For  my  part,  when  I  be¬ 
hold  a  fashionable  table  set  out  in  all  its  magnifi¬ 
cence,  I  fancy  that  I  see  gouts  and  dropsies,  fevers 
and  lethargies,  with  other  innumerable  distemp¬ 
ers,  lying  in  ambuscade  among  the  dishes. 

Nature  delights  in  the  most  plain  and  simple 
diet.  Every  animal,  but  man,  keeps  to  one  dish. 
Herbs  are  the  food  of  this  species,  fish  of  that, 
and  flesh  of  a  third.  Man  falls  upon  everything 
that  comes  in  his  way  ;  not  the  smallest  fruit  or 
excrescence  of  the  earth,  scarce  a  berry  or  a  mush¬ 
room,  can  escape  him. 

It  is  impossible  to  lay  down  any  determinate 
rule  for  temperance,  because  what  is  luxury  in 
one  may  be  temperance  in  another ;  but  there  are 
few  that  have  lived  any  time  in  the  world,  who 
are  not  judges  of  their  own  constitutions,  so  far 
as  to  know  what  kinds  and  what  proportions  of 
food  do  best  agree  with  them.  Were  I  to  consider 
my  readers  as  my  patients,  and  to  prescribe  such 
a  Kind  of  temperance  as  is  accommodated  to  all 
persons,  and  such  as  is  particularly  suitable  to 
our  climate  and  way  of  living,  1  would  copy  the 
following  rules  of  a  very  eminent  physician. 
“  Make  your  whole  repast  out  of  one  dish.  If  you 
indulge  in  a  second,  avoid  drinking  anything 
strong  until  you  have  finished  your  meal ;  at  the 
same  time  abstain  from  all  sauces,  or  at  least  such 
as  are  not  the  most  plain  and  simple.”  A  man 
could  not  be  well  guilty  of  gluttony,  if  he  stuck 
to  these  few  obvious  and  easy  rules.  In  the  first 
case  there  would  be  no  variety  of  tastes  to  solicit 
his  palate,  and  occasion  excess  ;  nor  in  the  sec¬ 
ond,  any  artificial  provocatives  to  relieve  satiety, 
and  create  a  false  appetite.  Were  I  to  prescribe  a 
rule  for  drinking,  it  should  be  formed  upon  a  say¬ 
ing  quoted  by  Sir  William  Temple:  “The  first 
glass  for  myself,  the  second  for  my  friends,  the 
third  for  good-humor,  and  the  fourtli  for  mine 
enemies.”  But  because  it  is  impossible  for  one 
who  lives  in  the  world  to  diet  himself  ahvays  in 
so  philosophical  a  manner,  I  think  every  man 
should  have  his  days  of  abstinence  according  as 
his  constitution  will  permit.  These  are  great  re¬ 
liefs  to  nature,  as  they  qualify  her  for  struggling 
with  hunger  and  thirst  whenever  any  distemper  or 
duty  of  life  may  put  her  upon  such  difficulties; 
and  at  the  same  time  give  her  an  opportunity  of 
extricating  herself  from  her  oppressions,  and  re¬ 
covering  the  several  tones  and  springs  of  her  dis¬ 
tended  vessels.  Beside  that,  abstinence  well-timed 
often  kills  a  sickness  in  embryo,  and  destroys  the 
first  seeds  of  an  indisposition.  It  is  observed  by 
two  or  three  ancient  authors,*  that  Socrates,  not¬ 
withstanding  he  lived  in  Athens  during  that  great 
plague  which  has  made  so  much  noise  through  all 
ages,  and  has  been  celebrated  at  different  times  by 
such  eminent  hands  ;  I  say,  notwithstanding  that 
he  lived  in  the  times  of  this  devouring  pestilence, 
he  never  caught  the  least  infection,  which  those 
writers  unanimously  ascribe  to  that  uninterrupted 
temperance  which  he  always  observed. 

And  here  I  cannot  but  mention  an  observation 
which  I  have  often  made,  upon  reading  the  lives 
of  the  philosophers,  and  comparing  them  with 


*  Diogenes  Laertius,  in  Yit.  Socratis. — Eliarn  in  Yar.  Hist, 
lib.  xiii,  cap.  27,  etc. 


any  series  of  kings  or  great  men  of  the  same 
number.  If  we  consider  these  ancient  sages,  a 
great  part  of  whose  philosophy  consisted  in  a 
temperate  and  abstemious  course  of  life,  one 
would  think  the  life  of  a  philosopher  and  the  life 
of  a  man  were  of  two  different  dates.  For  we 
find  that  the  generality  of  these  wise  men  were 
nearer  a  hundred  than  sixty  years  of  age,  at  the 
time  of  their  respective  deaths.  But  the  most  re¬ 
markable  instance  of  the  efficacy  of  temperance 
toward  the  procuring  of  long  life,  is  what  me  meet 
with  in  a  little  book  published  by  Lewis  Cornaro 
the  Venetian;  which  I  the  rather  mention,  because 
it  is  of  undoubted  credit,  as  the  late  Venetian  am¬ 
bassador,  who  was  of  the  same  family,  attested 
more  than  once  in  conversation,  when  he  resided 
in  England.  Cornaro,  who  was  the  author  of  the 
little  treatise  I  am  mentioning,  was  of  an  infirm 
constitution,  until  about  forty,  when  by  obstinate¬ 
ly  persisting  in  an  exact  course  of  temperance,  he 
recovered  a  perfect  state  of  health;  insomuch  that 
at  fourscore  he  published  his  book,  which  has 
been  translated  into  English  under  the  title  of 
Sure  and  Certain  Methods  of  Attaining  a  Long 
and  Healthy  Life.  He  lived  to  give  a  third  or 
fourth  edition  of  it ;  and  after  having  passed  his 
hundredth  year,  died  without  pain  or  agony,  and 
like  one  who  falls  asleep.  The  treatise  I  mention 
has  been  taken  notice  of  by  several  eminent 
authors,  and  is  written  with  such  a  spirt  of  cheer¬ 
fulness,  religion,  and  good  sense,  as  are  the  natural 
concomitants  of  temperance  and  sobriety.  The 
mixture  of  the  old  man  in  it  is  rather  a  recom¬ 
mendation  than  a  discredit  to  it. 

Having  designed  this  paper  as  the  sequel  to 
that  upon  exercise,  I  have  not  here  considered 
temperance  as  it  is  a  moral  virtue,  which  I  shall 
make  the  subject  of  a  future  speculation,  but  only 
as  it  is  the  means  of  health. — L. 


No.  196.]  MONDAY,  OCTOBER  15,  1711. 

Est  Ulubris,  animus  si  te  non  deficit  sequus. 

Hor.  1  Ep.  xi,  30. 

True  happiness  is  to  no  place  confined, 

But  still  is  found  in  a  contented  mind. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“There  is  a  particular  fault  which  I  have  ob¬ 
served  in  most  of  the  moralists  in  all  ages,  and 
that  is,  that  they  are  always  professing  them¬ 
selves,  and  teaching  others,  to  be  happy.  This 
state  is  not  to  be  arrived  at  in  this  life,  therefore 
I  would  recommend  to  you  to  talk  in  a  humbler 
strain  than  your  predecessors  have  done,  and 
instead  of  presuming  to  be  happy,  instruct  us  only 
to  be  easy.  The  thoughts  of  him  who  would  be 
discreet,  and  aim  at  practicable  things,  should 
turn  upon  allaying  our  pain,  rather  than  promot¬ 
ing  our  joy.  Great  inquietude  is  to  be  avoided, 
but  great  felicity  is  not  to  be  attained.  The  great 
lesson  is  equanimity,  a  regularity  of  spirit,  which 
is  a  little  above  cheerfulness  and  below  mirth. 
Cheerfulness  is  always  to  be  supported  if  a  man 
is  out  of  pain,  but  mirth,  to  a  prudent  man,  should 
always  be  accidental.  It  should  naturally  arise 
out  of  the  occasion,  and  the  occasion  seldom  be 
laid  for  it ;  for  those  tempers  who  want  mirth  to 
be  pleased,  are  like  the  constitutions  which  flag 
without  the  use  of  brandy.  Therefore,  I  sav,  let 
your  precept  be,  ‘be  easy.’  That  mind  is  disso¬ 
lute  and  ungoverned,  which  must  be  hurried  out 
of  itself  by  loud  laughter  or  sensual  pleasure,  or 
else  be  wholly  inactive. 

“There  are  a  couple  of  old  fellows  of  my  ac¬ 
quaintance  who  meet  every  day  and  smoke  a  pipe. 


THE  SPE 

and  by  their  mutual  love  to  each  other,  though 
they  have  been  men  of  business  and  bustle  in  the 
world,  enjoy  a  greater  tranquillity  than  either 
could  have  worked  himself  into  by  any  chapter 
of  Seneca.  Indolence  of  body  and  mind,  when 
we  aim  at  no  more,  is  very  frequently  enjoyed; 
but  the  very  inquiry  after  happiness  lias  some¬ 
thing  restless  in  it,  which  a  man  who  lives  in  a 
series  of  temperate  meals,  friendly  conversations, 
and  easy  slumbers,  gives  himself  no  trouble  about. 
While  men  of  refinement  are  talking  of  tranquil¬ 
lity,  he  possesses  it. 

“What  I  would  by  these  broken  expressions  re¬ 
commend  to  you,  Mr.  Spectator,  is,  that  you  would 
speak  ot  the  way  ot  life  which  plain  men  may 
pursue,  to  fill  up  the  spaces  of  time  with  satisfac¬ 
tion.  It  is  a  lamentable  circumstance,  that  wisdom, 
or,  as  you  call  it,  philosophy,  should  furnish  ideas 
only  for  the  learned ;  and  that  a  man  must  be  a 
philosopher  to  know  how  to  pass  away  his  time 
agreeably.  It  would  therefore  be  worth  your 
pains  to  place  in  a  handsome  light  the  relations 
and  affinities  among  men,  which  render  their  con¬ 
versations  with  each  other  so  grateful,  that  the 
highest  talents  give  but  an  impotent  pleasure  in 
comparison  with  them.  You  may  find  descrip¬ 
tions  and  discourses  which  will  render  the  fire¬ 
side  of  an  honest  artificer  as  entertaining  as  your 
own  club  is  to  you.  Good-nature  has  an  endless 
source  of  pleasure  in  it:  and  the  representation  of 
domestic  life  filled  with  its  natural  gratifications, 
instead  of  the  necessary  vexations  which  are  gen¬ 
erally  insisted  upon  in  the  writings  of  the  witty, 
will  be  a  very  good  office  to  society. 

“The  vicissitudes  of  labor  and  rest  in  the  lower 
part  ot  mankind,  make  their  being  pass  away 
with  that  sort  of  relish  which  we  express  by  the 
word  comfort ;  and  should  be  treated  of  by  you, 
who  are  a  spectator,  as  well  as  such  subjects 
which  appear  indeed  more  speculative,  but  are 
less  instructive.  In  a  word,  Sir,  I  would  have 
you  turn  your  thoughts  to  the  advantage  of  such 
as  want  you  most ;  and  show  that  simplicity,  in¬ 
nocence,  industry,  and  temperance,  are  arts  which 
lead  to  tranquillity  as  much  as  learning,  wisdom, 
knowledge,  and  contemplation. 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

“T.  B.” 

“Me.  Spectator,  Hackney,  Oct.  12. 

.  “I  ara  the  young  woman  whom  you  did  so  much 
justice  to  some  time  ago,  in  acknoAvledging  that 
1  am  perfect  mistress  of  the  fan,  and  use  it  with 
the  utmost  knowledge  and  dexterity.  Indeed  the 
world,  as  malicious  as  it  is,  will  allow,  that  from 
a  hurry  of  laughter  I  recollect  myself  the  most 
v,  make  a  courtsey,  and  let  fall  my  hands 
before  me,  closing  my  fan  at  the  same  instant,  the 
best  of  any  woman  in  England.  I  am  not  a  little 
delighted  that  I  have  had  your  notice  and  appro¬ 
bation  ;  and  however  other  young  women  may 
1  ally  me  out  of  envy,  I  triumph  in  it,  and  de¬ 
mand  a  place  in  your  friendship.  You  must  there¬ 
in!  e  permit  me  to  lay  before  you  the  present  state 
of  my  mind.  I  was  reading  your  Spectator  of  the 
ytli  instant,  and  thought  the  circumstance  of  the 
ass  divided  between  the  two  bundles  of  hay, 
m  Inch  equally  affected  his  senses,  was  a  lively  re¬ 
presentation  of  my  present  condition;  for  you  are 
to  know  that  I  am  extremely  enamored  with  two 
young  gentlemen,  who  at  this  time  pretend  to  me. 
One  must  hide  nothing  when  one  is  asking  advice 
therefoie  I  will  own  to  you,  that  I  am  very  amor¬ 
ous,  and  very  covetous.  My  lover  Will  is  very 
.rich,  and  my  lover  Tom  very  handsome.  I  can 
have  either  of  them  when  I  please  ;  but  when  I 
debate  the  question  in  my  own  mind,  I  cannot 


CTATOR.  253 

take  Tom  for  fear  of  losing  Will’s  estate,  nor  enter 
upon  Will’s  estate,  and  bid  adieu  to  Tom’s  person. 
I  am  very  young,  and  yet  no  one  in  the  world, 
dear  Sir,  lias  the  main  chance  more  in  her  head 
flian  myself.  Tom  is  the  gayest,  the  blithest 
creature  !  He  dances  well,  is  veiy  civil,  and  di- 
j  verting  at  all  hours  and  seasons.  Oh  !  he  is  the 
joy  of  my  eyes!  But  then  again  Will  is  so  very 
rich  and  careful  of  the  main.  How  many  pretty 
dresses  does  Tom  appear  in  to  charm  me!  But 
then  it  immediately  occurs  to  me,  that  a  man  of 
his  circumstances  is  so  much  the  poorer.  Upon 
the  whole,  I  have  at  last  examined  both  these  de¬ 
sires  of  love  and  avarice,  and  upon  strictly  weigh¬ 
ing  the  matter,  I  begin  to  think  I  shall  be  cove¬ 
tous  longer  than  fond,  therefore  if  you  have 
nothing  to  say  to  the  contrary,  I  shall  take  Will. 
Alas,  poor  Tom ! 

“Your  humble  Servant, 

T.  “Biddy  Loveless.” 


Ho.  197.]  TUESDAY,  OCTOBER  16,  1711. 

Alter  rixatur  de  lana  sa3pe  caprina, 

Propugnat  nugis  armatus :  scilicet,  ut  non 
Sic  mihi  prirno  fides ;  et,  vere  quod  placet,  ut  non 
Acriter  elatrem  ?  Pretium  aetas  altera  sordet. 

Ambigitur  quid  enim !  Castor  sciat,  an  Docilis  plus, 
Brundusium  Numici  melius  via  ducat,  an  Appi. 

Hor.  1,  Ep.  xviii,  15. — 

On  trifles  some  are  earnestly  absurd ; 

You’ll  think  the  world  depends  on  every  word. 

What !  is  not  every  mortal  free  to  speak  ? 

I’ll  give  my  reasons,  though  I  break  my  neckl 
And  what’s  the  question?  If  it  shines  or  rains; 

Whether  ’tis  twelve  or  fifteen  miles  to  Staines.— Pitt. 

Every  age  a  man  passes  through,  and  way  of 
life  he  engages  in,  has  some  particular  vice  or  im¬ 
perfection  naturally  cleaving  to  it,  which  will  re¬ 
quire  his  nicest  care  to  avoid.  The  several  weak¬ 
nesses  to  which  youth,  old  age,  and  manhood  are 
exposed,  have  long  since  been  set  doAvn  by  many 
both  of  the  poets  and  philosophers;  but  I  do  not 
remember  to  have  met  with  any  author  who  has 
treated  of  those  ill  habits  men  are  subject  to,  not 
so  much  by  reason  of  their  different  ages  and 
tempers,  as  the  particular  professions  or  business 
in  which  they  were  educated  and  brought  up. 

I  am  the  more  surprised  to  find  this  subject  so 
little  touched  on,  since  what  I  ara  here  speaking 
of  is  so  apparent,  as  not  to  escape  the  most  vul¬ 
gar  observation.  The  business  men  are  chiefly 
conversant  in  does  not  only  give  a  certain  cast  or 
turn  to  their  minds,  but  it  is  very  often  apparent 
in  their  outward  behavior,  and  some  of  the  most 
indifferent  actions  of  their  lives.  It  is  this  air 
diffusing  itself  over  the  whole  man,  which  helps 
us  to  find  out  a  person  at  his  first  appearance ;  so 
that  the  most  careless  observer  fancies  he  can 
scarce  be  mistaken  in  the  carriage  of  a  seaman,  or 
the  gait  of  a  tailor. 

The  liberal  arts,  though  they  may  possibly  have 
less  effect  on  our  external  mien  and  behavior, 
make  so  deep  an  impression  on  the  mind,  as  is 
very  apt  to  bend  it  wholly  one  way. 

The  mathematician  will  take  little  else  than  de 
monstration  in  the  most  common  discourse,  and 
the  schoolman  is  as  great  a  friend  to  definition 
and  syllogisms.  The  physician  and  divine  are 
often  heard  to  dictate  in  private  companies  with 
the  same  authority  which  they  exercise  over  their 
patients  and  disciples:  while  the  lawyer  is  putting 
cases,  and  raising  matter  for  disputation,  out  of 
everything  that  occurs. 

I  may  possibly  some  time  or  other  animadvert 
more  at  large  on  the  particular  fault  each  profes¬ 
sion  is  most  infected  with ;  but  shall  at  presenl 
wholly  apply  myself  to  the  cure  of  what  I  Iasi 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


254 

mentioned,  namely,  that  spirit  of  strife  and  con-  ’ 
tention  in  the  conversations  of  gentlemen  of  the 
long  robe. 

This  is  the  more  ordinary,  because  these  gentle¬ 
men  regarding  argument  as  their  own  proper  pro¬ 
vince,  and  very  often  making  ready  money  of  it, 
think  it  unsafe  to  yield  before  company.  They 
are  showing  in  common  talk  how  zealously  they 
could  defend  a  cause  in  court,  and  therefore  fre¬ 
quently  forget  to  keep  their  temper,  which  is 
absolutely  requisite  to  render  conversation  pleasant 
and  instructive. 

Captain  Sentry  pushes  this  matter  so  far,  that  I 
have  heard  him  say,  “  he  has  known  but  few 
pleaders  that  were  tolerable  company.” 

The  captain,  who  is  a  man  of  good  sense,  but 
dry  conversation,  was  last  night  giving  me  an  ac¬ 
count  of  a  discourse,  in  which  he  had  lately  been 
engaged  with  a  young  wrangler  in  the  law.  “I 
was  giving  my  opinion,”  says  the  captain,  "with¬ 
out  apprehending  any  debate  that  might  arise 
from  it,  of  a  general’s  behavior  in  a  battle  that 
was  fought  some  years  before  either  the  templar  or 
myself  were  born.  The  young  lawyer  immedi¬ 
ately  took  me  up,  and  by  reasoning  above  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  upon  a  subject  which  I  saw  he  under¬ 
stood  nothing  of,  endeavored  to  show  me  that  my 
opinions  were  ill-grounded.  Upon  which,”  says 
the  captain,  “  to  avoid  any  further  contests,  I 
told  him,  that  truly  I  had  not  considered  those 
several  arguments  which  he  had  brought  against 
me,  and  that  there  might  be  a  great,  deal  in  them.” 
"Ay,  but,”  says  my  antagonist,  who  would  not 
let  me  escape  so,  "there  are  several  things  to  be 
urged  in  favor  of  your  opinion  which  you  have 
omitted  ;”  and  thereupon  began  to  shine  on  the 
other  side  of  the  question.  "Upon  this,”  says  the 
captain,  “I  came  over  to  my  first  sentiments,  and 
entirely  acquiesced  in  his  reasons  for  my  so  doing. 
Upon  which  the  templar  again  recovered  his  for¬ 
mer  posture,  and  confuted  both  himself  and  me  a 
third  time.  In  short,”  says  my  friend,  "I  found 
he  was  resolved  to  keep  me  at  sword’s  length,  and 
never  let  me  close  with  him;  so  that  I  had  nothing 
left  but  to  hold  my  tongue,  and  give  my  antago¬ 
nist  free  leave  to  smile  at  his  victory,  who  I  found, 
like  Hudibras,  could  still  change  sides,  and  still 
confute.”* 

For  my  own  part,  I  have  ever  regarded  our  inns 
of  court  as  nurseries  of  statesmen  and  lawgivers, 
which  makes  me  often  frequent  that  part  of  the 
town  with  great  pleasure. 

Upon  my  calling  in  lately  at  one  of  the  most 
noted  Temple  coffee-houses,  I  found  the  whole 
room,  which  was  full  of  young  students,  divided 
into  several  parties,  each  of  which  was  deeply 
engaged  in  some  controversy.  The  management 
of  the  late  ministry  was  attacked  and  defended 
with  great  vigor ;  and  several  preliminaries  to 
the  peace  were  proposed  by  some,  and  rejected 
by  others ;  the  demolishing  of  Dunkirk  was  so 
eagerly  insisted  on,  and  so  warmly  controverted, 
as  had  like  to  have  produced  a  challenge.  In 
short,  I  observed  that  the  desire  of  victory,  whet¬ 
ted  with  the  little  prejudices  of  party  and  inter¬ 
est,  generally  carried  the  argument  to  such  a 
height,  as  made  the  disputants  insensibly  con¬ 
ceive  an  aversion  toward  each  other,  and  part 
with  the  highest  dissatisfaction  on  both  sides. 

The  managing  an  argument  handsomely  being 
so  nice  a  point,  and  what  I  have  seen  so  very  few 
excel  in,  I  shall  here  set  down  a  few  rules  on  that 
head,  which,  among  other  things,  I  gave  in  writ¬ 
ing  to  a  young  kinsman  of  mine,  who  had  made 
so  great  a  proficiency  in  the  law,  that  he  began  to 

*Part  i,  cant.  1,  ver.  69,  70. 


plead  in  company,  upon  every  subject  that  was 
started. 

Having  the  entire  manuscript  by  me,  I  may, 
perhaps,  from  time  to  time,  publish  such  parts  of 
it  as  1  shall  think  requisite  for  the  instruction  of 
the  British  youth.  What  regards  my  present  pur¬ 
pose  is  as  follows: 

Avoid  disputes  as  much  as  possible.  In  order 
to  appear  easy  and  well-bred  in  conversation,  you 
may  assure  yourself  that  it  requires  more  wit,  as 
well  as  more  good  humor,  to  improve  than  to 
contradict  the  notions  of  another  :  but  if  you  are 
at  any  time  obliged  to  enter  on  an  argument,  give 
your  reasons  with  the  utmost  coolness  and  mo¬ 
desty,  two  things  which  scarce  ever  fail  of  mak 
ing  an  impression  on  the  hearers.  Beside,  if  you 
are  neither  dogmatical,  nor  show  either  by  your 
actions  or  words  that  you  are  full  of  yourself,  all 
will  the  more  heartily  rejoice  at  your  victory. 
Nay,  should  you  be  pinched  in  your  argument, 
you  may  make  your  retreat  with  a  very  good 
grace.  You  were  never  positive,  and  are  now 
glad  to  be  better  informed.  This  has  made  some 
approve  the  Socratical  way  of  reasoning,  where, 
while  you  scarce  affirm  anything,  you  can  hardly 
be  caught  in  an  absurdity ;  and  though  possibly 
you  are  endeavoring  to  bring  over  another  to 
your  opinion,  which  is  firmly  fixed,  you  seem 
only  to  desire  information  from  him. 

In  order  to  keep  that  temper  which  is  so  diffi¬ 
cult,  and  yet  so  necessary  to  preserve,  you  may 
please  to  consider,  that  nothing  can  be  more  un¬ 
just  or  ridiculous,  than  to  be  angry  with  another 
because  he  is  not  of  your  opinion.  The  interests, 
education,  and  means  by  which  men  attain  their 
knowledge,  are  so  very  different,  that  it  is  impos¬ 
sible  they  should  all  think  alike ;  and  he  has  at 
least  as  much  reason  to  be  angry  with  you,  as 
you  with  him.  Sometimes,  to  keep  yourself  cool, 
it  may  be  of  service  to  ask  yourself  fairly,  what 
might  have  been  your  opinion,  had  you  all  the 
biases  of  education  and  interest  your  adversary 
may  possibly  have?  But  if  you  contend  for  the 
honor  of  victory  alone,  you  may  lay  down  this  as 
an  infallible  maxim,  that  you  cannot  make  a  more 
false  step,  or  give  your  antagonists  a  greater  ad¬ 
vantage  over  you,  than  by  falling  into  a  passion. 

When  an  argument  is  over,  how  many  weighty 
reasons  does  a  man  recollect,  which  his  heat  and 
violence  made  him  utterly  forget ! 

It  is  yet  more  absurd  to  be  angry  with  a  man 
because  he  does  not  apprehend  the  force  of  your 
reasons,  or  gives  weak  ones  of  his  own.  If  you 
argue  for  reputation,  this  makes  your  victory  the 
easier ;  he  is  certainly  in  all  respects  an  object  of 
your  pity,  rather  than  anger ;  and  if  he  cannot 
comprehend  what  you  do,  you  ought  to  thank 
nature  for  her  favors,  who  has  given  you  so  much 
the  clearer  understanding. 

You  may  please  to  add  this  consideration,  that 
among  your  equals  no  one  values  your  anger, 
which  only  preys  upon  its  master  ;  and  perhaps 
you  may  find  it  not  very  consistent  either  with 
prudence  or  your  ease,  to  punish  yourself  when¬ 
ever  you  meet  with  a  fool  or  a  knave. 

Lastly,  if  you  propose  to  yourself  the  true  end 
of  argument,  which  is  information,  it  may  be  a 
seasonable  check  to  your  passion ;  for  if  you 
search  purely  after  truth,  it  will  be  almost  indif¬ 
ferent  to  you  where  you  find  it.  I  cannot  in  this 
place  omit  an  observation  which  I  have  often 
!  made,  namely,  That  nothing  procures  a  man 
more  esteem  and  less  envy  from  the  whole  com¬ 
pany,  than  if  he  chooses  the  part  of  moderator, 
without  engaging  directly  on  either  side  in  a  dis¬ 
pute.  This  gives  him  the  character  of  impartial, 
furnishes  him  with  an  opportunity  of  sifting 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


things  to  the  bottom,  showing  his  judgment,  and 
of  sometimes  making  handsome  compliments  to 
to  each  of  the  contending  parties. 

I  shall  close  this  subject  with  giving  you  one 
caution.  When  you  have  gained  a  victory  do  not 
push  it  too  far ;  it  is  sufficient  to  let  the  company 
and  your  adversary  see  it  is  in  your  power,  but 
that  you  are  too  generous  to  make  use  of  it. — X. 


No.  198.]  WEDNESDAY,  OCTOBER  17,  1711. 

Cervae*  luporum  praeda  rapaoium, 

Sectamur  ultro,  quos  opimus 
Fallere  et  effugere  ost  triumphus. 

Hor.  4  Od.  iv,  50. 

We,  like  “weak  hinds,”  the  brinded  wolf  provoke, 

And  when  retreat  is  victory, 

Rush  on,  though  sure  to  die. — Oldisworth. 

There  is  a  species  of  women,  whom  I  shall  dis¬ 
tinguish  by  the  name  of  salamanders.  Now  a 
salamander  is  a  kind  of  heroine  in  chastity,  that 
treads  upon  fire,  and  lives  in  the  midst  of  flames 
without  being  hurt.  A  salamander  knows  no 
distinction  of  sex  in  those  she  converses  with, 
grows  familiar  with  a  stranger  at  first  sight,  and 
is  not  so  narrow-spirited  as  to  observe  whether 
the  person  she  talks  to  be  in  breeches  or  petti¬ 
coats.  She  admits  a  male  visitant  to  her  bed-side, 
plays  with  him  a  whole  afternoon  at  picquet, 
walks  with  him  two  or  three  hours  by  moonlight, 
and  is  extremely  scandalized  at  the  unreasonable¬ 
ness  of  a  husband,  or  the  severity  of  a  parent, 
that  would  deb^r  the  sex  from  such  innocent  li¬ 
berties.  Your  salamander  is  therefore  a  perpetual 
declaimer  against  jealousy,  an  admirer  of  the 
French  good  breeding,  and  a  great  stickler  for  free¬ 
dom  in  conversation.  In  short,  the  salamander 
lives  in  an  invincible  state  of  simplicity  and  in¬ 
nocence.  Her  constitution  is  preserved  m  a  kind 
of  natural  frost.  She  wonders  what  people  mean 
by  temptations,  and  defies  mankind  to  do  their 
worst.  Her  chastity  is  engaged  in  a  constant 
ordeal,  or  fiery  trial;  like  good  Queen  Emma, 
the  pretty  innocent  walks  blindfolded  among 
burning  plowshares,  without  being  scorched  or 
singed  by  them. 

It  is  not  therefore  for  the  use  of  the  salamander, 
whether  in  a  married  or  a  single  state  of  life,  that 
I  design  the  following  paper  ;  but  for  such  fe¬ 
males  only  as  are  made  of  flesh  and  blood,  and 
find  themselves  subject  to  human  frailties. 

As  for  this  part  of  the  fair  sex  who  are  not  of 
the  salamander  kind,  I  would  most  earnestly 
advise  them  to  observe  a  quite  different  conduct 
in  their  behavior  ;  and  to  avoid  as  much  as  pos¬ 
sible  what  religion  calls  temptations,  and  the 
world  opportunities.  Did  they  but  know  how 
many  thousands  of  their  sex  have  been  gradually 
betrayed  from  innocent  freedoms  to  ruin  and  in¬ 
famy  ;  and  how  many  millions  of  ours  have  begun 
witli  flatteries,  protestations,  and  endearments, 
but  ended  with  reproaches,  perjury,  and  perfi¬ 
diousness;  they  would  shun  like  death  the  very 
first  approaches  of  one  that  might  lead  them  into 
inextricable  labyrinths  of  guilt  and  misery.  I 
must  so  far  give  up  the  cause  of  the  male  world, 
as  to  exhort  the  female  sex  in  the  language  of 
Chamont  in  the  Orphan  : 

Trust  not  to  man,  we  are  by  nature  false, 

Dissembling,  subtle,  cruel,  and  inconstant: 

When  a  man  talks  of  love,  with  caution  trust  him : 

But  if  he  swears,  he’ll  certainly  deceive  thee. 


*  All  the  editions  of  Horace  read  cervi ;  the  Spectator  al¬ 
tered  it  to  cervae,  to  adapt  it  more  peculiarly  to  the  subject 
of  this  paper. 


255 

I  might  very  much  enlarge  upon  this  subject, 
but  shall  conclude  it  witli  a  story  which  I  lately 
heard  from  one  of  our  Spanish  officers,  *and  which 
may  show  the  danger  a  woman  incurs  by  too 
great  familiarities  with  a  male  companion. 

An  inhabitant  of  the  kingdom  of  Castile,  being 
a  man  of  more  than  ordinary  prudence,  and  of 
a  grave  composed  behavior,  determined  about  the 
fiftieth  year  of  his  age  to  enter  upon  wedlock. 
In  order  to  make  himself  easy  in  it,  he  cast  his 
eye  upon  a  young  woman  who  had  nothing  to 
lecommend  her  but  her  beauty  and  her  education, 
her  parents  having  been  reduced  to  great  poverty 
by  the  Avars,  which  for  some  years  have  laid  that 
whole  country  waste.  The  Castilian  havino* 
made  his  addresses  to  her  and  married  her,  they 
lived  together  in  perfect  happiness  for  some  time  ; 
when  at  length  the  husband’s  affairs  made  it  ne¬ 
cessary  for  him  to  take  a  voyage  to  the  kingdom 
of'  Naples,  where  a  great  part  of  his  estate  lay. 
The  wife  loved  him  too  tenderly  to  be  left  behind 
him.  They  had  not  been  a-sliipboard  above  a 
day,  when  they  unluckily  fell  into  the  hands  of 
an  Algerine  pirate,  who  carried  the  whole  com¬ 
pany  on  shore,  and  made  them  slaves.  The  Cas¬ 
tilian  and  his  Avife  had  the  comfort  to.be  under 
the  same  master;  Avho  seeing  how  dearly  they 
loved  one  another,  and  gasped  after  their  liberty, 
demanded  a  most  exorbitant  price  for  their  ran¬ 
som.  The  Castilian,  though  he  Avould  rather 
have  died  in  slavery  himself,  than  have  paid  such 
a  sum  as  he  found  Avould  go  near  to  ruin  him, 
was  so  moved  with  compassion  for  his  wife,  that 
he  sent  repeated  orders  to  his  friend  in  Spain 
(who  happened  to  be  his  next  relation),  to  sell 
his  estate,  and  transmit  the  mpney  to  him.  His 
friend  hoping  that  the  terms  of  his  ransom  might 
be  made  more  reasonable,  and  unwilling  to  sell 
an  estate  which  he  himself  had  some  prospect  of 
inheriting,  formed  so  many  delays,  that  three 
whole  years  passed  away  without  anything  being 
done  for  the  setting  them  at* liberty. 

There  happened  to  live  a  French  renegado  in 
the  same  place  where  the  Castilian  and  his  Avife 
were  kept  prisoners.  As  this  fellow  had  in  him 
all  the  vivacity  of  his  nation,  he  often  entertained 
the  captives  Avith  accounts  of  his  own  adventures ; 
to  which  he  sometimes  added  a  song,  or  a  dance, 
or  some  other  piece  of  mirth,  to  divert  them  dur¬ 
ing  their  confinement.  His  acquaintance  Avith 
the  manners  of  the  Algerines  enabled  him  like¬ 
wise  to  do  them  several  good  offices.  The  Cas¬ 
tilian,  as  he  was  one  day  in  conversation  with 
this  renegado,  discovered  to  him  the  negligence 
and  treachery  of  his  correspondent  in  Castile, 
and  at  the  same  time  asked  his  advice  Iioav  he 
should  behave  himself  in  that  exigency  :  he  fur¬ 
ther  told  the  renegado,  that  he  found  it  would  be 
impossible  for  him  to  raise  the  money,  unless  he 
might  go  over  to  dispose  of  his  estate.  The  re¬ 
negado,  after  having  represented  to  him  that  his 
Algerine  master  would  never  consent  to  his  re¬ 
lease  upon  such  a  pretense,  at  length  contrived 
a  method  for  the  Castilian  to  make  his  escape  in 
the  habit  of  a  seaman.  The  Castilian  succeeded 
in  his  attempt ;  and  having  sold  his  estate,  being 
afraid  lest  the  money  should  miscarry  by  the  Avay, 
and  determined  to  perish  Avith  it  rather  than  lose 
one  who  was  much  dearer  to  him  than  his  life, 
he  returned  himself  in  a  little  vessel  that  was 
going  to  Algiers.  It  is  impossible  to  describe 
the  joy  he  felt  upon  this  occasion,  Avhen  he  con¬ 
sidered  that  he  should  soon  see  the  wife  Avhorn  he 


*  Yiz :  one  of  the  English  officers  who  had  been  employod 
in  the  war  in  Spain. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


256 

so  much  loved,  and  endear  himself  more  to  her, 
by  this  uncommon  piece  of  generosity. 

The  renegado,  during  the  husband’s  absence, 
so  insinuated  himself  into  the  good  graces  of  his 
young  Avife,  and  so  turned  her  head  Avith  stories 
of  gallantry,  that  she  quickly  thought  him  the 
finest  gentleman  she  had  ever  conversed  with. 
To  be  brief,  her  mind  Avas  quite  alienated  from 
the  honest  Castilian,  Avhom  she  Avas  taught  to 
look  upon  as  a  formal  old  fellow,  unworthy  the 
ossession  of  so  charming  a  creature.  She  had 
een  instructed  by  the  renegado  how  to  manage 
herself  upon  his  arrival ;  so  that  she  received  him 
with  an  appearance  of  the  utmost  love  and  gra¬ 
titude,  and  at  length  persuaded  him  to  trust  their 
common  friend  the  renegado  with  the  money  he 
had  brought  over  for  their  ransom  ;  as  not  ques¬ 
tioning  but  he  would  beat  down  the  terms  and 
negotiate  the  affair  more  to  their  advantage  than 
they  themselves  could  do.  The  good  man  ad¬ 
mired  her  prudence,  and  folloAved  her  advice.  I 
wish  I  could  conceal  the  sequel  of  this  story  ; 
but  since  I  cannot,  I  shall  dispatch  it  in  as  few 
words  as  possible.  The  Castilian  having  slept 
longer  than  ordinary  the  next  morning,  upon  his 
awaking  .found  his  Avife  had  left  him.  He  imme¬ 
diately  arose  and  inquired  after  her,  but  Avas  told 
that  she  was  seen  with  the  renegado  about  break 
of  day.  In  a  AArord,  her  lover  having  got  all 
things  ready  for  their  departure,  they  soon  made 
their  escape  out  of  the  territories  of  Algiers, 
carried  aAvay  the  money,  and  left  the  Castilian 
in  captivity ;  who,  partly  through  the  cruel  treat¬ 
ment  of  the  incensed  Algerine  his  master,  and 
partly  through  the  unkind  usage  of  his  unfaith¬ 
ful  wife,  died  some  few  months  after. — L. 


No.  199.]  THURSDAY,  OCTOBER  18,  1711. 

- Seribere  jussit  amor. — Ovid,  Ep.  iv,  10. 

Love  bade  me  Avrite. 

Tiie  following  letters  are  Avritten  with  such  an 
air  of  sincerity  that  I  cannot  deny  the  inserting 
of  them  : — 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Though  you  are  everywhere  m  your  writings 
a  friend  to  Avomen,  I  do  not  remember  that  you 
have  directly  considered  the  mercenary  practice 
of  men  in  the  choice  of  wives.  If  you  Avill 
please  to  employ  your  thoughts  upon  that  subject, 
you  would  easily  conceHe  the  miserable  condition 
many  of  us  are  in,  who  not  only  from  the  laAvs  of 
custom  and  modesty  are  restrained  from  making 
any  advances  toward  our  wishes,  but  are  also, 
from  the  circumstance  of  fortune,  out  of  all 
hopes  of  being  addressed  to  by  those  whom  Ave 
love.  Under  all  these  disadvantages  I  am  obliged 
to  apply  myself  to  you,  and  hope  I  shall  prevail 
on  you  to  print  in  your  very  next  paper  the  fol¬ 
lowing  letter,  which  is  a  declaration  of  passion 
to  one  who  has  made  some  faint  addresses  to  me 
for  some  time.  I  believe  he  ardently  loves  me, 
but  the  inequality  of  my  fortune  makes  him  think 
he  cannot  answer  it  to  the  Avorld,  if  he  pursues 
his  designs  by  way  of  marriage  ;  and  I  believe, 
as  he  does  not  want  discerning,  he  discovered  me 
looking  at  him  the  other  day  unaAvares,  in  such  a 
manner,  as  has  raised  his  hopes  of  gaining  me  on 
terms  the  men  call  easier.  But  my  heart  was  very 
full  on  this  occasion,  and  if  you  know  what  love 
and  honor  are,  you  will  pardon  me  that  I  use  no 
further  arguments  with  you,  but  hasten  to  my  let¬ 


ter  to  him,  whom  I  call  Oroondates  ;*  because  if  I 
do  not  succeed,  it  shall  look  like  romance  ;  and  if 
I  am  regarded,  you  shall  receive  a  pair  of  gloves 
at  my  Avedding,  sent  to  you  under  the  name  of 
Statira.” 

“  To  Oroondates. 

“  Sir, 

“After  very  much  perplexity  in  myself,  and  re¬ 
volving  how  to  acquaint  you  with  my  own  seuti- 
ments,  and  expostulate  with  you  concerning  yours, 

I  have  chosen  this  way  ;  by  which  means  I  can  be 
at  once  revealed  to  you,  or,  if  you  please,  lie  con¬ 
cealed.  If  I  do  not  within  a  few  days  find  the 
effect  which  I  hope  from  this,  the  whole  affair 
shall  be  buried  in  oblivion.  But,  alas  !  what  am 
I  going  to  do,  when  I  am  about  to  tell  you  that  I 
love  you  ?  But  after  I  have  done  so,  I  am  to  as¬ 
sure  you,  that  with  all  the  passion  which  ever  en¬ 
tered  a  tender  heart,  I  know  I  can  banish  you 
from  my  sight  forever,  when  I  am  convinced  that 
you  have  no  inclinations  toward  me  but  to  my 
dishonor.  But,  alas  !  Sir,  why  should  you  sacri¬ 
fice  the  real  and  essential  happiness  of  life  to  the 
opinion  of  a  world,  that  moves  upon  no  other 
foundation  but  professed  error  and  prejudice  ? 
You  all  can  observe  that  riches  alone  do  not  make 
you  happy,  and  yet  give  up  everything  else  when 
it  stands  in  competition  with  riches.  Since  the 
world  is  so  bad,  that  religion  is  left  to  us  silly 
women,  and  you  men  act  generally  upon  princi¬ 
ples  of  profit  and  pleasure,  I  will  talk  to  you 
without  arguing  from  anything  but  what  may  be 
most  to  your  advantage,  as  a  man  of  the  world. 
And  I  will  lay  before  you  the  state  of  the  case, 
supposing  that  you  had  it  in  your  power  to  make 
me  your  mistress  or  your  wife,  and  hope  to  con¬ 
vince  you  that  the  latter  is  more  for  your  interest, 
and  will  contribute  more  to  your  pleasure. 

“  We  will  suppose,  then,  the  scene  was  laid,  and 
you  were  now  in  expectation  of  the  approaching 
evening  wherein  I  was  to  meet  you,  ana  be  carried 
to  what  convenient  corner  of  the  town  you  thought 
fit,  to  consummate  all  which  your  wanton  imagi¬ 
nation  has  promised  to  you  in  the  possession  of 
one  who  is  in  the  bloom  of  youth,  and  in  the  re¬ 
putation  of  innocence.  You  would  soon  have 
enough  of  me,  as  I  am  sprightly,  young,  gay,  and 
airy.  When  fancy  is  sated,  and  finds  all  the  pro¬ 
mises  it  made  itself  false,  where  is  now  the  inno¬ 
cence  which  charmed  you  ?  The  first  hour  you 
are  alone,  you  will  find  that  the  pleasure  of  a  de¬ 
bauchee  is  only  that  of  a  destroyer.  He  blasts  all 
the  fruit  he  tastes  ;  and  where  the  brute  has  been 
devouring,  there  is  nothing  left  worthy  the  relish 
of  the  man.  Reason  resumes  her  place  after  ima¬ 
gination  is  cloyed  :  and  I  am  with  the  utmost  dis¬ 
tress  and  confusion  to  behold  myself  the  cause  of 
uneasy  reflections  to  you,  to  be  visited  by  stealth, 
and  dwell  for  the  future  with  two  companions  (the 
most  unfit  for  each  other  in  the  world)  solitude 
and  guilt.  I  will  not  insist  upon  the  shameful 
obscurity  we  should  pass  our  time  in,  nor  run  over 
the  little  short  snatches  of  fresh  air,  and  free 
commerce,  which  all  people  must  be  satisfied  with, 
whose  actions  will  not  bear  examination,  but  leave 
them  to  your  reflections,  who  have  seen  enough 
of  that  life,  of  which  I  have  but  a  mere  idea, 

“  On  the  other  hand,  if  you  can  be  so  good  and 
generous  as  to  make  me  your  wife,  you  may  pro¬ 
mise  yourself  all  the  obedience  and  tenderness 
with  which  gratitude  can  inspire  a  virtuous  wo¬ 
man.  Whatever  gratifications  you  may  promise 
yourself  from  an  agreeable  person,  whatever  com- 


*A  celebrated  name  in  Mademoiselle  Scudery’s  French 
romance  of  The  Grand  Cyrus,  etc. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


257 


pliances  from  an  easy  temper,  whatever  con¬ 
solations  from  a  sincere  friendship,  you  may  ex¬ 
pect  as  the  due  of  your  generosity.  \Vhat  at  pre¬ 
sent  in  your  ill  view  you  promise  yourself  from 
me,  will  be  followed  with  distaste  and  satiety:  but 
the  transports  of  a  virtuous  love  are  the  least  part 
of  its  happiness.  The  raptures  of  innocent  pas¬ 
sion  are  but  like  lightning  to  the  day,  they  rather 
interrupt  than  advance  the  pleasure  of  it.  How 
happy,  then,  is  that  life  to  be,  where  the  highest 
pleasures  of  sense  are  but  the  lowest  parts  of  its 
felicity? 

“  How  am  I  to  repeat  to  you  the  unnatural  re¬ 
quest  of  taking  me  in  direct  terms.  I  know  there 
stands  between  me  and  that  happiness,  the  haugh¬ 
ty  daughter  of  a  man  who  can  give  you  suitability 
to  your  fortune.  But  if  you  weigh  the  attend¬ 
ance  and  behavior  of  her  who  comes  to  you  in 
partnership  of  your  fortune,  and  expects  an  equi¬ 
valent,  with  that  of  her  who  enters  your  house  as 
honored  and  obliged  by  that  permission,  whom  of 
the  two  will  you  choose?  You,  perhaps,  will 
think  fit  to  spend  a  day  abroad  in  the  common  en¬ 
tertainments  of  men  of  sense  and  fortune ;  she 
will  think  herself  ill-used  in  that  absence’  and 
contrive  at  home  an  expense  proportioned  to  the 
appearance  which  you  make  in  the  world.  She  is 
in  all  things  to  have  a  regard  to  the  fortune  which 
she  brought  you,  I  to  the  fortune  to  which  you  in¬ 
troduce  me.  The  commerce  between  you  two  will 
eternally  have  the  air  of  a  bargain,  between  us  of 
a  friendship  ;  joy  will  ever  enter  into  the  room 
with  you,  and  kind  wishes  attend  my  benefactor 
when  he  leaves  it.  Ask  yourself  how  would  you 
be  pleased  to  enjoy  forever  the  pleasure  of  having 
laid  an  immediate  obligation  on  a  grateful  mind  ? 
Such  will  be  your  case  with  me.  In  the  other 
mairiage  you  will  live  in  a  constant  comparison 
of  benefits,  and  never  know  the  happiness  of  con¬ 
ferring  or  receiving  any. 

“  It  may  be  you  will,  after  all,  act  rather  in  the 
prudential  way,  according  to  the  sense  of  the  or¬ 
dinary  world.  I  know  not  what  I  think  or  say, 
when  that  melancholy  reflection  comes  upon  me  • 
i  but  shall  only  add  more,  that  it  is  in  your  power 
to  make  me  your  grateful  wife,  but  never  your 
abandoned  mistress.” — T. 


Ho.  200.]  FRIDAY,  OCTOBER  19,  1711. 

Yincit  amor  patriae. - V  irg.  iEn.,  vi,  823. 

The  noblest  motive  is  the  public  good. 

The  ambition  of  princes  is  many  times  as  hurt¬ 
ful  to  themselves  as  to  their  people.  This  cannot 
be  doubted  of  such  as  prove  unfortunate  in  their 
wars,  but  it  is  often  true  too  of  those  who  are  cele¬ 
brated  tor  their  successes.  If  a  severe  view  were 
to  be  taken  of  their  conduct,  if  the  profit  and  loss 
by  their  wars  could  be  justly  balanced,  it  would 
be  rarely  found  that  the  conquest  is  sufficient  to 
repay  the  cost. 

As  I  was  the  other  day  looking  over  the  letters 
°f  *0? .?or.r€:sPondents,  I  took  this  hint  from  that 
ot  1  hilarithmus  ;  which  has  turned  my  present 
thought*  upon  political  arithmetic,  an  art  of  great¬ 
er  use  than  entertainment.  My  friend  has  offered 
an  Essay  toward  proving  that  Lewis  XIV,  with 
all  his  acquisitions,  is  not  master  of  more  people 
than  at  the  beginning  of  his  wars ;  nay,  that  for 
every  subject  lie  had  acquired,  he  had ‘lost  three 
that  were  his  inheritance.  If  Philarithmus  is  not 
mistaken  in  Ins  calculations,  Lewis  must  have 
been  impoverished  by  his  ambition. 

The  prince,  for  the  public  good,  has  a  sovereign 
property  in  every  private  person’s  estate;  and 
consequently  his  riches  must  increase  or  decrease 
m  proportion  to  the  number  and  riches  of  his  sub¬ 


jects.  F or  example  ;  if  sword  or  pestilence  should 
destroy  all  the  people  of  this  metropolis  (God  for- 
bid  there  should  be  room  for  such  a  supposition  ! 

s^ou^  he  the  case),  the  queen  must 
needs  lose  a  great  part  of  her  revenue,  or  at  least 
what  is  charged  upon  the  city  must  increase  the 
burden  upon  the  rest  of  her  subjects.  Perhaps 
the  inhabitants  here  are  not  above  a  tenth  part  of 
the  whole  ;  yet  as  they  are  better  fed,  and  clothed, 
and  lodged,  than  her  other  subjects,  the  customs 
and  excises  upon  their  consumption,  the  imposts 
upon  their  houses,  and  other  taxes,  do  very  pro- 
bably  make  a  fifth  part  of  the  whole  revenue  of 
the  crown.  But  this  is  not  all ;  the  consumption 
of  the  city  takes  off  a  great  part  of  the  fruits  of 
the  whole  island  ;  and  as  it  pays  such  a  propor¬ 
tion  of  the  rent  or  yearly  value  of  the  lands  in 
the  country,  so  it  is  the  cause  of  paying  such  a 
proportion  of  taxes  upon  those  lands.  The  loss 
then  of  such  a  people  must  needs  be  sensible  to 
the  pi i nee,  and  visible  to  the  whole  kingdom. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  it  should  please  God  to  drop 
from  heaven  a  new  people,  equal  in  number  and 
riches  to  the  city,  I  should  be  ready  to  think  their 
excises,  customs,  and  house  rent  would  raise  as 
great  a  revenue  to  the  crown  as  would  be  lost  in 
the  former  case.  And  as  the  consumption  of  this 
new  body  would  be  a  new  market  for  the  fruits  of 
the  country,  all  the  lands,  especially  those  most 
adjacent,  would  rise  in  their  yearly  value,  and  pay 
greater  yearly  taxes  to  the  public.  The  gain  in 
this  case  would  be  as  sensible  as  the  former  loss. 

Whatsoever  is  assessed  upon  the  general,  is 
levied  upon  individuals.  It  were  worth  the  while 
then  to  consider  what  is  paid  by,  or  by  means  of, 
the  meanest  subjects,  in  order  to  compute  the  value 
of  every  subject  to  the  prince. 

For  my  own  part,  I  should  believe  that  seven- 
eighths  of  the  people  are  without  property  in 
themselves,  or  the  heads  of  their  families,  and 
forced  to  work  for  their  daily  bread  ;  and  that  of 
this  sort  there  are  seven  millions  in  the  whole 
island  of  Great  Britain:  and  yet  one  would  ima¬ 
gine  that  seven-eighths  of  the  whole  people  should 
consume  at  least  three-fourths  of  the  whole  fruits 
of  the  country.  If  this  is  the  case,  the  subjects 
without  property  pay  three-fourths  of  the  rents 
and  consequently  enable  the  landed  men  to  pay 
three-fourths  of  their  taxes.  How  if  so  great  a 
part  of  the  land-tax  were  to  be  divided  by  seven 
millions,  it  would  amount  to  more  than  three  shil¬ 
lings  to  every  head.  And  thus  as  the  poor  are  the 
cause,  without  which  the  rich  could  not  pay  this 
tax,  even  the  poorest  subject  is,  upon  this  account 
worth  three  shillings  yearly  to  the  prince. 

Again  :  one  would  imagine  the  consumption  of 
seven-eighths  of  the  whole  people  should  pav 
two-thirds  of  all  the  customs  and  excises.  Ancl 
if  this  sum  too  should  be  divided  by  seven  mil¬ 
lions,  viz:  the  number  of  poor  people,  it  would 
amount  to  more  than  seven  shillings  to  every 
head .  and  therefoie  with  this  and  the  former 
sum,  every  poor  subject,  without  property,  except 
of  his  limbs  or  labor,  is  worth  at  least  ten  shillings 
yearly  to  the  sovereign.  So  much  then  the  queen 
loses  with  every  one  of  her  old,  and  gains  with 
every  one  of  her  new  subjects. 

When  I  was  got  into  this  way  of  thinking  I 
presently  grew  conceited  of  the  argument,  and 
was  just  preparing  to  write  a  letter  of  advice  to  a 
member  of  parliament,  for  opening  the  freedom  of 
our  towns  and  trades,  for  taking  away  all  manner 
of  distinctions  between  the  natives  and  foreign¬ 
er,  for  repealing  our  laws  of  parish  settlements, 
and  removing  every  other  obstacle  to  the  increase 
of  the  people.  But  as  soon  as  I  had  recollected 
with  what  inimitable  eloquence  my  fellow-labor- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


258 

ers  had  exaggerated  the  mischiefs  of  selling  the 
birth-right  of  Britons  for  a  shilling,*  of  spoiling 
the  pure  British  blood  with  foreign  mixtures,  of 
introducing  a  confusion  of  languages  and  reli¬ 
gions,  and  of  letting  in  strangers  to  eat  the  bread 
out  of  the  mouths  of  our  owu  people,  I  became  so 
humble  as  to  let  my  project  fall  to  the  ground,  and 
leave  my  country  to  increase  by  the  ordinary  way 
of  generation. 

As  I  have  always  at  heart  the  public  good,  so  I 
am  ever  contriving  schemes  to  promote  it :  and  I 
think  I  may  without  vanity  pretend  to  have  con¬ 
trived  some  as  wise  as  any  of  the  castle-builders. 

I  had  no  sooner  given  up  my  former  project,  but 
my  head  was  presently  full  of  draining  fens  and 
marshes,  banking  out  the  sea,  and  joining  new 
lands  to  my  country ;  for  since  it  is  thought  im¬ 
practicable  to  increase  the  people  to  tne  land,  I 
fell  immediately  to  consider  how  much  would  be 
gained  to  the  prince  by  increasing  the  land  to  the 

people.  / 

If  the  same  omnipotent  power  which  made  the 
world,  should  at  this  time  raise  out  of  the  ocean, 
and  join  to  Great  Britain,  an  equal  extent  of  land, 
with  equal  buildings,  corn,  cattle,  and  other  con¬ 
veniences  and  necessaries  of  life,  but  no  men, 
women,  nor  children,  I  should  hardly  believe  this 
would  add  either  to  the  riches  of  the  people,  or 
revenue  of  the  prince;  for  since  the  present  build¬ 
ings  are  sufficient  for  all  the  inhabitants,  if  any 
of  them  should  forsake  the  old  to  inhabit  the  new 
part  of  the  island,  the  increase  of  house-rent  in 
this  would  be  attended  with  an  equal  decrease  of 
it  in  the  other.  Beside,  we  have  such  a  sufficien¬ 
cy  of  corn  and  cattle,  that  we  give  bounties  to  our 
neighbors  to  take  what  exceeds  of  the  former  off 
our  hands,  and  we  will  not  suffer  any  of  the  latter 
to  be  imported  upon  us  by  our  fellow-subjects;  and 
for  the  remaining  product  of  the  country,  it  is  al¬ 
ready  equal  to  all  our  markets.  But  if  all 
these  things  should  be  doubled  to  the  same 
buyers,  the  owners  must  be  glad  with  half 
their  present  prices,  the  landlord  with  half 
their  present  rents;  and  thus,  by  so  great  an  en¬ 
largement  of  the  country,  the  rents  in  the  whole 
would  not  increase,  nor  the  taxes  to  the  public. 

On  the  contrary,  I  should  believe  they  would  be 
very  much  diminished;  for  as  the  land  is  only 
valuable  for  its  fruits,  and  these  are  all  per¬ 
ishable,  and  for  the  most  part  must  either  be 
used  within  the  year,  or  perish  without  use, 
the  owners  will  get  rid  of  them  at  any  rate, 
rather  than  they  should  waste  in  their  possession: 
so  that  it  is  probable  the  annual  production  of  those 
erishable  things,  even  of  the  tenth  part  of  them, 
eyond  all  possibility  of  use,  will  reduce  one  half 
of  their  value.  It  seems  to  be  for  this  reason  that 
our  neighbor  merchants,  who  engross  all  the  spices, 
and  know  how  great  a  quantity  is  equal  to  the 
demand,  destroy  all  that  exceeds  it.  It  were 
natural,  then,  to  think  that  the  annual  production 
of  twice  as  much  as  can  be  used,  must  reduce  all 
to  an  eighth  part  of  their  present  prices;  and  thus 
this  extended  island  would  not  exceed  one-fourth 
part  of  its  present  value,  or  pay  more  than  one- 
fourth  part  of  the  present  tax. 

It  is  generally  observed,  that  in  countries  of  the 
greatest  plenty  there  is  the  poorest  living;  like  the 
schoolman’s  ass  in  one  of  my  speculations,  the 
people  almost  starve  between  two  meals.  The  truth 
is,  the  poor,  which  are  the  bulk  of  a  nation,  work 
only  that  they  may  live;  and  if  with  two  days’ 

*  This  is  an  ironical  allusion  to  some  of  the  popular  argu¬ 
ments  that  had  been  urged  in  the  year  1708,  when  a  bill  was 
brought  in  for  the  naturalization  of  foreign  protestants; 
which,  on  account  of  the  odium  raised  against  it,  did  not  pass 
into  a  law.  * 


labor  they  can  get  a  wretched  subsistence  for  a 
week,  they  will  hardly  be  brought  to  work  the 
other  four.  But  then  with  the  wages  of  two  days 
they  can  neither  pay  such  prices  tor  their  provi¬ 
sions,  nor  such  excises  to  the  government. 

That  paradox,  therefore,  in  old  Hesiod,  that 
“half  is  more  than  the  whole,”  is  very  applicable 
to  the  present  case;  since  nothing  is  more  true  in 
political  arithmetic,  than  that  the  same  people 
with  half  a  country  is  more  valuable  than  with  the 
whole.  I  begin  to  think  there  was  nothing  absurd 
in  Sir.  W.  Petty,  when  he  fancied  that  if  all  the 
highlands  of  Scotland  and  the  whole  kingdom  of 
Ireland  were  sunk  in  the  ocean,  so  that  the  people 
were  all  saved  and  brought  into  the  lowlands  of 
Great  Britain;  nay,  though  they  were  to  be  reim¬ 
bursed  the  value  of  their  estates  by  the  body  of 
the  people,  yet  both  the  sovereign  and  the  subjects 
in  general  would  be  enriched  by  the  very  loss. 

If  the  people  only  make  the  riches,  the  father  of 
ten  children  is  a  greater  benefactor  to  his  country 
•than  he  who  has  added  to  it  10,000  acres  of  land, 
and  no  people.  It  is  certain  Lewis  has  joined  vast 
tracts  of  land  to  his  dominions:  but  if  Philarithmus 
says  true,  that  he  is  not  now  master  of  so  many 
subjects  as  before;  we  may  then  account  for  his 
not  being  able  to  bring  such  mighty  armies  into 
the  field,  and  for  their  being  neither  so  well  fed,  nor 
clothed,  nor  paid  as  formerly.  The  reason  is  plain; 
Lewis  must  needs  have  been  impoverished  not 
only  by  his  loss  of  subjects,  but  by  his  acquisition 
of  lands. — T. 


No.  201  ]  SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  20,  1711. 

Keligentem  esse  oportet,  religiosum  nefas. 

Incerti  Autoris  apud  Am,.  Gell. 

A  man  should  be  religious,  not  superstitious. 

It  is  of  the  last  importance  to  season  the  passions 
of  a  child  with  devotion,  which  seldom  dies  in  a 
mind  that  has  received  an  early  tincture  of  it. 
Though  it  may  seem  extinguished  for  a  while  by 
the  cares  of  the  world,  the  heats  of  youth,  or  the 
allurements  of  vice,  it  generally  breaks  out  and 
discovers  itself  again  as  soon  as  discretion,  con¬ 
sideration,  age,  or  misfortunes,  have  brought  the 
man  to  himself.  The  fire  may  be  covered  and 
overlaid,  but  cannot  be  entirely  quenched  and 
smothered. 

A  state  of  temperance,  sobriety,  and  justice, 
without  devotion,  is  a  cold,  lifeless,  insipid  con¬ 
dition  of  virtue  ;  and  is  rather  to  be  styled  philo¬ 
sophy  than  religion.  Devotion  opens  the  mind  to 
great  conceptions,  and  fills  it  with  more  sublime 
ideas  than  any  that  are  to  be  met  with  in  the  most 
exalted  science;  and  at  the  same  time  warms  and 
agitates  the  soul  more  than  sensual  pleasure. 

It  has  been  observed  by  some  writers,  that  man 
is  more  distinguished  from  the  animal  world  by  de¬ 
votion  than  by  reason,  as  several  brute  creatures 
discover  in  their  actions  something  like  a  faint 
glimmering  of  reason,  though  they  betray  in  no 
single  circumstance  of  their  behavior  anything 
that  bears  the  least  affinity  to  devotion.  It  is  cer¬ 
tain,  the  propensity  of  the  mind  to  religious  wor¬ 
ship,  the  natural  tendency  of  the  soul  to  fly  to 
some  superior  being  for  succor  in  dangers,  and  dis¬ 
tresses,  the  gratitude  to  an  invisible  superintendent 
which  arises  in  us  upon  receiving  any  extraordi¬ 
nary  and  unexpected  good  fortune,  the  acts  of  love 
and  admiration  with  which  the  thoughts  of  men 
are  so  wonderfully  transported  in  meditating  upon 
the  divine  perfections,  and  the  universal  concur¬ 
rence  of  all  the  nations  under  heaven  in  the  great  ar¬ 
ticle  of  adoration,  plainly  show  that  devotion  or  re¬ 
ligious  worship  must  be  the  effect  of  tradition  from 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


some  first  founder  of  mankind,  or  that  it  is  con¬ 
formable  to  the  natural  light  of  reason,  or  that  it 
proceeds  from  an  instinct  implanted  in  the  soul 
itself.  For  my  own  part,  I  look  upon  all  these  to 
be  the  concurrent  causes  :  but  whichever  of  them 
shall  be  assigned  as  the  principle  of  divine  wor¬ 
ship.  it  manifestly  points  to  a  Supreme  Being  as 
the  first  author  of  it. 

I  may  take  some  other  opportunity  of  consider¬ 
ing  those  particular  forms  and  methods  of  devo¬ 
tion  which  are  taught  us  by  Christianity;  but 
shall  here  observe  into  what  errors  even  this  divine 
principle  may  sometimes  lead  us,  when  it  is  not 
moderated  by  that  right  reason  which  was  given 
us  as  the  guide  of  all  our  actions. 

The  two  great  errors  into  which  a  mistaken  de¬ 
votion  may  betray  us,  are  enthusiasm  and  super¬ 
stition. 

There  is  not  a  more  melancholy  object  than  a 
man  who  has  his  head  turned  with  religious  en¬ 
thusiasm.  A  person  that  is  crazed,  though  with 
pride  or  malice,  is  a  sight  very  mortifying  to  hu¬ 
man  nature;  but  when  the  distemper  arises  from 
any  indiscreet  fervors  of  devotion,  or  too  intense 
an  application  of  the  mind  to  its  mistaken  duties, 
it  deserves  our  compassion  in  a  more  particular 
manner.  We  may  however  learn  this  lesson  from 
it,  that  since  devotion  itself  (which  one  would  be 
apt  to  think  could  not  be  too  warm)  may  disorder 
the  mind,  unless  its  heats  are  tempered  with  cau¬ 
tion  and  prudence,  W’e  should  be  particularly  care¬ 
ful  to  keep  our  reason  as  cool  as  possible,  and  to 
uard  ourselves  in  all  parts  of  life  against  the  in- 
uence  of  passion,  imagination,  and  constitution. 
Devotion,  when  it  does  not  lie  under  the  check 
of 'reason,  is  very  apt  to  degenerate  into  enthusi¬ 
asm.  When  the  mind  finds  herself  very  much 
inflamed  with  her  devotions,  she  is  too  much  in¬ 
clined  to  think  they  are  not  of  her  own  kindling, 
but  blown  up  by  something  divine  within  her. 
If  she  indulges  this  thought  too  far,  and  humors 
the  growing  passion,  she  at  last  flings  herself  into 
imaginary  raptures  and  ecstasies;  and  when  once 
she  fancies  herself  under  the  influence  of  a  divine 
impulse,  it  is  no  wonder  if  she  slights  human  or¬ 
dinances,  and  refuses  to  comply  with  any  estab¬ 
lished  form  of  religion,  as  thinking  herself  direc¬ 
ted  by  a  much  superior  guide. 

As  enthusiasm  is  a  kind  of  excess  in  devotion, 
superstition  is  the  excess,  not  only  of  devotion,  but 
of  religion  in  general,  according  to  an  old  heathen 
saying,  quoted  by  Aulus  Gellius,*  “Religentem  esse 
oportet,  religiosum  nefas;”  “A  man  should  be  reli¬ 
gious,  not  superstitious.”  For,  as  the  author  tells 
us,  Nigidius  observed  upon  this  passage/ that  the 
Latin  words  which  terminate  in  osus,  generally 
imply  vicious  characters,  and  the  having  of  any 
quality  to  an  excess. 

An  enthusiast  in  religion  is  like  an  obstinate 
clown,  a  superstitious  man  like  an  insipid  courtier. 
Enthusiasm  has  something  in  it  of  madness,  su¬ 
perstition  of  folly.  Most  of  the  sects  that  fall  short 
of  the  church  of  England  have  in  them  strong 
tinctures  ot  enthusiasm,  as  the  Roman-catholic 
religion  is  one  huge  overgrown  body  of  childish 
and  idle  superstitions. 

The  Roman  catholic  church  seems  indeed  irre¬ 
coverably  lost  in  this  particular.  If  an  absurd 
dress  or  behavior  be  introduced  into  the  world,  it 
will  soon  be  found  out  and  discarded.  On  the  con¬ 
trary,  a  habit  or  ceremony,  though  never  so  ridicu¬ 
lous,  which  has  taken  sanctuary  in  the  church 
sticks  in  it  forever.  A  Gothic  bishop,  perhaps^ 
thought  it  proper  to  repeat  such  a  form  in  such 
particular  shoes  or  slippers;  another  fancied  it 


*Noctea  Attica;,  lib.  iv,  cap.  9. 


259 

would  be  very  decent  if  such  a  part  of  public  de¬ 
votions  was  performed  with  a  miter  on  his  head, 
and  a  crosier  in  his  hand.  To  this  a  brother  Van- 
dal,  as  wise  as  the  others,  adds  an  antic  dress, 
which  he  conceived  would  allude  very  aptly  to 
such  and  such  mysteries,  till  by  degrees  the  whole 
office  has  degenerated  into  an  empty  show. 

lheii  successors  see  the  vanity  and  inconveni¬ 
ence  of  the  ceremonies;  but  instead  of  reforming, 
perhaps  add  others,  which  they  think  more  signi¬ 
ficant,  and  which  take  possession  in  the  same 
manner,  and  are  never  to  be  driven  out  after  they 
have  been  once  admitted.  I  have  seen  the  Pope 
officiate  at  St.  Peter’s,  where,  for  two  hours  to¬ 
gether,  he  was  busied  in  putting  on  or  off  his 
different  accouterments,  according  to  the  different 
parts  he  was  to  act  in  them. 

Nothing  is  so  glorious  in  the  eyes  of  mankind 
and  ornamental  to  human  nature,  setting  aside  the 
infinite  advantages  which  arise  from  it,  as  a  strong, 
steady,  masculine  piety;  but  enthusiasm  and  super¬ 
stition  are  the  weaknesses  of  human  reason,  that 
expose  us  to  the  scorn  and  derision  of  infidels, 
and  sink  us  even  below  the  beasts  that  perish. 

Idolatry  may  be  looked  upon  as  another  error 
arising  from  mistaken  devotion  ;  but  because  re¬ 
flections  on  that  subject  would  be  of  no  use  to  an 
English  reader,  I  shall  not  enlarge  upon  it.— L. 


No.  202.]  MONDAY,  OCTOBER  22,  1711. 

Saepe  decern  vitiis  instructor,  odit  et  horret. 

Hor.  1  Ep.  xviii,  25. 

Tho’  ten  times  worse  themselves,  you’ll  frequent  view 
Iliose  who  with  keenest  rage  will  censure  you. _ P. 

The  other  day,  as  I  passed  along  the  street,  I 
saw  a  sturdy  ’prentice-boy  disputing  with  a  hack¬ 
ney-coachman  ;  and  in  an  instant,  upon  some  word 
of  piovocation,  throw  off  his  hat  and  periwig 
clench  his  fist,  and  strike  the  fellow  a  slap  on  the 
face;  at  the  same  time  calling  him  rascal,  and  tell¬ 
ing  him  he  was  a  gentleman’s  son.  The  young 
gentleman  was,  it  seems,  bound  to  a  blacksmith ; 
and  tlie  debate  arose  about  payment  for  some  work 
done  about  a  coach,  near  which  they  fought.  His 
master,  during  the  combat,  was  full  of  his  boy’s 
ptaises ;  and  as  he  called  to  him  to  play  with  his 
hand  and  foot,  and  throw  in  his  head,  he  made  all 
us  who  stood  around  him  of  his  party,  by  declar¬ 
ing  the  boy  had  very  good  friends,  and  he  could 
trust  him  with  untold  gold.  As  I  am  generally  in 
the  theory  of  mankind,  I  could  not  but  make  my 
reflections  upon  the  sudden  popularity  which  was 
raised  about  the  lad  ;  and  perhaps  with  my  friend 
Tacitus,  fell  into  observations  upon  it,  which  were 
too  great  for  the  occasion  ;  or  ascribed  this  general 
favor  to  causes  which  had  nothing  to  do  toward 
it.  But  the  young  blacksmith’s  being  a  gentle¬ 
man,  was,  methought,  what  created  him  good¬ 
will  from  his  present  equality  with  the  mob  about 
him*  Add  to  this,  that  he  was  so  much  a  gentle— 
man,  as  not,  at  the  same  time  that  he  called  him¬ 
self  such,  to  use  as  rough  methods  for  his  defense 
as  his  antagonist.  The  advantage  of  his  having 
good  friends,  as  his  master  expressed  it,  was  not 
lazily  urged ;  but  he  showed  himself  superior  to 
the  coachman  in  the  personal  qualities  of  courage 
and  activity,  to  confirm  that  of  his  being  well 
allied,  before  his  birth  was  of  any  service  to  him. 

If  one  might  moralize  from  this  silly  story,  a 
man  would  say,  that  whatever  advantages  of  for¬ 
tune,  birth,  or  any  other  good,  people  possess 
above  the  rest  of  the  world,  they  should  show 
collateral  eminences  beside  those  distinctions ; 
or  those  distinctions  will  avail  only  to  keep  up* 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


260 

common  decencies  and  ceremonies,  and  not  to 
preserve  a  real  place  of  favor  or  esteem  in 
the  opinion  and  common  sense  of  their  fellow- 

creatures.  , 

The  folly  of  people’s  procedure,  m  imagining 
that  nothing  more  is  necessary  than  property  and 
superior  circumstances  to  support  them  in  distinc¬ 
tion,  appears  in  no  way  so  much  as  in  the  domes¬ 
tic  part  of  life.  It  is  ordinary  to  feed  their  humors 
into  unnatural  excrescences,  if  I  may  so  speak, 
and  make  their  whole  being  a  wayward  and  un¬ 
easy  condition,  for  want  of  the  obvious  reflection 
that  every  part  of  human  life  is  a  commerce.  1 t  is 
not  only  paying  wages,  and  giving  commands, 
that  constitutes  a  master  of  a  family ;  but  pru¬ 
dence,  equal  behavior,  with  readiness  to  protect 
and  cherish  them,  is  what  entitles  a  man  to  that 
character  in  their  very  hearts  and  sentiments.  It 
is  pleasant  enough  to  observe,  that  men  expect 
from  their  dependents,  from  their  sole  motive  of 
fear,  all  the  good  effects  which  a  liberal  education, 
and  affluent  fortune,  and  every  other  advantage, 
cannot  produce  in  themselves.  A  man  will  have 
his  servant  just,  diligent,  sober,  and  chaste,  for 
no  other  reason  but  the  terror  of  losing  his  mas¬ 
ter’s  favor ;  when  all  the  laws,  divine  and  human, 
cannot  keep  him  whom  he  serves  within  bounds, 
with  relation  to  any  one  of  those  virtues.  But  both 
in  o-reat  and  ordinary  affairs,  all  superiority,  which 
is  not  founded  on  merit  mid  virtue,  is  suppoited 
only  by  artifice  and  stratagem.  Thus  you  see  flat¬ 
terers  are  the  agents  in  families  of  humorists,  and 
those  who  govern  themselves  by  anything  but 
reason.  Make-bates,  distant  relations,  poor  kins¬ 
men,  and  indigent  followers,  are  the  try  which 
support  the  economy  of  a  huraorsome  rich  man. 
He  is  eternally  whispered  with  intelligence  of  who 
are  true  or  false  to  him  in  matters  of  no  conse¬ 
quence,  and  he  maintains  twenty  friends  to  defend 
him  against  the  insinuations  of  one  who  would 
perhaps  cheat  him  of  an  old  coat. 

I  shall  not  enter  into  further  speculation  upon 
this  subject  at  present,  but  think  the  following 
letters  and  petition  are  made  up  of  proper  senti¬ 
ments  on  this  occasion. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  a  servant  to  an  old  lady  who  is  governed 
by  one  she  calls  her  friend,  who  is  so  familial  a  one, 
that  she  takes  upon  her  to  advise  her  without 
beino-  called  to  it,  and  makes  her  uneasy  with  all 
about  her.  Pray,  Sir,  be  pleased  to  give  us  some 
remarks  upon  voluntary  counselors  ;  and  let  these 
people  know,  that  to  give  anybody  advice,  is  to 
say  to  that  person,  ‘I  am  your  betters.’  Pray, 
Sir,  as  near  as  you  can,  describe  that  eternal  flirt 
and  disturber  of  families,  Mrs.  Taperty,  who  is 
always  visiting,  and  putting  people  in  a  way,  as 
they  call  it.  If  you  can  make  her  stay  at  home 
one  evening,  you  will  be  a  general  benefactor  of 
all  the  ladies’  women  in  town,  and  particularly  to, 
“  Your  loving  friend,  Susan  Civil.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  a  footman,  and  live  with  one  of  those 
men,  each  of  whom  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  best- 
humored  men  in  the  world,  but  that  he  is  pas¬ 
sionate.  Pray  be  pleased  to  inform  them,  that  he 
who  is  passionate,  and  takes  no  care  to  command 
his  hastiness,  does  more  injury  to  his  friends  and 
servants  in  one  half  hour,  than  whole  years  can 
atone  for.  This  master  of  mine,  who  is  the  best 
man  alive  in  common  fame,  disobliges  somebody 
every  day  he  lives  ;  and  strikes  me  for  the  next 
thing  I  do,  because  he  is  out  of  humor  at  it.  If 
these  gentlemen  knew'  that  they  do  all  the  mis¬ 
chief  that  is  ever  done  in  conversation,  they 


wrould  reform  ;  and  I  who  have  been  a  Spectator 
of  a  gentleman  at  dinner  for  many  years,  have 
seen  that  indiscretion  does  ten  times  more  mis¬ 
chief  than  ill-nature.  But  you  will  represent  this 
better  than 

“  Your  abused  humble  servant, 

“  Thomas  Smoky.” 

“To  the  Spectator. 

“The  humble  petition  of  John  Steward,  Robert 
Butler,  Harry  Cook,  and  Abigail  Chambers,  in 
behalf  of  themselves  and  their  relations  belong¬ 
ing  to  and  dispersed  in  the  several  services  of 
most  of  the  great  families  within  the  cities  of 
London  and  Westminster : 

“  Showeth, 

“  That  in  many  of  the  families  in  which  your 
petitioners  live  and  are  employed,  the  several 
heads  of  them  are  wholly  unacquainted  with  what 
is  business,  and  are  very  little  judges  when  they 
are  well  or  ill  used  by  us  your  said  petitioners. 

“  That  for  want  of  such  skill  in  their  own  af¬ 
fairs,  and  by  indulgence  of  their  own  laziness  and 
pride,  they  continually  keep  about  them  certain 
mischievous  animals  called  spies. 

“That  wrhenever  a  spy  is  entertained,  the  peace 
of  that  house  is  from  that  moment  banished. 

“  That  spies  never  give  an  account  of  good  ser¬ 
vices,  but  represent  our  mirth  and  freedom,  by  the 
words,  wantonness  and  disorder. 

“  That  in  all  families  where  there  are  spies, 
there  is  a  general  jealousy  and  misunderstanding. 

“  That  the  masters  and  mistresses  of  such 
houses  live  in  continual  suspicion  of  their  ingenu¬ 
ous  and  true  servants,  and  are  given  up  to  the 
management  of  those  who  are  false  and  peifidious. 

“  That  such  masters  and  mistresses  who  enter¬ 
tain  spies,  are  no  longer  more  than  ciphers  in 
their  own  families;  and  that  we  your  petitioners, 
are  with  great  disdain  obliged  to  pay  all  our 
respects,  and  expect  all  our  maintenance  from 
such  spies. 

“Your  petitioners  therefore  most  humbly  pray, 
that  you  would  represent  the  premises  to  all 
persons  of  condition ;  and  your  petitioners,  as 
in  duty  bound,  shall  forever  pray,”  etc.— -T . 


No.  203.]  TUESDAY,  OCTOBER  23,  1711. 

Phoebe  pater,  si  das  hujus  mihi  nominis  usum 
Nec  falsa  Clymene  culpam  sub  imagine  celat; 

Pignora  da,  genitor — — -  Ovid,  Met.  ii,  38. 

Illustrious  parent!  if  I  yet  may  claim 
The  name  of  son,  0  rescue  me  from  shame; 

My  mother’s  truth  confirm;  all  doubt  remove 
By  tender  pledges  of  a  father's  love. 

There  is  a  loose  tribe  of  men  whom  I  have  not 
yet  taken  notice  of,  that  ramble  into  all  the  cor¬ 
ners  of  this  great  city,  in  order  to  seduce  such 
unfortunate  females  as  fall  into  their  walks. 
These  abandoned  profligates  raise  up  issue  in 
every  quarter  of  the  town,  and  very  often  for  a 
valuable  consideration,  father  it  upon  the  church¬ 
warden.  By  this  means  there  are  several  married 
men  who  have  a  little  family  in  most  of  the  pa¬ 
rishes  of  London  and  Westminster,  and  several 
bachelors  who  are  undone  by  a  charge  of  children. 

When  a  man  once  gives  himself  this  liberty  of 
preying  at  large,  and  living  upon  the  common,  lie 
finds  so  much  game  in  a  populous  city,  that  it  is 
surprising  to  consider  the  numbers  which  he 
sometimes  propagates.  We  see  many  a  young 
fellow  who  is  scarce  of  age,  that  could  lay  his 
claim  to  the  jus  trium  liberoruin,  or  the  privileges 
which  were  granted  by  the  Roman  laws  to  all  such 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


as  were  fathers  of  three  children.  Nay,  I  have 
heard  a  rake,  who  was  not  quite  five-and-twenty 
declare  himself  the  father  of  a  seventh  son,  and 
very  prudently  determine  to  breed  him  up  a  phy¬ 
sician.  In  short,  the  town  is  full  of  these  younc 
patriarchs,  not  to  mention  several  battered  beaux3, 
who  like  heedless  spendthrifts  that  squander  away 
their  estates  before  they  are  master  of  them,  have 
raised  up  their  whole  stock  of  children  before 


261 


marriage. 


.  1  m»st  not  here  omit  the  particular  whim  of  an 
impudent  libertine,  that  had  a  little  smattering  of 
heialdiy  ;  and,  observing  how  the  genealogies  of 
great  families  were  often  drawn  up  in  the  shape 
of  tiees,  had  taken  a  fancy  to  dispose  of  his  own 
illegitimate  issue  in  a  figure  of  the  same  kind  : 


~ - - Nec  longum  tempus  et  ingens 

Exiit  ad  coelum  ramis  felicibus  arbos, 

Miraturque  novas  frondes,  et  non  sua  poma. 

Virg.,  Georg,  ii,  80. 

And  in  short  space  the  laden  boughs  arise, 
ith  happy  fruit  advancing  to  the  skies: 

The  mother  plant  admires  the  leaves  unknown 
Ot  alien  trees,  and  apples  not  her  own. — Dryden. 

The  trunk  of  the  tree  was  marked  with  his  own 
name,  Will  Maple.  Out  of  the  side  of  it  grew  a 
large  barren  branch, .  inscribed  Mary  Maple,  the 
name  of  his  unhappy  wife.  The  head  was  adorn¬ 
ed  with  five  huge  boughs.  On  the  bottom  of  the 
first  w'as  written  in  capital  characters,  Kate  Cole, 
who  branched  out  into  three  sprigs,  viz  :  William’ 
Richard,  and  Rebecca.  Sal  Twiford  gave  birth  to 
another  bough  that  shot  up  into  Sarah,  Tom,  Will 
and  Frank.  The  third  arm  of  the  tree  had  only  a 
single  infaut  on  it,  with  a  space  left  for  a  second, 
the  parent  from  whom  it  sprung  being  near  her 
time  when  the  author  took  this  ingenious  device 
into  his  head.  The  other  great  boughs  were  very 
plentifully  loaded  with  fruit  of  the  same  kind  : 
beside  which  there  were  many  ornamental 
branches  that  did  not  bear.  In  short,  a  more 
flourishing  tree  never  came  out  of  the  herald’s 
office. 

What  makes  this  generation  of  vermin  so  very 
prolific,  is  the  indefatigable  diligence  with  which 
they  apply  themselves  to  their  business.  A  man 
does  not  undergo  more  watchings  and  fatigues  in 
a  campaign,  than  in  the  course  of  a  vicious  amour. 
As  it  is  said  of  some  men,  that  they  make  their 
business  their  pleasure, .  these  sons  of  darkness 
may  be  said  to  make  their  pleasure  their  business. 

might  conquer  their  corrupt  inclinations 
with  half  the  pains  they  are  at  in  gratifying  them 
Nor  is  the  invention  of  these  men  less  to  be  ad¬ 
mired  than  their  industry  and  vigilance.  There 
is  a  fragment  of  Apollodorus  the  comic  poet  (who 
was  cotemporary  with  Menander)  which  is  full 
of  humor,  as  follows  :  “  Thou  mayest  shut  up  thy 
doors,”  says  he,  “with  bars  and  bolts.  It  will  be 
impossible  for  the  blacksmith  to  make  them  so 
last,  but  a  cat  and  a  whore-master  will  find  a  way 
through  them.”  In  a  word,  there  is  no  head  so 
lull  of  stratagems  as  that  of  a  libidinous  man. 

Were  I  to  propose  a  punishment  for  this  infa¬ 
mous  race  of  propagators,  it  should  be  to  send 
them,  after  the  second  or  third  offense,  into  our 
American  colonies,  in  order  to  people  those  parts 
of  her  majesty’s  dominions  where  there  is  a  want 
of  inhabitants,  and  in  the  phrase  of  Diogenes, 
to  plant  men  Some  countries  punish  this 
crime  with  death;  but  I  think  such  a  punishment 
would  be  sufficient,  and  might  turn  this  genera¬ 
tive  faculty  to  the  advantage  of  the  public 
In  the  meantime,  until  these.gentlemen  may  be 
thus  disposed  of,  I  would  earnestly  exhort  them 
to  take  care  of  those  unfortunate  creatures  whom 
they  have  brought  into  the  world  by  these  indi¬ 


rect  methods,  and  to  give  their  spurious  children 
such  an  education  as  may  render  them  more  vir¬ 
tuous  than  their  parents.  This  is  the  best  atone¬ 
ment  they  can  make  for  their  own  crimes,  and  in¬ 
deed  the  only  method  that  is  left  for  them  to 
repair  their  past  miscarriages. 

1  w  ould  likewise  desire  them  to  consider, whether 
they  are  not  bound  in  common  humanity,  as  well 
as  by  all  the  obligations  of  religion  and  nature,  to 
make  some  provision  for  those  whom  they  have 
not  only  given  life  to,  but  entailed  upon  them 
though  very  unreasonably,  a  degree  of  shame  and 
disgrace.  And  here  I  cannot  but  take  notice  of 
those  depraved  notions  which  prevail  among  us 
and  which  must  have  taken  rise  from  our  natural 
inclination  to  favor  a  vice  to  which  we  are  so 
\ery  prone,  namely,  that  bastardy  and  cuckoldom 
should  be  looked  upon  as  reproaches;  and  that  the 
ignominy  which  is  only  due  to  lewdness  and  false¬ 
hood,  should  fall  in  so  unreasonable  a  manner 
upon  the  persons  who  are  innocent. 

I  have  been  insensibly  drawn  into  this  discourse 
by  the  following  letter,  which  is  drawn  up  with 
such  a  spirit  of  sincerity,  that  I  question  not  but 
the  wwiter  of  it  has  represented  his  case  in  a  true  \ 
and  genuine  light. 

“  Sir, 

“  I  am  one  of  those  people  who  by  the  general 
opinion  of  the  world  are  counted  both  infamous 
and  unhappy. 

“  My  father  is  a  very  eminent  man  in  this  king¬ 
dom,  and  one  who  bears  considerable  offices  in  it. 

I  am  his  son,  but  my  misfortune  is,  that  I  dare 
not  call  him  father,  nor  he  without  shame  own  me 
as  Ins  issue,  I  being  illegitimate,  and  therefore  de- 
pinedol  that  endearing  tenderness  and  unparal¬ 
leled  satisfaction  which  a  good  man  finds  m  the 
love  and  conversation  of  a  parent.  Neither  have 
I  the  opportunities  to  render  him  the  duties  of  a 
son,  he  having  always  carried  himself  at  so  vast 
a  distance,  and  with  such  superiority  toward  me, 
that  by  long  use  I  have  contracted  a  timorousness 
when  before  him,  which  hinders  me  from  declar¬ 
ing  my  own  necessities,  and  giving  him  to  under¬ 
stand  the  inconveniences  I  undergo. 

“  It  is  my  misfortune  to  have  been  neither  bred 
a  scholar,  a  soldier,  nor  to  any  kind  of  business, 
which  renders  me  entirely  incapable  of  making 
piovision  lor  myself  without  his  assistance;  ana 
this  cieates  a  continual  uneasiness  in  my  mind, 
fearing  I  shall  in  time  want  bread ;  my  father,  if 
1  may  so  call  him,  giving  me  but  very  faint  assu¬ 
rances  of  doing  anything  for  me. 

“  I  have  hitherto  lived  somewdiat  like  a  gentle¬ 
man,  and  it  would  be  very  hard  for  me  to  labor  for 
my  living.  I  am  in  continual  anxiety  for  my  fu¬ 
ture  fortune,  and  under  a  great  unhappiness  in 
losing  the  sweet  conversation  and  friendly  advice 
of  my  parents;  so  that  I  cannot  look  upon  myself 
otliei  wise  than  as  a  monster,  strangely  sprung  up 
in  nature,  which  every  one  is  ashamed  to  own. 

I  am  thought  to  be  a  man  of  some  natural 
parts,  and  by  the  continual  reading  what  you 
have  offered  the  world,  become  an  admirer  thereof, 
which  has  drawn  me  to  make  this  confession  ;  at 
the  same  lime,  hoping,  if  anything  herein  shall 
touch  you  with  a  sense  of  pity,  you  would  then 
allow  me  the  favor  of  your  opinion  thereupon  ; 
as  also  what  part  I,  being  unlawfully  born,  may 
claim  of  the  man’s  affection  who  begot  me,  and 
how  far  in  your  opinion  I  am  to  be  thought  his 
son,  or  he  acknowledged  as  my  father.  Your 
sentiments  and  advice  herein  will  be  a  great  con¬ 
solation  and  satisfaction  to, 

C.  “  Sir,  your  admirer,  etc.  W.  B.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


262 

No.  204  ]  WEDNESDAY,  OCTOBER  24,  1711. 

Urit  grata  protervitas, 

Et  vultus  nimium  lubricus  aspici. 

IIor.  1  Od.  six,  7. 

Her  face  too  dazzling  for  the  sight, 

Her  winning  coyness  fires  my  soul, 

I  feel  a  strange  delight. 

I  am  not  at  all  displeased  that  I  am  become  the 
courier  of  love,  and  that  the  distressed  in  that 
passion  convey  their  complaints  to  each  other  by 
my  means.  The  following  letters  have  lately  come 
to  my  hands,  and  shall  have  their  place  with  great 
willingness.  As  to  the  reader’s  entertainment,  he 
will,  1  hope,  forgive  the  inserting  such  particulars 
as  to  him  may,  perhaps,  appear  frivolous,  but  are 
to  the  persons  who  wrote  them  of  the  highest  con¬ 
sequence.  I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  the  pre¬ 
faces,  compliments,  and  apologies,  made  to  me 
before  each  epistle  when  it  was  desired  to  be 
inserted  :  but  in  general  they  tell  me,  that  the  per¬ 
sons  to  whom  they  are  addressed  have  intimations, 
by  phrases  and  allusions  in  them,  from  whence 
they  came. 

“To  THE  SoTHADES. 

“The  word,  by  which  I  address  you,  gives  you, 
who  understand  Portugese,*  a  lively  image  of  the 
tender  regard  I  have  for  you.  The  Spectator’s 
late  letter  from  Statira  gave  me  the  hint  to  use  the 
same  method  of  explaining  myself  to  you.  I  am 
not  affronted  at  the  design  your  late  behavior  dis¬ 
covered  you  had  in  your  addresses  to  me ;  but  I 
impute  it  to  the  degeneracy  of  the  age,  rather 
than  your  particular  fault.  As  I  aim  at  nothing 
more  than  being  yours,  I  am  willing  to  be  a 
stranger  to  your  name,  your  fortune,  or  any  figure 
which  your  wife  might  expect  to  make  in  the 
world,  provided  my  commerce  with  you  is  not  to 
be  a  guilty  one.  I  resign  gay  dress,  the  pleasures 
of  visits,  equipage,  plays,  balls,  and  operas,  for 
that  one  satisfaction  of  having  you  forever  mine. 
I  am  willing  you  shall  industriously  conceal  the 
only  cause  of  triumph  which  I  can  know  in  this 
life.  I  wish  only  to  have  it  my  duty,  as  well  as 
my  inclination,,  to  study  your  happiness.  If  this 
has  not  the  effect  this  letter  seems  to  aim  at,  you 
are  to  understand  that  I  had  a  mind  to  be  rid  of 
you,  and  took  the  readiest  Avay  to  pall  you  with 
an  offer  of  what  you  would  never  desist  pursuing 
while  you  received  ill  usage.  Be  a  true  man  ;  be 
mv  slave  while  you  doubt  me,  and  neglect  me 
when  you  think  I  love  you.  I  defy  you  to  find 
out  what  is  your  present  circumstance  with  me  : 
but  I  know,  while  I  can  keep  this  suspense, 

“  I  am  your  admired 

“Belinda.” 

“  Madam, 

“It  is  a  strange  state  of  mind  a  man  is  in,  when 
the  very  imperfections  of  the  woman  he  loves  turn 
into  excellences  and  advantages.  I  do  assure  you, 
I  am  very  much  afraid  of  venturing  upon  you.  I 
now  like  you  in  spite  of  my  reason,  and  think  it 
an  ill  circumstance  to  owe  one’s  happiness  to  no¬ 
thing  but  infatuation.  I  can  see  you  ogle  all  the 
young  fellows  who  look  at  you,  and  observe  your 


*  The  Portugese  word  Saudades  (here  inaccurately  written 
Sothades)  signifies,  the  most  refined,  most  tender,  and  ardent 
desires  for  something  absent,  accompanied  with  a  solicitude 
and  anxious  regard,  which  cannot  be  expressed  by  one  word 
in  any  other  language.  “Saudade,”  say  the  dictionaries, 
“  significa  Finissimo  sentimiento  del  bien  ausente,  com  deseo 
de  posseerlo.” — Hence  the  word  Saudades  comprehends  every 
good  wish ;  and  Muitas  Saudades  is  the  highest  wish  and  com¬ 
pliment  that  can  be  paid  to  another.  So  if  a  person  is  ob¬ 
served  to  be  melancholy,  and  is  asked,  “What  ails  him?”  if 
he  answers,  Tenho  Saudades;  it  is  understood  to  mean,  “I 
am  under  the  most  refined  torment  for  the  absence  of  my 
love ;  or  from  being  absent  from  my  country,”  etc. 


eye  wander  after  new  conquests  every  moment  you 
are  in  a  public  place ;  and  yet  there  is  such  a 
beauty  in  all  your  looks  and  gestures,  that  I  can¬ 
not  but  admire  you  in  the  very  act  of  endeavoring 
to  gain  the  hearts  of  others.  My  condition  is  the 
same  with  that  of  the  lover  in  the  Way  of  the 
World.  I  have  studied  your  faults  so  long,  that 
they  are  become  as  familiar  to  me,  and  I  like  them 
as  well  as  I  do  my  own.  Look  to  it,  Madam,  and 
consider  whether  you  think  this  gay  behavior  will 
appear  to  me  as  amiable  when  a  husband,  as  it 
does  now  to  me  a  lover.  Things  are  so  far  ad¬ 
vanced  that  we  must  proceed  ;  and  I  hope  you  will 
lay  it  to  heart,  that  it  will  be  becoming  in  me  to 
appear  still  your  lover,  but  not  in  you  to  be  still 
my  mistress.  Gayety  in  the  matrimonial  life  is 
graceful  in  one  sex,  but  exceptionable  in  the  other. 
As  you  improve  these  little  hints,  you  will  ascer¬ 
tain  the  happiness  or  uneasiness  of, 

“  Madam,  your  most  obedient, 

“  Most  humble  servant, 

“T.  D.” 

“Sir, 

“When  I  sat  at  the  window,  and  you  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room  by  my  cousin,  I  saw  you 
catch  me  looking  at  you.  •  Since  you  have  the 
secret  at  last,  which  I  am  sure  you  should  never 
have  known  but  by  inadvertency,  what  my  eyes 
said  was  true.  But  it  is  too  soon  to  confirm  it 
with  my  hand,  therefore  shall  not  subscribe  my 
name.”  \ 

“  Sir, 

“  There  were  other  gentlemen  nearer,  and  i 
know  no  necessity  you  were  under  to  take  up  that 
flippant  creature’s  fan  last  night ;  but  you  shall 
never  touch  a  stick  of  mine  more,  that’s  pos. 

“Phillis.” 

“  To  Colonel  R - s  in  Spain.* 

“  Before  this  can  reach  the  best  of  husbands  and 
the  fondest  lover,  those  tender  names  will  be  of  no 
more  concern  to  me.  The  indisposition  in  which 
you,  to  obey  the  dictates  of  your  honor  and  duty, 
left  me,  has  increased  upon  me  :  and  I  am  ac¬ 
quainted  by  my  physicians  I  cannot  live  a  week 
longer.  At  this  time  my  spirits  fail  me ;  and  it 
is  the  ardent  love  I  have  for  you  that  carries 
me  beyond  my  strength,  and  enables  me  to  tell 
you,  the  most  painful  thing  in  the  prospect  of 
death  is,  that  I  must  part  wuth  you.  But  let  it  be 
a  comfort  to  you,  that  I  have  no  guilt  hangs  upon 
me,  no  unrepented  folly  that  retards  me ;  but  I 
pass  away  my  last  hours  in  reflection  upon  the 
happiness  we  have  lived  in  together,  ana  in  sor¬ 
row  that  it  is  so  soon  to  have  an  end.  This  is  a 
frailty  which  I  hope  is  so  far  from  criminal,  that 
methinks  there  is  a  kind  of  piety  in  being  so  un¬ 
willing  to  be  separated  from  a  state  which  is  the 
institution  of  heaven,  and  in  which  we  have  lived 
according  to  its  laws.  As  we  know  no  more  of  the 
next  life,  but  that  it  will  be  a  happy  one  to  the 
good,  and  miserable  to  the  wicked,  why  may  we 
not  please  ourselves,  at  least  to  alleviate  the  diffi- 
I  culty  of  resigning  this  being,  in  imagining  that 
we  shall  have  a  sense  of  what  passes  below,  and 
may  possibly  be  employed  in  guiding  the  steps 
of  those  with  whom  we  walked  with  innocence 
when  mortal  ?  Why  may  not  I  hope  to  go  on  in 
my  usual  work,  and,  though  unknown  to  you,  be 
assistant  in  all  the  conflicts  of  your  mind !  Give 
me  leave  to  say  to  you,  0  best  of  men,  that  I  can- 


*  The  person  to  whom  this  letter  is  addressed  was  generally 
believed  to  be  Colonel  Rivers,  at  the  time  when  this  paper 
was  first  published. 


203 


THE  SPE 

not  figure  to  myself  a  greater  happiness  than  in 
such  an  employment.  To  be  present  at  all  the 
adventures  to  which  human  life  is  exposed,  to 
administer  slumber  to  thy  eye-lids,  in  the  agonies 
of  a  fever,  to  cover  thy  beloved  face  in  the  day  of 
battle,  to  go  with  thee  a  guardian  angel  incapable 
of  wound  or  pain,  where  I  have  longed  to  attend 
thee  when  a  weak,  a  fearful  woman:  these,  my 
dear,  are  the  thoughts  with  which  1  warm  my  poor 
languid  heart.  But,  indeed,  I  am  not  capable, 
under  my  present  weakness,  of  bearing  the  strong 
agonies  of  mind  I  fall  into,  when  I  form  to  my¬ 
self  the  grief  you  will  be  in,  upon  your  first  hear¬ 
ing  of  my  departure.  1  will  not  dwell  upon  this, 
because  your  kind  and  generous  heart  will  be  but 
the  more  afflicted,  the  more  the  person  for  whom 
you  lament  offers  you  consolation.  My  last  breath 
will,  if  I  am  myself,  expire  in  a  prayer  for  you. 
I  shall  never  see  thy  face  again.  Farewell  for¬ 
ever.” — T. 


Ho.  205.]  THURSDAY,  OCTOBER  25,  1711. 

Decipimur  specie  recti -  IIor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  v,  25. 

Deluded  by  a  seeming  excellence. — Roscommon. 

When  I  meet  with  any  vicious  character  that  is 
not  generally  known,  in  order  to  prevent  its  doing 
mischief,  I  draw  it  at  length,  and  set  it  up  as  a 
scarecrow:  by  which  means  I  do  not  only  make  an 
example  of  the  person  to  whom  it  belongs,  but 
give  warning  to  all  her  majesty’s  subjects,  that 
they  may  not  suffer  by  it.  Thus,  to  change  the 
allusion,  I  have  marked  out  several  of  the  shoals 
and  quicksands  of  life,  and  am  continually  em¬ 
ployed  in  discovering  those  which  are  still  con¬ 
cealed,  in  order  to  keep  the  ignorant  and  unwary 
from  running  upon  them.  It  is  with  this  inten¬ 
tion  that  I  publish  the  following  letter,  which 
brings  to  light  some  secrets  of  this  nature. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  There  are  none  of  your  speculations  which  I 
read  over  with  greater  delight,  than  those  which 
are  designed  for  the  improvement  of  our  sex.  You 
have  endeavored  to  correct  our  unreasonable  fears 
and  superstitions,  in  your  seventh  and  twelfth 
papers ;  our  fancy  for  equipage,  in  your  fifteenth  ; 
our  love  of  puppet-shows,  in  your  thirty-first;  our 
notions  of  beauty,  in  your  thirty-third ;  our  incli¬ 
nation  for  romances,  in  your  thirty-seventh  ;  our 
passion  for  French  fopperies,  in  your  forty-fifth; 
our  manhood  and  party  zeal,  in  your  fifty-seventh; 
opr  abuse  of  dancing,  in  your  sixty-sixth  and 
sixty-seventh ;  our  levity,  in  your  hundred  and 
twenty-eighth ;  our  love  of  coxcombs,  in  vour 
hundred  and  fifty-fourth  and  hundred  and  fifty  - 
seventh;  our  tyranny  over  the  hen-pecked,  in  your 
hundred  and  seventy-sixth.  You  have  described 
the  I  ict,  in  your  torty-first;  the  Idol,  in  your 
seventy-third  ;  the  Demurrer,  in  your  eighty-ninth; 
the  Salamander,  in  your  hundred  and  ninety -eighth. 
T  ou  have  likewise  taken  to  pieces  our  dress,  and 
represented  to  us  the  extravagances  we  are  often 
guilty  of  in  that  particular.  ou  have  fallen  upon 
our  patches.,  in  your  fiftieth  and  eighty-first ;  our 
commodes,  in  your  ninety-eighth  ;  our  fans,  in  your 
bundled  and  second;  our  riding-habits,  in  your 
hundred  and  fourth  ;  our  hoop-petticoats,  in  your 
hundred  and  twenty-seventh;  beside  a  great  many 
little  blemishes  which  you  have  touched  upon  in 
your  several  other  papers,  and  in  those  many  let¬ 
ters  that  are  scattered  up  and  down  your  works. 
At  the  same  time  we  must  own  that  the  compli¬ 
ments  you  pay  our  sex  are  innumerable,  and  that 
those  very  faults  which  you  represent  in  us,  are 


CTATOR. 

neither  black  in  themselves,  nor,  as  you  own,  uni¬ 
versal  among  us.  But,  Sir,  it  is  plain  that  these 
your  discourses  are  calculated  for  none  but  the 
fashionable  part  of  womankind,  and  for  the  use 
ol  those  who  are  rather  indiscreet  than  vicious. 
But,  Sir,  there  is  a  sort  of  prostitutes  in  the  lower 
part  ol  our  sex,  who  are  a  scandal  to  us,  and  very 
well  deserve  to  fall  under  your  censure.  I  knoAV# 
it  would  debase  your  paper  too  much  to  enter  into 
the  behavior  of  these  female  libertines :  but,  as 
your  remarks  on  some  part  of  it  would  be  a  doing 
of  justice  to  several  women  of  virtue  and  honor, 
whose  reputations  suffer  by  it,  I  hope  you  will  not 
think  it  improper  to  give  the  public  some  accounts 
of  this  nature.  You  must  know.  Sir,  I  am  pro¬ 
voked  to  write  you  this  letter,  by  the  behavior  of 
an  infamous  woman,  who,  having  passed  her 
youth  in  a  most  shameless  state  of  prostitution,  is 
now  one  of  those  who  gain  their  livelihood  by 
seducing  others  that  are  younger  than  themselves, 
and  by  establishing  a  criminal  commerce  between 
the  two  sexes.  Among  several  of  her  artifices  to 
get  money,  she  frequently  persuades  a  vain  young 
fellow,  that  such  woman  of  quality,  or  such  a  cele¬ 
brated  toast,  entertains  a  secret  passion  for  him, 
and  wants  nothing  but  an  opportunity  of  revealing 
it.  Nay,  she  has  gone  so  far  as  to  write  letters  in 
the  name  of  a  woman  of  figure,  to  borrow  money 
of  one  of  these  foolish  Roderigos,*  which  she  has 
afterward  appropriated  to  her  own  use.  In  the 
meantime,  the  person  who  has  lent  the  money,  has 
thought  a  lady  under  obligations  to  him,  who 
scarce  knew  his  name;  and  wondered  at  her  ingrati¬ 
tude  when  he  has  been  with  her,  that  she  has  not 
owned  the  favor,  though  at  the  same  time  he  was 
too  much  a  man  of  honor  to  put  her  in  mind  of  it. 

“When  this  abandoned  baggage  meets  with  a 
man  who  has  vanity  enough  to  give  credit  to  rela¬ 
tions  of  this  nature,  she  turns  him  to  very  good 
account  bv  repeating  praises  that  were  never  ut¬ 
tered,  and  delivering  messages  that  were  never 
sent.  As  the  house  of  this  shameless  creature  is 
frequented  by  several  foreigners,  I  have  heard  of 
another  artifice,  out  of  which  she  often  raises 
money.  The  foreigner  sighs  after  some  British 
beauty,  whom  he  only  knows  by  fame ;  upon 
which  she  promises,  if  lie  call  be  secret,  to  procure 
him  a  meeting.  The  stranger,  ravished  at  his 
good  fortune,  gives  her  a  present,  and  iii  a  little 
time  is  introduced  to  some  imaginary  title :  for 
vou  must  know  that  this  cunning  purveyor  has 
her  representatives  upon  this  occasion,  of  some  of 
the  finest  ladies  in  the  kingdom.  By  this  means, 
as  I  am  informed,  it  is  usual  enough  to  meet  with 
a  German  count  in  foreign  countries,  that  shall 
make  his  boast  of  favors  he  has  received  from 
women  of  the  highest  ranks,  and  the  most  unble¬ 
mished  characters.  Now,  Sir,  what  safety  is  there 
for  a  woman’s  reputation,  when  a  lady  may  be 
thus  prostituted  as  it  were  by  proxy,  and  be  re 
puted  an  unchaste  woman ;  as  the  Hero  in  the 
ninth  book  of  Dryden’s  Virgil  is  looked  upon  as 
a  coward,  because  the  phantom  which  appeared  in 
His  likeness  ran  away  from  Turnus?  You  may 
depend  upon  what. I  relate  to  you  to  be  matter  of 
fact,  and  the  practice  of  more  than  one  of  these 
female  panders.  If  you  print  this  letter,  I  may 
give  you  some  further  accounts  of  this  vicious  race 
of  women. 

“  Your  humble  servant, 

“  Belvidera.” 

I  shall  add  two  other  letters  on  different  sub¬ 
jects  to  fill  up  my  paper. 


*  Alluding  to  the  character  so  named  in  Shakspeare’s  Othello. 


264 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  a  country  clergyman,  and  hope  you  "will 
lend  me  your  assistance  in  ridiculing  some  little 
indecencies  which  cannot  so  properly  be  exposed 
from  the  pulpit. 

“  A  widow  lady,  who  straggled  this  summer 
from  London  into  my  parish  for  the  benefit  of  the 
air,  as  she  says,  appears  every  Sunday  at  church 
with  many  fashionable  extravagances,  to  the  great 
astonishment  of  my  congregation. 

“  But  what  gives  us  the  most  offense  is  her  thea¬ 
trical  manner  of  singing  the  Psalms.  She  intro¬ 
duces  about  fifcy  Italian  airs  into  the  hundredth 
psalm;  and  while  we  begin,  ‘All  people’  in  the  old 
solemn  tune  of  our  forefathers,  she  in  a  quite  dif¬ 
ferent  key  runs  divisions  on  the  vowels,  and  adorns 
them  with  the  graces  of  Nicolini ;  if  she  meets 
with  ‘  eke’  or  ‘  aye,’  which  are  frequent  in  the  me¬ 
ter  of  Hopkins  and  Sternhold,  Ave  are  certain  to 
hear  her  quavering  them  half  a  minute  after  us, 
to  some  sprightly  airs  of  the  opera, 

“  I  am  very  far  from  being  an  enemy  to  church 
music ;  but  fear  this  abuse  of  it  may  make  my 
parish  ridiculous,  Avho  already  look  on  the  sing¬ 
ing  psalms  as  an  entertainment,  and  not  part  of 
their  devotion  :  beside  I  am  apprehensive  that  the 
infection  may  spread;  for  ’Squire  Squeekum,  Avho 
by  his  voice  seems  (if  I  may  use  the  expression) 
to  be  cut  out  for  an  Italian  singer,  Avas  last  Sun¬ 
day  practicing  the  same  airs. 

“I  know  the  lady’s  principles,  and  that  she  will 
plead  the  toleration,  which  (as  she  fancies)  alloAvs 
her  nonconformity  in  this  particular;  but  I  beg 
you  to  acquaint  her  that  singing  the  Psalms  in  a 
different  tune  from  the  rest  of  the  congregation  is  a 
sort  of  schism  not  tolerated  by  that  act. 

“I  am.  Sir,  your  very  humble  Servant. 

“R.  S.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“In  your  paper  upon  temperance,  you  prescribe 
to  us  a  rule  for  drinking  out  of  Sir  William  Tem¬ 
ple,  in  the  following  words:  ‘The  first  glass  for 
myself,  the  second  for  my  friends,  the  third  for 
good  humor,  and  the  fourth  for  mine  enemies.’ 
Now,  Sir,  you  must  know,  that  I  have  read  this 
your  Spectator,  in  a  club  whereof  I  am  a  member; 
when  our  president  told  us  there  was  certainly  an 
error  in  the  print,  and  that  the  word  glass  should 
be  bottle;  and  therefore  has  ordered  me  to  inform 
you  of  this  mistake,  and  to  desire  you  to  publish 
the  following  erratum:  In  the  paper  of  Saturday, 
Octob.  13,  col.  3,  line  11,  for  ‘glass,’  read  ‘bottle.’ 

“Yours, 

L.  “Robin  Goodfellow.” 


No.  206.]  FRIDAY,  OCTOBER  26,  1711. 

Quanto  quisque  sibi  plura  negaverit, 

A  diis  plura  feret -  Hor.  3  Od.  xvi,  21. 

They  that  do  much  themselves  deny, 

Receive  more  blessings  from  the  sky. — Creech. 

There  is  a  call  upon  mankind  to  value  and  es¬ 
teem  those  who  set  a  moderate  price  upon  their 
own  merit;  and  self-denial  is  frequently  attended 
with  unexpected  blessings,  which  in  the  end 
abundantly  recompense  such  losses  as  the  modest 
seem  to  suffer  in  the  ordinary  occurrences  of  life. 
Then  the  curious  tell  us,  a  determination  in  our 
favor  or  to  our  disadvantage  is  made  upon  our 
first  appearance,  even  before  they  know  anything 
of  our  characters,  but  from  the  intimations  men 
gather  from  our  aspect.  A  man,  they  say,  Avears 
the  picture  of  his  mind  in  his  countenance;  and  one 
man’s  eyes  are  spectacles  to  his,  who  looks  at  him 
to  read  his  heart.  But  though  that  way  of  raising 


an  opinion  of  those  we  behold  in  public  is  very- 
fallacious,  certain  it  is  that  those,  who  by  their 
AArords  and  actions  take  as  much  upon  themselves, 
as  they  can  but  barely  demand  in  the  strict  scru¬ 
tiny  of  their  deserts,  will  find  their  account  lessen 
every  day.  A  modest  man  preserves  his  character, 
as  a  frugal  man  does  his  fortune;  if  either  of  them 
live  to  the  height  of  either,  one  will  find  losses, 
the  other  errors,  which  he  has  not  stock  by  him  to 
make  up.  It  were  therefore  a  just  rule,  to  keep 
your  desires,  your  words,  and  actions,  within  the 
regard  you  observe  your  friends  have  for  you ; 
and  never,  if  it  were  in  a  man’s  power,  to  take  as 
much  as  he  possibly  might,  either  in  preferment 
or  reputation.  My  Avalks  have  lately  been  among 
the  mercantile  part  of  the  world  ;  and  one  gets 
phrases  naturally  from  those  with  whom  one  con¬ 
verses.  I  say  then,  he  that  in  his  air,  his  treat¬ 
ment  of  others,  or  an  habitual  arrogance  to  him¬ 
self,  gives  himself  credit  for  the  least  article  of 
more  wit,  wisdom,  goodness,  or  valor,  than  he  can 
possibly  produce  if  he  is  called  upon,  will  find 
the  Avorld  break  in  upon  him,  and  consider  him  as 
one  who  has  cheated  them  of  all  the  esteem  they 
had  before  alloAved  him.  This  brings  a  commis¬ 
sion  of  bankruptcy  upon  him;  and  he  that  might 
have  gone  on  to  his  life’s  end  in  a  prosperous 
Avay,  by  aiming  at  more  than  he  should  is  no 
longer  proprietor  of  Avhat  he  really  had  before,  but 
his  pretensions  fare  as  all  things  do  Avhich  are 
torn  instead  of  being  divided. 

There  is  no  one  living  Avould  deny  Cinna  the 
applause  of  an  agreeable  and  facetious  wit;  or 
could  possibly  pretend  that  there  is  not  something 
inimitably  unforced  and  diverting  in  his  manner  of 
delivering  all  his  sentiments  in  conversation,  if 
he  were  able  to  conceal  the  strong  desire  of  ap¬ 
plause  which  he  betrays  in  every  syllable  he  ut¬ 
ters.  But  they  who  commrse  with  him  see  that  all 
the  civilities  they  could  do  to  him,  or  the  kind 
things  they  could  say  to  him,  would  fall  short  of 
what  he  expects ;  and  therefore,  instead  of  show¬ 
ing  him  the  esteem  they  haAre  for  his  merit,  their 
reflections  turn  only  upon  that  they  observe  he 
has  of  it  himself. 

It  you  go  among  the  women,  and  behold  Glori- 
ana  trip  into  a  room  with  that  theatrical  ostenta¬ 
tion  of  her  charms,  Mirtilla  with  that  soft  regu¬ 
larity  in  her  motion,  Chloe  with  such  an  indifferent 
familiarity,  Corinna  with  such  a  fond  approach, 
and  Roxana  Avith  such  a  demand  of  respect  in  the 
great  gravity  of  her  entrance;  you  find  all  the  sex, 
Avho  understand  themselves  and  act  naturally, 
wait  only  for  their  absence,  to  tell  you  that  all 
these  ladies  Avould  impose  themselves  upon  you; 
and  each  of  them  carry  in  their  behavior  a  con¬ 
sciousness  of  so  much  more  than  they  should  pre¬ 
tend  to,  that  they  lose  what  Avould  otherwise  be 
given  them. 

I  remember  the  last  time  I  savv  Macbeth,  I  was 
Avonderfully  taken  with  the  skill  of  the  poet,  in 
making  the  murderer  form  fears  to  himself  from 
the  moderation  of  the  prince  whose  life  he  was  go¬ 
ing  to  take  away.  He  says  of  the  king:  “He  bore  his 
faculties  so  meekly;”  and  justly  inferred  from 
thence,  that  all  divine  and  human  power  Avould 
join  to  avenge  his  death,  who  had  made  such  an 
abstinent  use  of  dominion.  All  that  is  in  a  man’s 
power  to  do  to  advance  his  oAvn  pomp  and  glory, 
and  forbears,  is  so  much  laid  up  against  the  day  of 
distress;  and  pity  will  always  be  his  portion  in 
adversity,  Avho  acted  with  gentleness  in  pros¬ 
perity. 

The  great  officer  who  foregoes  the  advantages  he 
might  take  to  himself,  and  renounces  all  pru¬ 
dential  regards  to  his  own  person  in  danger,  has 
so  far  the  merit  of  a  volunteer;  and  all  his  honors 


265 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


aud  glories  are  unenvied,  for  sharing  the  common 
fate  with  the  same  frankness  as  they  do  who  have 
no  such  endearing  circumstances  to  part  with. 
But  if  there  were  no  such  considerations  as  the 
good  effect  which  self-denial  has  upon  the  sense 
of  other  men  toward  us,  it  is  of  all  qualities  the 
most  desirable  for  the  agreeable  disposition  in 
which  it  places  our  own  minds.  I  cannot  tell 
what  better  to  say  of  it,  than  that  it  is  the  very  con¬ 
trary  of  ambition  ;  and  that  modesty  allays  all 
those  passions  and  inquietudes  to  which  that  vice 
exposes  us.  He  that  is  moderate  in  his  wishes, 
from  reason  and  choice,  and  not  resigned  from 
sourness,  distaste,  or  disappointment,  doubles  all 
the  pleasures  of  his  life.  The  air,  the  season,  a 
sunshiny  day,  or  a  fair  prospect,  are  instances 
of  happiness;  and  that  which  he  enjoys  in  common 
with  all  the  world  (by  his  exemption  from  the  en¬ 
chantments  by  which  all  the  world  are  bewitched), 
are  to  him  uncommon  benefits  and  new  acquisi¬ 
tions.  Health  is  not  eaten  up  with  care,  nor  plea¬ 
sure  interrupted  by  envy.  It.  is  not  to  him  of  any 
consequence  what  this  man  is  famed  for,  or  for 
what  the  other  is  preferred.  He  knows  there  is  in 
such  a  place  an  uninterrupted  walk;  he  can  meet 
in  such  a  company  an  agreeable  conversation.  He 
has  no  emulation,  he  is  no  man’s  rival,  but  every 
man’s  well-wisher;  can  look  at  a  prosperous  man, 
with  a  pleasure  in  reflecting  that  hi  hopes  he  is  as 
happy  as  himself;  and  has  his  mind  and  his  for¬ 
tune  (as  far  as  prudence  will  allow)  open  to  the 
unhappy  and  to  the  stranger. 

Lucceius  has  learning,  wit,  humor,  eloquence, 
but  no  ambitious  prospects  to  pursue  with  these 
advantages;  therefore  to  the  ordinary  world  he  is 
erliaps  thought  to  want  spirit,  but  known  among 
is  friends  to  have  a  mind  of  the  most  consum¬ 
mate  greatness.  He  wants  no  man's  admiration, 
is  in  no  need  of  pomp.  His  clothes  please  him  if 
they  are  fashionable  and  warm  ;  his  companions 
are  agreeable  if  they  are  civil  and  well-natured. 
There  is  with  him  no  occasion  for  superfluity  at 
meals,  or  jollity  in  company;  in  a  word,  for  any¬ 
thing  extraordinary  to  administer  delight  to  him. 

'  Want  of  prejudice,  and  command  of  appetite,  are 
the  companions  -which  make  his  journey  of  life  so 
easy,  that  he  in  all  places  meets  with  more  wit, 
more  good  cheer  and  more  good  humor,  than 
is  necessary  to  make  him  enjoy  himself  with  plea¬ 
sure  aud  satisfaction. — T. 


No.  207.]  SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  27,  1711. 

Omnibus  in  terris,  quae  sunt  a  Gadibus  usque 
Auroram  et  Gangem,  pauci  dignoscere  possunt 
Vera  bona,  atque  i’lis  multum  diversa,  remota 
Erroris  nebula -  juv.,  Sat.  x,  1. 

Look  round  the  habitable  world,  how  few 
Know  their  own  good,  or,  knowing  it,  pursue  ? 

How  rarely  reason  guides  the  stubborn  choice, 

Prompts  the  fond  wish,  or  lifts  the  suppliant  voice? 

Dryden,  Johnson,  etc. 

In  my  last  Saturday’s  paper,  I  laid  down  some 
thoughts  upon  devotion  in  general,  and  shall  here 
show  what  were  the  notions  of  the  most  refined 
heathens  on  this  subject,  as  they  are  represented 
in  Plato’s  dialogue  upon  prayer,  entitled  Alcibia- 
des  the  Second,  v  hicli  doubtless  gave  occasion  to 
Juvenal’s  tenth  satire,  and  to  the  second  satire  of 
Persius;  as  the  last  of  these  authors  has  almost 
transcribed  the  preceding  dialogue,  entitled  Alci- 
biades  the  First,  in  his  fourth  satire. 

The  speakers  in  this  dialogue  upon  prayer,  are 
Socrates  and  Alcibiades  ;  and  the  substance  of  it 
(when  drawn  together  out  of  the  intricacies  and 
digressions)  as  follows: 

Socrates  meeting  his  pupil  Alcibiades,  as  he  was 


going  to  his  devotions,  and  observing  his  eyes  to 
be  fixed  upon  the  earth  with  great  seriousness  and 
attention,  tells  him,  that  he  had  reason  to  be 
thoughtful  on  that  occasion,  since  it  was  possible 
for  a  man  to  bring  down  evils  upon  himself  by  his 
own  prayers;  and  that  those  things  which  the  gods 
send  him  in  answer  to  his  petitions,  might  turn  to 
ms  destruction.  1  his,  says  he,  may  not  only 
happen  when  a  man  prays  for  what  he  knows  is 
mischievous  in  its  own  nature,  as  (Edipus  im¬ 
plored  the  gods  to  sow  dissension  between  his 
sons;  but  when  he  prays  for  what  he  believes 
would  be  for  his  good,  and  against  what  he  be¬ 
lieves  would  be  to  his  detriment.  This  the 
philosopher  shows  must  necessarily  happen 
among  us,  since  most  men  are  blinded  with 
ignorance,  prejudice,  or  passion,  which  hinder 
them  from  seeing  such  things  as  are  really  bene¬ 
ficial  to  them.  For  an  instance,  he  asks  Alcibia¬ 
des,  whether  he  would  not  be  thoroughly  pleased 
and  satisfied  if  that  god,  to  whom  he  was  going 
to  address  himself,  should  promise  to  make  him 
the  sovereign  of  the  whole  earth?  Alcibiades 
answers,  that  he  should,  doubtless,  look  upon 
such  a  promise  as  the  greatest  favor  that  could  be 
bestowed  upon  him.  Socrates  then  asks  him,  if 
after  receiving  this  great  favor  he  would  be  con¬ 
tented  to  lose  his  life?  Or  if  he  would  receive  it 
though  he  was  sure  he  should  make  an  ill  use  of 
it?  To  both  which  questions  Alcibiades  answers 
in  the  negative.  Socrates  then  shows  him,  from 
the  examples  of  others,  how  these  might  very 
probably  be  the  effects  of  such  a  blessing.  He 
then  adds,  that  other  reputed  pieces  of  good  for¬ 
tune's  that  of  having  a  son,  or  procuring  the 
highest  post  in  a  government,  are  subject  to  the 
like  fatal  consequences;  which  nevertheless,  says 
he,  men  ardently  desire,  and  would  not  fail  to  pray 
for,  if  they  thought  their  prayers  might  be  effectu¬ 
al  for  the  obtaining  of  them. 

Having  established  this  great  point,  that  all  the 
most  apparent  blessings  in  this  life  are  obnoxious 
to  such  dreadful  consequences,  and  that  no  man 
knows  what  in  its  event  would  prove  to  him  a 
blessing  or  a  curse,  he  teaches  Alcibiades  after 
what  manner  he  ought  to  pray. 

In  the  first  place,  he  recommends  to  him,  as  the 
model  of  his  devotions,  a  short  prayer  which  a 
Greek  poet  composed  for  the  use  of  his  friends,  in 
the  following  words  :  “0  Jupiter,  give  us  those 
things  which  are  good  for  us,  whether  they  are 
such  things  as  we  pray  for,  or  such  things  as  we 
do  not  pray  for:  and  remove  from  us  those  things 
which  are  hurtful,  though  they  are  such  things  as 
we  pray  for.” 

In  the  second  place,  that  his  disciple  may  ask 
such  things  as  are  expedient  for  him,  he  shows 
him,  that  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  apply  him¬ 
self  to  the  study  of  true  wisdom,  and  to  the 
knowledge  of  that  which  is  his  chief  good,  and 
the  most  suitable  to  the  excellence  of  his  nature. 

In  the  third  and  last  place  he  informs  him,  that 
the  best  methods  he  could  make  use  of  to  draw 
down  blessings  upon  himself,  and  to  render  his 
prayers  acceptable,  would  be  to  live  in  a  constant 
practice  of  his  duty  toward  the  gods,  and  toward 
men.  Under  this  head  he  very  much  recommends 
a  form  of  prayer  the  Lacedaemonians  make  use  of, 
in  which  they  petition  the  gods,  “to  give  them  all 
good  things  so  long  as  they  were  virtuous.” 
Under  this  head,  likewise,  he  gives  a  very  re¬ 
markable  account  of  an  oracle  to  the  following 
purpose: 

When  the  Athenians  in  the  war  with  the  Lace¬ 
daemonians  received  many  defeats  both  by  sea  and 
land,  they  sent  a  message  to  the  oracle  of  Jupi¬ 
ter  Ammon,  to  ask  the  reason  why  they  who 


TEE  SPECTATOR. 


266 

erected  so  many  temples  to  the  gods,  and  adorned 
them  with  such  costly  offerings  ;  why  they  who 
had  instituted  so  many  festivals,  and  accompanied 
them  with  such  pomps  and  ceremonies  ;  in  short, 
why  they  who  had  slain  so  many  hecatombs  at 
their  altars,  should  be  less  successful  than  the 
Lacedaemonians,  who  fell  so  short  of  them  in  these 
particulars?  To  this,  says  he,  the  oracle  made 
the  following  reply :  “  I  am  better  pleased  with 
the  prayers  of  the  Lacedaemonians  than  with  all 
the  oblations  of  the  Greeks.”  As  this  prayer  im¬ 
plied  and  encouraged  virtue  in  those  who  made  it; 
the  philosopher  proceeds  to  show  how^the  most 
vicious  man  might  be  devout,  so  far  as  victims 
could  make  him,  but  that  his  offerings  were  re¬ 
garded  by  the  gods  as  bribes,  and  his  petitions  as 
blasphemies.  He  likewise  quotes,  on  this  occa¬ 
sion,  two  verses  out  of  Homer,*  in  which  the  poet 
says,  “that  the  scent  of  the  Trojan  sacrifices  was 
carried  up  to  heaven  by  the  winds  ;  but  that  it 
was  not  acceptable  to  the  gods,  who  were  dis¬ 
pleased  with  Priam  and  all  his  people.” 

The  conclusion  of  this  dialogue  is  very  remark¬ 
able.  Socrates  having  deterred  Alcibiades  from 
the  prayers  and  sacrifice  which  he  was  going  to 
offer,  by  setting  forth  the  above-mentioned  diffi¬ 
culties  of  performing  that  duty  as  he  ought,  adds 
these  words  :  “We  must  therefore  wait  until  such 
time  as  we  may  learn  how  we  ought  to  behave  our¬ 
selves  toward  the  gods  and  toward  men.”  “But 
when  will  that  time  come?”  says  Alcibiades, 
“  and  who  is  it  that  will  instruct  us  ?  for  I  would 
fain  see  this  man,  whoever  he  is.”  “  It  is  one,” 
says  Socrates,  “  who  takes  care  of  you  ;  but  as 
Homer  tells  us,  that  Minerva  removed  the  mist 
from  Diomede’s  eyes  that  he  might  plainly  dis¬ 
cover  both  gods  and  men,f  so  the  darkness  that 
hangs  upon  your  mind  must  be  removed  before 
you  are  able  to  discern  what  is  good  and  what  is 
evil.”  “Let  him  remove  from  my  mind,”  says 
Alcibiades,  “the  darkness  and  what  else  he  pleases, 
I  am  determined  to  refuse  nothing  he  shall  order 
me,  whoever  he  is,  so  that  I  may  become  the  better 
man  by  it.”  The  remaining  part  of  this  dialogue 
is  very  obscure :  there  is  something  in  it  that 
would  make  us  think  Socrates  hinted  at  himself, 
when  he  spoke  of  this  divine  teacher  who  was  to 
come  into  the  world,  did  not  he  own  that  he  him¬ 
self  was  in  this  respect  as  much  at  a  loss,  and  in 
as  great  distress  as  the  rest  of  mankind. 

Some  learned  men  look  upon  this  conclusion  as 
a  prediction  of  our  Savior,  or  at  least  that  So¬ 
crates,  like  the  high-priest, +  prophesied  unknow¬ 
ingly,  and  pointed  at  that  Divine  Teacher  who 
was  to  come  into  the  world  some  ages  after  him. 
However  that  may  be,  we  find  that  this  great 
philosopher  saw,  by  the  light  of  reason,  that  it 
was  suitable  to  the  goodness  of  the  Divine  nature, 
to  send  a  person  into  the  world  who  should  in¬ 
struct  mankind  in  the  duties  of  religion,  and,  in 
particular,  teach  them  how  to  pray. 

Whoever  reads  this  abstract  of  Plato’s  discourse 
on  prayer,  will,  I  believe,  naturally  make  this  re¬ 
flection,  “  That  the  great  founder  of  our  religion, 
as  well  by  his  own  example  as  in  the  form  of 
prayer  which  he  taught  his  disciples, §  did  not 
only  keep  up  to  those  rules  which  the  light  of  na¬ 
ture  had  suggested  to  this  great  philosopher,  but 
instructed  his  disciples  in  the  whole  extent  of  this 
duty,  as  well  as  of  all  others.  He  directed  them  to 
the  proper  object  of  adoration,  and  taught  them, 
according  to  the  third  rule  above-mentioned,  to 
apply  themselves  to  him  in  their  closets,  without 
show  or  ostentation,  and  to  worship  him  in  spirit 


and  in  truth.”  As  the  Lacedaemonians  in  their 
form  of  prayer  implored  the  gods  in  general  to 
give  them  all  good  things  so  long  as  they  were 
virtuous,  we  ask  in  particular  “  that  our  offenses 
may  be  forgiven,  as  we  forgive  those  of  others.” 
If  we  look  into  the  second  rule  wdiich  Socrates 
has  prescribed,  namely,  that  we  should  apply  our¬ 
selves  to  the  knowledge  of  such  things  as  are  best 
for  us,  this  too  is  explained  at  large  in  the  doc¬ 
trines  of  the  Gospel,  where  we  are  taught  in  sev¬ 
eral  instances  to  regard  those  things  as  curses, 
which  appear  as  blessings  in  the  eye  of  the  world: 
and,  on  the  contrary,  to  esteem  those  things  as 
blessings,  which  to  the  generality  of  mankind 
appear  as  curses.  Thus,  in  the  form  which  is 
prescribed  to  us,  we  only  pray  for  that  happiness 
which  is  our  chief  good,  and  the  great  end  of  our 
existence,  when  we  petition  the  Supreme  Being  for 
the  coming  of  his  kingdom,  being  solicitous  for 
no  other  temporal  blessings  but  our  daily  susten¬ 
ance.  On  the  other  side,  we  pray  against  nothing 
but  sin,  and  against  evil  in  general,  leaving  it 
with  Omniscience  to  determine  what  is  really 
such.  If  we  look  into  the  first  of  Socrates,  hxs 
rules  of  prayer,  in  which  he  recommends  the 
above-mentioned  form  of  the  ancient  poet,  we  find 
that  form  not  only  comprehended,  but  very  much 
improved  in  the  petition,  wherein  we  pray  to  the 
Supreme  Being  that  his  will  may  be  done  :  which 
is  of  the  same  force  with  that  form  which  our  Sa¬ 
vior  used,  when  he  prayed  against  the  most  pain¬ 
ful  and  most  ignominious  of  deaths,  “Neverthe¬ 
less  not  my  will,  but  thine  be  done.”*  This 
comprehensive  petition  is  the  most  humble,  as 
well  as  the  most  prudent,  that  can  be  offered  up 
from  the  creature  to  his  Creator,  as  it  supposes 
the  Supreme  Being  wills  nothing  but  what  is  for 
our  good,  and  that  he  knows  better  than  ourselves 
what  is  so. — L. 


No.  208.]  MONDAY,  OCTOBER  29,  1711. 

- Veniunt  spectentur  ut  ipsse. 

Ovid.,  Ars.  Am.,  1.  i,  99. 

To  be  themselves  a  spectacle  they  come. 

I  have  several  letters  from  people  of  good  sense, 
who  lament  the  depravity  or  poverty  of  taste  the 
town  is  fallen  into  with  relation  to  plays  and  pub¬ 
lic  spectacles.  A  lady  in  particular  observes,  that 
there  is  such  a  levity  in  the  minds  of  her  own  sex, 
that  they  seldom  attend  to  anything  but  imper¬ 
tinences.  It  is  indeed  prodigious  to  observe  how 
little  notice  is  taken  of  the  most  exalted  parts  of 
the  best  tragedies  in  Shakspeare ;  nay,  it  is  not 
only  visible  that  sensuality  has  devoured  all  great¬ 
ness  of  soul,  but  the  under-passion  .(as  I  may  so 
call  it)  of  a  noble  spirit,  Pity,  seems  to  be  a 
stranger  to  the  generality  of  an  audience.  The 
minds  of  men  are  indeed  very  differently  disposed; 
and  the  reliefs  from  care  and  attention  are  of  one 
sort  in  a  great  spirit,  and  of  another  in  an  ordin¬ 
ary  one.  The  man  of  a  great  heart  and  a  serious 
complexion,  is  more  pleased  with  instances  of 
generosity  and  pity,  than  the  light  and  ludicrous 
spirit  can  possibly  be  with  the  highest  strains  of 
mirth  and  laughter.  It  is  therefore  a  melancholy 
prospect  when  we  see  a  numerous  assembly  lost 
to  all  serious  entertainments,  and  such  incidents 
as  should  move  one  sort  of  concern,  excite  in  them 
a  quite  contrary  one.  In  the  tragedy  of  Macbeth, 
the  other  night,  when  the  lady  who  is  conscious 
of  the  crime  of  murdering  the  king  seems  utterly 
astonished  at  the  news,  and  makes  an  exclamation 
at  it,  instead  of  the  indignation  which  is  natural 


*  Iliad,  viii,  548,  etc. 

|  Caiaphas,  John  xi,  49. 


flbid.  v,  127. 

I  Matt,  vi,  9,  etc.;  Luke  xi,  2. 


*  Luke  xxvi,  42 ;  Matt,  xxii,  39. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


267 


to  the  occasion,  that  expression  is  received  with  a 
loud  laugh.  They  were  as  merry  when  a  criminal 
was  stabbed.  It  is  certainly  an  occasion  of  re¬ 
joicing  when  the  wicked  are  seized  in  their  de¬ 
signs  ;  but  I  think  it  is  not  such  a  triumph  as  is 
exerted  by  laughter. 

You  may  generally  observe,  that  the  appetites 
are  sooner  moved  than  the  passions.  A  sly  ex¬ 
pression  which  alludes  to  bawdry,  puts  a  whole 
row  into  a  pleasing  smirk  ;  when  a  good  sentence 
that  describes  an  inward  sentiment  of  the  soul,  is 
received  with  the  greatest  coldness  and  indiffer¬ 
ence.  A  correspondent  of  mine,  upon  this  sub¬ 
ject,  has  divided  the  female  part  of  the  audience, 
and  accounts  for  their  prepossessions  against  this 
reasonable  delight,  in  the  following  manner: — 
“  The  prude,”  says  he,  “  as  she  acts  always  in 
contradiction,  so  she  is  gravely  sullen  at  a  come¬ 
dy,  and  extravagantly  gay  at  a  tragedy.  The  co¬ 
quette  is  so  much  taken  up  with  throwing  her 
eyes  around  the  audience,  and  considering  the  ef¬ 
fect  of  them,  that  she  cannot  be  expected  to  ob¬ 
serve  the  actors  but  as  they  are  her  rivals,  and 
Take  off  the  observation  of  the  men  from  herself. 
Beside  these  species  of  women,  there  are  the  ex¬ 
amples,  or  the  first  of  the  mode.  These  are  to  be 
supposed  too  well  acquainted  with  what  the  actor 
was  going  to  say  to  be  moved  at  it.  After  these 
one  might  mention  a  certain  flippant  set  of  fe¬ 
males  who  are  mimics,  and  are  wonderfully  di¬ 
verted  with  the  conduct  of  all  the  people  around 
them,  and  are  spectators  only  of  the  audience. 
But  what  is  of  all  the  most  to  be  lamented,  is  the 
loss  of  a  party  whom  it  would  be  worth  preserv¬ 
ing  in  their  right  senses  upon  all  occasions,  and 
these  are  those  whom  we  may  indifferently  call  the 
innocent,  or  the  unaffected.  You  may  sometimes 
see  one  of  these  sensibly  touched  with  a  well- 
wrought  incident ;  but  then  she  is  immediately  so 
impertinently  observed  by  the  men,  and  frowned 
at  by  some  insensibly  superior  of  her  own  sex, 
that  she  is  ashamed,  and  loses  the  enjoyment  of 
the  most  laudable  concern,  pity.  Thus  the  whole 
audience  is  afraid  of  letting  fall  a  tear,  and  shun 
as  a  weakness  the  best  and  worthiest  part  of  our 
sense.” 

“  Sir, 

“As  you  are  one  that  doth  not  only  pretend  to 
reform,  but  effect  it  among  people  of  any  sense, 
makes  me  (who  am  one  of  the  greatest  of  your 
admirers)  give  you  this  trouble  to  desire  you  will 
settle  the  method  of  us  females  knowing  when  one 
another  is  in  town ;  for  they  have  now  got  a  trick 
of  never  sending  to  their  acquaintance  when  they 
first  come;  and  if  one  does  not  visit  them  within 
the  week  which  they  stay  at  home,  it  is  a  mortal 
quarrel.  Now,  de.ar  Mr.  Spec.,  either  command 
them  to  put  it  in  the  advertisement  of  yotfr  paper, 
which  is  generally  read  by  our  sex,  or  else  order 
them  to  breathe  their  saucy  footmen  (who  are 
good  for  nothing  else)  by  sending  them  to  tell  all 
their  acquaintance.  If  you  think  to  print  this, 
pray  put  it  into  a  better  style  as  to  the  spelling 
part.  The  town  is  now  filling  every  day,  and  it 
cannot  be  deferred,  because  people  take  advantage 
of  one  another  by  this  means,  and  break  off  ac¬ 
quaintance,  and  are  rude.  Therefore  pray  put  this 
in  your  paper  as  soon  as  you  can  possibly,  to  pre¬ 
vent  any  future  miscarriages  of  this  nature.  I 
am,  as  I  ever  shall  be,  dear  Spec., 

“Your  most„obedient,  humble  servant, 

“Mxny  Meanwell.” 

“  Pray  settle  what  is  to  be  a  proper  notification 
of  a  person’s  being  in  town,  and  how  that  differs 
according  to  people’s  quality.” 


“  Mr.  Spectator,  October  20. 

“I  have  been  out  of  town,  so  did  not  meet  with 
your  paper,  dated  September  the  28th,  wherein 
you,  to  my  heart’s  desire,  exposed  that  cursed  vice 
of  ensnaring  poor  young  girls,  and  drawing  them 
from  their  friends.  I  assure  you  without  flattery' 
it  has  saved  a  ’prentice  of  mine  from  ruin  ;  and 
in  token  of  gratitude,  as  well  as  for  the  benefit 
of  my  family,  I  have  put  it  in  a  frame  and  glass, 
and  hung  it  behind  my  counter.  I  shall  take  care 
to  make  my  young  ones  read  it  every  morning, 
to  fortify  them  against  such  pernicious  rascals.  I 
know  not  whether  what  you  wrote  was  matter  of 
fact,  or  your  own  invention;  but  this  I  will  take 
my  oath  on,  the  first  part  is  so  exactly  like  what 
happened  to  my  ’prentice,  that  had  I  read  your 
paper  then,  I  should  have  taken  your  method  to 
nave  secured  a  villain.  Go  on  and  prosper. 

“  Your  most  obliged  humble  servant.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Without  raillery,  I  desire  you  to  insert  this 
word  for  word  in  your  next,  as  you  value  a  lover’s 
prayers.  You  see  it  is  a  hue  and  cry  after  a  stray 
heart  (with  the  marks  and  blemishes  under¬ 
written);  which  whoever  shall  bring  to  you  shall 
receive  satisfaction.  Let  me  beg  of  you  not  to 
fail,  as  you  remember  the  passion  you  had  for  her 
to  whom  you  lately  ended  a  paper : 

“  Noble,  generous,  great,  and  good, 

But  never  to  be  understood ; 

Fickle  as  the  wind  still  changing, 

After  every  female  ranging, 

Panting,  trembling,  sighing,  dying, 

But  addicted  much  to  lying : 

When  the  syren  songs  repeats, 

Equal  measures  still  it  beats ; 

Whoe’er  shall  wear  it,  it  will  smart  her, 

T.  And  whoe’er  takes  it,  takes  a  tartar.” 


No.  209.]  TUESDAY,  OCTOBER  30,  1711. 

Of  earthly  goods,  the  best  is  a  good  wife ; 

A  bad,  the  bitterest  curse  of  human  life. — Simonides. 

There  are  no  authors  I  am  more  pleased  with 
than  those  who  show  human  nature  in  a  variety 
of  views,  and  describe  the  several  ages  of  the 
world  in  their  different  manners.  A  reader  can¬ 
not  be  more  rationally  entertained,  than  by  com¬ 
paring  the  virtues  and  vices  of  his  own  times 
with  those  which  prevailed  in  the  times  of  his 
forefathers;  and  drawing  a  parallel  in  his  mind 
between  his  own  private  character,  and  that  of 
other  persons,  whether  of  his  own  age,  or  of  the 
ages  that  went  before  him.  The  contemplation 
of  mankind  under  these  changeable  colors  is  apt 
to  shame  us  out  of  any  particular  vice,  or  ani¬ 
mate  us  to  any  particular  virtue  ;  to  make  us 
pleased  or  displeased  with  ourselves  in  the  most 
proper  points,  to  clear  our  minds  of  prejudice  and 
prepossession,  and  to  rectify  that  narrowness  of 
temper  which  inclines  us  to  think  amiss  of  those 
who  differ  from  us. 

If  we  look  into  the  manners  of  the  most  remote 
ages  of  the  world,  we  discover  human  nature  in 
her  simplicity;  and  the  more  we  come  downward 
toward  our  own  times,  may  observe  her  hiding 
herself  in  artifices  and  refinements,  polished  in¬ 
sensibly  out  of  her  original  plainness,  and  at 
length  entirely  lost  under  form  and  ceremony,  and 
(what  we  call)  good-breeding.  Read  the  accounts 
of  men  and  women  as  they  are  given  us  by  the 
most  ancient  writers,  both  sacred  and  profane,  and 
you  would  think  you  were  reading  the  history  of 
another  species. 

Among  the  writers  of  antiquity,  there  are  none 
who  instruct  us  more  openly  in  the  manners  of 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


268 

their  respective  times  in  which  they  lived,  than  j 
those  who  have  employed  themselves  in  satiie,  j 
under  what  dress  soever  it  may  appear:  as  there 
are  no  other  authors  whose  province  it  is  to  enter 
so  directly  into  the  ways  of  men,  and  set  their 
miscarriages  in  so  strong  a  light. 

Simonides,  a  poet  famous  in  his  generation,  is, 

I  think,  author  of  the  oldest  satire  that  is  now  ex¬ 
tant;  and,  as  some  say,  of  the  first  that  was  ever 
written.  This  poet,  who  flourished  about  four  hun¬ 
dred  years  after  the  siege  of  Troy,  shows  by  his  way 
of  writing,  the  simplicity,  or  rather  coarseness,,  of 
the  age  in  which  he  lived.  I  have  taken  notice, 
in  my  hundred-and-sixty-first  speculation,  that 
the  rule  of  observing  what  the  French  call  the 
Bienscance  in  an  allusion,  has  been  found  out  of 
latter  years;  and  that  the  ancients,  provided  there 
was  a  likeness  in  their  similitudes,  did  not  much 
trouble  themselves  about  the  decency  of  the  com<- 
parison.  The  satires  or  iambics  of  Simonides, 
with  which  I  shall  entertain  my  readers  in  the 
present  paper,  are  a  remarkable  instance  of  what 
1  formerly  advanced.  The  subject  of  this  satire 
is  woman.  He  describes  the  sex  in  their  several 
characters,  which  he  derives  to  them  from  a  fanci¬ 
ful  supposition  raised  upon  the  doctrine  of  pre¬ 
existence.  He  tells  us  that  the  gods  formed  the 
souls  of  women  out  of  those  seeds  and  principles 
which  compose  several  kinds  of  animals  and  ele¬ 
ments ;  and  that  their  good  or  bad  dispositions 
arise  in  them  according  as  such  and  such  seeds 
and  principles  predominate  in  their  constitutions. 

I  have  translated  the  author  very  faithfully,  and 
if  not  word  for  word  ( which  our  language  would 
not  bear),  at  least  so  as  to  comprehend  every 
one  of  his  sentiments,  without  adding  anything 
of  my  own.  I  have  already  apologized  for  this 
author’s  want  of  delicacy,  and  must  further  pre¬ 
mise,  that  the  following  satire  affects  only  some 
of  the  lower  part  of  the  sex,  and  not  those  who 
have  been  refined  by  a  polite  education,  which  was 
not  so  common  in  the  age  of  this  poet. 

“  In  the  beginning  God  made  the  souls  of  wo¬ 
man-kind  out  of  different  materials,  and  in  a  sep¬ 
arate  state  from  their  bodies. 

“  The  souls  of  one  kind  of  women  were  formed 
out  of  those  ingredients  which  compose  a  swine. 
A  woman  of  this  make  is  a  slut  in  her  house  and 
a  glutton  at  her  table.  She  is  uncleanly  in  her 
person,  a  slattern  in  her  dress,  and  her  family  is 
no  better  than  a  dunghill. 

“A  second  sort  of  female  soul  was  formed  out 
of  the  same  materials  that  enter  into  the  composi¬ 
tion  of  a  fox.  Such  a  one  is  what  we  call  a  nota¬ 
ble  discerning  woman,  who  has  an  insight  into 
everything  whether  it  be  good  or  bad.  In  this  spe¬ 
cies  of  females  there  are  some  virtuous  and  some 
vicious. 

“A  third  kind  of  women  were  made  up  of  ca¬ 
nine  particles.  These  are  what  we  commonly  call 
scolds,  who  imitate  the  animals  out  of  which  they 
were  taken,  that  are  always  busy  and  barking, 
that  snarl  at  every  one  who  comes  in  their  way,  and 
live  in  perpetual  clamor. 

“The  fourth  kind  of  women  were  made  out  of 
the  earth.  These  are  your  sluggards,  who  pass 
away  their  time  in  indolence  and  ignorance, 
hover  over  the  fire  a  whole  winter,  and  apply 
themselves  with  alacrity  to  no  kind  of  business 
but  eating. 

“  The  fifth  species  of  females  were  made  out  of 
the  sea.  These  are  women  of  variable,  uneven 
tempers,  sometimes  all  storm  and  tempest,  some¬ 
times  all  calm  and  sunshine.  The  stranger  who 
sees  one  of  these  in  her  smiles  and  smoothness, 
would  cry  her  up  for  a  miracle  of  good-humor  ; 


but  on  a  sudden  her  looks  and  her  words  ar» 
changed,  she  is  nothing  but  fury  and  outrage, 
noise  and  hurricane. 

“  The  sixth  species  were  made  up  of  the  ingre 
dients  which  compose  an  ass,  or  a  beast  of  bur 
den.  These  are  naturally  exceeding  slothful,  but, 
upon  the  husband’s  exerting  his  authority,  will 
live  upon  hard  fare,  and  do  everything  to  please 
him.  They  are  however  far  from  being  averse  to 
venereal  pleasures,  and  seldom  refuse  a  male  com¬ 
panion. 

“  The  cat  furnished  materials  for  a  seventh  spe¬ 
cies  of  women,  who  are  of  a  melancholy,  froward, 
un  ami  able  nature,  and  so  repugnant  to  the  offers 
of  love  that  they  fly  in  the  face  of  their  husband 
when  he  approaches  them  with  conjugal  endear¬ 
ments.  This  species  of  women  are  likewise  sub¬ 
ject  to  little  thefts,  cheats,  and  pilferings. . 

“The  mare  with  a  flowing  mane,  which  was 
never  broke  to  any  servile  toil  and  labor,  com¬ 
posed  an  eighth  species  of  women.  These  are 
they  who  have  little  regard  for  their  husbands, 
who  pass  away  their  time  in  dressing,  bathing, 
and  perfuming  ;  who  throw  their  hair  into  the 
nicest  curls,  and  trick  it  up  with  the  fairest  flowers 
and  garlands,  A  woman  of  this  species  is  a  very 
pretty  thing  for  a  stranger  to  look  upon,  but  very 
detrimental  to  the  owner,  unless  it  be  a  king  or  a 
prince  who  takes  a  fancy  to  such  a  toy. 

“The  ninth  species  of  females  were  taken  out 
of  the  ape.  These  are  such  as  are  both  ugly  and 
ill-natured,  who  have  nothing  beautiful  in  them¬ 
selves,  and  endeavor  to  detract  from  or  ridicule 
everything  which  appears  so  in  others. 

“The  tenth  and  last  species  of  women  were 
made  out  of  the  bee;  and  happy  is  the  man  who 
gets  such  a  one  for  his  wife.  She  is  altogether 
faultless  and  unblamable.  Her  family  flourishes 
and  improves  by  her  good  management.  She 
loves  her  husband,  and  is  beloved  by  him.  She 
brings  him  a  race  of  beautiful  and  virtuous  chil¬ 
dren.  She  distinguishes  herself  among  her  sex. 
She  is  surrounded  with  graces.  She  never  sits 
among  the  loose  tribe  of  women,  nor  passes  away 
her  time  with  them  in  wanton  discourses.  She  is 
full  of  virtue  and  prudence,  and  is  the  best  wife 
that  Jupiter  can  bestow  on  man.” 

I  shall  conclude  these  iambics  with  the  motto 
of  this  paper,  which  is  a  fragment  of  the  same 
author,  “A  man  cannot  possess  anything  that  is 
better  than  a  good  woman,  nor  anything  that  is 
worse  than  a  bad  one.” 

As  the  poet  has  shown  a  great  penetration  in 
this  diversity  of  female  characters,  he  has  avoid¬ 
ed  the  fault  which  Juvenal  and  Monsieur  Boileau 
are  guilty  of,  the  former  in  his  sixth,  and  the 
other  in  his  last  satire,  where  they  have  endeavor¬ 
ed  to  .expose  the  sex  in  general,  without  doing 
justice  to  the  valuable  part  of  it.  Such  leveling 
satires  are  of  no  use  to  the  world;  and  for  this 
reason  I  have  often  wondered  how  the  French 
author  above-mentioned,  who  was  a  man  of  ex¬ 
quisite  judgment,  and  a  lover  of  virtue,  could 
think  human  nature  a  proper  subject  for  satire  in 
another  of  his  celebrated  pieces,  which  is  called 
the  Satire  upon  Man.  What  vice  or  frailty  can  a 
discourse  correct,  which  censures  the  whole  spe¬ 
cies  alike,  and  endeavors  to  show  by  some  super¬ 
ficial  strokes  of  wit,  that  brutes  are  the  more 
excellent  creatures  of  the  two  ?  A  satire  should 
expose  nothing  but  what  is  corrigible,  and  make 
a  due  discrimination  between  those  who  are  and 
those  who  are  not,  the  proper  objects  of  it. — L. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


No.  210.]  WEDNESDAY,  OCT.  31,  1711. 

Nescio  quomodo  inhaeret  in  mentibus  quasi  saeuloruin  quo- 
dam  auguriuni  futuror  urn:  idque  in  maximis  ingeuiis  altis- 
pimisque  animis  et  existit  maxime,  et  apparet  facillime. 

Cic.,  Tusc.  Quacst. 

There  is,  I  know  not  how,  in  minds  a  certain  presage,  as  it 
were,  of  a  future  existence ,  this  has  the  deepest  root,  and  is 
most  discoverable,  in  the  greatest  geniuses  and  most  exalted 
souls. 

“To  the  Spectator. 

“  Sir, 

“I  am  fully  persuaded  that  one  of  the  best 
springs  of  generous  and  worthy  actions,  is  the 
having  generous  and  worthy  thoughts  of  our¬ 
selves.  Whoever  has  a  mean  opinion  of  the  dig¬ 
nity  of  his  nature,  will  act  in  no  higher  a  rank 
than  he  has  allotted  himself  in  his  own  estima¬ 
tion.  If  he  considers  his  being  as  circumscribed 
by  the  uncertain  term  of  a  few  years,  his  designs 
will  be  contracted  into  the  same  narrow  span  he 
*  imagines  is  to  bound  his  existence.  How  can  he 
exalt  his  thoughts  to  anything  great  and  noble, 
who  only  believes  that  after  a  short  turn  on  the 
stage  of  this  world,  he  is  to  sink  into  oblivion, 
and  to  lose  his  consciousness  forever? 

“  For  this  reason  I  am  of  opinion,  that  so  use¬ 
ful  and  elevated  a  contemplation  as  that  of  the 
soul’s  immortality  cannot  be  resumed  too  often. 
There  is  not  a  more  improving  exercise  to  the  hu¬ 
man  mind,  than  to  be  frequently  reviewing  its 
own  great  privileges  and  endowments;  nor  a  more 
effectual  means*  to  awaken  in  us  an  ambition 
raised  above  low  objects  and  little  pursuits,  than 
to  value,  ourselves  as  heirs  of  eternity. 

“  It  is  a  very  great  satisfaction  to  consider  the 
best  and  wisest  of  mankind  in  all  nations  and 
ages,  asserting  as  with  one  voice  this  their  birth¬ 
right,  and  to  find  it  ratified  by  an  express  revela¬ 
tion.  At  the  same  time  if  we  turn  our  thoughts 
inward  upon  ourselves,  we  may  meet  with  a  kind 
of  secret  sense  concurring  with  the  proofs  of  our 
own  immortality. 

“You  have,  in  my  opinion,  raised  a  good  pre¬ 
sumptive  argument  from  the  increasing  appetite 
the  mind  has  to  knowledge,  and  to  the  extending 
its  own  faculties,  which  cannot  be  accomplished, 
as  the  more  restrained  perfection  of  lower  crea¬ 
tures  may,  in  the  limits  of  a  short  life.  I  think 
another  probable  conjecture  may  be  raised  from 
our  appetite  to  duration  itself,  and  from  a  reflec¬ 
tion  on  our  progress  through  the  several  stages  of 
it.  ‘  We  are  complaining,’  as  you  observed  in  a 
former  speculation,  ‘of  the  shortness  of  life,  and 
yet  are  perpetually  hurrying  over  the  parts  of  it, 
to  arrive  at  certain  little  settlements  or  imaginary 
points  of  rest,  which  are  dispersed  up  and  down 
in  it.’ 

“  Now  let  us  consider  what  happens  to  us  when 
we  arrive  at  these  imaginary  points  of  rest.  Do 
we  stop  our  motion  and  sit  down  satisfied  in  the 
settlement  we  have  gained  ?  or  are  we  not  remov¬ 
ing  the  boundary,  and  marking  out  new  points  of 
rest,  to  which  we  press  forward  with  the  like 
eagerness,  and  which  cease  to  be  such  as  fast  as 
we  attain  them  ?  Our  case  is  like  that  of  a  tra¬ 
veler  upon  the  Alps,  who  should  fancy  that  the 
top  of  the  next  hill  must  end  his  journey,  because 
it  terminates  his  prospect;  but  he  no  sooner  ar¬ 
rives  at  it,  than  he  sees  new  ground  and  other 
hills  beyond  it,  and  continues  to  travel  on  as 
before. 

“  This  is  so  plainly  every  man’s  condition  in 
life,  that  there  is  no  one  who  has  observed  any¬ 
thing,  but  may  observe,  that  as  fast  as  his  time 
wears  away,  his  appetite  to  something  future  re- 


269 

mains.  The  use  therefore  I  would  make  of  it  is, 
that  since  Nature  (as  some  love  to  express  it)  does 
nothing  in  vain,  or  to  speak  properly,  since  the 
Author  of  our  being  has  planted  no  wandering 
passion  in  it,  no  desire  which  has  not  its  object, 
futurity  is  the  proper  object  of  the  passion  so 
constantly  excrcisea  about  it :  and  this  restless¬ 
ness  in  the  present,  this  assigning  ourselves  over 
to  further  stages  of  duration,  this  successive  grasp¬ 
ing  at  somewhat  still  to  come,  appears  to  me 
(whatever  it  may  be  to  others)  as  a  kind  of 
instinct,  or  natural  symptom,  which  the  mind  of 
man  has  of  its  own  immortality. 

“  I  take  it  at  the  same  time  for  granted,  that  the 
immortality  of  the  soul  is  sufficiently  established 
by  other  arguments  :  and,  if  so,  this  appetite, 
which  otherwise  would  be  very  unaccountable  and 
absurd,  seems  very  reasonable,  and  adds  strength 
to  the  conclusion.  But  I  am  amazed  when  I  con¬ 
sider  there  are  creatures  capable  of  thought,  who, 
in  spite  of  every  argument,  can  form  to  themselves 
a  sullen  satisfaction  in  thinking  otherwise.  There 
is  something  so  pitifully  mean  in  the  inverted  am¬ 
bition  of  that  man  who  can  hope  for  annihilation, 
and  please  himself  to  think  that  his  whole  fabric 
shall  one  day  crumble  into  dust,  and  mix  with 
the  mass  of  inanimate  beings,  that  it  equally  de¬ 
serves  our  admiration  and  pity.  The  mystery 
of  such  men’s  unbelief  is  not  hard  to  be  pene¬ 
trated;  and  indeed  amounts  to  nothing  more  than 
a  sordid  hope  that  they  shall  not  be  immortal, 
because  they  dare  not  be  so. 

“  This  brings  me  back  to  my  first  observation, 
and  gives  me  occasion  to  say  further,  that  as 
worthy  actions  spring  from  worthy  thoughts,  so 
worthy  thoughts  are  likewise  the  consequence  of 
worthy  actions.  But  the  wretch  who  has  de¬ 
graded  himself  below  the  character  of  immor¬ 
tality,  is  very  willing  to  resign  his  pretensions  to 
it,  and  to  substitute  in  its  room  a  dark  negative 
happiness  in  the  extinction  of  his  being. 

“  The  admirable  Shakspeare  has  given  us  a 
strong  image  of  the  unsupported  condition  of 
such  a  person  in  his  last  minutes,  in  the  second 
part  of  King  Henry  the  Sixth,  where  Cardinal 
Beaufort,  who  had  been  concerned  in  the  murder 
of  the  good  Duke  Humphry,  is  represented  on  his 
death-bed.  After  some  short  confused  speeches, 
which  show  an  imagination  disturbed  with  guilt, 
just  as  he  is  expiring,  King  Henry,  standing  by 
him  full  of  compassion,  says. 

Lord  Cardinal !  if  thou  thinkest  on  heaven’s  bliss, 

Hold  up  thy  hand,  make  signal  of  thy  hope ! — 

lie  dies  and  makes  no  sign ! - 

“  The  despair  which  is  here  shown,  without  a 
word  or  action  on  the  part  of  a  dying  person,  is 
beyond  what  can  be  painted  by  the  most  forcible 
expressions  whatever. 

“  I  shall  not  pursue  this  thought  further,  but  only 
add,  that  as  annihilation  is  not  to  be  had  with  a 
wish,  so  it  is  the  most  abject  thing  in  the  world 
to  wish  it.  What  are  honor,  fame,  wealth,  or 
power,  when  compared  with  the  generous  expec¬ 
tation  of  a  being  without  end,  and  a  happiness 
adequate  to  that  being? 

“  I  shall  trouble  you  no  further ;  but  with  a 
certain  gravity  which  these  thoughts  have  given 
me,  I  reflect  upon  some  things  people  say  of  you 
(as  they  will  of  all  men  who  distinguish  them¬ 
selves),  which  I  hope  are  not  true,  and  wish  you 
as  good  a  man  as  you  are  an  author. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  most  obedient,  humble  Servant, 
T.  “T.  D.” 


*  Mean. 


270  THE  SPECTATOR. 


No.  211.]  THURSDAY,  NOVEMBER  1,  1711. 

Fictis  meminerit  nos  jocari  fabulis. — Ph.edr.,  1. 1,  Prol. 

Let  it  be  remembered  that  we  sport  in  fabled  stories. 

Having  lately  translated  the  fragment  of  an 
old  poet,  which  describes  womankind  under  seve¬ 
ral  characters,  and  supposes  them  to  have  drawn 
their  different  manners  and  dispositions  from 
those  animals  and  elements  out  of  which  he  tells 
us  they  were  compounded  ;  I  had  some  thoughts 
of  giving  the  sex  their  revenge,  by  laying  together 
in  another  paper  the  many  vicious  characters 
which  prevail  in  the  male  world,  and  showing 
the  different  ingredifents  that  go  to  the  making  up 
of  such  different  humors  and  constitutions.  Ho¬ 
race  has  a  thought  which  is  something  akin  to 
this,  when,  in  order  to  excuse  himself  to  his  mis¬ 
tress  for  an  invective  which  he  had  written 
against  her,  and  to  account  for  that  unreason¬ 
able  fury  with  which  the  heart  of  man  is  often 
transported,  he  tells  us  that,  when  Prometheus 
made  his  man  of  clay,  in  the  kneading  up  of  the 
heart,  he  seasoned  it  with  some  furious  particles 
of  the  lion.  But  upon  turning  this  plan  to  and 
fro  in  my  thoughts,  I  observed  so  many  unac¬ 
countable  humors  in  man,  that  I  did  not  know 
out  of  what  animals  to  fetch  them.  Male  souls 
are  diversified  with  so  many  characters,  that  the 
world  has  not  variety  of  materials  sufficient  to 
furnish  out  their  different  tempers  and  inclina¬ 
tions.  The  creation,  with  all  its  animals  and 
elements,  would  not  be  large  enough  to  supply 
their  several  extravagancies. 

Instead  therefore,  of  pursuing  the  thought  of 
Simonides,  I  shall  observe,  that  as  he  has  exposed 
the  vicious  part  of  women  from  the  doctrine  of 
ore-existence,  some  of  the  ancient  philosophers 
have  in  a  manner  satirized  th<?  vicious  part  of  the 
luman  species  in  general,  from  a  notion  of  the 
soul’s  post-existence,  if  I  may  so  call  it :  and  that 
as  Simonides  describes  brutes  entering  into  the 
composition  of  women,  others  have  represented 
human  souls  as  entering  into  brutes.  This  is 
commonly  termed  the  doctrine  of  transmigration, 
which  supposes  that  human  souls,  upon  their 
leaving  the  body,  become  the. souls  of  such  kinds 
of  brutes  as  they  most  resemble  in  their  manners  ; 
or  to  give  an  account  of  it  as  Mr.  Dryden  has 
described  it,  in  his  translation  of  Pythagoras’s 
speech  in  the  fifteenth  book  of  Ovid,  where  that 
philosopher  dissuades  his  hearers  from  eating 
flesh  : 

Thus  all  things  are  but  alter’d,  nothing  dies, 

And  here  and  there  th’  unbodied  spirit  flies : 

By  time,  or  force,  or  sickness  dispossess’d, 

And  lodges  where  it  lights,  in  bird  or  beast: 

Or  hunts  without  till  ready  limbs  it  find, 

And  actuates  those  according  to  their  kind : 

From  tenement  to  tenement  is  toss’d, 

The  soul  is  still  the  same,  the  figure  only  lost. 

Then  let  not  piety  be  put  to  flight, 

To  please  the  taste  of  glutton  appetite: 

But  suffer  inmate  souls  secure  to  dwell, 

Lest  from  their  seats  your  parents  you  expel: 

With  rabid  hunger  feed  upon  your  kind, 

Or  from  a  beast  dislodge  a  brother’s  mind. 

Plato,  in  the  vision  of  Eurus  the  Armenian, 
which  I  may  possibly  make  the  subject  of  a  fu¬ 
ture  speculation,  records  some  beautiful  transmi¬ 
grations  ;  as  that  the  soul  of  Orpheus,  who  was 
musical,  melancholy,  and  a  woman-hater,  entered 
into  a  swan  ;  the  soul  of  Ajax,  which  was  all 
wrath  and  fierceness,  into  a  lion ;  the  soul  of  Aga¬ 
memnon,  that  was  rapacious  and  imperial,  into 
an  eagle;  and  the  soul  of  Thersites,  who  was  a 
mimic  and  a  buffoon,  into  a  monkey. 

Mr.  Congreve,  in  a  prologue  to  one  of  his  come¬ 
dies,  has  touched  upon  this  doctrine  with  great 
humor : 


Thus  Aristotle's  soul  of  old  that  was. 

May  now  be  damn’d  to  animate  an  ass; 

Or  in  this  very  house,  for  aught  we  know, 

Is  doing  painful  penance  in  some  beau. 

I  shall  fill  up  this  paper  with  some  letters 
which  my  last  Tuesday’s  speculation  has  pro¬ 
duced.  My  following  correspondents  will  show, 
what  I  there  observed,  that  the  speculation  of 
that  day  affects  only  the  lower  part  of  the  sex. 

“  Prom  my  house  in  the  Strand, 
October  3,  1711. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Upon  reading  your  Tuesday’s  paper,  I  find  by 
several  symptoms  in  my  constitution  that  I  am  a 
bee.  My  shop,  or,  if  you  please  to  call  it  so,  my 
cell,  is  in  that  great  hive  of  females  which  goes 
by  the  name  of  the  New  Exchange  ;  where  I  am 
daily  employed  in  gathering  together  a  little 
stock  of  gain  from  the  finest  flowers  about  the 
town,  I  mean  the  ladies  and  the  beaux.  I  have  a 
numerous  swarm  of  children,  to  whom  I  give  the 
best  education  I  am  able.  But,  Sir,  it  is  my  mis¬ 
fortune  to  be  married  to  a  drone,  who  lives  upon 
what  I  get,  without  bringing  anything  into  the  com¬ 
mon  stock.  Now,  Sir,  as  on  the  one  hand  I  take  care 
not  to  behave  myself  toward  him  like  a  wasp,  so 
likewise  I  would  not  have  him  look  upon  me  as 
a  humble  bee;  for  which  reason  I  do  all  I  can  to 
put  him  upon  laying  up  provisions  for  a  bad  day, 
and  frequently  represent  to  him  the  fatal  effects 
his  sloth  and  negligence  may  bring  upon  us  in 
our  old  age.  I  must  beg  that  you  will  join  with 
me  in  your  good  advice  upon  this  occasion,  and 
you  will  forever  oblige 

“  Your  humble  Servant, 

“  Melissa.” 

“  Sir,  Piccadilly,  October  31,  1711. 

“  I  am  joined  in  wedlock  for  my  sins  to  one  of 
those  fillies  who  are  described  in  the  old  poet 
with  that  hard  name  you  gave  us  the  other  day. 
She  has  a  flowing  mane,  and  a  skin  as  soft  as 
silk.  But,  Sir,  she  passes  half  her  life  at  her 
glass,  and  almost  ruins  me  in  ribbons.  For  my 
own  part,  I  am  a  plain  handicraft  man,  and  in 
danger  of  breaking  by  her  laziness  and  expensive¬ 
ness.  Pray,  master,  tell  me  in  your  next  paper, 
whether  I  may  not  expect  of  her  so  much 
drudgery  as  to  take  care  of  her  family,  and  curry 
her  hide  in  case  of  refusal. 

“  Your  loving  Friend, 

“Barnaby  Brittle.” 

“Mr.  Spectator,  Cheapside,  October  30. 

“  I  am  mightily  pleased  with  the  humor  of  the 
cat ;  be  so  kind  as  to  enlarge  upon  that  subject. 

“  Yours  till  death, 

“Josiah  Henpeck.” 

“P.  S.  You  must  know  I  am  married  to  a  gri¬ 
malkin.” 

(c  Sir,  Wapping,  October  31,  1711. 

“  Ever  since  your  Spectator  of  Tuesday  last 
came  into  our  family,  my  husband  is  pleased  to 
call  me  his  Oceana,  because  the  foolish  old  poet 
that  you  have  translated  says,  that  the  souls  of 
some  women  are  made  of  sea- water.  This,  it 
seems,  has  encouraged  my  saucebox  to  be  witty 
upon  me.  When  I  am  angry,  he  cries,  ‘  Prithee, 
my  dear,  be  calm  ;’  when  I  chide  one  of  my  ser¬ 
vants,  ‘  Prithee,  child,  do  not  bluster.’  He  had 
the  impudence  about  an  hour  ago  to  tell  me,  that 
he  was  a  seafaring  man,  and  must  expect  to  divide 
his  life  between  storm  and  sunshine.  When  I 
bestir  myself  with  any  spirit  in  my  family,  it  is 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


‘high  sea’  in  his  house;  and  when  I  sit  still 
without  doing  anything,  his  affairs  forsooth  are 
‘windbound.’  When  1  ask  him  whether  it  rains, 
he  makes  answer,  ‘It  is  no  matter,  so  that  it  be 
fair  weather  within  doors.’  In  short,  Sir,  I  can¬ 
not  speak  my  mind  freely  to  him,  but  I  either 
swell  or  rage,  or  do  something  that  is  not  fit  for  a 
civil  woman  to  hear.  Pray,  Mr.  Spectator,  since 
you  are  so  sharp  upon  other  women,  let  us  know 
what  materials  your  wife  is  made  of,  if  you  have 
one.  I  suppose  you  would  make  us  a  parcel  of 
poor-spirited,  tame,  insipid  creatures  ;  but.  Sir,  I 
would  have  you  to  know,  we  have  as  good  pas¬ 
sions  in  us  as  yourself,  and  that  a  woman  was 
never  designed  to  be  a  milk-sop. 

Ij.  “Martha  Tempest.” 


No.  212.]  FRIDAY,  NOVEMBER  2, 1711. 

- Eripe  turpi 

Colla  jugo,  liber  sum  die  age —  Hor.  2  Sat.  vii,  92. 

- Loose  thy  neck  from  this  ignoble  chain, 

And  boldly  say  thou'rt  free. — Creech. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  never  look  upon  my  dear  wife,  but  I  think 
of  the  happiness  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  enjoys,  in 
having  such  a  friend  as  you  to  expose  in  proper 
colors  the  cruelty  and  perverseness  of  his  mis¬ 
tress.  I  have  very  often  wished  you  visited  in 
our  family,  and  were  acquainted  with  my  spouse  ; 
she  would  afford  you,  for  some  months  at  least, 
matter  enough  for  one  Spectator  a  week.  Since 
we  are  not  so  happy  as  to  he  of  your  acquaintance, 
give  me  leave  to  represent  to  you  (*ur  present  cir¬ 
cumstances  as  well  as  I  can  in  writing.  You  are 
to  know,  then,  that  I  am  not  of  a  very  different 
constitution  from  Nathaniel  Henroost,  whom  you 
have  lately  recorded  in  your  speculations;  and 
have  a  wife  who  makes  a  more  tyrannical  use  of 
the  knowledge  of  my  easy  temper  than  that  lady 
ever  pretended  to.  We  had  not  been  a  month 
married,  when  she  found  in  me  a  certain  pain  to 
give  offense,  and  an  indolence  that  made  me  bear 
little  inconveniences  rather  than  dispute  about 
them.  From  this  observation  it  soon  came  to 
ass,  that  if  I  offered  to  go  abroad,  she  would  get 
etween  me  and  the  door,  kiss  me,  and  say  she 
could  not  part  with  me;  then  down  again  1  sat. 
In  a  day  or  two  after  this  first  pleasant  step  to¬ 
ward  confining  me,  she  declared  to  me,  that  1  was 
all  the  world  to  her,  and  she  thought  she  ought  to 
be  all  the  world  to  me.  ‘  If,’  said  she,  ‘  my  dear 
loves  me  as  much  as  I  love  him,  he  will  never  be 
tired  of  my  company.’  This  declaration  was  fol¬ 
lowed  by  my  being  denied  to  all  my  acquaintance; 
and  it  very  soon  came  to  that  pass,  that  to  give  an 
answer  at  the  door,  before  my  face,  the  servants 
would  ask  her  whether  I  was  within  or  not ;  and 
she  would  answer  no,  with  great  fondness,  and 
tell  me  I  was  a  good  dear.  I  will  not  enumerate 
more  little  circumstances,  to  give  you  a  livelier 
sense  of  my  condition;  but  tell  you  in  general, 
that  from  such  steps  as  these  at  first,  I  now  live 
the  life  of  a  prisoner  of  state ;  my  letters  are 
opened,  and  I  have  not  the  use  of  pen,  ink,  and 
paper,  but  in  her  presence.  I  never  go  abroad, 
except  she  sometimes  takes  me  with  her  in  her 
coach  to  take  the  air,  if  it  may  be  called  so,  when 
we  drive,  as  we  generally  do,  with  the  glasses  up. 
I  have  overheard  my  servants  lament  my  condi¬ 
tion,  but  they  dare  not  bring  me  messages  without 
her  knowledge,  because  they  doubt  my  resolution 
to  stand  by  them.  In  the  midst  of  this  insipid 
way  of  life,  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine,  Tom 
Meggot,  who  is  a  favorite  with  her,  and  allowed 


271 

to  visit  me  in  her  company  because  he  sings  pret¬ 
tily,  has  roused  me  to  rebel,  and  conveyed  his  in¬ 
telligence  to  me  in  the  following  manner :  My 
wife  is  a  great  pretender  to  music,  and  very  igno¬ 
rant  of  it ;  but  tar  gone  in  the  Italian  taste.  Tom 
goes  to  Armstrong,  the  famous  fine  writer  of  mu¬ 
sic,  and  desires  him  to  put  this  sentence  of  Tully 
m  the  scale  of  an  Italian  air,  and  write  it  out  for 
my  spouse  from  him.  An  Me  milii  Liber  cuimulicr 
imperat  ?  Cuileyes  imponit,  prcescribit,  jubet,  vetat 
Quod  videtur  ?  Qui  nihil  vmperanti  neyare,  nihil  re- 
cusare  audet  ?  Poscit  ?  dandum  est.  Vocal  ?  ve- 
niendum.  Ejicii  ?  abeundum.  Minitatur  ?  extimi- 
scendum.  ‘  Does  he  live  like  a  gentleman  who  is 
commanded  by  a  woman  ?  He  to  whom  she  gives 
law,  grants  and  denies  what  she  pleases  ?  who 
can  neither  deny  her  anything  she  asks,  or  refuse 
to  do  anything  she  commands  ?’ 

“To  be  short,  my  wife  was  extremely  pleased 
with  it ;  said  the  Italian  was  the  only  language 
for  music;  and  admired  how  wonderfully  tender 
the  sentiment  was,  and  how  pretty  the  accent  is 
of  that  language  ;  with  the  rest  that  is  said  by 
rote  on  that  occasion.  Mr.  Meggot  is  sent  for  to 
sing  this  air,  which  he  performs  with  mighty  ap¬ 
plause  ;  and  my  wife  is  in  ecstasy,  on  the  occa¬ 
sion,  and  glad  to  find,  by  my  being  so  much 
pleased,  that  I  was  at  last  come  into  the  notion  of 
the  Italian:  ‘for,’  said  she,  ‘it  grows  upon  one 
when  one  once  comes  to  know  a  little  of  the  lan- 
guage  ;  and  pray,  Mr.  Meggot,  sing  again  those 
notes,  Nihil  lmperanti  negare,  nihil  recusare.’  You 
may  believe  I  was  not  a  little  delighted  with  my 
friend  Tom’s  expedient  to  alarm  me,  and  in  obedi¬ 
ence  to  his  summons  I  give  all  this  story  thus  at 
large  ;  and  I  am  resolved,  when  this  appears  in 
the  Spectator,  to  declare  for  myself.  The  manner 
of  the  insurrection  I  contrive  by  your  means, 
which  shall  be  no  other  than  that  Tom  Meggot, 
who  is  at  our  tea-table  every  morning,  shall  read 
it  to  us  ;  and  if  my  dear  can  take  the  hint,  and 
say  not  one  word,  but  let  this  be  the  beginning  of 
a  new  life  without  further  explanation,  it  is  very 
well ;  for  as  soon  as  the  Spectator  is  read  out,  I 
shall,  without  more  ado,  call  for  the  coach,  name 
the  hour  when  I  shall  be  at  home,  if  I  come  at  all; 
if  I  do  not,  they  may  go  to  dinner.  If  my  spouse 
only  swells  and  says  nothing,  Tom  and  I  go  out 
together,  and  all  is  well,  as  1  said  before ;  but  if 
she  begins  to  command  or  expostulate,  you  shall 
in  my  next  to  you  receive  a  full  account  of  her  re¬ 
sistance  and 'submission,  for  submit  the  dear  thing 
must,  to, 

“  Sir, 

“Your  most  obedient,  humble  Servant, 

“Anthony  Freeman.”  / 

“  P.  S.  I  hope  I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  desire 
this  may  be  in  your  very  next.” 


No.  213.]  SATURDAY,  NOVEMBER  3, 1711. 

- Mens  sibi  conscia  recti. — Yirg.,  iEn.  i,  608. 

A  good  intention. 

It  is  the  great  art  and  secret  of  Christianity,  if 
I  may  use  that  phrase,  to  manage  our  actions  to 
the  best  advantage,  and  to  direct  them  in  such  a 
manner  that  everything  we  do  may  turn  to  ac¬ 
count  at  that  great  day,  when  everything  we  have 
done  will  be  set  before  us. 

In  order  to  give  this  consideration  its  full 
weight,  we  may  cast  all  our  actions  under  the  di¬ 
vision  of  such  as  are  in  themselves  either  good, 
evil,  or  indifferent.  If  we  divide  our  intentions 
after  the  same  manner  and  consider  them  with 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


272 

regard  to  our  actions,  we  may  discover  that  great  j 
art  and  secret  of  religion  which  I  have  here  men¬ 
tioned. 

A  good  intention,  joined  to  a  good  action,  gives 
it  its  proper  force  and  efficacy ;  joined  to  an  evil 
action,  extenuates  its  malignity,  and  in  some  cases 
takes  it  wholly  away  ;  and  joined  to  an  indiffer¬ 
ent  action,  turns  it  to  a  virtue,  and  makes  it  meri¬ 
torious  as  far  as  human  actions  can  be  so. 

In  the  next  place,  to  consider  in  the  same  man¬ 
ner  the  influence  of  an  evil  intention  upon  our 
actions.  An  evil  intention  perverts  the  best  of 
actions,  and  makes  them,  in  reality,  what  the 
fathers  with  a  witty  kind  of  zeal  have  termed  the 
virtues  of  the  heathen  world,  so  many  shining 
sins.*  It  destroys  the  innocence  of  an  indifferent, 
action,  and  gives  an  evil  action  all  possible  black¬ 
ness  and  horror,  or,  in  the  emphatical  language  of 
sacred  writ,  makes  “  sin  exceeding  sinful. ”f 

If,  in  the  last  place,  we  consider  the  nature  of 
an  indifferent  intention,  we  shall  find  that  it  de¬ 
stroys  the  merit  of  a  good  action;  abates,  but 
never  takes  away,  the  malignity  of  an  evil  action  ; 
and  leaves  an  indifferent  action  in  its  natural  state 
of  indifference. 

It  is  therefore  of  unspeakable  advantage  to  pos¬ 
sess  our  minds  with  an  habitual  good  intention, 
and  to  aim  all  our  thoughts,  words,  and  actions 
at  some  laudable  end,  whether  it  be  the  glory  of 
our  Maker,  the  good  of  mankind,  or  the  benefit  of 
our  own  souls. 

This  is  a  sort  of  thrift  or  good  husbandry  in 
moral  life,  which  does  not  throw  away  any  single 
action,  but  makes  every  one  go  as  far  as  it  can.  It 
multiplies  the  means  of  salvation,  increases  the 
number  of  our  virtues  and  diminishes  that  of  our 
vices. 

There  is  something  very  devout,  though  not  so 
solid,  in  Acosta’s  answer  to  Limborch,  wrho  objects 
to  him,  the  multiplicity  of  ceremonies  in  the  Jew¬ 
ish  religion,  as  washings,  dresses,  meats,  purga¬ 
tions,  and  the  like.  The  reply  which  the  Jew 
makes  upon  this  occasion,  is,  to  the  best  of  my 
remembrance,  as  follows  :  “  There  are  not  duties 
enough,”  says  he,  “  in  the  essential  parts  of  the 
law,  for  a  zealous  and  active  obedience.  I  ime, 
place,  and  person  are  requisite,  before  you  have 
an  opportunity  of  putting  a  moral  virtue  into 
practice.  We  have  therefore,”  says  he,  “  enlarged 
the  sphere  of  our  duty,  and  made  many  things, 
which  are  in  themselves  indifferent,  a  part  of  our 
religion,  that  we  may  have  more  occasions  of 
showing  our  love  to  God,  and  in  all  the  circum¬ 
stances  of  life,  by  doing  something  to  please 
him.” 

Monsieur  St.  Evremond  has  endeavored  to  pal¬ 
liate  the  superstitions  of  the  Roman  Catholic  re¬ 
ligion  with  the  same  kind  of  apology,  where  he 
pretends  to  consider  the  different  spirits  of  the 
Papists  and  the  Calvinists,  as  to  the  great  points 
wherein  they  disagree.  He  tells  us,  that  the 
former  are  actuated  by  love,  and  the  other  by  fear; 
and  that  in  their  expressions  of  duty  and  devo¬ 
tion  toward  the  Supreme  Being,  the  former  seems 
particularly  careful  to  do  everything  which  may 
possibly  please  him,  and  the  other  to  abstain  from 
everything  which  may  possibly  displease  him. 

But  notwithstanding  this  plausible  reason  with 
which  both  the  Jew  and  the  Roman  Catholic 
would  excuse  their  respective  superstitions,  it  is 
certain  there  is  something  in  them  very  pernicious 
to  mankind,  and  destructive  to  religion  ;  because 
the  injunction  of  superfluous  ceremonies  makes 
such  actions  duties,  as  were  before  indifferent,  and 
by  that  means  renders  religion  more  burdensome 


and  difficult  than  it  is  in  its  own  nature,  betrays 
many  into  sins  of  omission  which  they  could  not 
otherwise  be  guilty  of,  and  fixes  the  mind  of  the 
vulgar  to  the  shadowy,  unessential  points,  instead 
of  the  more  weighty  and  more  important  matters 
of  the  law. 

This  zealous  and  active  obedience,  however, 
takes  place  in  the  great  point  we  are  recommend¬ 
ing  ;  for  if,  instead  of  prescribing  to  ourselves  in¬ 
different  actions  as  duties,  we  apply  a  good  inten¬ 
tion  to  all  our  most  indifferent  actions,  we  make 
our  very  existence  one  continued  act  of  obedience, 
we  turn  our  diversions  and  amusements  to  our 
eternal  advantage,  and  are  pleasing  Him  (whom 
we  are  made  to  please)  in  all  the  circumstances 
and  occurrences  of  life. 

It  is  this  excellent  frame  of  mind,  this  holy  of¬ 
ficiousness  (if  I  may  be  allowed  to  call  it  such), 
which  is  recommended  to  us  by  the  apostle  in  that 
uncommon  precept  wherein  he  directs  us  to  pro¬ 
pose  to  ourselves  the  glory  of  our  Creator  in  all 
our  most  indifferent^  actions,  “  whether  we  eat  or 
drink,  or  whatsoever  we  do.”* 

A  person,  therefore,  who  is  possessed  with  such 
an  habitual  good  intention  as  that  which  I  have 
been  here  speaking  of,  enters  upon  no  single  cir¬ 
cumstance  of  life,  without  considering  it  as  well¬ 
pleasing  to  the  great  Author  of  his  being,  con¬ 
formable  to  the  dictates  of  reason,  suitable  to 
human  nature  in  general,  or  to  that  particular  sta¬ 
tion  in  which  Providence  has  placed  him.  He 
lives  in  a  perpetual  sense  of  the  Divine  Presence, 
regards  himself  as  acting,  in  the  whole  course  of 
his  existence,  under  the  observation  and  inspec¬ 
tion  of  that  Being,  who  is  privy  to  all  his  motions 
and  all  his  thoughts,  who  knows  his  “down-sit¬ 
ting  and  his  uprising,  who  is  about  his  path,  and 
about  his  bed,  and  spieth  out  all  his  ways.”f  In 
a  word,  he  remembers  that  the  eye  of  his  Judge  is 
always  upon  him,  and  in  every  action  he  reflects 
that  he  is  doing  what  is  commanded  or  allowed 
by  him  who  will  hereafter  either  reward  or  punish 
it.  This  was  the  character  of  those  holy  men  of 
old,  who,  in  that  beautiful  phrase  of  Scripture, 
are  said  to  have  “  walked  with  God.”| 

When  I  employ  myself  upon  a  paper  of  mora¬ 
lity,  I  generally  consider  how  I  may  recommend 
the  particular  virtue  which  I  treat  of,  by  the  pre¬ 
cepts  or  examples  of  the  ancient  heathens;  by 
that  means,  if  possible,  to  shame  those  who  have 
greater  advantages  of  knowing  their  duty,  and 
therefore  greater  obligations  to  perform  it,  into  a 
better  course  of  life;  beside,  that  many  among  us 
are  unreasonably  disposed  to  give  a  fairer  hearing 
to  a  Pagan  philosopher  than  to  a  Christian  writer. 

I  shall,  therefore,  produce  an  instance  of  this 
excellent  frame  of  mind  in  a  speech  of  Socrates, 
which  is  quoted  by  Erasmus.  This  great  philoso¬ 
pher  on  the  day  of  his  execution,  a  little  before 
the  draught  of  poison  was  brought  to  him,  enter¬ 
taining  his  friends  with  a  discourse  on  the  immor¬ 
tality  of  the  soul,  has  these  words:  “Whether  or 
no  God  will  approve  of  my  actions,  I  know  not; 
but  this  I  am  sure  of,  that  I  have  at  all  times 
made  it  my  endeavor  to  please  him,  and  I  have  a 
good  hope  that  this  my  endeavor  will  be  accepted 
by  him.”  We  find  in  these  words  of  that  great 
man  the  habitual  good  intention  which  I  would 
here  inculcate,  and  with  which  that  divine  philo¬ 
sopher  always  acted.  1  shall  only  add,  that  Eras¬ 
mus,  who  was  an  unbigoted  Roman  catholic,  was 
so  much  transported  with  this  passage  of  Socrates, 
that  he  could  scarce  forbear  looking  upon  him  as 
a  saint,  and  desiring  him  to  pray  for  him;  or  as 


*  Splendida  pecc-ata. 


•f  Rom.,  vii,  13. 


*  1  Cor.,  x,  31. 

I  Gen.  v,  22;  vi,  9. 


f  Psalm.  cxxxix,  2, 3. 


THE  SPE  CTATOR. 


tli at  ingenious  and  learned  writer  has  expressed 
himself  in  a  much  more  lively  manner;  “  When  I 
reflect  on  such  a  speech,  pronounced  by  such  a 
person,  I  can  scarce  forbear  crying  out,  ‘  Sancte 
Socrates,  ora  pro  nobis.’  0  holy  Socrates,  pray  for 
us.”— L.  r  J 


No.  214.]  MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  5,  1711. 

- Perierunt  tempora  longi 

Servitii -  Juv.,  Sat.  iii,  124. 

A  long  dependence  in  an  hour  is  lost.— Drydex. 

I  did  some  time  ago  lay  before  the  world  the 
unhappy  condition  of  the  trading  part  of  man¬ 
kind,  who  suffer  by  want  of  punctuality  in  the 
dealings  of  persons  above  them;  but  there  is  a  set 
of  men  who  are  much  more  the  objects  of  compas¬ 
sion  than  even  those,  and  these  are  the  dependents 
on  grea,t  men,  whom  they  are  pleased  to  take  un¬ 
der  their  protection  as  such  as  are  to  share  in  their 
friendship  and  favor.  These  indeed,  as  well  from 
the  homage  that  is  accepted  from  them  as  the  hopes 
which  are  given  to  them,  are  become  a  sort  of  cre¬ 
ditors;  and  these  debts,  being  debts  of  honor, 
ought,  according  to  the  accustomed  maxim,  to  be 
first  discharged. 

When  I  speak  of  dependents,  I  would  not  be 
understood  to  mean  those  who  are  worthless  in 
themselves,  or  who,  without  any  call,  will  press 
into  the  company  of  their  betters.  Nor,  when  I 
speak  of  patrons,  do  I  mean  those  who  either 
have  it  not  in  their  power,  or  have  no  obligation 
to  assist  their  friends;  but  I  speak  of  such  leagues 
where  there  is  power  and  obligation  on  the  one 
part,  and  merit  and  expectation  on  the  other. 

.  The  division  of  patron  and  client,  may,  I  be¬ 
lieve,  include  a  third  of  our  nation:  the  want  of 
merit  and  real  worth  in  the  client,  will  strike  out 
about  ninety-nine  in  a  hundred  of  these;  and  the 
want  of  ability  in  patrons,  as  many  of  that  kind. 
But,  however,  I  must  beg  leave  to  say,  that  he  who 
will  take  up  another’s  time  and  fortune  in  his  ser¬ 
vice,  though  he  has  no  prospect  of  rewarding  his 
merit  toward  him,  is  as  unjust  in  his  dealings  as 
he  who  takes  up  goods  of  a  tradesman  without 
intention  or  ability  to  pay  him.  Of  the  few  of  the 
class  which  I  think  fit  to  consider,  there  are  not 
two  in  ten  who  succeed,  insomuch  that  I  know  a 
man  of  good  sense  who  put  his  son  to  a  black¬ 
smith,  though  an  offer  was  made  him  of  his 
being  received  as  a  page  to  a  man  of  quality. 
There  are  not  more  cripples  come  out  of  the  wars 
than  there  are  from  those  great  services;  some 
through  discontent  lose  their  speech,  some  their 
memories,  others  their  senses,  or  their  lives;  and 
I  seldom  see  a  man  thoroughly  discontented,  but 
I  conclude  he  has  had  the  favor  of  some  great 
man.  I  have  known  of  such  as  have  been  for 
twenty  years  together  within  a  month  of  a  good 
employment,  but  never  arrived  at  the  happiness 
of  being  possessed  of  anything. 

1  here  is  nothing  more  ordinary,  than  that  a 
man,  who  has  got  into  a  considerable  station,  shall 
immediately  alter  his  manner  of  treating  all  his 
friends,  and  fiom  that  moment  he  is  to  deal  with 
you  as  if  he  were  your  fate.  You  are  no  longer 
to  be  consulted,  even  in  matters  which  concern 
yourself ;  but  your  patron  is  of  a  species  above 
you,  and  a  free  communication  with  you  is  not  to 
be  expected.  This,  perhaps,  may  be  your  condi¬ 
tion  all  the  while  he  bears  office;  and  when  that  is 
at  an  end,  you  are  as  intimate  as  ever  you  were, 
and  he  will  take  it  very  ill  if  you  keep  the  dis¬ 
tance  he  prescribed  you  toward  him  in  his  gran¬ 
deur.  One  would  think  this  should  be  a  behavior 
a  man  could  fall  into  with  the  worst  grace  imagi- 


273 

liable;  but  they  who  know  the  world  have  seen  it 
more  than  once.  I  have  often,  with  secret  pity, 
leatd  the  same  man  who  has  professed  his  abhor¬ 
rence  against  all  kind  of  passive  behavior,  lose 
minutes,  hours,  days,  and  years,  in  a  fruitless  at¬ 
tendance  on  one  who  had  no  inclination  to  befriend 
him.  It  is  very  much  to  be  regretted,  that  the 
gieat  have  one  particular  privilege  above  the  rest 
ol  the  world,  ol  being  slow  in  receiving  impres¬ 
sions  of  kindness,  and  quick  in  taking  offense. 
1  he  elevation  above  the  rest  of  mankind,  except 
m  very  great  minds,  makes  men  so  giddy,  that 
they  do  not  see  after  the  same  manner  they  did  be¬ 
fore.  Thus  they  despise  their  old  friends,  and 
strive  to  extend  their  interests  to  new  pretenders. 
By  this*  means  it  often  happens,  that  when  you 
come  to  know  how  you  lost  such  an  employment, 
you  will  find  the  man  who  got  it  never  dreamed 
of  it;  but,  forsooth,  he  was  to  be  surprised  into  it, 
oi  pei  haps  solicited  to  receive  it.  Upon  such  oc¬ 
casions  as  these  a  man  may  perhaps  grow  out  of 
humor.  If  you  are  so,  all  mankind  will  fall  in 
with  the  patron,  and  you  are  a  humorist  and  un- 
tractable  if  you  are  capable  of  being  sour  at  a  dis¬ 
appointment:  but  it  is  the  same  thing  whether  you 
do  or  do  not  resent  ill-usage,  you  will  be  used  af- 
tei  the  same  manner;  as  some  good  mothers  will  be 
sure  to  whip  their  children  till  they  cry,  and  then 
whip  them  for  crying. 

There  are  but  two  ways  of  doing  anything  with 
gieat  people,  and  those  are  by  making  yourself 
eithei  considerable  or  agreeable.  The  former  is 
not  to  be  attained  but  by  finding  a  way  to  live 
without  them,  or  concealing  that  you  want  them; 
the  latter  is  only  by  falling  into  their  taste  and 
pleasures.  This  is,  of  all  the  employments  in  the 
world,  the  most  servile,  except  it,  happens  to  be 
of.  your  own  natural  humor.  For  to  be  agreeable 
to  another,  especially  if  he  be  above  you,  is  not  to 
be  possessed  of  such  qualifies  and  accomplish¬ 
ments  as  should  render  you1  agreeable  in  yourself 
but  such  as  make  you  agreeable  in  respect  to  him. 
An  imitation  of  his  faults,  or  a  compliance,  if 
not  subservience  to  his  vices,  must  be  the  measure 
of  your  conduct. 

When  it  comes  to  that,  the  unnatural  state  a 
man  lives  in,  when  his  patron  pleases,  is  ended; 
and  his  guilt  and  complaisance  are  objected  to 
him,  though  the  man  who  rejects  him  for  his  vices 
was  not  only  his  partner,  but  seducer.  Thus  the 
client  (like  a  young  woman  who  has  given  up  the 
innocence  which  made  her  charming)  has  not  only 
lost  his  time,  but  also  the  virtue  which  could  ren¬ 
der  him  capable  of  resenting  the  injury  which  is 
done  him. 

It  would  be  endless  to  recount  the  tricks  of  turn  - 
iug  you  off  from  themselves  to  persons  who  have 
less  power  to  serve  you,  the  art  of  being  sorry  for 
such  an  unaccountable  accident  in  your"  behavior, 
that  such  a  one  (who,  perhaps,  has  never  heard 
of  you)  opposes  your  advancement ;  and  if  you 
have  anything  more  than  ordinary  in  you,  you  are 
flattered  with  a  whisper,  that  it  is  no  wonder  peo¬ 
ple  are  so  slow  in  doing  for  a  man  of  your  talents, 
and  the  like. 

After  all  this  treatment,  I  must  still  add  the 
pleasantest  insolence  of  all,  which  I  have  once  or 
twice  seen ;  to  wit,  that  when  a  silly  rogue  has 
thrown  away  one  part  in  three  of  his  life  in  un¬ 
profitable  attendance,  it  is  taken  wonderfully  ill 
that  he  withdraws,  and  is  resolved  to  employ  the 
rest  for  himself. 

When  we  consider  these  things,  and  reflect  upoD 
so  many  honest  natures  (which  one,  who  makes 
observation  of  what  passes,  may  have  seen)  that 


*  These. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


274 


have  miscarried  by  such  sort  of  applications,  it  is 
too  melancholy  a  scene  to  dwell  upon  ;  therefore  I 
shall  take  another  opportunity  to  discourse  of 
good  patrons,  and  distinguish  such  as  have  done 
their  duty  to  those  who  have  depended  upon  them, 
and  were  not  able  to  act  without  their  favor. 
Worthy  patrons  are  like  Plato’s  Guardian  Angels, 
who  are  always  doing  good  to  their  wards  ;  but 
negligent  patrons  are  like  Epicurus’s  gods,  that 
lie  lolling  on  the  clouds,  and,  instead  of  blessings, 
pour  down  storms  and  tempests  on  the  heads  of 
those  that  are  offering  incense  to  them.* 

T. 


No.  215.]  TUESDAY,  NOVEMBER  6,  1711. 

- Ingenuas  didicisse  fideliter  artes 

Emollit  mores,  nec  sinet  esse  feros. 

Ovid,  de  Ponto,  II,  ix,  47. 
Ingenuous  arts,  where  they  an  entrance  find, 

Soften  the  manners,  and  subdue  the  mind. 

k 

I  consider  a  human  soul  without  education  like 
marble  in  the  quarry,  which  shows  none  of  its 
inherent  beauties,  until  the  skill  of  the  polisher 
fetches  out  the  colors,  makes  the  surface  shine,  and 
discovers  every  ornamental  cloud,  spot,  and  vein 
that  runs  through  the  body  of  it.  Education, 
after  the  same  manner,  when  it  works  upon  a 
noble  mind,  draws  out  to  view  every  latent  virtue 
and  perfection,  which  without  such  helps  are 
never  able  to  make  their  appearance. 

If  my  reader  will  give  me  leave  to  change  the 
allusion  so  soon  upon  him,  I  shall  make  use  of 
the  same  instance  to  illustrate  the  force  of  educa¬ 
tion,  which  Aristotle  has  brought  to  explain  his 
doctrine  of  substantial  forms,  when  lie  tells  us 
that  a  statue  lies  hid  in  a  block  of  marble  ;  and 
that  the  art  of  the  statuary  only  clears  away  the 
superfluous  matter,  and  removes  the  rubbish. 
The  figure  is  in  stone,  the  sculptor  only  finds  it. 
What  sculpture  is  to  a  block  of  marble,  education 
is  to  a  human  soul.  The  philosopher,  the  saint, 
or  the  hero,  the  wise,  the  good,  or  the  great  man, 
very  often  lie  hid  and  concealed  in  a  plebeian, 
which  a  proper  education  might  have  disinterred, 
and  have  brought  to  light.  I  am  therefore,  much 
delighted  with  reading  the  accounts  of  savage 
nations,  and  with  contemplating  those  virtues 
which  are  wild  and  uncultivated;  to  see  courage 
exerting  itself  in  fierceness,  resolution  in  obsti¬ 
nacy,  wisdom  in  cunning,  patience  in  sullenness 
and  despair. 

Men’s  passions  operate  variously,  and  appear  in 
different  kinds  of  actions,  according  as  they  are 
more  or  less  rectified  and  swayed  by  reason. 
When  one  hears  of  negroes,  who  upon  the  death 
of  their  masters,  or  upon  changing  their  service, 
hang  themselves  upon  the  next  tree,  as  it  frequent¬ 
ly  happens  in  our  American  plantations,  who  can 
forbear  admiring  their  fidelity,  though  it  ex¬ 
presses  itself  in  so  dreadful  a  manner?  What 
might  not  that  savage  greatness  of  soul  which  ap- 
ears  in  these  poor  wretches  on  many  occasions 
e  raised  to  were  it  rightly  cultivated?  And  what 
color  of  excuse  can  there  be  for  the  contempt  with 
which  we  treat  this  part  of  our  species?  that  we 
should  not  put  them  upon  the  common  foot  of 
humanity;  that  we  should  only  set  an  insignificant 
fine  upon  the  man  who  murders  them;  nay,  that 
we  should,  as  much  as  in  us  lies,  cut  them  off 
from  the  prospect  of  happiness  in  another  world 
as  well  as  in  this,  and  deny  them  that  which  we 
look  upon  as  the  proper  means  for  attaining  it? 


*The  Spectator  has  not  justly  represented  here  the  gods  of 
Epicurus :  they  were  supposed  to  he  indolent  and  uninterest¬ 
ed  in  the  affairs  of  men,  but  not  malignant  or  cruel  beings. 


Since  I  am  engaged  on  this  subject,  I  cannot 
forbear  mentioning  a  story  which  I  have  lately 
heard,  and  which  is  so  well  attested,  that  I  have 
no  manner  of  reason  to  suspect  the  truth  of  it.  I 
may  call  it  a  kind  of  wild  tragedy  that  passed 
about  twelve  years  ago  at  St.  Christopher’s,  one 
of  our  British  Leeward  islands.  The  negroes,  who 
were  the  persons  concerned  in  it,  were  all  of  them 
the  slaves  of  a  gentleman,  who  is  now  in  Eng¬ 
land. 

This  gentleman,  among  his  negroes,  had  a 
young  woman,  who  was  looked  upon  as  a  most 
extraordinary  beauty  by  those  of  her  own  com¬ 
plexion.  He  had  at  the  same  time  two  young 
fellows,  who  were  likewise  negroes  and  slaves, 
remarkable  for  the  comeliness  of  their  persons, 
and  for  the  friendship  which  they  bore  to  one 
another.  It  unfortunately  happened  that  both  of 
them  fell  in  love  with  the  female  negro  above- 
mentioned,  who  would  have  been  very  glad  to 
have  taken  either  of  them  for  her  husband,  pro¬ 
vided  they  would  agree  between  themselves  which 
should  be  the  man.  But  they  were  both  so  pas¬ 
sionately  in  love  with  her,  that  neither  of  them 
would  think  of  giving  her  up  to  his  rival ;  and  at 
the  same  time  were  so  true  to  one  another,  that 
neither  of  them  would  think  of  gaining  her  with¬ 
out  his  friend’s  consent.  The  torments  of  these 
two  lovers  were  the  discourse  of  the  family  to 
which  they  belonged,  who  could  not  forbear  ob¬ 
serving  the  strange  complication  of  passions 
which  perplexed  the  hearts  of  the  poor  negroes, 
that  often  dropped  expressions  of  the  uneasiness 
they  underwent,  and  how  impossible  it  was  for 
either  of  them  ever  to  be  happy. 

After  a  long  struggle  between  love  and  friend¬ 
ship,  truth  and  jealousy,  they  one  day  took  a  walk 
together  into  a  wood,  carrying  their  mistress  along 
with  them  :  where,  after  abundance  of  lamenta¬ 
tions,  they  stabbed  her  to  the  heart,  of  which  she 
immediately  died.  A  slave  who  was  at  his  work 
not  far  from  the  place  where  this  astonishing  piece 
of  cruelty  was  committed,  hearing  the  shrieks  of 
the  dying  person,  ran  to  see  what  was  the  occa¬ 
sion  of  them.  He  there  discovered  the  woman 
lying  dead  upon  the  ground,  with  the  two  negroes 
on  each  side  of  her,  kissing  the  dead  corpse, 
weeping  over  it,  and  beating  their  breasts  in  the 
utmost  agonies  of  grief  and  despair.  He  im¬ 
mediately  ran  to  the  English  family  with  the  news 
of  what  he  had  seen  ;  who,  upon  coining  to  the 
place,  saw  the  woman  dead,  and  the  two  negroes 
expiring  by  her  with  wounds  they  had  given  them¬ 
selves. 

We  see  in  this  amazing  instance  of  barbarity, 
what  strange  disorders  are  bred  in  the  minds  of 
those  men  whose  passions  are  not  regulated  by 
virtue,  and  disciplined  by  reason.  Though  the 
action  which  I  have  recited  is  in  itself  full  of 
guilt  and  horror,  it  proceeded  from  a  temper  of 
mind  which  might  have  produced  very  noble 
fruits,  had  it  been  informed  and  guided  by  a  suit¬ 
able  education. 

It  is  therefore  an  unspeakable  blessing  to  be 
born  in  those  parts  of  the  world  where  wisdom 
and  knowledge  flourish  ;  though  it  must  be  con¬ 
fessed,  there  are,  even  in  these  parts,  several  poor 
uninstructed  persons,  who  are  but  little  above  the 
inhabitants  of  those  nations  of  which  I  have  been 
here  speaking;  as  those  who  have  had  the  advan¬ 
tage  of  a  more  liberal  education  rise  above  one 
another  by  several  different  degrees  of  perfection. 
For,  to  return  to  our  statue  in  the  block  of  marble, 
we  see  it  sometimes  only  begun  to  be  chipped, 
sometimes  rough-hewn,  and  but  just  sketched  into 
a  human  figure  ;  sometimes  we  see  the  man  ap¬ 
pearing  distinctly  in  all  his  limbs  and  features, 


the  s  p  e  c  t  a  T  0  R . 


sometimes  we  find  the  figure  wrought  up  to  a 
great  elegancy,  but  seldom  meet  with  any  to  which 
the  hand  of  a  Phidias  or  Praxiteles  could  not  give 
several  nice  touches  and  finishings. 

Discourses  of  morality,  and  reflections  upon 
human  nature,  are  the  best  means  we  can  make 
use  of  to  improve  our  minds,  and  gain  a  true 
knowledge  of  ourselves,  and  consequently  to  re¬ 
cover  our  souls  out  of  the  vice,  ignorance,  and 
prejudice,  which  naturally  cleave  to  them.  I  have 
all  along  professed  myself  in  this  paper  a  pro¬ 
moter  of  these  great  ends;  and  I  flatter  myself  that 
I  do  from  day  to  day  contribute  something  to  the 
polishing  of  men’s  minds:  at  least  my  design  is 
laudable,  whatever  the  execution  may  be.  I  must 
confess  I  am  not  a  little  encouraged  in  it  by  many 
letters  which  I  receive  from  unknown  hands,  in 
approbation  of  my  endeavors;  and  must  take  this 
opportunity  of  returning  my  thanks  to  those  who 
write  them,  and  excusing  myself  for  not  inserting 
several  of  them  in  my  papers,  which  I  am  sem 
sible  would  be  a  very  great  ornament  to  them. 
Should  I  publish  the  praises  which  are  so  well 
penned,  they  would  do  honor  to  the  persons  who 
write  them,  but  my  publishing  of  them  would,  I 
fear,  be  a  sufficient  instance  to  the  world  that’  I 
did  not  deserve  them. — C. 


275 


No.  216.]  WEDNESDAY,  NOVEMBER  7,  1711. 

Siquidem  hercle  possis,  nil  prius,  neque  fortius 
Veruru  si  incipies,  neque  perficies  naviter, 

Atque,  ubi  pati  non  poteris,  cum  nemo  expetet, 

Infecta  pace,  ultro  ad  earn  venies,  indicans 
Te  amare,  et  ferre  non  posse  :  actum  est,  ilicet, 

Peris ti :  eludet,  ubi  te  victum  senserit. 

Ter.  Eun.,  Act.  i,  Sc.  1. 

0  brave!  oh  excellent!  if  you  maintain  #! 

But  it  you  try,  and  can’t  go  through  with  spirit, 

And  finding  you  can’t  bear  it,  uninvited, 

Your  peace  unmade,  all  of  your  own  accord, 

You  come  and  swear  you  love,  and  can’t  endure  it, 
Goodnight!  all’s  over!  ruin’d!  and  undone! 

She  11  jilt  you,  when  she  sees  you  in  her  power. 

Colman. 


Sir, 


“To  Mr.  Spectator. 


“This  is  to  inform  you,  that  Mr.  Freeman  had 
no  sooner  taken  coach,  but  his  lady  was  taken 
with  a  terrible  fit  of  the  vapors,  which  it  is  feared 
will  make  her  miscarry,  if  not  endanger  her  life- 
therefore,  dear  Sir,  if  you  know  of  any  receipt 
that  is  good  against  this  fashionable  reignino-  dis¬ 
temper,  be  pleased  to  communicate  it  for  the^good 
of  the  public,  and  you  will  oblige  yours, 

“A.  Noewill.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

The  uproar  was  so  great  as  soon  as  I  had  read 
the  Spectator  concerning  Mrs.  Freeman,  that  after 
many  revolutions  in  her  temper,  of  raging,  swoon¬ 
ing,  railing  fainting,  pitying  herself,  and  reviling 
nei  husband,  upon  an  accidental  coming  in  of  a 
neighboring  lady  (who  says  she  has  written  to 
you  also),  she  had  nothing  left  for  it  but  to  fall 
into  a  fit.  I  had  the  honor  to  read  the  paper  to 
her,  and  have  pretty  good  command  of  counte¬ 
nance  and  temper  on  such  occasions ;  and  soon 
^und  my  historical  name  to  be  Tom  Meg-o-ot  in 
your  writings,  but  concealed  myself  until  I  saw 
how  it  affected  Mrs.  Freeman.  She  looked  fre¬ 
quently  at  her  husband,  as  often  at  me  and  she 
did  not  tremble  as  she  filled  tea,  until  she  came  to 
the  circumstance  of  Armstrong’s  writing  out  a 
piece  of  Tully  for  an  opera  tune.  Then  she  burst 
out,  she  was  exposed,  she  was  deceived,  she  was 
wronged  and  abused.  The  tea-cup  was  thrown 
o  t  le  fire;  and  without  taking  vengeance  on  her 


spouse,  she  said  to  me,  that  I  was  a  pretending 
coxcomb,  a  meddler  that  knew  not  what  it  was  to 
interpose  in  so  nice  an  affair  as  between  a  man 
and  his  wife.  To  which  Mr.  Freeman:  ‘Madam 
were  I  less  lond  of  you  than  I  am,  I  should  not 
have  taken  this  way  of  writing  to  the  Spectator 
to  inform  a  woman,  whom  God  and  nature  has 
placed  under  my  direction,  with  what  I  request  of 
lien;  but  since  you  are  so  indiscreet  as  not  to  take 
the  hint  which  I  gave  you  in  that  paper,  I  must 
tell  you,  Madam,  m  so  many  words,  that  you  have 
for  a  long  and  tedious  space  of  time  acted  a  part 
unsuitable  to  the  sense  you  ought  to  have  of  the 
subordination  in  which  you  are  placed.  And  I 
must  acquaint  you,  once  for  all,  that  the  fellow 
without  ‘Ha,  Tom! — (here  the  footman  entered 
and  answered,  Madam)  ‘Sirrah,  don’t  you  know 
my  voice?  Look  upon  me  when  I  speak  to  you.’ 

‘I  say.  Madam,  this  fellow  here  is  to  know  of 
me  myself,  whether  I  am  at  leisure  to  see  com¬ 
pany  or  not.  I  am  from  this  hour  master  of  this 
house;  and  my  business  in  it,  and  everywhere 
else  is  to  behave  myself  in  such  a  manner,  as  it 
sliall  be  hereafter  an  honor  to  you  to  bear  my 
name;  and  your  pride  that  you  are  the  delight,  the 
darling,  and  ornament  of  a  man  of  honor,  useful 
and  esteemed  by  his  friends;  and  I  no  longer  one 
that  has  buried  some  merit  in  tfie  world,  in  com¬ 
pliance  to  a  Iroward  humor  which  has  grown  upon 
an  agreeable  woman  by  his  indulgence.’  Mr  Free¬ 
man  ended  this  with  a  tenderness  in  his  aspect 
and  a  downcast  eye,  which  showed  he  was  ex¬ 
tremely  moved  at  the  anguish  he  saw  her  in  •  for 
she  sat  swelling  with  passion,  and  her  eyes  firmly 
fixed  on  the  fire;  when  I,  fearing  he  would  lose  all 
again  took  upon  me  to  provoke  her  out  of  that 
amiable  sorrow  she  was  in,  to  fall  upon  me;  upon 
I  1 8a^  very  seasonably  for  my  friend,  that 
indeed  Mr.  Freeman  was  become  the  common  talk 
of  the  town;  and  that  nothing  was  so  much  a  jest 
as  when  it  was  said  in  company,  Mr.  Freeman  had 
promised  to  come  to  such  a  place.  Upon  which 
the  good  lady  turned  her  softness  into  downright 
rage  and  threw  the  scalding  teakettle  upon  your 
humble  servant,  flew  into  the  middle  of  the  room 
and  cried  out  she  was  the  unfortunatest  of  all  wo¬ 
men.  Others  kept  family  dissatisfactions  for  hours 
ot  privacy  and  retirement.  No  apology  was  to  be 
made  to  her,  no  expedient  to  be  found,  no  previous 
manner  of  breaking  what  was  amiss  in  her;  but  all 
the  world  was  to  be  acquainted  with  her  errors, 
without  the  least  admonition.  Mr.  Freeman  was 
going  to  make  a  softening  speech,  but  I  interposed’: 
‘Look  you.  Madam,  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  this 
matter,  but  you  ought  to  consider  you  are  now 
past  a  chicken;  this  humor,  which  was  well  enough 
in  a  girl,  is  insufferable  in  one  of  your  motherly 
character.  With  that  she  lost  all  patience,  and 
new  directly  at  her  husband’s  periwig.  I  got  her 
in  my  arms,  and  defended  my  friend;  he  making 
signs  at  the  same  time  that  it  was  too  much  ;  I 
beckoning,  nodding,  and  frowning  over  her  shoul¬ 
der,  that  he  was  lost  if  he  did  not  persist.  In 
this  manner  we  flew  around  and  round  the  room 
in  a  moment,  until  the  lady  I  spoke  of  above  and 
servants  entered;  upon  which  she  fell  upon  the 
couch  as  breathless.  I  still  kept  up  my  friend: 
but  he,  with  a  very  silly  air,  bid  them  bring  the 
coach  to  the  door,  and  we  went  off;  I  being  forced 
to  bid  the  coachman  drive  on.  We  were  no  sooner 
come  to  my  lodgings,  but  all  his  wife’s  relations 
came  to  inquire  after  him ;  and  Mrs.  Freeman’s 
mother  wrote  a  note,  wherein  she  thought  never 
to  have  seen  this  day,  and  so  forth. 

“In  a  word.  Sir,  I  am  afraid  we  are  upon  a 
thing  we  have  no  talents  for ;  and  I  can  observe 
already,  my  friend  looks  upon  me  rather  as  a  man. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


276 

that  knows  a  weakness  of  him  that  he  is  ashamed 
of,  than  one  who  has  rescued  him  from  slavery. 
Mr.  Spectator,  I  am  but  a  young  fellow,  and  if 
Mr.  Freeman  submits,  I  shall  be  looked  upon  as  an 
incendiary,  and  never  get  a  wife  as'  long  as  I 
breathe.  He  has  indeed  sent  word  home  he  shall 
lie  at  Hampstead  to-night ;  but  I  believe  fear  of 
the  first  onset  after  this  rupture  has  too  great  a 
place  in  this  resolution.  Mrs.  Freeman  has  a  very 
pretty  sister;  suppose  I  delivered  him  up,  and 
articled  with  her  mother  for  her  bringing  him 
home.  If  he  has  not  courage  to  stand  it  (you  are 
a  great  casuist),  is  it  such  an  ill  thing  to  bring 
myself  off  as  well  as  I  can  ?  What  makes  me 
doubt  my  man  is,  that  I  find  he  thinks  it  reasona¬ 
ble  to  expostulate  at  least  with  her  ?  and  Captain 
Sentry  will  tell  you,  if  you  let  your  orders  be 
disputed,  you  are  no  longer  a  commander.  I  wish 
you  could  advise  me  how  to  get  clear  of  this  busi¬ 
ness  handsomely.  “  Yours, 

T.  “  Tom  Meggot.” 


Ho.  217.]  THURSDAY,  NOVEMBER  8,  1711. 

- Tunc  foemina  simplex, 

Et  pariter  toto  repetitur  clamor  ab  antro. 

Juv.,  Sat.  vi,  326. 

Then  unrestrain’d  by  rules  of  decency, 

TIT  assembled  females  raise  a  general  cry. 

I  shall  entertain  my  reader  to-day  with  some 
letters  from  my  correspondents.  The  first  of  them 
is  the  description  of  a  club,  whether  real  or  ima¬ 
ginary  I  cannot  determine;  but  am  apt  to  fancy, 
that  the  writer  of  it,  whoever  she  is,  has  formed  a 
kind  of  nocturnal  orgie  out  of  her  own  fancy. 
Whether  this  be  so  or  not,  her  letter  may  conduce 
to  the  amendment  of  that  kind  of  persons  who  are 
represented  in  it,  and  whose  characters  are  frequent 
enough  in  the  world. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  In  some  of  your  first  papers  you  were  pleased 
to  give  the  public  a  very  diverting  account  of  sev¬ 
eral  clubs  and  nocturnal  assemblies  ;  but  I  am  a 
member  of  a  society  which  has  wholly  escaped 
your  notice,  I  mean  a  club  of  She- Romps.  We 
take  each  a  hackney-coach,  and  meet  once  a  week 
in  a  large  upper-chamber,  which  we  hire  by  the 
year  for  that  purpose  ;  our  landlord  and  his  family, 
who  are  quiet  people,  constantly  contriving  to  be 
abroad  on  our  club-night.  We  are  no  sooner  come 
together,  than  we  throw  off  all  that  modesty  and 
reservedness  with  which  our  sex  are  obliged  to 
disguise  themselves  in  public  places.  I  am  not 
able  to  express  the  pleasure  we  enjoy  from  ten  at 
night  till  four  in  the  morning,  in  being  as  rude  as 
ou  men  can  be  for  your  lives.  As  our  play  runs 
igh,  the  room  is  immediately  filled  with  broken 
fans,  torn  petticoats,  lappets,  or  head-dresses, 
flounces,  furbelows,  garters,  and  working-aprons. 
I  had  forgot  to  tell  you  at  first,  that  beside  the 
coaches  we  come  in  ourselves,  there  is  one  which 
stands  always  empty  to  carry  off  our  dead  men, 
for  so  we  call  all  those  fragments  and  tatters  with 
which  the  room  is  strewed,  and  which  we  pack  up 
together  in  bundles,  and  put  into  the  aforesaid 
coach.  It  is  no  small  diversion  for  us  to  meet  the 
next  night  at  some  member’s  chamber,  where  every 
one  is  to  pick  out  what  belongs  to  her  from  this 
confused  bundle  of  silks,  stuffs,  laces,  and  ribbons. 
I  have  hitherto  given  you  an  account  of  our  diver¬ 
sion  on  ordinary  club-nights  ;  but  must  acquaint 
you  further,  that  once  a  month  we  demolish  a 
prude,  that  is,  we  get  some  queer,  formal  creature 
in  among  us,  and  unrig  her  in  an  instant.  Our 
last  month’s  prude  was  so  armed  and  fortified  in 


whalebone  and  buckram,  that  we  had  much  ado 
to  come  at  her  ;  but  you  would  have  died  with 
laughing  to  have  seen  how  the  sober,  awkward 
thing  looked  when  she  was  forced  out  of  her  in- 
trenchments.  In  short,  Sir,  it  is  impossible  to 
give  you  a  true  notion  of  our  sport,  unless  you 
would  come  one  night  among  us  ;  and  though  it 
be  directly  against  the  rules  of  our  society  to  ad¬ 
mit  a  male  visitant,  we  repose  so  much  confidence 
in  your  silence  and  taciturnity,  that  it  was  agreed 
by  the  whole  club,  at  our  last  meeting,  to  give  you 
entrance  for  one  night  as  a  Spectator. 

“I  am  your  humble  Servant, 

“  Kitty  Termagant.” 

«  P.  S.  We  shall  demolish  a  prude  next  Thurs¬ 
day.” 

Though  I  thank  Kitty  for  her  kind  offer,  I  do 
not  at  present  find  in  myself  any  inclination,  to 
venture  my  person  with  her  and  her  romping 
companions.  I  should  regard  myselt  as  a  second 
Clodius  intruding  on  the  mysterious  rites  of  the 
Bona  Dea,  and  should  apprehend  being  demol¬ 
ished  as  much  as  the  prude. 

The  following  letter  comes  from  a  gentleman, 
whose  taste  I  find  is  much  too  delicate  to  endure 
the  least  advance  toward  romping.  I  may  per¬ 
haps  hereafter  improve  upon  the  hint  he  has 
given  me,  and  make  it  the  subject  of.  a  whole 
Spectator ;  in  the  meantime  take  it  as  it  follows 
in  his  own  words  : 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  It  is  my  misfortune  to  be  in  love  with  a  young 
creature  who  is  daily  committing  faults,  which, 
though  they  give  me  the  utmost  uneasiness,  1 
know  not  flow  to  reprove  her  for,  or  even  acquaint 
her  with.  She  is  pretty,  dresses  well,  is  rich, 
and  good-humored  ;  but  either  wholly  neglects, 
or  has  no  notion  of  that  which  polite  people  have 
agreed  to  distinguish  by  the  name  of  delicacy. 
After  our  return  from  a  walk  the  other  day  she 
threw  herself  into  an  elbow-chair,  and  professed 
before  a  large  company,  that  she  was  all  over  in  a 
sweat.  She  told  me  this  afternoon  that  her  stom¬ 
ach  ached ;  and  was  complaining  yesterday  at 
dinner  of  something  that  stuck  in  her  teeth.  I 
treated  her  with  a  basket  of  fruit  last  summer, 
which  she  ate  so  very  greedily,  as  almost  made  me 
resolve  never  to  see  her  more.  In  short,  Sir,  I  be¬ 
gin  to  tremble  whenever  I  see  her  about  to  speak 
or  move.  As  she  does  not  want  sense,  if  she  takes 
these  hints  I  am  happy ;  if  not,  I  am  more  than 
afraid,  that  these  things,  which  shock  me  even  in 
the  behavior  of  a  mistress,  will  appear  insup¬ 
portable  in  that  of  a  wife. 

“I  am,  Sir,  yours,”  etc. 

My  next  letter  comes  from  a  correspondent 
whom  I  cannot  but  very  much  value,  upon  the 
account  which  she  gives  of  herself. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  happily  arrived  at  a  state  of  tranquillity, 
which  few  people  envy,  I  mean  that  of  an  old 
maid  ;  therefore  being  wholly  unconcerned  in  all 
that  medley  of  follies  which  our  sex  is  apt  to  con¬ 
tract  from  their  silly  fondness  of  yours,  I  read 
your  railleries  on  us  without  provocation.  I  can 
say  with  Hamlet, 

- Man  delights  not  me, 

Nor  woman  either. 

“Therefore,  dear  Sir,  as  you  never  spare  your 
own  sex,  do  not  be  afraid  of  reproving  what  is 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


ridiculous  in  ours,  and  you  will  oblige  at  loast 
one  woman  who  is, 

“  Your  humble  Servant, 

“  Susannah  Frost.” 

“Mu.  Spectator, 

“I  am  wife  to  a  clergyman,  and  cannot  help 
thinking  that  in  your  tenth  or  tithe  character  of 
womankind  you  meant  myself,  therefore  I  have  no 
quarrel  against  you  for  the  other  nine  characters. 

“  Your  humble  Servant,” 

x-  “A.  B.” 


Xo.  218.]  FRIDAY,  NOVEMBER  9,  1711. 

Quid  de  quoquc  viro,  et  cui  dicas,  soepe  caveto. 

Hor.  Ep.  xvii,  68. 

- — - Have  a  care 

Of  whom  you  talk,  to  whom,  and  what,  and  where. 

POOLEY. 

I  happened  the  other  day,  as  my  way  is,  to 
stroll  into  a  little  coffee-house  beyond  Aldgate  ; 
and  as  I  sat  there,  two  or  three  very  plain  sensible 
men  were  talking  of  the  Spectator.  One  said,  he 
had  that  morning  drawn  the  great  benefit  ticket ; 
another  wished  he  had ;  but  a  third  shook  his 
head  and  said,  “It  was  a  pity  that  the  writer  of 
that  paper  was  such  a  sort  of  man,  that  it  was  no 
great  matter  whether  he  had  it  or  no.  He  is,  it 
seems,  said  the  good  man,  “  the  most  extrava¬ 
gant  creature  in  the.  world  ;  has  run  through  vast 
sums,  and  yet  been  in  continual  want :  a  man,  for 
all  he  talks  so  well  of  economy,  unfit  for  any  of 
the  offices  of  life  by  reason  of  his  profuseness. 
It  would  be  an  unhappy  thing  to  be  his  wife,  his 
child,  or  his  friend  ;  and  yet  he  talks  as  well  of 
those  duties  of  life  as  any  one.”  Much  reflection 
has  brought  me  to  so  easy  a  contempt  for  every¬ 
thing  which  is  false,  that  this  heavy  accusation 
gave  me  no  manner  of  uneasiness  ;  but  at  the 
same  time  it  threw  me  into  deep  thought  upon  the 
subject  of  fame  in  general ;  and  I  could  not  but 
pity  such  as  were  so  weak,  as  to  value  what  the 
common  people  say  out  of  their  own  talkative 
temper  to  the  advantage  or  diminution  of  those 
whom  they  mention,  without  being  moved  either 
by  malice  or  good-will.  It  will  be  too  long  to 
expatiate  upon  the  sense  all  mankind  have  of 
fame,  and  the  inexpressible  pleasure  which  there 
is  in  the  approbation  of  worthy  men,  to  all  who 
are  capable  of  worthy  actions  ;  but  methinks  one 
may  divide  the  general  word  fame,  into  three  dif¬ 
ferent  species,  as  it  regards  the  different  orders  of 
mankind  who  have  anything  to  do  with  it.  Fame 
therefore  may  be  divided  into  glory,  which  res¬ 
pects  the  hero  ;  reputation,  which  is  preserved  by 
every  gentleman  ;  and  credit,  which  must  be  sup¬ 
ported  by  every  tradesman.  These  possessions  in 
fame  are  dearer  than  life  to  those  characters  of 
men,  or  rather  are  the  life  of  these  characters. 
Glory,  while  the  hero  pursues  great  and  noble 
enterprises,  is  impregnable ;  and  all  the  assail¬ 
ants  of  his  renown  do  but  show  their  pain  and 
impatience  of  its  brightness,  without  throwing  the 
least  shade  upon  it.  If  the  foundation  of  a  high 
name  be  virtue  and  service,  all  that  is  offered 
against  it  is  but  rumor,  which  is  too  short-lived 
to  stand  up  in  competition  with  glory,  which  is 
everlasting.  J 

Reputation,  which  is  the  poicion  of  every  man 
who  would  live  with  the  elegant  and  knowing 
part  of  mankind,  is  as  stable  as  glory,  if  it  be  as 
well  founoed  ;  and  the  common  cause  of  human 
society  is  thought  concerned  when  we  hear  a  man 
of  good  behavior  calumniated.  Beside  which,  ac¬ 
cording  to  a  prevailing  custom  among  us,  every 


277 

man  has  his  defense  in  his  own  arm  ;  and  reproach 
is  soon  checked,  put  out  of  ’countenance,  and  over¬ 
taken  by  disgrace. 

The  most  unhappy  of  all  men,  and  the  most 
exposed  to  the  malignity  or  wantonness  of  the 
common  voice,  is  the  trader.  Credit  is  undone  in 
whispers.  The  tradesman’s  wound  is  received 
from  one  who  is  more  private  and  more  cruel  than 
the  ruffian  with  the  lantern  and  dagger.  The 
manner  of  repeating  a  man’s  name,— As  :  “  Mr. 
Cash,  Oh  !  do  you  leave  your  money  at  his  shop? 
Why,  do  you  know  Mr.  Searoom  ?  He  is  indeed  a 
general  merchant.”  I  say,  I  have  seen,  from  the 
iteration  of  a  man’s  name  hiding  one  thought  of 
him,  and  explaining  what  you  Hide,  by  saying 
something  to  liis  advantage  when  you  speak,  a  mer¬ 
chant  hurt  in  his  credit ;  and  him  who,  every  day 
he  lived,  literally  added  to  the  value  of  his  native 
country,  undone  by  one  who  was  only  a  burden 
and  a  blemish  to  it.  Since  everybody  who  knows 
the  world  is  sensible  of  this  great  evil,  how  care¬ 
ful  ought  a  man  to  be  in  his  language  of  a  mer¬ 
chant?  It  may  possibly  be  in  the  power  of  a 
very  shallow  creature  to  lay  the  ruin  of  the  best  fam¬ 
ily  in  the  most  opulent  city ;  and  the  more  so,  the 
more  highly  he  deserves  of  his  country ;  that  is 
to  say,  the  further  he  places  his  wealth  out  of  his 
hands,  to  draw  home  that  of  another  climate. 

In  this  case  an  ill  word  may  change  plenty  into 
want,  and  by  a  rash  sentence  a  free  and  generous 
fortune  may  in  a  few  days  be  reduced  to  beggary. 
How  little  does  a  giddy  prater  imagine,  that  an 
idle  phrase  to  the  disfavor  of  a  merchant,  may  be 
as  pernicious  in  the  consequence,  as  the  forgery  of 
a  deed  to  bar  an  inheritance  would  be  to  a  gentle¬ 
man  ?  Land  stands  where  it  did  before  a  gentleman 
was  calumniated,  and  the  state  of  a  great  action 
is  just  as  it  was  before  calumny  was  offered  to  di¬ 
minish  it,  and  there  is  time,  place,  and  occasion 
expected  to  unravel  all  that  is  contrived  against 
those  characters:  but  the  trader  who  is  ready  only 
for  probable  demands  upon  him,  can  have  no  ar¬ 
mor  against  the  inquisitive,  the  malicious  and  the 
envious,  who  are  prepared  to  fill  the  cry  to  his 
dishonor.  Fire  and  sword  are  slow  engines  of  de¬ 
struction,  in  comparison  of  the  babbler  in  the 
case  of  the  merchant. 

F or  this  reason,  I  thought  it  an  inimitable  piece 
of  humanity  of  a  gentleman  of  my  acquaintance, 
who  had  great  variety  of  affairs,  and  used  to  talk 
with  warmth  enough  against  gentlemen  by  whom 
he  thought  himself  ill  dealt  with;  that  he  would 
never  let  anything  be  urged  against  a  merchant 
(with  whom  he  had  any  difference)  except  in  a 
court  of  justice.  He  used  to  say,  that  to  speak  ill 
of  a  merchant  was  to  begin  his  suit  with  judgment 
and  execution.  One  cannot,  I  think,  say  more  on 
this  occasion,  than  to  repeat,  that  the  merit  of  the 
merchant  is  above  that  of  all  other  subjects;  for 
while  he  is  untouched  in  his  credit,  his  hand-wri¬ 
ting  is  a  more  portable  coin  for  the  service  of  his 
fellow-citizens,  and  his  word  the  gold  of  Ophir  to 
the  country  wherein  he  resides. — T. 


No.  219.]  SATURDAY,  NOVEMBER  10,  1711. 

Vix  ea  nostra  toco. -  Ovld.  Met.,  xiii,  141. 

These  I  scarce  call  our  own. 

There  are  but  few  men  who  are  not  ambitious 
of  distinguishing  themselves  in  the  nation  or 
country  where  they  live,  and  of  growing  consider¬ 
able  among  those  with  whom  they  converse.  There 
is  a  kind  of  grandeur  and  respect,  which  the 
meanest  and  most  insignificant  part  of  mankind 
endeavor  to  procure  in  the  little  circle  of  their 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


278 

friends  and  acquaintance.  The  poorest  mechanic, 
nay,  the  man  who  lives  upon  common  alms,  gets 
him  his  set  of  admirers,  and  delights  in  that  su¬ 
periority  which  he  enjoys  over  those  who  are  in 
some  respects  beneath  him.  This  ambition,  which 
is  natural  to  the  soul  of  man,  might,  methinks, 
receive  a  very  happy  turn;  and,  if  it  were  rightly 
directed,  contribute  as  much  to  a  person’s  advan¬ 
tage,  as  it  generally  does  to  his  uneasiness  and 
disquiet. 

I  shall  therefore  put  together  some  thoughts  on 
this  subject,  which  I  have  not  met  with  in  other 
writers;  and  shall  set  them  down  as  they  have  oc¬ 
curred  to  me,  without  being  at  the  pains  to  con¬ 
nect  or  methodize  them. 

All  superiority  and  pre-eminence  that  one  man 
oan  have  over  another,  may  be  reduced  to  the  no¬ 
tion  of  quality,  which,  considered  at  large,  is 
either,  that  of  fortune,  body,  or  mind.  The  first 
is  that  which  consists  in  birth,  title,  or  riches:  it 
is  the  most  foreign  to  our  natures,  and  what  we 
can  the  least  call  our  own  of  any  of  the  three 
kinds  of  quality.  In  relation  to  the  body,  quality 
arises  from  health,  strength,  or  beauty;  which  are 
nearer  to  us,  and  more  a  part  of  ourselves  than 
the  former.  Quality,  as  it  regards  the  mind,  has 
its  rise  from  kno wedge  or  virtue;  and  is  that 
which  is  more  essential  to  us,  and  more  intimately 
united  with  us  than  either  of  the  other  two. 

The  quality  of  fortune,  though  a  man  has  less 
reason  to  value  himself  upon  it  than  on  that  of  the 
body  or  mind,  is  however  the  kind  of  quality 
which  makes  the  most  shining  figure  in  the  eye 
of  the  world. 

As  virtue  is  the  most  reasonable  and  genuine 
source  of  honor,  we  generally  find  in  titles  an  in¬ 
timation  of  some  particular  merit  that  should  re¬ 
commend  men  to  the  high  stations  which  they 
possess.  Holiness  is  ascribed  to  the  pope;  majes¬ 
ty  to  kings:  serenity  or  mildness  of  temper  to 
princes;  excellence  or  perfection  to  ambassadors; 
grace  to  archbishops;  honor  to  peers;  worship  or 
venerable  behavior  to  magistrates;  and  reverence, 
which  is  of  the  same  import  as  the  former,  to  the 
inferior  clergy. 

In  the  founders  of  great  families,  such  attributes 
of  honor  are  generally  correspondent  with  the  vir¬ 
tues  of  the  person  to  whom  they  are  applied;  but 
in  the  descendants,  they  are  too  often  the  marks 
rather  of  grandeur  than  of  merit.  The  stamp  and 
denomination  still  continues,  but  the  intrinsic 
value  is  frequently  lost. 

The  death-bed  shows  the  emptiness  of  titles  in 
a  true  light.  A  poor  dispirited  sinner  lies  tremb¬ 
ling  under  the  apprehensions  of  the  state  he  is 
entering  on:  and  is  asked  by  a  grave  attendant 
how  his  holiness  does  ?  Another  hears  himself 
addressed  to  under  the  title  of  highness  or  excel¬ 
lency,  who  lies  under  such  mean  circumstances  of 
mortality  as  are  the  disgrace  of  human  nature. 
Titles  at  such  a  time  look  rather  like  insults  and 
mockery  than  respect. 

The  truth  of  it  is,  honors  are  in  this  world  un¬ 
der  no  regulation;  true  quality  is  neglected,  virtue 
is  oppressed,  and  vice  triumphant.  The  last  day 
will  rectify  this  disorder,  and  assign  to  every  one 
a  station  suitable  to  the  dignity  of  his  character. 
Ranks  will  be  then  adjusted,  and  precedency  set 
right. 

Methinks  we  should  have  an  ambition,  if  not  to 
advance  ourselves  in  another  world,  at  least  to 
preserve  our  post  in  it,  and  outshine  our  inferiors 
in  virtue  here,  that  they  may  not  be  put  above  us 
in  a  state  which  is  to  settle  the  distinction  for 
eternity. 

Men  in  Scripture  are  called  strangers  and  so¬ 
journers  upon  earth,  and  life  a  pilgrimage.  Se¬ 


veral  heathen,  as  well  as  Christian  authors,  under 
the  same  kind  of  metaphor,  have  represented  the 
world  as  an  inn,  which  was  only  designed  to  fur¬ 
nish  us  with  accommodations  in  this  our  passage. 
It  is  therefore  very  absurd  to  think  of  setting  up 
our  rest  before  we  come  to  our  journey’s  end,  and 
not  rather  to  take  care  of  the  reception  we  shall 
there  meet  with,  than  to  fix  our  thoughts  on  the 
little  conveniences  and  advantages  which  we  en- 
one  above  another  in  the  way  to  it. 
pictetus  makes  use  of  another  kind  of  allusion, 
which  is  very  beautiful,  and  wonderfully  proper  to 
incline  us  to  be  satisfied  with  the  post  in  which 
Providence  has  placed  us.  We  are  here,  says  he, 
as  in  a  theater,  where  every  one  has  a  part  allotted 
to  him.  The  great  duty  which  lies  upon  a  man  is 
to  act  his  part  in  perfection.  We  may  indeed  say, 
that  our  part  does  not  suit  us,  and  tnat  we  could 
act  another  better.  But  this,  says  the  philoso¬ 
pher,  is  not  our  business.  All  tnat  we  are  con¬ 
cerned  in  is  to  excel  in  the  part  which  is  given  us. 
If  it  be  an  improper  one,  the  fault  is  mot  in  us, 
but  in  Him  who  has  cast  our  several  parts,  and  is 
the  great  disposer  of  the  drama.* 

The  part  that  was  acted  by  this  philosopher 
himself  was  but  a  very  indifferent  one,  for  he 
lived  and  died  a  slave.  His  motive  to  content¬ 
ment  in  this  particular,  receives  a  very  great  en¬ 
forcement  from  the  above-mentioned  considera¬ 
tion,  if  we  remember  that  our  parts  in  the  other 
world  will  be  new  cast,  and  that  mankind  will  be 
there  ranged  in  different  stations  of  superiority 
and  pre-eminence,  in  proportion  as  they  have  here 
excelled  one  another  in  virtue,  and  performed  in 
their  several  posts  of  life  the  duties  which  belong 
to  them. 

There  are  many  beautiful  passages  in  the  little 
apocryphal  book,  entitled.  The  Wisdom  of  Solo¬ 
mon,  to  set  forth  the  vanity  of  honor,  and  the  like 
temporal  blessings  which  are  in  so  great  repute 
among  men,  and  to  comfort  those  who  have  not 
the  possession  of  them.  It  represents  in  very 
warm  and  noble  terms  this  advancement  of  a  good 
man  in  the  other  world,  and  the  great  surprise 
which  it  will  produce  among  those  who  are  his 
superiors  in  this.  “  Then  shall  the  righteous  man 
stand  in  great  boldness  before  the  face  of  such  as 
have  afflicted  him,  and  made  no  account  of  his  la¬ 
bors.  When  they  see  it  they  shall  be  troubled 
with  terrible  fear,  and  shall  be  amazed  at  the 
strangeness  of  his  salvation,  so  far  beyond  all  that 
they  looked  for.  And  they  repenting  and  groan¬ 
ing  for  anguish  of  spirit,  shall  say  within  them¬ 
selves,  This  was  he  whom  we  had  some  time  in 
derision,  and  a  proverb  of  reproach.  We  fools 
accounted  his  life  madness,  and  his  end  to  be 
without  honor.  How  is  he  numbered  among  the 
children  of  God,  and  his  lot  among  the  saints !  ”f 

If  the  reader  would  see  the  description  of  a  life 
that  is  passed  away  in  vanity  and  among  the 
shadows  of  pomp  and  greatness,  he  may  see  it 
very  finely  drawn  in  the  same  place. J  In  the 
meantime,  since  it  is  necessary,  m  the  present 
constitution  of  things,  that  order  and  distinction 
should  be  kept  up  in  the  world,  we  should  be 
happy  if  those  who  enjoy  the  upper  stations  in  it, 
would  endeavor  to  surpass  others  in  virtue  as 
much  as  in  rank,  and  by  their  humanity  and  con¬ 
descension  make  their  superiority  easy  and  accept¬ 
able  to  those  who  are  beneath  them,  and  if,  on  the 
contrary,  those  who  are  in  meaner  posts  of  life, 
would  consider  how  they  may  better  their  condi¬ 
tion  hereafter,  and  by  a  just  deference  and  sub¬ 
mission  to  their  superiors,  make  them  happy  in 


*  Vid.  Epicteti  Enchirid.,  cap.  23. 
f  Wisd.  v,  1 — 5. 


+  Ib.  8—1 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


279 


those  blessings  with  which  Providence  has  thought 
fit  to  distinguish  them. — C. 


No.  220.]  MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  12,  1711. 

Iiumoresquc  serit  varios - 

Virg.  2En.,  xii,  22S. 

A  thousand  rumors  spreads. 

"Sir, 

"Why  will  you  apply  to  my  father  for  my  love? 
I  cannot  help  it  if  ne  will  give  you  my  person; 
but  I  assure  you  it  is  not  in  his  power,  nor  even 
in  my  own,  to  give  you  my  heart.  Dear  Sir,  do 
but  consider  the  ill-consequence  of  such  a  match; 
you  are  fifty-five,  I  twenty-one.  You  are  a  man 
of  business,  and  mightily  conversant  in  arithme¬ 
tic  and  making  calculations;  be  pleased  therefore 
to  consider  what  proportion  your  spirits  bear  to 
mine;  and  when  you  have  made  a  just  estimate  of 
the  necessary  decay  on  one  side,  and  the  redund¬ 
ance  on  the  other,  you  will  act  accordingly.  This 
perhaps  is  such  language  as  you  may  not  expect 
from  a  young  lady;  but  my  happiness  is  at  stake, 
and  I  must  talk  plainly.  I  mortally  hate  you; 
and  so,  as  you  and  my  father  agree,  you  may  take 
me  or  leave  me :  but  if  you  will  be  so  good  as 
never  to  see  me  more,  you  will  forever  oblige, 

“  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

"Henrietta.” 

"Mr.  Spectator, 

“  There  are  so  many  artifices  and  modes  of  false 
wit,  and  such  a  variety  of  humor  discovers  itself 
among  its  votaries,  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
exhaust  so  fertile  a  subject,  if  you  would  think  fit 
to  resume  it.  The  following  instances  may,  if  you 
think  fit,  be  added  by  way  of  appendix  to  your 
discourses  on  that  subject. 

“  That  feat  of  poetical  activity  mentioned  by 
Horace,  of  an  author  who  could  compose  two 
hundred  verses  while  he  stood  upon  one  leg,  has 
been  imitated  (as  I  have  heard)  by  a  modern  wri¬ 
ter;  who,  priding  himself  on  the  hurry  of  his  in¬ 
vention,  thought  it  no  small  addition  to  his  fame 
to  have  each  piece  minuted  with  the  exact  number 
of  hours  or  days  it  cost  him  in  the  composition. 
He  could  taste  no  praise  until  he  had  acquainted 
you  in  how  short  space  of  time  he  had  deserved 
it;  and  was  not  so  much  led  to  an  ostentation  of 
his  art,  as  of  his  dispatch: 

- ; - Aceipe,  si  vis, 

Accipe  jam  tabulas;  detur  nobis  locus,  hora, 

Cuetodes :  videainus  uter  plus  scribere  possit. 

Hor.  1  Sat.  iv,  14. 

Hero  s  pen  and  ink,  and  time,  and  place ;  let’s  try, 

Who  can  write  most,  and  fastest,  you  or  I. — Creech. 

"This  was  the  whole  of  his  ambition;  and 
therefore  I  cannot  but  think  the  flights  of  this  ra¬ 
pid  author  very  proper  to  be  opposed  to  those  la- 
bonous  nothings  which  you  have  observed  were 
the  delight  of  the  German  wits,  and  in  which 
they  so  happily  got  rid  of  such  a  tedious  quantity 
of  their  time.  J 

"I  have  known  a  gentleman  of  another  turn  of 
humor,  who,  despising  the  name  of  an  author 
never  printed  his  works,  but  contracted  his  talent^ 
and  by  the  help  of  a  very  fine  diamond  which  he 
wore  on  his  little  finger,  was  a  considerable  poet 
upon  glass.  He  had  a  very  good  epigrammatic 
wit;  and  there  was  not  a  parlor  or  tavern  window 
where  he  visited  or  dined  for  some  years,  which 
did  not  receive  some  sketches  or  memorials  of  it. 
It  was  his  misfortune  at  last  to  lose  his  genius 


and  his  ring  to  a  sharper  at  play,  and  he  has  not 
attempted  to  make  a  verse  since. 

"  But  of  all  contractions  or  expedients  for  wit,  I 
admire  that  of  an  ingenious  projector  whose  book 
I  have  seen.  This  virtuoso  being  a  mathemati¬ 
cian,  has,  according  to  his  taste,  thrown  the  art  of 
poetry  into  a  short  problem,  and  contrived  tables, 
by  which  any  one,  without  knowing  a  word  of 
grammar  or  sense,  may  to  his  great  comfort  be 
able  to  compose,  or  rather  to  erect,  Latin  verses.* 
His  tables  are  a  kind  ol  poetical  logarithms,  which 
being  divided  into  several  squares,  and  all  in¬ 
scribed  with  so  many  incoherent  words,  appear  to 
the  eye.  somewhat  like  a  fortune-telling  screen. 
What  a  joy  must  it  be  to  the  unlearned  operator  to 
find  that  these  words  being  carefully  collected  and 
written  down  in  order  according  to  the  problem,  start 
of  themselves  into  hexameter  and  pentameter 
verses  ?  A  friend  of  mine,  who  is  a  student  in  astro¬ 
logy  meeting  with  this  book,  performed  the  oper¬ 
ation,  by  the  rules  there  set  down;  he  showed  his 
verses  to  the  next  of  his  acquaintance,  who  hap¬ 
pened  to  understand  Latin;  and  being  informed 
they  described  a  tempest  of  wind,  very  luckily 
prefixed  them,  together  with  a  translation,  to  an 
almanac  he  was  just  then  printing,  and  was  sup¬ 
posed  to  have  foretold  the  last  great  storm. f 

“  I  think  the  only  improvement  beyond  this 
would  be  that  which  the  late  Duke  of  Bucking¬ 
ham  mentioned  to  a  stupid  pretender  to  poetry, 
as  a  project  of  a  Dutch  mechanic,  viz.  a  mill  to 
make  verses.  This  being  the  most  compendious 
method  of  all  which  have  been  yet  proposed,  may 
deserve  the  thoughts  of  our  modern  virtuosi  who 
are  employed  in  new  discoveries  for  the  public 
good  ;  and  it  may  be  worth  the  while  to  consider, 
whether  in  an  island  where  few  are  content  with¬ 
out  being  thought  wits,  it  will  not  be  a  common 
benefit  that  wit,  as  wTell  as  labor,  should  be  made 
cheap.  "  I  am.  Sir,  your  humble  Servant,”  etc. 

"Mr.  Spectator, 

"  I  often  dine  at  a  gentleman’s  house  where 
there  are  two  young  ladies  in  themselves  very 
agreeable,  but  very  cold  in  their  behavior,  be¬ 
cause  they  understand  me  for  a  person  that  is  to 
*  break  my  mind,’  as  the  phrase  is,  very  suddenlv 
to  one  of  them.  But  I  take  this  way  to  acquaint 
them  that  I  am  not  in  love  with  either  of  them, 
in  hopes  they  will  use  me  with  that  agreeable 
freedom  and  indifference  which  they  do  all  the 
rest  of  the  world,  and  not  to  drink  to  one  another 
only,  but  sometimes  cast  a  kind  look,  with  their 
service  to,  “  Sir,  your  humble  Servant.” 

"Mr.  Spectator, 

"I  am  a  young  gentleman,  and  take  it  for  a 
piece  of  good-breeding  to  pull  off  my  hat  when  I 
see  anything  peculiarly  charming  in  any  woman, 
whether  I  know  her  or  not.  1  take  care  that 
there  is  nothing  ludicrous  or  arch  in  my  manner, 
as  if  I  were  to  betray  a  woman  into  a  salutation 
by  way  of  jest  or  humor;  and  yet  except  I  am 
acquainted  with  her,  I  find  she  ever  takes  it  for  a 
rule,  that  she  is  to  look  upon  this*  civility  and 
homage  I  pay  to  her  supposed  merit,  as  an  im¬ 
pertinence  or  forwardness  which  she  is  to  observe 
and  neglect.  I  wish,  Sir,  you  wrnuld  settle  the 
business  of  salutation;  and  please  to  inform  me 
how  I  shall  resist  the  sudden  impulse  I  have  to 
be  civil  to  what  gives  an  idea  of  merit ;  or  tell 


*  Tn is  is  no  fiction  of  the  Spectator’s,  as  might  naturally  ho 
imagined.  There  was  a  projector  of  this  kind  named  John 
Peter,,  who  published  a  very  thin  pamphlet  in  8to.,  entitled, 
artificial  Versifying,  a  New  Way  to  make  Latin  verses,  Lond., 
1678, 

t  Viz:  November  26,  1703. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


280 

these  creatures  how  to  behave  themselves  in  re¬ 
turn  to  the  esteem  I  have  for  them.  My  affairs 
are  such  that  your  decision  will  be  a  favor  to  me, 
if  it  be  only  to  save  the.  unnecessary  expense  of 
wearing  out  my  hat  so  fast  as  I  do  at  present. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  yours, 

“  T.  D.” 

POSTSCRIPT. 

“  There  are  some  that  do  know  me,  and  won’t 
bow  to  me.” 


No  221.]  TUESDAY,  NOVEMBER  13,  1711. 

- Ab  ovo 

Usque  ad  mala -  Hor.,  Sat.  3, 1. 1,  v.  6. 

From  eggs,  which  first  set  are  upon  the  hoard, 

To  apples  ripe,  with  which  it  last  is  stor’d. 

When  I  have  finished  any  of  my  speculations 
it  is  my  method  to  consider  which  of  the  ancient 
authors  have  touched  upon  the  subject  that  I  treat 
of.  By  this  means  I  meet  with  some  celebrated 
thought  upon  it,  or  a  thought  of  my  own  ex¬ 
pressed  in  better  words,  or  some  similitude  for 
the  illustration  of  my  subject.  This  is  what  gives 
birth  to  the  motto  of  a  speculation,  which  I  rather 
choose  to  take  out  of  the  poets  than  the  prose- 
writers,  as  the  former  generally  give  a  finer  turn 
to  a  thought  than  the  latter,  and  by  couching  it 
in  few  words,  and  in  harmonious  numbers,  make 
it  more  portable  to  the  memory. 

My  reader  is  therefore  sure  to  meet  with  at 
least  one  good  line  in  every  paper,  and  very  often 
finds  his  imagination  entertained  by  a  hint  that 
awakens  in  his  memory  some  beautiful  passage 
of  a  classic  author. 

It  was  a  saying  of  an  ancient  philosopher,* 
which  I  find  some  of  our  writers  have  ascribed  to 
Queen  Elizabeth,  who  perhaps  might  have  taken 
occasion  to  repeat  it,  that  a  good  face  is  a  letter 
of  recommendation.  It  naturally  makes  the  be¬ 
holders  inquisitive  into  the  person  who  is  the 
owner  of  it,  and  generally  prepossesses  them  in  his 
favor.  A  handsome  motto  lias  the  same  effect. 
Beside  that  it  always  gives  a  supernumerary 
beauty  to  a  paper,  and  is  sometimes  in  a  manner 
necessary,  when  the  writer  is  engaged  in  what 
may  appear  a  paradox  to  vulgar  minds,  as  it 
shows  that  he  is  supported  by  good  authorities, 
and  is  not  singular  in  his  opinion. 

I  must  confess  the  motto  is  of  little  use  to  an 
unlearned  reader,  for  which  reason  I  consider  it 
only  as  “  a  word  to  the  wise.”  But  as  for  my  un¬ 
learned  friends,  if  they  cannot  relish  the  motto, 
I  take  care  to  make  provision  for  them  in  the 
body  of  my  paper.  If  they  do  not  understand 
the  sign  that  is  hung  out,  they  know  very  well 
by  it  that  they  may  meet  with  entertainment  in 
the  house;  and  I  think  I  was  never  better  pleased 
than  with  a  plain  man’s  compliment,  who  upon 
his  friend’s  telling  him  that  he  would  like  the 
Spectator  much  better  if  he  understood  the  motto, 
replied  that  “  good  wine  needs  no  bush.” 

I  have  heard  of  a  couple  of  preachers  in  a 
country  town,  who  endeavored  which  should 
outshine  one  another,  and  draw  together  the 
greatest  congregation.  One  of  them  being  well 
versed  in  the  Fathers,  used  to  quote  every  now 
and  then  a  Latin  sentence  to  his  illiterate  hearers, 
who  it  seems  found  themselves  so  edified  by  it, 
that  they  flocked  in  greater  numbers  to  this  learned 
man  than  to  his  rival.  The  other  finding  his  con¬ 
gregation  mouldering  every  Sunday,  and  hearing 
at  length  what  was  the  occasion  of  it,  resolved  to 
give  his  parish  a  little  Latin  in  his  turn ;  but  being 


unacquainted  with  any  of  the  Fathers,  he  digested 
into  his  sermon  the  whole  book  of  Qua  Genus,  ad¬ 
ding  however  such  explications  to  it  as  he  thought 
might  be  for  the  benefit  of  his  people.  He  after¬ 
ward  entered  upon  As  in  Prasenti,  which  he  con¬ 
verted  in  the  same  manner  to  the  use  of  his  parish¬ 
ioners.  This  in  a  very  little  time  thickened  his 
audience,  filled  his  church,  and  routed  his  antago¬ 
nist. 

The  natural  love  to  Latin,  which  is  so  preva¬ 
lent  in  our  common  people,  makes  me  think  that 
my  speculations  fare  never  the  worse  among  them 
for  that  little  scrap  which  appears  at  the  head  of 
them  ;  and  what  the  more  encourages  me  in  the 
use  of  quotations  in  an  unknown  tongue,  is,  that 
I  hear  the  ladies,  whose  approbation  I  value  more 
than  that  of  the  whole  learned  world,  declare 
themselves  in  a  more  particular  manner  pleased 
with  my  Greek  mottoes. 

Designing  this  day’s  work  for  a  dissertation 
upon  the  two  extremities  of  my  paper,  and  having 
already  dispatched  my  motto,  I  shall,  in  the  next 
place,  discourse  upon  those  single  capital  letters, 
which  are  placed  at  the  end  of  it,  and  which  have 
afforded  great  matter  of  speculation  to  the  curious. 
I  have  heard  various  conjectures  upon  this  subject. 
Some  tell  us  that  C  is  the  mark  of  those  papers 
that  are  written  by  the  clergymen,  though  others 
ascribe  them  to  the  club  in  general :  that  the 
papers  marked  with  R  were  written  by  my  friend 
Sir  Roger ;  that  L  signifies  the  lawyer,  whom  I 
have  described  in  my  second  speculation ;  and 
that  T  stands  for  the  trader  or  merchant.  But  the 
letter  X,  which  is  placed  at  the  end  of  some  few 
of  my  papers,  is  that  which  has  puzzled  the  whole 
town,  as  they  cannot  think  of  any  name  which 
begins  with  that  letter,  except  Xenophon  and 
Xerxes,  who  can  neither  of  them  be  supposed  to 
have  had  any  hand  in  these  speculations. 

In  answer  to  these  inquisitive  gentlemen,  who 
have  many  of  them  made  inquiries  of  me  by  let¬ 
ter,  I  must  tell  them  the  reply  of  an  ancient  phi¬ 
losopher,  who  carried  something  hidden  under  his 
cloak.  A  certain  acquaintance  desiring  him  to 
let  him  know  what  it  was  he  covered  so  carefully: 
“I  cover  it,”  says  he,  “  on  purpose  that  you  should 
not  know.”  I  have  made  use  of  these  obscure 
marks  for  the  same  purpose.  They  are,  perhaps, 
little  amulets  or  charms  to  preserve  the  paper 
against  the  fascination  and  malice  of  evil  eyes : 
for  which  reason  I  would  not  have  my  reader  sur¬ 
prised,  if  hereafter  he  sees  any  of  my  papers 
marked  with  a  Q,  a  Z,  a  Y,  etc.,  or  with  the  word 
Abracadabra.* 

I  shall  however  so  far  explain  myself  to  the 
reader,  as  to  let  him  know  that  the  letters  C,  L, 
and  X,  are  cabalistical,  and  carry  more  in  them 
than  it  is  proper  for  the  world  to  be  acquainted 
with.  Those  who  are  versed  in  the  philosophy  of 
Pythagoras,  and  swear  by  the  Tetrarchtys,  that  is 
the  number  four,f  will  know  very  well  that  the 
number  ten,  which  is  signified  by  the  letter  X 
(and  which  has  so  much  perplexed  the  town),  has 
in  it  many  particular  powers;  that  it  is  called  by 
the  Platonic  writers  the  complete  number  ;  that 
one,  two,  three,  and  four  put  together  make  up 
the  number  ten ;  and  that  ten  is  all.  But  these 
are  not  mysteries  for  ordinary  readers  to  be  let 
into.  A  man  must  have  spent  many  years  in  hard 


*  A  noted  charm  for  agues :  said  to  have  been  invented  by 
Basilides,  a  heretic  of  the  second  century,  who  taught  that 
very  subliine  mysteries  were  contained  in  the  number  365, 
(viz :  not  only  the  days  of  the  year,  but  the  different  orders 
of  celestial  beings,  etc.),  to  which  number  the  Hebrew  letters 
that  compose  the  word  Abracadabra,  are  said  to  amount. 

f  See  Stanley’s  Lives  of  the  Philosophers,  page  527 ,  2d  edit. 
1687,  folio.  \ 


*  Aristotle,  or,  according  to  some  Diogenes.  See  Diogenes 
Laertius,  lib.  v,  cap.  1,  n.  11. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


study  before  he  can  arrive  at  the  knowledge  of 
them. 

We  had  a  rabbinical  divine  in  England,  who 
was  chaplain  to  the  Earl  of  Essex,  in  Queen  Eliz¬ 
abeth’s  time,  that  had  an  admirable  head  for  secrets 
of  this  nature.  Upon  his  taking  the  doctor  of 
divinity’s  degree,  he  preached  before  the  univer¬ 
sity  of  Cambridge,  upon  the  first  verse  of  the 
first  chapter  of  the  first  book  of  Chronicles,  “  in 
which,”  says  he,  “  you  have  the  three  following 
words:  b 

‘Adam,  Sheth,  Enosh.’” 

He  divided  this  short  text  into  many  parts,  and 
by  discovering  several  mysteries  in  each  word, 
made  a  most  learned  and  elaborate  discourse.  The 
name  of  this  profound  preacher  was  Dr.  Alabas¬ 
ter,  of  whom  the  reader  may  find  a  more  particu¬ 
lar  account  in  Dr.  Fuller’s  book  of  English  Wor¬ 
thies.  This  instance  will,  I  hope,  convince  my 
readers  that  there  may  be  a  great  deal  of  fine 
writing  in  the  capital  letters  which  bring  up  the 
rear  of  my  paper,  and  give  them  some  satisfac¬ 
tion  in  that  particular.  But  as  for  the  full  expli¬ 
cation  of  these  matters,  I  must  refer  them  to  time, 
which  discovers  all  things. — C. 


No.  222.]  WEDNESDAY,  NOV.  14,  1711. 

Cur  alter  fratrum,  eessare,  et  ludere,  et  ungi, 

Prasfierat  Herodis  palmetis  pinguibus - 

Hor.  2  Ep.  ii,  133. 

"W  hy,  of  two  brothers,  one  his  pleasure  loves, 

Prefers  his  sports  to  Herod’s  fragrant  groves. — Creech. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  There  is  one  thing  I  have  often  looked  for  in 
your  papers,  and  have  as  often  wondered  to  find 
myself  disappointed;  the  rather,  because  I  think 
it  a  subject  every  way  agreeable  to  your  design, 
and  by  being  left  unattempted  by  others,  it  seems 
reserved  as  a  proper  employment  for  you;  I  mean 
a  disquisition,  from  whence  it  proceeds,  that  men 
of  the  brightest  parts,  and  most  comprehensive 
genius,  completely  furnished  with  talents  for  any 
province  in  human  affairs;  such  as  by  their  wise 
lessons  of  economy  to  others,  have  made  it  evi¬ 
dent  that  they  have  the  justest  notions  of  life,  and 

of  true  sense  in  the  conduct  of  it - ~;  from  what 

unhappy  contradictious  cause  it  proceeds,  that 
persons  thus  finished  by  nature  and  by  art,  should 
so  often  fail  in  the  management  of  that  which 
thev  so  well  understand,  and  want  the  address  to 
make  a  right  application  of  their  own  rules.  This 
is  certainly  a  prodigious  inconsistency  in  beha¬ 
vior,  and  makes  much  such  a  figure  in  morals,  as 
a  monstrous  birth  in  naturals;  with  this  difference 
only,  which  greatly  aggravates  the  wonder,  that 
it  happens  much  more  frequently:  and  what  a 
blemish  does  it  cast  upon  wit  and  learning  in  the 
general  account  of  the  world!  In  how  disadvan¬ 
tageous  a  light  does  it  expose  them  to  the  busy 
class  of  mankind,  that  there  should  be  so  many 
instances  of  persons  who  have  so  conducted  their 
lives  m  spite  of  these  transcendent  advantages,  as 
neither  to  be  happy  in  themselves  nor  useful  to 
their  friends;  when  everybody  sees  it  was  entirely 
in  their  own  power  to  be  eminent  in  both  these 
characters.  lor  my  part,  I  think  there  is  no  re¬ 
flection  more  astonishing,  than  to  consider  one  of 
these  gentlemen  spending  a  fair  fortune,  runnino- 
in  everybody’s  debt  without  the  least  apprehen¬ 
sion  of  a  future  reckoning,  and  at  last  leaving  not 
only  his  own  children,  but  possibly  those  of  other 
people,  by  his  means,  in  starving  circumstances ; 
while  a  fellow,  whom  one  would  scarce  suspect  to 
nave  a  human  soul,  shall  perhaps  raise  a  vast  es¬ 


281 

tate  out  of  nothing,  and  be  the  founder  of  a  fami¬ 
ly  capable  of  being  very  considerable  in  their 
country,  and  doing  many  illustrious  services  to 
it.  That  this  observation  is  just,  experience  has 
put  beyond  all  dispute.  But  though  the  fact  be 
so  evident  and  glaring,  yet  the  causes  of  it  are 
still  in  the  dark;  which  makes  me  persuade  my¬ 
self,  that  it  would  be  no  unacceptable  piece  of  en¬ 
tertainment  to  the  town,  to  inquire  into  the  hidden 
sources  of  so  unaccountable  an  evil. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant.” 

What  this  correspondent  wonders  at,  has  been 
matter  of  admiration  ever  since  there  was  any 
such  tiling  as  human  life.  Horace  reflects  upon 
this  inconsistency  very  agreeably  in  the  character 
of  Tigellius,  whom  he  makes  a  mighty  pretender 
to  economy,  and  tells  you,  you  might  one  day  hear 

him  speak  the  most  philosophic  things  imaginable 
concerning  being  contented  with  a  little,  and  his 
contempt  of  everything  but  mere  necessaries;  and 
in  half  a  week  after  spend  a  thousand  pounds. 
When  he  says  this  of  him  with  relation  to  ex¬ 
pense,  he  describes  him  as  unequal  to  himself  in 
every  other  circumstance  of  life.  Indeed,  if  we 
consider  lavish  men  carefully,  we  shall  find  it 
always  proceeds  from  a  certain  incapacity  of  pos¬ 
sessing  themselves,  and  finding  enjoyment  in  their 
own  minds.  Mr.  Dryden  has  expressed  this  very 
excellently  in  the  character  of  Zimri : 

A  man  so  various  that  he  seem’d  to  he 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind’s  epitome. 

Stiff  in  opinion,  always  in  the  wrong, 

Was  everything  by  starts,  and  nothing  long! 

But  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon, 

Was  chemist,  fiddler,  statesman,  and  buffoon, 

Then  all  for  women,  painting,  rhyming,  drinking, 
Beside  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thinking; 
Bless’d  madman,  who  could  every  hour  employ 
In  something  new  to  wish,  or  to  enjoy ! 

In  squandering  wealth  was  his  peculiar  art, 

Nothing  went  unrewarded  but  desert. 

I  his  loose  state  of  the  soul  hurries  the  extrava¬ 
gant  from  one  pursuit  to  another;  and  the  reason 
that  his  expenses  are  greater  than  another’s,  is, 
that  his  wants  are  also  more  numerous.  But  what 
makes  so  many  go  on  in  this  way  to  their  lives’ 
end,  is,  that  they  certainly  do  not  know  how  con¬ 
temptible  they  are  in  the  eves  of  the  rest  of  man¬ 
kind,  or,  rather,  that  indeed  they  are  not  so 
contemptible  as  they  deserve.  Tully  says,  it  is 
the  greatest  of  wickedness  to  lessen  your  pater¬ 
nal  estate.  And  if  a  man  would  thoroughly  con¬ 
sider  how  much  worse  than  banishment  it  must  be 
to  his  child,  to  ride  by  the  estate  which  should 
have  been  his,  had  it  not  been  for  his  father’s  in¬ 
justice  to  him,  he  would  be  smitten  with  the  reflec¬ 
tion  more  deeply  than  can  be  understood  by  any 
but  one  who  is  a  father.  Sure  there  can  be  noth¬ 
ing  more  afflicting,  than  to  think  it  had  been  hap¬ 
pier  for  his  son  to  have  been  born  of  any  other 
man  living  than  himself. 

It  is  not  perhaps  much  thought  of,  but  it  is  cer¬ 
tainly  a  very  important  lesson,  to  learn  how  to 
enjoy  ordinary  life,  and  to  be  able  to  relish  your 
being  without  the  transport  of  some  passion,  or 
gratification  of  some  appetite.  For  want  of  this 
capacity,  the  world  is  filled  with  whetters,  tipplers, 
cutters,  sippers,  and  all  the  numerous  train  of 
those  who,  for  want  of  thinking,  are  forced  to  be 
ever  exercising  their  feeling  or  tasting.  It  would 
be  hard  on  this  occasion  to  mention  the  harmless 
smokers  of  tobacco,  and  takers  of  snuff. 

The  slower  part  of  mankind,  whom  my  corres¬ 
pondent  wonders  should  get  estates,  are  the  more 
immediately  formed  for  that  pursuit.  They  can 
expect  distant  things  without  impatience,  because 
they  are  not  carried  out  of  their  way  either  u>y 
violent  passion,  or  keen  appetite  to  anything.  To 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


282 

men  addicted  to  delights,  business  is  an  interrup¬ 
tion;  to  such  as  are  cold  to  delights,  business  is 
an  entertainment.  For  which  reason  it  was  said 
to  one  who  commended  a  dull  man  for  his  appli¬ 
cation,  “  No  thanks  to  him;  if  he  had  no  business, 
he  would  have  nothing  to  do.” — T 


No.  223.]  THURSDAY,  NOVEMBER  15,  1711. 

0  suavis  anima!  qualem  te  dicam  bonam 

Antehac  fuisse,  tales  cum  sint  peliquiae ! 

Peledr.,  iii,  i,  5. 

0  sweet  soul !  how  good  must  you  have  been  heretofore} 
when  your  remains  are  so  delicious ! 

When  I  reflect  upon  the  various  fate  of  those 
multitudes  of  ancient  writers  who  flourished  in 
Greece  and  Italy,  I  consider  time  as  an  immense 
ocean,  in  which  many  noble  authors  are  entirely 
swallowed  up,  many  very  much  shattered  and 
damaged,  some  quite  disjointed  and  broken  into 
pieces,  while  some  have  wholly  escaped  the  com¬ 
mon  wreck  ;  but  the  number  of  the  last  is  very 
small, 

Apparent  rari  nantes  in  gurgite  vasto. 

Virg.  iEn.,  i,  ver.  122. 

One  here  and  there  floats  on  the  vast  abyss. 

Among  the  mutilated  poets  of  antiquity  there 
is  none  whose  fragments  are  so  beautiful  as  those 
of  Sappho.  They  give  us  a  taste  of  her  way  of 
writing,  which  is  perfectly  conformable  with  that 
extraordinary  character  we  find  of  her  in  the  re¬ 
marks  of  those  great  critics  who  were  conversant 
with  her  works  when  they  were  entire.  One  may 
see  by  what  is  left  of  them,  that  she  followed  na¬ 
ture  in  all  her  thoughts,  without  descending  to 
those  little  points,  conceits,  and  turns  of  wit  with 
which  many  of  our  modern  lyrics  are  so  misera¬ 
bly  infected.  Her  soul  seems  to  have  been  made  up 
of  love  and  poetry.  She  felt  the  passion  in  all  its 
warmth,  and  described  it  in  all  its  symptoms.  She 
is  called  by  ancient  authors  the  tenth  muse;  and  by 
Plutarch  is  compared  to  Cacus  the  son  of  Vulcan, 
who  breathed  out  nothing  but  flame.  I  do  not 
know  by  the  character  that  is  given  of  her  works, 
whether  it  is  not  for  the  benefit  of  mankind  that 
they  are  lost.  They  are  filled  with  such  bewitch¬ 
ing  tenderness  and  rapture,  that  it  might  have 
been  dangerous  to  have  given  them  a  reading. 

An  inconstant  lover,  called  Phaon,  occasioned 
reat  calamities  to  this  poetical  lady.  She  fell 
esperately  in  love  with  him,  and  took  a  voyage 
into  Sicily>  in  pursuit  of  him,  he  having  with¬ 
drawn  himself  thither  on  purpose  to  avoid  her. 
It  was  in  that  island,  and  on  this  occasion,  she  is 
supposed  to  have  made  the  Hymn  to  Venus,  with 
a  translation  of  which  I  shall  present  my  reader. 
Her  Hymn  was  ineffectual  for  procuring  that 
happiness  which  she  prayed  for  in  it.  Phaon 
was  still  obdurate,  and  Sappho  so  transported 
with  the  violence  of  her  passion,  that  she  was  re¬ 
solved  to  get  rid  of  it  at  any  price. 

There  was  a  promontory  in  Acarnania  called 
Leucate,  on  the  top  of  which  was  a  little  temple 
dedicated  to  Apollo.  In  this  temple  it  was  usual 
for  despairing  lovers  to  make  their  vows  in  secret, 
and  afterward  to  fling  themselves  from  the  top  of 
the  precipice  into  the  sea,  where  they  were  some¬ 
times  taken  up  alive.  This  place  was  therefore 
called  the  Lover’s  Leap;  and  whether  or  no  the 
fright  they  had  been  m,  or  the  resolution  that 
could  push  them  to  so  dreadful  a  remedy,  or  the 
bruises  which  they  often  received  in  their  fall, 
banished  all  the  tender  sentiments  of  love,  and 
gave  their  spirits  another  turn ;  those  who  had 
taken  this  leap  were  observed  never  to  relapse  into 


that  passion.  Sappho  tried  the  cure,  but  perished 
in  the  experiment. 

After  having  given  this  short  account  of  Sap¬ 
pho,  so  far  as  it  regards  the  following  ode,  I  shall 
subjoin  the  translation  of  it  as  it  was  sent  me  by 
a  friend  whose  admirable  Pastorals  and  Winter- 
piece  have  been  already  so  well  received.  The 
reader  will  find  in  it  that  pathetic  simplicity, 
which  is  so  peculiar  to  him,  and  so  suitable  to  the 
ode  he  has  here  translated.  This  ode  in  the  Greek 
(beside  those  beauties  observed  by  Madam  Dacier) 
has  several  harmonious  turns  in  the  words,  which 
are  not  lost  in  the  English.  I  must  further  add, 
that  the  translation  has  preserved  every  image  and 
sentiment  of  Sappho,  notwithstanding  it  has  all 
the  ease  and  spirit  of  an  original.  In  a  word,  if 
the  ladies  have  a  mind  to  know  the  manner  of 
writing  practiced  by  the  so  much  celebrated  Sap¬ 
pho,  they  may  here  see  it  in  its  genuine  and 
natural  beauty,  without  any  foreign  or  affected 
ornaments. 

A  HYMN  TO  VENUS. 

0  Venus,  beauty  of  the  skies, 

To  whom  a  thousand  temples  rise, 

Gaily  false  in  gentle  smiles, 

Full  of  love-perplexing  wiles ; 

0  goddess!  from  my  heart  remove 
The  wasting  cares  and  pains  of  love. 

If  ever  thou  hast  kindly  heard 
A  song  in  soft  distress  preferr’d, 

Propitious  to  my  tuneful  vow, 

0  gentle  goddess !  hear  me  now. 

Descend,  thou  bright,  immortal  guest, 

In  all  thy  radiant  charms  confess’d. 

Thou  once  didst  leave  almighty  Jove, 

And  all  the  golden  roofs  above : 

The  car  thy  wanton  sparrows  drew, 

Hovering  in  air  they  lightly  flew ; 

As  to  my  bower  they  wing’d  their  way, 

I  saw  their  quivering  pinions  play. 

The  birds  dismiss’d  (while  you  remain) 

Bore  back  their  empty  car  again : 

Then  you  with  looks  divinely  mild, 

In  every  heavenly  feature  smil’d, 

And  ask’d  what  new  complaints  I  made, 

And  why  I  call’d  you  to  my  aid? 

What  frenzy  in  my  bosom  rag’d, 

And  by  what  cure  to  be  assuag’d  ? 

What  gentle  youth  I  would  allure, 

Whom  in  my  artful  toils  secure  ? 

Who  does  thy  tender  heart  subdue, 

Tell  me,  my  Sappho,  tell  me  who  ? 

Though  now  he  shuns  thy  longing  arms, 

He  soon  shall  court  thy  slighted  charms; 
Though  now  thy  offerings  he  despise, 

He  soon  to  thee  shall  sacrifice ; 

Though  now  he  freeze,  he  soon  shall  burn, 

And  be  thy  victim  in  his  turn. 

Celestial  visitant,  once  more 
Thy  needful  presence  I  implore ! 

In  pity  come,  and  ease  my  grief, 

Bring  my  distemper’d  soul  relief, 

Favor  thy  suppliant’s  hidden  fires, 

And  give  me  all  my  heart  desires. 

Madam  Dacier  observes,  there  is  something  very 
pretty  in  that  circumstance  of  this  ode,  wherein 
Venus  is  described  as  sending  away  her  chariot 
upon  her  arrival  at  Sappho’s  lodgings,  to  denote 
that  it  was  not  a  short  transient  visit  which  she 
intended  to  make  her.  This  ode  was  preserved 
by  an  eminent  Greek  critic,  who  inserted  it  entire 
in  his  works,  as  a  pattern  of  perfection  in  the 
structure  of  it. 

Longinus  has  quoted  another  ode  of  this  great 
poetess,  which  is  likewise  admirable  in  its  kind, 
and  has  b£en  translated  by  the  same  hand  with 
the  foregoing  one.  I  shall  oblige  my  reader  with 
it  in  another  paper.  In  the  meanwhile,  I  cannot 
but  wonder,  that  these  two  finished  pieces  have 
never  been  attempted  before  by  any  of  our  own 


283 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


countrymen.  But  the  truth  of  it  is,  the  composi¬ 
tions  of  the  ancients,  which  have  not  in  them 
any  of  those  unnatural  witticisms  that  are  the 
delight  of  ordinary  readers,  are  extremely  difficult 
to  render  into  another  tohgue,  so  as  the  beau¬ 
ties  of  the  original  may  not  appear  weak  and 
faded  in  the  translation.--C. 


Ho.  224.]  FRIDAY,  NOVEMBER  16,  1711. 

— - Fulgente  trahit  constrictos  gloria  curru 

Non  minus  ignotos  generosls' - Hor.  1  Sat.  vi,  23. 

Chain’d  to  her  shining  car,  Fame  draws  along 

W  ith  equal  whirl  the  great  and  vulgar  throng. 

If  we  look  abroad  upon  the  great  multitude  of 
mankind,  and  endeavor  to  trace  out  the  principles 
of  action  in  every  individual,  it  will,  I  think,  seem 
highly  probable,  that  ambition  runs  through  the 
whole  species,  and  that  every  man,  in  proportion 
to  the  vigor  of  his  complexion,  is  more  or  less  ac¬ 
tuated  by  it.  It  is,  indeed,  no  uncommon  thing 
to  meet  with  men,  who  by  the  natural  bent  of 
their  inclinations,  and  without  the  discipline  of 
philosophy,  aspire  not  to  the  heights  of  power 
and  grandeur;  who  never  set  their  hearts  upon  a 
numerous  train  of  clients  and  dependencies,  nor 
other  gay  appendages  of  greatness;  who  are  con¬ 
tented  with  a  competency,  and  will  not  molest 
their  tranquillity  to  gain  an  abundance.  But  it  is 
not  therefore  to  be  concluded  that  such  a  man  is 
not  ambitious;  his  desires  may  have  cut  out  an¬ 
other  channel,  and  determined  him  to  other  pur¬ 
suits;  the  motive  however,  may  be  still  the  same; 
and  in  these  cases  likewise  the  man  may  be 
equally  pushed  on  with  the  desire  of  distinction. 

Though  the  pure  consciousness  of  worthy  ac¬ 
tions,  abstracted  from  the  views  of  popular  ap¬ 
plause,  be  to  a  generous  mind  an  ample  reward, 
yet  the  desire  of  distinction  was  doubtless  im¬ 
planted  in  our  natures  as  an  additional  incentive 
to  exert  ourselves  in  virtuous  excellence. 

This  passion,  indeed,  like  all  others,  is  fre¬ 
quently  perverted  to  evil  and  ignoble  purposes: 
so  that  we  may  account  for  many  of  the  excel¬ 
lencies  and  follies  of  life  upon  the  same  innate 
principle,  to- wit,  the  desire  of  being  remarkable: 
for  this,  as  it  has  been  differently  cultivated  by 
education,  study,  and  converse,  will  bring  forth 
suitable  effects  as  it  falls  in  with  an  ingenuous 
disposition,  or  a  corrupt  mind.  It  does  accord- 
ingly  express  itself  in  acts  of  magnanimity  or 
selfish  cunning,  as  it  meets  with  a  good  or  a  weak 
understanding.  As  it  has  been  employed  in  em¬ 
bellishing  the  mind,  or  adorning  the  outside,  it 
renders  the  man  eminently  praiseworthy  or  ridi¬ 
culous.  Ambition  therefore  is  not  to  be  confined 
only  to  one  passion  or  pursuit;  for  as  the  same 
humors  in  constitutions,  otherwise  different,  affect 
the  body  after  different  manners,  so  the  same  as¬ 
piring  principle  within  us  sometimes  breaks  forth 
upon  one  object,  sometimes  upon  another. 

Ii,  cannot  be  doubted,  but  that  there  is  as  great 
a  desire  of  glory  in  a  ring  of  wrestlers  or  cudgel - 
players,  as  in  any  other  more  refined  competition 
for  superiority.  No  man  that  could  avoid  it, 
wouul  ever  suffer  his  head  to  be  broken  but  out  of 
a  principle  of  honor,  Jhis  is  the  secret  spring 
that  p.i>hes  them  forward;  and  the  superiority 
which  t hey  gain  above  the  undistinguished  many, 
does  more  than  repair  those  wounds  they  have 
received  in  the  combat.  It  is  Mr.  Waller’s  opin¬ 
ion,  that  Julius  Caesar,  had  he  not  been  master 
of  the  Roman  empire,  would,  in  all  probability, 
have  made  an  excellent  wrestler: 


Great  Julius,  on  the  mountains  bred, 

A  flock  perhaps  or  herd  had  led ; 
lie  that  the  world  subdu’d,  had  been 
But  the  best  wrestler  on  the  green. 

That  lie  subdued  the  world,  was  owing  to  the  ac¬ 
cidents  of  art  and  knowledge;  had  he  not  met 
with  those  advantages,  the  same  sparks  of  emula¬ 
tion  would  have  kindled  within  him,  and  prompt¬ 
ed  him  to  distinguish  himself  in  some  enterprise 
of  a  lower  nature.  Since  therefore  no  man’s  lot  is 
so  unalterably  fixed  in  this  life,  but  that  a  thou¬ 
sand  accidents  may  either  forward  or  disappoint 
his  advancement,  it  is,  methinks,  a  pleasant  and 
inoffensive  speculation,  to  consider  a  great  man  as 
divested  of  all  the  adventitious  circumstances  of 
fortune,  and  to  bring  him  down  in  one’s  imagina¬ 
tion  to  that  low  station  of  life,  the  nature  of  which 
bears  some  distant  resemblance  to  that  high  one 
lie  is  at  present  possessed  of.  Thus  one  may  view 
him  exercising  in  miniature  those  talents  of  nature, 
which  being  drawn  out  by  education  to  their  full 
length,  enable  him  for  the  discharge  of  some  im¬ 
portant  employment.  On  the  other  hand,  one  may 
raise  uneducated  merit  to  such  a  pitch  of  greatness, 
as  may  seem  equal  to  the  possible  extent  of  his 
improved  capacity. 

Thus  nature  furnishes  man  with  a  general  ap¬ 
petite  of  glory,  education  determines  it  to  this  or 
that  particular  object.  The  desire  of  distinction 
is  not,  I  think,  in  any  instance  more  observable 
than  in  the  variety  of  outsides  and  new  appear¬ 
ances,  which  the  modish  part  of  the  world  are 
obliged  to  provide,  in  order  to  make  themselves 
remarkable ;  for  anything  glaring  and  particular, 
either  in  behavior  or  apparel,  is  known  to  have 
this  good  effect,  that  it  catches  the  eye,  and  will 
not  suffer  you  to  pass  over  the  person  ‘so  adorned 
without  due  notice  and  observation.  It  has  like¬ 
wise,  upon  this  account,  been  frequently  resented 
as  a  very  great  slight,  to  leave  any  gentleman  out 
of  a  lampoon  or  satire,  who  has  as  much  right  to 
be  there  as  his  neighbor,  because  it  supposes  the 
person  not  eminent  enough  to  be  taken  notice  of. 
To  this  passionate  fondness  for  distinction  are 
owing  various  frolicsome  and  irregular  practices, 
as  sallying  out  into  nocturnal  exploits,  breaking 
of  windows,  singing  of  catches,  beating  the  watch, 
getting  drunk  twice  a  day,  killing  a  great  number 
of  horses;  with  many  other  enterprises  of  the  like 
fiery  nature;  for  certainly  many  a  man  is  more 
rakish  and  extravagant  than  he  would  willingly  be, 
were  there  not  others  to  look  on  and  give  their 
approbation. 

One  very  common,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
most  absurd  ambition  that  ever  showed  itself  in 
human  nature,  is  that  which  comes  upon  a  man 
with  experience  and  old  age,  the  season  when  it 
might  be  expected  he  should  be  wisest;  and  there¬ 
fore  it  cannot  receive  any  of  those  lessening  cir¬ 
cumstances  which  do,  in  some  measure,  excuse 
the  disorderly  ferments  of  youthful  blood;  I  mean 
the  passion  for  getting  money,  exclusive  of  the 
character  of  the  provident  father,  the  affectionate 
husband,  or  the  generous  friend.  It  may  be  re¬ 
marked,  for  the  comfort  of  honest  poverty,  that 
this  desire  reigns  most  in  those  who  have  but  few 
good  qualities  to  recommend  them.  This  is  a 
weed  that  will  grow  in  a  barren  soil.  Humanity, 
good-nature,  and  the  advantages  of  a  liberal  edu¬ 
cation,  are  incompatible  with  avarice.  It  is 
strange  to  see  how  suddenly  this  abject  passion 
kills  all  the  noble  sentiments  and  generous  ami 
bitions  that  adorn  human  nature;  it  renders  the 
man  who  is  overrun  with  it  a  peevish  and  cruel 
master,  a  severe  parent,  and  unsociable  husband, 
a  distant  and  mistrustful  friend.  But  it  is  more 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


284 

to  the  present  purpose  to  consider  it  as  an  absurd 
passion  of  the  heart,  rather  than  as  a  vicious  af¬ 
fection  of  the  mind.  As  there  are  frequent  in¬ 
stances  to  be  met  with  of  a  proud  humility,  so 
this  passion,  contrary  to  most  others,  affects  ap¬ 
plause,  by  avoiding  all  show  and  appearance:  for 
this  reason  it  will  not  sometimes  endure  even  the 
common  decencies  of  apparel.  “A  covetous  man 
will  call  himself  poor,  that  you  may  soothe  his 
vanity  by  contradicting  him.”  Love  and  the  de¬ 
sire  of  glory,  as  they  are  the  most  natural,  so  they 
are  capable  of  being  refined  into  the  most  delicate 
and  rational  passions.  It  is  true,  the  wise  man 
who  strikes  out  of  the  secret  paths  of  a  private 
life,  for  honor  and  dignity,  allured  by  the  splen¬ 
dor  of  a  court,  and  the  unfelt  weight  of  public 
employment,  whether  he  succeeds  in  his  attempts 
or  no,  usually  comes  near  enough  to  this  painted 
greatness  to  discern  the  daubing  ;  he  is  then  de¬ 
sirous  of  extricating  himself  out  of  the  hurry  of 
life,  that  h#  may  pass  away  the  remainder  of  his 
days  in  tranquillity  and  retirement. 

It  may  be  thought  then  but  common  prudence 
in  a  man  not  to  change  a  better  state  for  a  worse, 
nor  ever  to  quit  that  which  he  knows  he  shall  take 
up  again  with  pleasure;  and  yet  if  human  life  be 
not  a  little  moved  with  the  gentle  gales  of  hopes 
and  fears,  there  may  be  some  danger  of  its  stag¬ 
nating  in  an  unmanly  indolence  and  security.  It 
is  a  known  story  of  Domitian,  that  after  he  had 
possessed  himself  of  the  Roman  empire,  his  de¬ 
sires  turned  upon  catching  flies.  Active  and 
masculine  spirits  in  the  vigor  of  youth  neither 
can  nor  ought  to  remain  at  rest.  If  they  debar 
themselves  from  aiming  at  a  noble  object,  their  de¬ 
sires  will  move  downward,  and  they  will  feel 
themselves  actuated  by  some  low  and  abject  pas¬ 
sion.  Thus,  if  you  cut  off  the  top  branches  of  a 
tree,  and  will  not  suffer  it  to  grow  any  higher,  it 
will  not  therefore  cease  to  grow,  but  will  quickly 
shoot  out  at  the  bottom.  The  man  indeed  who 
goes  into  the  world  only  with  the  narrow  views 
of  self-interest,  who  catches  at  the  applause  of  an 
idle  multitude,  as  he  can  find  no  solid  contentment 
at  the  end  of  his  journey,  so  he  deserves  to  meet 
with  disappointments  in  his  way;  but  he  who  is 
actuated  by  a  noble  principle;  whose  mind  is  so 
far  enlarged  as  to  take  in  the  prospect  of  his  coun¬ 
try’s  good;  who  is  enamored  with  that  praise 
which  is  one  of  the  fair  attendants  of  virtue,  and 
values  not  those  acclamations  which  are  not 
seconded  by  the  impartial  testimony  of  his  own 
mind ;  who  repines  not  at  the  low  station  which 
Providence  has  at  present  allotted  him,  but  yet 
would  willingly  advance  himself  by  justifiable 
means  to  a  more  rising  and  advantageous  ground; 
such  a  man  is  warmed  with  a  generous  emulation; 
it  is  a  virtuous  movement  in  him  to  wish  and  to 
endeavor  that  his  power  of  doing  good  may  be 
equal  to  his  will. 

The  man  who  is  fitted  out  by  nature,  and  sent 
into  the  world  with  great  abilities,  is  capable  of 
doing  great  good  or  mischief  in  it.  It  ought 
therefore  to  be  the  care  of  education  to  infuse  into 
the  untainted  youth  early  notions  of  justice  and 
honor,  that  so  the  possible  advantages  of  good 
parts  may  not  take  an  evil  turn,  nor  be  perverted 
to  base  and  unworthy  purposes.  It  is  the  business 
of  religion  and  philosophy  not  so  much  to  ex¬ 
tinguish  our  passions,  as  to  regulate  and  direct 
them  to  valuable  well-chosen  objects.  When  these 
have  pointed  out  to  us  which  course  we  may  law¬ 
fully  steer,  it  is  no  harm  to  set  out  all  our  sail ;  if 
the  storms  and  tempests  of  adversity  should  rise 
upon  us,  and  not  suffer  us  to  make  the  haven 
where  we  would  be,  it  will  however  prove  no  small 
consolation  to  us  in  these  circumstances,  that  we 


have  neither  mistaken  our  course,  nor  fallen  into 
calamities  of  our  own  procuring. 

Religion  therefore  (were  we  to  consider  it  no 
further  than  as  it  interposes  in  the  affairs  of  thia 
life)  is  highly  valuable,  and  worthy  of  great  vene¬ 
ration;  as  it  settles  the  various  pretensions,  and 
otherwise  interfering  interests  of  mortal  men,  and 
thereby  consults  the  harmony  and  order  of  the 
great  community;  as  it  gives  a  man  room  to  play 
liis  part  and  exert  his  abilities  ;  as  it  animates  to 
actions  truly  laudable  in  themselves,  in  their  ef¬ 
fects  beneficial  to  society;  as  it  inspires  rational 
ambition,  correct  love  and  elegant  desire. — Z. 


No.  225.]  SATURDAY,  NOVEMBER  17,  1711. 

Nullum  nuruen  abest  si  sit  prudentia. - 

Juv.,  Sat.  x,  365. 

Prudence  supplies  the  want  of  every  good. 

I  have  often  thought  if  the  minds  of  men  were 
laid  open,  we  should  see  but  little  difference  be¬ 
tween  that  of  the  wise  man,  and  that  of  the  fool. 
There  are  infinite  reveries,  numberless  extrava¬ 
gances,  and  a  perpetual  train  of  vanities  which 
pass  through  both.  The  great  difference  is,  that 
the  first  knows  how  to  pick  and  cull  his  thoughts 
for  conversation,  by  suppressing  some,  and  com¬ 
municating  others;  whereas  the  other  lets  them  all 
indifferently  fly  out  in  words.  This  sort  of  dis¬ 
cretion,  however,  has  no  place  in  private  conver¬ 
sation  between  intimate  friends.  On  such  occa¬ 
sions  the  wisest  men  very  often  talk  like  the 
weakest ;  for  indeed  the  talking  with  a  friend  is 
nothing  else  but  thinking  aloud. 

Tully  has  therefore  very  justly  exposed  a  pre¬ 
cept  delivered  by  some  ancient  writers,  that  a  man 
should  live  with  his  enemy  in  such  a  manner,  as 
might  leave  him  room  to  become  his  friend;  and 
with  his  friend  in  such  a  manner,  that  if  he  be¬ 
came  his  enemy,  it  should  not  be  in  his  power  to 
hurt  him.  The  first  part  of  this  rule,  which  re¬ 
gards  our  behavior  toward  an  enemy,  is  indeed 
very  reasonable,  as  well  as  very  prudential ;  but 
the  latter  part  of  it,  which  regards  our  behavior 
toward  a  friend,  savors  more  of  cunning  than  of 
discretion,  and  would  cut  a  man  off  from  the 
greatest  pleasures  of  life,  which  are  the  freedoms 
of  conversation  with  a  bosom  friend.  Beside  that, 
when  a  friend  is  turned  into  an  enemy,  and,  as  the 
son  of  Siracli  calls  him,*  “a  bewrayer  of  secrets,” 
the  world  is  just  enough  to  accuse  the  perfidious¬ 
ness  of  the  friend,  rather  than  the  indiscretion  of 
the  person  who  confided  in  him. 

Discretion  does  not  only  show  itself  in  words, 
but  in  all  the  circumstances  of  action,  and  is  like 
an  under-agent  of  Providence,  to  guide  and  direct 
us  in  the  ordinary  concerns  of  life. 

There  are  many  more  shining  qualities  in  the 
mind  of  man,  but  there  is  none  so  useful  as  dis¬ 
cretion;  it  is  this  indeed  which  gives  a  value  to  all 
the  rest,  which  sets  them  at  work  in  their  proper 
times  and  places,  and  turns  them  to  the  advantage 
of  the  person  who  is  possessed  of  them.  Without 
it,  learning  is  pedantry,  and  wit  impertinence 
virtue  itself  looks  like  weakness :  the  best  parts 
only  qualify  a  man  to  be  more  sprightly  in  errors, 
and  active  to  his  own  prejudice. 

Nor  does  discretion  only  make  a  man  the  master 
of  his  own  parts,  but  of  other  men’s.  The  dis¬ 
creet  man  finds  out  the  talents  of  those  he  con¬ 
verses  with,  and  knows  how  to  apply  them  to 
proper  uses.  Accordingly,  if  we  look  into  par¬ 
ticular  communities  and  divisions  of  men,  we  may 


*  Eccles.,  vi,  9,  xxvii,  17. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


observe  that  it  is  the  discreet  man,  not  the  witty, 
nor  the  learned,  nor  the  brave,  who  guides  the 
conversation,  and  gives  measures  to  the  society. 
A  man  with  great  talents,  but  void  of  discretion, 
is  like  Polyphemus  in  the  fable,  strong  and  blind, 
endued  with  an  irresistible  force,  which  for  want 
of  sight  is  of  no  use  to  him. 

Though  a  man  has  all  other  perfections,  and 
wants  discretion,  he  will  be  of  no  great  conse¬ 
quence  in  the  world  ;  but  if  he  has  this  single 
talent  in  perfection,  and  but  a  common  share  of 
others,  he  may  do  what  he  pleases  in  his  particular 
station  of  life. 

At  the  same  time  that  I  think  discretion  the 
most  useful  talent  a  man  can  be  master  of,  I  look 
upon  cunning  to  be  the  accomplishment  of  little, 
mean,  ungenerous  minds.  Discretion  points  out 
the  noblest  ends  to  us,  and  pursues  the  most 
proper  and  laudable  methods  of  attaining  them. 
Cunning  has  only  private  selfish  aims,  and  sticks 
at  nothing  which  may  make  them  succeed.  Dis¬ 
cretion  has  large  and  extended  view's,  and  like  a 
well-formed  eye,  commands  a  whole  horizon. 
Cunning  is  a  kind  of  short-sightedness,  that  dis¬ 
covers  the  minutest  objects  which  are  near  at  hand, 
but  is  not  able  to  discern  things  at  a  distance. 
Discretion,  the  more  it  is  discovered,  gives  a 
greater  authority  to  the  person  who  possesses  it. 
Cunning,  when  it  is  once  detected,  loses  its  force, 
and  makes  a  man  incapable  of  bringing  about 
even  those  events  which  he  might  have  done,  had 
he  passed  only  for  a  plain  man.  Discretion  is  the 
perfection  of  reason,  and  a  guide  to  us  in  all  the 
duties  of  life:  cunning  is  a  kind  of  instinct,  that 
only  looks  out  after  our  immediate  interests  and 
welfare.  Discretion  is  only  found  in  men  of  strong- 
sense  and  good  understandings  :  cunning  is  often 
to  be  met  with  in  brutes  themselves,  and  in  per¬ 
sons  who  are  but  the  fewest  removes  from  them. 
In  short,  cunning  is  only  the  mimic  of  discretion, 
and  may  pass  upon  weak  men,  in  the  same  man¬ 
ner  as  vivacity  is  often  mistaken  for  wit,  and 
gravity  for  wisdom. 

The  cast  of  mind  which  is  natural  to  a  discreet 
man,  makes  him  look  forward  into  futurity,  and 
consider  what  will  be  his  condition  millions  of 
ages  hence,  as  well  as  what  it  is  at  present.  He 
knows  that  the  misery  or  happiness  whicli  are  re¬ 
served  for  him  in  another  world,  lose  nothing 
of  their  reality  by  being  at  so  great  distance  from 
him.  The  objects  do  not  appear  little  to  him  be¬ 
cause  they  are  remote.  He  considers  that  those 
pleasures  and  pains. which  lie  hid  in  eternity,  ap¬ 
proach  nearer  to  him  every  moment,  and  will  be 
present  with  him  in  their  full  weight  and  measure, 
as  much  as  those  pains  and  pleasures  which  he 
feels  at  'this  very  instant.  For  this  reason  he  is 
careful  to  secure  to  himself  that  which  is  the 
proper  happiness  of  his  nature,  and  the  ultimate 
design  of  his  being.  He  carries  his  thoughts  to 
the  end  of  every  action,  and  considers  the  most 
distant  as  well  as  the  most  immediate  effects  of  it. 
He  supersedes  every  little  prospect  of  gain  and 
advantage  which  offers  itself  here,  if  he  does  not 
find  it  consistent  with  his  views  of  a  hereafter. 
In  a  word,  his  hopes  are  full  of  immortality,  his 
schemes  are  large  and  glorious,  and  his  conduct 
suitable  to  one  who  knows  his  true  interest,  and 
how  to  pursue  it  by  proper  methods. 

I  have,  in  this  essay  upon  discretion,  considered 
it  both  as  an  accomplishment  and  as  a  virtue,  and 
have  therefore  described  it  in  its  full  extent ;  not 
only  as  it  is  conversant  about  worldly  affairs,  but 
as  it  regards  our  whole  existence  ;  not  only  as  it 
is  the  guide  of  a  mortal  creature,  but  as  it  is  in 
general  the  director  of  a  reasonable  being.  It  is 
in  this  light,  that  discretion  is  represented  by  the 


285 

wise  man,  who  sometimes  mentions  it  under  the 
name  of  discretion,  and  sometimes  under  that  of 
wisdom.  It  is  indeed  (as  described  in  the  latter 
part  of  tliis  paper),  the  greatest  wisdom,  but  at 
the  same  time  in  the  power  of  every  one  to  attain. 
Its  advantages  are  infinite,  but  its  acquisition 
easy ;  or  to  speak  of  her  in  the  words  of  the  apo¬ 
cryphal  writer  whom  I  quoted  in  my  last  Satur¬ 
day’s  paper,*  “  Wisdom  is  glorious,  and  never 
fadeth  away,  yet  she  is  easily  seen  of  them  that 
love  her,  and  found  of  such  as  seek  her.  She 
preventeth  them  that  desire  her,  in  making  her¬ 
self  first  known  unto  them.  He  that  seeketh  her 
early,  shall  have  no  great  travel ;  for  he  shall  find 
her  sitting  at  his  doors.  To  think  therefore  upon 
her  is  the  perfection  of  wisdom,  and  whoso  watch- 
eth  for  her  shall  quickly  be  without  care.  For 
she  goeth  about  seeking  such  as  are  worthy  of  her, 
showeth  herself  favorably  unto  them  in  the  ways, 
and  meeteth  them  in  every  thought.” — C. 


Ho.  226.]  MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  19,  1711. 

- Mutum  est  pictura  poema. 

A  picture  is  a  poem  without  words. 

fl  have  very  often  lamented,  and  hinted  my 
sorrow  in  several  speculations,  that  the  art  of 
painting  is  made  so  little  use  of  to  the  improve¬ 
ment  of  our  manners.  When  we  consider  that  it 
places  the  action  of  the  person  represented  in  the 
most  agreeable  aspect  imaginable,  that  it  does  not 
only  express  the  passion  or  concern  as  it  sits  upon 
him  who  is  drawn,  but  has,  under  those  features, 
the  height  of  the  painter’s  imagination,  what 
strong  images  of  virtue  and  humanity  might  we 
not  expect  would  be  instilled  into  the  mind  from 
the  labors  of  the  pencil  ?  This  is  a  poetry  which 
would  be  understood  with  much  less  capacity,  and 
less  expense  of  time,  than  what  is  taught  by  wri¬ 
ting  ;  but  the  use  of  it  is  generally  perverted,  and 
that  admirable  skill  prostituted  to  the  basest  and 
most  unworthy  ends.  Who  is  the  better  man  for 
beholding  the  most  beautiful  Venus,  the  best 
wrought  Bacchanal,  the  images  of  sleeping  Cu¬ 
pids,  languishing  Nymphs,  or  anjr  0f  the  repre¬ 
sentations  of  gods,  goddesses,  demi-gods,  satyrs, 
Polyphemes,  sphynxes,  or  fauns  ?  But  if  the  vir¬ 
tues  and  vices,  which  are  sometimes  pretended  to 
be  represented  under  such  draughts,  were  given  us 
by  the  painter  in  the  characters  of  real  life,  and 
the  persons  of  men  and  women  whose  actions 
have  rendered  them  laudable  or  infamous  ;  we 
should  not  see  a  good  history  piece  without  re¬ 
ceiving  an  instructive  lecture.  There  needs  no 
other  proof  of  this  truth,  than  the  testimony  of 
every  reasonable  creature  who  has  seen  the  car¬ 
toons  in  her  majesty’s  gallery  at  Hampton-court. 
These  are  representations  of  no  less  actions  than 
those  of  our  blessed  Savior  and  his  apostles.  As 
I  now  sit  and  recollect  the  warm  images  which  the 
admirable  Raphael  had  raised,  it  is  impossible, 
even  from  the  faint  traces  in  one’s  memory  of 
what  one  has  not  seen  these  two  years,  to  be  un¬ 
moved  at  the  horror  and  reverence  which  appear 
in  the  whole  assembly  when  the  mercenary  man 
fell  down  dead ;  at  the  amazement  of  the  man 
born  blind,  when  he  first  received  sight ;  or  at  the 
graceless  indignation  of  the  sorcerer,  when  he  is 


*  Wisdom  of  Solomon,  chap,  vi,  ver.  12 — 16. 
f  The  speculation  was  written  with  the  generous  design  of 
promoting  a  subscription  just  then  set  on  foot  for  having  the 
cartoons  of  Raphael  copied  and  engraved  by  Signior  Nicola 
Dorigny,  who  had  been  invited  over  from  Rome  by  several  of 
the  nobility,  and  to  whom  the  Queen  had  given  her  license 
for  that  purpose. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


286 


struck  blind.  The  lame,  when  they  first  find 
strength  in  their  feet,  stand  doubtful  of  their  new 
vigor.  The  heavenly  apostles  appear  acting  these 
great  things  with  a  deep  sense  of  the  infirmities 
which  they  relieve,  but  no  value  of  themselves 
who  administer  to  their  weakness.  They  know 
themselves  to  be  but  instruments  ;  and  the  gener¬ 
ous  distress  they  are  painted  in  when  divine  hon¬ 
ors  are  offered  to  them,  is  a  representation  in  the 
most  exquisite  degree  of  the  beauty  of  holiness. 
When  St.  Paul  is  preaching  to  the  Athenians, 
with  what  wonderful  art  are  almost  all  the  differ¬ 
ent  tempers  of  mankind  represented  in  that  ele¬ 
gant  audience  ?  You  see  one  credulous  of  all  that 
is  said  ;  another  wrapped  up  in  deep  suspense  ; 
another  saying,  there  is  some  reason  in  what  he 
says  ;  another  angry  that  the  apostle  destroys  a 
favorite  opinion  which  he  is  unwilling  to  give  up; 
another  wholly  convinced,  and  holding  out  his 
hands  in  rapture  ;  while  the  generality  attend, 
and  wait  for  the  opinion  of  those  who  are  of 
leading  characters  in  the  assembly.  I  will  not 
pretend  so  much  as  to  mention  that  chart  on  which 
is  drawn  the  appearance  of  our  blessed  Lord  after 
his  resurrection.  Present  authority,  late  suffer¬ 
ings,  humility,  and  majestic,  despotic  command, 
and  divine  love,  are  at  once  seated  in  his  celestial 
aspect.  The  figures  of  the  eleven  apostles  are  all 
in  the  same  passion  of  admiration,  but  discover  it 
differently  according  to  their  characters.  Peter  re¬ 
ceives  his  master’s  orders  on  his  kne'es  with  an 
admiration  mixed  with  a  more  particular  atten¬ 
tion  :  the  two  next  with  a  more  open  ecstasy, 
though  still  constrained  by  an  awe  of  the  Divine 
presence.  The  beloved  disciple,  whom  I  take  to 
be  the  right  of  the  two  first  figures,  has  in  his 
countenance  wonder  drowned  in  love  :  and  the 
last  personage,  whose  back  is  toward  the  specta¬ 
tor,  and  his  side  toward  the  presence,  one  would 
fancy  to  be  St.  Thomas,  as  abashed  by  the  con¬ 
science  of  his  former  diffidence,  which  perplexed 
concern  it  is  possible  Raphael  thought  too  hard  a 
task  to  draw,  but  by  this  acknowledgment  of  the 
difficulty  to  describe  it. 

The  whole  work  is  an  exercise  of  the  highest 
piety  in  the  painter  ;  and  all  the  touches  of  a  re¬ 
ligious  mind  are  expressed  in  a  manner  much 
more  forcible  than  can  possibly  be  performed  by 
the  most  moving  eloquence.  These  invaluable 
pieces  are  very  justly  in  the  hands  of  the  greatest 
and  most  pious  sovereign  in  the  world  ;  and  can¬ 
not  be  the  frequent  object  of  every  one  at  their  own 
leisure  :  but  as  an  engraver  is  to  the  painter  what 
a  printer  is  to  the  author,  it  is  worthy  her  majes¬ 
ty’s  name  that  she  has  encouraged  that  noble 
artist,  Monsieur  Dorigny,  to  publish  these  works 
of  Raphael.  We  have  of  this  gentleman  a  piece 
of  the  Transfiguration,  which,  I  think,  is  held  a 
work  second  to  none  in  the  world. 

Methinks  it  would  be  ridiculous  in  our  people 
of  condition,  after  their  large  bounties  to  foreign¬ 
ers  of  no  name  or  merit,  should  they  overlook  this 
occasion  of  haying,  for  a  trifling  subscription,  a 
work  which  it  is  impossible  for  a  man  of  sense  to 
behold,  without  being  warmed  with  the  noblest 
sentiments  that  can  be  inspired  by  love,  admira¬ 
tion,  compassion,  contempt  of  this  world,  and  ex¬ 
pectation  of  a  better. 

It  is  certainly  the  greatest  honor  we  can  do  our 
country,  to  distinguish  strangers  of  merit  who  ap¬ 
ply  to  us  with  modesty  and  diffidence,  which 
generally  accompanies  merit.  No  opportunity  of 
this  kind  ought  to  be  neglected,  and  a  modest  be¬ 
havior  should  alarm  us  to  examine  whether  we  do 
not  lose  something  excellent  under  that  disadvan¬ 
tage  in  the  possessor  of  that  quality.  My  skill 
in  paintings,  where  one  is  not  directed  by  the  pas¬ 


sion  of  the  picture,  is  so  inconsiderable,  that  I  am 
in  very  great  perplexity  when  I  offer  to  speak  of 
any  performances  of  painters  of  landscapes,  build¬ 
ings,  or  single  figures.  This  makes  me  at  a  loss 
how  to  mention  the  pieces  which  Mr.  Boul  ex¬ 
poses  to  sale  by  auction  on  Wednesday  next  in 
Chandos-street :  but  having  heard  him  commend¬ 
ed  by  those  who  have  bought  of  him  heretofore, 
for  great  integrity  in  his  dealing,  and  overheard 
him  himself  (though  a  laudable  painter)  say, 
nothing  of  his  own  was  fit  to  come  into  the  room 
with  those  he  had  to  sell,  I  feared  I  should  lose  an 
occasion  of  serving  a  man  of  worth,  in  omitting 
to  speak  of  his  auction. — T. 


No.  227. J  TUESDAY,  NOVEMBER  20,  1711. 

Wretch  that  I  am!  ah,  whither  shall  I  go? 

Will  you  not  hear  me,  nor  regard  my  woe  ? 

I’ll  strip,  and  throw  me  from  yon  rock  so  high, 

Where  Olpis  sits  to  watch  the  scaly  fry. 

Should  I  he  drown’d,  or  ’scape  with  life  away, 

If  cur’d  of  love,  you,  tyrant,  would  be  gay. — Tkeoob. 

In  my  last  Thursday’s  paper,  I  made  mention 
of  a  place  called  The  Lover’s  Leap,  which  I  find 
has  raised  a  great  curiosity  among  several  of  my 
correspondents.  I  there  told  them  that  this  leap 
was  used  to  be  taken  from  a  promontory  of  Leu- 
cas.  This  Leucas  was  formerly  a  part  of  Acar- 
nania,  being  joined  to  it  by  a  narrow  neck  of  land, 
which  the  sea  has  by  length  of  time  overflowed 
and  washed  away  ;  so  that  at  present  Leucas  is 
divided  from  the  continent,  and  is  a  little  island 
in  the  Ionian  sea.  The  promontory  of  this  island, 
from  whence  the  lover  took  his  leap,  was  formerly 
called  Leucate.  If  the  reader  has  a  mind  to  know 
both  the  island  and  the  promontory  by  their  mod¬ 
ern  titles,  he  will  find  in  his  map  the  ancient 
island  of  Leucas  under  the  name  of  St.  Mauro, 
and  the  ancient  promontory  of  Leucate  under  the 
name  of  the  Cape  of  St.  Mauro. 

Since  I  am  engaged  thus  far  in  antiquity,  I 
must  observe  that  Theocritus,  in  the  motto  prefixed 
to  my  paper,  describes  one  of  the  despairing  shep¬ 
herds  addressing  himself  to  his  mistress  after  the 
following  manner:  “Alas!  what  will  become  of 
me  !  wretch  that  I  am  !  Will  you  not  bear  me  ? 
I’ll  throw  off  my  clothes,  and  take  a  leap  into  that 
part  of  the  sea  which  is  so  much  frequented  by 
Olpis  the  fisherman.  And  though  I  should  es¬ 
cape  with  my  life,  I  know  you  will  be  pleased  with 
it.”  I  shall  leave  it  with  the  critics  to  determine 
whether  the  place,  which  this  shepherd  so  partic¬ 
ularly  points  out,  was  not  the  above-mentioned 
Leucate,  or  at  least  some  other  lover’s  leap,  which 
was  supposed  to  have  had  the  same  effect.  I  can¬ 
not  believe,  as  all  the  interpreters  do,  that  the 
shepherd  means  nothing  further  here  than  that  he 
would  drown  himself,  since  he  represents  the  issue 
of  his  leap  as  doubtful,  by  adding,  that  if  he 
should  escape  with  life  he  knows  his  mistress 
would  be  pleased  with  it :  which  is,  according 
to  our  interpretation,  that  she  would  rejoice  any 
wav  to  get  rid  of  a  lover  who  was  so  troublesome 
to  her. 

After  this  short  preface,  I  shall  present  my 
reader  with  some  letters  which  I  have  received, 
upon  this  subject.  The  first  is  sent  me  by  a  phy¬ 
sician. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  lover’s  leap,  which  you  mention  in  your 
223d  paper,  was  generally,  I  believe,  a  very  effec¬ 
tual  cure  for  love,  and  not  only  for  love,  but  for  all 
other  evils.  In  short,  Sir,  I  am  afraid  it  was  such 
a  leap  as  that  which  Hero  took  to  get  rid  of  h© 


THE  SPE 

assion  for  Leander.  A  man  is  in  no  danger  of 
reakiug  his  heart,  who  breaks  his  neck  to  pre¬ 
vent  it.  I  know  very  well  the  wonders  which 
ancient  authors  relate  concerning  this  leap  ;  and 
in  particular,  that  very  many  persons  who  tried  it, 
escaped  not  only  with  their  lives  but  their  limbs. 
If  by  this  means  they  got  rid  of  their  love,  though 
it  may  in  part  be  ascribed  to  the  reasons  you  give 
for  it ;  why  may  not  we  suppose  that  the  cold  bath, 
into  which  they  plunged  themselves,  had  also 
some  share  in  their  cure  ?  A  leap  into  the  sea,  or 
into  any  creek  of  salt  waters,  very  often  gives  a 
new  motion  to  the  spirits,  and  a  new  turn  to  the 
blood  ;  for  which  reason  we  prescribe  it  in  dis¬ 
tempers  which  no  other  medicine  will  reach.  I 
could  produce  a  quotation  out  of  a  very  venerable 
author,  in  which  the  frenzy  produced  by  love  is 
compared  to  that  which  is  produced  by  the  biting 
of  a  mad  dog.  But  as  this  comparison  is  a  little 
too  coarse  for  your  paper,  and  might  look  as  if  it 
were  cited  to  ridicule  the  author  who  has  made 
use  of  it,  I  shall  only  hint  at  it,  and  desire  you  to 
consider  whether,  if  the  frenzy  produced  by  these 
two  different  causes  be  of  the  same  nature,  it  may 
not  very  properly  be  cured  by  the  same  means. 

“  I  am,  Sir, 

“  Your  most  humble  servant,  and  Well-wisher, 

“AESCULAPIUS.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  a  young  woman  crossed  in  love.  My 
story  is  very  long  and  melancholy.  To  give  you 
the  heads  of  it :  A  young  gentleman,  after  having- 
made  his  applications  to  me  for  three  years  to¬ 
gether,  and  filled  my  head  with  a  thousand  dreams 
ot  happiness,  some  few  days  since  married  another. 
Pray  tell  me  in  what  part  of  the  world  your  pro¬ 
montory  lies,  which  you  call  The  Lover’s  Leap, 
and  whether  one  may  go  to  it  by  land  ?  But, 
alas  !  I  am  afraid  it  has  lost  its  virtue,  and  that  a 
woman  of  our  times  would  find  no  more  relief  in 
taking  such  a  leap,  than  in  singing  a  hymn  to 
Venus.  So  that  I  must  cry  out  with  Dido  in 
Dryden’s  Virgil : 

Ah!  cruel  heav’n,  that  made  no  cure  for  love! 

“  Your  disconsolate  Servant, 

“  Athenais.” 

“  Mister  Spictatur, 

“My  heart  is  so  full  of  lofes  and  passions  for 
Mrs.  Gwinifrid,  and  she  is  so  pettish  and  overrun 
with  cholors  against  me,  that  if  I  had  the  good 
happiness  to  have  my  dwelling  (which  is  placed 
by  my  creat  cranfather  upon  the  pottom  of  a  hill) 
no  farther  distance  but  twenty  mile  from  the  Lofer’s 
Leap,  I  would  indeed  indeafor  to  preak  my  neck 
upon  it  on  purpose.  Now,  good  Mister  Spictatur 
of  Creat  Pritain,  you  must  know  it  there  is  in  Caer¬ 
narvonshire  a  fery  pig  mountain,  the  clory  of  all 
Wales,  which  is  named  Penmainmaure,  and  you 
must  also  know,  it  is  no  great  journey  on  foot 
from  me  ;  but  the  road  is  stony  and  bad  for  shoes. 
Now,  there  is  upon  the  forehead  of  this  mountain 
a  very  high  rock  (like  a  parish  steeple),  that  com- 
eth  a  huge  deal  over  the  sea  ;  so  when  I  am  in  my 
melancholies,  and  I  do  throw  mvself  from  it,  I  do 
desire  my  fery  good  friend  to  tell  me  in  his  Spic¬ 
tatur,  if  I  shall  be  cure  of  my  griefous  lofes;  for 
theie  is  the  sea  clear  as  glass,  and  as  creen  as  a 
leek.  Then  likewise  if  I  be  drown  and  preak  my 
neck,  if  Mrs.  Gwinifrid  will  not  lofe  me  afterward. 
Pray  be  speedy  in  your  answers,  for  I  am  in  Crete 
haste,  and  it  is  my  tesires  to  do  my  pusiness  with¬ 
out  loss  of  time.  I  remain  with  cordial  affec¬ 
tions,  your  ever  lofing  friend, 

“  Davyth  ap  Shenkyn.” 


CTATOR.  287 

“T.  S.  My  law-suits  have  brought  me  to  Lon¬ 
don,  but  I  have  lost  my  causes;  and  so  have  made 
my  resolutions  to  go  down  and  leap  before  the 
frosts  begin;  for  I  am  apt  to  take  colds.” 

Ridicule,  perhaps,  is  a  better  expedient  against 
love  than  sober  advice,  and  I  am  of  opinion  that 
Hudibras  and  Don  Quixote  may  be  as  effectual  to 
cure  the  extravagances  of  this  passion,  as  any  of 
the  old  philosophers.  I  shall  therefore  publish 
very  speedily  the  translation  of  a  little  Greek  ma¬ 
nuscript,  which  is  sent  me  by  a  learned  friend.  It 
appears  to  have  been  a  piece  of  those  records 
which  were  kept  in  the  little  temple  of  Apollo, 
that  stood  upon  the  promontory  of  Leucate.  The 
reader  will  find  it  to  be  a  summary  account  of  se¬ 
veral  persons  who  tried  the  lover’s  leap,  and  of 
the  success  they  found  in  it.  As  there  seem  to  be 
in  it  some  anachronisms,  and  deviations  from  the 
ancient  orthography,  I  am  not  wholly  satisfied 
myself  that  it  is  authentic,  and  not  rather  the  pro¬ 
duction  of  one  ot  those  Grecian  sophisters,  who 
have  imposed  upon  the  world  several  spurious 
works  of  this  nature.  I  speak  this  by  way  of 
precaution,  because  I  know  there  are  several  wri¬ 
ters  ot  uncommon  erudition,  who  would  not  fail 
to  expose  my  ignorance,  if  they  caught  me  trip¬ 
ping  in  a  matter  of  so  great  moment. — C. 


No.  228.]  WEDNESDAY,  NOVEMBER  21,  1711. 

Percunctatorem  fugito,  nam  garrulus  idem  est. 

Hor.  1  Ep.  xviii,  69. 

Tli’  inquisitive  will  blab ;  from  such  refrain : 

Their  leaky  ears  no  secret  can  retain. — Shard. 

There  is  a  creature  who  has  all  the  organs  of 
speech,  a  tolerably  good  capacity  for  conceiving 
what  is  said  to  it,  together  with  a  pretty  proper 
behavior  in  all  the  occurrences  of  common  life; 
but  naturally  very  vacant  of  thought  in  itself,  and 
therefore  forced  to  apply  itself  to  foreign  assist¬ 
ances.  Of  this  make  is  that  man  who  is  very  in¬ 
quisitive.  Y  ou  may  often  observe,  that  though 
he  speaks  as  good  sense  as  any  man  upon  anything 
with  which  he  is  well  acquainted,  he  cannot  trust 
to  the  range  of  his  own  fancy  to  entertain  him¬ 
self  upon  that  foundation,  but  goes  on  still  to  new 
inquiries.  Thus,  though  you  know  he  is  fit  for 
the  most  polite  conversation,  you  shall  see  him 
very  well  contented  to  sit  by  a  jockey,  giving  an 
account  of  the  many  revolutions  in  his  horse’s 
health,  what  potion  he  made  him  take,  how  that 
agreed  with  him,  how  afterward  he  came  to  his 
stomach  and  his  exercise,  or  any  the  like  imperti¬ 
nence;  and  be  as  well  pleased  as  if  you  talked  to 
him  on  the  most  important  truths.  This  humor 
is  far  from  making  a  man  unhappy,  though  it  may 
subject  him  to  raillery;  for  he  generally  falls  in 
with  a  person  who  seems  to  be  born  for  him,  which 
is  your  talkative  fellow.  It  is  so  ordered,  that 
there  is  a  secret  bent,  as  natural  as  the  meeting  of 
different  sexes,  in  these  two  characters,  to  supply 
each  other’s  wants.  I  had  the  honor  the  other 
day  to  sit  in  a  public  room,  and  saw  an  inquisi¬ 
tive  man  look  with  an  air  of  satisfaction  upon  the 
approach  of  one  of  these  talkers.  The  man  of 
ready  utterance  sat  down  by  him,  and  rubbing  his 
head,  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  making  an  uneasy 
countenance  he  began:  “  There  is  no  manner  of 
news  to-day.  I  cannot  tell  what  is  the  matter 
with  me,  but  I  slept  very  ill  last  night;  whether 
I  caught  cold  or  no,  I  know  not,  but  1  fancy  I  do 
not  wear  shoes  thick  enough  for  the  weather,  and 
I  have  coughed  all  this  week.  It  must  be  so,  for 
the  custom  of  washing  my  head  winter  and  sum- 


288 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


mer  with  cold  water,  prevents  any  injury  from  the 
season  entering  that  way;  so  it  must  come  in  at 
my  feet;  but  1  take  no  notice  of  it:  as  it  comes  so 
it  goes.  Most  of  our  evils  proceed  from  too  much 
tenderness;  and  our  faces  are  naturally  as  little 
able  to  resist  the  cold  as  other  parts.  The  Indian 
answered  very  well  to  a  European,  who  asked 
him  how  he  could  go  naked:  ‘ I  am  all  face.’” 

I  observed  this  discourse  was  as  welcome  to  my 
general  inquirer  as  any  other  of  more  consequence 
could  have  been;  but  somebody  calling  our  talker 
to  another  part  of  the  room,  the  inquirer  told  the 
next  man  who  sat  by  him,  that  Mr.  Such-a-one, 
who  was  just  gone  from  him,  used  to  wash  his 
head  in  cold  water  every  morning;  and  so  repeat¬ 
ed  almost  verbatim  all  that  had  been  said  to  him. 

The  truth  is,  the  inquisitive  are  the  funnels  of 
conversation;  they  do  not  take  in  anything  for 
their  own  use,  but  merely  to  pass  it  to  another. 

They  are  the  channels  through  which  all  the  good 
and  evil  that  is  spoken  in  town  are  conveyed. 

Such  as  are  offended  at  them,  or  think  they  suf¬ 
fer  by  their  behavior,  may  themselves  mend  that 
inconvenience,  for  they  are  not  a  malicious  people, 
and  if  you  will  supply  them,  you  may  contradict 
anything  they  have  said  before  by  their  own 
mouths.  A  further  account  of  a  thing  is  one  of 
the  gratefulest  goods  that  can  arrive  to  them;  and 
it  is  seldom  that  they  are  more  particular  than  to 
say,  “  The  town  will  have  it,  or  I  have  it  from  a 
good  hand;  ”  so  that  there  is  room  for  the  town  to 
know  the  matter  more  particularly,  and  for  a  bet¬ 
ter  hand  to  contradict  what  was  said  by  a  good 
one. 

I  have  not  known  this  humor  more  ridiculous 

than  in  a  father,  who  has  been  earnestly  solicitous  ,  _ 

to  have  an  account  how  his  son  has  passed  his  lei- '*coimtry;  and  I  have  at  length,  by  the  assistance 


were  to  know,  from  the  man  of  the  first  quality  to 
the  meanest  servant,  the  different  intrigues,  senti¬ 
ments,  pleasures,  and  interests  of  mankind,  would 
it  not  be  the  most  pleasing  entertainment  imagina¬ 
ble  to  enjoy  so  constant  a  farce,  as  the  observing 
mankind  much  more  different  from  themselves  in 
their  secret  thoughts  and  public  actions,  than  in 
their  nightcaps  and  long  periwigs  ? 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“Plutarch  tells  us,  that  Caius  Gracchus,  the 
Roman,  was  frequently  hurried  by  his  passions 
into  so  loud  and  tumultuous  a  way  of  speaking, 
and  so  strained  his  voice,  as  not  to  be  able  to  pro¬ 
ceed.  To  remedy  this  excess,  he  had  an  ingeni¬ 
ous  servant,  by  name  Licinius,  always  attending 
him  with  a  pitch-pipe,  or  instrument  to  regulate 
the  voice;  who,  whenever  he  heard  his  master 
begin  to  be  high,  immediately  touched  a  soft  note, 
at  which,  ’tis  said,  Caius  would  presently  abate 
and  grow  calm. 

“  Upon  recollecting  this  story,  I  have  frequently 
wondered  that  this  useful  instrument  should  have 
been  so  long  discontinued;  especially  since  we 
find  that  this  good  office  of  Licinius  has  preserved 
his  memory  for  many  hundred  years,  which,  me- 
thinks,  should  have  encouraged  some  one  to  re 
vive  it,  if  not  for  the  public  good,  yet  for  his  own 
credit.  It  may  be  objected,  that  our  loud  talkers 
are  so  fond  of  their  own  noise,  that  they  would 
not  take  it  well  to  be  checked  by  their  servants. 
But  granting  this  to  be  true,  surely  any  of  their 
hearers  have  a  very  good  title  to  play  a  soft  note 
in  their  own  defense.  To  be  short,  no  Licinius 
appearing,  and  the  noise  increasing,  I  was  resolved 
to  give  this  late  long  vacation  to  the  good  of  my 


gen- 


sure  hours;  if  it  be  in  a  way  thoroughly  insignifi¬ 
cant,  there  cannot  be  a  greater  joy  than  an  inquirer 
discovers  in  seeing  him  follow  so  hopefully  his 
own  steps.  But  this  humor  among  men  is  most 
pleasant  when  they  are  saying  something  which 
is  not  wholly  proper  for  a  third  person  to  hear, 
and  yet  is  in  itself  indifferent.  The  other  day 
there  came  in  a  well-dressed  young  fellow,  and 
two  gentlemen  of  this  species  immediately  fell  a 
whispering  his  pedigree.  I  could  overhear  by 
breaks,  “She  was  his  aunt;”  then  an  answer, 
“  Aye,  she  was,  of  the  mother’s  side;  ”  then  again, 
in  a  little  lower  voice,  “  His  father  wore  generally 
a  darker  wig;”  answer,  “Rot  much,  but  this 
tleman  wears  higher  heels  to  his  shoes.” 

As  the  inquisitive,  in  my  opinion,  are  such 
merely  from  a  vacancy  in  their  own  imaginations, 
there  is  nothing,  methinks,  so  dangerous  as  to 
communicate  secrets  to  them;  for  the  same  temper 
of  inquiry  makes  them  as  impertinently  commu¬ 
nicative;  but  no  man,  though  he  converses  with 
them,  need  put  himself  in  their  power,  for  they 
will  be  contented  with  matters  of  less  moment  as 
well.  When  there  is  fuel  enough,  no  matter  what 
it  is. - Thus  the  ends  of  sentences  in  the  news¬ 

papers,  as 
occasions 

discover  the  event,”  are  read  by  them,  and  consid¬ 
ered  not  as  mere  expletives. 

One  may  see  now  and  then  this  humor  accom¬ 
panied  with  an  insatiable  desire  of  knowing  what 
passes  without  turning  it  to  any  use  in  the  world 
but  merely  their  own  entertainment.  A  mind 
which  is  gratified  this  way  is  adapted  to  humor 
and  pleasantry,  and  formed  for  an  unconcerned 
character  in  the  world;  and,  like  myself,  to  be  a 
mere  Spectator.  This  curiosity,  without  malice 
or  self-interest,  lays  up  in  the  imagination  a  maga¬ 
zine  of  circumstances  which  cannot  but  entertain 
when  they  are  produced  in  conversation.  If  one 


“  This  wants  confirmation,” — “  This 
many  speculations,”  and  “  Time  will 


of  an  ingenious  artist  (who  works  for  the  Royal 
Society),  almost  completed  my  design,  and  shall 
be  ready  in  a  short  time  to  furnish  the  public  with 
what  number'  of  these  instruments  they  please, 
either  to  lodge  at  coffee-houses,  or  cariy  for  their 
own  private  use.  In  the  meantime  I  shall  pay 
that  respect  to  several  gentlemen,  who  I  know  will 
be  in  danger  of  offending  against  this  instrument, 
to  give  them  notice  of  it  by  private  letters,  in 
which  I  shall  only  write,  ‘  get  a  Licinius.’ 

“  I  should  now  trouble  you  no  longer,  but  that 
I  must  not  conclude  without  desiring  you  to  ac¬ 
cept  one  of  these  pipes,  which  shall  be  left  for  you 
with  Buckley;  and  which  I  hope  will  be  servicea¬ 
ble  to  you,  since  as  you  are  silent  yourself,  you 
are  most  open  to  the  insults  of  the  noisy. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  etc., 

“W.  B.” 

“  I  had  almost  forgot  to  inform  you,  that  as  an 
improvement  in  this  instrument,  there  will  be  a 
particular  note,  which  I  shall  call  a  hush-note; 
and  that  is  to  be  made  use  of  against  a  long  story, 
swearing,  obsceneness,  and  the  like.”  T. 


No.  229.]  THURSDAY,  NOVEMBER  22,  1711. 

-Spirat  adhuc  amor, 


Vivuntque  commissi  calores 

-ZEolise  fidibus  paellas. — Hor.  4  Od.  ix,  4. 

Nor  Sappho’s  amorous  flames  decay; 

Her  living  songs  preserve  their  charming  art, 

Her  verse  still  breathes  the  passions  of  her  heart. 

Francis. 

Among  the  many  famous  pieces  of  antiquity 
which  are  still  to  be  seen  at  Rome,  there  is  the 
trunk  of  a  statue  which  has  lost  the  arms,  legs, 
and  head;  but  discovers  such  an  exquisite  work¬ 
manship  in  what  remains  of  it,  that  Michael  An¬ 
gelo  declared  he  had  learned  his  whole  art  from  it. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Indeed  he  studied  it  so  attentively,  that  he  made 
most  of  his  statues,  and  even  his  pictures,  in  that 
gusto,  to  make  use  of  the  Italian  phrase;  for 
winch  reason  this  maimed  statue  is  still  called 
Michael  Angelo’s  school. 

A  fi  agment  of  Sappho,  which  I  design  for  the 
subject  ot  this  paper,  is  in  as  great  reputation 
among  the  poets  and  critics,  as  the  mutilated  figure 
above-mentioned  is  among  the  statuaries  and 
painters/  Several  of  our  countrymen,  and  Mr. 
Dry  den  in  particular,  seem  very  often  to  have  co¬ 
pied  after  it  in  their  dramatic  writings,  and  in 
their  poems  upon  love. 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  occasion  of  this 
English  reader  will  enter  into  the  beauties 
ot  it,  it  lie  supposes  it  to  have  been  written  in 
tlie  person  of  a  lover  sitting  by  his  mistress.  I 
shall  set  to  view  three  different  copies  of  this 
beautiful  original;  the  first  is  a  translation  by  Ca- 
•  tuilus,  the  second  by  Monsieur  Boikau,  and  the 
last  by  a  gentleman  whose  translation  of  the 
Hymn  to  venus  has  been  so  deservedly  admired.* 


289 


Blest  as  th’  immortal  gods  is  he, 
the  youth  who  fondly  sits  by  thee, 
And  hears  and  sees  tliee  all  the  while 
fcoltly  speak  and  sweetly  smile. 


Twas  this  depriv’d  my  soul  of  rest, 

And  raised  such  tumults  in  my  breast; 
lor  while  I  gaz’d,  in  transport  tost, 

My  breath  was  gone,  my  voice  was  lost: 


My  bosom  glow’d;  the  subtile  flame 
Kan  quick  through  all  my  vital  frame: 
O  er  my  dim  eyes  a  darkness  hung- 
My  ears  with  hollow  murmurs  rung. 


In  dewy  damps  my  limbs  were  chill’d- 
My  blood  with  gentle  horrors  thrill’d  • 
My  feeble  pulse  forgot  to  play ; 

I  fainted,  sank,  and  died  away. 


AD  LESBIAM. 

Die  mi  par  esse  deo  videtur, 

Ille,  si  fas  est,  superare  divos, 

Qui  scdens  adversus  identidem  te 

Spectat,  et  audit. 


Dulce  ndentem ;  misero  quod  omnis 
Eripit  sensus  mihi :  nam  simul  te 
Lesbia,  adspexi,  nihil  est  super  mi 

Quod  loquar  aniens. 


Lingua  sed  torpet :  tenues  sub  artus 
Flamma  dimanat:  sonitu  suopte 
Tinniunt  aures :  gemini  tegunter 

Lumina  nocte. 


My  learned  reader  will  know  very  well  the 
reason  why  one  of  these  verses  is  printed  in  Italic 
letters;!  and  if  he  compares  this  translation  with 
the  original  will  find.that  the  three  first  stanzas 
are  rendered  almost  word  for  word,  and  not  only 
with  the  same  elegance,  but  with  the  same  short 
turn  of  expression  which  is  so  remarkable  in  the 
Creek,  and  so  peculiar  to  the  Sapphic  ode  I 
cannot  imagine  for  what  reason  Madam  Dacier 
has  told  us,  that  this  ode  of  Sappho  is  preserved 
entire  in  Longinus,  since  it  is  manifest  to  any  one 
who  looks  into  that  author’s  quotation  of  it,  that 
there  must  at  least  have  been  another  stanza 
which  is  not  transmitted  to  us. 

t  "i  kfi  secon<\  translation  of  this  fragment  which 
I  shall  here  cite,  is  that  of  Monsieur  Boileau 


Heureux !  qui  pres  de  toi,  pour  toi  seule  soupire  • 
Qui  jouit  du  plaosir  de  t’eutendre  parler : 

Qrn  te  voit  quelquefois  doucement  lui  sourire : 

Les  dieux,  dans  son  bonheur,  peuvent-ils  l’egaler? 


Instead  of  giving  any  character  of  this  last 
translation  I  shall  desire  my  learned  reader  to 
ok  into  the  criticisms  which  Longinus  has  made 
upon  the  original.  By  that  means  he  will  know 
o  which  of  the  translations  he  ought  to  give  the 
preference.  I  shall  only  add,  that  this  trafislation 
is  written  m  the  very  spirit  of  Sappho,  and  as 

possibly  ?ufe.  ^  g“iUS  °f  °Ur  ‘“SUaSe  WiU 
Longinus  has  observed,  that  this  description  of 

tW  in  ^PP!10  1S  an  exact  coPy  of  nature,  and 
that  all  the  circumstances,  which  follow  one  an¬ 
other  in  such  a  hurry  of  sentiments,  notwithstand¬ 
ing  they  appear  repugnant  to  each  other,  are  really 
such  as  happen  in  the  frenzies  of  love. 

I  wonder  that  not  one  of  the  critics  or  editors, 
through  whose  hands  this  ode  has  passed,  has 

ipbffL0Kap?n/rT  ft  raention  a  circumstance 
related  by  Plutarch.  1  hat  author,  in  the  famous 

story  of  Antiochus,  who  fell  in  love  with  Strato- 
mce,  his  mother-in-law,  and  (not  daring  to  dis- 
cover  his  passion)  pretended  to  be  confined  to  his 

S1CrkQeSf’  tellf  U8>  that  Erasistratus,  the 
physician,  found  out  the  nature  of  his  distemper 
by  those  symptoms  of  love  which  he  had  learned 
fiom  Sappho  s  Avntings.  Stratonice  was  in  the 
room  of  the  love-sick  prince,  when  these  symp¬ 
toms  discovered  themselves  to  his  physician?  and 
it  is  piobable  that  they  were  not  very  ‘different 
from  those  which  Sappho  here  describes  in  a 
lovei  sitting  by  his  mistress.  The  story  of  Antio¬ 
chus,  is  so  well  known,  that  I  need  not  add  the 

subject.— o'  WhlCh  JmS  n0  relation  to  “y  present 


No.  230. j  FRIDAY,  NOVEMBER  23,  1711. 


Je  sens  de  veine  en  veine  une  subtile  flamme 
Counr  par  tout  mon  corps,  si-tot  que  je  te  vois  : 
Et  dans  les  doux  transports,  ou  s’egare  mon  ame, 
Je  ne  seaurois  trouver  de  langue,  ni  de  voix. 


Un  nuage  confus  se  repand  sur  ma  vue, 

j!  Pl^8-’  j-C  t0mbe  en  de  douces  ^ngueurs ; 

DnPfr  hal-C1-ne’  interdite,  esperdue,  ’ 

Un  frisson  me  saisit,  je  tremble,  je  me  meurs. 


The  reader  will  see  that  this  is  rather  an  imita- 

'  »  J  tt™18  ?tlon-  ,  The  circumstances  do  not 
le  so  thick  together  and  follow  one  another  with 

roa  w6 M™0*  andD emotion  as  in  the  origins 
(n  short.  Monsieur  Boileau  has  given  us  all  the 
ooetry,  but  not  all  the  passion  of  this  famous  frao- 

,  1  in  the  last  place,  present  my  reader 
with  the  English  translation.  3 


hoSirdUo”  ”  pr°plu“  accedunt’ “bitom 


resemble  the  gods  in  nothing  so  much  as  in  doirur 
good  to  their  fellow-creatures.  5  ® 


*  Ambrose  Philips. 

f  it  is  wanting  in  the  old  copies,  and  has  been  t. 

-onjecture  as  above.  But  in  a  curious  edition  ?  by 

lentil  tl?*?  iQ  1738|  «  to  * 

oqucndim.”  lj  diScovered> ]me  is  given  thus :  «  Voce 

19 


Human  nature  appears  a  very  deformed,  or  a 
very  beautiful  object,  according  to  the  different 
hghts  m  which  it  is  viewed.  When  we  see  men 
ot  inflamed  passions,  or  of  wicked  designs,  tearimr 
one  another  to  pieces  by  open  violence,  or  unde£ 
mining  each  other  by  secret  treachery  ;  when  we 
observe  base  and  narrow  ends  pursued  by  io-I10- 
minious  and  dishonest  means;  when  we" behold 
men  mixed  m  society  as  if  it  were  for  the  destruc- 
tion  of  it;  we  are  even  ashamed  of  our  species, 
and  out  of  humor  with  our  own  being.  But  in 
another  light,  when  we  behold  them  mild,  good 
and  benevolent,  full  of  a  generous  regard  for  the 
public  prosperity,  compassionating  each  other’s 
distresses,  and  relieving  each  other’s  wants,  we 
can  hardly  believe  they  are  creatures  of  the  same 
Kind.  In  this  view  they  appear  gods  to  each 
otber,  in  the  exercise  of  the  noblest  power,  that 
o  doing  good;  and  the  greatest  compliment  we 
lave  ever  been  able  to  make  to  our  own  being, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


290 

has  been  by  calling  this  disposition  of  mind  hu¬ 
manity.  We  cannot  but  observe  a  pleasure  aris¬ 
ing  in  our  own  breast  upon  the  seeing  or  hearing 
of  a  generous  action,  even  when  we  are  wholly 
disinterested  in  it.  I  cannot  give  a  more  proper 
instance  of  this,  than  by  a  letter  from  Pliny,  in 
which  he  recommends  a  friend  in  the  most  hand¬ 
some  manner,  and  methinks  it  would  be  a  great 
pleasure  to  know  the  success  of  this  epistle,  though 
each  party  concerned  in  it  has  been  so  many  hun¬ 
dred  years  in  his  grave. 

“To  Maximus. 

“  What  I  should  gladly  do  for  any  friend  of 
yours,  I  think  I  may  now  with  confidence  request 
for  a  friend  of  mine.  Arrianus  Maturius  is  the 
most  considerable  man  in  his  country :  when  I 
call  him  so,  I  do  not  speak  with  relation  to  his 
fortune,  though  that  is  very  plentiful,  but  to  his 
integrity,  justice,  gravity,  and  prudence;  his  ad¬ 
vice  is  useful  to  me  in  business,  and  his  judgment 
in  matters  of  learning.  His  fidelity,  truth,  and 
good  understanding,  are  very  great;  beside  this,  he 
loves  me  as  you  do,  than  which  I  cannot  say  any¬ 
thing  that  signifies  a  warmer  affection.  He  has 
nothing  that’s  aspiring  ;  and,  though  he  might 
rise  to  the  highest  order  of  nobility,  he  keeps  him¬ 
self  in  an  inferior  rank :  yet  1  think  myself 
bound  to  use  my  endeavors  to  serve  and  promote 
him;  and  would  therefore  find  the  means  of  add- 
;ng  something  to  his  honors  while  he  neither  ex¬ 
pects  nor  knows  it,  nay,  though  he  should  refuse 
it.  Something,  in  short,  I  would  have  for  him 
that  may  be  honorable,  but  not  troublesome ; 
and  I  entreat  that  you  will  procure  him  the  first 
thing  of  this  kind  that  offers,  by  which  you  will 
not  only  oblige  me,  but  him  also;  for  though  he 
does  not  covet  it,  I  know  he  will  be  as  grateful 
in  acknowledging  your  favor  as  if  he  had  asked 
it.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  reflections  in  some  of  your  papers  on  the 
servile  manner  of  education  now  in  use,  have 
given  birth  to  an  ambition,  which,  unless  you  dis¬ 
countenance  it,  will,  I  doubt,  engage  me  in  a  very 
difficult,  though  not  ungrateful  adventure.  I  am 
about  to  undertake,  for  the  sake  of  the  British 
youth,  to  instruct  them  in  such  a  manner,  that  the 
most  dangerous  page  in  Virgil  or  Homer  may  be 
read  by  them  with  much  pleasure,  and  with  per¬ 
fect  safety  to  their  persons. 

“  Could  I  prevail  so  far  as  to  be  honored  with 
the  protection  of  some  few  of  them  (for  I  am  not 
hero  enough  to  rescue  many),  my  design  is  to  re¬ 
tire  with  them  to  an  agreeable  solitude,  though 
within  the  neighborhood  of  a  city,  for  the  conve¬ 
nience  of  their  being  instructed  in  music,  danc¬ 
ing,  drawing,  designing,  or  any  other  such  accom¬ 
plishments,  which  it  is  conceived  may  make  as 
proper  diversions  for  them,  and  almost  as  plea¬ 
sant,  as  the  little  sordid  games  which  dirty  school¬ 
boys  are  so  much  delighted  with.  It  may  easily 
be  imagined,  how  such  a  pretty  society,  convers¬ 
ing  with  none  beneath  themselves,  and  sometimes 
admitted,  as  perhaps  not  unentertaining  parties, 
among  better  company  commended  and  caressed 
for  their  little  performances,  and  turned  by  such 
conversations  to  a  certain  gallantry  of  soul,  might 
be  brought  early  acquainted  with  some  of  the 
most  polite  English  writers.  This  having  given 
them  some  tolerable  taste  of  books,  they  would 
make  themselves  masters  of  the  Latin  tongue  by 
methods  far  easier  than  those  in  Lilly,  with  as 
little  difficulty  or  reluctance  as  young  ladies  learn 
to  speak  French,  or  to  sing  Italian  operas.  When 
they  had  advanced  thus  far  it  would  be  time  to 


form  their  taste  something  more  exactly.  One 
that  had  any  true  relish  for  fine  writing,  might 
with  great  pleasure  both  to  himself  and  them,  run 
over  together  with  them  the  best  Roman  histo¬ 
rians,  poets,  and  orators,  and  point  out  their  more 
remarkable  beauties;  give  them  a  short  scheme  of 
chronology,  a  little  view  of  geography,  medals, 
astronomy,  or  what  else  might  best  feed  the  busy 
inquisitive  humor  so  natural  to  that  age.  Such 
of  them  as  had  the  least  spark  of  genius,  when  it 
was  once  awakened  by  the  shining  thoughts  and 
great  sentiments  of  those  admired  writers,  could 
not,  I  believe,  be  easily  withheld  from  attempting 
that  more  difficult  sister  language,  whose  exalted 
beauties  they  would  have  heard  so  often  celebrated 
as  the  pride  and  wonder  of  the  whole  learned 
world.  In  the  meanwhile,  it  would  be  requisite 
to  exercise  their  style  in  writing  any  little  pieces 
that  ask  more  of  fancy  than  of  judgment:  and 
that  frequently  in  their  native  language ;  which 
every  one  metliinks  should  be  most  concerned  to 
cultivate,  especially  letters,  in  which  a  gentleman 
must  have  so  frequent  occasions  to  distinguish 
himself.  A  set  of  genteel  good-natured  youths 
fallen  into  such  a  manner  of  life,  would  form  al¬ 
most  a  little  academy,  and  doubtless  prove  no 
such  contemptible  companions,  as  might  not  often 
tempt  a  wiser  man  to  mingle  himself  in  their  di¬ 
versions,  and  draw  them  into  such  serious  sports 
as  might  prove  nothing  less  instructing  than  the 
gravest  lessons.  I  doubt  not  but  it  might  be  made 
some  of  their  favorite  plays,  To  contend  which  of 
them  should  recite  a  beautiful  part  of  a  poem  or 
oration  most  gracefully,  or  sometimes  to  join  in 
acting  a  scene  in  Terence,  Sophocles,  or  our  own 
Shakspeare.  The  cause  of  Milo  might  again  be 
pleaded  before  more  favorable  judges,  Csesar  a 
second  time  be  taught  to  tremble,  and  another  race 
of  Athenians  be  afresh  enraged  at  the  ambition  of 
another  Philip.  Amidst  these  noble  amusements, 
we  could  hope  to  see  the  early  dawnings  of  their 
imagination  daily  brighten  into  sense,  their  inno¬ 
cence  improve  into  virtue,  and  their  inexperi¬ 
enced  good  nature  directed  to  a  generous  love  of 
their  country. 

T.  “I  am,”  etc. 


No.  231.]  SATURDAY,  NOY.  24,  1711. 

0  pudor!  0  pietas! - Mart.,  viii,  78. 

0  modesty  I  0  piety ! 

Looking  over  the  letters  which  I  have  lately 
received  from  my  correspondents,  I  met  with  the 
following  one,  which  is  written  with  such  a  spirit 
of  politeness,  that  I  could  not  but  be  very  much 
pleased  with  it  myself,  and  question  not  but  it 
will  be  as  acceptable  to  the  reader. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  You,  who  are  no  stranger  to  public  assemblies, 
cannot  but  have  observed  the  awe  they  often  strike 
on  such  as  are  obliged  to  exert  any  talent  before 
them.  This  is  a  sort  of  elegant  distress,  to  which 
ingenuous  minds  are  the  most  liable,  and  may 
therefore  deserve  some  remarks  in  your  paper. 
Many  a  brave  fellow,  who  has  put  his  enemy  to 
flight  in  the  field,  has  been  in  the  utmost  disorder 
upon  making  a  speech  before  a  body  of  his  friends 
at  home.  One  would  think  there  was  some  kind 
of  fascination  in  the  eyes  of  a  large  circle  of  peo¬ 
ple,  when  darting  all  together  upon  one  person. 
I  have  seen  a  new  actor  in  a  tragedy  so  bound  up 
by  it  as  to  be  scarce  able  to  speak  or  move,  and 
have  expected  he  would  have  died  above  three 
acts  before  the  dagger  or  cup  of  poison  were 


THE  SPECTATOR 


brought  in.  It  would  not  be  amiss,  if  such  a  one 
were  at  first  introduced  as  a  ghost  or  statue,  until 
he  recovered  his  spirits,  and  grew  tit  for  some  liv¬ 
ing  part. 

“As  this  sudden  desertion  of  one’s  self  shows  a 
diffidence,  which  is  not  displeasing,  it  implies  at 
the  same  time  the  greatest  respect  to  an  audience 
that  can  be.  It  is  a  sort  of  mute  eloquence,  which 
pleads  for  their  favor  much  better  than  words 
could  do;  and  we  find  their  generosity  naturally 
mo\  ed  to  support  those  who  are  in  so  much  per¬ 
plexity  to  entertain  them.  I  was  extremely 
pleased  with  a  late  instance  of  this  kind  at  the 
opera  of  Almahide,  in  the  encouragement  given 
to  a  young  singer*  whose  more  than  ordinary 
concern  on  her  first  appearance,  recommended  her 
no  less  than  her  agreeable  voice  and  just  perform¬ 
ance.  Mere  bashfulness  without  merit  is  awk¬ 
ward;  and  merit  without  modesty  insolent.  But 
modest  merit  has  a  double  claim  to  acceptance, 
and  generally  meets  with  as  many  patrons  as  be¬ 
holders.  “I  am,'”  etc. 


291 


It  is  impossible  that  a  person  should  exert  him¬ 
self  to  advantage  in  an  assembly,  whether  it  be 
his  part  either  to  sing  or  speak,  who  lies  under 
too  great  oppressions  of  modesty.  I  remember, 
upon  talking  with  a  friend  of  mine  concerning  the 
force  of  pronunciation,  our  discourse  led  us°into 
the  enumeration  of  the  several  organs  of  speech 
which  an  orator  ought  to  have  in  perfection,  as 
the  tongue,  the  teeth,  the  lips,  the  nose,  the  pa- 
late,  and  the  windpipe.  Upon  which,  says  my 
friend,  “  \  ou  have  omitted  the  most  material  or 
gan  of  them  all,  and  that  is  the  forehead.” 

But  notwithstanding  an  excess  of  modesty  ob¬ 
structs  the  tongue  and  renders  it  unfit  for  its  offices, 
a  due  j^oportion  of  it  is  thought  so  requisite 
to  an  orator,  that  rhetoricians  have  recommended 
it.  to  their  disciples  as  a  particular  in  their  art. 
Cicero  tells  us  that  he  never  liked  an  orator  who 
did.  not  appear  in  some  little  confusion  at  the 
beginning  of  his  speech,  and  confesses  that  he 
himself  never  entered  upon  an  oration  without 
trembling  and  concern.  It  is  indeed  a  kind  of  de¬ 
ference  which  is  due  to  a  great  assembly,  and 
seldom  fails  to  raise  a  benevolence  in  the  audi¬ 
ence  toward  the  person  who  speaks.  My  cor¬ 
respondent  has  taken  notice  that  the  bravest  men 
often  appear  timorous  on  these  Occasions,  as  in¬ 
deed  we  may  observe,  that  there  is  generally  no 
creature  more  impudent  than  a  coward: 

- Lingua  melior,  sed  frigida  bello 

Dextera -  Virg.  ^En.,  xi,  338. 


- Bold  at  the  council-board ; 

But  cautious  in  the  field  he  shunn’d  the  sword. 

Dryden. 

A  bold  tongue  and  a  feeble  arm  are  the  quali¬ 
fications  of  Drances  in  Virgil ;  as  Homer,  to  ex¬ 
press  a  man  both  timorous  and  saucy,  makes  use 
of  a  kind  of  point,  which  is  very  rarely  to  be  met 
with  in  his  waitings,  namely,  that  he  had  the  eyes 
of  a  dog,  but  the  heart  of  a  deer.f 

A  just  and  reasonable  modesty  does  not  only  re- 
commend  eloquence,  but  sets  off  every  great  talent 
which  a  man  can  be  possessed  of.  It  heightens 
all  the  virtues  which  it  accompanies;  like  the 
shades  in  paintings,  it  raises  and  rounds  every 
figure,  and  makes  the  colors  more  beautiful 
though  not  so  glaring  as  they  would  be  without  it! 

Modesty  is  not  only  an  ornament,  but  also  a 
guard  to  virtue.  It  is  a  kind  of  quick  and  deli¬ 
cate  feqjing  in  the  soul  wffiich  makes  her  shrink 

*  Mrs.  Barbier.  See  a  curious  account  of  this  lady,  in  Sir 
John  Hawkins’s  History  of  Music,  vol.  v,  p.  156. 

t  Iliad,  i,  225. 


and  withdraw  herself  from  everything  that  has 
danger  in  it.  It  is  such  an  exquisite  sensibility, 
as  v  arns  her  to  shun  the  first  appearance  of  every¬ 
thing  which  i^  hurtful.  ' 

I  cannot  at  present  recollect  either  the  place  or 
time  of  wliat  1  am  going  to  mention  ;  but  I  have 

fi0mew  iere  lrl  ^10  history  of  ancient  Greece, 
that  the  women  of  the  country  were  seized  with 
an  unaccountable  melancholy,  which  disposed 
several  of  them  to  make  away  with  themselves. 
I  he  senate,  after  having  tried  many  expedients  to 
prevent  this  self-murder,  which  was  so  frequent 
among  them,  published  an  edict,  that  if  any  wo- 
man  whatever  should  lay  violent  hands  upon 
herself,  her  corpse  should  be  exposed  naked  in  the 
street,  and  dragged  about  the  city  in  the  most 
public  manner.  This  edict  immediately  put  a 
stop  to  the  practice  which  was  before  so  common. 
V  e  may  see  in  this  instance  the  strength  of  female 
modesty,  which  was  able  to  overcome  even  the  vio¬ 
lence  of  madness  and  despair.  The  fear  of  shame 
m  the  fair  sex  was  in  those  days  more  prevalent 
than  that  of  death. 

If  modesty  has  so  great  an  influence  over  our 
actions,  and  is  in  many  cases  so  impregnable  a 
fence  to  viitue:  what  can  more  undermine  morality 
than  that  politeness  which  reigns  among  the  un- 
thinking  part  of  .mankind,  and  treats  as  unfash- 
ionable  the  most  ingenuous  part  of  our  behavior* 
which  recommends  impudence  as  good-breeding,’ 
and  keeps .  a  man  always  in  countenance,  not 
because  he  is  innocent,  but  because  he  is  shame¬ 
less?  » 

Seneca  thought  modesty  so  great  a  check  to 
vice,  that  he  prescribes  to  us  the  practice  of  it  in 
secret,  and  advises  us  to  raise  it  in  ourselves  upon 
imaginary  occasions,  when  such  as  are  real  do  not 
offer  themselves ;  for  this  is  the  meaning  of  his 
precept.  That  when  we  are  by  ourselves,  and  in 
our  greatest  solitudes,  we  should  fancy  that  Cato 
stands  before  us  and  sees  everything  we  do.  In 
short,  if  you  banish  modesty  out  of  the  world 
she  carries  away  with  her  half  the  virtue  that  is 
in  it. 

After  these  reflections  on  modesty,  as  it  is  a 
virtue ;  I  must  observe,  that  there  is  a  vicious 
modesty  which  justly  deserves  to  be  ridiculed,  and 
which  those  persons  very  often  discover  who 
value  themselves  most  upon  a  well-bred  confi¬ 
dence.  This  happens  when  a  man  is  ashamed  to 
act  up  to  his  reason,  and  would  not  upon  any  con¬ 
sideration  be  surprised  at  the  practice  of  those 
duties,  for  the  performance  of  which  be  was  sent 
into  the  world.  Many  an  impudent  libertine 
would  blush  to  be  caught  in  a  serious  discourse 
and  would  scarce  be  able  to  show  his  head  after 
having  disclosed  a  religious  thought.  Decency 
of  behavior,  all  outward  show  of  virtue,  and  ab¬ 
horrence  of  vice  are  carefully  avoided  by  this  set 
of  shamefaced  people,  as  what  would  disparage 
heir  gayety  of  temper,  and  infallibly  bring  them 
o  dishonor.  This  is  such  a  poorness  of  spirit, 
such  a  despicable  cowardice,  such  a  degenerate, 
abject  state  of  mind,  as  one  would  think  human 
nature  incapable  of,  did  we  not  meet  with  frequent 
instances  ot  it  in  ordinary  conversation. 

There  is  another  kind  of  vicious  modesty  which 
makes  a  man  ashamed  of  his  person,  his  birth, 
lis  profession,  his  poverty,  or  the  like  misfor- 
jimes,  which  it  was  not  in  his  choice  to  prevent, 
and  is  not  in  his  power  to  rectify.  If  a  man  ap¬ 
pears  ridiculous  by  any  of  the  afore-mentioned 
cii cumstances,  he  becomes  much  more  so  by  being 
out  of  countenance  for  them.  They  should  rather 
give  him  occasion  to  exert  a  noble  spirit,  and  to 
palliate  those  imperfections  which  are  not  in  his 
power,  by  those  perfections  which  are;  or  to  use  a. 


292  *  THE  SPE 

very  witty  allusion  of  an  eminent  author,  he 
should  imitate  Csesar,  who,  because  his  head  was 
bald,  covered  that  defect  with  laurels. — C. 


No.  232.]  MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  26,  1711. 

Nihil  largiundo  gloriam  adeptus  est. 

Sallust,  Bel.  Cat. 

By  bestowing  nothing  he  acquired  glory. 

My  wise  and  good  friend,  Sir  Andrew  Freeport, 
divides  himself  almost  equally  between  the  town 
and  the  country.  His  time  in  town  is  given  up  to 
the  public,  and  the  management  of  his  private 
fortune;  and  after  every  three  or  four  days  spent 
in  this  manner,  he  retires  for  as  many  to  his  seat 
within  a  few  miles  of  the  town,  to  the  enjoyment 
of  himself,  his  family,  and  his  friend.  Thus 
business  and  pleasure,  or  rather,  in  Sir  Andrew, 
labor  and  rest,  recommend  each  other.  They  take 
their  turns  with  so  quick  a  vicissitude,  that  neither 
becomes  a  habit,  or  takes  possession  of  the  whole 
man;  nor  is  it  possible  he  should  be  surfeited  with 
either.  I  often  see  him  at  our  club  in  good  humor, 
and  yet  sometimes  too  with  an  air  ot  care  in  his 
looks;  but  in  his  country  retreat  he  is  always 
unbent,  and  such  a  companion  as  I  could  desire ; 
and  therefore  1  seldom  fail  to  make  one  with  him 
when  he  is  pleased  to  invite  me. 

The  other  day,  as  soon  as  we  were  got  into  his 
chariot,  two  or  three  beggars  on  each  side  hung 
upon  the  doors,  and  solicited  our  charity  with  the 
usual  rhetoric  of  a  sick  wife  or  husband  at  home, 
three  or  four  helpless  little  children  all  starving 
with  cold  and  hunger.  We  were  forced  to  part 
with  some  money  to  get  rid  of  their  importunity; 
and  then  we  proceeded  on  our  journey  with  the 
blessings  and  acclamations  of  these  people. 

“Well,  then,”  says  Sir  Andrew,  “we  go  off  with 
the  prayers  and  good  wishes  of  the  beggars,  and 
perhaps  too  our  healths  will  be  drank  at  the  next 
alehouse:  so  all  we  shall  be  able  to  value  our¬ 
selves  upon  is,  that  we  have  promoted  the  trade 
of  the  victualer  and  the  excises  of  the  govern¬ 
ment.  But  how  few  ounces  of  wool  do  we  see 
upon  the  backs  of  these  poor  creatures?  And 
when  they  shall  next  fall  in  our  way,  they  will 
hardly  be  better  dressed;  they  must  always  live  in 
rags  to  look  like  objects  of  compassion.  If  their 
families  too  are  such  as  they  are  represented,  'tis 
certain  they  cannot  be  better  clothed,  and  must  be  a 
great  deal  worse  fed.  One  would  think  potatoes 
should  be  all  their  bread,  and  their  drink  the  pure 
element ;  and  then  what  goodly  customers  are  the 
farmers  like  to  have  for  their  wool,  corn,  and  cattle? 
Such  customers,  and  such  a  consumption,  cannot 
choose  but  advance  the  landed  interest,  and  hold 
up  the  rents  of  the  gentlemen. 

“But,  of  all  men  living,  we  merchants,  who  live 
by  buying  and  selling,  ought  never  to  encourage 
beggars.  The  goods  which  we  export  are  indeed 
the  product  of  the  lands,  but  much  the  greatest 
part  of  their  value  is  the  labor  of  the  people  ;  but 
how  much  of  these  people's  labor  shall  we  export 
while  we  hire  them  to  sit  still?  The  very  alms 
they  receive  from  us  are  the  wages  of  idleness.  I 
have  often  thought  that  no  man  should  be  per¬ 
mitted  to  take  relief  from  the  parish,  or  to  ask  it 
in  the  street,  until  he  has  first  purchased  as  much 
as  possible  of  his  own  livelihood  by  the  labor  of 
his  own  hands;  and  then  the  public  ought  only  to 
be  taxed  to  make  good  the  deficiency.  If  this 
rule  was  strictly  observed,  we  should  see  every¬ 
where  such  a  multitude  of  new  laborers,  as  would 
in  all  probability  reduce  the  prices  of  all  the 
manufactures.  It  is  the  very  life  of  merchandise 


CT  ATOR. 

to  buy  cheap  and  sell  dear.  The  merchant  ought 
to  make  his  outset  as  cheap  as  possible,  that  he 
may  find  the  greater  profit  upon  his  returns ;  and 
nothing  will  enable  him  to  do  this  like  the  reduc¬ 
tion  of  the  price  of  labor  upon  all  our  manufac¬ 
tures.  This  too  would  be  the  ready  way  to  in¬ 
crease  the  number  of  our  foreign  markets.  The 
abatement  of  the  price  of  the  manufacture  would 
pay  for  the  carriage  of  it  to  more  distant  countries; 
and  this  consequence  would  be  equally  beneficial 
both  to  the  landed  and  trading  interests.  As  so 
great  an  addition  of  laboring  hands  would  produce 
this  happy  consequence  both  to  the  merchant  and 
the  gentleman,  our  liberality  to  common  beggars, 
and  every  other  obstruction  to  the  increase  of  la¬ 
borers,  must  be  equally  pernicious  to  both.” 

Sir  Andrew  then  went  on  to  affirm,  that  the  re¬ 
duction  of  the  prices  of  our  manufactures  by  the 
addition  of  so  many  new  hands,  would  be  no  in¬ 
convenience  to  any  man  ;  but  observing  I  was 
somewhat  startled  at  the  assertion,  he  made  a 
short  pause,  and  then  resumed  the  discourse..  “It 
may  seem,”  says  he,  “a  paradox,  that  the  price  of 
labor  should  be  reduced  without  an  abatement  of 
wages,  or  that  wages  can  be  abated  without  any 
inconvenience  to  the  laborer,  and  yet  nothing  is 
more  certain  than  that  both  these  things  may  hap-  . 
pen.  The  wages  of  the  laborers  make  the  greatest 
part  of  the  price  of  everything  that  is  useful;  and 
if  in  proportion  with  the  wages  the  prices  of  all 
other  things  should  be  abated,  every  laborer  with 
less  wages  would  still  be  able  to  purchase  as  many 
necessaries  of  life;  where  then  would  be  the  incon¬ 
venience?  But  the  price  of  labor  may  be  reduced 
by  the  addition  of  more  hands  to  a  manufacture, 
and  yet  the  wages  of  persons  remain  as  high  as 
ever.  The  admirable  Sir  William  Petty  has  given 
examples  of  this  in  some  of  his  writing*  one  of 
them,  as  I  remember,  is  that  of  a  watch,  which  I 
shall  endeavor  to  explain  so  as  shall  suit  my  pre¬ 
sent  purpose.  It  is  certain  that  a  single  watch 
could  not  be  made  so  cheap  in  proportion  by  only 
one  man,  as  a  hundred  watches  by  a  hundred;  for 
as  there  is  vast  variety  in  the  work,  no  one  person 
could  equally  suit  himself  to  all  the  parts  of  it; 
the  manufacture  would  be  tedious,  and  at  last  but 
clumsily  performed.  But  if  a  hundred  watches 
were  to  be  made  by  a  hundred  men,  the  cases  may 
be  assigned  to  one,  the  dials  to  another,  the  wheels 
to  another,  the  springs  to  another,  and  every  other 
part  to  a  proper  artist.  As  there  would  be  no  need 
of  perplexing  any  one  person  with  too  much 
variety,  every  one  would  be  able  to  perform  his 
single  part  with  greater  skill  and  expedition;  and 
the  hundred  watches  would  be  finished  in  one 
fourth  part  of  the  time  of  the  first  one,  and  every 
one  of  them  at  one-fourth  part  of  the  cost,  though 
the  wages  of  every  man  were  equal.  The  reduc¬ 
tion  of  the  price  of  the  manufacture  would  in¬ 
crease  the  demand  of  it;  all  the  same  hands  would 
be  still  employed,  and  as  well  paid.  The  same 
rule  will  hold  in  the  clothing,  the  shipping,  and 
all  other  trades  whatsoever.  And  thus  an  ad¬ 
dition  of  hands  to  our  manufactures  will  only  re¬ 
duce  the  price  of  them;  the  laborer  will  still  have 
as  much  wages,  and  will  consequently  be  enabled 
to  purchase  more  conveniences  of  life;  so  that 
every  interest  in  the  nation  would  receive  a  be¬ 
nefit  from  the  increase  of  our  working  people. 

“Beside,  I  see  no  occasion  for  this  charity  to 
common  beggars,  since  every  beggar  is  an  inhabi¬ 
tant  of  a  parish,  and  every  parish  is  taxed  to  the 
maintenance  of  their  own  poor.  For  my  «vn  part 
I  cannot  be  mightily  pleased  with  the  laws  which 
have  done  this,  which  have  provided  better  to  feed 
than  employ  the  poor.  We  have  a  tradition  from 
our  forefathers,  that  after  the  first  of  those  laws 


293 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


was  made,  they  were  insulted  with  that  famous 
song: 

Hang  sorrow  and  cast  away  care,* 

The  parish  is  bound  to  find  us,  etc. 

And  if  we  will  be  so  good-natured  as  to  maintain 
them  without  work,  they  can  do  no  less  in  return 
than  sing  us  ‘The  merry  Beggars.’ 

“What  then?  Am  I  against  all  acts  of  charity? 
God  forbid!  I  know  of  no  virtue  in  the  Gospel 
that  is  in  more  pathetic  expressions  recommended 
to  our  practice.  ‘I  was  hungry,  and  ye  gave  me  no 
meat;  thirsty,  and  ye  gave  me  no  drink;  naked, 
and  ye  clothed  me  not;  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  me 
not  in;  sick,  and  in  prison,  and  ye  visited  me  not.’ 
Our  blessed  Savior  treats  the  exercise  and  neglect 
of  charity  toward  a  poor  man,  as  the  performance 
or  breach  of  this  duty  toward  himself.  I  shall 
endeavor  to  obey  the  will  of  my  Lord  and  Master; 
and  therefore  if  an  industrious  man  shall  sub¬ 
mit  to  the  hardest  labor  and  coarsest  fare,  rather 
than  endure  the  sham  of  taking  relief  from  the 
parish,  or  asking  it  in  the  street,  this  is  the 
hungry,  the  thirsty,  the  naked ;  and  I  ought  to 
believe,  if  any  man  is  come  hither  for  shelter 
against  persecution  or  oppression,  this  is  the 
stranger,  and  I  ought  to  take  him  in.  If  any 
countryman  of  our  own  is  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  infidels,  and  lives  in  a  state  of  miserable  cap- 
tivity,  this  is  the  man  in  prison,  and  I  should  con¬ 
tribute  to  his  ransom,  I  ought  to  give  to  a 
hospital  of  invalids,  to  recover  as  many  useful 
subjects  as  I  can;  but  I  shall  bestow  none  of  my 
bounties  upon  an  almshouse  of  idle  people  ;  and 
for  the  same  reason  I  should  not  think  it  a  re¬ 
proach  to  me  if  I  had  withheld  my  charity  from 
those  common  beggars.  But  we  prescribe  better 
rules  than  we  are  able  to  practice;  we  are  ashamed 
not  to  give  into  the  mistaken  customs  of  our 
country:  but  at  the  same  time,  I  cannot  but  think 
it  a  reproach  worse  than  that  of  common  swearing, 
that  the  idle  and  the  abandoned  are  suffered  in  the 
name  of  Heaven  and  all  that  is  sacred,  to  extort 
from  Christian  and  tender  minds  a  supply  to  a 
profligate  way  of  life,  that  is  always  to  be  sup¬ 
ported,  but  never  relieved.” — Z. 


Ho.  233.]  TUESDAY,  NOVEMBER  27,  1711. 

- — Tanquam  haec  sint  nostri  medicina  furoris, 

Aut  deus  ille  malis  homiuam  mitescere  discat. 

Virg.  Eel.,  x,  y.  60. 

As  if  by  these  my  sufferings  I  could  ease ; 

Or  by  my  pains  the  god  of  love  appease. — Dryden. 

I  shall  in  this  paper  discharge  myself  of  the 
promise  I  have  made  to  the  public,  by  obliging 
them  with  the  translation  of  the  little  Greek  manu¬ 
script,  which  is  said  to  have  been  a  piece  of  those 
records  that  were  preserved  in  the  temple  of 
Apollo,,  upon  the  promontory  of  Leucate.  It  is  a 
short  history  of  the  Lover’s  Leap,  and  is  inscribed, 
An  account  of  persons,  male  and  female,  who  of¬ 
fered  up  their  vows  in  the  temple  of  the  Pythian 
Apollo  in  the  forty-sixth  Olympiad,  and  leaped 
from  the  promontory  of  Leucate  into  the  Ionian 
sea,  in  order  to  cure  themselves  of  the  passion  of 
love. 

This  account  is  very  dry  in  many  parts,  as  only 
mentioning  the  name  of  the  lover  who  leaped,  the 
person  he  leaped  for,  and  relating  in  short,  that 
he  was  either  cured,  or  killed,  or  maimed,  by  the 
fall.  It  indeed  gives  the  names  of  so  many,  who 
died  by  it,  that  it  would  have  looked  like  a  bill 
of  mortality,  had  I  translated  it  at  full  length ;  I 
have  therefore  made  an  abridgement  of  it,  and 
only  extracted  such  particular '  passages  as  have 


something  extraordinary  either  in  the  case  or  in 
the  cure,  or  in  th$  fate  of  the  person  who  is  men¬ 
tioned  in  it.  After  this  short  preface  take  the  ac¬ 
count  as  follows : 

Battus,  the  son  of  Menalcas  the  Sicilian,  leaped 
foi  Bombyca  the  musician  :  got  rid  of  his  passion 
v  ith  the  loss  of  his  right  leg  and  arm,  which 
were  broken  in  the  fall. 

Melissa,  in  love  with  Daphnis,  very  much 
bruised  but  escaped  with  life. 

.Cynisca  the  wife  of  .Eschines,  beino-  in  love 
with  Lycus;  and  -Eschines  her  husband  being  in 
lo\  e  with  Luiilla  (which  had  made  this  married 
couple  very  uneasy  to  one  another  for  several 
years);  both  the  husband  and  the  wife  took  the 
leap  by  consent;  they  both  of  them  escaped,  and 
have  lived  very  happily  together  ever  since. 

.  Larissa,  a  virgin  of  Thessaly,  deserted  by  Plex- 
lppus,  after  a  courtship  of  three  years:  she  stood 
upon  the  brow  of  the  promontory  for  some  time, 
and  after  having  thrown  down  a  ring,  a  bracelet! 
and  a  little  picture,  with  other  presents  which  she 
had  received  from  Plexippus,  she  threw  herself 
into  the  sea,  and  was  taken  up  alive. 

.  E.  Larissa,  before  she  leaped,  made  an  offer¬ 
ing  of  a  silver  Cupid  in  the  temple  of  Apollo. 

Simaetha,  in  love  with  Daphnis  the  Myndian 
perished  in  the  fall. 

Charixus,  the  brother  of  Sappho,  in  love  with 
Rhodope  the  courtesan,  having  spent  his  whole 
estate  upon  her,  was  advised  by  his  sister  to  leap 
in  the  beginning  of  his  amour,  but  would  not 
hearken  to  her  until  he  was  reduced  to  his  last 
talent;  being  forsaken  by  Rhodope,  at  length  re¬ 
solved  to  take  the  leajD.  Perished  in  it. 

Aridaeus,  a  beautiful  youth  of  Epirus,  in  love 
with  Praxinoe,  the  wife  of  Thespis;  escaped  with¬ 
out  damage,  saving  only  that  two  of  his  fore-teeth 
were  struck  out  and  his  nose  a  little  flatted. 

Cleora,  a  widow  of  Ephesus,  being  inconsola¬ 
ble  for  the  death  of  her  husband,  was  resolved  to 
take  this  leap  in  order  to  get  rid  of  her  passion 
for  his  memory  :  but  being  arrived  at  the  promon¬ 
tory,  she  there  met  with  Dimmachus,  the  Milesian, 
and  qfter  a  short  conversation  with  him,  laid  aside 
the  thoughts  of  her  leap,  and  married  him  in  the 
temple  of  Apollo. 

N.  B.  Her  widow’s  weeds  are  still  to  be  seen 
hanging  up  in  the  western  corner  of  the  temple. 

Oiphis,  the  fisherman,  having  received  a  box  on 
the  ear  from  Thestylis  the  day  before,  and  being 
determined  to  have  no  more  to  do  with  her,  leaped, 
and  escaped  with  life. 

Atalanta,  an  old  maid,  whose  cruelty  had  seve¬ 
ral  years  before  driven  two  or  three  despairing 
lovers  to  this  leap  :  being  now  in  the  fifty-fifth 
year  of  her  age,  and  in  love  with  an  officer  of 
Sparta,  broke  her  neck  in  the  fall. 

Hipparchus,  being  passionately  fond  of  his  own 
wife,  who  was  enamored  of  Bathyllus,  leaped,  and 
died  of  his  fall;  upon  which  his  wife  married  her 
gallant. 

.  Tettyx,  the  dancing  master,  in  love  with  Olym¬ 
pia,  an  Athenian  matron,  threw  himself  from  the 
rock  with  great  agility,  but  was  crippled  in  the 
fall. 

Diagoras,  the  usurer,  in  love  with  his  cook- 
maid;  he  peeped  several  times  over  the  precipice, 
but  his  heart  misgiving  him,  he  went  back,  and 
married  her  that  evening. 

Cinoedus,  after  having  entered  his  own  name  in 
the  Pythian  records,  being  asked  the  name  of  the 
person  whom  he  leaped  for,  and  being  ashamed  to 
discover  it,  he  was  set  aside,  and  not  suffered  to 
leap. 

Eunica,  a  maid  of  Paphos,  aged  nineteen,  in 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


294 

love  with  Eurybates.  Hurt  in  the  fall,  but  recov¬ 
ered. 

N.  B.  This  was  the  second  time  of  her  leaping. 

Hesperus,  a  young  man  of  Tarentum,  in  love 
with  his  master’s  daughter.  Drowned,  the  boats 
not  coming  in  soon  enough  to  his  relief. 

Sappho,  the  Lesbian,  in  love  with  Phaon,  ar¬ 
rived  at  the  temple  of  Apollo  habited  like  a  bride, 
in  garments  as  white  as  snow.  She  wore  a  gar¬ 
land  of  myrtle  on  her  head,  and  carried  in  her 
hand  the  little  musical  instrument  of  her  own  in¬ 
vention.  After  having  sung  a  hymn  to  Apollo, 
she  hung  up  her  garland  on  one  side  of  his  altar, 
and  her  harp  on  the  other.  She  then  tucked  up 
her  vestments  like  a  Spartan  virgin,  and  amidst 
thousands  of  spectators,  who  were  anxious  for  her 
safety  and  offered  up  vows  for  her  deliverance, 
marched  directly  forward  to  the  utmost  summit 
of  the  promontory,  where,  after  having  repeated  a 
stanza  of  her  own  verses,  which  we  could  not 
hear,  she  threw  herself  off  the  rock  with  such  in¬ 
trepidity  as  was  never  before  observed  in  any  who 
had  attempted  that  dangerous  leap.  Many  who 
were  present  related,  that  they  saw  her  fall  into 
the  sea,  from  whence  she  never  rose  again;  though 
there  were  others  who  affirmed  that  she  never  came 
to  the  bottom  of  her  leap,  but  that  she  was 
changed  into  a  swan  as  she  fell,  and  that  they  saw 
her  hovering  in  the  air  under  that  shape.  But 
whether  or  no  the  whiteness  and  fluttering  of  her 
garments  might  not  deceive  those  who  looked 
upon  her,  or  whether  she  might  not  really  be  met¬ 
amorphosed  into  that  musical  and  melancholy 
bird,  is  still  a  doubt  among  the  Lesbians. 

Alcaeus,  the  famous  lyric  poet,  who  had  for  some 
time  been  passionately  in  love  with  Sappho,  ar¬ 
rived  at  the  promontory  of  Leucate  that  very  even¬ 
ing  in  order  to  take  the  leap  upon  her  account; 
but  hearing  that  Sappho  had  been  there  before 
him,  and  that  her  body  could  be  nowhere  found, 
he  very  generously  lamented  her  fall,  and  is  said 
to  have  written  his  hundred  and  twenty-fifth  ode 
upon  that  occasion. 

Leaped  in  this  Olympiad. 


Males . 124 

Females  . 126 


250 

Cured. 

Males . 51 

Females . 69 


C.  120 


Ho.  234.  ]  WEDNESDAY,  HOY.  28,  1711. 

Vellem  in  amicitia  sic  erraremus. — Hon.  1  Sat.  iii,  41. 

I  wish  this  error  in  your  friendship  reign’d. — Creech. 

You  very  often  hear  people,  after  a  story  has 
been  told  with  some  entertaining  circumstances, 
tell  it  over  again  with  particulars  that  destroy  the 
jest,  but  give  light  into  the  truth  of  the  narration. 
This  sort  of  veracity,  though  it  is  impertinent,  has 
something  amiable  in  it,  because  it  proceeds  from 
the  love  of  truth,  even  in  frivolous  occasions.  If 
such  honest  amendments  do  not  promise  an  agree¬ 
able  companion,  they  do  a  sincere  friend  ;  for 
which  reason  one  should  allow  them  so  much  of 
our  time,  if  we  fall  into  their  company,  as  to  set 
us  right  in  matters  that  can  do  us  no  manner  of 
harm,  whether  the  facts  be  one  way  or  the  other. 
Lies  which  are  told  out  of  arrogance  and  ostenta¬ 
tion,  a  man  should  detect  in  his  own  defense,  be¬ 
cause  he  should  not  be  triumphed  over.  Lies 


which  are  told  out  of  malice  he  should  expose, 
both  for  his  own  sake  and  that  of  the  rest  of  man¬ 
kind,  because  every  man  should  rise  against  a 
common  enemy;  but  the  officious  liar-,  many  have 
argued,  is  to  be  excused,  because  it  does  some 
man  good,  and  no  man  hurt.  The  man  who  made 
more  than  ordinary  speed  from  a  fight  in  wrhich 
the  Athenians  were  beaten,  and  told  them  they 
had  obtained  a  complete  victory,  and  put  the 
whole  city  into  the  utmost  joy  and  exultation, 
was  checked  by  the  magistrates  for  this  falsehood; 
but  excused  himself  by  saying,  “  0  Athenians! 
am  I  your  enemy  because  I  gave  you  twro  happy 
days  V”  This  fellow  did  to  a  whole  people  what 
an  acquaintance  of  mine  do.es  every  day  he  lives, 
in  some  eminent  degree,  to  particular  persons. 
He  is  ever  lying  people  into  good  humor,  and  as 
Plato  said  it  was  allowable  in  physicians  to  lie  to 
their  patients  to  keep  up  their  spirits,  I  am  half 
doubtful  whether  my  friend’s  behavior  is  not  as 
excusable.  His  manner  is  to  express  himself  sur¬ 
prised  at  the  cheerful  countenance  of  a  man  whom 
he  observes  diffident  of  himself;  and  generally  by 
that  means  makes  his  lie  a  truth.  He  will,  as  if 
he  did  not  know  anything  of  the  circumstance, 
ask  one  whom  he  knows  at  variance  with  another, 
what  is  the  meaning  that  Mr.  Such-a-one,  naming 
his  adversary,  does  not  applaud  him  with  that 
heartiness  which  formerly  he  has  heard  him  ? 
“He  said,  indeed,”  continues  he,  “I  would  rather 
have  that  man  for  my  friend  than  any  man  in 
England  ;  but  for  an  enemy — ”  This  melts  the 
erson  he  talks  to,  who  expected  nothing  but 
ownright  raillery  from  that  side.  According  as 
he  sees  his  practice  succeed,  he  goes  to  the  oppo¬ 
site  party,- and  tells  him,  he  cannot  imagine  how 
it  happens  that  some  people  know  one  another  so 
little;  “You  spoke  with  so  much  coldness  of  a 
gentleman  wflio  said  more  good  of  you,  than,  let 
me  tell  you,  any  man  living  deserves.”  The  suc¬ 
cess  of  one  of  these  incidents  was  that  the  next 
time  one  of  the  adversaries  spied  the  other,  he 
hems  after  him  in  the  public  street,  and  they  must 
crack  a  bottle  at  the  next  tavern,  that  used  to  turn 
out  of  the  other’s  way  to  avoid  one  another’s  eye¬ 
shot.  He  will  tell  one  beauty  she  was  commend¬ 
ed  by  another,  nay,  he  will  say  she  gave  the  wo¬ 
man  he  speaks  to  the  preference  in  a  particular 
for  which  she  herself  is  admired.  The  pleasant¬ 
est  confusion  imaginable  is  made  through  the 
whole  town  by  my  friend’s  indirect  offices.  You 
shall  have  a  visit,  returned  after  half  a  year’s  ab¬ 
sence,  and  mutual  railing  at  each  other  every  day 
of  that  time.  They  meet  with  a  thousand  lamen¬ 
tations  for  so  long  a  separation,  each  party  nam¬ 
ing  herself  for  the  greatest  delinquent,  if  the  other 
can  possibly  be  so  good  as  to  forgive  her,  which 
she  has  no  reason  in  the  world,  but  from  the 
knowledge  of  her  goodness,  to  hope  for.  Very 
often  a  whole  train  of  railers  of  each  side  tire 
their  horses  in  setting  matters  right  which  they 
have  said  during  the  war  between  the  parties;  and 
a  whole  circle  of  acquaintance  are  put  into  a 
thousand  pleasing  passions  and  sentiments,  in¬ 
stead  of  the  pangs  of  anger,  envy,  detraction,  and 
malice. 

The  worst  evil  I  ever  observed  this  man’s  false¬ 
hood  occasion,  has  been,  that  he  turned  detraction 
into  flattery.  He  is  well  skilled  in  the  manners  of 
the  world,  and  by  overlooking  what  men  really 
are,  he  grounds  his  artifices  upon  what  they  have 
a  mind  to  be.  Upon  this  foundation,  if  two  dis¬ 
tant  friends  are  brought  together,  and  the  cement 
seems  to  be  weak,  he  never  rests  until  he  finds 
new  appearances  to  take  off  all  remains  of  ill- 
will,  and  that  by  new  misunderstandings  they  are 
thoroughly  reconciled. 


THE  S  P  E  C  T  ATOR. 


“To  Mr.  Spectator. 

“Devonshire,  Nov.  14,  1711. 

“Sir, 

“  There  arrived  in  this  neighborhood,  two  days 
ago,  one  of  vour  gay  gentlemen  of  the  town,  who 
being  attended  at  his  entry  with  a  servant  of  his 
own,  beside  a  countryman  he  had  taken  up  for  a 
guide,  excited  the  curiosity  of  the  village  to  learn 
whence  and  what  he  might  be.  The  countryman 
(to  whom  they  applied  as  most  easy  of  access) 
knew  little  more  than  that  the  gentleman  came 
from  London  to  travel  and  see  fashions,  and  was, 
as  he  heard  say,  a  freethinker.*  What  religion 
that  might  be,  he  could  not  tell :  and  for  his  own 
part,  if  they  had  not  told  him  the  man  was  a  free¬ 
thinker,  he  should  have  guessed,  by  his  way  of 
talking,  he  was  little  better  than  a  heathen;  ex¬ 
cepting  only  ihat  he  had  been  a  good  gentleman 
to  him,  and  made  him  drunk  twice  in  one  day 
over  and  above  what  they  had  bargained  for. 

“I  do  not  look  upon  the  simplicity  of  this,  and 
several  odd  inquiries  with  which  1  shall  not  trou¬ 
ble  you,  to  be  wondered  at,  much  less  can  I  think 
that  our  youths  of  fine  wit,  and  enlarged  under¬ 
standings,  have  any  reason  to  laugh.  There  is  no 
necessity  that  every  ’squire  in  Great  Britain  should 
know  what  the  word  freethinker  stands  for  ;  but  it 
were  much  to  be  wished,  that  they  who  value  them¬ 
selves  upon  that  conceited  title,  were  a  little  better 
instructed  in  what,  it  ought  to  stand  for;  and  that 
they  would  not  persuade  themselves  a  man  is  really 
and  truly  a  freethinker,  in  any  tolerable  sense, 
merely  by  virtue  of  his  being  an  atheist,  or  an  in¬ 
fidel  of  any  other  distinction.  It  may  be  doubted 
with  good  reason,  whether  there  ever  was  in  nature 
a  more  abject,  slavish,  and  bigoted  generation  than 
the  tribe  of  beaux-esprits,  at  present  so  prevailing 
in  this  island.  Their  pretension  to  be  freethinkers, 
is  no  other  than  rakes  have  to  be  free-livers,  and 
savages  to  be  freemen;  that  is,  they  can  think 
whatever  they  have  a  mind  to,  and  give  themselves 
up  to  whatever  conceit  the  extravagancy  of  their 
inclination  or  their  fancy,  shall  suggest;  they  can 
think  as  wildly  as  they  talk  and  act,  and  will  not 
endure  that  their  wit  should  be  controlled  by  such 
formal  things  as  decency  and  common  sense.  De¬ 
duction,  coherence,  consistency,  and  all  the  rules 
of  reason  they  accordingly  disdain,  as  too  precise 
and  mechanical  for  men  of  a  liberal  education. 

“This,  as  far  as  I  could  ever  learn  from  their 
writings,  or  my  own  observation,  is  a  true  account 
of  the  British  freethinker.  Our  visitant  here,  who 
gave  occasion  to  this  paper,  has  brought  with  him 
a  new  system  of  common  sense,  the  particulars  of 
which  I  am  not  yet  acquainted  with,  but  will  lose 
no  opportunity  of  informing  myself  whether  it  con¬ 
tain  anything  worth  Mr.  Spectator’s  notice.  In 
the  meantime,  Sir,  I  cannot  but  think  it  would  be 
for  the  good  of  mankind,  if  you  would  take  this 
subject  into  your  consideration,  and  convince  the 
hopeful  youth  of  our  nation,  that  licentiousness  is 
not  freedom;  or,  if  such  a  parodox  will  not  be  un¬ 
derstood,  that  a  prejudice  toward  atheism  is  not 
impartiality. 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

“Philonous.  ” 


.  *  T1’®  Person  here  alluded  to  was  probably  Mr.  Toland,  who 
is  said  by  the  Examiner  to  have  been  the  butt  of  the  Tatler 
and  Spectator. 

T. 


295 

j  No.  235.]  THURSDAY,  NOV.  29,  1711. 

■ - - — Papulares 

Vicentem  strepitus - Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  v.  81. 

Awes  the  tumultuous  noises  of  the  pit. — Roscommon. 

There  is  nothing  which  lies  more  within  the 
province  of  a  Spectator  than  public  shows  and 
diversions  :  and  as  among  these  there  are  none 
which  can  pretend  to  vie  with  those  elegant  enter¬ 
tainments  that  are  exhibited  in  our  theaters,  I 
think  it  particularly  incumbent  on  me  to  take  no¬ 
tice  of  everything  that  is  remarkable  in  such  nu¬ 
merous  and  refined  assemblies. 

It  is  observed,  that  of  late  years  there  has  been 
a  certain  person  in  the  upper  gallery  of  the  play¬ 
house,  who,  when  he  is  pleased  with  anything  that 
is  acted  upon  the  stage,  expresses  his  approbation 
by  a  loud  knock  upon  the  benches  or  the  wainscot, 
which  may  be  heard  over  the  whole  theater.  This 
person  is  commonly  known  by  the  name  of  the. 
“  Trunk-maker  in  the  upper  gallery.”  Whether 
it  be  that  the  blow  he  gives  on  these  occasions  re¬ 
sembles  that  which  is  often  heard  in  the  shops  of 
such  artisans,  or  that  he  was  supposed  to  have  been 
a  real  trunk-maker,  who,  after  the  finishing  of  his 
day’s  work,  useil  to  unbend  his  mind  at  these 
public  diversions  with  his  hammer  in  his  hand,  I 
cannot  certainly  tell.  There  are  some,  I  know, 
who  have  been  foolish  enough  to  imagine  it  is  a 
spirit  which  haunts  the  upper  gallery,  and  from 
time  to  time  makes  those  strange  noises  ;  and  the 
rather,  because  he  is  observed  to  be  louder  than 
ordinary  every  time  the  ghost  of  Hamlet  appears. 
Others  have  reported,  that  it  is  a  dumb  man,  who 
has  chosen  this  way  of  uttering  himself  when  he 
is  transported  with  anything  he  sees  or  hears. 
Others  will  have  it  to  be  the  playhouse  thunderer, 
that  exerts  himself  after  this  manner  in  the  upper 
gallery,  when  he  has  nothing  to  do  upon  the  roof. 

But  having  made  it  my  business  to  get  the  best 
information  I  could  in  a  matter  of  this  moment,  I 
find  that  the  trunk-maker,  as  he  is  commonly 
called,  is  a  large  black  man  whom  nobody  knows. 
He  generally  leans  forward  on  a  huge  oaken  plank 
with  great  attention  to  everything  that  passes  upon 
the  stage.  He  is  never  seen  to  smile  ;  but  upon 
hearing  anything  that  pleases  him,  he  takes  up  his 
staff  with  both  hands,  and  lays  it  upon  the  next 
piece  of  timber  that  stands  in  his  way  with  ex¬ 
ceeding  vehemence:  after  which,  he  composes  him¬ 
self  in  his  former  posture,  till  such  time  as  some¬ 
thing  new  sets  him  again  at  work. 

It  has  been  observed,  his  blow  is  so  well-timed, 
that  the  most  judicious  critic  could  never  except 
against  it.  As  soon  as  any  shining  thought  is  ex¬ 
pressed  in  the  poet,  or  any  uncommon  grace  ap¬ 
pears  in  the  actor,  he  smites  the  bench  or  wainscot. 
If  the  audience  does  not  concur  with  him,  he  smites 
a  second  time;  and  if  the  audience  is  not  yet 
awakened,  looks  around  him  with  great  wrath, 
and  repeats  the  blow  a  third  time,  which  never 
fails  to  produce  the  clap.  He  sometimes  lets  the 
audience  begin  the  clap  of  themselves,  and  at  the 
conclusion  of  their  applause  ratifies  it  with  a  sin¬ 
gle  thwack. 

He  is  of  so  great  use  to  the  playhouse,  that  it 
is  said  a  former  director  of  it,  upon  his  not  being 
able  to  pay  his  attendance  by  reason  of  sickness, 
kept  one  in  pay  to  officiate  for  him  until  such 
time  as  he  recovered  ;  but  the  person  so  employ¬ 
ed,  though  he  laid  about  him  with  incredible  vio¬ 
lence,  did  it  in  such  wrong  places,  that  the  aud¬ 
ience  soon  found  out  that  it  was  not  their  old 
friend  the  trunkmaker. 

It  has  been  remarked,  that  he  lias  not  yet  exert¬ 
ed  himself  with  vigor  this  season.  He  sometimes 
plies  at  the  opera;  and  upon  Nicolini’s  first  ap- 


296 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


appearance  was  said  to  have  demolished  three 
benches  in  the  fury  of  his  applause.  He  has  bro¬ 
ken  half  a  dozen  oaken  planks  upon  Dogget,* 
and  seldom  goes  away  from  a  tragedy  of  Shaks- 
peare  without  leaving  the  wainscot  extremely 
shattered. 

The  players  do  not  only  connive  at  his  obstrep¬ 
erous  approbation,  but  very  cheerfully  repair  at 
their  own  cost  whatever  damages  he  makes.  They 
once  had  a  thought  of  erecting  a  kind  of  wooden 
anvil  for  his  use,  that  should  be  made  of  a  very 
sounding  plank,  in  order  to  render  his  strokes 
more  deep  and  mellow ;  but  as  this  might  not 
have  been  distinguished  from  the  music  of  a  ket¬ 
tle-drum,  the  project  was  laid  aside. 

In  the  meanwhile,  I  cannot  but  take  notice  of 
the  great  use  it  is  to  an  audience,  that  a  person 
should  thus  preside  over  their  heads  like  the  di¬ 
rector  of  a  concert,  in  order  to  awaken  their  atten¬ 
tion,  and  beat  time  to  their  applauses  ;  or  to  raise 
my  simile,  I  have  sometimes  fancied  the  trunk- 
maker  in  the  upper  gallery  to  be  like  Virgil’s 
ruler  of  the  winds,  seated  upon  the  top  of  a  moun¬ 
tain,  who,  when  he  struck  his  scepter  upon  the 
side  of  it,  roused  a  hurricane,  and  set  the  whole 
cavern  in  an  uproar. f 

It  is  certain  the  trunk-maker  has  saved  many  a 
good  play,  and  brought  many  a  graceful  actor 
into  reputation,  who  would  not  otherwise  have 
been  taken  notice  of.  It  is  very  visible,  as  the 
audience  is  not  a  little  abashed,  if  they  find  them¬ 
selves  betrayed  into  a  clap,  when  their  friend  in 
the  upper  gallery  does  not  come  into  it,  so  the  ac¬ 
tors  uo  not  value  themselves  upon  the  clap,  but 
regard  it  as  a  mere  brutum  fulmen,  or  empty  noise, 
when  it  has  not  the  sound  of  the  oaken  plant  in 
it.  I  know  it  has  been  given  out  by  those  who 
are  enemies, to  the  trunk-maker,  that  he  has  some¬ 
times  been  bribed  to  be  id  the  interest  of  a  bad 
poet,  or  a  vicious  player  ;  but  this  is  a  surmise 
which  has  no  foundation :  his  strokes  are  always 
just,  and  his  admonitions  seasonable:  he  does  not 
deal  about  his  blows  at  random,  but  always  hits 
the  right  nail  upon  the  head.  The  inexpressible 
force  wherewith  he  lays  them  on,  sufficiently 
shows  the  evidence  and  strength  of  his  convic¬ 
tion.  His  zeal  for  a  good  author  is  indeed  outra¬ 
geous,  and  breaks  down  every  fence  and  partition, 
every  board  and  plank,  that  stands  within  the 
expression  of  his  applause. 

As  I  do  not  care  for  terminating  my  thoughts 
in  barren  speculations,  or  in  reports  of  pure  mat¬ 
ter  of  fact,  without  drawing  something  from 
them  for  the  advantage  of  my  countrymen,  I  shall 
take  the  liberty  to  make  an  humble  proposal,  that 
whenever  the  trunk-maker  shall  depart  this  life, 
or  whenever  he  shall  have  lost  the  spring  of  his 
arm  by  sickness,  old  age,  infirmity,  or  the  like, 
some  able-bodied  critic  should  be  advanced  to 
this  post,  and  have  a  competent  salary  settled 
on  him  for  life,  to  be  furnished  with  bamboos  for 
operas,  crabtree  cudjels  for  comedies,  and  oaken 
plants  for  tragedy,  at  the  public  expense.  And 
to  the  end  that  this  place  should  be  always  dis¬ 
posed  of  according  to  merit,  I  would  have  none 
preferred  to  it,  who  has  not  given  convincing 
proofs  both  of  a  sound  judgment,  and  a  strong 
arm ;  and  who  could  not,  upon  occasion,  either 
knock  down  an  ox,  or  write  a  comment  upon  Ho¬ 
race’s  Art  of  Poetry.  In  short,  I  would  have  him 
a  due  composition  of  Hercules  and  Apollo,  and  so 


*  Thomas  Dogget,  an  excellent  comic  actor,  who  was  for 
many  years  joint  manager  of  the  play-house  with  Wilkes  and 
Colley  Cibber,  of  whom  the  reader  may  find  a  particular  ac¬ 
count  in  Cibber’s  Apology  for  his  own  Life, 
f  iEneid,  i,  85. 


rightly  qualified  for  this  important  office,  that  the 
trunk-maker  may  not  be  missed  by  our  poster¬ 
ity.— C. 


No.  236.]  FRIDAY,  NOVEMBER  30,  1711. 

- Dare  jura  maritis. 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  398. 

With  laws  connubial  tyrants  to  restrain. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“You  have  not  spoken  in  so  direct  a  manner 
upon  the  subject  of  marriage  as  that  important 
case  deserves.  It  would  not  be  improper  to  ob¬ 
serve  upon  the  peculiarity  in  the  youth  of  Great 
Britain  of  railing  and  laughing  at  that  institu¬ 
tion  :  and  when  they  fall  into  it,  from  a  profligate 
habit  of  mind,  being  insensible  of  the  satisfaction 
in  that  way  of  life,  and  treating  their  wives  with 
the  most  barbarous  disrespect. 

“Particular  circumstances,  and  cast  of  temper, 
must  teach  a  man  the  probability  of  mighty  un¬ 
easinesses  in  that  state  (for  unquestionably  some 
there  are  whose  very  dispositions  are  strangely 
averse  to  conjugal  friendship)  j  but  no  one,  I  be¬ 
lieve,  is  by  his  own  natural  complexion  prompted 
to  tease  and  torment  another  for  no  reason  but  be¬ 
ing  nearly  allied  to  him.  And  can  there  be  any¬ 
thing  more  base,  or  serve  to  sink  a  man  so  much 
below  his  own  distinguishing  characteristic  (I 
mean  reason),  than  by  returning  evil  for  good  in 
so  open  a  manner,  as  that  of  treating  a  helpless 
creature  with  unkindness,  who  has  had  so  good 
an  opinion  of  him  as  to  believe  what  he  said  re¬ 
lating  to  one  of  the  greatest  concerns  of  life,  by 
delivering  her  happiness  in  this  world  to  his  care 
and  protection  ?  Must  not  that  man  be  abandon¬ 
ed  even  to  all  manner  of  humanity,  who  can  de¬ 
ceive  a  woman  with  appearances  of  affection  and 
kindness,  for  no  other  end  but  to  torment  her 
with  more  ease  and  authority?  Is  anything  more 
unlike  a  gentleman,  than  when  his  honor  is  en¬ 
gaged  for  the  performing  his  promises,  because  no¬ 
thing  but  that  can  oblige  him  to  it,  to  become  after¬ 
ward  false  to  his  word,  and  be  alone  the  occasion 
of  misery  to  one  whose  happiness  he  but  lately 
pretended  was  dearer  to  him  than  his  own  ? — 
Ought  such  a  one  to  be  trusted  in  his  common 
affairs  ?  or  treated  but  as  one  whose  honesty  con¬ 
sisted  only  in  his  incapacity  of  being  otherwise  ? 

“  There  is  one  cause  of  this  usage  no  less  ab¬ 
surd  than  common,  wdiich  takes  place  among  the 
more  unthinking  men  ;  and  that  is  the  desire  to 
appear  to  their  friends  free  and  at  liberty,  and 
without  those  trammels  they  have  so  much  ridi¬ 
culed.  To  avoid  this  they  fly  into  the  other  ex¬ 
treme,  and  grow  tyrants  that  they  may  seem  mas¬ 
ters.  Because  an  uncontrollable  command  of 
their  own  actions  is  a  certain  sign  of  entire  do¬ 
minion,  they  wont  so  much  as  recede  from  the 
government  even  in  one  muscle  of  their  faces. 
A  kind  look  they  believe  would  be  fawning,  and 
a  civil  answer  yielding  the  superiority.  To  this 
must  we  attribute  an  austerity  they  betray  in  eve¬ 
ry  action.  What  but  this  can  put  a  man  out  of 
humor  in  his  wife’s  company,  though  he  is  so  dis- 
tinguisliingly  pleasant  everywhere  else?  The 
bitterness  of  his  replies,  and  thfe  severity  of  his 
frowns  to  the  tenderest  of  wives,  deafly  demon¬ 
strate,  that  an  ill-grounded  fear  of  being  thought 
too  submissive,  is  at  the  bottom  of  this,  as  I  am 
willing  to  call  it,  affected  moroseness;  but  if  it  be 
such,  only  put  on  to  convince  his  acquaintance  of 
his  entire  dominion,  let  him  take  care  of  the  con¬ 
sequence,  which  will  be  certain  and  worse  than 
the  present  evil ;  his  seeming  indifference  will  by 
degrees  grow  into  real  contempt,  and  it  it  doth 


THE  SPECTATOR, 


not  wholly  alienate  the  affections  of  his  wife  for¬ 
ever  from  him,  make  both  him  and  her  more  mis¬ 
erable  than  if  it  really  did  so. 

“However  inconsistent  it  may  appear,  to  be 
thought  a  well-bred  person  has  no  small  share  in 
this  clownish  behavior.  A  discourse  therefore 
relating  to  good  breeding  toward  a  loving  and 
tender  wife,  would  be  of  great  use  to  this  sort  of 
gentlemen.  Could  you  but  once  convince  them, 
that  to  be  civil  at  least  is  not  beneath  the  charac¬ 
ter  of  a  gentleman,  nor  even  tender  affection  to¬ 
ward  one  who  would  make  it  reciprocal,  betrays 
any  softness  or  effeminacy  that  the  most  mascu¬ 
line  disposition  need  be  ashamed  of could  you 
satisfy  them  of  the  generosity  of  voluntary  civil¬ 
ity,  and  the  greatness  of  soul  that  is  conspicuous 
in  benevolence  without  immediate  obligations; 
could  you  recommend  to  people’s  practice  the  say¬ 
ing  of  the  gentleman  quoted  in  one  of  your  spec¬ 
ulations,  ‘that  he  thought  it  incumbent  upon  him 
to  make  the  inclinations  of  a  woman  of  merit  go 
along  with  her  duty could  you,  I  say,  persuade 
these  men  of  the  beauty  and  reasonableness  of 
this  sort  of  behavior,  I  have  so  much  charity,  for 
some  of  them  at  least,  to  believe  you  would  con¬ 
vince  them  of  a  thing  they  are  only  ashamed  to 
allow.  Beside,  you  would  recommend  that  state 
in  its  truest,  and  consequently  its  most  agreeable 
colors;  and  the  gentlemen,  who  have  for  any  time 
been  such  professed  enemies  to  it,  when  occasion 
should  serve,  would  return  you  their  thanks  for 
assisting  their  interest  in  prevailing  over  their 
prejudices.  Marriage  in  general  would  by  this 
means  bo  a  more  easy  and  comfortable  condition; 
the  husband  would  be  nowhere  so  well  satisfied 
as  in  his  own  parlor,  nor  the  wife  so  pleasant  as 
in  the  company  of  her  husband.  A  desire  of  be- 
ing  agreeable  in  the  lover  would  be  increased  in 
the  husband,  and  the  mistress  be  more  amiable  by 
becoming  the  wife.  Beside  all  which,  I  am  apt 
to  believe  we  should  find  the  race  of  men  grow 
wiser  as  their  progenitors  grew  kinder,  and  the 
affection  of  their  parents  would  be  conspicuous  in 
the  wisdom  of  their  children;  in  short,  men  would 
in  general  be  much  better  humored  than  they  are, 
did  they  not  so  frequently  exercise  the  worst  turns 
of  their  temper  where  they  ought  to  exert  the 
best.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  a  woman  who  left  the  admiration  of  this 
whole  town  to  throw  myself  (for  love  of  wealth) 
into  the  arms  of  a  fool. "  When  I  married  him,  I 
could  have  had  any  one  of  several  men  of  sense 
who  languished  for  me;  but  my  case  is  just.  I 
believed  my  superior  understanding  would  form 
him  into  a  tractable  creature.  But,  alas !  my 
spouse  has  cunning  and  suspicion,  the  insepara¬ 
ble  companions  of  little  minas;  and  every  attempt 
I  make  to  divert,  by  putting  on  an  agreeable  air, 
a  sudden  cheerfulness,  or  kind  behavior,  he  looks 
upon  as  the  first  act  toward  an  insurrection 
against  his  undeserved  dominion  over  me.  Let 
e\ery  one  who  is  still  to  choose,  and  hopes  to  go¬ 
vern  a  fool,  remember 

“  Tristissa.” 


297 


“ Mr.  Spectator,  St.  Martin’s,  Nov.  25. 

t  “T!lis  is  to  c°mPlain  of  an  evil  practice  which 
1  think  very  well  deserves  a  redress,  though  you 
have  not  as  yet  taken  any  notice  of  it-  if  you 
mention  it  in  your  paper,  it  may  perhaps  have  a 
very  good  effect.  What  I  mean  is,  the  distur¬ 
bance  some  people  give  to  others  at  church  by 
their  repetition  of  the  prayers  after  the  minister- 
and  that  not  only  in  the  prayers,  but  also  in  the 
absolution;  and  the  commandments  fare  no  better, 


which  are  in  a  particular  manner  the  priest’s  of¬ 
fice  :  this  1  have  known  done  in  so  audible  a  man¬ 
ner,  that  sometimes  their  voices  have  been  as  loud 
as  his.  As  little  as  you  would  think  it,  this  is 
frequently  done  by  people  seemingly  devout. 
1  his  irreligious  inadvertency  is  a  thing  extremely 
offensive  :  but  I  do  not  recommend  it  as  a  thing  I 
give  you  liberty  to  ridicule,  but  hope  it  may  be 
amended  by  the  bare  mention. 

“  Sir,  your  very  humble  Servant, 

T.  «  T.  s.” 

Ho.  237.]  SATURDAY,  DECEMBER  1, 1711 

Yisu  carentcm  magna  pars  veri  latet. 

Seneca,  in  (Edip. 

They  that  are  dim  of  sight  see  truth  by  halves. 

It  is  very  reasonable  to  believe,  that  part  of  the 
pleasure  which  happy  minds  shall  enjoy  in  a  fu¬ 
ture  state,  will  arise  from  an  enlarged  contempla¬ 
tion  of  the  Divine  Wisdom  in  the  government  of 
the  world,  and  a  discovering  of  the  secret  and 
amazing  steps  of  Providence,  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end  of  time.  Nothing  seems  to  be  an  en¬ 
tertainment  more  adapted  to  the  nature  of  man,  if 
we  consider  that  curiosity  is  one  of  the  strongest 
and  most  lasting  appetites  implanted  in  us,  and 
that  admiration  is  one  ol  our  most  pleasing  pas¬ 
sions;  and  what  a  perpetual  succession  of  enjoy¬ 
ments  will  be  afforded  to  both  these,  in  a  scene  so 
laige  and  various  as  shall  then  be  laid  open  to  our 
view  in  the  society  of  superior  spirits,  who  per¬ 
haps  will  join  with  us  in  so  delightful  a  prospect. 

It  is  not  impossible,  on  the  contrary,  that  part 
of  the  punishment  of  such  as  are  excluded  from 
bliss,  may  consist  not  only  in  their  being  denied 
this  privilege,  butin  having  their  appetites  at  the 
same  time  vastly  increased  without  any  satisfac¬ 
tion  afforded  to  them.  In  these,  the  vain  pursuit 
of  knowledge  shall,  perhaps,  add  to  their  infelici¬ 
ty,  and  bewilder  them  into  labyrinths  of  error, 
daikness,  distraction,  and  uncertainty  of  every¬ 
thing  but  their  own  evil  state.  Milton  has  thus 
represented  the  fallen  angels  reasoning  together  in 
a  kind  of  lespite  trom  their  torments,  and  creating 
to  themselves  a  new  disquiet  amidst  their  very 
amusements  :  he  could  not  properly  have  described 
the  sport  of  condemned  spirits,  without  that  cast 
of  lion  oi  and  melancholy  he  has  so  judiciously 
mingled  with  them  !  J 

Others  apart  sat  on  a  hill  retir’d, 

In  thoughts  more  elevate,  and  reason’d  high 
Of  providence,  foreknowledge,  will,  and  fate, 

Fix'd  fate,  freewill,  foreknowledge  absolute, 

And  found  no  end  in  wandering  mazes  lost.* 

In  our  present  condition,  which  is  a  middle 
state,  oui  minds  are  as  it  were  checkered  with 
truth  and  falsehood  :  and  as  our  faculties  are  nar¬ 
row,  and  our  views  imperfect,  it  is  impossible  but 
our  curiosity  must  meet  with  many  repulses.  The 
business  of  mankind  in  this  life  being  rather  to 
act  than  to  know,  their  portion  of  knowledge  is 
dealt  to  them  accordingly. 

From  hence  it  is,  that  the  reason  of  the  inqui¬ 
sitive  has  so  long  been  exercised  with  difficulties, 
in  accounting  for  the  promiscuous  distribution  of 
good  and  evil  to  the  virtuous  and  the  wicked  in 
this  tforld.  From  hence  come  all  those  pathetic 
complaints  of  so  many  tragical  events  which  hap¬ 
pen  to  the  wise  and  the  good;  and  of  such  sur¬ 
prising  prosperity,  which  is  often  the  lotf  of  the 
guilty  and  the  foolish;  that  reason  is  sometimes 
puzzled,  and  at  a  loss  what  to  pronounce  upon  so 
mysterious  a  dispensation. 

*  Parad.  Lost,  b.  ii,  v.  557. 
f  Spect.,  in  folio,  for  reward,  etc. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


298 

Plato  expresses  his  abhorrence  of  some  fables 
of  the  poets,  which  seem  to  reflect  on  the  gods  as 
the  authors  of  injustice;  and  lays  it  down  as  a 
principle,  that  whatever  is  permitted  to  befall  a 
just  man,  whether  poverty,  sickness,  or  any  of 
those  things  which  seem  to  be  evils,  shall  either 
in  life  or  death  conduce  to  his  good.  My  reader 
will  observe  how  agreeable  this  maxim  is  to  what 
we  find  delivered  by  greater  authority.  Seneca  has 
written  a  discourse  purposely  on  this  subject:*  in 
which  he  takes  pains,  after  the  doctrine  of  the 
Stoics,  to  show  that  adversity  is  not  in  itself  an 
evil:  and  mentions  a  noble  saying  of  Demetrius, 
that  “nothing  would  be  more  unhappy  than  a  man 
who  had  never  known  affliction.”  He  compares 
prosperity  to  the  indulgence  of  a  fond  mother  to 
a  child,  which  often  proves  his  ruin;  but  the  af¬ 
fection  of  the  Divine  Being  to  that  of  a  wise  father, 
who  would  have  his  sons  exercised  with  labor, 
disappointments,  and  pain,  that  they  may  gather 
strength  and  improve  their  fortitude.  On  this  oc¬ 
casion,  the  philosopher  rises  into  that  celebrated 
sentiment,  that  there  is  not  on  earth  a  spectacle 
more  worthy  the  regard  of  a  Creator  intent  on  his 
works,  than  a  brave  man  superior  to  his  sufferings  : 
to  which  he  adds,  that  it  must  be  a  pleasure  to  Ju¬ 
piter  himself  to  look  down  from  heaven,  and  see 
Cato  amidst  the  ruins  of  his  country  preserving 
his  integrity. 

This  thought  will  appear  yet  more  reasonable, 
if  we  consider  human  life  as  a  state  of  probation, 
and  adversity  as  the  post  of  honor  in  it,  assigned 
often  to  the  best  and  most  select  spirits. 

But  what  I  would  chiefly  insist  on  here  is,  that 
we  are  not  at  present  in  a  proper  situation  to  judge 
of  the  councils  by  which  Providence  acts,  since 
but  little  arrives  at  our  knowledge,  and  even  that 
little  we  discern  imperfectly;  or  according  to  the 
elegant  figure  in  holy  writ,  “  we  see  but  in  part, 
and  as  in  a  glass  darkly.”!  It  is  to  be  considered 
that  Providence  in  its  economy  regards  the  whole 
system  of  time  and  things  together,  so  that  we 
cannot  discover  the  beautiful  connection  between 
incidents  which  lie  widely  separate  in  time;  and 
by  losing  so  many  links  of  the  chain,  our  reason¬ 
ings  become  broken  and  imperfect.  Thus  those 
parts  of  the  moral  world  which  have  not  an  abso¬ 
lute,  may  yet  have  a  relative  beauty,  in  respect  of 
some  other  parts  concealed  from  us,  but  open  to 
his  eye  before  whom  “  past,”  “  present,”  and  “  to 
come,”  are  set  together  in  one  point  of  view :  and 
those  events,  the  permission  oi  which  seems  now 
to  accuse  his  goodness,  may  in  the  consummation 
of  things  both  magnify  his  goodness,  and  exalt 
his  wisdom.  And  this  is  enough  to  check  our 
presumption,  since  it  is  in  vain  to  apply  our  mea¬ 
sures  of  regularity  to  matters  of  •which  we  know 
neither  the  antecedents  nor  the  consequents,  the 
beginning  nor  the  end. 

I  shall  relieve  my  readers  from  this  abstracted 
thought,  by  relating  here  a  Jewish  tradition  con¬ 
cerning  Moses,  which  seems  to  be  a  kind  of  para¬ 
ble,  illustrating  what  I  have  last  mentioned.  That 
great  prophet,  it  is  sahl,  was  called  up  by  a  voice 
from  heaven  to  the  top  of  a  mountain;  where,  in  a 
conference  with  the  Supreme  Being,  he  was  ad¬ 
mitted  to  propose  to  him  some  questions  concern¬ 
ing  his  administration  of  the  universe.  In  the 
midst  of  this  divine  colloquy  lie  was  commanded 
to  look  down  on  the  plain  below.  At  the  foot  of 
the  mountain  there  issued  out  a  clear  spring  of 
water,  at  which  a  soldier  alighted  from  his  horse 
to  drink.  He  was  no  sooner  gone  than  a  little  boy 


*Vid.  Senec.  “Be  constantia  sapientis,  sive  quod  in  eapi- 
entem  non  cadit  injuria.” 
f  1  Oor.,  siii,  12. 


came  to  the  same  place,  and  finding  a  purse  of 
gold  which  the  soldier  had  dropped,  took  it  up 
and  went  away  with  it.  Immediately  after  this 
came  an  infirm  old  man,  weary  with  age  and  tra¬ 
veling,  and  having  quenched  his  thirst  sat  down 
to  rest  himself  by  the  side  of  the  spring.  The 
soldier,  missing  his  purse,  returns  to  search  for  it, 
and  demanded  it  of  the  old  man,  who  affirms  he 
had  not  seen  it,  and  appeals  to  Heaven  in  witness 
of  his  innocence.  The  soldier,  not  believing  his 
protestations,  kills  him.  Moses  fell  on  his  face 
with  horror  and  amazement,  when  the  Divine 
voice  thus  prevented  his  expostulation  :  “  Be  not 
surprised,  Moses,  nor  ask  why  the  Judge  of  the 
whole  earth  has  suffered  this  thing  to  come  to 
pass.  The  child  is  the  occasion  that  the  blood  of 
the  old  man  is  spilt;  but  know  that  the  old  man 
whom  thou  sawest  was  the  murderer  of  that  child’s 
father.” 


Ho.  238.]  MONDAY,  DECEMBER  3,  1711. 

Nequicquam  populo  bibulas  donaveris  aures; 
liespue  quod  non  es - 

Persius,  Sat.  iv,  50. 


No  more  to  flattering  crowds  thine  ear  incline, 

Eager  to  drink  the  praise  which  is  not  thine. 

Brewster. 


Among  all  the  diseases  of  the  mind,  there  is  not 
one  more  epidemical  or  more  pernicious  than  the 
love  of  flattery.  For  as  where  the  juices  of  the 
body  are  prepared  to  receive  the  malignant  influ¬ 
ence,  there  the  disease  rages  with  most  violence; 
so  in  this  distemper  of  the  mind,  where  there  is 
ever  a  propensity  and  inclination  to  suck  in  the 
poison,  it  cannot  be  but  that  the  whole  order  of 
reasonable  action  must  be  overturned;  for,  like 
music,  it 

- So  softens  and  disarms  the  mind 

That  not  one  arrow  can  resistance  find. 

First,  we  flatter  ourselves,  and  then  the  flattery 
of  others  is  sure  of  success.’  It  awakens  our  self- 
love  within,  a  party  which  is  ever  ready  to  revolt 
from  our  better  judgment,  and  join  the  enemy 
without.  Hence  it  is,  that  the  profusion  of  favors 
we  so  often  see  poured  upon  the  parasite,  are  re¬ 
presented  to  us  by  our  self-love,  as  justice  done  to 
the  man  who  so  agreeably  reconciled  us  to  our¬ 
selves.  When  we  are  overcome  by  such  soft  in¬ 
sinuations  and  ensnaring  compliances,  we  gladly 
recompense  the  artifices  that  are  made  use  of  to 
blind  our  reason,  and  which  triumph  over  the 
weaknesses  of  our  temper  and  inclination. 

But  were  every  man  persuaded  from  how  mean 
and  low  a  principle  this  passion  is  derived,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  the  person  who  should  at¬ 
tempt  to  gratify  it,  would  then  be  as  contemptible 
as  he  is  now  successful.  It  is  the  desire  of  some 
quality  we  are  not  possessed  of,  or  inclination  to 
be  something  we  are  not,  which  are  the  causes  of 
our  giving  ourselves  up  to  that  man  who  bestows 
upon  us  the  characters  and  qualities  of  others; 
which  perhaps  suit  us  as  ill,  and  were  as  little  de¬ 
signed  for  our  wearing,  as  their  clothes.  Instead 
of  going  out  of  our  own  complexional  nature  into 
that  of  others,  it  were  abetter  and  more  laudable 
industry  to  improve  our  own,  and  instead  of  a 
miserable  copy  become  a  good  original;  for  there 
is  no  temper,  no  disposition,  so  rude  and  untract- 
able,  but  may  in  its  own  peculiar  cast  and  turn  be 
brought  to  some  agreeable  use  in  conversation,  or 
in  the  affairs  of  life.  A  person  of  a  rougher  de¬ 
portment,  and  less  tied  up  to  the  usual  ceremonies 
of  behavior,  will,  like  Manly  in  the  play,*  please 


*  Wycherley’s  comedy  of  the  Plain  Dealer. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


I 

by  the  grace  which  Nature  gives  to  every  action 
wherein  she  is  complied  with;  the  brisk  and  lively 
will  not  want  their  admirers,  and  even  a  more  re¬ 
served  and  melancholy  temper  may  at  some  times 
be  agreeable. 

When  there  is  not  vanity  enough  awake  in  a 
man  to  undo  him,  the  flatterer  stirs  up  that  dor¬ 
mant  weakness  and  inspires  him  with  merit 
enough  to  be  a  coxcomb.  But  if  flattery  be  the 
most  sordid  act  that  can  be  complied  with,  the  art 
of  praising  justly  is  as  commendable;  for  it  is 
laudable  to  praise  well;  as  poets  at  one  and  the 
same  time  give  immortality,  and  receive  it  them¬ 
selves  as  a  reward.  Both  are  pleased  :  the  one 
while  he  receives  the  recompense  of  merit,  the 
other  while  he  shows  he  knows  how  to  discern 
it;  but  above  all,  that  man  is  happy  in  this  art, 
who,  like  a  skillful  painter,  retains  the  features 
and  complexion,  but  still  softens  the  picture  into 
the  most  agreeable  likeness. 

There  can  hardly,  I  believe,  be  imagined  a  more 
desirable  pleasure,  than  that  of  praise  unmixed 
with  any  possibility  of  flattery.  Such  was  that 
which  Germanicus  enjoyed,  when,  the  night  before 
a  battle,  desirous  of  some  sincere  mark  of  the  es¬ 
teem  of  his  legions  for  him,  he  is  described  by 
Tacitus  listening  in  a  disguise  to  the  discourse  of 
a  soldier,  and  wrapped  up  in  the  fruition  of  his 
glory,  while  with  an  undesigned  sincerity  they 
raised  his  noble  and  majestic  mien,  his  affability, 
is  valor,  conduct  and  success  in  war.  How  must 
a  man  have  his  heart  full-blown  with  joy  in  such 
an  article  of  glory  as  this  ?  What  a  spur  and  en¬ 
couragement  still  to  proceed  in  those  steps  which 
had  already  brought  him  to  so  pure  a  taste  of  the 
greatest  of  mortal  enjoyments  ? 

It  sometimes  happens  that  even  enemies  and 
envious  persons  bestow  the  sincerest  marks  of  es¬ 
teem  when  they  least  design  it.  Such  afford  a 
greater  pleasure,  as  extorted  by  merit,  and  freed 
from  all  suspicion  of  favor  or  flattery.  Thus  it  is 
with  Malvolio  :  he  has  wTit,  learning,  and  discern¬ 
ment,  but  tempered  with  an  alloy  of  envy,  self- 
love,  and  detraction.  Malvolio  turns  pale  at  the 
mirth  and  good  humor  of  the  company,  if  it  cen¬ 
ter  not  in  his  person  ;  he  grows  jealous  and  dis¬ 
pleased  when  he  ceases  to  be  the  only  person 
admired,  and  looks  upon  the  commendations  paid 
to  another  as  a  detraction  from  his  merit,  and  an 
attempt  to  lessen  the  superiority  he  affects  ;  but 
by  this  very  method,  he  bestows  such  praise  as 
can  never  be  suspected  of  flattery.  His  uneasi¬ 
ness  and  distaste  are  so  many  sure  and  certain 
signs  of  another’s  title  to  that  glory  he  desires, 
and  has  the  mortification  to  find  himself  not  pos¬ 
sessed  of. 

A  good  name  is  fitly  compared  to  a  precious 
ointment,*  and  when  we  are  praised  with  skill 
and  decency,  it  is  indeed  the  most  agreeable  per¬ 
fume  ;  but  if  too  strongly  admitted  into  the  brain 
of  a  less  vigorous  and  happy  texture,  it  will,  like 
too  strong  an  odor,  overcome  the  senses,  and  prove 
pernicious  to  those  nerves  it  was  intended  to  re¬ 
fresh.  A  generous  mind  is  of  all  others  the  most 
sensible  of  praise  and  dispraise;  and  a  noble 
spirit  is  as  much  invigorated  with  its  due  propor¬ 
tion  of  honor  and  applause,  as  it  is  depressed  bv 
neglect  and  contempt.  But  it  is  only  persons  far 
above  the  common  level  who  are  thus  affected  with 
either  of  these  extremes;  as  in  a  thermometer,  it  is 
only  the  purest  and  most  sublimated  spirit  that  is 
either  contracted  or  dilated  by  the  benignity  or  in¬ 
clemency  of  the  season. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  translations  which  you  have  lately  given 


299 

us  from  the  Greek,  in  some  of  your  last  papers, 
have  been  the  occasion  of  my  looking  into  some 
ol  those  authors;  among  whom  I  chanced  on  a 
collection  of  letters  which  pass  under  the  name  of 
Aristaenetus.  Of  all  the  remains  of  antiquity,  I 
believe  there  can  be  nothing  produced  of  an  air  so 
gallant  and  polite;  each  letter  contains  a  little 
novel  or  adventure,  which  is  told  with  all  the 
beauties  of  language,  and  heightened  with  a  lux¬ 
uriance  of  wit.  There  are  several  of  them  trans¬ 
lated;*  but  with  such  wide  deviations  from  the 
original,  and  in  a  style  so  far  differing  from  the 
author’s,  that  the  translator  seems  rather  to  have 
taken  hints  for  the  expressing  his  own  sense  and 
thoughts,  than  to  have  endeavored  to  render  those 
of  Aristaenetus.  In  the  following  translation,  I 
have  kept  as  near  the  meaning  of  the  Greek  as  I 
could,  and  have  only  added  a  few  words  to  make 
the  sentences  in  English  sit  together  a  little  better 
than  they  would  otherwise  have  done.  The  story 
seems  to  be  taken  from  that  of  Pygmalion  and  the 
statue  of  Ovid  :  some  of  the  thoughts  are  of  the 
same  turn,  and  the  whole  is  written  in  a  kind  of 
poetical  prose.” 

“Philopinax  to  Chromation. 

“  Never  was  a  man  more  overcome  with  so  fan¬ 
tastical  a  passion  as  mine  :  I  have  painted  a  beau¬ 
tiful  woman,  and  am  despairing,  dying  for  the 
picture.  My  own  skill  has  undone  me;  it  is  not 
the  dart  of  Venus,  but  my  own  pencil  has  thus 
wounded  me.  Ah,  me !  with  what  anxiety  am  I  ne¬ 
cessitated  to  adore  my  own  idol !  How  miserable 
am  I,  while  every  one  must  as  much  pity  the 
painter  as  he  praises  the  picture,  and  own  my  tor¬ 
ment  more  than  equal  to  my  art !  But  why  do  I 
thus  complain  ?  Have  there  not  been  more  un¬ 
happy  and  unnatural  passions  than  mine  ?  Yes, 
I  have  seen  the  representations  of  Phaedra,  Nar¬ 
cissus,  and  Pasiphae.  Phaedra  was  unhappy  in  her 
love:  that  of  Pasiphse  was  monstrous:  and  while 
the  other  caught  at  his  beloved  likeness,  he  de¬ 
stroyed  the  watery  image,  which  ever  eluded  his 
embraces.  The  fountain  represented  Narcissus  to 
himself,  and  the  picture  both  that  and  him  thirst¬ 
ing  after  his  adored  image.  But  I  am  yet  less 
unhappy,  I  enjoy  her  presence  continually,  and  if 
I  touch  her,  I  destroy  not  the  beauteous  form,  but 
she  looks  pleased,  and  a  sweet  smile  sits  in  the 
charming  space  which  divides  her  lips.  One  would 
swear  that  voice  and  speech  were  issuing  out,  and 
that  one’s  ears  felt  the  melodious  sound.  How 
often  have  I,  deceived  by  a  lover’s  credulity, 
hearkened  if  she  had  not  something  to  whisper 
me  !  and  when  frustrated  of  my  hopes,  how  often 
have  I  taken  my  revenge  in  kisses  from  her  cheeks 
and  eyes,  and  softly  wooed  her  to  my  embrace, 
while  she  (as  to  me  it  seemed)  only  withheld  her 
tongue  the  more  to  inflame  me.  But,  madman  that 
I  am,  shall  I  be  thus  taken  wTitli  the  representa¬ 
tion  only  of  a  beauteous  face,  and  flowing  hair, 
and  thus  waste  myself  and  melt  to  tears  for  a 
shadow  ?  Ah,  sure  it  is  something  more,  it  is  a 
reality;  for  see  her  beauties  shine  out  with  new 
luster,  and  she  seems  to  upbraid  me  with  unkind 
reproaches.  Oh,  may  I  have  a  living  mistress  of 
this  form,  that  when  I  shall  compare  the  work  of 
nature  with  that  of  art,  I  may  be  still  at  a  loss 
which  to  choose,  and  be  long  perplexed  with  the 
pleasing  uncertainty  !  ” — T. 


*  By  Tom  Brown  and  others.  See  his  Works,  4  vols.,  12mo. 


*  Eccles.,  vii,  1. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


300 

Ho.  239.]  TUESDAY,  DECEMBER  4,  1711. 

- Bella,  horriila  bella! — ViRG.  iEx.,  vi,  86. 

- Wars,  horrid  wars! — Deyden. 

I  have  sometimes  amused  myself  with  consid¬ 
ering  the  several  methods  of  managing  a  debate 
which  have  obtained  in  the  world. 

The  first  races  of  mankind  used  to  dispute,  as 
our  ordinary  people  do  now-a-day,  in  a  kind  of 
wild  logic,  uncultivated  by  rules  of  art. 

Socrates  introduced  a  catechetical  method  of  ar¬ 
guing.  Ho  would  ask  his  adversary  question  upon 
question,  until  he  had  convinced  him  out  of  his 
own  mouth,  that  his  opinions  were  wrong.  This 
way  of  debating  drives  an  enemy  up  into  a  cor¬ 
ner,  seizes  all  the  passes  through  which  he  can 
make  an  escape,  and  forces  him  to  surrender  at 
discretion. 

Aristotle  changed  this  method  of  attack,  and 
invented  a  great  variety  of  little  weapons,  called 
syllogisms.  As  in  the  Soeratic  way  of  dispute 
you  agree  to  everything  your  opponent  advances; 
in  the  Aristotelic,  you  are  still  denying  and  con¬ 
tradicting  some  part  or  other  of  what  he  says.  So¬ 
crates  conquers  you  by  stratagem,  Aristotle  by 
force.  The  one  takes  the  town  by  sap,  the  other 
sword  in  hand. 

The  universities  of  Europe,  for  many  years, 
carried  on  their  debates  by  syllogism,  insomuch 
that  we  see  the  knowledge  of  several  centuries 
laid  out  into  objections  and  answers,  and  all  the 
good  sense  of  the  age  cut  and  minced  into  almost 
an  infinitude  of  distinctions. 

When  our  universities  found  there  was  no  end 
of  wrangling,  this  way,  they  invented  a  kind  of 
argument,  which  is  not  reducible  to  any  mood  or 
figure  in  Aristotle.  It  was  called  the  Argumen- 
tum  Basilinum  (others  write  it  Bacilinum  or  Ba- 
culinum),  which  is  pretty  wrell  expressed  in  our 
English  word  club-law.  'When  they  were  not  able 
to  confute  their  antagonist,  they  knocked  him 
down.  It  was  their  method,  in  these  polemical 
debates,  first  to  discharge  their  syllogisms,  and 
afterward  to  betake  themselves  to  their  clubs, 
until  such  time  as  they  had  one  way  or  other  con¬ 
founded  their  gainsayers.  There  is  in  Oxford  a 
narrow  defile  (to  make  use  of  a  military  term) 
where  the  partisans  used  to  encounter;  for  which 
reason  it  still  retains  the  name  of  Logic-lane.  I 
have  heard  an  old  gentleman,  a  physician,  make 
his  boasts,  that  when  he  was  a  young  fellow  he 
marched  several  times  at  the  head  of  a  troop  of 
Scotists,*  and  cudgeled  a  body  of  Smiglesians,f 
half  the  length  of  High-street,  until  they  had 
dispersed  themselves  for  shelter  into  their  respect¬ 
ive  garrisons. 

This  humor,  I  find,  went  very  far  in  Erasmus’s 
time.  For  that  author  tells  us,  that  upon  the  re¬ 
vival  of  Greek  letters,  most  of  the  universities  in 
Europe  were  divided  into  Greeks  and  Trojans. 
The  latter  were  those  who  bore  a  mortal  enmity 
to  the  language  of  the  Grecians,  insomuch  that  if 
they  met  witli  any  who  understood  it,  they  did 
not  fail  to  treat  him  as  a  foe.  Erasmus  himself 
had,  it  seems,  the  misfortune  to  fall  into  the  hands 
of  a  party  of  Trojans,  who  laid  him  on  with  so 
many  blows  and  buffets  that  he  never  forgot  their 
hostilities  to  his  dying  day. 

There  is  a  way  of  managing  an  argument  not 
much  unlike  the  former,  which  is  made  use  of  by 
states  and  communities,  when  they  draw  up  a 

*  The  followers  of  Duns  Scotus,  a  celebrated  doctor  of  the 
schools,  who  flourished  about  the  year  1300,  and  from  his  op¬ 
posing  some  favorite  doctrines  of  Thomas  Aquinas,  gave  rise 
to  a  new  party  called  Scotists,  in  opposition  to  the  Thomists, 
or  followers  of  the  other. 

|  The  followers  of  Martin  Smiglecius,  a  famous  logician  of 
the  16th  century. 


hundred  thousand  disputants  on  each  side,  and 
convince  one  another  by  dint  of  sword.  A  cer¬ 
tain  grand  monarch*  was  so  sensible  of  his 
strength  in  this  way  of  reasoning,  that  he  wrote 
upon  his  great  guns — Ratio  ultima  regum,  “  The 
logic  of  kings;”  but,  God  be  thanked,  he  is  now 
pretty  well  baffled  at  his  own  weapons.  When 
one  has  to  do  with  a  philosopher  of  this  kind,  one 
should  remember  the  old  gentleman’s  saying,  who 
had  been  engaged  in  an  argument  with  one  of  the 
Roman  emperors.f  Upon  his  friends  telling  him 
that  he  wondered  he  would  give  up  the  question, 
when  he  had  visibly  the  better  of  the  dispute;  “I 
am  never  ashamed,”  says  he,  “  to  be  confuted  by 
one  who  is  master  of  fifty  legions.” 

I  shall  but  just  mention  another  kind  of  reason¬ 
ing,  which  may  be  called  arguing  by  poll;  and 
another,  which  is  of  equal  force,  in  which  wagers 
are  made  use  of  as  arguments,  according  to  the 
celebrated  line  in  Hudibras.J 

But  the  most  notable  way  of  managing  a  con¬ 
troversy,  is  that  which  we  may  call  arguing  by 
torture.  This  is  a  method  of  reasoning  which  has 
been  made  use  of  with  the  poor  refugees,  and 
which  was  so  fashionable  in  our  country  during 
the  reign  of  Queen  Mary,  that  in  a  passage  of  an 
author  quoted  by  Monsieur  Bayle,  it  is  said  the 
price  of  wood  was  raised  in  England,  by  reason 
of  the  executions  that  were  made  in  Smithfield.§ 
These  disputants  convince  their  adversaries  with 
a  sorites, ||  commonly  called  a  pile  of  fagots.  The 
rack  is  also  a  kind  of  syllogism  which  has  been 
used  with  good  effect,  and  has  made  multitudes 
of  converts.  Men  were  formerly  disputed  out  of 
their  doubts,  reconciled  to  truth  by  force  of  reason, 
and  won  over  to  opinions  by  the  candor,  sense, 
and  ingenuity  of  those  who  had  the  right  on  their 
side;  but  this  method  of  conviction  operated  too 
slowly.  Pain  was  found  to  be  much  more  enlight¬ 
ening  than  reason.  Every  scruple  was  looked 
upon  as  obstinacy,  and  not  to  be  removed  but  by 
engines  invented  for  that  purpose.  In  a  word, 
the  application  of  whips,  racks,  gibbets,  galleys, 
dungeons,  fire  and  fagot,  in  a  dispute,  may  be 
looked  upon  as  popish  refinements  upon  the  old 
heathen  logic. 

There  is  another  way  of  reasoning  which  seldom 
fails,  though  it  be  of  a  quite  different  nature  to 
that  I  have  last  mentioned.  I  mean,  convincing 
a  man  by  ready  money,  or,  as  it  is  ordinarily 
called,  bribing  a  man  to  an  opinion.  This  method 
has  often  proved  successful,  when  all  the  others 
have  been  made  use  of  to  no  purpose.  A  man 
who  is  furnished  with  arguments  from  the  mint, 
will  convince  his  antagonist  much  sooner  than 
one  who  draws  them  from  reason  and  philosophy. 
Gold  is  a  wonderful  clearer  of  the  understanding; 
it  dissipates  every  doubt  and  scruple  in  an  instant; 
accommodates  itself  to  the  meanest  capacities;  si¬ 
lences  the  loud  and  clamorous,  and  brings  over 
the  most  obstinate  and  inflexible.  Philip  of  Ma- 
cedon  was  a  man  of  most  invincible  reason  this 
way.  He  refuted  by  it  all  the  wisdom  of  Athens, 
confounded  their  statesmen,  struck  their  orators 
dumb,  and  at  length  argued  them  out  of  all  their 
liberties.  r 

Having  here  touched  upon  the  several  methods 
of  disputing,  as  they  have  prevailed  in  different 
ages  of  the  world,  I  shall  very  suddenly  give  my 


*  Louis  XIV,  of  France. 

+  The  Emperor  Adrian, 
t  Part  2,  c.  1,  v.  297. 

ft  The  author  quoted  is  And.  Ammonius.  See  his  life  in 
Bayle’s  Diet. — The  Spectator’s  memory  deceived  him  in  ap 
plying  the  remark,  which  was  made  in  the  reign  of  Henry 
VIII.  It  was(  however,  much  more  applicable  to  that  of 
Queen  Mary. 

U  A  sorites  is  a  heap  of  propositions  thrown  together. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


301 


reader  an  account  of  the  whole  art  of  caviling; 
which  shall  be  a  full  and  satisfactory  answer  to 
all  such  papers  and  pamphlets  as  have  yet  ap¬ 
peared  against  the  Spectator. — C. 


No.  240.]  WEDNESDAY,  DECEMBER  5,  1711. 

- Aliter  non  fit,  Avite,  liber.— Mart.,  Er.  i,  17. 

Of  such  materials,  Sir,  are  books  composed. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  one  of  the  most  genteel  trades  in  the  city, 
and  understand  thus  much  of  liberal  education,  as 
to  have  an  ardent  ambition  of  being  useful  to 
mankind,  and  to  think  that  the  chief  end  of  being, 
as  to  this  life.  I  had  these  good  impressions 
given  me  from  the  handsome  behavior  of  a  learned, 
generous,  and  wealthy  man  toward  me,  when  I 
first  began  the  world.  Some  dissatisfaction  be¬ 
tween  me  and  my  parents  made  me  enter  into  it 
with  less  relish  of  business  than  I  ought;  and  to  turn 
off  this  uneasiness,  I  gave  myself  to  criminal 

Sleasures,  some  excesses,  and  a  general  loose  con- 
uct.  I  know  not  what  the  excellent  man  above- 
mentioned  saw  in  me,  but  he  descended  from  the 
superiority  of  his  wisdom  and  merit  to  throw  him¬ 
self  frequently  into  my  company.  This  made  me 
soon  hope  that  I  had  something  in  me  worth  cul¬ 
tivating,  and  his  conversation  made  me  sensible 
of  satisfactions  in  a  regular  Way,  which  I  had 
never  before  imagined.  When  he  was  grown  fa¬ 
miliar  with  me,  he  opened  himself  like  a  good 
angel,  and  told  me  he  had  long  labored  to  ripen  me 
into  a  preparation  to  receive  his  friendship  and 
advice,  both  which  I  should  daily  command,  and 
the  use  of  any  part  of  his  fortune,  to  apply  the 
measures  he  should  propose  to  me,  for  the  im¬ 
provement  of  my  own.  I  assure  you,  I  cannot  re¬ 
collect  the  goodness'  and  confusion  of  the  good 
man  when  he  spoke  to  this  purpose  to  me,  without 
melting  into  tears:  but  in  a  word.  Sir,  I  must 
hasten  to  tell  you,  that  my  heart  burns  with  grati¬ 
tude  toward  him,  and  he  is  so  happy  a  man,  that 
it  can  never  be  in  my  power  to  return  him  his  fa¬ 
vors  in  kind,  but  I  am  sure  I  have  made  him  the 
most  agreeable  satisfaction  I  could  possibly,  in 
being  ready  to  serve  others  to  my  utmost  ability, 
as  far  as  is  consistent  with  the  prudence  he  pre¬ 
scribes  to  me.  Dear  Mr.  Spectator,  I  do  not  owe 
to  him  only  the  good-will  and  esteem  of  my  own 
relations  (who  are  people  of  distinction),  the  pre¬ 
sent  ease  and  plenty  of  my  circumstances,  but 
also  the  government  of  my  passions,  and  regula¬ 
tion  of  my  desires.  I  doubt  not.  Sir,  but  in  your 
imagination  such  virtues  as  these  of  my  worthy 
friend,  bear  as  great  a  figure  as  actions  which  are 
more  glittering  in  the  common  estimation.  What 
1  would  ask  of  you,  is  to  give  us  a  whole  Specta¬ 
tor  upon  heroic  virtue  in  common  life,  which  may 
incite  men  to  the  same  generous  inclinations,  as 
have  by  this  admirable  person  been  shown  to,  and 
raised  in, 

“  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant.” 
“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  a  country  clergyman,  of  a  good  plentiful 
estate,  and  live  as  the  rest  of  my  neighbors,  with 
great  hospitality.  I  have  been  ever  reckoned 
among  the  ladies  the  best  company  in  the  world, 
and  have  access  as  a  sort  of  favorite.  I  never 
came  in  public  but  I  saluted  them,  though  in  great 
assemblies  all  around;  where  it  was  seen  how  gen¬ 
teelly  I  avoided  hampering  my  spurs  in  their 
petticoats,  while  I  moved  among  them;  and  on  the 
other  side  how  prettily  they  courtsied  and  received 


me,  standing  in  proper  rows,  and  advancing  as 
fast  as  they  saw  their  elders,  or  their  betters,  dis¬ 
patched  by  me.  But  so  it  is,  Mr.  Spectator,  that 
all  our  good  breeding  is  of  late  lost  by  the  un- 
happy  arrival  of  a  courtier,  or  town  gentleman, 
who  came  lately  among  us.  This  person,  when- 
i  ever  he  came  into  a  room,  made  a  profound  bow, 
and  fell  back,  then  recovered  with  a  soft  air,  and 
made  a  bow  to  the  next,  and  so  to  one  or  two 
more,  and  then  took  the  gross  of  the  room,  by 
passing  them  in  a  continual  bow  until  he  arrived 
at  the  person  he  thought  proper  particularly  to 
entertain.  1  his  he  did  with  so  good  a  grace  and 
assurance,,  that  it  is  taken  for  the  present  fashion  ; 
and  there  is  no  young  gentlewoman  within  several 
miles  of  this  place  has  been  kissed  ever  since  his 
i  first  appearance  among  us.  We  country  gentle¬ 
man  cannot  begin  again  and  learn  these  fine  and 
reserved  airs;  and  our  conversation  is  at  a  stand, 
until  we  have  your  judgment  for  or  against  kiss¬ 
ing  by  way  of  civility  or  salutation;  which  is  im¬ 
patiently  expected  by  your  friends  of  both  sexes, 
but  by  none  so  much  as 

“Your  humble  Servant, 

“Rustic  Sprightly.” 

‘‘Mr.  Spectator,  December  3,  1711. 

“I  was  the  other  night  at  Philaster,  where  I  ex¬ 
pected  to  hear  your  famous  trunk-maker,  but  was 
unhappily  disappointed  of  his  company,  and  saw 
another  person  who  had  the  like  ambition  to  dis¬ 
tinguish  himself  in  a  noisy  manner,  partly  by 
vociferation  or  talking  loud,  and  partly  by  his 
bodily  agility.  This  was  a  very  lusty  fellow,  but 
withal  a  sort  of  beau,  who  getting  into  one  of  the 
side  boxes  on  the  stage  before  the  curtain  drew, 
was  disposed  to  show  the  whole  audience  his 
activity  by  leaping  over  the  spikes;  he  passed 
from  thence  to  one  of  the  entering  doors,  where 
he  took  snuff  with  a  tolerable  good  grace,  dis¬ 
played  his  fine  clothes,  made  two  or  three  feint 
passes  at  the  curtain  with  his  cane,  then  faced 
about  and  appeared  at  t'other  door.  Here  he 
affected  to  survey  the  whole  house,  bowed  and 
smiled  at  random,  and  then  showed  his  teeth, 
which  were  some  of  them  indeed  very  white. 
After  this,  he  retired  behind  the  curtain,  and  ob¬ 
liged  us  with  several  views  of  his  person  from 
every  opening. 

“During  the  time  of  acting  he  appeared  fre¬ 
quently  in  the  prince’s  apartment,  made  one  at 
the  hunting-match,  and  was  very  forward  in  the 
rebellion.*  If  there  were  no  injunctions  to  the 
contrary,  yet  this  practice  must  be  confessed  to 
diminish  the  pleasure  of  the  audience,  and  for 
that  reason  to  be  presumptuous  and  unwarrant¬ 
able  ;  but  since  her  majesty’s  late  command  has 
made  it  criminal,!  you  have  authority  to  take 
notice  of  it. 

“Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

T.  “Charles  Easy.” 


*  Different  scenes  in  the  play  of  Philaster. 
f  In  the  playbills  about  this  time  there  was  this  clause, 
“  By  her  majesty’s  command  no  person  is  to  be  admitted  be¬ 
hind  the  scenes.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


302 

Ho.  241. J  TUESDAY,  DECEMBER  6,  1711. 

- Semperque  relinqui 

Sola  liibi,  semper  longarn  incomitata  videtur 
Ire  viam - Virg.  iEn.,  iv,  466. 

All  sad  she  seems,  forsaken,  and  alone ; 

And  left  to  wander  wide  through  paths  unknown. — P. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“Though  you  have  considered  virtuous  love  in 
most  of  its  distresses,  I  do  not  remember  that  you 
have  given  us  any  dissertation  upon  the  absence 
of  lovers,  or  laid  down  any  methods  how  they 
should  support  themselves  under  those  long  sepa¬ 
rations  which  they  are  sometimes  forced  to  under¬ 
go.  I  am  at  present  in  this  unhappy  circumstance, 
having  parted  with  the  best  of  husbands,  who  is 
abroad  in  the  service  of  his  country,  and  may  not 
possibly  return  for  some  years.  His  warm  and 
generous  affection  while  we  were  together,  with 
the  tenderness  which  he  expressed  to  me  at  part¬ 
ing,  make  his  absence  almost  insupportable.  I 
think  of  him  every  moment  of  the  day,  and  meet 
him  every  night  in  my  dreams.  Everything  1 
see  puts  me  in  mind  of  him.  I  apply  myself  with 
more  than  ordinary  diligence  to  the  care  of  his 
family  and  his  estate;  but  this,  instead  of  reliev¬ 
ing  me,  gives  me  but  so  many  occasions  of  wish¬ 
ing  for  his  return.  I  frequent  the  rooms  where  I 
used  to  converse  with  him,  and  not  meeting  him 
there,  sit  down  in  his  chair  and  fall  a  weeping.  I 
love  to  read  the  books  he  delighted  in,  and  to  con¬ 
verse  with  the  persons  whom  he  esteemed.  I 
visit  his  picture  a  hundred  times  a  day,  and  place 
myself  over-against  it  whole  hours  together.  I 
pass  a  great  part  of  my  time  in  the  walks  where  I 
used  to  lean  upon  his  arm,  and  recollect  in  my 
mind  the  discourses  which  have  there  passed  be¬ 
tween  us:  I  look  over  the  several  prospects  and 
points  of  view  which  we  used  to  survey  together, 
fix  my  eye  upon  the  objects  which  he  has  made 
me  take  notice  of,  and  call  to  mind  a  thousand 
agreeable  remarks  which  he  has  made  on  those  oc¬ 
casions.  I  write  to  him  by  every  conveyance,  and 
contrary  to  other  people,  am  always  in  good  hu¬ 
mor  when  an  east  wind  blows,  because  it  seldom 
fails  of  bringing  me  a  letter  from  him.  Let  me 
entreat  you,  Sir,  to  give  me  your  advice  upon  this 
occasion,  and  to  let  me  know  how  I  may  relieve 
myself  in  this  my  widowhood. 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

“Asteria.” 

Absence  is  what  the  poets  call  death  in  love, 
and  has  given  occasion  to  abundance  of  beautiful 
complaints  in  those  authors  who  have  treated  of 
this  passion  in  verse.  Ovid’s  Epistles  are  full  of 
them.  Otway’s  Monimia  talks  very  tenderly  upon 
this  subject: 

- It  was  not  kind 

To  leave  me  like  a  turtle  here  alone, 

To  droop  and  mourn  the  absence  of  my  mate. 

When  thou  art  from  me  every  place  is  desert; 

And  I,  methinks,  am  savage  and  forlorn. 

Thy  presence  only  ’tis  can  make  me  blest, 

Heal  my  unquiet  mind,  and  tune  my  soul. 

Orphan,  Act.  ii. 

The  consolations  of  lovers  on  these  occasions 
are  very  extraordinary.  Beside  those  mentioned 
by  Asteria,  there  are  many  other  motives  of  com¬ 
fort  which  are  made  use  of  by  absent  lovers. 

I  remember  in  one  of  Scudery’s  Romances,  a 
couple  of  honorable  lovers  agreed  at  their  parting 
to  set  aside  one  half  hour  in  the  day  to  think 
of  each  other  during  a  tedious  absence.  The  ro¬ 
mance  tells  us,  they  both  of  them  punctually  ob¬ 
served  the  time  thus  agreed  upon  ;  and  that  what- 
evercompany  or  business  they  were  engaged  in, 
they  left  it  abruptly  as  soon  ds  the  clock  warned 


them  to  retire.  The  romance  further  adds,  that 
the  lovers  expected  the  return  of  this  stated  hour 
with  as  much  impatience  as  if  it  had  been  a  real 
assignation,  and  enjoyed  an  imaginary  happiness, 
that  was  almost  as  pleasing  to  them  as  what  they 
would  have  found  from  a  real  meeting.  It  was  an 
inexpressible  satisfaction  to  these  divided  lovers, 
to  be  assured  that  each  was  at  the  same  time  em¬ 
ployed  in  the  same  kind  of  contemplation,  and 
making  equal  returns  of  tenderness  and  affection. 

If  I  may  be  allowed  to  mention  a  more  serious 
expedient  for  the  alleviating  of  absence,  I  shall 
take  notice  of  one  which  I  have  known  two  per¬ 
sons  practice,  who  joined  religion  to  that  elegance 
of  sentiment  with  which  the  passion  of  love  gen¬ 
erally  inspires  its  votaries.  This  was,  at  the  re¬ 
turn  of  such  an  hour,  to  offer  up  a  certain  prayer 
for  each  other  which  they  had  agreed  upon  before 
their  parting.  The  husband,  who  is  a  man  that 
makes  a  figure  in  the  polite  world  as  well  as  in 
his  own  family,  has  often  told  me,  that  he  could 
not  have  supported  an  absence  of  three  years 
without  this  expedient. 

Strada,  in  one  of  his  Prolusions,*  gives  an  ac¬ 
count  of  a  chimerical  correspondence  between  two 
friends  by  the  help  of  a  certain  loadstone,  which 
had  such  virtue  in  it,  that  if  it  touched  two  several 
needles,  when  one  of  the  needles  so  touched  began 
to  move,  the  other,  though  at  never  so  great  a  dis¬ 
tance,  moved  at  the  same  time,  and  in  the  same 
manner.  He  tells  us,  that  the  two  friends  being 
each  of  them  possessed  of  one  of  these  needles, 
made  a  kind  of  dial-plate,  inscribing  it  with  four- 
and-twenty  letters,  in  the  same  manner  as  the 
hours  of  the  day  are  marked  upon  the  ordinary 
dial-plate.  They  then  fixed  one  of  i;he  needles  on 
each  of  these  plates  in  such  a  manner,  that  it 
could  move  round  without  impediment,  so  as  to 
touch  any  of  the  four-and-twenty  letters.  Upon 
their  separating  from  one  another  into  distant 
countries,  they  agreed  to  withdraw  themselves 
punctually  into  their  closets  at  a  certain  hour  of 
the  day,  and  to  converse  with  one  another  by 
means  of  this  their  invention.  Accordingly  when 
they  were  some  hundred  miles  asunder,  each  of 
them  shut  himself  up  in  his  closet  at  the  time  ap¬ 
pointed,  and  immediately  cast  his  eye  upon  his 
dial-plate.  If  he  had  a  mind  to  write  anything 
to  his  friend,  he  directed  his  needle  to  every  letter 
that  formed  the  words  which  he  had  occasion  for, 
making  a  little  pause  at  the  end  of  every  word  or 
sentence,  to  avoid  confusion.  The  friend  in  the 
meanwhile  saw  his  own  sympathetic  needle  mov¬ 
ing  of  itself  to  every  letter  which  that  of  his  cor¬ 
respondent  pointed  at.  By  this  means  they  talked 
together  across  a  whole  continent,  and  conveyed 
their  thoughts  to  one  another  in  an  instant  over 
cities  or  mountains,  seas  or  deserts. 

If  Monsieur  Scudery,  or  any  other  writer  of  ro¬ 
mance,  had  introduced  a  necromancer,  who  is 
generally  in  the  train  of  a  knight-errant,  making 
a  present  to  two  lovers  of  a  couple  of  these  above- 
mentioned  needles,  the  reader  would  not  have 
been  a  little  pleased  to  have  seen  them  corres¬ 
ponding  with  one  another  when  they  were  guard¬ 
ed  by  spies  and  watches,  or  separated  by  castles 
and  adventures. 

In  the  meanwhile,  if  ever  this  invention  should 
be  revived  or  put  in  practice,  I  would  propose  that 
upon  the  lover’s  dial-plate  there  should  be  written 
not  only  the  four-and-twenty  letters,  but  several 
entire  words  which  have  always  a  place  in  pas¬ 
sionate  epistles;  as  flames,  darts,  die,  language, 
absence,  Cupid,  heart,  eyes,  hang,  drown,  and  the 
like.  This  would  very  much  abridge  the  lover’s 


*  Lib.  ii,  prol.  6. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


303 


pains  in  this  way  of  writing  a  letter,  as  it  would 
enable  him  to  express  the  most  useful  and  signi¬ 
ficant  words  with  a  single  touch  of  the  needle. — C. 


No.  242.]  FRIDAY,  DECEMBER  7,  1711. 

Creditur,  ex  medio  quia  res  arcessit,  habere 
Sudoris  minimum -  II0R.  2  Ep.  i,  1C8. 

To  write  on  vulgar  themes,  is  thought  an  easy  task. 


“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  T  our  speculations  do  not  so  generally  prevail 
over  men’s  manners  as  I  could  wish.  A  former 
paper  of  yours  concerning  the  misbehavior  of 
people  who  are  necessarily  in  each  others  com¬ 
pany  in  traveling,  ought  to  have  been  a  lasting 
admonition  against  transgressions  of  that  kind. 
But  I  had  the  fate  of  your  Quaker,  in  meeting 
with  a  rude  fellow  in  a  stage-coach,  who  enter¬ 
tained  two  or  three  women  of  us  (for  there  was  no 
man  beside  himself)  with  language  as  indecent  as 
ever  was  heard  upon  the  water.  The  impertinent 
observations  which  the  coxcomb  made  upon  our 
shame  and  confusion  were  such,  that  it  is  an  un¬ 
speakable  grief  to  reflect  upon  them.  As  much 
as  you  have  declaimed  against  dueling,  I  hope 
vou  will  do  us  the  justice  to  declare,  that  if  the 
brute  has  courage  enough  to  send  to  the  place 
where  he  saw  us  all  alight  together  to  get  rid  of 
him,  there  is  not  one  ot  us  but  has  a  lover  who 
shall  avenge  the  insult.  It  would  certainly  be 
worth  your  consideration,  to  look  into  the  fre¬ 
quent  misfortunes  of  this  kind,  to  which  the  mod¬ 
est  and  innocent  are  exposed,  by  the  licentious 
behavior  of  such  as  are  as  much  strangers  to  good¬ 
breeding  as  to  virtue.  Could  we  avoid  hearing 
y  hat  we  do  not  approve,  as  easily  as  we  can  see¬ 
ing  what. is  disagreeable,  there  were  some  conso¬ 
lation  ;  but  since  in  a  box  at  a  play,  in  an  assem¬ 
bly  of  ladies,  or  even  in  a  pew  at  church,  it  is  in 
the  power  of  a  gross  coxcomb  to  utter  what  a  wo¬ 
man  cannot  avoid  hearing,  how  miserable  is  her 
condition  who  comes  within  the  power  of  such 
irapertinents  ?  and  how  necessary  is  it  to  repeat 
invectives  against  such  behavior?  If  the  licen¬ 
tious  had  not  utterly  forgot  what  it  is  to  be  mod¬ 
est,  they  would  know  that  offended  modesty  la¬ 
bors  under  one  of  the  greatest  sufferings  to  which 
human  life  can  be  exposed.  If  these  brutes  could 
reflect  thus  much,  though  they  want  shame,  they 
could  be  moved  by  their  pity,  to  abhor  an  impu¬ 
dent  behavior  in  the  presence  of  the  chaste  and 
innocent.  If  you  will  oblige  us  with  a  Spectator 
on  this  subject,  and  procure  it  to  be  pasted  against 
every  stage-coach  in  Great  Britain  as  the  law  of 
the  journey,  you  will  highly  oblige  the  whole 
sex,  for  which  you  have  professed  so  great  an 
esteem  ;  and  in  particular,  the  two  ladies  my  late 
fellow-sufferers,  and, 

“  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 


..  ,r  “  Rebecca  Ridinghood.” 

Mr.  Spectator, 

'•  The  matter  which  I  am  now  goino-  to  sen 
you,  is  an  unhappy  story  in  low  life,°and  wn 
recommend  itsell,  so  that  you  must  excuse  th 
manner  of  expressing  it.  A  poor,  idle,  drunke 
weaver  m  bpitalfields  has  a  faithful,  laboriou 
wife,  who  by  her  frugality  and  industry  has  lai 
by  her  as  much  money  as  purchased  her  a  ticke 
m  the  present  lottery.  She  had  hid  this  verv  pri 
vately  in  the  bottom  of  a  trunk,  and  had  Uv» 
her  number  to  a  friend  and  confidant,  who  ha< 
promised  to  keep  the  secret,  and  bring  her  new 
of  the  success.  The  poor  adventurer  was  one  da 
gone  abroad,  when  her  careless  husband,  supectinj 


she  had  some  money,  searches  every  corner,  till  at 
length  he  finds  this  same  ticket ;  which  he  imme¬ 
diately  carries  abroad,  sells,  and  squanders  away 
the  money,  without  his  wife’s  suspecting  anything 
of  the  matter.  A  day  or  two  after  this,  this  friend, 
who  was  a  woman,  comes  and  brings  the  wife 
word,  that  she  had  a  benefit  of  £500.  The  poor 
cieature,  overjoyed,  flies  up  stairs  to  her  husband, 
who  was  then  at  work,  and  desires  him  to  leave 
his  loom  for  that  evening,  and  come  and  drink 
with  a  friend  of  his  and  hers  below.  The  man 
received  this  cheerful  invitation  as  bad  husbands 
sometimes  do,  and  after  a  cross  word  or  two,  told 
hei  he  wouldn  t  come.  His  wife,  with  tenderness, 
renewed  her  importunity,  and  at  length  said  to 
him,  ‘My  love  !  I  have  within  these  few  months, 
unknown  to  you,  scraped  together  as  much  money 
cis  lias  bought  us  a  ticket  in  the  lottery,  and  now 
here  is  Mrs.  Quick  come  to  tell  me,  that  it  is  come 
up  this  morning  a  £500  prized  The  husband  re¬ 
plies  immediately,  ‘You  lie,  you  slut,  vou  have 
no  ticket,  for  I  have  sold  it.’  The  poor  woman 
upon  this  faints  away  in  a  fit,  recovers,  and  is 
now  run  distracted.  As  she  had  no  design  to  de- 
fiaud  her  husband,  but  was  willing  only  to  par¬ 
ticipate  in  his  good  fortune,  every  one  pities  her, 
but  thinks  her  husband’s  punishment  but  just! 
This,  Sir,  is  a  matter  of  fact,  and  would,  if  the 
persons  and  circumstances  were  greater,  in  a  well- 
wrought  play  be  called  Beautiful  Distress.  I  have 
only  sketched  it  out  with  chalk,  and  know  a  good 
hand  can  make  a  moving  picture  with  worse  ma¬ 
terials.  “  Siry>  etc. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  what  the  world  calls  a  warm  fellow,  and 
by  good  success  in  trade  I  have  raised  myself  to 
a  capacity  of  making  some  figure  in  the  world  • 
but  no  matter  for  that,  I  have  now  under  my  guar- 
dianship  a  couple  of  nieces,  who  will  certainly 
make  me  run  mad  ;  which  you  will  not  wonder  at, 
when  I  tell  you  they  are  female  virtuosos,  and 
during  the  three  years  and  a  half  that  I  have  had 
them  under  my  care,  they  never  in  the  least  in¬ 
clined  their  thoughts  toward  any  one  single  part  of 
the  character  of  a  notable  woman.  W  hile  they 
should  have  been  considering  the  proper  in °re- 
dients  for  a  sack-posset,  you  should  hear  a  dispute 
concerning  the  magnetic  virtue  of  the  loadstone, 
or  perhaps  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere.  Their 
language  is  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  they  scorn 
to  express  themselves  on  the  meanest  trifle  with 
words  that  are  not  of  a  Latin  derivation.  But 
this  were  supportable  still,  would  they  suffer  me 

enjpy  an  uninterrupted  ignorance;  but  unless 
1  fall  in  with  their  abstracted  ideas  of  things  (as 
they  call  them)  I  must  not  expect  to  smoke  one 
pipe  in  quiet.  In  a  late  fit  of  the  gout  I"  com¬ 
plained  of  the  pain  of  that  distemper,  when  my 
niece  Kitty  begged  leave  to  assure  me,’ that  what 
ever  I  might  think,  several  great  philosophers, 
both  ancient  and  modern,  were  of  opinion,  that 
both  pleasure  and  pain  were  imaginary  distinc¬ 
tions,  and  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  either 
m  rerum  natura.  I  have  often  heard  them  affirm 
that  the  file  was  not  hot;  and  one  day  when  I, 
w  ith  the  authority  of  an  old  fellow,  desired  one 
of  them  to  put  my  blue  cloak  on  my  knees,  she 
answeied,  ‘  Sir,  I  will  reach  the  cloak  ;  but  take 
notice,  I  do  not  do  it  as  allowing  your  description; 
for  it  might  as  well  be  called  yellow  as  blue  ;  for 
color  is  nothing  but  the  various  infractions  of 
the  rays  of  the  sun.’  Miss  Molly  told  me  one 
day,  that  to  say  snow  was  white,  is  allowing  a 
vulgar  error,  for  as  it  contains  a  great  quantity  of 
nitrous  particles,  it  might  more  reasonably  be  sup¬ 
posed  to  be  black.  In  short,  the  young  hussies 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


304 

would  persuade  me,  that  to  believe  one’s  eyes  is  a 
sure  way  to  be  deceived;  and  have  often  advised  me 
by  no  means  to  trust  anything  so  fallible  as  my 
senses.  What  I  have  to  beg  of  you  now  is,  to 
turn  one  speculation  to  the  due  regulation  of  fe¬ 
male  literature,  so  far,  at  least,  as  to  make  it  con¬ 
sistent  with  the  quiet  of  such  whose  fate  it  is  to 
be  liable  to  its  insults  ;  and  to  tell  us  the  differ¬ 
ence  between  a  gentleman  that  should  make  cheese¬ 
cakes  and  raise  a  paste,  and  a  lady  that  reads 
Locke,  and  understands  the  mathematics.  In 
which  you  will  extremely  oblige 

“  Your  hearty  friend  and  humble  Servant, 

T.  “  Abraham  Thrifty.” 


No.  243.]  SATURDAY,  DECEMBER  8,  1711. 

i’ormam  quidem  ipsarn,  Maree  fili,  ct  tanquam  faciem  bo- 
nesti  vides:  qute  -i  oculis  cemeretur,  mirabiies  amores  (_ut 
ait  Plato)  excitaret  sapienti.c. — Tux.  OQic. 

You  see,  my  son  Marcus,  virtue  as  if  it  were  embodied, 
which  if  it  could  be  made  the  object  of  sight,  would  (as  Plato 
says)  excite  in  us  a  wonderful  love  of  wisdom. 

I  do  not  remember  to  have  read  anv  discourse 
written  expressly  upon  the  beauty  ancL  loveliness 
of  virtue,  without  considering  it  as  a  duty,  and  as 
the  means  of  making  us  happy  both  now  and 
hereafter.  I  design  therefore  this  speculation  as 
an  essay  upon  that  subject,  in  which  I  shall  con¬ 
sider  virtue  no  further  than  as  it  is  in  itself  of  an 
amiable  nature,  after  I  have  premised,  that  I  un¬ 
derstand  by  the  word  virtue  such  a  general  notion 
as  is  affixed  to  it  by  the  writers  of  morality,  and 
which  by  devout  men  generally  goes  under  the 
name  of  religion,  and  by  men  of  the  world  under 
the  name  of  honor. 

Hypocrisy  itself  does  great  honor,  or  rather  jus¬ 
tice,  to  religion,  and  tacitly  acknowledges  it  to  be 
an  ornament  to  human  nature.  The  hypocrite 
would  not  be  at  so  much  pains  to  put  on  the  ap¬ 
pearance  of  virtue,  if  he  did  not  know  it  was  the 
most  proper  and  effectual  means  to  gain  the  love 
and  esteem  of  mankind. 

We  learn  from  Hierocles,  it  was  a  common  say¬ 
ing  among  the  heathens,  that  the  wise  man  hates 
nobody,  but  only  loves  the  virtuous. 

Tully  has  a  very  beautiful  gradation  of  thoughts 
to  show  how  amiable  virtue  is.  “We  love  a  vir¬ 
tuous  man,”  says  he,  “who  lives  in  the  remotest 
parts  of  the  earth,  though  we  are  altogether  out 
of  the  reach  of  his  virtue,  and  can  receive  from  it 
no  manner  of  benefit.”  Nay,  one  who  died  sev¬ 
eral  ages  ago,  raises  a  secret  fondness  and  benevo¬ 
lence  for  him  in  our  minds,  when  we  read  his 
story.  Nay,  what  is  still  more,  one  who  has 
been  the  enemy  of  our  country,  provided  his  wars 
were  regulated  by  justice  and  humanity,  as  in  the 
instance  of  Pyrrhus,  whom  Tully  mentions  on 
this  occasion  in  opposition  to  Hannibal.  Such  is 
the  natural  beauty  arrd  loveliness  of  virtue. 

Stoicism,  which  was  the  pedantry  of  virtue,  as¬ 
cribes  all  good  qualifications  of  what  kind  soever 
to  the  virtuous  man.  Accordingly,  Cato,  in  the 
character  Tully  has  left  of  him,  carried  matters  so 
far,  that  he  would  not  allow  any  one  but  a  virtuous 
man  to  be  handsome.  This  "indeed  looks  more 
like  a  philosophical  rant  than  the  real  opinion  of 
a  wise  man  ;  yet.  this  was  what  Cato  very  seriously 
maintained.  In  short,  the  stoics  thought  they 
could  not  sufficiently  represent  the  excellence  of 
virtue,  if  they  did  not  comprehend  in  the  notion 
of  it  all  possible  perfections  ;  and  therefore  did 
not  only  suppose,  tl*at  it  was  transcendently  beau¬ 
tiful  in  itself,  but  that  it  made  the  very  body 


amiable,  and  banished  every  kind  of  deformity 
from  the  person  in  whom  it  resided. 

It  is  a  common  observation,  that  the  most  aban¬ 
doned  to  all  sense  of  goodness,  are  apt  to  wish 
those  who  are  related  to  them  of  a  different  char¬ 
acter  ;  and  it  is  very  observable,  that  none  are 
more  struck  with  the  charms  of  virtue  in  the  fair 
sex,  than  those  who  by  their  very  admiration  of  it 
are  carried  to  a  desire  of  ruining  it. 

A  virtuous  mind  in  a  fair  body  is  indeed  a  fine 
picture  in  a  good  light,  and  therefore  it  is  no  won¬ 
der  that,  it  makes  the  beautiful  sex  all  over  charms. 

As  virtue  in  general  is  of  an  amiable  and  lovely 
nature,  there  are  some  particular  kinds  of  it  "which 
are  more  so  than  others,  and  these  are  such  as  dis¬ 
pose  us  to  do  good  to  mankind.  Temperance  and 
abstinence,  faith  and  devotion,  are  in  themselves 
perhaps  as  laudable  as  any  other  virtues  ;  but 
those  which  make  a  man  popular  and  beloved, 
are  justice,  charity,  munificence,  and,  in  short,  all 
the  good  qualities  which  render  us  beneficial  to 
each  other.  For  this  reason  even  an  extravagant 
man,  who  has  nothing  else  to  recommend  him 
but  a  false  generosity,  is  often  more  beloved  and 
esteemed  than  a  person  of  a  much  more  finished 
character,  who  is  defective  in  this  particular. 

The  two  great  ornaments  of  virtue,  which  show 
her  in  the  most  advantageous  views,  and  make 
her  altogether  lovely,  are  cheerfulness  and  good¬ 
nature.  These  generally  go  together,  as  a  man 
cannot  be  agreeable  to  others  who  is  not  easy 
within  himself.  They  are  both  very  requisite  in 
a  virtuous  mind,  to  keep  out  melancholy  from  the 
many  serious  thoughts  it  is  engaged  in,  and  to 
hinder  its  natural  hatred  of  vice  from  souring  into 
severity  and  censoriousness. 

If  virtue  is  of  this  amiable  nature,  what  can  we 
think  of  those  who  can  look  upon  it  with  an  eye 
of  hatred  and  ill-will,  or  can  suffer  their  aversion 
for  a  party  to  blot  out  all  the  merit  of  the  person 
who  is  engaged  in  it?  A  man  must  be  exces¬ 
sively  stupid,  as  well  as  uncharitable,  who  be¬ 
lieves  that  there  is  no  virtue  but  on  his  own  side, 
and  that  there  are  not  men  as  honest  as  himself 
who  may  differ  from  him  in  political  principles. 
Men  may  oppose  one  another  in  some  particulars, 
but  ought  not  to  carry  their  hatred  to  those  quali¬ 
ties  which  are  of  so  amiable  a  nature  in  them¬ 
selves,  and  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  points  in 
dispute.  Men  of  virtue,  though  of  different  in¬ 
terests  ought  to  consider  themselves  as  more  near¬ 
ly  united  with  one  another,  than  with  the  vicious 
part  of  mankind,  who  embark  with  them  in  the 
same  civil  concerns.  We  should  bear  the  same 
love  toward  a  man  of  honor  who  is  a  living  an¬ 
tagonist,  which  Tully  tells  us  in  the  fore-men¬ 
tioned  passage,  every  one  naturally  does  to  an 
enemy  that  is  dead.  In  short,  we  should  esteem 
virtue  though  in  a  foe,  and  abhor  vice  though  in  a 
friend. 

I  speak  this  with  an  eye  to  those  cruel  treat¬ 
ments  which  men  of  all  sides  are  apt  to  give  the 
characters  of  those  who  do  not  agree  with  them. 
How  many  persons  of  undoubted  probity  and  ex¬ 
emplary  virtue,  on  either  side,  are  blackened  and 
defamed  ?  How  many  men  of  honor  exposed  to 
public  obloquy  and  reproach?  Those  therefore 
who  are  either  the  instruments  or  abettors  in  such 
infernal  dealings,  ought  to  be  looked  upon  as 
persons  who  make  use  of  religion  to  promote  their 
cause,  not  of  their  cause  to  promote  religion. — C. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


No.  244.]  MONDAY,  DECEMBER  10,  1711. 

- Judex  et  callidus  audis, 

•lion.  2  Sat.  vii,  lul. 

A  judge  of  painting  you,  a  connoisseur. 

“  Covent  Garden,  Dec.  7. 

'*  Mu.  Spectator, 

“  I  cannot,  without  a  double  injustice,  forbear 
expressing  to  you  the  satisfaction  which  a  whole 
clan  of  virtuosos  have  received  from  those  hints 
which  you  have  lately  given  the  town  on  the  car¬ 
toons  of  the  inimitable  Raphael.  It  should,  me- 
thinks,  be  the  business  of  a  Spectator  to  improve 
the  pleasures  of  sight,  and  there  cannot  be  a  more 
immediate  way  to  it  thau  by  recommending  the 
study  and  observation  of  excellent  drawings  and 
pictures.  When  I  first  went  to  view  those  of  Ra¬ 
phael  which  you  have  celebrated,  I  must  confess  I 
was  but  barely  pleased;  the  next  time  I  liked 
them  better,  but  at  last,  as  I  grew  better  acquaint¬ 
ed  with  them,  I  fell  deeply  in  love  with  them; 
like  wise  speeches,  they  sunk  deep  into  my  heart; 
for  you  know,  Mr.  Spectator,  that  a  man  of  wit 
may  extremely  affect  one  for  the  present,  but  if  he 
has  not  discretion,  his  merit  soon  vanishes  away; 
while  a  wise  man  that  has  not  so  great  a  stock  of 
wit,  shall  nevertheless  give  you  a  far  greater  and 
more  lasting  satisfaction.  Just  so  it  is  in  a  pic¬ 
ture  that  is  smartly  touched,  but  not  well  studied; 
one  may  call  it  a  witty  picture,  though  the  painter 
in  the  meantime  be  in  danger  of  being  called  a 
fool.  On  the  other  hand,  a  picture  that  is  tho¬ 
roughly  understood  in  the  whole,  and  well  per¬ 
formed  in  the  particulars,  that  is  begun  on  the 
foundation  of  geometry,  carried  on  by  the  rules 
of  perspective,  architecture,  and  anatomy,  and 
perfected  by  a  good  harmony,  a  just  and  natural 
coloring,  and  such  passions  and  expressions  of 
the  mind  as  are  almost  peculiar  to  Raphael;  this 
is  Avhat  you  may  justly  style  a  wise  picture,  and 
which  seldom  fails  to  strike  us  dumb,  until  we 
ca/i  assemble  all  our  faculties  to  make  but  a  toler¬ 
able  judgment  upon  it.  Other  pictures  are  made 
for  the  eyas  only,  as  rattles  are  made  for  children’s 
ears;  and  certainly  that  picture  that  only  pleases 
the  eye,  without  representing  some  well-chosen 
part  of  nature  or  other,  does  but  show  what  fine 
colors  are  to  be  sold  at  the  color-shop,  and  mocks 
the  works  of  the  Creator.  If  the  best  imitator  of 
nature  is  not  to  be  esteemed  the  best  painter,  but 
he  that  makes  the  greatest  show  and  glare  of  co¬ 
lors;  it  will  necessarily  follow,  that  he  who  can 
array  himself  in  the  most  gaudy  draperies  is  best 
drest,  and  he  that  can  speak  loudest  the  best  ora¬ 
tor.  Every  man  when  he  looks  on  a  picture 
should  examine  it  according  to  that  share  of  rea¬ 
son  he  is  master  of,  or  he  will  be  in  danger  of 
making  a  wrong  judgment.  If  men  as  they  walk 
abroad  would  make  more  frequent  observations  on 
those  beauties  of  Nature  which  every  moment 
resent  themselves  to  their  view,  they  would  be 
etter  judges  when  they  saw  her  well  imitated  at 
home.  This  would  help  to  correct  those  errors 
which  most  pretenders  fall  into,  who  are  over- 
hasty  in  their  judgments,  and  will  not  stay  to  let 
reason  come  in  for  a  share  in  the  decision.  It  is 
for  want  of  this  that  men  mistake  in  this  case, 
and  in  common  life,  a  wild  extravagant  pencil  for 
one  that  is  truly  bold  and  great,  an  impudent  fel¬ 
low  for  a  man  of  true  courage  and  bravery,  hasty 
and  unreasonable  actions  for  enterprises  of  spirit 
and  resolution,  gaudy  coloring  for  that  which  is 
truly  beautiful,  a  false  and  insinuating  discourse 
for  simple  truth  elegantly  recommended.  The 
parallel  will  hold  through  all  the  parts  of  life  and 
painting  too;  and  the  virtuosos  above-mentioned 
will  be  glad  to  see  you  draw  it  with  your  terms  of 
20 


305 

art.  As  tfie  shadows  in  a  picture  represent  the 
serious  or  melancholy,  so  the  lights  do  the  bright 
and  lively  thoughts.  As  there  should  be  but  one 
forcible  light  in  a  picture  which  should  catcli  the 
eye  and  fall  on  the  hero,  so  there  should  be  but 
one  object  of  our  love,  even  the  Author  of  nature. 
These  and  the  like  reflections,  well  improved, 
might  very  much  contribute  to  open  the  beauty  of 
that  art,  and  prevent  young  people  from  being 
poisoned  by  the  ill  gusto  of  an  extravagant  work¬ 
man  that  should  be  imposed  upon  us. 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant.” 

“Mu.  Spectator, 

“  Though  I  am  a  woman,  yet  I  am  one  of  those 
who  confess  themselves  highly  pleased  with  a 
speculation  you  obliged  the  world  with  some  time 
ago,  from  an  old  Greek  poet  you  call  Simonides, 
in  relation  to  the  several  natures  and  distinctions 
of  our  own  sex.  I  could  not  but  admire  how 
justly  the  characters  of  the  women  in  this  age 
fall  in  with  the  times  of  Simonides,  there  being 
no  one  of  those  sorts  I  have  not  some  time  or 
other  of  my  life  met  with  a  sample  of.  But,  Sir, 
the  subjects  of  this  present  address  are  a  set  of 
women,  comprehended,  I  think,  in  the  ninth  spe¬ 
cies  of  that  speculation,  called  the  Apes  :  the  de¬ 
scription  of  whom  I  find  to  be,  ‘  That  they  are 
such  as  are  both  ugly  and  ill-natured,  who  have 
nothing  beautiful  themselves,  and  endeavor  to  de¬ 
tract  from,  or  ridicule,  everything  that  appears  so 
in  others.’  Now,  Sir,  this  sect,  as  I  have  been 
told,  is  very  frequent  in  the  great  town  where  you 
live;  but  as  my  circumstance  in  life  obliges  me 
to  reside  altogether  in  the  country,  though  not 
many  miles  from  London,  1  cannot  have  met  with 
a  great  number  of  them,  nor  indeed  is  it  a  desira¬ 
ble  acquaintance,  as  I  have  lately  found  by  expe¬ 
rience.  You  must  know,  Sir,  that  at  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  this  summer  a  family  of  these  apes  came 
and  settled  for  the  season  not  far  from  the  place 
where  I  live.  As  they  were  strangers  in  the  coun¬ 
try,  they  were  visited  by  the  ladies  about  them, 
of  whom  I  was  one,  with  a  humanity  usual  in 
those  who  pass  most  of  their  time  in  solitude. 
The  apes  lived  with  us  very  agreeably  our  own 
way  until  toward  the  end  of  the  summer,  when 
they  began  to  bethink  themselves  of  returning  to 
town;  then  it  was,  Mr.  Spectator,  that  they  began 
to  set  themselves  about  the  proper  and  distin¬ 
guishing  business  of  their  character;  and  as  it  is 
said  of  evil  spirits,  that  they  are  apt  to  carry 
away  a  piece  of  the  house  they  are  about  to  leave, 
the  apes,  without  regard  to  common  mercy,  civili¬ 
ty,  or  gratitude,  thought  fit  to  mimic  and  fall  foul 
on  the  faces,  dress,  and  behavior  of  their  innocent 
neighbors,  bestowing  abominable  censures  and 
disgraceful  appellations,  commonly  called  nick¬ 
names,  on  all  of  them;  and,  in  short,  like  true  fine 
ladies,  made  their  honest  plainness  and  sincerity 
matter  of  ridicule.  I  could  not  but  acquaint  you 
with  these  grievances,  as  well  as  at  the  desire  of 
all  the  parties  injured,  as  from  my  own  inclina¬ 
tion.  I  hope.  Sir,  if  you  cannot  propose  entirely 
to  reform  this  evil,  you  will  take  such  notice  of  it  in 
some  of  your  future  speculations,  as  may  put  the 
deserving  part  of  our  sex  on  their  guard  against 
these  creatures;  and  at  the  same  time  the  apes 
may  be  sensible,  that  this  sort  of  mirth  is  so  far 
from  an  innocent  diversion,  that  it  is  in  the  high¬ 
est  degree  that  vice  which  is  said  to  comprehend 
all  others. 

“  I  am.  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

T.  “  CONSTANTIA  FlELD.” 


306  THE  SPE 

No.  245. J  TUESDAY,  DECEMBER  11, 1711. 

Ficta  voluptatis  causa  sint  proxima  veris. 

Hoa.,  Ars.  Poet.,  v,  338. 

Fictions,  to  please,  should  wear  the  face  of  truth. 

There  is  nothing  which  one  regards  so  much 
with  an  eye  of  mirth  and  pity  as  innocence,  when 
it  has  in  it  a  dash  of  folly.  At  the  same  time 
that  one  esteems  the  virtue,  one  is  tempted  to 
laugh  at  the  simplicity  which  accompanies  it. 
When  a  man  is  made  up  wholly  of  the  dove, 
without  the  least  grain  of  the  serpent  in  his  com¬ 
position,  he  becomes  ridiculous  in  many  circum¬ 
stances  of  life,  and  very  often  discredits  his  best 
actions.  The  Cordeliers  tell  a  story  of  their  foun¬ 
der  St.  Francis,  that  as  he  passed  the  streets  in 
the  dusk  of  the  evening,  he  discovered  a  young 
fellow  with  a  maid  in  a  corner;  upon  which  the 
good  man,  say  they,  lifted  up  his  hands  to  heaven 
with  secret  thanksgiving,  that  there  was  still  so 
much  Christian  charity  in  the  world.  The  inno¬ 
cence  of  the  saint  made  him  mistake  the  kiss  of 
the  lover  for  a  salute  of  charity.  I  am  heartily 
concerned  when  1  see  a  virtuous  man  without  a 
competent  knowledge  of  the  world;  and  if  there 
be  any  use  in  these  my  papers,  it  is  this,  that 
without  representing  vice  under  any  false  allur¬ 
ing  notions,  they  give  my  reader  an  insight  into 
the  ways  of  men,  and  represent  human  nature  in 
all  its  changeable  colors.  The  man  who  has  not 
been  engaged  in  any  of  the  follies  of  the  world, 
or,  as  Shakspeare  expresses  it,  “hackney’d  in  the 
ways  of  men,”  may  here  find  a  picture  of  its  fol¬ 
lies  and  extravagances.  The  virtuous  and  the  in¬ 
nocent  may  know  in  speculation  what  they  could 
never  arrive  at  by  practice,  and  by  this  means 
avoid  the  snares  of  the  crafty,  the  corruptions  of 
the  vicious,  and  the  reasonings  of  the  prejudiced. 
Their  minds  may  be  opened  without  being  vitia¬ 
ted. 

it  is  with  an  eye  to  my  following  correspond¬ 
ent,  Mr.  Timothy  Doodle,  who  seems  a  very  well- 
meaning  man,  that  I  have  written  this  short  pre¬ 
face,  to  which  I  shall  subjoin  a  letter  from  the  said 
Mr.  Doodle. 

“  Sir, 

I  could  heartily  wish  that  you  would  let  us 
know  your  opinion  upon  several  innocent  diver¬ 
sions  which  are  in  use  among  us,  and  which  are 
very  proper  to  pass  away  a  winter  night  for  those 
who  do  not  care  to  throw  away  their  time  at  an 
opera,  or  at  the  play-house.  I  would  gladly 
know,  in  particular,  what  notion  you  have  of  hot- 
cockles;  as  also,  whether  you  think  that  questions 
and  commands,  mottos,  similes,  and  cross-purpo¬ 
ses,  have  not  more  mirth  and  wit  in  them  than 
those  public  diversions  which  are  grown  so  very 
fashionable  among  us.  If  you  would  recommend 
to  our  wives  and  daughters,  who  read  your  papers 
with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  some  of  those 
sports  and  pastimes  that  may  be  practiced  within 
doors,  and  by  the  fire-side,  we,  who  are  masters 
of  families,  should  be  hugely  obliged  to  you.  I 
need  not  tell  you  that  I  would  have  these  sports 
and  pastimes  not  only  merry  but  innocent;  for 
which  reason  I  have  not  mentioned  either  whisk 
or  lanterloo,  nor  indeed  so  much  as  one-and- 
thirty.  After  having  communicated  to  you  my 
request  upon  this  subject,  I  will  be  so  free  as  to 
tell  you  how  my  wife  and  I  pass  away  these  tedi¬ 
ous  winter  evenings  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure. 
Though  she  be  young  and  handsome,  and  good- 
humored  to  a  miracle,  she  does  not  care  for  gad¬ 
ding  abroad  like  others  of  her  sex.  There  is  a 
very  friendly  man,  a  colonel  in  the  army,  whom  I 
am  mightily  obliged  to  for  his  civilities,  that  comes 


1TATOR. 

to  see  me  almost  every  night;  for  he  is  not  one  of 
those  giddy  young  fellows  that  cannot  live  out  of  a 
playhouse.  When  we  are  together,  we  very  often 
make  a  party  at  Blind-man’s-Buff,  which  is  a  sport 
that  I  like  the  better,  because  there  is  a  good  deal 
of  exercise  in  it.  The  colonel  and  I  are  blinded 
by  turns,  and  you  would  laugh  your  heart  out  to 
see  what  pains*  my  dear  takes  to  hoodwink  us,  so 
that  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  see  the  least  glimpse 
of  light.  The  poor  colonel  sometimes  hits  his 
nose  against  a  post,  and  makes  us  die  with  laugh¬ 
ing.  I  have  generally  had  the  good  luck  not  to 
hurt  myself,  but  I  am  veij  often  above  half  an 
hour  before  I  can  catch  either  of  them;  for  you 
must  know  we  hide  ourselves  up  and  down  in  cor¬ 
ners,  that  we  may  have  the  more  sport.  I  only 
give  you  this  hint  as  a  sample  of  such  innocent 
diversions  as  I  would  have  you  recommend;  and 
am  most  esteemed  Sir, 

“  Your  ever  loving  Friend, 

“  Timothy  Doodle.” 

The  following  letter  was  occasioned  by  my  last 
Thursday’s  paper  upon  the  absence  of  lovers,  and 
the  methods  therein  mentioned  of  making  such 
absence  supportable : 

“Sir, 

“  Among  the  several  ways  of  consolation  which 
absent  lovers  make  use  of  while  their  souls  are  in 
that  state  of  departure,  which  you  say  is  death  in 
love,  there  are  some  very  material  ones  that  have 
escaped  your  notice.  Among  these,  the  first  and 
most  received  is  a  crooked  shilling,  which  has  ad¬ 
ministered  great  comfort  to  our  forefathers,  and  is 
still  made  use  of  on  this  occasion  with  very  good 
effect  in  most  part  of  her  majesty’s  dominions. 
There  are  some,  I  know,  who  think  a  crown  piece 
cut  into  two  equal  parts,  and  preserved  by  the  dis¬ 
tant  lovers,  is  of  more  sovereign  virtue  than  the 
former.  But  since  opinions  are  divided  in  this 
particular,  why  may  not  the  same  persons  make 
use  of  both  ?  The  figure  of  a  heart,  whether  cut 
in  stone  or  cast  in  metal,  whether  bleeding  upon 
an  altar,  stuck  with  darts,  or  held  in  the  hand  of 
a  Cupid,  has  always  been  looked  upon  as  talisma- 
nic  in  distresses  of  this  nature.  I  am  acquainted 
with  many  a  brave  fellow,  who  carries  his  mis¬ 
tress  in  the  lid  of  his  snuff  box,  and  by  that  expe¬ 
dient  has  supported  himself  under  the  absence  of 
a  whole  campaign.  For  my  own  part  I  have  tried 
all  these  remedies,  but  never  found  so  much  bene¬ 
fit  from  any  as  from  a  ring,  in  which  my  mis¬ 
tress’s  hair  is  plaited  together  very  artistically  in 
a  kind  of  true-lover’s  knot.  As  1  have  received 
great  benefit  from  this  secret,  I  think  myself 
obliged  to  communicate  it  to  the  public  for  the 
good  of  my  fellow-subjects.  I  desire  you  will  add 
this  letter  as  an  appendix  to  your  consolations 
upon  absence,  and  am 

“  Y our  very  humble  Servant, 

“  T.  B.” 

I  shall  conclude  this  paper  with  a  letter  from  a 
university  gentleman,  occasioned  by  my  last 
Tuesday’s  paper,  wherein  I  gave  some  account  of 
the  great  feuds  which  happened  formerly  in  those 
learned  bodies,  between  the  modern  Greeks  and 
Trojans.  ^ 

“  Sir, 

“  This  will  give  you  to  understand,  that  there 
is  at  present,  in  the  society  whereof  I  am  a  mem¬ 
ber,  a  very  considerable  Dody  of  Trojans,  who, 
upon  a  proper  occasion,  would  not  fail  to  declare 
ourselves.  In  the  meanwhile  we  do  all  we  can  to 
annoy  our  enemies  by  stratagem,  and  are  resolved 


THE  SPE 

by  the  first  opportunity  to  attack  Mr.  Joshua 
Barnes,*  whom  we  look  upon  as  the  Achilles  of 
the  opposite  party.  As  for  myself,  I  have  had  the 
reputation  ever  since  I  came  from  school  of  being 
a  trusty  Trojan,  and  am  resolved  never  to  give 
uarter  to  the  smallest  particle  of  Greek,  wherever 
chance  to  meet  it.  It  is  for  this  reason  I  take  it 
very  ill  of  you,  that  you  sometimes  hang  out 
Greek  colors  at  the  head  of  your  paper,  and  some¬ 
times  give  a  word  of  the  enemy  even  in  the  body 
of  it.  When  I  meet  with  anything  of  this  nature, 
I  throw  down  your  speculations  upon  the  table, 
with  that  form  of  words  which  we  make  use  of 
when  we  declare  war  upon  2,11  author, 

Graecum  est,  non  potest  legi. 

I  give  you  this  hint,  that  you  may  for  the  future 
abstain  from  any  such  hostilities  at  your  peril. 

C.  “  Troilus.” 


No.  246.]  WEDNESDAY,  DECEMBER  12, 1711. 

No  amorous  hero  ever  gave  thee  birth, 

Nor  ever  tender  goddess  brought  thee  forth : 

Some  rugged  rock’s  hard  entrails  gave  thee  form, 

And  raging  seas  produced  thee  in  a  storm : 

A  soul  well  suiting  thy  tempestuous  kind, 

So  rough  thy  manners,  so  untam’d  thy  mind. — Pope. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  As  your  paper  is  part  of  the  equipage  of  the 
tea-table,  I  conjure  you  to  print  what  I  now  write 
to  you;  fori  have  no  other  way  to  communicate 
what  I  have  to  say  to  the  fair  sex  on  the  most  im¬ 
portant  circumstances  of  life,  even ‘the  care  of 
children.’  I  do  not  understand  that  you  profess 
your  paper  is  always  to  consist  of  matters  which 
are  only  to  entertain  the  learned  and  polite,  but 
that  it  may  agree  with  your  design  to  publish 
some  which  may  tend  to  the  information  of  man¬ 
kind  in  general :  and  when  it  does  so,  you  do  more 
than  writing  wit  and  humor.  Give  me  leave  then 
to  tell  you,  that  of  all  the  abuses  that  ever  you 
have  as  yet  endeavored  to  reform,  certainly  not 
one  wanted  so  much  your  assistance  as  the  abuse 
in  the  nursing  of  children.  It  is  unmerciful  to 
see,  that  a  woman  endowed  with  all  the  perfec¬ 
tions  and  blessings  of  nature  can,  as  soon  as  she 
is  delivered,  turn  off  her  innocent,  tender,  and 
helpless  infant,  and  give  it  up  to  a  woman  that  is 
(ten  thousand  to  one)  neither  in  health  nor  good 
condition,  neither  sound  in  mind  nor  body,  that 
has  neither  honor  nor  reputation,  neither  love  nor 
pity  for  the  poor  babe,  but  more  regard  for  the 
money  than  for  the  whole  child,  and  never  will 
take  further  care  of  it  than  what  by  all  the  encou¬ 
ragement  of  money  and  presents  she  is  forced  to; 
like  ^Esop’s  earth,  which  would  not  nurse  the  plant 
of  another  ground,  although  never  so  much  im¬ 
proved,  by  reason  that  plant  was  not  of  its  own 
production.  And  since  another’s  child  is  no  more 
natural  to  a  nurse,  than  a  plant  to  a  strange  and 
different  ground,  how  can  it  be  supposed  that  the 
child  should  thrive  :  and  if  it  thrives,  must  it  not 
imbibe  the  gross  humors  and  qualities  of  the 
nurse,  like  a  plant  in  a  different  ground,  or  like  a 
graft  upon  a  different  stock  ?  Do  we  not  observe, 
that  a  lamb  sucking  a  goat  changes  very  much  its 
nature,  nay  even  its  skin  and  wool  into  the  goat 
kind  ?  The  power  of  a  nurse  over  a  child,  by  in¬ 
fusing  into  it  with  her  milk  her  qualities  and  dis¬ 
position,  is  sufficiently  and  daily  observed.  Hence 
came  that  old  saying  concerning  an  ill-natured 
and  malicious  fellow,  that ‘he  had  imbibed  his 
malice  with  his  nurse’s  milk,  or  that  some  brute 


CTATOR.  307 

or  other  had  been  his  nurse.’  Hence  Romulus  and 
Remus  were  said  to  have  been  nursed  by  a  wolf: 
Telephus  the  son  of  Hercules  by  a  hind;  Delias 
the  son  of  Neptune  by  a  mare;  and  ^Egisthus  by  a 
goat;  not  that  they  had  actually  sucked  such  crea¬ 
tures,  as  some  simpletons  have  imagined,  but  that 
their  nurses  had  been  of  such  a  nature  and  temper, 
and  infused  such  into  them. 

“Many  instances  maybe  produced  from  good 
authorities  and  daily  experience,  that  children  ac¬ 
tually  suck  in  the  several  passions  and  depraved 
inclinations  of  their  nurses,  as  anger,  malice,  fear, 
melancholy,  sadness,  desire,  and  aversion.  This 
Diodorus,  lib.  2,  witnesses,  when  he  speaks,  say¬ 
ing,  that  Nero,  the  emperor’s  nurse  had  been  very 
much  addicted  to  drinking;  which  habit  Nero  re¬ 
ceived  from  his  nurse,  and  was  so  very  particular 
in  this,  that  the  people  took  so  much  notice  of  it, 
as  instead  of  Tiberius  Nero,  they  called  him  Bi- 
berius  Mero.  The  same  Diodorus  also  relates  of 
Caligula,  predecessor  to  Nero,  that  his  nurse 
used  to  moisten  the  nipples  of  her  breast  frequent¬ 
ly  with  blood,  to  make  Caligula  take  the  better 
hold  of  them:  which,  says  Diodorus,  was  the 
cause  that  made  him  so  blood-thirsty  and  cruel  all 
his  lifetime  after,  that  he  not  only  committed  fre¬ 
quent  murder  by  his  own  hand,  but  likewise 
wished  that  all  human  kind  wore  but  one  neck, 
that  he  might  have  the  pleasure  to  cut  it  off.  Such¬ 
like  degeneracies  astonish  the  parents,  who  not 
knowing  after  whom  the  qhild  can  take,  see  one 
incline  to  stealing,  another  to  drinking,  cruelty, 
stupidity;  yet  all  these  are  not  minded.  Nay,  it 
is  easy  to  demonstrate,  that  a  child,  although  it 
be  born  from  the  best  of  parents,  may  be  corrupt¬ 
ed  by  an  ill-tempered  nurse.  How  many  children 
do  we  see  daily  brought  into  fits,  consumptions, 
rickets,  &c.,  merely  by  sucking  their  nurses  when 
in  a  passion  or  fury?  but  indeed  almost  any  disor¬ 
der  of  the  nurse  is  a  disorder  to  the  child,  and 
few  nurses  can  be  found  in  this  town  but  what  la¬ 
bor  under  some  distemper  or  other.  The  first 
question  that  is  generally  asked  a  young  woman 
that  wants'  to  be  a  nurse,  why  she  should  be  a 
nurse  to  other  people’s  children,  is  answered,  by 
her  having  an  ill  husband,  and  that  she  must 
make  shift  to  live.  I  think  now  this  very  answer 
is  enough  to  give  anybody  a  shock,  if  duly  consi¬ 
dered;  for  an  ill  husband  may,  or  ten  to  one  if  he 
does  not,  bring  home  to  his  wife  an  ill  distemper, 
or  at  least  vexation  and  disturbance.  Beside,  as 
she  takes  the  child  out  of  mere  necessity,  her  food 
will  be  accordingly,  or  else  very  coarse  at  best; 
whence  proceeds  an  ill-concocted  and  coarse  food 
for  the  child;  for  as  the  blood,  so  is  the  milk:  and 
hence  I  am  very  well  assured  proceeds  the  scur¬ 
vy,  the  evil,  and  many  other  distempers.  I  beg 
of  you,  for  the  sake  of  the  many  poor  infants  that 
may  and  will  be  saved  by  weighing  this  case  seri¬ 
ously,  to  exhort  the  people  with  the  utmost  vehe¬ 
mence,  to  let  the  children  suck  their  own  mothers,, 
both  for  the  benefit  of  mother  and  child.  For  the 
general  argument,  that  a  mother  is  weakened  by- 
giving  suck  to  her  children,  is  vain  and  simple.  I 
will  maintain  that  the  mother  grows  stronger  by 
it,  and  will  have  her  health  better  than  she  would 
have  otherwise.  She  will  find  it  the  greatest  cure 
and  preservative  for  the  vapors  and  future  miscar¬ 
riages,  much  beyond  any  other  remedy  whatsoev¬ 
er.  Her  children  will  be  like  giants,  whereas  oth¬ 
erwise  they  are  but  living  shadows,  and  like 
unripe  fruit;  and  certainly  if  a  woman  is  strong 
enough  to  bring  forth  a  child,  she  is  beyond  all. 
doubt  strong  enough  to  nurse  it  afterward.  It 
grieves  me  to  observe  and  consider  how  many 
poor  children  are  daily  ruined  by  careless  nurses; 
and  yet  how  tender  ought  they  to  be  to  a  poor  in- 


*  The  noted  Greek  professor  of  the  university  of  Cambridge. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


308 

fant,  since  the  least  hurt  or  blow,  especially  upon 
tlie  head,  may  make  it  senseless,  stupid,  or  other¬ 
wise  miserable  forever ! 

“  But  I  cannot  well  leave  this  subject  as  yet;  for 
it  seems  to  me  very  unnatural,  that  a  woman  that 
has  fed  a  child  as  part  of  herself  for  nine  months, 
should  have  no  desire  to  nurse  it  further,  when 
brought  to  light  and  before  her  eyes,  and  when  by 
its  cry  it  implores  her  assistance  and  the  office  ol 
a  mother.  Do  not  the  very  crudest  of  brutes 
tend  their  young  ones  with  all  the  care  and  delight 
imaginable!  How  can  she  be  called  a  mother  that 
will°  not  nurse  her  young  ones  ?  The  earth  is 
called  the  mother  of  all  things,  not  because  she 
produces,  but  because  she  maintains  and  nurses 
what  she  produces.  The  generation  of  the  infant 
is  the  effect  of  desire,  but  the  care  of  it  argues 
virtue  and  choice.  I  am  not  ignorant  but  that 
there  are  some  cases  of  necessity,  where  a  mother 
cannot  give  suck,  and  then  out  of  two  evils  the 
least  must  be  chosen;  but  there  are  so  very  few, 
that  I  am  sure  in  a  thousand  there  is  hardly  one 
real  instance;  for  if  a  woman  does  but  know  that 
her  husband  can  spare  about  three  or  six  shillings 
a  week  extraordinary  (although  this  is  but  seldom 
considered),  she  certainly,  with  the  assistance  of 
her  gossips,  will  soon  persuade  the  good  man  to 
send  the  child  to  nurse,  and  easily  impose  upon 
him  by  pretending  indisposition.  This  cruelty  is 
supported  by  fashion,  and  nature  gives  place  to 

custom.  . ,  _  ,  „ 

q<  “  Sir,  your  humble  Servant. 


Ho.  247.]  THURSDAY,  DECEMBER  13,  1711. 

Their  untir’d  lips  a  wordy  torrent  pour. — Hcsiod. 

We  are  told  by  some  ancient  authors,  that  So¬ 
crates  was  instructed  in  eloquence  by  a  woman, 
whose  name,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  was  Aspasia. 

I  have  indeed  very  often  looked  upon  that  ait.  as 
the  most  proper  for  the  female  sex,  and  I  think 
the  universities  would  do  well  to  consider  whether 
they  should  not  fill  the  rhetoric  chairs  with  she- 
professors. 

It  has  been  said  in  the  praise  of  some  men,  that 
they  could  talk  whole  hours  together  upon  any¬ 
thing;  but  it  must  be  owned  to  the  honor  of  the 
other  sex,  that  there  are  many  among  them  who 
can  talk  whole  hours  together  upon  nothing.  I 
have  known  a  woman  branch  out  into  a  long  ex¬ 
tempore  dissertation  upon  the  edging  of  a  petti¬ 
coat,  and  chide  her  servant  for  breaking  a  china 
cup,  in  all  the  figures  of  rhetoric. 

Were  women  permitted  to  plead  in  courts  ol  ju¬ 
dicature,  I  am  persuaded  they  would  carry  the  elo¬ 
quence  of  the  bar  to  greater  heights  than  it  has 
et  arrived  at.  If  any  one  doubt  this,  let  him  but 
e  present  at  those  debates  which  frequently  arise 
among  the  ladies  of  the  British  fishery. 

The  first  kind,  therefore,  of  female  orators  which 
I  shall  take  notice  of,  are  those  who  are  employed 
in  stirring  up  the  passions;  a  part  of  rhetoric  in 
which  Socrates'  wife  had  perhaps  made  a  greater 
proficiency  than  his  above-mentioned  teacher. 

The  second  kind  of  female  orators  are  those  who 
deal  in  invectives,  and  who  are  commonly  known 
by  the  name  of  the  censorious.  The  imagination 
and  elocution  of  this  sort  of  rhetoricians  is  won¬ 
derful.  With  what  a  fluency  of  invention,  anc 
copiousness  of  expression,  will  they  enlarge  upon 
every  little  slip  in  the  behavior  of  another !  With 
how  many  different  circumstances,  and  with  what 
variety  of  phrases,  will  they  tell  over  the  same 
story !  I  have  known  an  old  lady  make  an  un¬ 
happy  marriage  the  subject  of  a  month’s  conver¬ 


sation.  She  blamed  the  bride  in  one  place;  pitied 
her  in  another;  laughed  at  her  in  a  third;  won¬ 
dered  at  her  in  a  fourth;  was  angry  with  her  in  a 
fifth;  and,  in  short,  wore  out  a  pair  of  coach-horses 
in  expressing  her  concern  for  her.  At  length, 
after  having  "quite  exhausted  the  subject  on  this 
side,  she  made  a  visit  to  the  new-married  pair, 
praised  the  wife  for  the  prudent  choice  she  had 
made,  told  her  the  unreasonable  reflections  which 
some  malicious  people  had  cast  upon  her,  and  de¬ 
sired  that  they  might  be  better  acquainted.  The 
censure  and  approbation  of  this  kind  of  women 
are  therefore  only  to  be  considered  as  helps  to  dis¬ 
course.  * 

A  third  kind  of  female  orators  may  be  compre¬ 
hended  under  the  word  gossips.  Mrs.  Fiddle-Fad¬ 
dle  is  perfectly  accomplished  in  this  sort  of  elo¬ 
quence  ;  she  launches  out  into  descriptions  of 
christenings,  runs  divisions  upon  a  .head-diess, 
knows  every  dish  of  meat  that  is  served  up  in  our 
neighborhood,  and  entertains  her  company  a  whole 
afternoon  together  with  the  wit  of  her  little  boy, 
before  he  is  able  to  speak. 

The  coquette  may  be  looked  upon  as  a  fourth 
kind  of  female  orator.  To  give  herself  the  larger 
field  for  discourse,  she  hates  and  loves  in  the  same 
breath,  talks  to  her  lap-dog  or  parrot,  is  uneasy  in 
all  kinds  of  weather,  and  in  every;  part  of  the 
room.  She  has  false  quarrels  and  feigned  obliga¬ 
tions  to  all  the  men  of  her  acquaintance;  sighs 
when  she  is  not  sad,  and  laughs  when  she  is  not 
merry.  The  coquette  is  in  particular  a  great  mis¬ 
tress  of  that  part  of  oratory  whicli  is  called  ac¬ 
tion,  and  indeed  seems  to  speak  for  no  other  pur¬ 
pose,  but  as  it  gives  her  an  opportunity  of  stirring 
a  limb,  or  varying  a  feature,  of  glancing  her  eyes, 
or  playing  with  her  fan. 

As  for  newsmongers,  politicians,  mimics,  story¬ 
tellers,  with  other  characters  of  that  nature  which 
give  birth  to  loquacity,  they  are  as  commonly 
found  among  the  men  as  the  women  :  for  which 
reason  I  shall  pass  them  over  in  silence. 

I  have  often  been  puzzled  to  assign  a  cause  why 
women  should  have  this  talent  of  a  ready  utter¬ 
ance  in  so  much  greater  perfection  than  men.  I 
have  sometimes  fancied  that  they  have  not  a  re¬ 
tentive  power,  or  the  faculty  of  suppressing  their 
thoughts,  as  men  have,  but  that  they  are  necessi¬ 
tated  to  speak  everything  they  think;  and  if  so, 
it  would  perhaps  furnish  a  very  strong  argument 
to  the  Cartesians  for  the  supporting  of  their  doc¬ 
trine  that  the  soul  always  thinks.  But  as  several 
are  of  opinion  that  the  fair  sex  are  not  altogether 
strangers  to  the  art  of  dissembling  and  concealing 
their  thoughts,  I  have  been  forced  to  relinquish 
that  opinion,  and  have  therefore  endeavored  to 
seek  after  some  better  reason.  In  order  to  it,  a 
friend  of  mine,  who  is  an  excellent  anatomist,  has 
promised  me  by  the  first  opportunity  to  dissect  a 
woman’s  tongue,  and  to  examine  whether  there 
may  not  be  in  it  certain  juices  which  render  it  so 
wonderfully  voluble  or  flippant,  or  whether  the 
fibers  of  it  may  not  be  made  up  of  a  finer  or  more 
pliant  thread;  or  whether  there  are  not  in  it  some 
particular  muscles  which  dart  it  up  and  down  by 
such  sudden  glances  and  vibrations;  or  vffiether, 
in  the  last  place,  there,  may  not  be  certain  Undis¬ 
covered  channels  running  from  the  head  and  the 
heart  to  this  little  instrument  of  loquacity,. and 
conveying  into  it  a  perpetual  affluency  of  animal 
spirits.  Nor  must  I  omit  the  reason  wdiich  Hudi- 
bras  has  given,  why  those  who  can  talk  on  trifles 
speak  with  the  greatest  fluency.;  namely,  that  the 
tongue  is  like  a  race-horse,  which  runs  the  faster 
the  lesser  weight  it  carries. 

Which  of  these  reasons  soever  may  be  looked 
upon  as  the  most  probable,  I  think  the  Irishman’s 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


thought  was  very  natural,  who  after  some  hours’ 
conversation  with  a  female  orator,  told  her,  that 
he  believed  her  tongue  was  very  glad  when  she 
was  asleep,  for  that  it  had  not  a  moment’s  rest  all 
the  while  she  was  awake. 

That  excellent  old  ballad  of  The  Wanton  Wife 
of  Bath  has  the  following  remarkable  lines  : 

I  think,  quoth  Thomas,  women’s  tongues 
Of  aspen  leaves  are  made. 

And  Ovid,  though  in  the  description  of  a  very 
barbarous  circumstance,  tells  us,  that  when  the 
tongue  of  a  beautiful  female  was  cut  out,  and 
thrown  upon  the  ground,  it  could  not  forbear  mut¬ 
tering  even  in  that  posture : 

- - Comprensam  forcipe  linguam 

Abstulit  ense  fero,  radix  micat  ultima  linguae. 

Ipsa  jacet,  terraquae  tremens  immurmurat  atrae ; 
Utque  salire  solet  mutilatm, cauda  colubrae 
Palpitat - Met.  vi,  556. 

- The  blade  had  cut 

Her  tongue  sheer  off,  close  to  the  trembling  root, 

The  mangled  part  still  quiver’d  on  the  ground, 
Murmuring  with  a  faint  imperfect  sound; 

And  as  a  serpent  writhes  his  wounded  train, 

Uneasy,  panting,  and  possessed  with  pain. — Croxall. 

If  a  tongue  would  be  talking  without  a  mouth, 
what  could  it  have  done  when  it  had  all  its  or¬ 
gans  of  speech,  and  accomplices  of  sound  about 
it?  I  might  here  mention  the  story  of  the  Pippin 
Woman,  had  I  not  some  reason  to  look  upon  it  as 
fabulous.* 

I  must  confess  I  am  so  wonderfully  charmed 
with  the  music  of  this  little  instrument,  that  I 
would  by  no  means  discourage  it.  All  that  I  aim 
at  by  this  dissertation  is,  to  cure  it  of  several  dis¬ 
agreeable  notes,  and  in  particular  of  those  little 
jarrings  and  dissonances  which  arise  from  anger, 
censoriousness,  gossipping  and  coquetry.  In 
short,  I  would  always  have  it  tuned  by  good¬ 
nature,  truth,  discretion,  and  sincerity. — U. 


No.  248.]  FRIDAY,  DECEMBER  14,  1711. 

Hoc  maxime  officii  est,  ut  quisque  maxime  opis  indigeat,  ita 
ei  potissimum  opitulari. — Tull.,  Off.  i,  16. 

It  is  a  principal  point  of  duty,  to  assist  another  most  when 
he  stands  most  in  need  of  assistance. 

There  are  none  who  deserve  superiority  over 
others  in  the  esteem  of  mankind,  who  do  not 
make  it  their  endeavor  to  be  beneficial  to  society; 
and  who  upon  all  occasions  which  their  circum¬ 
stances  of  life  can  administer,  do  not  take  a  cer¬ 
tain  unfeigned  pleasure  in  conferring  benefits  of 
one  kind  or  other.  Those  whose  great  talents  and 
high  birth  have  placed  them  in  conspicuous  sta¬ 
tions  of  life  are  indispensably  obliged  to  exert 
some  noble  inclinations  for  the  service  of  the 
world,  or  else  such  advantages  become  misfor¬ 
tunes,  and  shade  and  privacy  are  a  more  eligible 
portion.  Where  opportunities  and  inclinations 
are  given  to  the  same  person,  we  sometimes  see 
sublime  instances  of  virtue,  which  so  dazzle  our 
imaginations,  that  we  look  with  scorn  on  all  which 
in  lower  scenes  of  life  we  may  ourselves  be  able 
to  practice.  But  this  is  a  vicious  way  of  think¬ 
ing;  and  it  bears  some  spice  of  romantic  madness, 
for  a  man  to  imagine  that  he  must  grow  ambitious, 
or  seek  adventures,  to  be  able  to  do  great  actions. 
It  is  in  every  man’s  power  in  the  world  who  is  above 
mere  poverty,  not  only  to  do  things  worthy,  but 

*  The  crackling  crystal  yields,  she  sinks,  she  dies ; 

Her  head  chopp’d  off,  from  her  lost  shoulders  flies: 
Pippins  she  cried,  but  death  her  voice  confounds, 

And  pip-pip-pip  along  the  ice  resounds. 


309 

heroic.  The  great  foundation  of  civil  virtue  is 
self-denial;  and  there  is  no  one  above  the  necessi¬ 
ties  of  life,  but  has  opportunities  of  exercising 
that  noble  quality,  and  doing  as  much  as  his  cir¬ 
cumstances  will  bear  for  the  ease  and  convenience 
of  other  men;  and  he  who  does  more  than  ordi¬ 
nary  men  practice  upon  such  occasions  as  occur 
in  his  life,  deserves  the  value  of  his  friends,  as  if 
he  had  done  enterprises  which  are  usually  attend¬ 
ed  with  the  highest  glory.  Men  of  public  spirit 
differ  rather  in  their  circumstances  than  their  vir¬ 
tue;  and  the  man  who  does  all  he  can,  in  a  low 
station,  is  more  a  hero  than  he  who  omits  any 
worthy  action  he  is  able  to  accomplish  in  a  great 
one.  It  is  not  many  years  ago  since  Lapirius,  in 
wrong  of  his  elder  brother,  came  to  a  great,  estate 
by  the  gift  of  his  father,  by  reason  of  the  disso¬ 
lute  behavior  of  the  first-born.  Shame  and  con¬ 
trition  reformed  the  life  of  the  disinherited  youth, 
and  he  became  as  remarkable  for  his  good  quali¬ 
ties  as  formerly  for  his  errors.  Lapirius,  who 
observed  his  brother’s  amendment,  sent  him  on  a 
new-year’s  day  in  the  morning  the  following 
letter : 

“Honored  Brother, 

“  I  inclose  to  you  the  deeds  whereby  my  father 
gave  me  this  house  and  land.  Had  he  lived  till 
now,  he  would  not  have  bestowed  it  in 4 that  man¬ 
ner;  he  took  it  from  the  man  you  were,  and  I  re¬ 
store  it  to  the  man  you  are. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  affectionate  brother, 

“  and  humble  servant, 

“P.  T.” 

As  great  and  exalted  spirits  undertake  tire  pur¬ 
suit  of  hazardous  actions  for  the  good  of  others, 
at  the  same  time  gratifying  their  passion  for  glo¬ 
ry;  so  do  worthy  minds  in  the  domestic  way  of 
life  deny  themselves  many  advantages,  to  satisfy 
a  generous  benevolence,  which  they  bear  to  their 
friends  oppressed  with  distresses  and  calamities. 
Such  natures  one  may  call  stories  of  Providence, 
which  are  actuated  by  a  secret  celestial  influence 
to  undervalue  the  ordinary  gratifications  of  wealth, 
to  give  comfort  to  a  heart  loaded  with  affliction,  to 
save  a  falling  family,  to  preserve  a  branch  of 
trade  in  their  neighborhood,  to  give  work  to  the 
industrious,  preserve  the  portion  of  the  helpless 
infant,  and  raise  the  head  of  the  mourning  father. 
People  whose  hearts  are  wholly  bent  toward  plea¬ 
sure,  or  intent  upon  gain,  never  hear  of  the  noble 
occurrences  among  men  of  industry  and  humani- 
tv.  It  would  look  like  a  city  romance,  to  tell 
tliem  of  the  generous  merchant,  who  the  other 
day  sent  his  billet  to  an  eminent  trader,  under  diffi¬ 
culties  to  support  himself,  in  whose  fall  many 
hundreds  beside  himself  had  perished;  but  be¬ 
cause  I  think  there  is  more  spirit  and  true  gal¬ 
lantry  in  it  than  in  any  letter  I  have  ever  read  from 
Streplion  to  Phillis,  I  shall  insert  it  even  in  the 
mercantile  honest  style  in  which  it  was  sent : 

“  Sir, 

“  I  have  heard  of  the  casualties  which  have  in¬ 
volved  you  in  extreme  distress  at  this  time;  and 
knowing  you  to  be  a  man  of  great  good-nature,  in¬ 
dustry,  and  probity,  have  resolved  to  stand  by 
you.  Be  of  good  cheer;  the  bearer  brings  with 
him  five  thousand  pounds,  and  has  my  order  to 
answer  your  drawing  as  much  more  on  my  account. 

I  did  this  in  haste,  for  fear  I  should  come  too  late 
for  your  relief;  but  you  may  value  yourself  with 
me  to  the  sum  of  fifty  thousand  pounds;  for  I  can 
very  cheerfully  run  the  hazard  of  being  so  much 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


310 

less  rich  than  I  am  now,  to  save  an  honest  man 
whom  I  love. 

“Your  Friend  and  Servant, 

“W.  S”* 

I  think  there  is  somewhere  in  Montaigne,  men¬ 
tion  made  of  a  family-book,  wherein  all  the  occur¬ 
rences  that  happened  from  one  generation  of  that 
house  to  another  were  recorded.  Were  there  such 
a  method  in  the  families  which  are  concerned  in 
this  generosity,  it  would  be  a  hard  task  for  the 
greatest  in  Europe  to  give  in  their  own,  an  in¬ 
stance  of  a  benefit  better  placed,  or  conferred  with 
a  more  graceful  air.  It  has  been  heretofore  urged 
how  barbarous  and  inhuman  is  any  unjust  step 
made  to  the  disadvantage  of  a  trader;  and  by  how 
much  such  an  act  toward  him  is  detestable,  by  so 
much  of  an  act  of  kindness  toward  him  is  lauda¬ 
ble.  I  remember  to  have  heard  a  bencher  of  the 
Temple  tell  a  story  of  a  tradition  in  their  house, 
where  they  had  formerly  a  custom  of  choosing 
kings  for  such  a  season,  and  allowing  him  his  ex¬ 
penses  at  the  charge  of  the  society.  One  of  our 
kings, f  said  my  friend,  carried  his  royal  inclina¬ 
tion  a  little  too  far,  and  there  was  a  committee  or¬ 
dered  to  look  into  the  management  of  his  treasury. 
Among  other  things  it  appeared,  that  his  majesty 
walking  incog,  in  the  cloister,  had  overheard  a 
poor  man  say  to  another,  “  Such  a  small  sum 
would  make  me  the  happiest  man  in  the  world.’’ 
The  king,  out  of  his  royal  compassion,  privately 
inquired  into  his  character,  and  finding  him  a 
proper  object  of  charity,  sent  him  the  money. 
When  the  committee  read  the  report,  the  house 
passed  his  accounts  with  a  plaudite  without  further 
examination,  upon  the  recital  of  this  article  in 
them  : 

For  making  a  man  happy . £10  0  0 

T. 


Ho.  249.]  SATURDAY,  DECEMBER  15,  1711. 

Mirth  out  of  6eason  is  a  grievous  ill. — Frag.  Yet.  Poet. 

When  I  make  a  choice  of  a  subject  that  has  not 
been  treated  on  by  others,  I  throw  together  my  re¬ 
flections  on  it  without  any  order  or  method,  so  that 
they  may  appear  rather  in  the  looseness  and  free¬ 
dom  of  an  essay,  than  in  the  regularity  of  a  set 
discourse.  It  is  after  this  manner  that  I  shall 
consider  laughter  and  ridicule  in  my  present 
paper. 

Man  is  the  merriest  species  of  the  creation;  all 
above  and  below  him  are  serious.  He  sees  things 
in  a  different  light  from  other  beings,  and  finds 
his  mirth  arising  from  objects  that  perhaps  cause 
something  like  pity  or  displeasure  in  higher  na¬ 
tures.  Laughter  is  indeed  a  very  good  counter¬ 
poise  to  the  spleen;  and  it  seems  but  reasonable 
that  we  should  be  capable  of  receiving  joy  from 
what  is  no  real  good  to  us,  since  we  can  receive 
grief  from  what  is  no  real  evil. 

I  have  in  my  forty-seventh  paper  raised  a  specu¬ 
lation  on  the  notion  of  a  modern  philosopher,^ 
who  describes  the  first  motive  of  laughter  to  be  a 
secret  comparison  which  we  make  between  our¬ 
selves  and  the  persons  we  laugh  at;  or,  in  other 
words,  that  satisfaction  wlxich  we  receive  from  the 
opinion  of  some  pre-eminence  in  ourselves,  when 
we  see  the  absurdities  of  another,  or  when  we  re¬ 


*  The  merchant  involved  in  distress  by  casualties  was  one 
Mr.  Moreton,  a  linen-draper;  and  the  generous  merchant, 
here  so  justly  celebrated,  was  Sir  William  Scawen. 

f  This  king,  it  is  said,  was  beau  Nash,  director  of  the  pub¬ 
lic  diversions  at  Bath,  who  was  in  King  William’s  time  a  stu¬ 
dent  in  the  Temple, 
t  Hobbes. 


fleet  on  any  past  absurdities  of  our  own.  This 
seems  to  hold  in  most  cases,  and  we  may  observe 
that  the  vainest  part  of  mankind  are  the  most  ad¬ 
dicted  to  this  passion. 

I  have  read  a  sermon  of  a  conventual  in  the 
church  of  Rome,  on  those  words  of  the  wise  man, 
“  I  said  of  Laughter,  it  is  mad  ;  and  of  mirth, 
what  does  it?”  Upon  which  he  laid  it  down  as  a 
point  of  doctrine,  that  laughter  was  the  effect  of 
original  sin,  and  that  Adam  could  not  laugh  be¬ 
fore  the  fall. 

Laughter,  while  it  lasts,  slackens  and  unbraces 
the  mind,  weakens  the  faculties,  and  causes  a  kind 
of  remissness  and  dissolution  in  all  the  powers  of 
the  soul;  and  thus  far  it  may  be  looked  upon  as  a 
weakness  in  the  composition  of  human  nature. 
But  if  we  consider  the  frequent  reliefs  we  receive 
from  it,  and  how  often  it  breaks  the  gloom  which 
is  apt  to  depress  the  mind  and  damp  our  spirits, 
with  transient,  unexpected  gleams  of  joy,  one 
would  take  care  not  to  grow  too  wise  for  so  great 
a  pleasure  of  life. 

The  talent  of  turning  men  into  ridicule,  and  ex¬ 
posing  to  laughter  those  one  converses  with,  is  the 
qualification  of  little  ungenerous  tempers.  A 
young  man  with  this  cast  of  mind  cuts  himself 
off  from  all  manner  of  improvement.  Every  one 
has  his  flaws  and  weaknesses:  nay,  the  greatest 
blemishes  are  often  found  in  the  most  shining 
characters;  but  what  an  absurd  thing  is  it  to  pass 
over  all  the  valuable  parts  of  a  man,  and  fix  our 
attention  on  his  infirmities  ?  to  observe  his  imper¬ 
fections  more  than  his  virtues  ?  and  to  make  use 
of  him  for  the  sport  of  others,  rather  than  for  our 
own  improvement  ? 

We  therefore  very  often  find  that  persons  the 
most  accomplished  in  ridicule  are  those  that  are 
very  shrewd  at  hitting  a  blot,  without  exerting  any¬ 
thing  masterly  in  themselves.  As  there  are  many 
eminent  critics  who  never  wrote  a  good  line,  there 
are  many  admirable  buffoons  that  animadvert  upon 
every  single  defect  in  another,  without  ever  disco¬ 
vering  the  last  beauty  of  their  own.  By  this 
means,  these  unlucky  little  wits  often  gain  repu¬ 
tation  in  the  esteem  of  vulgar  minds,  and  raise 
themselves  above  persons  of  much  more  laudable 
characters. 

If  the  talent  of  ridicule  were  employed  to  laugh 
men  out  of  vice  and  folly,  it  might  be  of  some 
use  to  the  world;  but  instead  of  this,  we  find  that 
it  is  generally  made  use  of  to  laugh  men  out  of 
virtue  and  good  sense,  by  attacking  everything 
that  is  solemn  and  serious,  decent  and  praise¬ 
worthy  in  human  life. 

We  may  observe  that  in  the  first  ages  of  the 
world,  when  the  great  souls  and  master-pieces  of 
human  nature  were  produced,  men  shined  by  a 
noble  simplicity  of  behavior,  and  were  strangers 
to  those  little  embellishments  which  are  so  fash 
ionable  in  our  present  conversation.  And  it  is  very 
remarkable,  that  notwithstanding  we  fall  short 
at  present  of  the  ancients  in  poetry,  painting,  ora¬ 
tory,  history,  architecture,  and  all  the  noble  arts 
and  sciences  which  depend  more  upon  genius  than 
experience,  we  exceed  them  as  much  in  doggerel 
humor,  burlesque,  and  all  the  trival  arts  of  ridi¬ 
cule.  We  meet  with  more  railleiy  among  the 
moderns,  but  more  good  sense  among  the  ancients. 

The  two  great  branches  of  ridicule  in  writing 
are  comedy  and  burlesque.  The  first  ridicules 
persons  by  drawing  them  in  their  proper  charac¬ 
ters,  the  other  by  drawing  them  quite  unlike  them¬ 
selves.  Burlesque  is  therefore  of  two  kinds;  the 
first  represents  mean  persons  in  the  accouterments 
of  heroes;  the  other  describes  great  persons  acting 
and  speaking  like  the  basest  among  the  people. 
Don  Quixote  is  an  instance  of  the  first,  and 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Lucian’s  gods  of  the  second.  It  is  a  dispute 
among  the  critics,  whether  burlesque  poetry  runs 
best  in  heroic  verse,  like  that  of  the  Dispensary; 
or  in  doggerel,  like  that  of  Hudibras.  I  think, 
where  the  Tow  character  is  to  be  raised,  the  heroic 
is  the  proper  measure;  but  when  a  hero  is  to  be 
pulled  down  and  degraded,  it  is  done  best  in  dog- 
gerel. 

If  Hudibras  had  been  set  out  with  as  much  wit 
and  humor  in  neroic  verse  as  he  is  in  doggerel,  he 
would  have  made  a  much  more  agreeable  figure 
than  he  does;  though  the  generality  of  his  readers 
are  so  wonderfully  pleased  with  the  double  rhymes, 
that  I  do  not  expect  many  will  be  of  my  opinion 
in  this  particular. 

I  shall  conclude  this  essay  upon  laughter  with 
observing  that  the  metaphor  of  laughing,  applied 
to  fields  and  meadows  when  they  are  in  flower,  or 
to  trees  when  they  are  in  blossom,  runs  through 
all  languages;  which  I  have  not  observed  of  any 
other  metaphor,  excepting  that  of  fire  and  burning 
when  they  are  applied  to  love.  This  shows  that 
we  naturally  regard  laughter,  as  what  is  in  itself 
both  amiable  and  beautiful.  For  this  reason  like¬ 
wise  Venus  has  gained  the  title  of  Philomedes 
“the  laughter-loving  dame,”  as  Waller  has  trans¬ 
lated  it,  and  is  represented  by  Horace  as  the  god¬ 
dess  who  delights  in  laughter.  Milton,  in  a  joy 
ous  assembly  of  imaginary  persons,  has  given  us 
a  very  poetical  figure  of  Laughter.  His  whole 
band  of  mirth  is  so  finely  described,  that  I  shall 
set  down  the  passage  at  length : 

But  come ,  thou  goddess  fair  and  free 
In  heaven  ycleped*  Euphrosyne, 

And  by  men,  heart-easing  mirth, 

Whom  lovely  Venus  at  a  birth 
With  two  sister  Graces  more, 

To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore. 

Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest  and  youthful  jollity, 

Quips,  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles, 

Nods,  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles, 

Such  as  hung  on  Hebe’s  cheek, 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek ; 

Sport,  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides; 

Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go, 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty ; 

And  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

In  unreproved  pleasures,  free. 

C.  L’  Allegro,  v,  11,  etc. 


No.  250.]  MONDAY,  DECEMBER  17,  1711. 

Disce  docendus  adhuc,  quae  censet  amiculus,  ut  si 
Caucus  iter  monstrare  velit ;  tamen  aspice  si  quid 
Et  nos,  quod  cures  proprium  fecisse,  loquamur, 

Hor.  Ep.  1,  xvii,  3. 

Yet  hear  what  an  unskillful  friend  can  say: 

As  if  a  blind  man  should  direct  your  way ; 

So  I  myself,  though  wanting  to  be  taught, 

May  yet  impart  a  hint  that’s  worth  your  thought. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Y ou  see  the  nature  of  my  request  by  the  Latin 
motto  which  I  address  to  you.  I  am  very  sensible 
I  ought  not  to  use  many  words  to  you,  who  are 
one  of  but  few;  but  the  following  piece,  as  it  re¬ 
lates  to  speculation,  in  propriety  of  speech,  being 
a  curiosity  in  kind,  begs  your  patience.  It  was 
found  in  a  poetical  virtuoso’s  closet  among  his 
rarities;  and  since  the  several  treatises  of  thumbs, 
ears,  and  noses,  have  obliged  the  world,  this  of 
eyes  is  at  your  service. 

“The  first  eye  of  consequence  (under  the  invi¬ 

*  i.  e.  called - Euphrosyne  is  the  name  of  one  of  the 

Graces. 


311 

sible  Author  of  all)  is  the  visible  luminary  of  the 
universe.  This  glorious  Spectator  is  said  never 
to  open  his  eyes  at  his  rising  in  a  morning,  with¬ 
out  having  a  whole  kingdom  of  .adorers  in  Per¬ 
sian  silk  waiting  at  his  levee.  Millions  of  crea¬ 
tures  derive  their  sight  from  this  original,  who 
beside  his  being  the  great  director  of  optics,  is  the 
surest  test  whether  eyes  be  of  the  same  species 
with  that  of  an  eagle,  or  that  of  an  owl.  The  one 
he  emboldens  with  a  manly  assurance  to  look, 
speak,  act,  or  plead,  before  the  faces  of  a  numer¬ 
ous  assembly;  the  other  he  dazzles  out  of  counte¬ 
nance  into  a  sheepish  dejectedness.  The  sun¬ 
proof  eye  dares  lead  up  a  dance  in  a  full  court : 
and  without  blinking  at  the  luster  of  beauty,  can 
distribute  an  eye  of  proper  complaisance  to  a 
room  crowded  with  company,  each  of  which  de¬ 
serves  particular  regard;  while  the  other  sneaks 
from  conversation;  like  a  fearful  debtor  who  never 
dares  look  out,  but  when  he  can  see  nobody,  and 
nobody  him. 

“  The  next  instance  of  optics  is  the  famous  Ar¬ 
gus,  who  (to  speak  in  the  language  of  Cambridge) 
was  one  of  a  hundred;  and  being  used  as  a  spy  in 
the  affairs  of  jealousy,  was  obliged  to  have  all  his 
eyes  about  him.  We  have  no  account  of  the  par¬ 
ticular  colors,  casts,  and  turns,  of  this  body  of 
eyes;  but  as  he  was  pimp  for  his  mistress  Juno,  it 
is  probable  he  used  all  the  modern  leers,  sly 
glances,  and  other  ocular  activities,  to  serve  his 
purpose.  Some  look  upon  him  as  the  then  king 
at  arms  to  the  heathenish  deities :  and  make  no 
more  of  his  eyes  than  of  so  many  spangles  of  his 
herald’s  coat. 

“  The  next  upon  the  optic  list  is  old  J anus,  who 
stood  in  a  double-sighted  capacity,  like  a  person 
placed  betwixt  two  opposite  looking-glasses,  and 
so  took  a  sort  of  retrospective  cast  at  one  view. 
Copies  of  this  double-faced  way  are  not  yet  out 
of  fashion  with  many  professions,  and  the  in¬ 
genious  artists  pretend  to  keep  up  this  species  by 
double-headed  canes  and  spoons ;  but  there  is  no 
mark  of  this  faculty,  except  in  the  emblematical 
way,  of  a  wise  general  having  an  eye  to  both  front 
ana  rear,  or  a  pious  man  taking  a  review  and  pros¬ 
pect  of  his  past  and  future  state  at  the  same  time. 

“  I  must  own,  that  the  names,  colors,  qualities 
and  turns  of  eyes,  vary  almost  in  every  head;  for, 
not  to  mention  the  common  appellations  of  the 
black,  and  the  blue,  the  white,  the  gray,  and  the 
like;  the  most  remarkable  are  those  that  borrow 
their  titles  from  animals,  by  virtue  of  some  par¬ 
ticular  quality  of  resemblance  they  bear  to  the 
eyes  of  the  respective  creatures ;  as  that  of  a 
greedy  rapacious  aspect  takes  its  name  from  the 
cat,  that  of  a  sharp  piercing  nature  from  the  hawk, 
those  of  an  amorous  roguish  look  derive  their 
title  even  from  the  sheep,  and  we  say  such-a-one 
has  a  sheep’s-eye,  n'ot  so  much  to  denote  the  in¬ 
nocence,  as  the  simple  slyness,  of  the  cast.  Nor 
is  this  metaphorical  inoculation  a  modern  inven¬ 
tion,  for  we  find  Homer  taking  the  freedom  to 
place  the  eye  of  an  ox,  bull,  or  cow,  in  one  of  his 
principal  goddesses,  by  that  frequent  expression 
of 

The  ox-eyed  venerable  Juno. 

“Now  as  to  the  peculiar  qualities  of  the  eye, 
that  fine  part  of  our  constitution  seems  as  much 
the  receptacle  and  seat  of  our  passions,  ap¬ 
petites,  and  inclinations,  as  the  mind  itself;  at 
feast  it  is  the  outward  portal  to  introdnee  them  to 
the  house  within,  or  rather  the  common  thorough¬ 
fare  to  let  our  affections  pass  in  and  out.  Love, 
anger,  pride,  and  avarice,  all  visibly  move  in  those 
little  orbs.  I  know  a  young  lady  that  cannot  see 
a  certain  gentleman  pass  by  without  showing  a 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


12 

secret  desire  of  seeing,  him  again  by  a  dance  in  j 
her  eye-balls,  nay,  she  cannot,  for  the  heart  of  her, 
help  looking  half  a  street’s  length  after  any  man 
in  a  gay  dress.  You  cannot  behold  a  covetous 
spirit  walk  by  a  goldsmith’s  shop  without  casting 
a  wishful  eye  at  the  heaps  upon  the  counter. 
Does  not  a  haughty  person  show  the  temper  of 
his  soul  in  the  supercilious  roll  of  his  eye?  and 
how  frequently  in  the  height  of  passion  does  that 
moving  picture  in  our  head  start  and  stare,  gather 
a  redness  and  quick  flashes  of  lightning,  and 
make  all  its  humors  sparkle  with  fire,  as  Virgil 
finely  describes  it, 

- Ardentis  ab  ore 

Scintillas  absistunt :  oculis  micat  acribus  ignis. 

iEN.,  xii,  101. 

- From  his  wide  nostrils  flies 

A  fiery  stream,  and  sparkles  from  his  eyes. 

Dryden. 

“As  for  the  various  turns  of  the  eyesight,  such 
as  the  voluntary  or  involuntary,  the  half  or  the 
whole  leer,  I  shall  not  enter  into  a  very  particular 
account  of  them;  but  let  me  observe,  that  oblique 
vision,  when  natural,  was  anciently  the  mark  of 
bewitchery  and  magical  fascination,  and  to  this 
day  it  is  a  malignant  ill  look  ;  but  when  it  is 
forced  and  affected,  it  carries  a  wanton  design,  and 
in  playhouses,  and  other  public  places,  this  ocu¬ 
lar  intimation  is  often  an  assignation  for  bad 
practices.  But  this  irregularity  in  vision,  to¬ 
gether  with  such  enormities,  as  tipping  the  wink, 
the  circumspective  roll,  the  side-peep  through  a 
thin  hood  or  fan,  must  be  put  in  the  class  of  He- 
teroptics,  as  all  wrong  notions  of  religion  are 
ranked  under  the  general  name  of  Heterodox.  All 
the  pernicious  applications  of  sight  are  more  im¬ 
mediately  under  the  direction  of  a  Spectator,  and 
I  hope  you  will  arm  your  readers  against  the 
mischiefs  which  are  daily  done  by  killing  eyes, 
in  which  you  will  highly  oblige  your  wounded 
unknown  friend,  “T.  B.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“You  professed  in  several  papers  your  particu¬ 
lar  endeavors  in  the  province  of  Spectator,  to  cor¬ 
rect  the  offenses  committed  by  Starers,  who  dis¬ 
turb  whole  assemblies  without  any  regard  to  time, 
place,  or  modesty.  You  complained  also,  that 
a  starer  is  not  usually  a  person  to  be  convinced 
by  the  reason  of  the  thing,  nor  so  easily  rebuked 
as  to  amend  by  admonitions.  I  thought  therefore 
fit  to  acquaint  you  with  a  convenient  mechanical 
way,  which  may  easily  prevent  or  correct  staring, 
by  an  optical  contrivance  of  new  perspective- 
glasses,  short  and  commodious  like  opera  glasses, 
fit  for  short-sighted  people  as  well  as  others,  these 
glasses  making  the  objects  appear  either  as  they 
are  seen  by  the  naked  eye,  or  njore  distinct,  though 
somewhat  less  than  life,  or  bigger  and  nearer.  A 
person  may,  by  the  help  of  this  invention,  take  a 
view  of  another  without  the  impertinence  of- 
staring;  at  the  same  time  it  shall  not  be  possible 
to  know  whom  or  what  he  is  looking  at.  One 
may  look  toward  his  right  or  left  hand,  when  he 
is  supposed  to  look  forward.  This  is  set  forth  at 
large  in  the  printed  proposals  for  the  sale  of  these 
glasses,  to  be  had  at  Mr.  Dillon’s  in  Longacre, 
next  to  the  White  Hart.  Now,  Sir,  as  your  Spec¬ 
tator  has  occasioned  the  publishing  of  this  inven¬ 
tion  for  the  benefit  of  modest  spectators,  the  in¬ 
ventor  desires  your  admonitions  concerning  the 
decent  use  of  it;  and  hopes,  by  your  recommenda¬ 
tion,  that  for  the  future  beauty  may  be  beheld 
without  the  torture  and  confusion  which  it  suffers 
from  the  insolence  of  starers.  By  this  means  you 
will  relieve  the  innocent  from  an  insult  which 
theie  is  no  law  to  punish,  though  it  is  a  greater 


offense  than  many  which  are  within  the  cogni¬ 
zance  of  justice.” 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant 
Q.  “Abraham  Spy.’* 


No.  251]  TUESDAY,  DECEMBER  18,  1711. 

- Linguae  centum  sunt,  oraque  centum, 

Ferrea  vox -  Virg.  iEn.,  vi,  625. 

- A  hundred  mouths,  a  hundred  tongues, 

And  throats  of  brass  inspir’d  with  iron  lungs. — Dryden. 

There  is  nothing  which  more  astonishes  a  fo¬ 
reigner,  and  frights  a  country  ’squire,  than  the 
Cries  of  London.  My  good  friend  Sir  Roger  often 
declares  that  he  cannot  get  them  out  of  his  head 
or  go  to  sleep  for  them,  the  first  week  that  he  is  in 
town.  On  the  contrary,  Will  Honeycomb  calls 
them  the  Ramage  de  la  Ville,  and  prefers  them  to 
the  sound  of  larks  and  nightingales,  with  all  the 
music  of  fields  and  woods.  I  have  lately  received 
a  letter  from  some  very  odd  fellow  upon  this  sub¬ 
ject,  which  I  shall  leave  with  my  reader,  without 
saying  anything  further  of  it. 

“  Sir, 

“I  am  a  man  out  of  all  business,  and  wotfld 
willingly  turn  my  head  to  anything  for  an 
honest  livelihood.  I  have  invented  several  pro¬ 
jects  for  raising  many  millions  of  money  without 
burdening  the  subject,  but  I  cannot  get  the  par¬ 
liament  to  listen  to  me,  who  look  upon  me,  for¬ 
sooth,  as  a  crack,  and  a  projector;  so  that  despair¬ 
ing  to  enrich  either  myself  or  my  country  by  this 
public-spiritedness,  I  would  make  some  proposals 
to  you  relating  to  a  design  which  I  have  very 
much  at  heart,  and  which  may  procure  me  a 
handsome  subsistence,  if  you  will  be  pleased  to 
recommend  it  to  the  cities  of  London  and  West¬ 
minster. 

“The  post  I  would  aim  at,  is  to  be  comptroller- 
general  of  the  London  Cries,  which  are  at  present 
under  no  manner  of  rules  or  discipline.  I  think 
I  am  pretty  well  qualified  for  this  place,  as  being 
a  man  of  veryT  strong  lungs,  of  great  insight  into 
all  the  branches  of  our  British  trades  and  manu¬ 
factures,  and  of  a  competent  skill  in  music. 

“  The  Cries  of  London  may  be  divided  into 
vocal  and  instrumental.  As  for  the  latter,  they 
are  at  present  under  a  very  great  disorder.  A 
freeman  of  London  has  the  privilege  of  disturb¬ 
ing  a  whole  street  for  an  hour  together,  with  a 
twanking  of  a  brass  kettle  or  fryingpan.  The 
watchman’s  thump  at  midnight  startles  us  in  our 
beds  as  much  as  the  breaking  in  of  a  thief.  The 
sowgelder’s  horn  has  indeed  something  musical 
in  it,  but  this  is  seldom  heard  within  the  liberties. 
I  would  therefore  propose,  that  no  instrument  of 
this  nature  should  be  made  use  of,  which  I  have 
not  tuned  and  licensed,  after  having  carefully  ex¬ 
amined  in  what  manner  it  may  affect  the  ears  of 
her  majesty’s  liege  subjects. 

“  Vocal  cries  are  of  a  much  larger  extent,  and 
indeed  so  full  of  incongruities  and  barbarisms, 
that  we  appear  a  distracted  city  to  foreigners,  who 
do  not  comprehend  the  meaning  of  such  enormous 
outcries.  Milk  is  generally  sold  in  a  note  above 
E-la,  and  in  sounds  so  exceedingly  shrill,  that  it 
sets  our  teeth  on  edge.  The  chimney-sweeper  is 
confined  to  no  certain  pitch  ;  he  sometimes  utters 
himself  in  the  deepest  bass,  and  sometimes  in  the 
sharpest  treble ;  sometimes  in  the  highest,  and 
sometimes  in  the  lowest  note  of  the  gamut.  The 
same  observation  might  be  made  on  the  retailers 
of  small  coal,  not  to  mention  broken  glasses,  or 
brick-dust.  In  these,  therefore,  and  the  like 
cases,  it  should  be  my  care  to  sweeten  and  mellow 
the  voices  of  these  itinerant  tradesmen,  before 


THE  SPE 

they  make  their  appearanceyn  our  streets,  as  also 
to  accommodate  their  cries  to  their  respective 
wares,  and  to  take  care  in  particular,  that  those 
may  not  make  the  most  noise  who  have  the  least 
to  sell,  which  is  very  observable  in  the  venders  of 
card-matches,  to  whom  I  cannot  but  apply  that 
old  proverb  of  ‘  Much  cry,  but  little  wool.’ 

“  Some  of  these  last  mentioned  musicians  are 
so  very  loud  in  the  sale  of  these  trifling  manufac¬ 
tures,  that  an  honest  splenetic  gentleman  of  my 
acquaintance  bargained  with  one  of  them  never 
to  come  into  the  street  where  he  lived.  But 
what  was  the  effect  of  this  contract  ?  W  hy  the 
whole  tribe  of  card-matchmakers  which  frequent 
that  quarter  passed  by  his  door  the  very  next 
day,  in  hopes  of  being  bought  off  after  the  same 
manner. 

“  It  is  another  great  imperfection  in  our  Lon¬ 
don  Cries,  that  there  is  no  just  time  nor  measure 
observed  in  them.  Our  news  should  indeed  be 
published  in  a  very  quick  time,  because  it  is  a 
commodity  that  will  not  keep  cold.  It  should 
not,  however,  be  cried  with  the  same  precipitation 
as  five.  Yet  this  is  generally  the  case.  A  bloody 
battle  alarms  the  town  from  one  end  to  another  in 
an  instant.  Every  motion  of  the  French  is  pub¬ 
lished  in  so  great  a  hurry,  that  one  would  think 
the  enemy  were  at  our  gates.  This  likewise  I 
would  take  upon  me  to  regulate  in  such  a  man¬ 
ner,  that  there  should  be  some  distinction  made 
between  the  spreading  of  a  victory,  a  march,  or 
an  encampment,  a  Dutch,  a  Portugal,  or  a  Span¬ 
ish  mail.  Nor  must  I  omit  under  this  head  those 
excessive  alarms  with  which  several  boisterous 
rustics  infest  our  streets  in  turnip  season  ;  and 
which  are  more  inexcusable,  because  they  are 
wares  which  are  in  no  danger  of  cooling  upon 
their  hands. 

“  There  are  others  wdio  affect  a  very  slow  time, 
and  are  in  my  opinion  much  more  tunable  than 
the  former.  The  cooper  in  particular  swells  his 
last  note  in  a  hollow  voice,  that  is  not  without  its 
harmony  ;  nor  can  I  forbear  being  inspired  with 
a  most  agreeable  melancholy,  when  I  hear  that 
sad  and  solemn  air  with  which  the  public  are 
very  often  asked,  if  they  have  any  chairs  to 
mend  ?  Your  own  memory  may  suggest  to  you 
many  other  lamentable  ditties  of  the  same  nature, 
in  which  the  music  is  wonderfully  languishing 
and  melodious. 

“  I  am  always  pleased  with  that  particular 
time  of  the  year  which  is  proper  for  the  pickling 
of  dill  and  cucumbers  ;  but  alas  !  this  cry,  like 
the  song  of  the  nightingale,  is  not  heard  above 
two  months.  It  would  therefore  be  worth  while 
to  consider,  whether  the  same  air  might  not  in 
some  cases  be  adapted  to  other  wrords. 

“It  might  likewise  deserve  our  most  serious 
consideration,  how  far,  in  a  well  regulated  city, 
those  humorists  are  to  be  tolerated,  who,  not  con¬ 
tented  with  the  traditional  cries  of  their  forefath¬ 
ers,  have  invented  particular  songs  and  tunes  of 
their  own  :  such  as  was,  not  many  years  since, 
the  pastry-man,  commonly  known  by  the  name 
of  the  Colly-Molly-Puff :  *  and  such  as  is  at  this 
day  the  vender  of  powder  and  wash-balls,  who,  if 
1'  am  rightly  informed,  goes  under  the  name  of 
Powder- Wat. 

“  I  must  not  here  omit  one  particular  absurdity 
which  runs  through  this  whole  vociferous  genera¬ 
tion,  and  which  renders  their  cries  very  often  not 


*  This  little  man  was  but  just  able  to  support  the  basket 
of  pastry  which  he  carried  on  his  head,  and  sung  in  a  very 
peculiar  tone  the  cant  words  which  passed  into  his  name 
Colly-Molly-Puff.  There  is  a  half-sheet  print  of  him  in  the 
Set  of  London  Cries,  M.  Lauron,  del  P.  Tempest,  exc.  Gran¬ 
ger’s  Biographical  History  of  England. 


CTATOR.  313 

only  incommodious,  but  altogether  useless  to  the 
public.  J  mean  that  idle  accomplishment  which 
they  all  of  them  aim  at,  of  crying  so  as  not  to  be 
understood.  Whether  or  no  they  have  learned 
this  from  several  of  our  affected  singers,  I  will 
not  take  upon  me  to  say  ;  but  most  certain  it  is, 
that  people  know  the  wares  they  deal  in  rather  by 
their  tunes  than  by  their  w^rds  ;  insomuch  that  I 
have  sometimes  seen  a  country  boy  run  out  to  buy 
apples  ot  a  bellows-mender,  and  gingerbread  from 
a  grinder  of  knives  and  scissors.  Nay,  so 
strangely  infatuated  are  some  very  eminent  ar¬ 
tists  of  this  very  particular  grace  in  a  cry,  that 
none  but  their  acquaintance  are  able  to  guess  at 
their  profession  ;  for  who  else  can  know,  that 
‘  work  if  I  had  it’  should  be  the  signification  of 
a  corn-cutter  ? 

“  Forasmuch,  therefore,  as  persons  of  this  rank 
are  seldom  men  of  genius  or  capacity  I  think  it 
would  be  very  proper  that  some  men  of  good  sense 
and  sound  judgment  should  preside  over  these 
public  cries,  who  should  permit  none  to  lift  up 
their  voices  in  our  streets,  that  have  not  tunable 
throats,  and  are  not  only  able  to  overcome  the 
noise  of  the  crowd,  and  the  rattling  of  coaches, 
but  also  to  vend  their  respective  merchandises  in 
apt  phrases  and  in  the  most  distinct  and  agreeable 
sounds.  I  do  therefore  humbly  recommend  my¬ 
self  as  a  person  rightly  qualified  for  this  post  ;  and 
if  I  meet  with  fitting  encouragement,  shall  com¬ 
municate  some  other  projects  which  I  have  by  me, 
that  may  no  less  conduce  to  the  emolument  of  the 
public. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  etc. 

C.  “  Ralph  Crotchet.’* 


No.  252.  ]  WEDNESDAY,  DEC.  19,  1711. 

Erranti,  passimque  oculos  per  cuncta  ferenti. 

V  mo.  iEn.,  ii,  570. 

Exploring  every  place  with  curious  eyes.* 

“Mr  Spectator, 

“I  am  very  sorry  to  find  by  your  discourse 
upon  the  eye,  that  you  have  not  thoroughly  stud¬ 
ied  the  nature  and  force  of  that  part  of  a  beaute¬ 
ous  face.  Had  you  ever  been  in  love,  you  would 
have  said  ten  thousand  things,  which  it  seems  did 
not  occur  to  you.  Do  but  reflect  upon  the  non¬ 
sense  it  makes  men  talk  ;  the  flames  which  it  is 
said  to  kindle,  the  transport  it  raises,  the  dejection 
it  causes  in  the  bravest  men,  and  if  you  do  be¬ 
lieve  those  things  are  expressed  to  an  extrava¬ 
gance,  yet  you  will  own,  that  the  influence  of  it 
is  very  great,  which  moves  men  to  that  extrava¬ 
gance.  Certain  it  is,  that  the  whole  strength  of 
the  mind  is  sometimes  seated  there  ;  that  a  kind 
look  imparts  all  that  a  year’s  discourse  could  give 
you,  in  one  moment.  What  matters  it  what  she 
says  to  you  ?  ‘  see  how  she  looks,’  is  the  language 
of  all  who  know  what  love  is.  When  the  mind 
is  thus  summed  up,  and  expressed  in  a  glance,  did 
you  never  observe  a  sudden  joy  arise  in  the  coun¬ 
tenance  of  a  lover  ?  Did  you  never  see  the  at¬ 
tendance  of  years  paid,  overpaid  in  an  instant? 
You  a  Spectator,  and  not  know  that  the  intelli¬ 
gence  of  the  affection  is  carried  on  by  the  eye 
only  ;  that  good-breeding  has  made  the  tongue 
falsify  the  heart,  and  act  a  part  of  continual  re¬ 
straint,  while  nature  has  preserved  the  eyes  to 


*  ADAPTED. 

With  various  power  the  wonder-working  eye 
Can  awe,  or  soothe,  reclaim,  or  lead  astray. 

The  motto  in  the  original  folio  was  different,  and  likewise 
taken  from  Virg.,  Eel.  iii,  103. 

Nescio  quis  teneros  oculus  mihi  fascinat  agnos. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


314 

herself,  that  she  may  not  be  disguised  or  misrep¬ 
resented.  The  poor  bride  can  give  her  hand,  and 
say,  *  I  do,’  with  a  languishing  air,  to  the  man  she 
is  obliged  by  cruel  parents  to  take  for  mercenary 
reasons,  but  at  the  same  time  she  cannot  look  as 
if  she  loved  ;  her  eye  is  full  of  sorrow,  and  reluc¬ 
tance  sits  in  a  tear,  while  the  offering  of  a  sacrifice 
is  performed  in  what  jve  call  the  marriage  cere¬ 
mony.  Do  you  never  go  to  plays  ?  Cannot  you 
distinguish  between  the  eyes  of  those  who  go  to 
see,  from  those  who  come  to  be  seen  ?  I  am  a 
woman  turned  of  thirty,  and  am  on  the  observa¬ 
tion  a  little  ;  therefore,  if  you  or  your  correspond¬ 
ent  had  consulted  me  in  your  discourse  on  the 
eye,  I  could  have  told  you  that  the  eye  of  Leonora 
is  slily  watchful  while  it  looks  negligent ;  she 
looks  round  her  without  the  help  of  the  glasses 
you  speak  of,  and  yet  seems  to  be  employed  on 
objects  directly  before  her.  This  eye  is  what  af¬ 
fects  chance-medley,  and  on  a  sudden,  as  if  it  at¬ 
tended  to  another  thing,  turns  all  its  charms 
against  an  ogler.  The  eye  of  Lusitania  is  an  in¬ 
strument  of  premeditated  murder  ;  but  the  design 
being  visible,  destroys  the  execution  of  it ;  and 
with  much  more  beauty  than  that  of  Leonora,  it 
is  not  half  so  mischievous.  There  is  a  brave  sol¬ 
dier’s  daughter  in  town,  that  by  her  eye  has  been 
the  death  of  more  than  ever  her  father  made  fly 
before  him.  A  beautiful  eye  makes  silence  elo¬ 
quent,  a  kind  eye  makes  contradiction  an  assent, 
an  enraged  eye  makes  beauty  deformed.  This 
little  member  gives  life  to  every  other  part  about 
us,  and  I  believe  the  story  of  Argus  implies  no 
more,  than  that  the  eye  is  in  every  part ;  that  is  to 
say,  every  other  part  would  be  mutilated,  were  not 
its  force  represented  more  by  the  eye  than  even  by 
itself.  But  this  is  heathen  Greek  to  those  who 
have  not  conversed  by  glances.  This,  Sir,  is  a 
language  in  which  there  can  be  no  deceit,  nor  can 
a  skillful  observer  be  imposed  upon  by  looks,  even 
among  politicians  and  courtiers.  If  you  do  me 
the  honor  to  print  this  among  your  speculations, 
I  shall  in  my  next  make  you  a  present  of  secret 
history,  by  translating  all  the  looks  of  the  next 
assembly  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  into  words,  to 
adorn  some  future  paper. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  faithful  Friend, 

“Mary  Heartfree.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  have  a  sot  of  a  husband  that  lives  a  very 
scandalous  life  :  who  wastes  away  his  body  and 
fortune  in  debaucheries  ;  and  is  immovable  to  all 
the  arguments  that  I  can  urge  to  him.  I  would 
gladly  know  whether  in  some  cases  a  cudgel 
may  not  be  allowed  as  a  good  figure  of  speech, 
and  whether  it  may  not  be  lawfully  used  by  a 
•female  orator. 

“  Your  humble  Servant, 

“  Barbara  Crabtree.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Though  I  am  a  practitioner  in  the  law  of  some 
standing,  and  have  heard  many  eminent  pleaders 
in  my  time,  as  well  as  other  eloquent  speakers  of 
both  universities,  yet  I  agree  with  you,  that  wo¬ 
men  are  better  qualified  to  succeed  in  oratory  than 
the  men,  and  believe  this  is  to  be  resolved  into 
natural  causes.  You  have  mentioned  only  the 
volubility  of  their  tongues  ;  but  what  do  you 
think  of  the  silent  flattery  of  their  pretty  faces, 
and  the  persuasion  which  even  an  insipid  dis¬ 
course  carries  with  it  when  flowing  from  beautiful 
lips,  to  which  it  would  be  cruel  to  deny  anything  ? 
It  is  certain,  too,  that  they  are  possessed  of  some 
springs  of  rhetoric  which  men  want,  such  as  tears, 
fainting  fits,  and  the  like,  which  I  have  seen  em¬ 


ployed  upon  occasion,  with  good  success.  Yon 
must  know  that  I  am  a  plain  man,  and  love  mj 
money  ;  yet  I  have  a  spouse  who  is  so  great  an 
orator  in  this  way,  that  she  draws  from  me  what 
sum  she  pleases.  Every  room  in  my  house  is  fur¬ 
nished  with  trophies  of  her  eloquence,  rich  cabi¬ 
nets,  piles  of  china,  japan  screens,  and  costly  jars; 
and  if  you  were  to  come  into  my  great  parlor,  you 
would  fancy  yourself  in  an  India  warehouse. 
Beside  this  she  keeps  a  squirrel,  and  I  am 
doubly  taxed  to  pay  for  the  china  he  breaks.  She 
is  seized  with  periodical  fits  about  the  time  of  the 
subscriptions  to  a  new  opera,  and  is  drowned  in 
tears  alter  having  seen  any  woman  there  in  finer 
clothes  than  herself.  These  are  arts  of  persua¬ 
sion  purely  feminine,  and  which  a  tender  heart 
cannot  resist.  What  I  would  therefore  desire  of 
you,  is,  to  prevail  with  your  friend  who  has  pro¬ 
mised  to  dissect  a  female  tongue,  that  he  would 
at  the  same  time  give  us  the  anatomy  of  the  fe¬ 
male  eye,  and  explain  the  springs  and  sluices 
which  feed  it  with  such  ready  supplies  of  moist¬ 
ure  ;  and  likewise  show  by  what  means,  if  possi¬ 
ble,  they  may  be  stopped  at  a  reasonable  expense. 
Or  indeed,  since  there  is  something  so  moving  in 
the  very  image  of  weeping  beauty,  it  would  be 
worthy  his  art  to  provide,  that  these  eloquent 
drops  may  no  more  be  lavished  on  trifles,  or  em¬ 
ployed  as  servants  to  their  wayward  wills  ;  but 
reserved  for  serious  occasions  in  life,  to  adorn 
generous  pity,  true  penitence,  or  real  sorrow. 

T.  “  I  am,”  etc. 


Ho.  253.]  THURSDAY,  DECEMBER  20,  1711 

Indignor  quicquam  reprehendi,  non  quia  crasse 
Compositum,  illepideve  putetur,  sed  quia  nuper. 

Hoe.  1  Ep.  ii,  76. 

I  feel  my  honest  indignation  rise, 

When  with  affected  air  a  coxcomb  cries, 

The  work  I  own  has  elegance  and  ease, 

But  sure  no  modern  should  presume  to  please. 

Francis. 

There  is  nothing  which  more  denotes  a  great 
mind  than  the  abhorrence  of  envy  and  detraction. 
This  passion  reigns  more  among  bad  poets  than 
any  other  set  of  men. 

As  there  are  none  more  ambitious  of  fame  than 
those  who  are  conversant  in  poetry,  it  is  very 
natural  for  such  as  have  not  succeeded  in  it,  to  de¬ 
preciate  those  who  have.  For  since  they  cannot 
raise  themselves  to  the  reputation  of  their  fellow- 
writers,  they  must  endeavor  to  sink  that  to  their 
own  pitch,  if  they  would  still  keep  themselves 
upon  a  level  with  them. 

The  greatest  wits  that  ever  were  produced  in 
one  age,  lived  together  in  so  good  an  understand¬ 
ing,  and  celebrated  one  another  with  so  much 
generosity,  that  each  of  them  receives  an  additional 
luster  from  his  cotemporaries,  and  is  more  famous 
tor  having  lived  with  men  of  so  extraordinary  a 
genius,  than  if  he  had  himself  been  the  sole  won¬ 
der  of  the  age.  I  need  not  tell  my  reader,  that  I 
here  point  at  the  reign  of  Augustus;  and  I  believe 
he  will  be  of  my  opinion,  that  neither  Virgil  nor 
Horace  would  have  gained  so  great  a  reputation 
in  the  world,  had  they  not  been  the  friends  and 
admirers  of  each  other.  Indeed  all  the  great 
writers  of  that  age,  for  whom  singly  we  have  so 
great  an  esteem,  stand  up  together  as  vouchers  for 
one  another’s  reputation.  But  at  the  same  time 
that  Virgil  was  celebrated  by  Gallus,  Propertius, 
Horace,  Varius,  Tucca,  and  Ovid,  we  know  that 
Bavius  and  Mievius  were  his  declared  foes  and 
calumniators. 

In  our  own  country  a  man  seldom  sets  up  for  a 
poet,  without  attacking  the  reputation  of  all  his 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


brothers  in  the  art.  The  ignorance  of  the  moderns, 
the  scribblers  of  the  age,  the  decay  of  poetry,  are 
the  topics  of  detraction  with  which  lie  makes  his 
entrance  into  the  world  :  but  how  much  more 
noble  is  the  fame  that  is  built  on  candor  and  in- 
enuity,  according  to  those  beautiful  lines  of 
ir  John  Denham,  in  his  poem  on  Fletcher’s 
works: 

But  whither  am  I  stray’d  ?  I  need  not  raise, 

Trophies  to  thee  from  other  men’s  dispraise ; 

Nor  is  thy  fame  on  lesser  ruins  built,  v 

Nor  needs  thy  juster  title  the  foul  guilt 
Of  Eastern  kings,  who  to  secure  their  reign, 

Must  have  their  brothers,  sons,  and  kindred  slain. 

I  am  sorry  to  find  that  an  author,  who  is  very 
justly  esteemed  among  the  best  judges,  has  admit¬ 
ted  some  strokes  of  this  nature  into  a  very  fine 
poem  ;  I  mean  the  Art  of  Criticism,*  which  was 
published  some  months  since,  and  is  a  master¬ 
piece  in  its  kind.  The  observations  follow  one 
another  like  those  in  Horace’s  Art  of  Poetry,  with¬ 
out  that  methodical  regularity  which  would  have 
been  requisite  in  a  prose  author.  They  are  some 
of  them  uncommon, f  but  such  as  the  reader  must 
assent  to,  when  he  sees  them  explained  with  that 
elegance  and  perspicuity  in  which  they  are  de¬ 
livered.  As  for  those  which  are  the  most  known, 
and  the  most  received,  they  are  placed  in  so  beau¬ 
tiful  a  light,  and  illustrated  with  such  apt  allu¬ 
sions,  that  they  have  in  them  all  the  graces  of 
novelty  and  make  the  reader  who  was  before  ac¬ 
quainted  with  them,  still  more  convinced  of  their 
truth  and  solidity.  And  here  give  me  leave  to 
mention  what  Monsieur  Boileau  has  so  very  well 
enlarged  upon  in  the  preface  to  his  works,  that  wit 
and  fine  writing  do  not  consist  so  much  in  ad¬ 
vancing  things  that  are  new,  as  in  giving  thing's 
that  are  known  an  agreeable  turn.  It  is  impos¬ 
sible  for  us,  who  live  in  the  latter  ages  of  the 
world,  to  make  observations  in  criticism,  morality, 
or  in  any  art  or  science,  which  have  not  been 
touched  upon  by  others.  We  have  little  else  left 
us,  but  to  represent  the  common  sense  of  mankind 
in  more  strong,  more  beautiful,  or  more  uncommon 
lights.  If  a  reader  examines  Horace’s  Art  of 
Poetry,  he  will  find  but  very  few  precepts  in  it, 
which  he  may  not  meet  with  in  Aristotle,  and 
which  were  not  commonly  known  by  all  the  poets 
of  the  Augustan  age.  His  way  of  expressing  and 
applying  them,  not  his  invention  of  them,  is  what 
we  are  chiefly  to  admire. 

For  this  reason  I  think  there  is  nothing  in  the 
world  so  tiresome  as  the  works  of  those  critics 
who  write  in  a  positive  dogmatic  way,  without 
either  language,  genius,  or  imagination.  If  the 
reader  would  see  how  the  best  of  the  Latin  critics 
wrote,  he  may  find  their  manner  very  beautifully 
described  in  the  characters  of  Horace,  Petronius, 
Quintilian,  and  Longinus,  as  they  are  drawn  in 
the  essay  of  which  I  am  now  speaking. 

Since  I  have  mentioned  Longinus,  who  in  his 
reflections  has  given  us  the  same  kind  of  sublime, 
which  he  observes  in  the  several  passages  that  oc¬ 
casioned  them;  I  cannot  but  take  notice  that  our 
English  author  has  after  the  same  manner  exem¬ 
plified  several  of  his  precepts  in  the  very  precepts 
themselves.  I  shall  produce  two  or  three  in¬ 
stances  of  this  kind.  Speaking  of  the  insipid 
smoothness  which  some  readers  are  so  much  in 
love  with,  he  has  the  following  verses: 

These  equal  syllables  alone  require, 

Tho’  oft  the  ear  the  open  vowels  tire, 

While  expletives  their  feeble  aid  do  join, 

And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  line. 


*  See  Pope’s  Works,  vol.  v,  p.  201,  6  vols.,  Edit.  Lond.  12mo, 
1770. 

fSee  Essay  on  the  Genius  and  Writings  of  Pope,  sect.  Ill, 
p.  97,  2d  od.,  1763. 


315 

The  gaping  of  the  vowels  in  the  second  line, 
the  expletive  “do”  in  the  third,  and  the  ten 
monosyllables  in  the  fourth,  give  such  a  beauty 
to  this  passage,  as  would  have  been  very  mucn 
admired  in  an  ancient  poet.  The  reader  may  ob¬ 
serve  the  following  lines  in  the  same  view: 

A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  the  song, 

That,  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  length  along. 

And  afterward. 

’Tis  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  offense, 

The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense. 

Soft  is  the  strain  when  Zephyr  gently  blows, 

And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers  flows ; 

But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore, 

The  hoarse  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar. 
When  Ajax  strives  some  rock’s  vast  weight  to  throw. 

The  line  too  labors,  and  the  words  move  slow ; 

Not  so,  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain, 

Kies  o’er  the  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  main. 

The  beautiful  distich  upon  Ajax  in  the  forego¬ 
ing  lines  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  description  in  Ho¬ 
mer’s  Odyssey,  which  none  of  the  critics  have  taken 
notice  of.  It  is  where  Sisyphus  is  represented 
lifting  his  stone  up  the  hill,  which  is  no  sooner 
carried  to  the  top  of  it,  but  it  immediately  tumbles 
to  the  bottom.  This  double  motion  of  the  stone 
is  admirably  described  in  the  number  of  these 
verses,  as  in  the  four  first  it  is  heaved  up  by 
several  spondees  intermixed  with  proper  breath¬ 
ing-places,  and  at  last  trundles  down  in  a  con¬ 
tinued  line  of  dactyls; 

I  turn’d  my  eye,  and  as  I  turn’d,  survey’d 
A  mournful  vision!  the  Sisyphian  shade: 

With  many  a  weary  step,  and  many  a  groan, 

Up  the  high  hill  he  heaves  a  huge  round  stone: 

The  huge  round  stone,  resulting  with  a  bound, 

Thunders  impetuous  down,  and  smokes  along  the  ground. 

Pope. 

It  would  be  endless  to  quote  verses  out  of  Vir¬ 
gil  which  have  this  particular  kind  of  beauty  in 
the  numbers  ;  but  I  may  take  an  occasion  in  a 
future  paper,  to  show  several  of  them  which  have 
escaped  the  observations  of  others. 

I  cannot  conclude  this  paper  without  taking  no¬ 
tice  that  we  have  three  poems  in  our  tongue, 
which  are  of  the  same  nature,  and  each  of  them  a 
master-piece  in  its  kind;  the  Essay  on  Translat¬ 
ed  Verse,*  the  Essay  on  the  Art  of  Poetry,  and 
the  Essay  upon  Criticism. — C. 


No.  254.]  FRIDAY,  DECEMBER  21,  1711. 

Virtuous  love  is  honorable,  but  lust  increaseth  sorrow. 

When  I  consider  the  false  impressions  which 
are  received  by  the  generality  of  the  world,  I  am 
troubled  at  none  more  than  a  certain  levity  of 
thought,  which  many  young  women  of  quality 
have  entertained,  to  the  hazard  of  their  charac¬ 
ters,  and  the  certain  misfortune  of  their  lives.  The 
first  of  the  following  letters  may  best  represent  the 
faults  I  would  now  point  at ;  and  the  answer  to  it, 
the  temper  of  mind  in  a  contrary  character. 

“My  Dear  Harriet, 

“If  thou  art  she,  but  oh  how  fallen,  how  chang¬ 
ed,  what  an  apostate!  how  lost  to  all  that  is  gay 
and  agreeable!  To  be  married  I  find  is  to  be 
buried  alive;  I  cannot  conceive  it  more  dismal  to 
be  shut  up  in  a  vault  to  converse  with  the  shades 
of  my  ancestors,  than  to  be  carried  down  to  an 
old  manorhouse  in  the  country,  and  confined  to 
the  conversation  of  a  sober  husband,  and  an  awk¬ 
ward  chambermaid.  For  variety  I  suppose  you 
may  entertain  yourself  with  madam  in  her  gro- 


*  By  the  earl  of  Roscommon. 


316 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


gram  gown,  the  spouse  of  your  parish  vicar,  who 
has  by  this  time,  I  am  sure,  well  furnished  you 
with  receipts  for  making  salves  and  possets,  dis¬ 
tilling  cordial  waters,  making  sirups,  and  apply¬ 
ing  poultices. 

“Blest  solitude !  I  wish  thee  joy,  my  dear,  of 
thy  loved  retirement,  which  indeed  you  would  per¬ 
suade  me  is  very  agreeable,  and  different  enough 
from  what  I  have  here  described:  but,  child,  I  am 
afraid  thy  brains  are  a  little  disordered  with  ro¬ 
mances  and  novels.  After  six  month’s  marriage 
to  hear  thee  talk  of  love,  and  paint  the  country 
scenes  so  softly,  is  a  little  extravagant;  one  would 
think  you  lived  the  lives  of  sylvan  deities,  or 
roved  among  the  walks  of  paradise,  like  the  first 
happy  pair.  But  pray  thee  leave  ’these  whimsies, 
and  come  to  town  in  order  to  live  and  talk  like 
other  mortals.  However,  as  I  am  extremely  in¬ 
terested  in  your  reputation,  I  would  willingly 
give  you  a  little  good  advice  at  your  first  ap¬ 
pearance  under  the  character  of  a  married  woman. 
It  is  a  little  insolent  in  me,  perhaps,  to  advise  a 
matron;  but  I  am  so  afraid  you  will  make  so  silly 
a  figure  as  a  fond  wife,  that  I  cannot  help  warning 
you  not  to  appear  in  any  public  places  with  your 
husband,  and  never  to  saunter  about  St.  James’s- 
park  together:  if  you  presume  to  enter  the  ring  at 
Hyde-park  together,  you  are  ruined  forever:  nor 
must  you  take  the  least  notice  of  one  another,  at 
the  playhouse,  or  opera,  unless  you  would  be 
laughed  at  for  a  very  loving  couple,  most  happily 
paired  in  the  yoke  of  wedlock.  I  would  recom¬ 
mend  the  example  of  an  acquaintance  of  ours  to 
your  imitation ;  she  is  the  most  negligent  and 
fashionable  wife  in  the  world;  she  is  hardly  ever 
seen  in  the  same  place  with  her  husband,  and  if 
they  happen  to  meet,  you  -would  think  them  per¬ 
fect  strangers;  she  was  never  heard  to  name  him 
in  his  absence,  and  takes  care  he  shall  never  be 
the  subject  of  any  discourse  that  she  has  a  share 
in.  I  hope  you  will  propose  this  lady  as  a  pattern, 
though  1  am  very  much  afraid  you  will  be  so  silly 
as  to  think  Portia,  etc.,  Sabine  and  Roman  wives, 
much  brighter  examples.  I  wish  it  may  never 
come  into  your  head  to  imitate  those  antiquated 
creatures  so  far  as  to  come  into  public  in  the 
habit,  as  well  as  air,  of  a  Roman  matron.  T  on 
make  already  the  entertainment  at  Mrs.  Modish’s 
tea-table:  she  says;  she  always  thought  you  a  dis¬ 
creet  person,  and  qualified  to  manage  a  family 
with  admirable  prudence;  she  dies  to  see  what  de¬ 
mure  and  serious  airs  wedlock  has  given  you,  but 
she  says,  she  shall  never  forgive  your  choice  ot  so 
gallant  a  man  as  Bellamour,  to  transform  him  into 
a  mere  sober  husband;  it  was  unpardonable.  Y ou 
see,  my  dear,  we  all  envy  your  happiness,  and  no 
person  more  than 

“Your  humble  Servant 

“Lydia.” 

“Be  not  in  pain,  good  madam,  for  my  appear¬ 
ance  in  town;  I  shall  frequent  no  public  places,  or 
make  any  visits  where  thecharacter  of  a  modest  wife 
is  ridiculous.  As  for  your  wild  raillery  on  matri¬ 
mony,  it  is  all  hypocrisy ;  you,  and  all  the  hand¬ 
some  young  women  of  your  acquaintance,  show 
yourselves  to  no  other  purpose,  than  to  gain  a  con¬ 
quest  over  some  man  of  worth,  in  order  to  bestow 
your  charms  and  fortune  on  him.  There  is  no  in¬ 
decency  in  the  confession ;  the  design  is  modest 
and  honorable,  and  all  your  affectation  cannot 
disguise  it. 

“I  am  married  and  have  no  other  concern  but 
to  please  the  man  I  love;  he  is  the  end  of  every 
care  I  have  ;  If  I  dress,  it  is  for  him  ;  If  I  read  a 
poem,  or  a  play,  it  is  to  qualify  myself  for  a  con¬ 
versation  agreeable  to  his  tastoj  he  is  almost  the 


end  of  my  devotions;  half  my  prayers  are  for  his 
happiness.  I  love  to  talk  of  him,  and  never  hear 
him  named  but  with  pleasure  and  emotion.  I  am 
your  friend,  and  wish  you  happiness,  but  am  sorry 
to  see,  by  the  air  of  your  letter,  that  there  are  a 
set  of  women  who  are  got  into  into  the  common¬ 
place  raillery  of  everytliing  that  is  sober,  decent, 
and  proper:  matrimony  and  the  clergy  are  the 
topics  of  people  of  little  wit  and  no  understanding. 

I  own  to  you,  1  have  learned  of  the  vicar’s  wife 
all  you  tax  me  with.  She  is  a  discreet,  ingenious, 
pleasant,  pious  woman;  I  wish  she  had  the  hand¬ 
ling  of  you  and  Mrs.  Modish;  you  would  find,  if 
you  were  too  free  with  her,  she  would  soon  make 
you  as  charming  as  ever  you  were  ;  she  would 
make  you  blush  as  much  as  if  you  never  had  been 
fine  ladies.  The  vicar,  madam,  is  so  kind  as  to 
visit  my  husband,  and  his  agreeable  conversation 
has  brought  him  to  enjoy  many  sober  happy  hours 
when  even  I  am  shut  out,  and  my  dear  master  is 
entertained  only  with  his  own  thoughts.  These 
things,  dear  madam,  will  be  lasting  satisfactions, 
when  the  fine  ladies  and  the  coxcombs,  by  whom 
they  form  themselves,  are  irreparably  ridiculous, 
ridiculous  in  old  age. 

“  I  am,  Madam 

“Your  most  humble  Servant, 

“  Mary  Home.” 

“  Dear  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  You  have  no  goodness  in  the  world,  and  are 
not  in  earnest  in  anything  you  say  that  is  serious, 
if  you  do  not  send  me  a  plain  answer  to  this.  I 
happened  some  days  past  to  be  at  the  play,  where, 
during  the  time  of  the  performance,  I  could  not 
keep  my  eyes  off  from  a  beautiful  young  creature 
who  sat  just  before  me,  and  who,  I  have  been  since 
informed,  has  no  fortune.  It  would  utterly  ruin 
my  reputation  for  discretion  to  marry  such  a  one, 
and  by  what  I  can  learn  she  has  a  character  of 
great  modesty,  so  that  there  is  nothing  to  be 
thought  on  any  other  way.  My  mind  has  ever 
since  been  so  wholly  bent  on  her,  that  I  am  much 
in  danger  of  doing  something  very  extravagant, 
without  your  speedy  advice  to, 

“  Sir, 

“  Your  most  humble  servant.” 

I  am  sorry  I  cannot  answer  this  impatient  gen¬ 
tleman,  but  by  another  question. 

“  Dear  Correspondent, 

“  Would  you  marry  to  please  other  people,  or 
yourself?” — T. 


Ho.  255.]  SATURDAY,  DECEMBER  22,  1711. 

Landis  amore  tunics  ?  sunt  certa  piacula,  quas  te 
Ter  uure  lecto  poterunt  recreare  libello. 

Hor.  Ep.  1,  lib.  i,  ver.  36. 

IMITATED. 

Know  there  are  rhymes,  which  (fresh  and  fresh  applei’d) 
Will  cure  the  arrant’st  puppy  of  his  pride.— Pope. 

The  soul,  considered  abstractedly  from  its  pas¬ 
sions,  is  of  a  remiss  and  sedentary  nature,  slow 
in  its  resolves,  and  languishing  in  its  executions. 
The  use,  therefore,  of  the  passions  is  to  stir  it  up, 
and  to  put  it  upon  action,  to  awaken  the  under¬ 
standing,  to  enforce  the  will,  and  to  make  the 
whole  man  more  vigorous  and  attentive  in  the  pro- 
secution*of  his  designs.  As  this. is  the  end  of  the 
passions  in  general,  so  it  is  particularly  ot  ambi¬ 
tion,  which  pushes  the  soul  to  such  actions  as  aie 
apt  to  procure  honor  and  reputation  to  the  actor. 
But  if  we  carry  our  reflections  higher,  we  may 
discover  further  ends  of  Providence  in  implanting 
this  passion  in  mankind. 


THE  SPECTATOR 


It  was  necessary  for  the  world,  that  arts  should 
be  invented  and  improved,  books  written  and 
transmitted  to  posterity,  nations  conquered  and 
civilized.  Now,  since  the  proper  and  genuine 
motives  to  these,  and  the  like  great  actions,  would 
only  influence  virtuous  minds;  there  would  be  but 
small  improvements  in  the  world,  were  there  not 
some  common  principle  of  action  working  equally 
with  all  men  :  and  such  a  principle  is  ambition, 
or  a  desire  of  fame,  by  which  great  endowments 
are  not  suffered  to  lie  idle  and  useless  to  the  public, 
and  many  vicious  men  are  overreached,  as  it  were, 
and  engaged  contrary  to  their  natural  inclinations, 
in  a  glorious  and  laudable  course  of  action.  For 
we  may  further  observe,  that  men  of  the  greatest 
abilities  are  most  fired  with  ambition;  and  that,  on 
the  contrary,  mean  and  narrow  minds  are  the  least 
actuated  by  it :  whether  it  be  that  a  man’s  sense 
of  his  own  incapacities  makes  him  despair  of 
coming  at  fame,  or  that  he  has  not  enough  range 
of  thought  to  look  out  for  any  good  which  does 
not  more  immediately  relate  to  his  interest  or  con¬ 
venience;  or  that  Providence,  in  the  very  frame  of 
his  soul,  would  not  subject  him  to  such  a  passion 
as  would  be  useless  to  the  world,  and  a  torment 
to  himself. 

Were  not  this  desire  of  fame  very  strong,  the 
difficulty  of  obtaining  it,  and  the  danger  of  losing 
it  'when  obtained,  would  be  sufficient  to  deter  a 
man  from  so  vain  a  pursuit. 

How  few  are  there  who  are  furnished  with  abili¬ 
ties  sufficient  to  recommend  their  actions  to  the 
admiration  of  the  world,  and  to  distinguish  them¬ 
selves  from  the  rest  of  mankind  !  Providence  for 
the  most  part  sets  us  upon  a  level,  and  observes  a 
kind  of  proportion  in  its  dispensations  toward  us. 
If  it  renders  us  perfect  in  one  accomplishment,  it 
generally  leaves  us  defective  in  another,  and  seems 
careful  rather  of  preserving  every  person  from 
being  mean  and  deficient  in  his  qualifications, 
than  of  making  any  single  one  eminent  or  extra¬ 
ordinary. 

Among  those  who  are  the  most  richly  endowed 
by  nature,  and  accomplished  by  their  own  indus¬ 
try,  how  few  are  there  whose  virtues  are  not  ob- 
scured  by  the  ignorance,  prejudice,  or  envy  of 
their  beholders  !  Some  men  cannot  discern  be¬ 
tween  a  noble  and  a  mean  action.  Others  are  apt 
to  attribute  them  to  some  false  end  or  intention; 
and  others  purposely  misrepresent,  or  put  a  wrong 
interpretation  on  them.  But  the  more  to  enforce 
this  consideration,  we  may  observe,  that  those  are 
generally  most  unsuccessful  in  their  pursuit  after 
tame,  who  are  most  desirous  of  obtaining  it.  It 
is  Sallust’s  remark  upon  Cato,  that  the  less  he 
coveted  glory,  the  more  he  acquired  it.* 

Men  take  an  ill-natured  pleasure  in  crossing  out 
inclinations,  and  disappointing  us  in  what  our 
hearts  are  most  set  upon.  When  therefore  they 
have  discovered  the  passionate  desire  of  fame  in  the 
ambitious  man  (as  no  temper  of  mind  is  more  apt 
to  show'  itself),  they  become  sparing  and  reserved 
in  their  commendations,  they  envy  him  the  satis¬ 
faction  of  an  applause,  and  look  on  their  praises 
rather  as  a  kindness  done  to  his  person,  than  as 
a  tribute  paid  to  his  merit.  Others  who  are 
free  from  this  natural  perverseness  of  temper, 
grow*  wary  in  their  praises  of  one  who  sets  too 
great  a  value  on  them,  lest  they  should  raise  him 
too  high  in  his  own  imagination,  and  by  conse¬ 
quence  remove  him  to  a  greater  distance  from 
themselves. 

But,  further,  this  desire  of  fame  naturally  be¬ 
trays  the  ambitious  man  into  such  indecencies  as 
are  lessening  to  his  reputation.  He  is  still  afraid 


317 

lest  any  of  his  actions  should  be  thrown  away  in 
private,  lest  his  deserts  should  be  concealed  from 
the  notice  of  the  world,  or  receive  any  disad¬ 
vantage  from  the  reports  which  others  make  of 
them.  This  often  sets  them  on  empty  boasts  and 
ostentations  ot  himself,  and  betrays  him  into  vain 
fantastical  recitals  of  his  own  performances.  His 
discourse  generally  leans  one  way,  and,  whatever 
is  the  subject  of  it,  tends  obliquely  either  to  the 
detracting  from  others,  or  to  the  extolling  of  him¬ 
self.  Vanity  is  the  natural  weakness  of  an  ambi¬ 
tious  man,  which  exposes  him  to  the  secret  scorn 
and  derision  of  those  he  converses  with,  and 
ruins  the  character  he  is  so  industrious  to  advance 
by  it.  For  though  his  actions  are  never  so  glori¬ 
ous,  they  lose  their  luster  when  they  are  drawn  at 
large,  and  set  to  show'  by  his  own  hand;  and  as 
the  world  is  more  apt  to  find  fault  than  to 
commend,  the  boast  will  probably  be  censured, 
when  the  great  action  that  occasioned  it  is  for¬ 
gotten. 

Beside,  this  very  desire  of  fame  is  looked  on  as 
a  meanness  and  imperfection  in  the  greatest  char¬ 
acter.  A  solid  and  substantial  greatness  of  soul 
looks  dowrn  with  a  generous  neglect  on  the  cen¬ 
sures  and  applauses  of  the  multitude,  and  places 
a  man  beyond  the  little  noise  and  strife  of  tongues. 
Accordingly,  we  find  in  ourselves  a  secret  awe  and 
veneration  for  the  character  of  one  who  moves 
above  us  in  a  regular  and  illustrious  course  of  vir¬ 
tue,  without  any  regard  to  our  good  or  ill  opin¬ 
ions  of  him,  to  our  reproaches  or  commendations. 
As,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  usual  for  us,  when  we 
would  take  off  from  the  fame  and  reputation  of  an 
action,  to  ascribe  it  to  vain  glory  and  a  desire  of 
fame  in  the  actor.  Nor  is  this  common  judgment 
and  opinion  of  mankind  ill  founded :  for  certain¬ 
ly  it  denotes  no  great  bravery  of  mind,  to  be 
worked  up  to  any  noble  action  by  so  selfish  a  mo¬ 
tive,  and  to  do  that  out  of  a  desire  of  fame,  which 
we  could  not  be  prompted  to  by  a  disinterested 
love  to  mankind,  or  by  a  generous  passion  for  the 
glory  of  him  who  made  us. 

Thus  is  fame  a  thing  difficult  to  be  obtained  by 
all,  but  particularly  by  those  who  thirst  after  it, 
since  most  men  have  so  much  either  of  ill-nature, 
or  of  wariness,  as  not  to  gratify  or  soothe  the 
vanity  of  the  ambitious  man;  and  since  this  very 
thirst  after  fame  naturally  betrays  him  into  such 
indecencies  as  are  a  lessening  to  his  reputation, 
and  is  itself  looked  upon  as  a  weakness  in  the 
greatest  characters. 

In  the  next  place,  fame  is  easily  lost,  and  as 
difficult  to  be  preserved  as  it  was  at  first  to 
be  acquired.  But  this  I  shall  make  the  subject 
of  a  following  paper. — 0. 


No.  256.]  MONDAY,  DECEMBER  24,  1711, 

Fame  is  an  ill  you  may  with  ease  obtain, 

A  sad  oppression,  to  be  borne  with  pain. — Hesiod. 

There  are  many  passions  and  tempers  of  mind 
which  naturally  dispose  us  to  depress  and  villify 
the  merit  of  one  rising  in  the  esteem  of  mankind. 
All  those  who  made  their  entrance  into  the  world 
with  the  same  advantages,  and  were  once  looked 
on  as  his  equals,  are  apt  to  think  the  fame  of  his 
merits  a  reflection  on  their  own  indeserts  ;  and 
will  therefore  take  care  to  reproach  him  with  the 
scandal  of  some  past  action,  or  derogate  from  the 
worth  of  the  present,  that  they  may  still  keep  him 
on  the  same  level  with  themselves.  The  like  kind 
of  consideration  often  stirs  up  the  envy  of  such 
as  were  once  his  superiors,  who  think  it  a  detrac¬ 
tion  from  their  merit  to  see  another  get  ground 


*Sal.  Bel.  Catil.,  c.  49. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


318 

upon  them,  and  overtake  them  in  the  pursuits  of 
glory;  and  will  therefore  endeavor  to  sink  his  re¬ 
putation,  that  they  may  the  better  preserve  their 
own.  Those  who  were  once  his  equals  envy  and 
defame  him,  because  they  now  see  him  their  supe¬ 
rior;  and  those  who  were  once  his  superiors,  be¬ 
cause  they  look  upon  him  as  their  equal. 

But  further,  a  man  whose  extraordinary  reputa¬ 
tion  thus  lifts  him  up  to  the  notice  and  observa¬ 
tion  of  mankind,  draws  a  multitude  of  eyes  upon 
him,  that  will  narrowly  inspect  every  part  of  him, 
consider  him  nicely  in  all  views,  and  not  be  a 
little  pleased  when  they  have  taken  him  in  the 
worst  and  most  disadvantageous  light.  There  are 
many  who  find  a  pleasure  in  contradicting  the 
common  reports  of  fame,  and  in  spreading  abroad 
the  weaknesses  of  an  exalted  character.  They 
publish  their  ill-natured  discoveries  with  a  secret 
pride,  and  applaud  themselves  for  the  singularity 
of  their  judgment,  which  has  searched  deeper  than 
others,  detected  what  the  rest  of  the  world  have 
overlooked,  and  found  a  flaw  in  what  the  gene¬ 
rality  of  mankind  admire.  Others  there  are  who 
proclaim  the  errors  and  infirmities  of  a  great  man 
with  an  inward  satisfaction  and  complacency  , if  they 
discover  none  of  the  like  errors  and  infirmities  in 
themselves;  for  while  they  are  exposing  another’s 
weaknesses,  they  are  tacitly  aiming  at  their  own 
commendations,  who  are  not  subject  to  the  like 
infirmities,  and  are  apt  to  be  transported  with  a 
secret  kind  of  vanity,  to  see  themselves  superior, 
in  some  respects,  to  one  of  a  sublime  and  cele¬ 
brated  reputation.  Hay,  it  very  often  happens, 
that  none  are  more  industrious  in  publishing  the 
blemishes  of  an  extraordinary  reputation,  than 
such  as  lie  open  to  the  same  censures  in  their  own 
characters,  as  either  hoping  to  excuse  their  own 
defects  by  the  authority  of  so  high  an  example,  or 
to  raise  an  imaginary  applause  to  themselves,  for 
resembling  a  person  of  an  exalted  reputation, 
though  in  the  blamable  parts  of  his  character. 
If  all  these  secret  springs  of  detraction  fail,  yet 
very  often  a  vain  ostentation  of  wit  sets  a  man  on 
attacking  an  established  name,  and  sacrificing  it 
to  the  mirth  and  laughter  of  those  about  him.  A 
satire  or  a  libel  on  one  of  the  common  stamp, 
never  meets  with  that  reception  and  approbation 
among  its  readers,  as  what  is  aimed  at  a  person 
whose  merit  places  him  upon  an  eminence,  and 
gives  him  a  more  conspicuous  figure  among  men. 
Whether  it  be,  that  we  think  it  shows  greater  art 
to  expose  and  turn  to  ridicule  a  man  •whose  char¬ 
acter  seems  so  improper  a  subject  for  it,  or  that  we 
are  pleased,  by  some  implicit  kind  of  revenge,  to 
see  him  taken  down  and  humbled  in  his  reputa¬ 
tion,  and  in  some  measure  reduced  to  our  own 
rank,  who  had  so  far  raised  himself  above  us,  in 
the  reports  and  opinions  of  mankind. 

Thus  we  see  how  many  dark  and  intricate  mo¬ 
tives  there  are  to  detraction  and  defamation,  and 
how  many  malicious  spies  are  searching  into  the 
actions  of  a  great  man,  who  is  not  always  the 
best  prepared  for  so  narrow  an  inspection.  For 
we  may  generally  observe,  that  our  admiration  of 
a  famous  man  lessens  upon  our  nearer  acquaint¬ 
ance  with  him  :  and  that  we  seldom  hear  the  de¬ 
scription  of  a  celebrated  person,  without  a  cata¬ 
logue  of  some  notorious  weaknesses  and  infirmi¬ 
ties.  The  reason  may  be,  because  any  little  slip 
is  more  conspicuous  and  observable  in  his  con¬ 
duct  than  in  another’s,  as  it  is  not  of  a  piece  with 
the  rest  of  his  character;  or  because  it  is  impossi¬ 
ble  for  a  man  at  the  same  time  to  be  attentive  to 
the  more  important  part  of  his  life,  and  to  keep  a 
watchful  eye  over  all  the  inconsiderable  circum¬ 
stances  of  his  behavior  and  conversation;  or  be¬ 
cause,  as  we  have  before  observed,  the  same  tem¬ 


per  of  mind  which  inclines  us  to  a  desire  of  fame, 
naturally  betrays  us  into  such  slips  and  unwari¬ 
nesses,  as  are  not  incident  to  men  of  a  contrary 
disposition. 

After  all,  it  must  be  confessed,  that  a  noble  and 
triumphant  merit  often  breaks  through  and  dissi¬ 
pates  these  little  spots  and  sullies  in  its  reputa¬ 
tion;  but  if  by  a  mistaken  pursuit  after  fame,  or 
through  human  infirmity,  any  false  step  be  made 
in  the  more  momentous  concerns  of  life,  the  whole 
scheme  of  ambitious  designs  is  broken  and  dis¬ 
appointed.  The  smaller  stains  and  blemishes 
may  die  away,  and  disappear  amidst  the  bright¬ 
ness  that  surrounds  them :  but  a  blot  of  a  deeper 
nature  casts  a  shade  on  all  the  other  beauties,  and 
darkens  the  whole  character.  How  difficult,  there¬ 
fore.  is  it  to  preserve  a  great  name,  when  he  that 
has  acquired  it  is  so  obnoxious  to  such  little 
weaknesses  and  infirmities  as  are  no  small  dimi¬ 
nution  to  it  when  discovered;  especially  when 
they  are  so  industriously  proclaimed,  and  aggra¬ 
vated  by  such  as  were  once  his  superiors  or 
equals;  by  such  as  would  set  to  show  their  judg¬ 
ment,  or  their  wit,  and  by  such  as  are  guilty,  or 
innocent  of  the  same  slips  or  misconducts  in  their 
own  behavior. 

But  were  there  none  of  these  dispositions  in 
others  to  censure  a  famous  man,  nor  any  such 
miscarriages  in  himself,  yet  would  he  meet  with 
no  small  trouble  in  keeping  up  his  reputation,  in 
all  its  height  and  splendor.  There  must  be  al¬ 
ways  a  noble  train  of  actions  to  preserve  his  fame 
in  life  and  motion.  For  when  it  is  once  at  a  stand, 
it  naturally  flags  and  languishes.  Admiration  is 
a  very  short-lived  passion,  that  immediately  de¬ 
cays  upon  growing  familiar  with  its  object,  unless 
it  be  still  fed  with  fresh  discoveries,  and  kept 
alive  by  a  new  perpetual  succession  of  miracles 
rising  up  to  its  view.  And  even  the  greatest 
actions  of  a  celebrated  person  labor  under  this 
disadvantage,  that,  however  surprising  and  extra¬ 
ordinary  they  may  be,  they  are  no  more  than  what 
are  expected  from  him  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  if 
they  fall  anything  below  the  opinion  that  is  con¬ 
ceived  of  him.  though  they  might  raise  the  repu¬ 
tation  of  another,  they  are  a  diminution  to  his. 

One  would  think  there  should  be  something 
wonderfully  pleasing  in  the  possession  of  fame, 
that,  notwithstanding  all  these  mortifying  consi¬ 
derations,  can  engage  a  man  in  so  desperate  a 
pursuit ;  and  yet  if  we  consider  the  little  happi¬ 
ness  that  attends  a  great  character,  and  the  mul¬ 
titude  of  disquietudes  to  which  the  desire  of  it 
subjects  an  ambitious  mind,  one  would  be  still 
the  more  surprised  to  see  so  many  restless  can¬ 
didates  for  glory. 

*  Ambition  raises  a  secret  tumult  in  the  soul  ;  it 
inflames  the  mind,  and  puts  it  into  a  violent 
hurry  of  thought.  It  is  still  reaching  after  an 
empty,  imaginary  good,  that  has  not  in  it  the 
power  to  abate  or  satisfy  it.  Most  other  things 
we  long  for,  can  allay  the  cravings  of  their  proper 
sense,  and  for  a  while  set  the  appetite  at  rest ;  but 
fame  is  a  good  so  wholly  foreign  to  our  natures, 
that  we  have  no  faculty  in  the  soul  adapted  to 
it,  nor  any  organ  in  the  body  to  relish  it ;  an  ob¬ 
ject  of  desire,  placed  out  of  the  possibility  of  frui¬ 
tion.  It  may  indeed  fill  the  mind  for  awhile 
with  a  giddy  kind  of  pleasure,  but  it  is  such  a 
pleasure  as  makes  a  man  restless  and  uneasy 
under  it;  and  which  does  not  much  satisfy  the 
present  thirst,  as  it  excites  fresh  desires,  and  sets 
the  soul  on  new  enterprises.  For  how  few  ambi¬ 
tious  men  are  there  who  have  got  as  much  fame 
as  they  desired,  and  whose  thirst  after  it  has  not 
been  as  eager  in  the  very  height  of  their  reputa¬ 
tion,  as  it  was  before  they  became  known  and 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


eminent  among  men?  There  is  not  any  circum¬ 
stance  in  Caesar’s  character  which  gives  me  a 
greater  idea  of  him,  than  a  saying  which  Cicero 
tells  us  he  frequently  made  use  of  "in  private  con¬ 
versation,  “  That  he  was  satisfied  with  his  share 
of  life  and  fame.”  “Se  satis  vel  ad  naturam,  vel  ad 
gloriam  vixisse.”  Many  indeed  have  given  over 
their  pursuits  after  fame,  but  that  has  proceeded 
either  from  the  disappointments  they  have  met  in 
it,  or  from  their  experience  of  the  little  pleasure 
which  attends  it,  or  from  the  better  informations 
or  natural  coldness  of  old  age ;  but  seldom  from  a 
full  satisfaction  and  acquiescence  in  their  present 
enjoyments  of  it. 

Nor  is  fame  only  unsatisfying  in  itself,  but  the 
desire  of  it  lays  us  open  to  many  accidental 
troubles  which  those  are  free  from,  who  have  no 
such  a  tender  regard  for  it.  How  often  is  the  am¬ 
bitious  man  cast  down  and  disappointed,  if  he 
receives  no  oraise  where  he  expected  it?  Nay, 
how  often  is  ne  mortified  with  the  very  praises  he 
receives,  if  they  do  not  rise  so  high  as  he  thinks 
they  ought;  which  they  seldom  do  unless  increas¬ 
ed  by  flattery,  since  tew  men  have  so  good  an 
opinion  of  us  as  we  have  of  ourselves?  But  if 
the  ambitious  man  can  be  so  much  grieved  even 
with  praise  itself,  how  will  he  be  able  to  bear  up 
under  scandal  and  defamation?  for  the  same 
temper  of  mind  which  makes  him  desire  fame 
makes  him  hate  reproach.  If  he  can  be  transport¬ 
ed  with  the  extraordinary  praises  of  men,  he  will 
be  as  much  dejected  by  their  censures.  How  little, 
therefore,  is  the  happiness  of  an  ambitious  man’ 
who  gives  every  one  a  dominion  over  it,  who  thus 
subjects  himself  to  the  good  or  ill  speeches  of 
others,  and  puts  it  in  the  power  of  every  mali¬ 
cious  tongue  to  throw  him  into  a  fit  of  melancholy, 
and  destroy  his  natural  rest  and  repose  of  mind; 
especially  when  we  consider  that  the  world  is 
more  apt  to  censure  than  applaud,  and  himself 
fuller  of  imperfections  than  virtues. 

We  may  further  observe,  that  such  a  man  will 
be  more  grieved  for  the  loss  of  fame,  than  he  could 
have  been  pleased  with  the  enjoyment  of  it.  For 
though  the  presence  of  this  imaginary  good  can¬ 
not  make  us  happy,  the  absence  of  it  may  make 
us  miserable :  because  in  the  enjoyment  of  an 
object  we  only  find  that  share  of  pleasure  which  it 
is  capable  of  giving  us,  but  in  the  loss  of  it  we  do 
not  proportion  our  grief  to  the  real  value  it  bears, 
but  to  the  value  our  fancies  and  imaginations  set 
upon  it. 

So  inconsiderable  is  the  satisfaction  that  fame 
brings  along  with  it,  and  so  great  the  disquietudes 
to  which  it  makes  us  liable.  The  desire  of  it 
stirs  up  very  uneasy  motions  in  the  mind,  and  is 
rather  inflamed  than  satisfied  by  the  presence  of 
the  thing  desired.  The  enjoyment  of  it  brings 
but  very  little  pleasure,  though  the  loss  or  want 
of  it  be  very  sensible  and  afflicting;  and  even 
this  little  happiness  is  so  very  precarious,  that 
it  wholly  depends  upon  the  will  of  others. 
We  are  not  only  tortured  by  the  reproaches  which 
are  offered  us,  but  are  disappointed  by  the  silence 
of  men  when  it  is  unexpected;  and  humbled  even 
by  their  praises. — C. 


No.  257.]  SATURDAY,  DECEMBER  25,  1711 

No  slumber  seals  the  eye  of  Providence, 

Present  to  every  action  we  commence. — IIob^us. 

That  I  might  not  lose  myself  upon  a  subject  of 
so  great  extent  as  that  of  fame,  1  have  treated  it 
in  a  particular  order  and  method.  I  have  first  of 
all  considered  the  reasons  why  Providence  may 
have  implanted  in  our  mind  such  a  principle  of 


319 

action.  I  have  in  the  next  place  shown  from 
!  many  considerations,  first,  that  fame  is  a  thing 
difficult  to  be  obtained,  and  easily  to  be  lost; 
secondly,  that  it  brings  the  ambitious  man  very 
little  happiness,  but  subjects  him  to  much  un¬ 
easiness  and  dissatisfaction.  I  shall  in  the  last 
place  show,  that  it  hinders  us  from  obtaining  an 
end  which  we  have  abilities  to  acquire,  and  which 
is  accompanied  by  fullness  of  satisfaction.  I  need 
not  tell  my  reader,  that  I  mean  by  this  end’,  that 
happiness  which  is  reserved  for  us  in  another 
world,  which  every  one  has  abilities  to  procure, 
and  which  will  bring  along  with  it  “fullness  of  joy 
and  pleasures  for  evermore.”  J  J  ’ 

How  the  pursuit  after  fame  may  hinder  us  in  the  at¬ 
tainment  of  this  great  end,  I  shall  leave  the  reader 
to  collect  from  the  three  following  considerations; 

First,  Because  the  strong  desire  of  fame  breeds' 
several  vicious  habits  in  the  mind. 

Secondly,  Because  many  of  those  actions,  which 
are  apt  to  procure  fame,  are  not  in  their  nature 
conducive  to  this  our  ultimate  happiness. 

Thirdly,  Because  if  we  should  allow  the  same 
actions  to  be  the  proper  instruments,  both  of  ac¬ 
quiring  fame,  and  of  procuring  this  happiness, 
they  would  nevertheless  fail  in  the  attainment  of 
this  last  end,  if  they  proceeded  from  a  desire  of 
the  first. 

These  three  propositions  are  self-evident  to 
those  who  are  versed  in  speculations  of  morality. 
For  which  reason  I  shall  not  enlarge  upon  them,  but 
proceed  to  a  point  of  the  same  nature,  which  may 
open  to  us  a  more  uncommon  field  of  speculation. 

From  what  has  been  already  observed,  I  think  we 
may  make  a  natural  conclusion,  that  it  is  the  great¬ 
est  folly  to  seek  the  praise  or  approbation  of 
any  being,  except  the  Supreme,  and  that  for  these 
two  reasons ;  because  no  other  being  can  make  a 
right  judgment  of  us,  and  esteem  us  according  to 
our  merits  ;  and  because  we  can  procure  no  con¬ 
siderable  benefit  or  advantage  from  the  esteem  and 
approbation  of  any  other  being. 

,  l11  the  first  place,  no  other  being  can  make  a 
right  judgment  of  us,  and  esteem  us  acccording  to 
our  merits.  Created  beings  see  nothing  but  our 
outside,  and  can  therefore  only  frame  a  judgment 
of  us  from  our  exterior  actions  and  behavior;  but 
how  unfit  these  are  to  give  us  a  right  notion  of 
each  other’s  perfections,  may  appear  from  several 
considerations.  There  are  many  virtues,  which  in 
their  own  nature  are  incapable  of  any  outward  re¬ 
presentation;  many  silent  perfections  in  the  soul 
of  a  good  man,  which  are  great  ornaments  to 
human  nature,  but  not  able  to  discover  themselves 
to  the  knowledge  of  others;  they  are  transacted  in 
private  without  noise  or  show,  and  are  only  visible 
to  the  great  Searcher  of  hearts.  What  actions  can 
express  the  entire  purity  of  thought  which  refines 
and  sanctifies  a  virtuous  man  ?  That  secret  rest  and 
contentedness  of  mind,  which  gives  him  a  perfect 
enjoyment  of  his  present  condition?  That  in¬ 
ward  pleasure  and  complacency  which  he  feels  in 
doing  good?  That  delight  and  satisfaction  which 
he  takes  in  the  prosperity  and  happiness  of 
another?  These  and  the  like  virtues  are  the  hidden 
beauties  of  a  soul,  the  secret  graces  which  cannot 
be  discovered  by  a  mortal  eye,  but  make  the  soul 
lovely  and  precious  in  his  sight  from  whom  no 
secrets  are  concealed.  Again,  there  are  many 
virtues  which  want  an  opportunity  of  exerting 
and  showing  themselves  in  actions.  Every  virtue 
requires  time  and  place,  a  proper  object  and  a  fit 
conjecture  of  circumstances,  for  the  due  exercise 
of  it.  A  state  of  poverty  obscures  all  the  virtues 
of  liberality  and  munificence.  The  patience  and 
fortitude  of  a  martyr  and  confessor  lie  concealed 
in  the  flourishing  times  of  Christianity.  Some 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


320 

virtues  are  only  seen  in  affliction,  and  some  in 
prosperity  ;  some  in  a  private,  and  otlieis  in  a 
public  capacity.  But  the  great  Sovereign  of  the 
world  beholds  every  perfection  in  its  obscurity, 
and  not  only  sees  what  we  do,  but  what  we  would 
do.  He  views  our  behavior  in  every  concurrence 
of  affairs,  and  sees  u$  engaged  in  all  the  possi¬ 
bilities  of  action.  He  discovers  the  martyr  and 
confessor  without  the  trial  of  flames  and  tortures, 
and  will  hereafter  entitle  many  to  the  reward  of 
actions  which  they  had  never  the  opportunity  of 
performing.  Another  reason  why  men  cannot 
form  a  right  judgment  of  us  is,  because  the  same 
actions  may  be  aimed  at  different  ends,  and  arise 
from  quite  contrary  principles.  Actions  are  of  so 
mixed  a  nature,  and  so  full  of  circumstances,  that 
as  men  pry  into  them  more  or  less,  or  observe 
some,  parts  more  than  others,  they  take  different 
hints,  and  put  contrary  interpretations  on  them; 
so  that  the  same  actions  may  represent  a  man  as 
hypocritical  and  designing  to  one,  which  make 
him  appear  a  saint  or  hero  to  another.  He,  there¬ 
fore,  who  looks  upon  the  soul  through  its  outward 
actions,  often  sees  it  through  a  deceitful  medium, 
which  is  apt  to  discolor  and  pervert  the  object;  so 
that,  on  this  account  also,  he  is  the  only  proper 
judge  of  our  perfections,  who  does  not  guess  at 
the  sincerity  of  our  intentions  from  the  goodness 
of  our  actions  but  weighs  the  goodness  of  our 
actions  by  the  sincerity  of  our  intentions. 

But  further,  it  is  impossible  for  outward  actions 
to  represent  the  perfections  of  the  soul,  because 
they  can  never  show  the  strength  of  those  prin¬ 
ciples  from  whence  they  proceed.  They  are  not 
aclequate  expressions  of  our  virtues,  and  can  only 
show  us  what  habits  are  in  the  soul,  without  dis¬ 
covering  the  degree  and  perfection  of  such  habits. 
They  are  at  best  but  weak  resemblances  of  our  in¬ 
tentions,  faint  and  imperfect,  that  may  acquaint 
us  with  the  general  design,  but  can  never  express 
the  beauty  and  life  of  the  original.  But  the  great 
Judge  of  all  the  earth  knows  every  different  state 
and  degree  of  human  improvement,  from  those 
weak  stirrings  and  tendencies  of  the  will  which 
have  not  yet  formed  themselves  into  regular  pur¬ 
poses  and  designs,  to  the  last  entire  finishing  and 
consummation  of  a  good  habit.  He  beholds  the 
first  imperfect  rudiments  of  a  virtue  in  the  soul, 
and  keeps  a  watchful  eye  over  it  in  all  its  pro¬ 
gress,  until  it  has  received  every  grace  it  is  ca¬ 
pable  of,  and  appears  in  its  full  beauty  and  per¬ 
fection.  Thus  we  see,  that  none  but  the  Supreme 
Being  can  esteem  us  according  to  our  proper 
merits,  since  all  others  must  judge  of  us  from  pur 
outward  actions;  which  can  never  give  them  a  just 
estimate  of  us,  since  there  are  many  perfections 
of  a  man  which  are  not  capable  of  appearing  in 
actions  ;  many  which,  allowing  no  natural  inca¬ 
pacity  of  showing  themselves,  want  an  opportuni¬ 
ty  of  doing  it;  should  they  all  meet  with  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  appearing  by  actions,  yet  those  actions 
maybe  misinterpreted,  and  applied  to  wrong  prin¬ 
ciples  :  or,  though  they  plainly  discovered  the 
principles  from  whence  they  proceeded,  they 
could  never  show  the  degree,  strength,  and  per¬ 
fection  of  those  principles. 

And  as  the  Supreme  Being  is  the  only  proper 
judge  of  our  perfections,  so  he  is  the  only  fit  re¬ 
warder  of  them.  This  is  a  consideration  that 
comes  home  to  our  interest,  as  the  other  adapts 
itself  to  our  ambition.  And  what  could  the  most 
aspiring,  or  the  most  selfish  man  desire  more,  were 
he  to  form  the  notion  of  a  Being  to  whom  he 
would  recommend  himself,  than  such  a  knowledge 
as  can  discover  the  least  appearance  of  perfection 
in  him,  and  such  a  goodness  as  will  proportion  a 
reward  to  it? 


Let  the  ambitious  man,  therefore,  turn  all  his 
clesire  of  fame  this  way;  and,  that  he  may  propose 
to  himself  a  fame  worthy  of  his  ambition,  let  him 
consider,  that  if  he  employs  his  abilities  to  the 
best  advantage,  the  time  will  come  when  the 
Supreme  Governor  of  the  world,  the  great  Judge 
of  mankind,  who  sees  every  degree  of  perfection 
in  others,  and  possible  perfection  in  himself,  shall 
proclaim  his  worth  before  men  and  angels,  and 
pronounce  to  him  in  the  presence  of  the  whole 
creation  that  best  and  most  significant  of  applause, 
“Well  done,  thou  good  and  faithful  servant,  enter 
thou  into  thy  Master’s  joy.” — 0. 


No.  258.]  WEDNESDAY,  DECEMBER  26, 1711. 

Divide  et  impera. 

Divide  and  rule. 

Pleasure  and  recreation  of  one  kind  or  other 
are  absolutely  necessary  to  relieve  our  minds  and 
bodies  from  too  constant  attention  and  labor: 
where  therefore  public  diversions  are  tolerated,  it 
behooves  persons  of  distinction,  with  their  power 
and  example,  to  preside  over  them  in  such  a  man¬ 
ner  as  to  check  anything  that  tends  to  the  corrup¬ 
tion  of  manners,  or  which  is  too  mean  or  trivial 
for  the  entertainment  of  reasonable  creatures.  As 
to  the  diversions  of  this  kind  in  this  town,  we 
owe  them  to  the  arts  of  poetry  and  music.  My 
own  private  opinion,  with  relation  to  such  recrea¬ 
tions,  I  have  heretofore  given  v/ith  all  the  frank¬ 
ness  imaginable ;  what  concerns  those  arts  at 
present  the  reader  shall  have  from  my  correspond¬ 
ents.  The  first  of  the  letters  with  which  I  acquit 
myself  for  this  day,  is  written  by  one  who  pro¬ 
poses  to  improve  our  entertainments  of  dramatic 
poetry,  and  the  other  comes  from  three  persons, 
who,  as  soon  as  named,  will  be  thought  capable 
of  advancing  the  present  state  of  music. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  considerably  obliged  to  you  for  your 
speedy  publication  of  my  last  in  yours  of  the  18th 
instant,  and  am  in  no  small  hopes  of  being  set¬ 
tled  in  the  post  of  Comptroller  of  the  Cries.  Of 
all  the  objections  I  have  hearkened  after  in  public 
coffee-houses,  there  is  but  one  that  seems  to  carry 
any  weight  with  it,  viz:  That  such  a  post  would 
come  too  near  the  nature  of  a  monopoly.  Now, 
Sir,  because  I  would  have  all  sorts  of  people  made 
easy,  and  being  willing  to  have  more  strings  than 
one  to  my  bow  ;  in  case  that  a  comptroller  should 
fail  me,  1  have  since  formed  another  project,  which 
being  grounded  on  the  dividing  of  a  present  mo¬ 
nopoly,  I  hope  will  give  the  public  an  equivalent 
to  their  full  content.  You  know,  Sir,  it  is  allowed, 
that  the  business  of  the  stage  is,  as  the  Latin  has 
it,  jucunda  et  idonea  dicere  vitce.  Now,  there  be¬ 
ing  but  one  dramatic  theater  licensed  for  the  de¬ 
light  and  profit  of  this  extensive  metropolis,  I  do 
humbly  propose,  for  the  convenience  of  such  of 
its  inhabitants  as  are  too  distant  from  Covent- 
garden,  that  another  theater  of  ease  may  be  erected 
in  some  spacious  part  of  the  city ;  and  that  the 
direction  thereof  may  be  made  a  franchise  in  fee 
to  me  and  my  heirs  forever.  And  that  the.  town 
may  have  no  jealousy  of  my  ever  coming  into  a 
union  with  the  set  of  actors  now  in  being,  I  do 
further  propose  to  constitute  for  my  deputy  my 
near  kinsman  and  adventurer,  Kit  Crotchet,*  whose 
long  experience  and  improvements  in  those  affairs 
need  no  recommendation.  It  was  obvious  to  every 
spectator,  what  a  quite  different  foot  the  stage  was 


*  Christopher  Rich. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


upon  during  his  government ;  and  had  he  not 
been  bolted  out  of  his  trap  doors,  his  garrison 
might  have  held  out  forever;  he  having  by  long 
pains  and  perseverance  arrived  at  the  art  of  ma¬ 
king  his  army  fight  without  pay  or  provisions.  I 
must  confess  it  is  with  a  melancholy  amazement 
I  see  so  wonderful  a  genius  laid  aside,  and  the 
late  slaves  of  the  stage  now  become  its  masters  ; 
dunces  that  will  be  sure  to  suppress  all  theatrical 
entertainments  and  activities  that  they  are  not 
able  themselves  to  shine  in  ! 

“  Every  man  that  goes  to  a  play  is  not  obliged 
to  have  either  wit  or  understanding  ;  and  I  insist 
upon  it,  that  all  who  go  there  should  see  some¬ 
thing  which  may  improve  them  in  away  of  which 
they  are  capable.  In  short.  Sir,  I  would  have 
something  done,  as  well  as  said,  on  the  stage.  A 
man  may  have  an  active  body,  though  he  has  not 
a  quick  conception  ;  for  the  imitation  therefore  of 
such  as  are,  as  1  may  so  speak,  corporeal  wits,  or 
nimble  fellows,  I  would  fain  ask  any  of  the  pres¬ 
ent  mismanages,  why  should  not  rope-dancers, 
vaulters,  tumblers,  ladder-walkers,  and  posture- 
masters  appear  again  on  our  stage  ?  After  such  a 
representation,  a  five-bar  gate  would  be  leaped 
with  a  better  grace  next  time  any  of  the  audience 
went  a  hunting.  Sir,  these  things  cry  aloud  for 
reformation,  and  fall  properly  under  the  province 
of  Spectator-general ;  but  how  indeed  should  it 
be  otherwise,  while  fellows  (that  for  twenty  years 
together  were  never  paid  but  as  their  master  was 
in  the  humor)  now  presume  to  pay  others  more 
than  ever  they  had  in  their  lives  ;  and  in  con¬ 
tempt  of  the  practice  of  persons  of  condition, 
have  the  insolence  to  owe  no  tradesman  a  farthing 
at  the  end  of  the  week.  Sir,  all  I  propose  is  the 
public  good  ;  for  no  one  can  imagine  I  shall  ever 
get  a  private  shilling  by  it ;  therefore  I  hope  you 
will  recommend  this  matter  in  one  of  your  this 
week’s  papers,  and  desire,  when  my  house  opens, 

I  you  will  accept  the  liberty  of  it  for  the  trouble 
you  have  received  from, 

“  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

“  Ralph  Crotchet.” 

“  P.  S.  I  have  assurances  that  the  trunk-maker 
will  declare  for  us.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“We  whose  names  are  subscribed,  think  you  i 
the  properest  person  to  signify  what  we  have  to  j 
offer  the  town  in  behalf  of  ourselves  and  the  art 
which  we  profess,  music.  We  conceive  hopes  of 
your  favor  from  the  speculations  on  the  mistakes  j 
which  the -town  run  ‘into  with  regard  to  their  ; 
pleasure  of  this  kind  ;  and  believing  your  method 
of  judging  is,  that  you  consider  music  only  valu- ; 
able,  as  it  is  agreeable  to,  and  heightens  the  pur¬ 
pose  of  poetry,  we  consent  that  it  is  not  only  the  i 
true  way  of  relishing  that  pleasure,  but  also  that 
without  it  a  composure  of  music  is  the  same  thing 
as  a  poem,  where  all  the  rules  of  poetical  num¬ 
bers  are  observed,  though  the  words  have  no  sense 
or  meaning ;  to  say  it  shorter,  mere  musical  sounds 
are  in  our  art  no  other  than  nonsense  verses  are  in 
poetry.  Music,  therefore,  is  to  aggravate  what  is 
intended  by  poetry ;  it  must  always  have  some 
passion  or  sentiment  to  express,  or  else  violins, 
voices,  or  any  other  organs  of  sound,  afford  an 
entertainment  very  little  above  the  rattles  of  chil¬ 
dren.  It  was  from  this  opinion  of  the  matter,  that 
when  Mr.  Clayton  had  finished  his  studies  in 
Italy,  and  brought  over  the  opera  ef  Arsinoe,  that 
Mr.  Haym  and  Mr.  Dieupart,  who  had  the  honor 
to  be  well  known  and  received  among  the  nobility 
and  gentry,  were  zealously  inclined  to  assist  by 
their  solicitations,  in  introducing  so  elegant  an 
21 


321 

entertainment  as  the  Italian  music  grafted  upon 
English  poetry.  For  this  end,  Mr.  Dieupart  and 
Mr.  Haym,  according  to  their  several  opportuni¬ 
ties,  promoted  the  introduction  of  Arsinoe,anddid 
it  to  the  best  advantage  so  great  a  novelty  would 
allow.  It  is  not  proper  to  trouble  you  with  par¬ 
ticulars  of  the  just  complaints  we  all  of  us  have 
to  make  ;  but  so  it  is,  that  without  regard  to  our 
obliging  pains,  we  are  all  equally  set  aside  in  the 
present  opera.  Our  application,  therefore,  to  you 
is  only  to  insert  the  letter  in  your  paper,  that  the 
town  may  know  we  have  all  three  joined  together 
to  make  entertainments  of  music'  for  the  future 
at  Mr.  Clayton’s  house  in  York-buildings.  What 
we  promise  ourselves,  is  to  make  a  subscription 
of  two  guineas,  for  eight  times  ;  and  that  the  en¬ 
tertainment,  with  the  names  of  the  authors  of  the 
poetry,  may  be  printed,  to  be  sold  in  the  house, 
with  an  account  of  the  several  authors  of  the  vo¬ 
cal  as  well  as  the  instrumental  music  for  each 
night ;  the  money  to  be  paid  at  the  receipt  of  the 
tickets,  at  Mr.  Charles  Lillie’s.  It  will,  we  hope, 
Sir,  be  easily  allowed,  that  we  are  capable  of  un¬ 
dertaking  to  exhibit,  by  our  joint  force  and  dif¬ 
ferent  qualifications,  all  that  can  be  done  in  mu¬ 
sic  ;  but  lest  you  should  think  so  dry  a  thing  as 
an  account  of  our  proposal  should  be  a  matter  un¬ 
worthy  of  your  paper,  which  generally  contains 
something  of  public  use,  give  us  leave  to  say, 
that  favoring  our  design  is  no  less  than  reviving 
an  art  which  runs  to  ruin  by  the  utmost  barbar¬ 
ism  under  an  affectation  of  knowledge.  We  aim 
at  establishing  some  settled  notion  of  what  is 
music,  at  recovering  from  neglect  and  want  very 
many  families  who  depend  upon  it,  at  making  all 
foreigners  who  pretend  to  succeed  in  England  to 
learn  the  language  of  it  as  we  ourselves  have 
done,  and  not  to  be  so  insolent  as  to  expect  a 
whole  nation,  a  refined  and  learned  nation,  should 
submit  to  learn  theirs.  In  a  word,  Mr.  Spectator, 
with  all  deference  and  humility,  we  hope  to  be¬ 
have  ourselves  in  this  undertaking  in  such  a  man¬ 
ner,  that  all  Englishmen,  who  have  any  skill  in 
music  may  be  furthered  in  it  for  their  profit  or  di¬ 
version  by  what  new  things  we  shall  produce  ; 
never  pretending  to  surpass  others,  or  asserting 
that  anything  which  is  a  science  is  not  attainable 
by  all  men  of  all  nations  who  have  proper  genius 
for  it.  We  say,  Sir,  what  we  hope  for,  it  is  not 
expected  will  arrive  to  us  by  contemning  others, 
but  through  the  utmost  diligence  recommending 
ourselves.  We  are,  Sir, 

“  Your  most  humble  Servants, 

“  Thomas  Clayton, 

“  Nicolino  Ham, 

T  “  Charles  Dieupart.’ 


No.  231)  J  THURSDAY,  DECEMBER  27,  1711. 

Quod  decet  honestum  est,  et  quod  honestum  est  decet. 

Ttjll. 

What  is  becoming  is  honorable,  and  what  is  honorable  is 
becoming. 

There  are  some  things  which  cannot  come  un 
der  certain  rules,  but  which  one  would  think 
could  not  need  them.  Of  this  kind  are  outward 
civilities  and  salutations.  These,  one  would  im¬ 
agine,  might  be  regulated  by  every  man’s  common 
sense,  without  the  help  of  an  instructor  :  but  that 
which  we  call  common  sense  suffers  under  that 
word  :  for  it  sometimes  implies  no  more  than  that 
faculty  which  is  common  to  all  men,  but  some¬ 
times  signifies  right  reason,  and  what  all  men 
should  consent  to.  In  this  latter  acceptation  of 
the  phrase,  it  is  no  great  wonder  people  err  so 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


322 

much  against  it,  since  it  is  not  every  one  who  is 
possessed  of  it,  and  there  are  fewer,  who  against 
common  rules  and  fashions,  dare  obey  its  dictates. 
As  to  salutations,  which  I  was  about  to  talk  of,  I 
observe,  as  I  stroll  about  town,  there  are  great 
enormities  committed  with  regard  to  this  particu¬ 
lar.  You  shall  sometimes  see  a  man  begin  the 
offer  of  a  salutation,  and  observe  a  forbidding  air, 
or  escaping  eye,  in  the  person  he  is  going  to 
salute,  and  stop  short  in  the  poll  of  his  neck. 
This  in  the  person  who  believed  he  could  do  it 
with  a  good  grace,  and  was  refused  the  opportu¬ 
nity,  is  justly  resented  with  coldness  the  whole 
ensuing  season.  Your  great  beauties,  people  in 
much:  favor,  or  by  any  means  or  for  any  purpose 
overflattered,  are  apt  to  practice  this,  'which  one 
may  call  the  preventing  aspect,  and  throw  their 
attention  another  way,  lest  they  should  confer  a 
bow  or  a  courtesy  upon  a  person  who  might  not 
appear  to  deserve  that  dignity.  Others  you  shall 
find  so  obsequious,  and  so  very  courteous,  as 
there  is  no  escaping  their  favors  of  this  kind. 
Of  this  sort  may  be  a  man  who  is  in  the  fifth  or 
sixth  degree  of  iavor  with  a  minister.  This  good 
creature  is  resolved  to  show  the  world,  that  great 
honors  cannot  at  all  change  his  manners  ;  he  is 
the  same  civil  person  he  ever  was  ;  he  will  ven¬ 
ture  his  neck  to  bow  out  of  a  coach  in  full  speed, 
at  once  to  show  he  is  full  of  business,  and  yet  not 
so  taken  up  as  to  forget  his  old  friend.  With  a 
man  who  is  not  so  well-formed  for  courtship  and 
elegant  behavior,  such  a  gentleman  as  this  seldom 
finds  his  account  in  the  return  of  his  compliments; 
but  he  will  still  go  on,  for  he  is  in  his  own  way, 
and  must  not  omit ;  let  the  neglect  fall  on  your 
side,  or  where  it  will,  his  business  is  still  to  be 
well-bred  to  the  end.  I  think  I  have  read,  in  one 
of  our  English  comedies,  a  description  of  a  fellow 
that  affected  knowing  everybody,  and  for  want 
of  judgment  in  time  and  place,  would  bow  and 
smile  in  the  face  of  a  judge  sitting  in  the  court, 
would  sit  in  an  opposite  gallery  and  smile  in  the 
minister’s  face  as  he  came  up  into  the  pulpit,  and 
nod  as  if  he  alluded  to  some  familiarities  between 
them  in  another  place.  But  now  I  happen  to 
speak  of  salutation  at  church,  I  must  take  notice 
that  several  of  my  correspondents  have  impor¬ 
tuned  me  to  consider  that  subject,  and  settle  the 
point  of  decorum  in  that  particular. 

I  do  not  pretend  to  be  the  best  courtier  in  the 
world,  but  I  often  on  public  occasions  thought 
it  a  very  great  absurdity  in  the  company  (during 
the  royal  presence)  to  exchange  salutations  from 
all  parts  of  the  room,  when  certainly  common 
sense  should  suggest,  that  all  regards  at  that  time 
should  be  engaged,  and  cannot  bo  diverted  to  any 
other  object,  without  disrespect  to  the  sovereign. 
But  as  to  the  complaint  of  my  correspondents,  it 
is  not  to  be  imagined  what  offense  some  of  them 
take  at  the  custom  of  saluting  in  places  of  wor¬ 
ship.  I  have  a  very  angry  letter  from  a  lady,,  who 
tells  me  of  one  of  her  acquaintance,  who,  out  of 
mere  pride  and  a  pretense  to  be  rude,  takes  upon 
her  to  return  no  civilities  done  to  her  in  the  time 
of  divine  service,  and  is  the  most  religious  woman, 
for  no  other  reason  than  to  appear  a  woman  of  the 
best  quality  in  the  church.  This  absurd  custom 
had  better  be  abolished  than  retained  ;  if  it  were 
but  to  prevent  evils  of  no  higher  a  nature  than 
this  is  ;  but  I  am  informed  of  objections  much 
more  considerable.  A  dissenter  of  rank  and  dis¬ 
tinction  was  lately  prevailed  upon  by  a  friend  of 
his  to  come  to  one  of  the  greatest  congregations 
of  the  church  of  England  about  town.  After  the 
service  was  over,  he  declared  he  was  very  well 
satisfied  with  the  little  ceremony  which  was  used 
toward  God  Almighty ;  but  at  the  same  time  he 


feared  he  should  not  be  able  to  go  through  those 
required  toward  one  another :  as  to  this  point  he 
was  in  a  state  of  despair,  and  feared  he  was  not 
well-bred  enough  to  be  a  convert.  There  have 
been  many  scandals  of  this  kind  given  to  our 
Protestant  dissenters,  from  the  outward  pomp  and 
respect  we  take  to  ourselves  in  our  religious  assem¬ 
blies.  A  Quaker  who  came  one  day  into  a  church, 
fixed  his  eye  on  an  old  lady  with  a  carpet  larger 
than  that  from  the  pulpit  before  her,  expecting 
when  she  would  hold  forth.  An  anabaptist  who 
designs  to  come  over  himself,  and  all  his  family, 
within  a  few  months,  is  sensible  they  want  breed¬ 
ing  enough  for  our  congregations,  and  has  sent 
his  two  eldest  daughters  to  learn  to  dance,  that 
they  may  not  misbehave  themselves  in  church.  It 
is  worth  considering  whether,  in  regard  to  awk¬ 
ward  people  with  scrupulous  consciences,  a  good 
Christian  of  the  best  air  in  the  world  ought  not 
rather  to  deny  herself  the  opportunity  of  showing 
so  many  graces,  than  keep  a  bashful  proselyte 
without  the  pale  of  the  church. — T. 


No.  260.]  FRIDAY,  DECEMBER  28,  1711. 

Singula  de  nobis  anni  praedantur  euntes. 

Hor.  3  Ep.  ii,  55. 

Years  following  years  steal  something  every  day, 

At  last  they  steal  us  from  ourselves  away. — Pore. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  now  in  the  sixty-fifth  year  of  my  age,  and 
having  been  the  greater  part  of  my  days  a  man  of 
pleasure,  the  decay  of  my  faculties  is  a  stagnation 
of  my  life.  But  how  is  it,  Sir,  that  my  appetites 
are  increased  upon  me  with  the  loss  of  power  to 
gratify  them?  I  write  this  like  a  criminal,  to 
warn  people  to  enter  upon  what  reformation  they 
please  to  make  in  themselves  in  their  youth,  and 
not  expect  they  shall  be  capable  of  it  from  a  fond 
opinion  some  have  often  in  their  mouths,  that  if 
we  do  not  leave  our  desires,  they  will  leave  us.  It 
is  far  otherwise ;  I  am  now  as  vain  in  my  dress, 
and  as  flippant,  if  I  see  a  pretty  woman,  as  when 
in  my  youth  I  stood  upon  a  bench  in  the  pit  to 
survey  the  whole  circle  of  beauties.  The  folly  is 
so  extravagant  with  me,  and  I  went  on  with  so 
little  check  of  my  desires  or  resignation  of  them, 
that  I  can  assure  you,  I  very  often,  merely  to  en¬ 
tertain  my  own  thoughts,  sit  with  my  spectacles 
on,  writing  love-letters  to  the  beauties  that  have 
been  long  since  in  their  graves.  This  is  to  warm 
my  heart  with  the  faint  memory  of  delights  which 
were  once  agreeable  to  me:  but  how  much  happier 
would  my  life  have  been  now,  if  I  could  have 
looked  back  on  any  worthy  action  done  for  my 
country  ?  if  I  had  laid  out  that  which  I  profused 
in  luxury  and  wantonness,  in  acts  of  generosity 
or  charity  ?  I  have  lived  a  bachelor  to  this  day  ; 
and  instead  of  a  numerous  offspring,  with  which 
in  the  regular  ways  of  life  I  might  possibly  have 
delighted  myself,  I  have  only  to  amuse  myself 
with  the  repetition  of  old  stories  and  intrigues 
which  no  one  will  believe  I  ever  was  concerned  in. 
I  do  not  know  whether  you  have  ever  treated  of 
it  or  not ;  but  you  cannot  fall  on  a  better  subject, 
than  that  of  the  art  of  growing  old.  In  such  a 
lecture  you  must  propose,  that  no  one  set  his  heart 
upon  what  is  transient;  the  beauty  grows  wrinkled 
while  we  are  yet  gazing  at  her.  The  witty  man 
sinks  into  a  numorist  imperceptibly,  for  want  of 
reflecting  that  all  things  around  him  are  in  a  flux, 
and  continually  changing;  thus  he  is  in  the  space 
of  ten  or  fifteen  years  surrounded  by  a  new  set  of 
people,  whose  manners  are  as  natural  to  them 
as  his  delights,  method  of  thinking  and  mode 


THE  SPE  CTATOR. 


323 


of  living,  were  formerly  to  him  and  his  friends. 
But  the  mischief  is,  he  looks  upon  the  same 
kind  of  error  which  he  himself  was  guilty 
of  with  an  eye  of  scorn,  and  with  that  sort  of  ill- 
will  which  men  entertain  against  each  other  for 
different  opinions.  Thus  a  crazy  constitution  and 
an  uneasy  mind  is  fretted  with  vexatious  passions 
for  younor  men’s  doing  foolishly  what  it  is  folly  to 
do  at  all.  Dear  Sir,  this  is  my  present  state  of 
mind;  I  hate  those  I  should  laugh  at,  and  envy 
those  I  contemn.  The  time  of  youth  and  vigorous 
manhood,  passed  the  way  in  which  1  have  dispos¬ 
ed  of  it,  is  attended  with  these  consequences;  but 
to  those  who  live  and  pass  away  life  as  they  ought, 
all  parts  of  it  are  equally  pleasant;  only  the  mem- 
ory  of  good  and  worthy  actions  is  a  feast  which 
must  give  a  quicker  relish  to  the  soul  than  ever  it 
could  possibly  taste  in  the  highest  enjoyments  or 
jollities  of  youth.  As  for  me,  if  I  sit  down  in  my 
great  chair  and  begin  to  ponder,  the  vagaries  of  a 
child  are  not  more  ridiculous  than  the  circumstan¬ 
ces  which  are  heaped  up  in  my  memory;  fine 
gowns,  country  dances,  ends  of  tunes,  interrupted 
conversations,  and  midnight  quarrels,  are  what 
must  necessarily  compose  my  soliloquy.  I  beg 
of  you  to  print  this,  that  some  ladies  of  my  ac¬ 
quaintance,  and  my  years,  may  be  persuaded  to 
wear  warm  nightcaps  this  cold  season;  and  that 
my  old  friend  Jack  Tawdry  may  buy  him  a  cane, 
and  not  creep  with  the  air  of  a  strut.  I  must  add 
to  all  this,  that  if  it  were  not  for  one  pleasure, 
which  I  thought  a  very  mean  one  until  of  very 
late  years,  I  should  have  no  one  great  satisfaction 
left;  but  if  I  live  to  the  tenth  of  March  1714,  and 
all  my  securities  are  good,  I  shall  be  worth  fifty 
thousand  pounds. 

“  I  am.  Sir, 

“  Your  most  humble  servant, 

“Jack  Afterday.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“You  will  infinitely  oblige  a  distressed  lover, 
if  you  will  insert  in  your  very  next  paper  the  fol¬ 
lowing  letter  to  my  mistress.  You  must  know,  I 
am  not  a  person  apt  to  despair,  but  she  has  got  an 
odd  humor  of  stopping  short  unaccountably,  and 
as  she  herself  told  a  confidant  of  hers,  she  has  cold 
fits.  T hese  fits  shall  last  her  a  month  or  six  weeks 
together;  and  as  she  falls  into  them  without  pro¬ 
vocation,  so  it  is  to  be  hoped  she  will  return  from 
them  without  the  merit  of  new  services.  But  life 
and  love  will  not  admit  of  such  intervals,  there¬ 
fore  pray  let  her  be  admonished  as  follows: 

“  Madam, 

“I  love  you,  and  honor  you;  therefore  pray 
do  not  tell  me  of  waiting  until  decencies,  until 
forms,  until  humors,  are  consulted  and  grati¬ 
fied.  If  you  have  that  happy  constitution  as 
to  be  indolent  for  ten  weeks  together,  you  should 
consider  that  all  that  while  I  burn  in  impatience 
and  fevers;  but  still  you  say  it  will  be  time  enough, 
though  I  and  you  too  grow  older  while  we  are  yet 
talking.  Which  do  you  think  the  most  reasonable, 
thatyou  should  alter  a  state  of  indifference  for  happi¬ 
ness,  and  that  to  oblige  me;  or  I  live  in  torment, 
and  that  to  lay  no  manner  of  obligation  on  you? 
While  I  indulge  your  insensibility  I  am  doing  noth¬ 
ing!  if  you  favor  my  passion,  you  are  bestowing 
bright  desires,  gay  hopes,  generous  cares,  noble  re¬ 
solutions  and  transporting  raptures  upon, 

“  Madam, 

“Your  most  devoted,  humble  Servant.” 
‘‘Mr.  Spectator,  n 

“Here  is  a  gentlewoman  lodges  in  the  same 
house  with  me,  that  I  never  did  any  injury  to  in 


|  my  whole  life;  and  she  is  always  railing  at  me  to 
those  that  she  knows  will  tell  me  of  it.  Do  not 
you  think  she  is  in  love  with  me?  or  would  you 
have  me  break  my  mind  yet,  or  not? 

“Your  Servant, 


“Mr.  Spectator, 


“T.  B” 


“I  am  a  footman  in  a  great  family,  and  am  in 
love  with  the  house  maid.  We  were  all  at  hot- 
cockles  last  night  in  the  hall  these  holidays;  when 
I  lay  down  and  was  blinded,  she  pulled  off  her 
shoe,  and  hit  me  with  the  heel  such  a  rap,  as 
almost  broke  my  head  to  pieces.  Pray,  Sir,  was 
this  love  or  spite?” — T. 


No.  2(il. J  SATURDAY,  DECEMBER  29,  1711. 

Wedlock’s  an  ill  men  eagerly  embrace. 

My  father,  whom  I  mentioned  in  my  first  specu¬ 
lation,  and  whom  I  must  always  name  with  honor 
and  gratitude,  has  very  frequently  talked  to  me 
upon  the  subject  of  marriage.  I  was  in  my  younger 
years  engaged  partly  by  his  advice  and  partly  by 
my  own  inclinations,  in  the  courtship  of  a  person 
who  had  a  great  deal  of  beauty,  and  did  not  at  my 
first  approaches  seem  to  have  any  aversion  to 
me;  but  as  my  natural  taciturnity  hindered  me 
from  showing  myself  to  the  best  advantage,  she 
by  degrees  began  to  look  upon  me  as  a  very  silly 
fellow,  and  being  resolved  to  regard  merit  more 
than  anything  else  in  the  persons  who  made  their 
applications  to  her,  she  married  a  captain  of  dra¬ 
goons  who  happened  to  be  beating  up  for  recruits 
in  those  parts. 

This  unlucky  accident  has  given  me  an  aversion 
to  pretty  fellows  ever  since,  and  discouraged  me 
from  trying  my  fortune  with  the  fair  sex.  The 
observations  which  I  made  at  this  conjuncture, 
and  the  repeated  advices  which  I  received  at  that 
time  from  the  good  old  man  above-mentioned, 
have  produced  the  following  essay  upon  love  and 
marriage. 

The  pleasantest  part  of  a  man’s  life  is  generally 
that  which  passes  in  courtship,  provided  his  pas¬ 
sion  be  sincere,  and  the  party  beloved  kind  with 
discretion.  Love,  desire,  hope,  all  the  pleasing 
emotions  of  the  soul  rise  in  the  pursuit. 

It  is  easier  for  an  artful  man  who  is  not  in  love, 
to  persuade  his  mistress  he  has  a  passion  for  her, 
and  to  succeed  in  his  pursuits,  than  for  one  who 
loves  with  the  greatest  violence.  True  love  has 
ten  thousand  griefs,  impatiencies,  and  resentments, 
that  render  a  man  unamiable  in  the  eyes  of  the 
person  vvhose  affection  he  solicits ;  beside  that  it 
sinks  his  figure,  gives  him  fears,  apprehensions, 
and  poorness  of  spirit,  and  often  makes  him  ap¬ 
pear  ridiculous  where  he  has  a  mind  to  recom¬ 
mend  himself. 

Those  marriages  generally  t  abound  most  with 
love  and  constancy,  that  are  preceded  by  a  long 
courtship.  The  passion  should  strike  root,  ana. 
gather  strength  before  marriage  be  grafted  on  it. 
A  long  course  of  hopes  and  expectations  fixes  the 
idea  in  our  minds,  and  habituates  us  to  a  fond¬ 
ness  of  the  person  beloved. 

There  is  nothing  of  so  great  importance  to  us, 
as  the  good  qualities  of  one  to  whom  we  join  our¬ 
selves  for  life;  they  do  not  make  our  present  state 
agreeable,  but  often  determine  our  happiness  to  all 
eternity.  Where  the  choice  is  left  to  friends,  the 
chief  point  under  consideration  is  an  estate ;  where 
the  parties  choose  for  themselves,  their  thoughts 
turn  most  upon  the  person.  They  have  both  their 
reasons.  The  first  would  procure  many  conveni¬ 
ences  and  pleasures  of  life  to  the  party  whose 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


324 

interests  they  espouse ;  and  at  the  same  time  may 
hope  that  the  wealth  of  their  friends  will  turn  to 
their  own  credit  and  advantage.  The  others  are 
preparing  for  themselves  a  perpetual  feast.  A 
good  person  does  not  only  raise  but  continue  love, 
and  breeds  a  secret  pleasure  and  complacency  in 
the  beholder,  when  the  first  heats  of  desire  are  ex¬ 
tinguished.  It  puts  the  wife  or  husband  in  coun¬ 
tenance  both  among  friends  and  strangers,  and 
generally  fills  the  family  with  a  healthy  and 
beautiful  race  of  children. 

I  should  prefer  a  woman  that  is  agreeable  in  my 
own  eye,  and  not  deformed  in  that  of  the  world, 
to  a  celebrated  beauty.  If  you  marry  one  remark¬ 
ably  beautiful^you  must  have  a  violent  passion 
for  her,  or  you  have  not  the  proper  taste  for  her 
charms;  ana  if  you  have  such  a  passion  for  her,  it 
is  odds  but  it  would  be  imbittered  with  fears  and 
jealousies. 

Good-nature  and  evenness  of  temper  will  give 
you  an  easy  companion  for  life;  virtue  and  good 
sense  an  agreeable  friend;  love  and  constancy,  a 
good  wife  or  husband.  Where  we  meet  one  per¬ 
son  with  all  these  accomplishments,  we  find  a 
hundred  without  any  one  of  them.  The  world, 
notwithstanding,  is  more  intent  on  trains  and 
equipages,  and  all  the  showy  parts  of  life;  we 
love  rather  to  dazzle  the  multitude,  than  consult 
our  proper  interests;  and,  as  I  have  elsewhere  ob¬ 
served,  it  is  one  of  the  most  unaccountable  pas¬ 
sions  of  human  nature,  that  we  are  at  greater 
pains  to  appear  easy  and  happy  to  others,  than 
really  to  make  ourselves  so.  Of  all  disparities, 
that  in  humor  makes  the  most  unhappy  marriages, 
yet  scarce  enters  into  our  thoughts  at  the  con¬ 
tracting  of  them.  Several  that  are  in  this  respect 
unequally  yoked,  and  uneasy  for  life  with  a  person 
of  a  particular  character,  might  have  been  pleased 
and  happy  with  a  person  of  a  contrary  one,  not¬ 
withstanding  they  are  both  perhaps  equally  vir¬ 
tuous  and  laudable  in  their  kind. 

Before  marriage  we  cannot  be  too  inquisitive 
and  discerning  in  the  faults  of  the  person  beloved, 
nor  after  it  too  dim-sighted  and  superficial.  How¬ 
ever  perfect  and  accomplished  the  person  appears 
to  you  at  a  distance,  you  will  find  many  blemishes 
and  imperfections  in  her  humor,  upon  a  more  in¬ 
timate  acquaintance,  which  you  never  discovered 
or  perhaps  suspected.  Here,  therefore,  discretion 
and  good-nature  are  to  show  their  strength;  the 
first  will  hinder  your  thoughts  from  dwelling  on 
what  is  disagreeable,  the  other  will  raise  in  you  all 
the  tenderness  of  compassion  and  humanity,  and 
by  degrees  soften  those  very  imperfections  into 
beauties. 

Marriage  enlarges  the  scene  of  our  happiness 
and  miseries.  A  marriage  of  love  is  pleasant;  a 
marriage  of  interest  easy;  and  a  marriage  where 
both  meet,  happy.  A  happy  marriage  has  in  it  all 
the  pleasures  of  friendship,  all  the  enjoyments  of 
sense  and  reason,  and  indeed  all  the  sweets  of  life. 
Nothing  is  a  greater  mark  of  a  degenerate  and  vi¬ 
cious  age,  than  the  common  ridicule  which  passes 
on  this  state  of  life.  It  is,  indeed,  only  happy  in 
those  who  can  look  down  with  scorn  and  neglect 
on  the  impieties  of  the  times,  and  tread  the  paths 
of  life  together  in  a  constant  uniform  course  of 
virtue. — 0. 


No.  262.]  MONDAY,  DECEMBER  31,  1711. 

Nulla  venenato  littera  mista  joco  est. 

Ovid.  Taist.,  ia,  566. 

ADAPTED. 

My  paper  flows  from  no  satiric  vein, 

Contains  no  poison,  and  conveys  no  pain. 

I  think  myself  highly  obliged  to  the  public 
for  their  kind  acceptance  of  a  paper  which  vis¬ 


its  them  every  morning,  and  has  in  it  none  of 
those  seasonings  which  recommend  so  many  of 
the  writings  which  are  in  vogue  among  us. 

As,  on  the  one  side,  my  paper  has  not  in  it  a 
single  word  of  news,  a  reflection  in  politics,  nor  a 
stroke  of  party  ;  so,  on  the  other,  there  are  no 
fashionable  touches  of  infidelity,  no  obscene  ideas, 
no  satires  upon  priesthood,  marriage,  and  the  like 
popular  topics  of  ridicule  ;  no  private  scandal  ; 
nor  anything  that  may  tend  to  the  defamation  of 
particular  persons,  families,  or  societies. 

There  is  not  one  of  those  above-mentioned  sub¬ 
jects  that  would  not  sell  a  very  indifferent  paper, 
could  I  think  of  gratifying  the  public  by  such 
mean  and  base  methods.  But  notwithstanding  I 
have  rejected  everything  that  savors  of  party, 
everything  that  is  loose  and  immoral,  and  every¬ 
thing  that  might  create  uneasiness  in  the  minds 
of  particular  persons,  I  find  that  the  demand  for 
my  papers  has  increased  every  month  since  their 
first  appearance  in  the  world.  This  does  not  per¬ 
haps  reflect  so  much  honor  upon  myself  as  on 
my  readers,  who  give  a  much  greater  attention  to 
discourses  of  virtue  and  morality  than  ever  I  ex¬ 
pected,  or  indeed  could  hope. 

When  I  broke  loose  from  that  great  body  of 
writers  who  have  employed  their  wit  and  parts  in 
propagating  vice  and  irreligion,  I  did  not  question 
but  I  should  be  treated  as  an  odd  kind  of  fellow, 
that  had  a  mind  to  appear  singular  in  my  way  of 
writing  :  but  the  general  reception  I  have  found 
convinces  me  that  the  world  is  not  so  corrupt  as 
we  are  apt  to  imagine  ;  and  that  if  those  men  of 
parts  who  have  been  employed  in  vitiating  the 
age,  had  endeavored  to  rectify  and  amend  it,  they, 
needed  not  to  have  sacrificed  their  good  sense  and 
virtue  to  their  fame  and  reputation.  No  man  is 
so  sunk  in  vice  and  ignorance,  but  there  are  still 
some  hidden  seeds  of  goodness  and  knowledge 
in  him  ;  which  give  him  a  relish  of  such  reflec¬ 
tions  and  speculations  as  have  an  aptness  to  im¬ 
prove  the  mind,  and  make  the  heart  better. 

I  have  shown  in  a  former  paper,  with  how 
much  care  I  have  avoided  all  such  thoughts  as 
are  loose,  obscene,  or  immoi^l  ;  and  I  believe  my 
reader  would  still  think  the  better  of  me,  if 
he  knew  the  pains  I  am  at  in  qualifying  what  I 
write  after  such  a  manner  that  nothing  may  be  in¬ 
terpreted  as  aimed  at  private  persons.  For  this  rea¬ 
son,  when  I  draw  any  faulty  character,  I  consider 
all  those  persons  to  whom  the  malice  of  the  world 
may  possibly  apply  it,  and  take  care  to  dash  it 
with  such  particular  circumstances  as  may  pre¬ 
vent  all  such  ill-natured  applications..  If  I  write 
anything  on  a  black  man,  I  run  over  in  my  mind 
all  the  eminent  persons  in  the  nation  who  are  of 
that  complexion :  when  I  place  an  imaginary 
name  at  the  head  of  a  character,  I  examine  every 
syllable  and  letter  of  it,  that  it  may  not  bear  any 
resemblance  to  one  that  is  real.  I  know  very  well 
the  value  which  every  man  sets  upon  his  reputa¬ 
tion,  and  how  painful  it  is  to  be  exposed  to  the 
mirth  and  derision  of  the  public,  and  should 
therefore  scorn  to  divert  my  reader  at  the  expense 
of  any  private  man. 

As  I  have  been  thus  tender  of  every  particular 
person’s  reputation,  so  I  have  taken  more  than 
ordinary  care  not  to  give  offense  to  those  who  ap¬ 
pear  in  the  higher  figures  of  life.  I  wrould  not 
make  myself  merry  even  with  a  piece  of  paste¬ 
board  that  is  invested  with  a  public  character  ;  for 
which  reason  I  have  never  glanced  upon  the  late 
designed  procession  of  his  Holiness  and  his  at¬ 
tendants,  notwithstanding  it  might  have  afforded 
matter  to  many  ludicrous  speculations.  Among 
those  advantages  which  the  public  may  reap  from 
this  paper,  it  is  not  the  least,  that  it  draws  men  a 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


minds  off  from  the  bitterness  of  party,  and  fur¬ 
nishes  them  with  subjects  of  discourse  that  may 
be  treated  without  warmth  or  passion.  This  is 
said  to  have  been  the  first  design  of  those  gentle¬ 
men  who  set  on  foot  the  Royal  Society  ;  and  had 
then  a  very  good  effect,  as  it  turned  many  of  the 
greatest  geniuses  of  that  age  to  the  disquisitions 
of  natural  knowledge,  who,  if  they  had  engaged 
m  politics  with  the  same  parts  and  application, 
might  have  set  their  country  in  a  flame.  The  air- 
pump,  the  barometer,  the  quadrant,  and  the  like 
inventions,  were  thrown  out  to  those  busy  spirits, 
as  tubs  and  barrels  are  to  a  whale,  that  he  may 
let  the  ship  sail  on  without  disturbance,  wdiile 
he  diverts  himself  with  those  innocent  amuse¬ 
ments. 

I  have  been  so  very  scrupulous  in  this  particu¬ 
lar  of  not  hurting  any  man’s  reputation,  that  I 
have  forborne  mentioning  even  such  authors  as  I 
could  not  name  with  honor.  This  I  must  confess 
to  have  been  a  piece  of  very  great  self-denial  ;  for 
as  the  public  relishes  nothing  better  than  ridicule 
which  turns  upon  a  writer  of  any  eminence,  so 
there  is  nothing  which  a  man  that  has  but  a  very 
ordinary  talent  in  ridicule  may  execute  with 
greater  ease.  One  might  raise  laughter  for  a  quar¬ 
ter  of  a  year  together  upon  the  works  of  a  person 
who  has  published  but  a  very  few  volumes.  For 
which  reason  I  am  astonished,  that  those  who 
have  appeared  against  this  paper,  have  made  so 
very  little  of  it.  The  criticisms  which  I  have 
hitherto  published,  have  been  made  with  an  in¬ 
tention  rather  to  discover  beauties  and  excellencies 
in  the  writers  of  my  own  time,  than  to  publish 
any  of  their  faults  and  imperfections.  In  the 
meanwhile  I  should  take  it  for  a  very  great  favor 
from  some  of  my  underhand  detractors,  if  they 
would  break  all  measures  with  me,  so  far  as  to 
give  me  a  pretense  for  examining  their  perform¬ 
ances  with  an  impartial  eye  :  nor  shall  I  look 
upon  it  as  any  breach  of  charity  to  criticise  the 
author  so  long  as  I  keep  clear  of  the  person. 

In  the.  meanwhile,  until  I  am  provoked  to 
such  hostilities,  I  shall  from  time  to  time  endeavor 
to  do  justice  to  those  who  have  distinguished 
themselves  in  the  politer  parts  of  learning,  and 
to  point  out  such  beauties  in  their  works  as  may 
have  escaped  the  observation  of  others. 

As  the  first  place  among  our  English  poets  is 
due  to  Milton  ;  and  as  I  have  drawn  more  quota- 
tions  out  of  him  than  from  any  other,  I  shall  en¬ 
ter  into  a  regular  criticism  upon  his  Paradise  Lost, 
which  I  shall  publish  every  Saturday,  until  I  have 
given  my  thoughts  upon  that  poem.  I  shall  not, 
however,  presume  to  impose  upon  others  my  own 
particular  judgment  on  this  author,  but  only  de¬ 
liver  it  as  my  private  opinion.  Criticism  is  of  a 
very  laige  extent,  and  every  particular  master  in 
tins  art  has  his  favorite  passages  in  an  author 
which  do  not  equally  strike  the  best  judges.  It 
will  be  sufficient  for  me,  if  I  discover  many  beau- 
ties  or  imperfections  which  others  have  not  atten¬ 
ded  to,  and  I  should  be  very  glad  to  see  any  of 
our  eminent  writers  publish  their  discoveries  on 
the  same  subject.  In  short,  I  would  always  be 
understood  to  write  my  papers  of  criticism  in  the 
spirit  which  Horace  has  expressed  in  these  two 
famous  lines : 

- -Si  quid  novisti  rectius  istis, 

Candid  us  linperti;  si  non,  lus  utcro  mecum. 

1  Ep.  yi,  ult. 

If  you  hare  made  any  better  remarks  of  your  own  com¬ 
municate  them  with  candor;  if  not,  make  use  of  these  I  nre- 
sent  you  with. — C.  1 


325 

No.  263.]  TUESDAY,  JANUARY  1,  1711-12. 

Gratulor  quod  eum  quem  nccesse  erat  diligere,  qualiscun- 
que  esset,  talem  habeinus  ut  libenter  quoque  diligamus. 

Trebonius  apud  Tull. 

I  am  glad  that  he  whom  I  must  have  loved  from  duty, 
whatever  he  had  been,  is  such  a  one  as  I  can  love  from  in¬ 
clination. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

,  “  I  am  the  happy  father  of  a  very  towardly  son, 
m  At  hom  I  do  not  only  see  my  life,  but  also  my 
manner  of  life,  renewed.  It  would  be  extremely 
beneficial  to  society,  if  you  would  frequently  re¬ 
sume  subjects  which  serve  to  bind  these  sort  of 
relations  faster,  and  endear  the  ties  of  blood  with 
those  of  good-will,  protection,  observance,  in¬ 
dulgence,  and  veneration.  I  would,  njethinks, 
have  this  done  after  an  uncommon  method,  and 
do  not  think  any  one,  who  is  not  capable  of  writ¬ 
ing  a  good  play,  fit  to  undertake  a  work  wherein 
there  will  necessarily  occur  so  many  secret  in¬ 
stincts,  and  biases  of  human  nature  which  would 
pass  unobserved  by  common  eyes.  I  thank 
Heaven  I  have  no  outrageous  offense  against  my 
own  excellent  parents  to  answer  for;  but  when  I 
am  now  and  then  alone,  and  look  back  upon  my 
past  life,  from  my  earliest  infancy  to  this  time, 
there  are  many  faults  which  I  committed  that  did 
not  appear  to  me,  even  until  I  myself  became  a 
father.  I  had  not  until  then  a  notion  to  the 
yearnings  of  a  heart,  which  a  man  has  when  he 
sees  his  child  do  a  laudable  thing,  or  the  sudden 
damp  which  seizes  him  when  he  fears  he  will  act 
something  unworthy.  It  is  not  to  be  imagined 
what  a  remorse  touched  me  for  a  long  train  of 
childish  negligences  of  my  mother,  when  I  saw 
my  wife  the  other  day  look  out  of  the  window, 
and  turn  as  pale  as  ashes  upon  seeing  my  young¬ 
est  boy  sliding  upon  the  ice.  These  slight  inti¬ 
mations  will  give  you  to  understand,  that  there 
are  numberless  little  crimes  which  children  take 
no  notice  of  while  they  are  doing,  which,  upon 
reflection,  when  they  shall  themselves  become  fa¬ 
thers,  they  will  look  upon  with  the  utmost  sorrow 
and  contrition,  that  they  did  not  regard  before 
those  whom  they  offended  were  to  be  no  more 
seen.  How  many  thousand  things  do  I  remember 
which  would  have  highly  pleased  my  father,  and 
I  omitted  for  no  other  reason,  but  that  I  thought 
what  he  proposed,  the  effect  of  humor  and  old 
age,  which  I  am  now  convinced  had  reason  and 
good  sense  in  it.  I  cannot  now  go  into  the  parlor 
to  him,  and  make  his  heart  glad  with  an  account 
of  a  matter  which  was  of  no  consequence,  but  that 
I  told  it,  and  acted  in  it.  The  good  man  and  wo¬ 
man  are  long  since  in  their  graves,  who  used  to  sit 
and  plot  the  welfare  of  us  their  children,  while, 
perhaps,  we  were  sometimes  laughing  at  the  old 
folks,  at  another  end  of  the  house.  The  truth  of 
it  is,  were  we  merely  to  follow  nature  in  these 
great  duties  of  life,  though  we  have  strong  instinct 
toward  the  performing  of  them,  we  should  be  on 
both  sides  very  deficient.  Age  is  so  unwelcome 
to  the  generality  of  mankind,  and  growth  toward 
manhood  so  desirable  to  all,  that  resignation  to 
decay  is  too  difficult  a  task  in  the  father  ;  and  de¬ 
ference,  amidst  the  impulse  of  gay  desires,  appears 
unreasonable  to  the  son.  There  are  so  few  who 
can  grow  old  with  a  good  grace,  and  yet  fewer  who 
can  come  slow  enough  into  the  world,  that  a  fa¬ 
ther,  were  he  to  be  actuated  by  his  desires,  and  a 
son,  were  he  to  consult  himself  only,  could  nei¬ 
ther  of  them  behave  himself  as  he  ought  to  the 
other.  But  when  reason  interposes  against  in¬ 
stinct,  wdiere  it  would  carry  either  out  of  the  in¬ 
terests  of  the  other,  there  arises  that  happiest 
intercourse  of  good  offices  between  those  dearest 


326 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


relations  of  human  life.  The  father,  according  to 
the  opportunities  which  are  offered  to  him,  is 
throwing  down  blessings  on  the  son,  and  the  son 
endeavoring  to  appear  the  worthy  offspring  of 
such  a  father.  It  is  after  this  manner  that  Camil- 
lus  and  his  firstborn  dwelt  together.  Camillus 
enjoys  a  pleasing  and  indolent  old  age,  in  which 
passion  is  subdued,  and  reason  exalted.  He  waits 
the  day  of  his  dissolution  with  a  resignation 
mixed  with  delight ;  and  the  son  fears  the  acces¬ 
sion  of  his  father’s  fortune  with  diffidence,  lest  he 
should  not  enjoy  or  become  it  as  well  as  his  prede¬ 
cessor.  Add  to  this,  that  the  father  knows  that  he 
leaves  a  friend  to  the  children  of  his  friends,  an 
easy  landlord  to  his  tenants,  and  an  agreeable 
companion  to  his  acquaintance.  He  believes  his 
son’s  behavior  will  make  him  frequently  remem¬ 
bered,  but  never  wanted.  This  commerce  is  so 
well  cemented,  that  without  the  pomp  of  saying, 
‘  Son,  be  a  friend  to  such-a-one  when  I  am  gone 
Camillus  knows,  being  in  his  favor  is  direction 
enough  to  the  grateful  youth  who  is  to  succeed 
him,  without  the  admonition  of  his  mentioning  it. 
These  gentlemen  are  honored  all  in  their  neigh¬ 
borhood,  and  the  same  effect  which  the  court  has 
on  the  manners  of  a  kingdom,  their  characters 
have  on  all  who  live  within  the  influence  of 
them. 

“My  son  and  I  are  not  of  fortune  to  communi¬ 
cate  our  good  actions  or  intentions  to  so  many  as 
these  gentlemen  do  ;  but  I  will  be  bold  to  say,  my 
son  has,  by  the  applause  and  approbation  which 
his  behavior  toward  me  has  gained  him,  occa¬ 
sioned  that  many  an  old  man  beside  myself  has 
rejoiced.  Other  men’s  children  follow  the  exam¬ 
ple  of  mine,  and  I  have  the  inexpressible  happi¬ 
ness  of  overhearing  our  neighbors,  as  we  ride  by, 
point  to  their  children,  and  say,  with  a  voice  of 
joy,  ‘  There  they  go.’ 

“You  cannot,  Mr.  Spectator,  pass  your  time 
better  than  in  insinuating  the  delights  which  those 
relations,  well  regarded,  bestow  upon  each  other. 
Ordinary  passages  are  no  longer  such,  but  mutual 
love  gives  an  importance  to  the  most  indifferent 
things,  and  a  merit  to  actions  the  most  insignifi¬ 
cant.  When  we  look  round  the  world,  ana  ob¬ 
serve  the  many  misunderstandings  which  are 
created  by  the  malice  and  insinuation  of  the 
meanest  servants  between  people  thu^  related,  how 
necessary  will  it  appear  that  it  were  inculcated, 
that  men  would  be  upon  their  guard  to  support  a 
constancy  of  affection,  and  that  grounded  upon 
the  principles  of  reason,  not  the  impulses  of  in¬ 
stinct. 

“  It  is  from  the  common  prejudices  which  men 
receive  from  their  parents,  that  hatreds  are  kept 
alive  from  one  generation  to  another ;  and  when 
men  act  by  instinct,  hatred  will  descend  when 
good  offices  are  forgotten.  For  the  degeneracy  of 
human  life  is  such,  that  our  anger  is  more  easily 
transferred  to  our  children,  than  our  love.  Love 
always  gives  something  to  the  object  it  delights  in, 
and  anger  spoils  the  person  against  whom  it  is 
moved  of  something  laudable  in  him  ;  from  this 
degeneracy,  therefore,  and  a  sort  of  self-love,  we 
are  more  prone  to  take  up  the  ill-will  of  our  pa¬ 
rents,  than  to  follow  them  in  their  friendships. 

“  One  would  think  there  should  need  no  more 
to  make  man  keep  up  this  sort  of  relation  with 
the  utmost  sanctity,  than  to  examine  their  own 
hearts.  If  every  father  remembered  his  own 
thoughts  and  inclinations  when  he  was  a  son,  and 
every  son  remembered  what  he  expected  from  his 
father,  when  he  himself  was  in  a  state  of  depen¬ 
dence,  this  one  reflection  would  preserve  men  from 
being  dissolute  or  rigid  in  these  several  capacities. 
The  power  and  subjection  between  them,  when 


broken,  make  them  more  emphatically  tyrants  and 
rebels  against  each  other,  with  greater  cruelty  of 
heart,  than  the  disruption  of  states  and  empires 
can  possibly  produce.  I  shall  end  this  application 
to  you  with  two  letters,  which  passed  between  a 
mother  and  son  very  lately,  and  are  as  follows: 

“Dear  Frank, 

“If  the  pleasures,  which  I  have  the  grief  to 
hear  you  pursue  in  town,  do  not  take  up  all  your 
time,  do  not  deny  your  mother  so  much  of  it  as  to 
read  seriously  this  letter.  You  said  before  Mr. 
Letacre,  that  an  old  woman  might  live  very  well 
in  the  country  upon  half  my  jointure,  and  that 
your  father  was  a  fond  fool  to  give  me  a  rent 
charge  of  eight  hundred  a-year  to  the  prejudice  of 
his  son.  What  Letacre  said  to  you  upon  that  oc¬ 
casion,  you  ought  to  have  borne  with  more  decen¬ 
cy,  as  he  was  your  father’s  well  beloved  servant, 
than  to  have  called  him  countiy-put.  In  the  first 
place,  Frank,  I  must  tell  you,  I  will  have  my  rent 
duly  paid,  for  I  will  make  up  to  your  sisters  for 
the  partiality  I  was  guilty  of,  in  making  your 
father  do  so  much  as  he  has  done  for  you.  I  may, 
it  seems,  live  upon  half  my  jointure !  I  lived 
upon  much  less,  Frank,  when  I  carried  you  from 
place  to  place  in  these  arms,  and  could  neither 
eat,  dress,  or  mind  anything  for  feeding  and  tend¬ 
ing  you  a  weakly  child,  and  shedding  tears  when 
the  convulsions  you  were  then  troubled  with  re¬ 
turned  upon  you.  By  my  care  you  outgrew  them, 
to  throw  away  the  vigor  of  your  youth  in  the 
arms  of  harlots,  and  deny  your  mother  what  is 
not  yours  to  detain.  Both  your  sisters  are  crying 
to  see  the  passion  which  I  smother;  but  if  you 
please  to  go  on  thus  like  a  gentleman  of  the  town, 
and  forget  all  regards  to  yourself  and  family,  I 
shall  immediately  enter  upon  your  estate  for  the 
arrear  due  to  me,  and,  without  one  tear  more,  con¬ 
temn  you  for  forgetting  the  fondness  of  your  mo¬ 
ther,  as  much  as  you  have  the  example  of  your 
father.  0  Frank,  do  I  live  to  omit  writing  myself, 
“Your  affectionate  mother, 

“A.  T.” 

“Madam, 

“I  will  come  down  to-morrow  and  pay  the 
money  on  my  knees.  Pray  write  so  no  more.  I 
will  take  care  you  never  shall,  for  I  will  be  forever 
hereafter, 

“  Your  most  dutiful  son, 

ti  JP  fjp  *> 

“  I  will  bring  down  new  hoods  for  my  sisters. 
Pray  let  all  be  forgotten.” 

c. 


No.  264.]  WEDNESDAY,  JAN.  2,  1711-12. 

- Secretum  iter  et  fallentis  semita  vitfe. 

Hoe..  1  Ep.  xviii,  103. 

ADAPTED. 

In  public  walks  let  who  will  shine  or  stray, 

I’ll  silent  steal  through  life  in  my  own  way. 

It  lias  been  from  age  to  age  an  affectation  to 
love  the  pleasures  of  solitude,  among  those  who 
cannot  possibly  be  supposed  qualified  for  passing 
life  in  that  manner.  This  people  have  taken  up 
from  reading  the  many  agreeable  things  which 
have  been  written  cn  that  subject,  for  which  we  are 
beholden  to  excellent  persons  who  delighted  in 
being  retired,  and  abstracted  from  the  pleasures 
that  enchant  the  generality  of  the  world.  This 
way  of  life  is  recommended  indeed  with  great 
beauty,  and  in  such  a  manner  as  disposes  the 
reader  for  the  time  to  pleilsing  forgetfulness,  or 
negligence  of  the  particular  hurry  of  life  in  which 


THE  SPE 

he  is  engaged,  together  with  a  longing  for  that 
state  which  he  is  charmed  with  in  description. 
But  when  we  consider  the  world  itself,  and  how 
few  there  are  capable  of  a  religious,  learned,  or 
philosophic  solitude,  we  shall  be  apt  to  change  a 
regard  to  that  sort  of  solitude,  for  being  a  little 
singular  in  enjoying  time  after  the  way  a  man  him¬ 
self  likes  best  in  the  world,  without  going  so  far 
as  wholly  to  withdraw  from  it.  I  have  often  ob¬ 
served,  there  is  not  a  man  breathing  who  does  not 
differ  from  all  other  men  as  much  in  the  senti¬ 
ments  of  his  mind  as  the  features  of  his  face. 
The  felicity  is,  when  any  one  is  so  happy  as  to 
find  out  and  follow  what  is  the  proper  bent  of  his 
genius,  and  turn  all  his  endeavors  to  exert  him¬ 
self  according  as  that  prompts  him.  Instead  of 
this,  which  is  an  innocent  method  of  enjoying  a 
man’s  self,  and  turning  out  of  the  general  tracks 
wherein  you  have  crowds  of  rivals,  there  are  those 
who  pursue  their  own  way  out  of  a  sourness  and 
spirit  of  contradiction.  These  men  do  everything 
which  they  are  able  to  support,  as  if  guilt  and  im¬ 
punity  could  not  go  together.  They  choose  a  thing 
only  because  another  dislikes  it;  and  affect  for¬ 
sooth  an  inviolable  constancy  in  matters  of  no 
manner  of  moment.  Thus  sometimes  an  old  fel¬ 
low  shall  wear  this  or  that  sort  of  cut  in  his  clothes 
with  great  integrity,  while  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
are  degenerated  into  buttons,  pockets,  and  loops 
unknown  to  their  ancestors.  As  insignificant  as 
even  this  is,  if  it  were  searched  to  the  bottom,  you 
perhaps  would  find  it  not  sincere,  but  that  he  is 
in  the  fashion  in  his  heart,  and  holds  out  from 
mere  obstinacy.  But  I  am  running  from  my  in¬ 
tended  purpose,  which  was  to  celebrate  a  certain 
particular  manner  of  passing  away  life,  in  contra¬ 
diction  to  no  man,  but  with  a  resolution  to  con¬ 
tract  none  of  the  exorbitant  desires  by  which 
others  are  enslaved.  The  best  way  of  separating 
a  man’s  self  from  the  world,  is  to  give  up  the  de¬ 
sire  of  being  known  to  it.  After  a  man  has  pre¬ 
served  his  innocence,  and  performed  all  duties  in¬ 
cumbent  upon  him,  his  time  spent  in  his  own  way 
is  what  makes  his  life  differ  from  that  of  a  slave. 
If  they  who  affect  show  and  pomp  knew  how 
many  of  their  spectators  derided  their  trivial 
taste,  they  would  be  very  much  less  elated,  and 
have  an  inclination  to  examine  the  merit  of  all 
they  have  to  do  with:  they  would  soon  find  out 
that  there  are  many  who  make  a  figure  below  what 
their  fortune  or  merit  entitles  them  to,  out  of  mere 
choice,  and  an  elegant  desire  of  ease  and  disen- 
cumbrauce.  It  would  look  like  romance  to  tell 
you  in  this  age,  of  an  old  man  who  is  contented 
to  pass  for  a  humorist,  and  one  who  does  not  un¬ 
derstand  the  figure  he  ought  to  make  in  the  world, 
while  he  lives  in  a  lodging  of  ten  shillings  a- 
week  with  only  one  servant ;  while  he  dresses 
himself  according  to  the  season  in  cloth  or  in 
stuff,  and  has  no  one  necessary  attention  to  any¬ 
thing  but  the  bell  which  calls  to  prayers  twice  a 
day:  I  say  it  would  look  like  a  fable  to  report 
that  this  gentleman  gives  away  all  which  is  the 
overplus  of  a  great  fortune  by  secret  methods  to 
other  men.  If  he  has  not  the  pomp  of  a  numer¬ 
ous  train,  and  of  professors  of  service  to  him,  he 
has  every  day  he  lives  the  conscience  that  the 
widow,  the  fatherless,  the  mourner,  and  the 
stranger,  bless  his  unseen  hand  in  their  prayers. 
This  humorist  gives  up  all  the  compliments  which 
people  of  his  own  condition  could  make  him,  for 
the  pleasure  of  helping  the  affiicted,  supplying 
the  needy,  and  befriending  the  neglected.  This 
humorist  keeps  to  himself  much  more  than  he 
wants,  and  gives  a  vast  refuse  of  his  superfluities 
to  purchase  heaven,  and  by  freeing  others  from 


CTATOR.  327 

the  temptations  of  worldly  want,  to  carry  a  reti¬ 
nue  with  him  thither. 

Of  all  men  who  affect  living  in  a  particular  way, 
next  to  this  admirable  character,  1  am  the  most 
enamored  of  Irus,  whose  condition  will  not  admit 
of  such  largesses,  and  who  perhaps  would  not  be 
capable  of  making  them  if  it  were.  Irus,  though 
lie  is  now  turned  of  fifty,  has  not  appeared  in  the 
world  in  his  rear  character  since  five-and-twenty, 
at  which  age  he  ran  out  a  small  patrimony, 
and  spent  some  time  after  with  rakes  who  had 
lived  upon  him.  A  course  of  ten  years  time  pass¬ 
ed  in  all  the  little  alleys,  by-paths,  and  sometimes 
open  taverns  and  streets  of  this  town,  gave  Irus  a 
perfect  skill  in  judging  of  the  inclinations  of 
mankind,  and  acting  accordingly.  He  seriously 
considered  he  was  poor,  and  the  general  horror 
which  most  men  have  of  all  who  are  in  that  con¬ 
dition.  Irus  judged  very  rightly,  that  while  he 
could  keep  his  poverty  a  secret,  he  should  not  feel 
the  weight  of  it;  he  improved  this  thought  into 
an  affectation  of  closeness  and  covetousness. 
Upon  this  one  principle  he  resolved  to  govern  his 
future  life  ;  and  in  the  thirty-sixth  year  of  his 
age  he  repaired  to  Long-lane,  and  looked  upon 
several  dresses  which  hung  there  deserted  by  their 
first  masters,  and  exposed  to  the  purchase  of  the 
best  bidder.  At  this  place  he  exchanged  his  gay 
shabbiness  of  clothes  fit  for  a  much  younger  man, 
to  warm  ones  that  would  be  decent  for  a  much 
older  one.  Irus  came  out  thoroughly  equipped 
from  head  to  foot,  with  a  little  oaken  cane,  in  the 
form  of  a  substantial  man  that  did  not  mind  his 
dress,  turned  of  fifty.  He  had  at  this  time  fifty 
pounds  in  ready  money;  and  in  this  habit,  with 
this  fortune,  he  took  his  present  lodging  in  St. 
John-street,  at  the  mansion  house  of  a  tailor’s 
widow,  who  washes,  and  can  clear-starch  his 
bands.  From  that  time  to  this  he  has  kept  the 
main  stock,  without  alteration  under  or  over  to  the 
value  of  five  pounds.  He  left  off  all  his  old  ac¬ 
quaintance  to  a  man,  and  all  his  arts  of  life,  ex¬ 
cept  the  play  of  backgammon,  upon  which  he 
has  more  than  borne  his  charges.  Irus  has,  ever 
since  he  came  into  this  neighborhood,  given  all 
the  intimations  he  skillfully  could  of  being  a 
close  hunks  worth  money:  nobody  comes  to  visit 
him,  he  receives  no  letters,  and  tells  his  money 
morning  and  evening.  He  lias  from  the  public 
papers  a  knowledge  of  what  generally  passes, 
shuns  all  discourses  of  money,  but  shrugs  his 
shoulders  when  you  talk  of  securities;  he  denies 
his  being  rich,  with  the  air  which  all  do  who  are 
vain  of  being  so.  He  is  the  oracle  of  a  neighbor¬ 
ing  justice  of  the  peace,  who  meets  him  at  the 
coffee-house;  the  hopes  that  what  he  has  must 
come  to  somebody,  and  that  he  has  no  heirs,  have 
that  effect  wherever  he  is  known,  that  he  has  every 
day  three  or  four  invitations  to  dine  at  different 
places,  which  he  generally  takes  care  to  choose  in 
such  a  manner  as  not  to  seem  inclined  to  the 
richer  man.  All  the  young  men  respect  him,  and 
say  he  is  just  the  same  man  he  was  when  they 
were  boys!  He  uses  no  artifice  in  the  world,  but 
makes  use  of  men’s  designs  upon  him  to  get  a 
maintenance  out  of  them.  This  he  carries  on  by 
a  certain  peevishness  (which  he  acts  very  well;, 
that  no  one  would  believe  could  possibly  enter 
into  the  head  of  a  poor  fellow.  His  mien,  his 
dress,  his  carriage,  and  his  language,  are  such, 
that  you  would  be  at  a  loss  to  guess  whether  in 
the  active  part  of  his  life  he  had  been  a  sensible 
citizen,  or  scholar  that  knew  the  world.  These 
are  the  great  circumstances  in  the  life  of  Irus,  and 
thus  does  he  pass  away  his  days  a  stranger  to 
mankind;  and  at  his  death,  the  worst  that  will 


THE  SPECTATOR 


328 


be  said  of  him  will  be,  that  he  got  by  every  man 
who  had  expectations  from  him,  more  than  he 
had  to  leave  him. 

I  have  an  inclination  to  print  the  following  let¬ 
ters  ;  for  I  have  heard  the  author  of  them  has  some¬ 
where  or  other  seen  me,  and  by  an  excellent  facul¬ 
ty  in  mimicry  my  correspondents  tell  me  he  can 
assume  my  air,  and  give  my  taciturnity  a  slyness 
which  diverts  more  than  anything  I  could  say  if 
I  were  present.  Thus  I  am  glad  my  silence  is 
atoned  for  to  the  good  company  in  town.  He  has 
carried  his  skill  in  imitation  so  far,  as  to  have 
forged  a  letter  from  my  friend  Sir  Roger  in  such 
a  manner,  that  any  one  but  I,  who  am  thorough¬ 
ly  acquainted  with  him,  would  have  taken  it  for 
genuine. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Having  observed  in  Lilly’s  grammar  how 
sweetly  Bacchus  and  Apollo  run  in  a  verse;  I  have 
(to  preserve  the  amity  between  them)  called  in 
Bacchus  to  the  aid  of  my  profession  of  the  thea¬ 
ter.  So  that  while  some  people  of  quality  are  be¬ 
speaking  plays  of  me  to  be  acted  on  such  a  day, 
and  others,  hogsheads  for  their  houses  against 
such  a  time;  I  am  wholly  employed  in  the  agree¬ 
able  service  of  wit  and  wine.  Sir,  I  have  sent 
you  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley’s  letter  to  me,  which 

gray  comply  with  in  favor  of  the  Bumper  Tavern. 

e  kind,  for  you  know  a  player’s  utmost  pride  is 
the  approbation  of  the  Spectator. 

“I  am  your  admirer,  though  unknown, 

“Richard  Estcourt.” 

“TO  MR.  ESTCOURT. 

“AT  HIS  HOUSE  IN  COVENT-GARDEN. 

“Coverley,  December  10th,  1711. 
“Old  Comical  One, 

“  The  hogsheads  of  neat  port  came  safe,  and 
have  gotten  thee  good  reputation  in  these  parts; 
and  I  am  glad  to  hear,  that  a  fellow  who  has  been 
laying  out  his  money  ever  since  he  was  born,  for 
the  mere  pleasure  of  wine,  has  bethought  himself 
of  joining  profit  and  pleasure  together.  Our  sex¬ 
ton  (poor  man),  having  received  strength  from  thy 
wine  since  his  fit  of  the  gout,  is  hugely  taken 
with  it;  he  says  it  is  given  by  nature  for  the  use 
of  families,  and  that  no  steward’s  table  can  be 
without  it;  that  it  strengthens  digestion,  excludes 
surfeits,  fevers,  and  physic ;  which  green  wines 
of  any  kind  cannot  do.  Pray  get  a  pure  snug 
room,  and  I  hope  next  term  to  help  to  fill  your 
Bumper  with  our  people  of  the  club  ;  but  you 
must  have  no  bells  stirring  when  the  Spectator 
comes;  I  forbore  ringing  to  dinner  while  he  was 
down  with  me  in  the  country.  Thank  you  for 
the  little  hams  and  Portugal  onions :  pray  keep 
some  alwavs  by  you.  You  know  my  supper  is 
only  good  Cheshire  cheese,  best  mustard,  a  golden 
pippin,  attended  with  a  pipe  of  John  Sly’s  best. 
Sir  Harry  has  stolen  all  your  songs,  and  tells  the 
story  of  the  5th  of  November  to  perfection. 
“Yours  to  serve  you, 

“Roger  de  Coverley.” 

“  We  have  lost  old  John  since  you  were  here.” 
T.  ’  J 


No.  265.]  THURSDAY,  JANUARY  3,  1711-12 

Pixerit  e  multis  aliquis,  quid  virus  in  angues 

Adjicis  ?  et  rabidas  tradis  ovile  lupai. 

Ovid.,  de  Art.  Am.,  iii, 

But  some  exclaim:  What  frenzy  rules  your  mind? 

Would  you  increase  the  craft  of  womankind? 

Teach  them  new  wiles  and  arts?  As  well  you  may 

Instruct  a  snake  to  bite,  or  wolf  to  prey. — Congreve. 

One  of  the  fathers,  if  I  am  rightly  informed, 
has  defined  a  woman  to  be  an  animal  that  delights 
in  finery.  I  have  already  treated  of  the  sex  in 
two  or  three  papers,  conformably  to  this  defini¬ 
tion;  and  have  in  particular  observed,  that  in  all 
ages  they  have  been  more  careful  than  the  men  to 
adorn  that  part  of  the  head  which  we  generally 
call  the  outside. 

This  observation  is  so  very  notorious,  that  when 
in  ordinary  discourse  we  say  a  man  has  a  fine 
head,  a  long  head,  or  a  good  head,  we  express  our¬ 
selves  metaphorically,  and  speak  in  relation  to  his 
understanding  ;  whereas  when  we  say  of  a  wo¬ 
man,  she  has  a  fine,  a  long,  or  a  good  head,  we 
speak  only  in  relation  to  her  commode. 

It  is  observed  among  birds,  that  nature  has  la¬ 
vished  all  her  ornaments  upon  the  male,  who  very 
often  appears  in  a  most  beautiful  head-dress  : 
whether  it  be  a  crest,  a  comb,  a  tuft  of  feathers, 
or  a  natural  little  plume,  erected  like  a  kind  of 
pinnacle  on  the  very  top  of  the  head.  As  Nature 
on  the  contrary  has  poured  out  her  charms  in  the 
greatest  abundance  upon  the  female  part  of  our 
species,  so  they  are  very  assiduous  in  bestowing 
upon  themselves  the  finest  garnitures  of  art.  The 
peacock,  in  all  his  pride,  does  not  display  half 
the  colors  that  appear  in  the  garments  of  a  British 
lady,  when  she  is  dressed  either  for  a  ball  or  a 
birthday. 

But  to  return  to  our  female  heads.  The  ladies 
have  been  for  some  time  in  a  kind  of  moulting 
season  with  regard  to  that  part  of  their  dress, 
having  cast  great  quantities  of  ribbon,  lace,  and 
cambric,  and  in  some  measure  reduced  that  part 
of  the  human  figure  to  the  beautiful  globular  form, 
which  is  natural  to  it.  We  have  for  a  great  while 
expected  what  kind  of  ornament  would  be  substi¬ 
tuted  in  the  place  of  those  antiquated  commodes. 
Our  female  projectors  were  all  the  last  summer  so 
taken  up  with  the  improvement  of  their  petticoats, 
that  they  had  not  time  to  attend  to  anything  else ; 
but  having  at  length  sufficiently  adorned  their 
lower  parts,  they  now  begin  to  turn  their  thoughts 
upon  the  other  extremity,  as  well  remembering 
the  old  kitchen  proverb,  “  that  if  you  light  the  fire 
at  both  ends,  the  middle  will  shift  for  itself.” 

I  am  engaged  in  this  speculation  by  a  sight 
which  I  lately  met  with  at  the  opera.  As  I  was 
standing  in  the  hinder  part  of  a  box,  I  took  notice 
of  a  little  cluster  of  women  sitting  together  in  the 
prettiest  colored  hood  that  I  ever  saw.  One  of 
them  was  blue,  another  yellow,  and  another  phi- 
lomot;  the  fourth  was  of  a  pink  color,  and  the 
fifth  of  a  pale  green.  I  looked  with  as  much 
pleasure  upon  this  little  party-colored  assembly, 
as  upon  a  bed  of  tulips,  and  did  not  know  at  first 
whether  it  might  not  be  an  embassy  of  Indian 
queens;  but  upon  my  going  about  into  the  pit, 
and  taking  them  in  front,  I  was  immediately  un¬ 
deceived,  and  saw  so  much  beauty  in  every  face, 
that  I  found,  them  all  to  be  English.  Such  eyes 
and  lips,  cheeks  and  foreheads,  could  be  the  growth 
of  no  other  country.  The  complexion  of  their 
faces  hindered  me  from  observing  any  further  the 
color  of  their  hoods,  though  I  could  easily  perceive, 
by  that  unspeakable  satisfaction  which  appeared 
in  their  looks,  that  their  own  thoughts  were 
wholly  taken  up  on  those  pretty  ornaments  they 
wore  upon  their  heads. 


THE  SPECTATOR 


I  am  informed  that  this  fashion  spreads  daily, 
insomuch  that  the  Whig  and  Tory  ladies  begin 
already  to  hang  out  different  colors,  and  to  show 
their  principles  in  their  head-dress.  Nay,  if  I 
may  believe  my  friend  Will  Honeycomb,  there  is 
a  certain  old  coquette  of  his  acquaintance,  who 


329 


intends  to  appear  very  suddenly  in  a  rainbow 
hood,  like  the  Iris  in  Dryden’s  Virgil,  not  ques- 


tioning  but  that  among  such  a  variety  of  colors 
she  shall  have  a  charm  for  every  heart. 

My  friend  Will,  who  very  much  values  himself 
upon  his  great  insight  into  gallantry,  tells  me, 
that  he  can  already  guess  at  the  humor  a  lady  is 
in  by  her  hood,  as  the  courtiers  of  Morocco  know 
the  disposition  of  their  present  emperor  by  the 
color  of  the  dress  which  he  puts  on.  When  Me- 
lesinda  wraps  her  head  in  flame  color,  her  heart  is 
set  upon  execution.  When  she  covers  it  with  pur¬ 
ple,  1  would  not,  says  he,  advise  her  lover  to  ap¬ 
proach  her;  but  if  she  appears  in  white,  it  is 
peace,  and  he  may  hand  her  out  of  her  box  with 
safety. 

Will  informs  me  likewise,  that  these  hoods  may 
be  used  as  signals.  Why  else,  says  he,  does  Cor¬ 
nelia  .always  put  on  a  black  hood  when  her  hus¬ 
band  is  gone  into  the  country? 

Such  are  ray  friend  Honeycomb’s  dreams  of  gal¬ 
lantry.  For  my  own  part,  I  impute  this  diversity 
of  colors  in  the  hoods  to  the  diversity  of  com¬ 
plexion  in  the  faces  of  my  pretty  countrywomen. 
Ovid,  in  his  Art  of  Love,  has  given  some  precepts 
as  to  this  particular,  though  I  fifld  they  are  differ¬ 
ent  from  those  which  prevail  among  the  moderns. 
He  recommends  a  red  striped  silk  to  the  pale  com¬ 
plexion;  white  to  the  brown,  and  dark  to  the  fair. 
On  the  contrary,  my  friend  Will,  who  pretends  to 
be  a  greater  master  in  this  art  than  Ovid,  tells  me, 
that  the  palest  features  look  the  most  agreeable  in 
white  sarcenet;  that  a  face  which  is  over-flushpd 
appears  to  advantage  in  the  deepest  scarlet;  and 
that  the  darkest  complexion  is  not  a  little  allevia¬ 
ted  by  a  black  hood.  In  short,  he  is  for  losing 
the  color  of  the  face  in  that  of  the  hood,  as  a  fire 
burns  dimly,  and  a  candle  goes  half  out  in  the 
light  of  the  sun.  “  This,”  says  he,  “your  Ovid 
himself  has  hinted,  where  he  treats  of  these  mat¬ 
ters,  when  he  tells  us  that  the  blue- water  nymphs 
are  dressed  in  sky-colored  garments;  and  that  Au¬ 
rora,  who  always  appears  in  the  light  of  the  rising 
sun,  is  robed  in  saffron.” 

Whether  these  his  observations  are  justly 
grounded  I  cannot  tell;  but  I  have  often  known 
him,  as  we  have  stood  together  behind  the  ladies, 
praise  or  dispraise  the  complexion  of  a  face  which 
he  never  saw,  from  observing  the  color  of  her 
hood,  and  [he]  has  been  very  seldom  out  in  these 
his  guesses. 

As  I  have  nothing  more  at  heart  than  the  honor 
and  improvement  of  the  fair  sex,  I  cannot  con¬ 
clude  this  paper  without  an  exhortation  to  the 
British  ladies,  that  they  would  excel  the  women 
of  all  other  nations  as  much  in  virtue  and  good 
sense  as  they  do  in  beauty;  which  they  may  cer¬ 
tainly  do,  if  they  will  be  as  industrious  to  cultivate 
their  minds  as  they  are  to  adorn  their  bodies.  In 
the  meanwhile  I  shall  recommend  to  their  most 
serious  consideration  the  saying  of  an  old  Greek 
poet: 

The  mind,  not  the  dress,  adorneth  woman 

c. 


No.  266.]  FRIDAY,  JANUARY  4,  1711-12. 


Id  vero  est,  quod  ego  mihi  puto  palmarium 
Me  reperisse,  quomodo  adolescentulus 
.  leretrieum  ingenia  et  mores  possit  noscere ; 
Mature  ut  cum  cognorit,  perpetuo  oderit. 

Ter.  Eun.,  act.,  v,  sc.  4. 


This  I  conceive  to  be  my  master-piece,  that  I  have  dis¬ 
covered  how  inexperienced  youth  may  detect  the  artifices 
over  ^  WOmen’  ant*  ^  knowing  them  early,  detest  them  for- 


No  vice  or  wickedness  which  people  fall  into 
from  indulgence  to  desires  which  are  natural  to  all, 
ought  to  place  them  below  the  compassion  of  the 
virtuous  part  of  the  world  :  which  indeed  often 
makes  me  a  little  apt  to  suspect  the  sincerity  of 
their  virtue,  who  are  too  warmly  provoked  at 
other  people’s  personal  sins.  The  unlawful  com¬ 
merce  of  the  sexes  is  of  all  others  the  hardest  to 
avoid;  and  yet  there  is  no  one  which  you  shall 
hear  the  rigider  part  of  womankind  speak  of  with 
so  little  mercy.  It  is  very  certain  that  a  modest 
woman  cannot  abhor  the  breach  of  chastity  too 
much;  but  pray  let  her  hate  it  for  herself,  and  only 
pity  it  in  others.  Will  Honeycomb  calls  these 
over-offended  ladies,  the  outrageously  virtuous. 

I  do  not  design  to  fall  upon  failures  in  general, 
with  relation  to  the  gift  of  chastity,  but  at  present 
only  enter  upon  that  large  field,  and  begin  with 
the  consideration  of  poor  and  public  whores.  The 
other  evening,  passing  along  near  Covent-garden, 
I  was  jogged  on  the  elbow  as  I  turned  into  the  pi¬ 
azza,  on  the  right  hand  coming  out  of  James- 
street,  by  a  slim  young  girl  of  about  seventeen, 
who  with  a  pert  air  asked  me  if  I  was  for  a  pint 
of  wine.  I  do  not  know  but  I  should  have  in¬ 
dulged  my  curiosity  in  having  some  chat  with 
her,  but  that  I  am  informed  the  man  of  the  Bum¬ 
per  knows  me;  and  it  would  have  made  a  story 
for  him  not  veiy  agreeable  to  some  part  of  my 
writings,  though  I  have  in  others  so  frequently 
said,  that  I  am  wholly  unconcerned  in  any  scene 
I  am  in  but  merely  as  a  Spectator.  This  impedi¬ 
ment  being  in  my  way,  we  stood  under  one  of  the 
arches  by  twilight;  and  there  I  could  observe  as 
exact  features  as  I  had  ever  seen,  the  most  agreea¬ 
ble  shape,  the  finest  neck  and  bosom,  in  a  word, 
the  whole  person  of  a  woman  exquisitely  beauti¬ 
ful.  She  affected  to  allure  me  with  a  forced  want¬ 
onness  in  her  look  and  air;  but  I  saw  it  checked 
with  hunger  and  cold  :  her  eyes  were  wan  and 
eager,  her  dress  thin  and  tawdry,  her  mien  genteel 
and  childish.  This  strange  figure  gave  me  much 
anguish  of  heart,  and  to  avoid  being  seen  with 
her,  I  went  away,  but  could  not  forbear  giving  her 
a  crown.  The  poor  thing  sighed,  courtsied,  and 
with  a  blessing  expressed  with  the  utmost  vehe¬ 
mence,  turned  from  me.  This  creature  is  what 
they  call  “  newly  come  upon  the  town,”  but  who, 
falling  I  suppose  into  cruel  hands,  was  left  in  the 
first  month  from  her  dishonor,  and  exposed  to 
pass  through  the  hands  and  discipline  of  one  of 
those  hags  of  hell  whom  we  call  bawds.  But  lest 
I  should  grow  too  suddenly  grave  on  this  subject, 
and  be  myself  outrageously  good,  I  shall  turn  -  to 
a  scene  in  one  of  Fletcher’s  plays,  where  this  cha¬ 
racter  is  drawn,  and  the  economy  of  whoredom 
most  admirably  described.  The  passage  I  would 
point  to  is  in  the  third  scene  of  .he  second  act  of 
The  Humorous  Lieutenant.  Leucippe,  who  is  agent 
for  the  king’s  lust,  and  bawds  at  the  same  time 
for  the  whole  court,  is  very  pleasantly  introduced, 
reading  her  minutes  as  a  person  of  business,  with 
two  maids,  her  under-secretaries,  taking  instruc¬ 
tions  at  a  table  before  her.  Her  women,  both 
those  under  her  present  tutelage,  and  those  which 
she  is  laying  wait  for,  are  alphabetically  set  down 
in  her  book;  and  as  she  is  looking  over  the  letter 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


330 

C  in  a  muttering  voice,  as  if  between  soliloquy 
and  speaking  out,  she  says, 

Her  maidenhead  will  yield  me ;  let  me  see  now  ; 

She  is  not  fifteen  they  say ;  for  her  complexion — 

Cloe,  Cloe,  Cloe,  here  I  have  her, 

Cloe,  the  daughter  of  a  country  gentleman ; 

Her  age  upon  fifteen.  Now  her  complexion — 

A  lovely  brown;  here  ’tis;  eyes  black  and  rolling, 

The  body  neatly  built ;  she  strikes  a  lute  well ; 

Sings  most  enticingly.  These  helps  consider’d, 

Her  maidenhead  will  amount  to  some  three  hundred, 

Or  three  hundred  and  fifty  crowns:  ’twill  bear  it  handsomely; 
Her  father’s  poor,  some  little  share  deducted, 

To  buy  him  a  hunting  nag - . 

The  creatures  are  very  well  instructed  in  the 
circumstances  and  manners  of  all  who  are  any 
way  related  to  the  fair  one  whom  they  have  a  de¬ 
sign  upon.  As  Cloe  is  to  be  purchased  with  350 
crowns,  and  the  father  taken  off  with  a  pad;  the 
merchant’s  wife  next  to  her,  who  abounds  in 
plenty,  is  not  to  have  downright  money,  but  the 
mercenary  part  of  her  mind  is  engaged  with  a  pre¬ 
sent  of  plate  and  a  little  ambition.  She  is  made 
to  understand  that  it  is  a  man  of  quality  who  dies 
for  her.  The  examination  of  a  young  girl  for 
business,  and  the  crying  down  her  value  for  being 
a  slight  thing,  together  with  every  other  circum¬ 
stance  in  the  scene,  are  inimitably  excellent,  and 
have  the  true  spirit  of  comedy;  though  it  were  to 
be  wished  the  author  had  added  a  circumstance 
which  should  make  Leucippe’s  business  more 
odious. 

It  must  not  be  thought  a  digression  from  my  in¬ 
tended  speculation,  to  talk  of  bawds  in  a  dis¬ 
course  upon  wenches :  for  a  woman  of  the  town  is 
not  thoroughly  and  properly  such,  without  having 
gone  through  the  education  of  one  of  these  houses. 
But  the  compassionate  case  of  very  many  is,  that 
they  are  taken  into  such  hands  without  any  the 
least  suspicion,  previous  temptation,  or  admoni¬ 
tion  to  what  place  they  are  going;.  The  last  week 
I  went  to  an  inn  in  the  city  to  inquire  for  some 
provisions  which  were  sent  Dy  a  wagon  out  of  the 
country;  and  as  I  waited  in  one  of  the  boxes  till 
the  chamberlain  had  looked  over  his  parcels,  I 
heard  an  old  and  young  voice  repeating  the  ques¬ 
tions  and  responses  of  the  church-catechism.  I 
thought  it  no  breach  of  good  manners  to  peep  at  a 
crevice,  and  look  in  at  people  so  well  employed; 
but  who  should  I  see  there  but  the  most  artful 
procuress  in  town,  examining  a  most  beautiful 
country  girl,  who  had  come  up  in  the  same  wagon 
with  my  things,  “  whether  she  was  well  educated, 
could  forbear  playing  the  wanton  with  servants 
and  idle  fellows,  of  which  this  town,  says  she,  is 
too  full.”  At  the  same  time,  “whether  she  knew 
enough  of  breeding,  as  that  if  a  ’squire  or  a  gen¬ 
tleman,  or  one  that  was  her  betters,  should  give 
her  a  civil  salute,  she  could  courtesy  and  be  hum¬ 
ble  nevertheless.”  Her  innocent  “  forsooths, 
yeses,  and’t  please  yous,  and  she  would  do  her 
endeavor,”  moved  the  good  old  lady  to  take  her 
out  of  the  hands  of  a  country  bumpkin,  her  bro¬ 
ther,  and  hire  her  for  her  own  maid.  I  staid  till 
I  saw  them  all  march  out  to  take  coach;  the  bro¬ 
ther  loaded  with  a  great  cheese,  he  prevailed  upon 
her  to  take  for  her  civilities  to  his  sister.  This 
poor  creature’s  fate  is  not  far  off  that  of  hers 
whom  I  spoke  of  above;  and  it  is  not  to  be  doubt¬ 
ed,  but  after  she  has  been  long  enough  a  prey  to 
lust,  she  will  be  delivered  over  to  famine.  The 
ironical  commendation  of  the  industry  and  cha¬ 
rity  of  these  antiquated  ladies,  these  directors  of 
sin,  after  they  can  no  longer  commit  it,  makes  up 
the  beauty  of  the  inimitable  dedication  to  the 
Plain-Dealer,  and  is  a  master-piece  of  raillery  on 
this  vice.  But  to  understand  all  the  purlieus  of 
this  game  the  better,  and  to  illustrate  this  subject 


in  future  discourses,  I  must  venture  myself,  with 
my  friend  Will,  into  the  haunts  of  beauty  and  gal¬ 
lantry;  from  pampered  vice  in  the  habitations  of 
the  wealthy,  to  distressed  indigent  wickedness 
expelled  the  harbors  of  the  brothel. — T. 


No.  267.]  SATURDAY,  JANUARY  5,  1711-12. 

Cedite  Romani  scriptores,  cedite  Graii. 

Propert.  El.  34,  lib.  2,  ver.  95. 

Give  place,  ye  Roman  and  ye  Grecian  wits. 

There  is  nothing  in  nature  so  irksome  as  gene¬ 
ral  discourses,  especially  when  they  turn  chiefly 
upon  words.  For  this  reason  I  shall  wave  the 
discussion  of  that  point  which  was  started  some 
years  since,  whether  Milton’s  Paradise  Lost  may 
be  called  an  heroic  poem  ?  Those  who  will  not 
give  it  that  title,  may  call  it  (if  they  please)  a 
divine  poem.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  its  per¬ 
fection,  if  it  has  in  it  all  the  beauties  of  the  high¬ 
est  kind  of  poetry :  and  as  for  those  who  allege  it 
is  not  an  heroic  poem,  they  advance  no  more  to 
the  diminution  of  it,  than  if  they  should  say 
Adam  is  not  _<Eneas,  nor  Eve  Helen. 

I  shall  therefore  examine  it  by  the  rule  of  epic 
poetry,  and  see  whether  it  falls  short  of  the  Iliad 
or  iEneid,  in  the  beauties  which  are  essential  to 
that  kind  of  writing.  The  first  thing  to  be  con¬ 
sidered  in  an  epic  poem  is  the  fable,  which  is 
perfect  or  impCTfect,  according  as  the  action 
which  it  relates  is  more  or  less  so.  This  action 
should  have  three  qualifications  in  it.  First,  it 
should  be  but  one  action.  Secondly,  it  should 
be  an  entire  action ;  and  Thirdly,  it  should  be  a 
great  action.  To  consider  the  action  of  the  Iliad, 
iEneid,  and  Paradise  Lost,  in  these  three  several 
lights.  Homer,  to  preserve  the  unity  of  his 
action,  hastens  into  the  midst  of  things,  as  Horace 
has  observed.  Had  he  gone  up  to  Leda’s  egg,  or 
begun  much  later,  even  at  the  rape  of  Helen,  or 
the  investing  of  Troy,  it  is  manifest  that  the  story 
of  the  poem  would  have  been  a  series  of  several 
actions.  He  therefore  opens  his  poem  with  the 
discord  of  his  princes,  and  artfully  interweaves, 
in  the  several  succeeding  parts  of  it,  an  account 
of  everything  material  which  relates  to  them, 
and  had  passed  before  that  fatal  dissension.  After 
the  same  manner  HCneas  makes  his  first  appear¬ 
ance  in  the  Tyrrhene  seas,  and  within  sight  of 
Italy,  because  the  action  proposed  to  be  celebrated 
was  that  of  his  settling  himself  in  Latium.  But 
because  it  was  necessary  for  the  reader  to  know 
what  had  happened  to  him  in  the  taking  of  Troy, 
and  in  the  preceding  parts  of  his  voyage,  V  irgil 
makes  his  hero  relate  it  by  way  of  episode  in  the 
second  and  third  books  of  the  iEneid.  The  con¬ 
tents  of  both  which  books  come  before  those  of 
the  first  book  in  the  thread  of  the  story,  though 
for  preserving  this  unity  of  action  they  follow 
them  in  the  disposition  of  the  poem.  Milton,  in 
imitation  of  these  two  great  poets,  opens  his  Pa¬ 
radise  Lost  with  an  infernal  council  plotting  the 
fall  of  man,  which  is  the  action  he  proposed  to 
celebrate ;  and  as  for  those  great  actions,  which 
preceded  in  point  of  time,  the  battle  of  the  angels, 
and  the  creation  of  the  world  (which  would  have 
entirely  destroyed  the  unity  of  the  principal 
action,  had  he  related  them  in  the  same  order  that 
they  happened),  he  cast  them  in  the  fifth,  sixth, 
ana  seventh  books,  by  way  of  episode  to  this 
noble  poem. 

Aristotle  himself  allows,  that  Homer  has  no¬ 
thing  to  boast  of  as  to  the  unity  of  his  fable, 
though  at  the  same  time  that  great  critic  and  phi¬ 
losopher  endeavored  to  palliate  this  imperfection 


331 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


in  the  Greek  poet,  by  imputing  it  in  some  measure 
to  the  very  nature  of  an  epic  poem.  Some  have 
been  of  opinion,  that  the  HSueid  also  labors  in 
this  particular,  and  has  Episodes  which  may  be 
looked  upon  as  excrescences  rather  than  as  parts 
of  the  action.  On  the  contrary,  the  poem  which 
we  have  now  under  our  consideration,  hath  no 
other  episodes  than  such  as  naturally  arise  from 
the  subject,  and  yet  is  filled  with  such  a  multi¬ 
tude  of  astonishing  incidents,  that  it  gives  us 
at  the  same  time  a  pleasure  of  the  greatest  variety 
and  of  the  greatest  simplicity ;  uniform  in  its  na¬ 
ture,  though  diversified  in  the  execution  * 

I  must  observe  also,  that  as  Virgil,  in  the  poem 
which  was  designed  to  celebrate  the  origin  of 
the  Roman  empire,  has  described  the  birth  of  its 
great  rival,  the  Carthaginian  commonwealth  ;  Mil- 
ton,  with  the  like  art  in  his  poem  on  the  fall  of 
man,  has  related  the  fall  of  those  angels  who  are 
his  professed  enemies.  Beside  the  many  other 
beauties  in  such  an  episode,  its  running  parallel 
with  the  great  action  of  the  poem,  hinders  it  from 
breaking  the  unity  so  much  as  another  episode 
would  have  done,  that  had  not  so  great  affinity 
with  the  principal  subject.  In  short  this  is  the 
same  kind  of  beauty  which  the  critics  admire  in 
the  Spanish  Friar,  or  the  Double  Discovery,  where 
the  two  different  plots  look  like  counterparts  and 
oopies  of  one  another. 

The  second  qualification  required  in  the  action 
of  an  epic  poem  is,  that  it  should  be  an  entire 
action.  An  action  is  entire  when  it  is  complete 
in  all  its  parts ;  or  as  Aristotle  describes  it,  when 
it  consists  of  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end. 
Nothing  should  go  before  it,  be  intermixed  with 
it,  or  follow  after  it,  that  is  not  related  to  it.  As, 
on  the  contrary,  no  single  step  should  be  omitted 
in  that  just  and  regular  process  which  it  must  be 
supposed  to  take  from  its  origin  to  its  consum¬ 
mation.  Thus  we  see  the  anger  of  Achilles  in 
its  birth,  its  continuance,  and  effects  ;  and  ^Eneas’s 
settlement  in  Italy  carried  on  through  all  the  op¬ 
positions  in  his  way  to  it  both  by  sea  and  land. 
The  action  in  Milton  excels  (I  think)  both  the 
former  in  this  particular:  we  see  it  contrived 
in  hell,  executed  upon  earth,  and  punished  by 
Heaveu.  The  parts  of  it  are  told  in  the  most  dis¬ 
tinct  manner,  and  grow  out  of  one  another  in  the 
most  natural  order. 

The  third  qualification  of  an  epic  poem  is  its 
greatness.  The  anger  of  Achilles  was  of  such 
consequence  that  it  embroiled  the  kings  of  Greece, 
destroyed  the  heroes  of  Troy,  and  engaged  all 
the  gods  in  factions.  .Eneas’s  settlement  in  Italy 
produced  the  Ctesars  and  gave  birth  to  the  Roman 
empire.  Milton’s  subject  was  still  greater  than 
either  of  the  former ;  it  does  not  determine  the 
fate  of  single  persons  or  nations ;  but  of  a  whole 
species.  The  united  powers  of  hell  are  joined 
together  for  the  destruction  of  mankind,  which 
they  effected  in  part,  and  would  have  completed, 
had  not  Omnipotence  itself  interposed.  The 
principal  actors  are  man  in  his  greatest  per¬ 
fection,  and  woman  in  her  highest  beauty.  Their 
enemies  are  the  fallen  angels ;  the  Messiah  their 
friend,  and  the  Almighty  their  protector.  In 
short  everything  that  is  great  ;n  the  whole  circle 
of  being,  whether  within  the  verge  of  nature,  or 
out  of  it,  has  a  proper  part  assigned  it  in  this 
admirable  poem. 

In  poetry,  as  in  architecture,  not  only  the 
whole,  but  the  principal  members,  and  every 
part  of  them,  should  be  great.  I  will  not  pre¬ 
sume  to  say,  that  the  book  of  games  in  the  Eneid, 
or  that  in  the  Iliad,  are  not  of  this  nature :  nor  to 


reprehend  Virgil’s  simile  of  the  top,  and  many 
others  of  the  same  kind  in  the  Iliad,  as  liable  to 
any  censure  in  this  particular;  but  I  think  we 
may  say,  without  derogating  from  those  wonder¬ 
ful  performances,  that  there  is  an  unquestionable 
magnificence  in  every  part  of  Paradise  Lost,  and 
indeed  a  much  greater  than  could  have  been 
formed  upon  any  pagan  system. 

But  Aristotle,  by  the  greatness  of  the  action, 
does  not  only  mean  that  it  should  be  great  in  its  na¬ 
ture,  but  also  in  its  duration,  or  in  other  words,  that 
it  should  have  a  due  length  in  it,  as  well  as  what  we 
roperly  call  greatness.  The  just  measure  of  this 
ind  of  magnitude,  he  explains  by  the  following 
similitude :  An  animal  no  bigger  than  a  mite, 
cannot  appear  perfect  to  the  eye,  because  the  sight 
takes  it  in  at  once,  and  has  only  a  confused  idea 
of  the  whole,  and  not  a  distinct  idea  of  all  its 
parts ;  if,  on  the  contrary,  you  should  suppose  an 
animal  of  ten  thousand  furlongs  in  length,  the 
eye  would  be  so  filled  with  a  single  part  of  it,  that 
it  could  not  give  the  mind  an  idea  of  the  whole. 
What  these  animals  are  to  the  eye,  a  very  short  or  a 
very  long  action  would  be  to  the  memory.  The 
first  would  be,  as  it  were,  lost  and  swallowed  up  by 
it,  and  the  other  difficult  to  be  contained  in  it. 
Homer  and  Virgil  have  shown  their  principal  art 
in  this  particular ;  the  action  of  the  Iliad,  and  that 
of  the  .Eneid,  were  in  themselves  exceedingly  short, 
but  are  so  beautifully  extended  and  diversified  by 
the  invention  of  episodes,  and  the  machinery  of 
gods,  with  the  like  poetical  ornament,  that  they 
make  up  an  agreeable  story,  sufficient  to  employ 
the  memory  without-  overcharging  it.  Milton’s 
action  is  enriched  with  such  a  variety  of  circum¬ 
stances,  that  I  have  taken  as  much  pleasure  in 
reading  the  contents  of  his  books,  as  in  the  best  in¬ 
vented  story  I  ever  met  with.  It  is  possible,  that 
the  traditions  on  which  the  Iliad  ana  .Eneid  were 
built,  had  more  circumstances  in  them  than  the 
history  of  the  fall  of  man,  as  it  is  related  in  Scrip¬ 
ture.  Beside,  it  was  easier  for  Homer  and  Vir¬ 
gil  to  dash  the  truth  with  fiction,  as  they  were  in 
no  danger  of  offending  the  religion  of  their  coun¬ 
try  by  it.  But  as  for  Milton,  he  had  not  only  a 
very  few  circumstances  upon  which  to  raise  his 
poem,  but  was  also  obliged  to  proceed  with  the 
greatest  caution  in  everything  that  he  added  out 
of  his  own  invention.  And  indeed,  notwith¬ 
standing  all  the  restraint  he  was  under,  he  has 
filled  his  story  with  so  many  surprising  incidents, 
which  bear  so  close  an  analogy  with  what  is  de¬ 
livered  in  holy  writ,  that  it  is  capable  of  pleasing 
the  most  delicate  reader,  without  giving  offense  to 
the  most  scrupulous. 

The  modern  critics  have  collected  from  several 
hints  in  the  Iliad  and  Eneid  the  space  of  time, 
which  is  taken  up  by  the  action  of  each  of  those 
poems  ;  but  as  a  great  part  of  Milton’s  story  was 
transacted  in  regions  that  lie  out  of  the  reach 
of  the  sun  and  the  sphere  of  day,  it  is  impossi¬ 
ble  to  gratify  the  reader  with  such  a  calculation, 
which  mdeea  would  be  more  curious  than  in¬ 
structive  ;  none  of  the  critics,  either  ancient  or 
modern,  having  laid  down  rules  to  circumscribe 
the  action  of  an  epic  poem  with  any  determined 
number  of  years,  days,  or  hours. 

This  piece  of  criticism  on  Milton’s  Paradise 
Lost  shall  be  carried  on  in  the  following  Satur¬ 
day’s  paper. — L. 


*  The  clause  in  Italics  is  not  in  the  original  paper  in  folio. 


332 


1' HE  SPECTATOR. 


No.  268.]  MONDAY,  JANUARY  7,  1711-12. 

Minus  aptus  acutis 

Naribus  horum  hommurn. — IiOR.  1  bat.  m, 

- - — - unfit 

1'or  lively  sallies  of  corporeal  wit.— Creech. 

It  is  not  that  I  think  I  have  been  more  witty 
than  I  ought  of  late,  that  at  present  I  wholly 
forbear  any  attempts  toward  it ;  I  am  of  opinion 
that  I  ought  sometimes  to  lay  before  the  world 
the  plain  letters  of  my  correspondents  in  the  art¬ 
less  dress  in  which  they  hastily  send  them,  that 
the  reader  may  see  I  am  not  accuser  and  judge 
myself,  but  that  the  indictment  is  properly  and 
fairly  laid  before  I  proceed  against  the  criminal. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  As  you  are  spectator-general,  I  apply  my  sell 
to  you  in  the  following  case,  viz:  I  do  not  weai  a 
sword,  but  I  often  divert  myself  at  the  theater, 
where  I  frequently  see  a  set  of  fellows  pull  plain 
people,  by  way  of  humor  or  frolic  by  the  nose, 
upon  frivolous  or  no  occasions.  A  friend  of  mine 
the  other  night  applauding  what  a  graceful  exit 
Mr.  Wilks  made,  one  of  those  nose-wringers  over¬ 
hearing  him,  pinched  him  by  the  nose.  I  was 
in  the  pit  the  other  night  (when  it  was  very  much 
crowded),  a  gentleman  leaning  upon  me,  and  very 
heavily,  I  very  civilly  requested  him  to  remove 
his  hand ;  for  which  he  pulled  me  by  the  nose. 
I  would  not  resent  it  in  so  public  a  place,  be¬ 
cause  I  was  unwilling  to  create  a  disturbance; 
but  have  since  reflected  upon  it  as  a  thing  that  is 
unmanly  and  disingenuous,  renders  the  nose- 
puller  odious,  and  makes  the  person  pulled  by 
the  nose  look  little  and  contemptible.  This 
grievance  I  humbly  request  you  would  endeavoi 
to  redress. 

“  I  am  your  admirer,  etc. 


able  them  to  keep  mistresses,  horses,  hounds;  to 
drink,  feast,  and  game  with  their  companions,  pay 
their  debts  contracted  by  former  extravagancies, 
or  some  such  vile  and  unworthy  end:  and  indulge 
themselves  in  pleasures  which  are  a  shame  and 
scandal  to  human  nature.  Now  as  for  women; 
how  few  of  them  are  there,  who  place  the  happi¬ 
ness  of  their  marriage  in  the  having  a  wise  and 
virtuous  friend?  One  who  will  be  faithful  and 
just  to  all,  and  constant  and  loving  to  them? 
Who  with  care  and  diligence  will  look  after  and 
improve  the  estate,  and,  without  grudging,  allow  , 
whatever  is  prudent  and  convenient?  Rather,  ho^w 
few  are  there,  who  do  not  place  their  happiness  in 
outshining  others  in  pomp  and  show?  and  that  do 
not  think  within  themselves  when  they  have  mar¬ 
ried  such  a  rich  person,  that  none  of  their  ac¬ 
quaintance  shall  appear  so  fine  in  their  equipage, 
so  adorned  in  their  persons,  or  so  magnificent  m 
their  furniture  as  themselves?  Thus  their  heads 
are  filled  with  vain  ideas  ;  and  I  heartily  wish  I 
could  say  that  equipage  and  show  were  not  the 
chief  good  of  so  many  women  as  I  fear  it  is. 

“After  this  manner  do  both  sexes  deceive  them¬ 
selves,  and  bring  reflections  and  disgrace  upon  the 
most  happy  and  most  honorable  state  of  life; 
whereas,  if  they  would  but  correct  their  depraved 
taste,  moderate  their  ambition,  and  place  their 
happiness  upon  proper  objects,  we  should  not  find 
felicity  in  the  marriage  state  such  a  wonder  in  the 
world  as  it  now  is. 

“Sir,  if  you  think  these  thoughts  worth  insert¬ 
ing  among  your  own,  be  pleased  to  give  them  a 
belter  dress:  and  let  them  pass  abroad  ;  and  you 


will  oblige 


“Your  Admirer, 


“A.  B  ” 


“  Mr.  Spectator, 


“  James  Easy.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Your  discourse  of  the  29th  of  December,  *  on 
love  and  marriage,  is  of  so  useful  a  kind,  that  I 
cannot  forbear  adding  my  thoughts  to  yours  on 
this  subject.  Methinks  it  is  a  misfortune,  that  the 
marriage-state,  which  in  its  own  nature  is.  adapted 
to  give  us  the  completest  happiness  this  life  is 
capable  of,  should  be  so  uncomfortable  a  one  to  so 
many  as  it  daily  proves.  But  the  mischief  gen¬ 
erally  proceeds  from  the  unwise  choice  people 
make  for  themselves,  and  an  expectation  of  happi¬ 
ness  from  things  not  capable  of  giving  it.  Nothing 
but  the  good  qualities  of  the  person  beloved  can 
be  a  foundation  for  a  love  of  judgment  and  dis¬ 
cretion;  and  whoever  expects  happiness  from  any¬ 
thing  but  virtue,  wisdom,  good-humor,  and  a 
similitude  of  manners,  will  find  themselves  widely 
mistaken.  But  how  few  are  there  who  seek  after 
these  things,  and  do  not  rather  make  riches  their 
chief,  if  not  their  only  aim?  How  rare  is  it  for  a 
man,  when  he  engages  himself  in  the  thoughts  of 
marriage,  to  place  his  hopes  of  having  in  such  a 
woman  a  constant  agreeable  companion?  One 
who  will  divide  his  cares,  and  double  his  joys  ? 
Who  will  manage  that  share  of  his  estate  he  in¬ 
trusts  to  her  with  care,  with  prudence  and  fru¬ 
gality,  govern  his  house  with  economy  and  dis¬ 
cretion,  and  be  an  ornament  to  himself  and  family? 
Where  shall  we  find  the  man  who  looks  out  for 
one  who  places  her  chief  happiness  in  the  practice 
of  virtue,  and  makes  her  duty  her  continual  plea¬ 
sure?  No,  men  rather  seek  for  money  as  the  com¬ 
plement  of  all  their  desires  ;  and,  regardless  of 
what  kind  of  wives  they  take,  they  think  riches 
will  be  a  minister  to  all  kind  of  pleasures,  and  en- 


“  As  I  was  this  day  walking  in  the  street,  there 
happened  to  pass  by  on  the  other  side  of  the  way 
a  beauty,  whose  charms  were  so  attracting,  that  it 
drew  my  eyes  wholly  on  that  side,  insomuch  that 
I  neglected  my  own  way,  and  chanced  to  run  my 
nose&  directly  against  a  post :  which  the  lady  no 
sooner  perceived,  but  she  fell  into  a  fit. of  laughter, 
though  at  the  same  time  she  was  sensible  that  she 
herself  was  the  cause  of  my  misfortune,  which,  in 
my  opinion,  was  the  greater  aggravation  of  her 
crinle.  I  being  busy  wiping  off  the  blood  which 
trickled  down  my  face,  had  not  time  to  acquaint 
her  with  her  barbarity,  as  also  with  my  resolution, 
viz:  never  to  look  out  of  my  way  for  one  of  her 
sex  more:  therefore,  that  your  humble  servant  may 
be  revenged,  he  desires  you  to  insert  this  in  one 
of  your  next  papers,  which  he  hopes  will  be  a 
warning  to  all  the  rest  of  the  women-gazers,  as 
well  as  to  poor 

“Anthony  Gape. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  desire  to  know  in  your  next,  if  the  merry 
game  of  ‘The  parson  has  lost  his  cloak,’  is  not 
mightily  in  vogue  among  the  fine  ladies  this 
Christmas,  because  I  see  they  wear  hoods  of  all 
colors,  which  I  suppose  is  for  that  purpose.  If  it 
is,  and  you  think  it  proper,  I  will  carry  some  . of 
these  hoods  with  me  to  our  ladies  in  Yorkshire: 
because  they  enjoined  me  to  bring  them  something 
from  London  that  was  very  new.  If  you  can  tell 
anything  in  which  I  can  obey  their  commands 
more  agreeably,  be  pleased  to  inform  me,  and  you 

will  extremely  oblige 

“  Your  humble  Servant. 

“  Mr.  Spectator,  Oxford,  Dec.  29. 


“  Since  you  appear  inclined  to  be  a  friend  to  the 


*No.  261. 


T.HE  SPECTATOR. 


333 


distressed,  I  beg  you  would  assist  me  in  an  affair 
under  which  1  have  suffered  very  much.  The 
reigning  toast  of  this  place  is  Patetia;  I  have  pur¬ 
sued  her  with  the  utmost  diligence  this  twelve¬ 
month,  and  find  nothing  stands  in  my  way  but 
one  who  flatters  her  more  than  I  can.  Pride  is 
her  favorite  passion;  therefore  if  you  would  be  so 
far  my  friend  as  to  make  a  favorable  mention  of 
me  in  one  of  your  papers,  I  believe  I  should  not 
fail  in  my  addresses.  The  scholars  stand  in  rows, 
as  they  did  to  be  sure  in  your  time,  at  her  pew- 
door;  and  she  has  all  the  devotion  paid  to  her  by 
a  crowd  of  youths  who  are  unacquainted  with  the 
sex,  and  have  inexperience  added  to  their  passion. 
However,  if  it  succeeds  according  to  my  vows, 
you  will  make  me  the  happiest  man  in  the  world, 
and  the  most  obliged  among  all 

“Your  humble  Servants.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  came  to  my  mistress’s  toilet  this  morning, 
for  I  am  admitted  when  her  face  is  stark  naked  : 
she  frowned  and  cried  pish  when  I  said  a  thing 
that  I  stole;  and  I  will  be  judged  by  you  whether 
it  was  not  very  pretty.  ‘Madam,’  said  I,  ‘you 
shall  forbear  that  part  of  your  dress  ;  it  may  be 
well  in  others,  but  you  cannot  place  a  patch  where 
it  does  not  hide  a  beauty.’” — T. 


No.  269. J  TUESDAY,  JANUARY  8,  1711-12. 

- iEvo  rarissima  nostro 

Simplicity. - Ovid,  Ars.  Am.,  i,  241. 

Most  rare  is  now  our  old  simplicity. — Dryden. 

I  was  this  morning  surprised  with  a  great  knock¬ 
ing  at  the  door,  when  my  landlady’s  daughter 
came  up  to  me,  and  told  me  that  there  was  a  man 
below  desired  to  speak  with  me.  Upon  my  asking 
her  who  it  was,  she  told  me  it  was  a  very  grave 
elderly  person,  but  that  she  did  know  his  name. 
I  immediately  went  down  to  him,  and  found  him 
to  be  the  coachman  of  my  worthy  friend,  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley.  He  told  me  that  his  master 
came  to  town  last  night,  and  would  be  glad  to  take 
a  turn  with  me  in  Gray’s-inn  walks.  As  I  was 
wondering  with  myself  what  had  brought  Sir 
Roger  to  town,  not  having  lately  received  any 
letter  from  him,  he  told  me  that  his  master  was 
come  up  to  get  a  sight  of  Prince  Eugene,  and  that 
he  desired  I  would  immediately  meet  him. 

I  was  not  a  little  pleased  with  the  curiosity  of 
the  old  knight,  though  I  did  not  much  wonder  at 
it,  having  heard  him  say  more  than  once  in  private 
discourse,  that  he  looked  upon  Prince  Eugenio 
(for  so  the  knight  always  calls  him)  to  be  a 
greater  man  than  Scanderbeg. 

I  was  no  sooner  come  into  Gray’s-inn  walks,  but 
I  heard  my  frihnd  hemming  twice  or  thrice  to 
himself  with  great  vigor,  for  he  loves  to  clear  his 
pipes  in  good  air  (to  make  use  of  his  own  phrase), 
and  is  not  a  little  pleased  with  any  one  who  takes 
notice  of  the  strength  which  he  still  exerts  in  his 
morning  hems. 

I  was  touched  with  a  secret  joy  at  the  sight  of 
the  good  old  man,  who,  before  he  saw  me,  was  en¬ 
gaged  in  conversation  with  a  beggar-man  that  had 
asked  an  alms  of  him.  I  could  hear  my  friend 
chide  him  for  not  finding  out  some  work  ;  but  at 
the  same  time  saw  him  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
and  give  him  six-pence. 

Our  salutations  were  very  hearty  on  both  sides, 
consisting  of  many  kind  shakes  of  the  hand,  and 
several  affectionate  looks  which  we  cast  upon  one 
another.  After  which  the  knight  told  me  my 
good  friend  his  chaplain  was  very  well,  and  much 


at  my  service,  and  that  the  Sunday  before  he  had 
made  a  most  incomparable  sermon  out  of  Dr. 
Barrow.  “I  have  lett,”  says  he,  “all  my  affairs 
in  his  hands,  and  being  willing  to  lay  an  obliga¬ 
tion  upon  him,  have  deposited  with  him  thirty 
mai  ks,  to  be  distributed  among  liis  poor  parish* 
ioners,” 

He  then  proceeded  to  acquaint  me  with  the  wel¬ 
fare  of  Will  Wimble.  Upon  which  he  put  his 
hand  into  his  fob  and  presented  me  in  his  name 
with  a  tobacco-stopper,  telling  me  that  Will  had 
been  busy  all  the  beginning  of  the  winter  in  turn¬ 
ing  great  quantities  of  them;  and  that  he  made  a 
present  of  one  to  every  gentleman  in  the  country 
who  has  good  principles,  and  smokes.  He  added, 
that  poor  Will  was  at  present  under  great  tribula¬ 
tion,  for  that  Tom  Touchy  had  taken  the  law  of 
him  for  cutting  some  hazel  sticks  out  of  one  of 
his  hedges. 

Among  other  pieces  of  news  which  the  knight 
brought  from  Ins  country-seat,  he  informed  me 
that  Moll  White  was  dead,  and  that  about  a  month 
after  her  death  the  wind  was  so  very  high  that  it 
blew  down  the  end  of  one  of  his  barns.  “  But  for 
my  own  part,”  says  Sir  Roger,  “I  do  not  think 
that  the  old  woman  had  any  hand  in  it.” 

He  afterward  fell  into  an  account  of  the  diver¬ 
sions  which  had  passed  in  his  house  during  the 
holidays:  for  Sir  Roger,  after  the  laudable  custom 
of  his  ancestors,  always  keeps  open  house  at 
Christmas. 

I  learned  from  him  that  he  had  killed  eight  fat 
hogs,  for  this  season,  that  he  had  dealt  about  his 
chines  very  liberally  among  his  neighbors,  and 
that  in  paiticular  he  had  sent  a  string  of  hogs’ 
puddings  with  a  pack  of  cards  to  every  poor 
family  in  the  parish.  “  I  have  often  thought,” 
says  Sir  Roger,  “it  happens  very  well  that  Christ¬ 
mas  should  tall  out  in  the  middle  of  winter.  It 
is  the  most  dead  uncomfortable  time  of  the  year, 
when  the  poor  people  would  suffer  very  much 
from  their  poverty  and  cold,  if  they  had  not  good 
cheer,  warm  fires,  and  Christmas  gambols  to  sup¬ 
port  them.  I  love  to  rejoice  their  poor  hearts  at 
this  season,  and  to  see  the  whole  village  merry  in 
my  great  hall.  I  allow  a  double  quantity  of  malt 
to  my  small-beer,  and  set  it  a  running  for  twelve 
days  to  every  one  that  calls  for  it.  I  have  always 
a  piece  of  cold  beef  and  a  mince-pie  upon  the 
table,  and  am  wonderfully  pleased  to  see  my  ten¬ 
ants  pass  away  a  whole  evening  in  playing  their 
innocent  tricks,  and  smutting  one  another.  Our 
friend  Will  Wimble  is  as  merry  as  any  of  them, 
and  shows  a  thousand  roguish  tricks  upon  these 
occasions.” 

I  was  very  much  delighted  with  the  reflection 
of  my  old  friend,  which  carried  so  much  goodness 
in  it.  He  then  launched  out  into  the  praise  of  the 
ate  act  of  parliament  for  securing  the  Church  of 
England,*  and  told  me  with  great  satisfaction,  that 
he  believed  it  already  began  to  take  effect,  for  that 
a  rigid  dissenter,  who  chanced  to  dine  at  his 
rouse  on  Christmas  day,  had  been  observed  to  eat 
very  plentifully  of  his  plum-porridge. 

After  having  dispatched  all  our  country  matters. 
Sir  Roger  made  several  inquiries  concering  the 
club,  and  particularly  of  his  old  antagonist  Sir 
Andrew  Freeport.  He  asked  me  with  a  kind  of 
smile  whether  Sir  Andrew  had  not  taken  advan¬ 
tage  of  his  absence,  to  vent  among  them  some  of 
ris  republican  doctrines;  but  soon  after  gathering 
up  his  countenance  into  a  more  than  ordinary 
seriousness,  “Tell  me  truly,”  says  he,  “don’t  you 
think  Sir  Andrew  had  a  hand  in  the  Pope’s  pro- 


*Stat.  10  Ann,  cap.  2.  The  act  against  occasional  con¬ 
formity.. 


v 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


334 

cession?”  But  without  giving  me  time  to  answer 
him,  “  Well,  well,”  says  he,  “  I  know  you  are  a 
wary  man,  and  do  not  care  to  talk  of  public 

matters.”  . 

The  knight  then  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  Prince 
Eugenio,  and  made  me  promise  to  get  him  a  stand 
in  some  convenient  place  where  he  might  have  a 
full  sight  of  that  extraordinary  man,  whose  pre¬ 
sence  did  so  much  honor  to  the  British  nation. 
He  dwelt  very  long  on  the  praises  of  this  great 
general,  and  i  have  found  that  since  I  was  with 
him  in  the  country,  he  had  drawn  many  observa¬ 
tions  together  out  of  his  reading  in  Baker’s  Chro¬ 
nicle  and  other  authors,  who  always  lie  in  his 
liall-window,  which  very  much  redound  to  the 
honor  of  this  prince. 

Having  passed  away  the  greatest  part  of  the 
morning  in  hearing  the  knight’s  reflections,  which 
were  partly  private  and  partly  political,  he  asked 
me  if  I  would  smoke  a  pipe  with  him  over  a  dish 
of  coffee  at  Squire’s?  As  I  love  the  old  man,  I 
take  delight  in  complying  with  everything  that 
is  agreeable  to  him,  and  accordingly  waited  on 
him  to  the  coffee-house,  where  his  venerable  figure 
drew  upon  us  the  eyes  of  the  whole  room.  He  had 
no  sooner  seated  himself  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
high  table,  but  he  called  for  a  clean  pipe,  a  paper 
of  tobacco,  a  dish  of  coffee,  a  wax-candle,  and  the 
Supplement,*  with  such  an  air  of  cheerfulness  and 
good-humor,  that  all  the  boys  in  the  coffee-room 
(who  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  serving  him) 
were  at  once  employed  on  his  several  errands,  in¬ 
somuch  that  nobody  else  could  come  at  a  dish  of 
tea,  until  the  knight  had  got  all  his  conveniences 
about  him. — L. 


No.  270.]  WEDNESDAY,  JAN.  9,  1711-12. 

Discit  enim  citias,  meminitque  libentius  illud, 

Quod  quis  deridet,  quam,  quod  probat. - 

Hor.  1  Ep.  ii,  262. 

For  what’s  derided  by  the  censuring  crowd, 

Is  thought  on  more  than  what  is  just  and  good. 

Dryden. 

There  is  a  lust  in  man  no  power  can  tame, 

Of  loudly  publishing  his  neighbor’s  shame ; 

On  eagle’s  wings  invidious  scandals  liy, 

While  virtuous  actions  are  but  born,  and  die. 

E.  of  Corse. 

Sooner  we  learn,  and  seldomer  forget, 

What  critics  scorn,  than  what  they  highly  rate. 

Hughes’s  Letters,  vol.  ii,  p.  222. 

I  no  not  know  that  I  have  been  in  greater  de¬ 
light  for  these  many  years,  than  in  beholding  the 
boxes  at  the  play  the  last  time  The  Scornful  Lady 
was  acted.  So  great  an  assembly  of  ladies  placed 
in  gradual  rows  in  all  the  ornaments  of  jewels, 
silks,  and  colors,  gave  so  lively  and  gay  an  im¬ 
pression  to  the  heart,  that  methought  the  season 
of  the  year  was  vanished;  and  I  did.  not  think  it 
an  ill  expression  of  a  young  fellow  who  stood 
near  me,  that  called  the  boxes  those  “beds  of  tu¬ 
lips.”  It  was  a  pretty  variation  of  the  prospect, 
when  any  one  of  those  fine  ladies  rose  up  and  did 
honor  to  herself  and  friend  at  a  distance,  by  court- 
seying;  and  gave  opportunity  to  that  friend  to 
show  her  charms  to  the  same  advantage  in  return¬ 
ing  the  salutation.  Here  that  action  is  as  proper 
and  graceful,  as  it  is  at  church  unbecoming  and 
impertinent.  By  the  way  I  must  take  the  liberty 
to  observe  that*  I  did  not  see  any  one  who  is 
usually  so  full  of  civilities  at  church,  offer  at  any 
such  indecorum  during  any  part  of  the  action  of 
the  play.  Such  beautiful  prospects  gladden  our 
minds,  and  when  considered  in  general,  give  inno¬ 
cent  and  pleasing  ideas.  He  that  dwells  upon 


*  A  periodical  paper 


any  one  object  of  beauty,  may  fix  his  imagination 
to  his  disquiet;  but  the  contemplation  of  a  whole 
assembly  together  is  a  defense  against  the  en¬ 
croachment  of  desire.  At  least  to  me,  who  have 
taken  pains  to  look  at  beauty  abstracted  from  the 
consideration  of  its  being  the  object  of  desire;  at 
power,  only  as  it  sits  upon  another,  without  any 
hopes  of  partaking  any  share  of  it ;  at  wisdom 
and  capacity,  without  any  pretensions  to  rival  or 
envy  its  acquisitions :  I  say  to  me,  who  am  really 
free  from  forming  any  hopes  by  beholding  the 
persons  of  beautiful  women,  or  warming  myself 
into  ambition  from  the  successes  of  other  men, 
this  world  is  not  only  a  mere  scene,  but  a  very 
pleasant  one.  Did  mankind  but  know  the  freedom 
which  there  is  in  keeping  thus  aloof  from  the 
world,  I  should  have  more  imitators,  than  the 
powerfullest  man  in  the  nation  has  followers.  To 
be  no  man’s  rival  in  love,  or  competitor  in  busi¬ 
ness,  is  a  character  which,  if  it  does  not  recom¬ 
mend  you  as  it  ought  to  benevolence  among  those 
whom  you  live  with,  yet  has  it  certainly  this  ef¬ 
fect,  that  you  do  not  stand  so  much  in  need  of 
their  approbation,  as  you  would  if  you  aimed  at 
it  more,  in  setting  your  heart  on  the  same  things 
which  the  generality  doat  on.  By  this  means, 
and  with  this  easy  philosophy,  I  am  never  less  at 
a  play  than  when  I  am  at  the  theater;  but  indeed 
I  am  seldom  so  well  pleased  with  action  as  in  that 
place;  for  most  men  follow  nature  no  longer  than 
while  they  are  in  their  nightgowns,  and  all  the 
busy  part  of  the  day  are  in  characters  which  they 
neither  become,  nor  act  in  with  pleasure  to  them¬ 
selves  or  their  beholders.  But  to  return  to  my  la¬ 
dies  :  I  was  very  well  pleased  to  see  so  great  a 
crowd  of  them  assembled  at  a  play,  wherein  the 
heroine,  as  the  phrase  is,  is  so  just  a  picture  of 
the  vanity  of  the  sex  in  tormenting  their  admirers. 
The  lady  who  pines  for  the  man  whom  she  treats 
with  so  much  impertinence  and  inconstancy,  is 
drawn  with  much  art  and  humor.  Her  resolutions 
to  be  extremely  civil,  but  her  vanity  rising  just  at 
the  instant  she  resolved  to  express  herself  kindly, 
are  described  as  by  one  who  had  studied  the  sex. 
But  when  my  admiration  is  fixed  upon  this  excel¬ 
lent  character,  and  two  or  three  others  in  the  play, 
I  must  confess  I  was  moved  with  the  utmost  in¬ 
dignation,  at  the  trivial,  senseless,  and  unnatural 
representation  of  the  chaplain.  It  is  possible 
there  may  be  a  pedant  in  holy  orders,  and  we  have 
seen  one  or  two  of  them  in  the  world :  but  such  a 
driveler  as  Sir  Roger,*  so  bereft  of  all  manner  of 
pride,  which  is  the  characteristic  of  a  pedant,  is 
what  one  would  not  believe  would  come  into  the 
head  of  the  same  man  who  drew  the  rest  of  the 
play.  The  meeting  between  Welford  and  him 
shows  a  wretch  without  any  notion  of  the  dignity 
of  his  function;  and  it  is  out  of  all  common  sense 
that  he  should  give  an  account  of  himself  “  as  one 
sent  four  or  five  miles  in  a  morning,  on  foot,  for 
eggs.”  It  is  not  to  be  denied,  but  this  part,  and 
that  of  the  maid  whom  he  makes  love  to,  are  ex¬ 
cellently  well  performed;  but  a  thing  which  is 
blamable  in  itself,  grows  still  more  so  by  the  suc¬ 
cess  in  the  execution  of  it.  It  is  so  mean  a  thing 
to  gratify  a  loose  age  with  a  scandalous  repre¬ 
sentation  of  what  is  reputable  among  men,  not  to 
say  what  is  sacred,  that  no  beauty,  no  excellence 
in  an  author  ought  to  atone  for  it;  nay,  such  ex¬ 
cellence  is  an  aggravation  of  his  guilt,  and  an  ar¬ 
gument  that  he  errs  against  the  conviction  of  his 
own  understanding  and  conscience.  Wit  should 
be  tried  by  this  rule,  and  an  audience  should  rise 


*  In  former  times  priests  were  distinguished  by  the  addi¬ 
tion  of  Sir  to  their  Christian  names,  as  if  they  had  been 
knights.  See  Dodsley’s  Old  Plays,  passim. 


THE  SPECTATOR 


335 


imaginations,  and  produce  the  three  following  let¬ 
ters  for  the  entertainment  of  the  day: — 


against  such  a  scene  as  throws  diwn  the  reputa¬ 
tion  of  anything,  which  the  consideration  of  reli- 
gion  or  decency  should  preserve  from  contempt. 
.But  all  this  evil  arises  from  this  one  corruption  of 
mind,  that  makes  men  resent  offenses  against  their 
virtue  less  than  those  against  their  understand¬ 
ing.  An  author  shall  write  as  if  he  thought  there 
was  not  one  man  of  honor  or  woman  of  chastity 
in  the  house,  and  come  off  with  applause  :  for  an 
insult  upon  all  the  ten  commandments  with  the 
little  critics  is  not  so  bad  as  the  breach  of  a 

Univ7  j  t*Ine  an<^  place.  Half  wits  do  not  ap¬ 
prehend  the  miseries  that  must  necessarily  flow 
Irom  a  degeneracy  of  manners;  nor  do  they  know 
tlnat  order  is  the  support  of  society.  Sir  Roger 
and  his  mistress  are  monsters  of  the  poet’s  own 
forming;  the  sentiments  in  both  of  them  are  such 
as  do  not  arise  in  fools  of  their  education.  We  all 
know  that  a  silly  scholar,  instead  of  being  below 
every  one  he  meets  with,  is  apt  to  be  exalted  above 
the  rank  of  such  as  are  really  his  superiors  :  his 
arrogance  is  always  founded  upon  particular  no¬ 
tions  of  distinction  in  his  own  head,  accompanied 
with  a  pedantic  scorn  of  all  fortune  and  pre-emi¬ 
nence,  when  compared  with  his  knowledge  and 
learning.  This  very  one  character  of  Sir  Roger, 
as  silly  as  it  really  is,  has  done  more  toward  the 
disparagement  of  holy  orders,  and  consequently 
of  \  irtue  itself,  than  all  the  wit  of  that  author,  or 
any  other,  could  make  up  for  in  the  conduct 
of  the  longest  life  after  it.  I  do  not  pre¬ 
tend,  m  saying  this,  to  give  myself  airs  of  more 
virtue  than  my  neighbors,  but  assert  it  from  the 
principles  by  which  mankind  must  always  be 
governed.  Sallies  of  imagination  are  to  be  over¬ 
looked,  when  they  are  committed  out  of  warmth 
in  the  recommendation  of  what  is  praiseworthy; 
but  a  deliberate  advancing  of  vice,  with  all  the 
wit  in  the  world,  is  as  ill  an  action  as  any  that 
comes  before  the  magistrate,  and  ought  to  be  re¬ 
ceived  as  such  by  the  people. — T. 


Ho.  271.]  THURSDAY,  JAN.  10,  1711-12. 

Mille  trahens  varios  adverso  sole  colores. 

Virg.,  ,®n.  iv,  701. 


“  Sir, 

I  was  last  Thursday  in  an  assembly  of  ladies, 
where  there  were  thirteen  different  colored  hoods. 
Your  Spectator  of  that  day  lying  upon  the  table, 
they  ordered  me  to  read  it  to  them,  which  I  did 
with  a  very  clear  voice,  until  I  came  to  the  Greek 
verse  at  the  end  of  it.  I  must  confess  I  was  a 
little  startled  at  its  popping  upon  me  so  unex¬ 
pectedly  However,  I  covered  my  confusion  as 
well  as  I  could,  and  after  having  muttered  two  or 
three  hard  words  to  myself,  laughed  heartily,  and 
cried,  ‘a  very  good  jest,  faith.’  The  ladies  de¬ 
sired  me  to  explain  it  to  them;  but  I  begged  their 
pardon  for  that,  and  told  them,  that  if  it  had  been 
proper  for  them  to  hear,  they  might  be  sure  the 
author  would  not  have  wrapped  it  up  in  Greek.  I 
then  let  drop  several  expressions,  as  if  there  was 
something  in  it  that  was  not  fit  to  be  spoken  be¬ 
fore  a  company  of  ladies.  Upon  which  the  ma¬ 
tron  of  the  assembly,  who  was  dressed  in  a  cherry- 
colored  hood,  commended  the  discretion  of  the 
writer  for  having  thrown  his  filthy  thoughts  into 
Greek,  which  was  likely  to  corrupt  but  few  of  his 
readers.  At  the  same  time  she  declared  herself 
very,  well  pleased  that  he  had  not  given  a  decisive 
opinion  upon  the  new-fashioned  hoods;  ‘for  to 
tell  you  truly,  says  she,  ‘I  was  afraid  he  would 
have  made  us  ashamed  to  show  our  heads.’  Now, 
Sii,  you  must  know,  since  this  unlucky  accident 
happened  to  me  in  a  company  of  ladies,  among 
whom  I  passed  for  a  most  ingenious  man,  I  have 
consulted  one  who  is  well  versed  in  the  Greek 
language,  and  he  assures  me  upon  his  word  that 
your  late  quotation  means  no  more  than  that 
“  manners,  not  dress,  are  the  ornaments  of  a  wo¬ 
man.  If  this  comes  to  the  knowledge  of  my  fe¬ 
male  admirers,  I  shall  be  very  hard  put  to  it  to 
bring  myself  off  handsomely.  In  the  meanwhile, 

I  give  you  this  account,  that  you  may  take  care 
hereafter  not  to  betray  any  of  your  well-wishers 
into  the  like  inconveniences.  It  is  in  the  number 
of  these  that  I  beg  leave  to  subscribe  myself, 

“Tom  Trippit.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 


Drawing  a  thousand  colors  from  the  light.— Dryden. 

I  receive  a  double  advantage  from  the  letters  of 
my  correspondents;  first,  as  they  show  me  which 
of  my  papers  are  most  acceptable  to  them;  and  in 
the  next  place,  as  they  furnish  me  with  materials 
for  new  speculations.  Sometimes  indeed  I  do  not 
make  use  of  the  letter  itself,  but  form  the  hints  of 
it  into  plans  of  my  own  invention  ;  sometimes  I 
take  the  liberty  to  change  the  language  or  thought 
into  my  own  way  of  speaking  and  thinking,  and 
always  (if  it  can  be  done  without  prejudice  to  the 
sense)  omit  the  many  compliments  and  applauses 
which  are  usually  bestowed  upon  me. 

Beside  the  two  advantages  above-mentioned, 
which  1  receive  from  the  letters  that  are  sent  me, 
they  give  me  an  opportunity  of  lengthening  out 
my  paper  by  the  skillful  management  of  the  sub- 
scribing  part  at  the  end  of  them,  which  perhaps 
does  not  a  little  conduce  to  the  ease  both  of  my¬ 
self  and  reader.  J 

Some  will  have  it,  that  I  often  write  to  myself 
and  am  the  only  punctual  correspondent  I  have! 
This  objection  would  indeed  be  material,  were  the 
letters  1  communicate  to  the  public  stuffed  with 
my  own  commendations;  and  if  instead  of  endea¬ 
voring  to  divert  or  instruct  my  readers,  I  admired 
in  them  the  beauty  of  my  own  performances.  But 
I  shall  leave  these  wise  conjecturers  to  their  own 


“Your  readers  are  so  well  pleased  with  your 
character  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  that  there  ap¬ 
peared  a  sensible  joy  in  every  coffee-house,  upon 
hearing  the  old  knight  was  come  to  town.  I  am 
now  with  a  knot  of  his  admirers,  who  make  it 
their  joint  -request  to  you,  that  you  would  give  us 
public  notice  of  the  window  or  balcony  'where  the 
knight  intends  to  make  his  appearance.  He  has 
already  given  great  satisfaction  to  several  who 
have  seen  him  at  Squires’s  coffee-house.  If  you 
think  fit  to  place  your  short  face  at  Sir  Roger’s 
left  elbow,  we  shall  take  the  hint,  and  gratefully 
acknowledge  so  great  a  favor. 

“I  am,  Sir, 

“  ^  our  most  devoted,  humble  Servant, 

“C.  D.” 

“Sir, 

“  Knowing  that  you  are  very  inquisitive  after 
everything  that  is  curious  in  nature,  I  will  wait 
on  you  if  you  please,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening, 
with  my  show  upon  my  back,  which  I  carry  about 
with  me  in  a  box,  as  only  consisting  of  a  man,  a 
woman,  and  a  horse.  The  two  first  are  married, 
in  which  state  the  little  cavalier  has  so  well  ac¬ 
quitted  himself,  that  his  lady  is  with  child.  The 
big-bellied  woman  and  her  husband,  with  their 
whimsical  palfrey,  are  so  very  light,  that  when 
they  are  put  together  into  a  scale,  an  ordinary 


336 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


man  may  weigh  down  the  whole  family.  I  he 
little  man  is  a  bully  in  his  nature;  but  when  he 
grows  choleric,  1  confine  him  to  his  box  until  his 
wrath  is  over,  by  which  means  I  have  hitherto 
prevented  him  from  doing  mischief.  His  horse  is 
likewise  very  vicious,  for  which  reason  I  am 
forced  to  tie  him  close  to  his  manger  with  a  pack¬ 
thread.  The  woman  is  a  coquette.  She  struts  as 
much  as  it  is  possible  for  a  lady  of  two  feet  high, 
and  would  ruin  me  in  silks,  were  not  the  quantity 
that  goes  to  a  large  pincushion  sufficient  to  make 
her  a  gown  and  petticoat.  She  told  me  the  other 
day,  that  she  heard  the  ladies  wore  colored  hoods, 
and  ordered  me  to  get  her  one  of  the  finest  blue. 
I  am  forced  to  comply  with  her  demands  while  she 
is  in  her  present  condition,  being  very  willing  to 
have  more  of  the  same  breed.  I  do  not  know  what 
she  may  produce  me,  but  provided  it  be  a  show  I 
shall  be  very  well  satisfied.  Such  novelties* 
should  not,  I  think,  be  concealed  from  the  British 
Spectator;  for  which  reason  I  hope  you  will  ex¬ 
cuse  this  presumption  in 

“Your  most  dutiful,  most  obedient, 

“  and  most  humble  Servant, 

I,  “S.  T.” 


\ 

No.  272.]  FRIDAY,  JANUARY,  11,  1711-12. 

- Longa  est  injuria,  long® 

Ambages -  ViRQ.  Mn.,  i,  345. 

Great  is  the  injury,  and  long  the  tale. 

Me.  Spectatoe, 

“  The  occasion  of  this  letter  is  of  so  great  im¬ 
portance,  and  the  circumstances  of  it  such,  that  I 
know  you  will  but  think  it  just  to  insert  it,  in  pre¬ 
ference  of  all  other  matters  that  can  present  them¬ 
selves  to  your  consideration.  I  need  not,  after 
I  have  said  this,  tell  you  that  I  am  in  love. 
The  circumstances  of  my  passion  I  shall  let  you 
understand  as  well  as  a  disordered  mind  will  ad¬ 
mit.  ‘  That  cursed  pickthank,  Mrs.  Jane  !’  Alas, 

I  am  railing  at  one  to  you  by  her  name,  as  famil¬ 
iarly  as  if  you  were  acquainted  with  her  as  well 
as  myself  :  but  I  will  tell  you  all,  as  fast  as  the 
alternate  interruptions  of  love  and  anger  will  give 
me  leave.  There  is  the  most  agreeable  young  wo¬ 
man  in  the  world,  whom  I  am  passionately  in 
love  with,  and  from  whom  I  have  for  some  space 
of  time  received  as  great  marks  of  favor  as  were 
fit  for  her  to  give,  or  me  to  desire.  The  successful 
progress  of  the  affair,  of  all  others  the  most  essen¬ 
tial  toward  a  man’s  happiness,  gave  a  new  life  and 
spirit  not  only  to  my  behavior  and  discourse,  but 
also  a  certain  grace  to  all  my  actions  in  the  com¬ 
merce  of  life,  in  all  things  however  remote  from 
love.  You  know  the  predominant  passion  spreads 
itself  through  all  a  man’s  transactions,  and  exalts 
or  depresses  him  according  to  the  nature  of  such 
passion.  But  alas  !  I  have  not  yet  begun  my 
story,  and  what  is  the  use  of  making  sentences 
and  observations  when  a  man  is  pleading  for  his 
life  ?  To  begin  then.  This  lady  has  corresponded 
with  me  under  the  names  of  love,  she  my  Belinda, 
I  her  Cleanthes.  Though  I  am  thus  well  got  into 
the  account  of  my  affair,  I  cannot  keep  in  the 
thread  of  it  so  much  as  to  give  you  the  character 
of  Mrs.  Jane,  whom  I  will  not  hide  under  a  bor¬ 
rowed  name;  but  let  you  know,  that  this  creature 
has  been,  since  I  knew  her,  very  handsome  (though 
I  will  not  allow  her  even  ‘  she  has  been’  for  the  fu¬ 
ture,)  and  during  the  time  of  her  bloom  and  beau¬ 
ty,  was  so  great  a  tyrant  to  her  lovers,  so  over- 


*  Three  dwarfs,  a  little  man,  a  woman  equally  diminutive 
and  a  horse  proportionably  so,  were  on  exhibition  in  London 
about  this  tune. 


valued  herself,  and  underrated  all  her  pretenders, 
that  they  have  deserted  her  to  a  man:  and  she 
knows  no  comfort  but  that  common  one  to  all  in 
her  condition,  the  pleasure  of  interrupting  the 
amours  of  others.  It  is  impossible  but  you  must 
have  seen  several  of  these  volunteers  in  malice, 
who  pass  their  whole  time  in  the  most  laborious 
way  of  life  in  getting  intelligence,  running  from 
place  to  place  with  new  whispers,  without  reaping 
any  other  benefit  but  the  hopes  of  making  others 
as  unhappy  as  themselves.  Mrs.  Jane  happened 
to  be  at  a  place  where  I,  with  many  others  well 
acquainted  with  my  passion  for  Belinda,  passed  a 
Christmas  evening.  There  was  among  the  rest  a 
young  lady,  so  free  in  mirth,  so  amiable  in  a  just 
reserve  that  had  accompanied  it;  I  wrong  her  to 
call  it  a  reserve,  but  there  appeared  in  her  a  mirth 
or  cheerfulness  which  was  not  a  forbearance  of 
more  immoderate  jov ,  but  the  natural  appearance 
of  all  which  could  now  from  a  mind  possessed  oi 
a  habit  of  innocence  and  purity.  I  must  have  ut¬ 
terly  forgot  Belinda  to  have  taken  no  notice  of 
one  who  was  growing  np  to  the  same  womanly 
virtues  which  shine  to  perfection  in  her,  had  I  not 
distinguished  one  who  seemed  to  promise  to  the 
world  the  same  life  and  conduct  with  my  faithful 
and  lovely  Belinda.  When  the  company  broke 
up,  the  fine  young  thing  permitted  me  to  take 
care  of  her  home.  Mrs.  Jane  saw  my  particular 
regard  to  her,  and  was  informed  of  my  attending 
her  to  her  father’s  house.  She  came  early  to  Be¬ 
linda  the  next  morning,  and  asked  her  ‘  if  Mrs. 
Such-a-one  had  been  with  her?’ — ‘No.’  ‘If  Mr. 
Such-a-one’s  lady  ? ’—‘ No.’— ‘  Nor  your  cousin 
Such-a-one?’— ‘No.’— ‘Lord,’  says  Mrs.  Jane, 
‘what  is  the  friendship  of  women?— Nay,  they 
may  well  laugh  at  it. — And  did  no  one  tell  you 
anything  of  the  behavior  of  your  lover,  Mr.  Wliat- 
d’ye-call,  last  night?  But  perhaps  it  is  nothing 

to  vou  that  he  is  to  be  married  to  young  Mrs. - 

on  “Tuesday  next?’  Belinda  was  here  ready  to 
die  with  rage  and  jealousy.  Then  Mrs.  Jane 
goes  on  :  ‘  I  have  a  young  kinsman  who  is  clerk 
to  a  great  conveyancer,  who  shall  show  y6u  the 
rough  draught  of  the  marriage  settlement.  The 
world  says,  her  father  gives  him  two  thousand 
pounds  more  than  he  could  have  with  you.  I 
went  innocently  to  wait  on  Belinda  as  usual,  but 
was  not  admitted;  I  wrote  to  her,  and  my  letter 
was  sent  back  unopened.  Poor  Betty,  her  maid, 
who  is  on  my  side,  has  been  here  just  now  blub¬ 
bering,  and  told  me  the  whole  matter.  She  says 
she  did  not  think  I  could  be  so  base;  and  that  she 
is  now  so  odious  to  her  mistress,  for  having  so 
often  spoke  well  of  me,  that  she  dare  not  mention 
me  more.  All  our  hopes  are  placed  in  having 
these  circumstances  fairly  represented  in  the  Spec¬ 
tator,  which  Betty  says  she  dare  not  but  bring  up 
as  soon  as  it  is  brought  in;  and  has  promised, 
when  you  have  broke  the  ice,  to  own  this  was  laid 
between  us,  and  when  I  can  come  to  a  hearing,  the 
young  lady  will  support  what  we  say  by  her  testi¬ 
mony,  that  I  never  saw  her  but  that  once  in  my 
whole  life.  Dear  Sir,  do  not  omit  this  true  rela¬ 
tion,  nor  think  it  too  particular,  for  there  are 
crowds  of  forlorn  coquettes  who  intermingle 
themselves  with  our  ladies,  and  contract  familiari¬ 
ties  out  of  malice,  and  with  no  other  design  but 
to  blast  the  hopes  of  lovers,  the  expectation  of  pa¬ 
rents,  and  the  benevolence  of  kindred.  I  doubt 
not  but  I  shall  be,  Sir, 

“  Your  most  obliged,  humble  Servant, 

“  Cleanthes.” 

“  Sir,  Will’s  Coffee-house,  Jan.  10. 

“  The  other  day  entering  a  room  adorned  with 
the  fair  sex,  I  offered,  after  the  usual  manner,  to 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


oacli  of  them  a  kiss;  but  one,  more  scornful  than 
the  rest,  turned  her  cheek,  I  did  not  think  it 
proper  to  take  any  notice  of  it  until  1  had  asked 
your  advice. 

“  Your  humble  Servant, 

“  E.  S 

The  correspondent  is  desired  to  say  which  cheek 
the  offender  turned  to  him. 

advertisement. 

From  the  parish -vestry,  January  9. 

All  ladies  who  come  to  church  in  the  new-fash¬ 
ioned  hoods,  are  desired  to  be  there  before  divine 
service  begins,  lest  they  divert  the  attention  of  the 
congregation. 

Ralph. 


No.  273.]  SATURDAY,  JANUARY  12,  1711-12. 

- Notandi  sunt  tibi  mores. 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  yer.  156. 

Note  well  the  manners. 

Having  examined  the  action  of  Paradise  Lost, 
let  us  in  the  next  place  consider  the  actors.  This 
is  Aristotle’s  method  of  considering,  first  the 
fable,  and  secondly  the  manners;  or,  as  we  gener¬ 
ally  call  them,  in  English,  the  fable  and  the  cha¬ 
racters. 

Homer  has  excelled  all  the  heroic  poets  that 
ever  wrote  in  the  multitude  and  variety  of  his  cha¬ 
racters.  Every  God  that  is  admitted  into  his 
poem,  acts  a  part  which  would  have  been  suitable 
to  no  other  deity.  His  princes  are  as  much  dis¬ 
tinguished  by  their  manners,  as  by  their  domin¬ 
ions;  and  even  those  among  them,  whose  charac¬ 
ters  seem  wholly  made  up  of  courage,  differ  from 
one  another  as  to  the  particular  kinds  of  courage 
in  which  they  excel.  In  short,  there  is  scarce  a 
speech  or  action  in  the  Iliad,  which  the  reader 
may  not  ascribe  to  the  person  who  speaks  or  acts, 
without  seeing  his  name  at  the  head  of  it. 

Homer  does  not  only  outshine  all  other  poets  in 
the  variety,  but  also  in  the  novelty  of  his  charac¬ 
ters.  He  has  introduced  among  his  Grecian  prin¬ 
ces  a  person  who  had  lived  thrice  the  age  of  man, 
and  conversed  with  Theseus,  Hercules,  Polyphe¬ 
mus,  and  the  first  race  of  heroes.  His  principal 
actor  is  the  son  of  a  goddess,  not  to  mention  the 
offspring  of  other  deities,  who  have  likewise  a 
place  in  his  poem,  and  the  venerable  Trojan  prince, 
who  was  the  father  of  so  many  kings  and  heroes. 
There  is  in  these  several  characters  of  Homer,  a 
certain  dignity  as  well  as  novelty,  which  adapts 
them  in  a  more  peculiar  manner  to  the  nature  of  a 
heroic  poem.  Though,  at  the  same  time,  to  give 
them  the  greater  variety,  he  has  described  a  Vul¬ 
can,  that  is  a  buffoon,  among  his  gods,  and  a  Ther- 
sites  among  his  mortals. 

Virgil  falls  infinitely  short  of  Homer  in  the  cha¬ 
racters  of  his  poem,  both  as  to  their  variety  and 
novelty.  HSneas  is  indeed  a  perfect  character; 
but  as  for  Achates,  though  he  is  styled  the  hero’s 
friend,  he  does  nothing  in  the  whole  poem  which 
may  deserve  that  title.  Gyas,  Mnestheus,  Serges- 
tus,  and  Cloanthes,  are  all  of  them  men  of  the 
same  stamp  and  character  : 

- Fortemque  Gyan,  fortemque  Cloanthem. 

There  are,  indeed,  several  natural  incidents  in 
the  part  of  Ascanius;  and  that  of  Dido  cannot 
be  sufficiently  admired.  I  do  not  see  anythino- 
new  or  particular  in  Turnus.  Pallas  and  Evander 
are  remote  copies  of  Hector  and  Priam,  as  Lausus 
and  Mezentius*  are  almost  parallels  to  Pallas  and 
Evander.  The  characters  of  Nisus  and  Eurvalus 
22  J 


337 

I  are  beautiful,  but  common.  We  must  not  forget 
j  ^be  parts  of  Sinon,  Camilla,  and  some  few  others. 
I  which  are  fine  improvements  on  the  Greek  poet 
In  short,  there  is  neither  that  variety  nor  noveltv 
in  the  persons  of  the  HSneid,  which  we  meet  witn 
in  those  of  the  Iliad. 

if  we  look  into  the  characters  of  Milton,  we 

? .  *  ,,  1  iat  *ias  Produced  all  the  variety 

his  fable  was  capable  of  receiving.  The  whole 
species  of  mankind  was  in  two  persons  at  the 
time  to  which  the  subject  of  his  poem  is  confined. 
We  have,  however,  four  distinct  characters  in 
these  two  persons.  We  see  man  and  woman  in 
the  highest  innocence  and  perfection,  and  in  the 
most  abject  state  of  guilt  and  infirmity.  The  two 
last  characters  are,  indeed,  very  common  and  ob¬ 
vious,  but  the  two  first  are  not  only  more  magnifi- 
cent,  but  more  new  than  any  characters  either  in 
Virgil  or  Homer,  or  indeed  m  the  whole  circle  of 
nature. 

Milton  was  so  sensible  of  this  defect  in  the 
subject  of  his  poem,  and  of  the  few  characters  it 
would  afford  him,  that  he  has  brought  into  it  two 
actors  of  a  shadowy  and  fictitious  nature,  in  the 
persons  of  Sin  and  Death,  by  which  means  he  has 
wrought  into  the  body  of  his  fable  a  very  beauti¬ 
ful  and  well-invented  allegory.  But  notwith¬ 
standing  the  fineness  of  this  allegory  may  atone 
for  it  in  some  measure,  I  cannot  think  that  persons 
of  such  a  chimerical  existence  are  proper  actors  in 
an  epic  poem;  because  there  is  not  that  measure 
of  probability  annexed  to  them,  which  is  requisite 
in  writings  of  this  kind,  as  I  shall  show  more  at 
large  hereafter. 

.  Virgil  has  indeed  admitted  Fame  as  an  actress 
in  the  ^Eneid,  but  the  part  she  acts  is  very  short, 
tlie  most  admired  circumstances  in 
that  divine  work.  We  find  in  mock-heroic  poems 
particularly  in  the  Dispensary  and  the  Butrin' 
several  allegorical  persons  of  this  nature,  which 
are  very  beautiful  in  these  compositions,  and  may 
perhaps  be  used  as  an  argument,  that  the  authors 
of  them  were  of  opinion  such  characters  might 
have  a  place  in  an  epic  work.  For  my  own  part 
I  should  be  glad  the  reader  would  think  so,  for 
the  sake  of  the  poem  I  am  now  examining :  and 
must  fui  thei  add,  that  if  such  empty,  unsubstan¬ 
tial  beings  may  be  ever  made  use  of  on  this  occa¬ 
sion  never  were  any  more  nicely  imagined,  and 
employed  in  more  proper  actions,  than  those  of 
which  I  am  now  speaking. 

Another  principal  actor  in  this  poem  is  the 
great  enemy  of  mankind.  The  part  of  Ulysses  in 
Homer’s  Odyssey  is  very  much  admired  by  Aris¬ 
totle,  as  perplexing  that  fable  with  very  agreeable 
plots  and  intricacies,  not  only  by  the  many  ad¬ 
ventures  in  his  voyage,  and  the  subtilty  of  his  be¬ 
havior,  but  by  the  various  concealments  and  dis¬ 
coveries  of  his  person  in  several  parts  of  that 
poem.  But  the  crafty  being  I  have  now  men- 
tioned  makes  a  much  longer  voyage  than  Ulysses, 
puts  in  practice  many  more  wiles  and  stratagems’ 
and  hides  himself  under  a  greater  variety  of  shapes 
and  appearances,  all  of  which  are  severally  de¬ 
tected,  to  the  great  delight  and  surprise  of  the 
reader. 

We  may  likewise  observe  with  how  much  art 
the  poet  has  varied  several  characters  of  the  per¬ 
sons  that  speak  in  his  infernal  assembly.  On  the 
contrary,  how  has  he  represented  the  whole 
Godhead  exerting  itself  toward  man  in  its  full  be¬ 
nevolence  under  the  threefold  distinction  of  a 
Creator,  a  Redeemer,  and  a  Comforter ! 

Nor  must  we  omit  the  person  of  Raphael,  who, 
amidst  his  tenderness  and  friendship  for  man, 
shows  such  a  dignity  and  condescension  in  all  his 
speech  and  behavior,  as  are  suitable  to  a  superior 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


338 

nature.  The  angels  are,  indeed,  as  much  diversi¬ 
fied  in  Milton,  and  distinguished  by  their  proper 
parts,  as  the  gods  are  in  Homer  and  Yirgil.  The 
reader  will  find  nothing  ascribed  to  Uriel,  Gabriel, 
Michael,  or  Raphael;  which  is  not  in  a  particular 
manner  suitable  to  their  respective  characters.* 

There  is  another  circumstance  in  the  principal 
actors  of  the  Iliad  and  iEneid,  which  gives  a  pe¬ 
culiar  beauty  to  those  two  poems,  and  was  there¬ 
fore  contrived  with  very  great  judgment.  I  mean 
the  authors  having  chosen  for  their  heroes,  persons 
who  were  so  nearly  related  to  the  people  for  whom 
they  wrote.  Achilles  was  a  Greek,  and  iEneas 
the  remote  founder  of  Rome.  By  this  means  their 
countrymen  (whom  they  principally  propose  to 
themselves  for  their  readers)  were  particularly  at¬ 
tentive  to  all  the  parts  of  their  story,  and  sympa¬ 
thized  with  their  heroes  in  all  their  adventures. 
A  Roman  could  not  but  rejoice  in  the  escapes,  suc¬ 
cesses,  and  victories,  of  JSneas,  and  be  grieved  at 
any  defeats,  misfortunes,  or  disappointments  that 
befel  him;  as  a  Greek  must  have  had  the  same  re¬ 
gard  for  Achilles.  And  it  is  plain,  that  each  of 
those  poems  have  lost  this  great  advantage,  among 
those  readers  to  whom  their  heroes  are  as  stran¬ 
gers,  or  indifferent  persons. 

Milton’s  poem  is  admirable  in  this  respect,  since 
it  is  impossible  for  any  of  its  readers,  whatever 
nation,  country,  or  people,  he  may  belong  to,  not 
to  be  related  to  the  persons  who  are  the  principal 
actors  in  it;  but  what  is  still  infinitely  more  to  its 
advantage,  the  principal  actors  in  this  poem  are 
not  only  our  progenitors,  but  our  representatives. 
We  have  an  actual  interest  in  everything  they  do, 
and  no  less  than  our  utmost  happiness  is  concern¬ 
ed,  and  lies  at  stake  in  all  their  behavior. 

I  shall  subjoin,  as  a  corollary  to  the  foregoing 
remark,  an  admirable  observation  out  of  Aristotle, 
which  has  been  very  much  misrepresented  in  the 
quotations  of  some  modern  critics  :  “  If  a  man  of 
perfect  and  consummate  virtue  falls  into  a  misfor¬ 
tune,  it  raises  our  pity,  but  not  our  terror,  because 
we  do  not  fear  that  it  may  be  our  own  case,  who 
do  not  resemble  the  suffering  person.”  But,  as 
that  great  philosopher  adds  “  if  we  see  a  man  of 
virtue  mixed  with  infirmities  fall  into  any  misfor¬ 
tune,  it  does  not  only  raise  our  pity  but  our  ter¬ 
ror;  because  we  are  afraid  that  the  like  misfor¬ 
tunes  may  happen  to  ourselves,  who  resemble  the 
character  of  the  suffering  person.” 

I  shall  take  another  opportunity  to  observe, 
that  a  person  of  an  absolute  and  consummate  vir¬ 
tue  should  never  be  introduced  into  tragedy,  and 
shall  only  remark  in  this  place,  that  the  foregoing 
observation  of  Aristotle,  though  it  may  be  true  in 
other  occasions,  does  not  hold  in  this;  because  in 
the  present  case,  though  the  persons  who  fall  into 
misfortune  are  of  the  most  perfect  and  consum¬ 
mate  virtue,  it  is  not  to  be  considered  as  what  may 
possibly  be,  but  what  actually  is  our  own  case; 
since  we  are  embarked  with  them  on  the  same 
bottom,  and  must  be  partakers  of  their  happiness 
or  misery. 

In  this,  and  some  other  very  few  instances, 
Aristotle’s  rules  for  epic  poetry  (which  he  had 
drawn  from  his  reflections  upon  Homer)  cannot 
be  supposed  to  quadrate  exactly  with  the  heroic 
poems  which  have  been  made  since  his  time ; 
since  it  is  plain  his  rules  would  still  have  been 
more  perfect,  could  he  have  perused  the  ./Eneid, 
which  was  made  some  hundred  years  after  his 
death. 

In  my  next;  I  shall  go  through  other  parts  of 
Milton’s  poem  ;  and  hope  that  what  I  shall  there 


*  These  two  last  sentences  were  not  in  the  original  paper 
in  folio. 


advance,  as  well  as  what  I  have  already  written, 
will  not  only  serve  as  a  comment  upon  Milton, 
but  upon  Aristotle. — L. 


No.  274.]  MONDAY,  JANUARY  14,  1711-12. 

Audire  est  operae  pretium,  procedere  recte 

Q,ui  maschis  non  vultis - 

Hob.  1  Sat.  ii,  37 

All  you,  who  think  the  city  ne’er  can  thrive 

Till  every  cuckold-maker’s  flay’d  alive, 

Attend. -  Pope. 

I  have  upon  several  occasions  (that  have  occur¬ 
red  since  I  first  took  into  my  thoughts  the  pre¬ 
sent  state  of  fornication)  weighed  with  myself  in 
behalf  of  guilty  females,  the  impulses  of  flesh 
and  blood,  together  with  the  arts  and  gallantries 
of  crafty  men;  and  reflect  with  some  scorn  that 
most  part  of  what  we  in  our  youth  think  gay  and 
polite,  is  nothing  else  but  a  habit  of  indulging  a 
pruriency  that  way.  It  will  cost  some  labor  to 
bring  people  to  so  lively  a  sense  of  this,  as  to  re¬ 
cover  the  manly  modesty  in  the  behavior  of  my 
men  readers,  and  the  bashful  grace  in  the  faces 
of  my  women;  but  in  all  cases  which  come  into 
debate,  there  are  certain  things  previously  to  be 
done  before  we  can  have  a  true  light  into  the  sub¬ 
ject  matter :  therefore  it  will,  in  the  first  place,  be 
necessary  to  consider  the  impotent  wenchers  and 
industrious  hags,  who  are  supplied  with,  and  are 
constantly  supplying,  new  sacrifices  to  the  devil 
of  lust.  You  are  to  know,  then,  if  you  are  so  hap¬ 
py  as  not  to  know  it  already,  that  the  great  havoc 
which  is  made  in  the  habitations  of  beauty  and 
innocence,  is  committed  by  such  as  can  only  lay 
waste  and  not  enjoy  the  soil.  When  you  observe 
the  present  state  of  vice  and  virtue,  the  offenders 
are  such  as  one  would  think  should  have  no  im¬ 
pulse  to  what  they  are  pursuing;  as  in  business, 
you  see  sometimes  fools  pretend  to  be  knaves,  so 
in  pleasure,  you  will  find  old  men  set  up  for 
wenchers.  This  latter  sort  of  men  are  the  great 
basis  and  fund  of  iniquity  in  the  kind  we  are 
speaking  of;  you  shall  have  an  old  rich  man  often 
receive  scrawls  from  the  several  quarters  of  the 
town,  with  descriptions  of  the  new  wares  in  their 
hands,  if  he  will  please  to  send  word  when  he 
will  be  waited  on.  This  interview  is  contrived, 
and  the  innocent  is  brought  to  such  indecencies,  as 
from  time  to  time  banish  shame  and  raise  desire. 
With  these  preparatives  the  hags  break  their 
wards  by  little  and  little,  until  they  are  brought 
to  lose  all  apprehensions  of  what  shall  befall  them 
in  the  possession  of  younger  men.  It  is  a  com¬ 
mon  postscript  of  a  hag  to  a  young  fellow  whom 
she  invites  to  a  new  woman,  “She  has,  I  assure 
you,  seen  none  but  old  Mr.  Such-a-one.”  It 
pleases  the  old  fellow  that  the  nymph  is  brought 
to  him  unadorned,  and  from  his  bounty  she  is  ac¬ 
commodated  with  enough  to  dress  her  for  other 
lovers.  This  is  the  most  ordinary  method  of 
bringing  beauty  and  poverty  into  the  possession 
of  the  town :  but  the  particular  cases  of  kind 
keepers,  skillful  pimps,  and  all  others  who  drive 
a  separate  trade,  and  are  not  in  the  general  society 
or  commerce  of  sin,  will  require  distinct  conside¬ 
ration.  At  the  same  time  that  we  are  thus  severe 
on  the  abandoned,  we  are  to  represent  the  case  of 
others  with  that  mitigation  as  the  circumstances 
demand.  Calling  names  does  no  good;  to  speak 
worse  of  anything  than  it  deserves,  does  only 
take  off  from  the  credit  of  the  accuser,  and  has 
implicitly  the  force  of  an  apology  in  the  behalf 
of  the  person  accused.  We  shall,  therefore,  ac¬ 
cording  as  the  circumstances  differ  vary  our  ap- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


pellations  of  these  criminals  :  those  who  offend 
only  against  themselves,  and  are  not  scandals  to 
society,  but,  out  of  deference  to  the  sober  part  of 
the  world,  have  so  much  good  left  in  them  as  to 
be  ashamed,  must  not  be  huddled  in  the  common 
word  due  to  the  worst  of  women;  but  regard  is  to 
be  had  to  their  circumstances  when  they  fell,  to 
the  uneasy  perplexity  under  which  they  lived 
under  senseless  and  severe  parents,  to  the  im¬ 
portunity  of  poverty,  to  the  violence  of  a  passion 
in  its  beginning  well  grounded,  and  all  other  alle¬ 
viations  which  make  unhappy  women  resign  the 
characteristics  of  their  sex,  modesty.  To  do  other¬ 
wise  than  thus,  would  be  to  act  like  a  pedantic 
Stoic,  who  thinks  all  crimes  alike,  and  not  like  an 
impartial  Spectator,  who  looks  upon  them  with 
all  the  circumstances  that  diminish  or  enhance 
the  guilt.  I  am  in  hopes,  if  this  subject  be  well 

Eursued,  women  will  hereafter  from  their  infancy 
e  treated  with  an  eye  to  their  future  state  in  the 
world;  and  not  have  their  tempers  made  too  un- 
tractable  from  an  improper  sourness  and  pride,  or 
too  complying  from  familiarity  or  forwardness 
contracted  at  their  own  houses.  After  these  hints 
on  this  subject,  I  shall  end  this  paper  with  the 
following  genuine  letter;  and  desire  all  who  think 
they  may  be  concerned  in  future  speculations  on 
this  subject,  to  send  in  what  they  have  to  say  for 
themselves  for  some  incidents  in  their  lives,  in 
order  to  have  proper  allowances  made  for  their 
conduct. 

“  Mr.  Spectator,  Jan.  5,  1711-12. 

“  The  subject  of  your  yesterday’s  paper  is  of  so 
great  importance,  that  the  thorough  handling  of  it 
may  be  so  very  useful  to  the  preservation  of  many 
an  innocent  young  creature,  that  I  think  every  one 
is  obliged  to  furnish  you  with  what  lights  he  can 
to  expose  the  pernicious  arts  and  practices  of 
those  unnatural  women  called  bawds.  In  order 
to  this,  the  inclosed  is  sent  you,  which  is  verbatim 
the  copy  of  a  letter  written  by  a  bawd  of  figure 
in  this  town  to  a  noble  lord.  I  have  concealed 
the  names  of  both,  my  intention  being  not  to  ex¬ 
pose  their  persons,  but  the  thing. 

“  I  am.  Sir,  your  humble  servant.” 

“My  Lord, 

“I,  having  a  great  esteem  for  your  honor,  and 
a  better  opinion  of  you  than  of  any  of  the  quali¬ 
ty,  makes  me  acquaint  you  of  an  affair  that  I 
hope  will  oblige  you  to  know.  I  have  a  niece 
that  came  to  town  about  a  fortnight  ago.  Her  pa¬ 
rents  being  lately  dead,  she  came  to  me,  expect¬ 
ing  to  have  found  me  in  so  good  a  condition  as  to 
set  her  up  in  a  milliner’s  shop.  Her  father  gave 
fourscore  pound  with  her  for  five  years  :  her  time 
is  out,  and  she  is  not  sixteen  :  as  pretty  a  black 
gentlewoman  as  ever  you  saw;  a  little  woman, 
which  1  know  your  lordship  likes;  well-shaped, 
and  as  fine  a  complexion  for  red  and  white  as  ever 
I  saw;  I  doubt  not  but  your  lordship  will  be  of 
the  same  opinion.  She  designs  to  go  down  about 
a  month  hence,  except  I  can  provide  for  her,  which 
I  cannot  at  present.  Her  father  was  one  with 
whom  all  he  had  died  with  him,  so  there  is  four 
children  left  destitute;  so  if  your  lordship  thinks 
proper  to  make  an  appointment  where  I  shall  wait 
on  you  with  my  niece,  by  a  line  or  two,  I  stay  for 
vour  answer;  for  I  have  no  place  fitted  up  since  I 
left  my  house,  fit  to  entertain  your  honor.  I  told 
her  she  should  go  with  me  to  see  a  gentleman,  a 
very  good  friend  of  mine;  so  I  desire  you  to  take 
no  notice  of  mv  letter,  by  reason  she  is  ignorant 
of  the  ways  of  the  town.  My  lord,  I  desire  if 
you  meet  us  to  come  alone;  for  upon  my  word  and 


339 

honor  you  are  the  first  that  I  ever  mentioned  her 
to.  So  I  remain 

“Your  Lordship’s 
Most  humble  Servant  to  command.” 

“I  beg  you  to  burn  it  when  you’ve  read  it.” 


No.  275.]  TUESDAY,  JANUARY  15,  1711-12. 

- Tribus  Anticyris  caput  insanabile - 

Hoa.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  300. 

A  head,  no  hellebore  can  cure. 

I  was  yesterday  engaged  in  an  assembly  of  vir¬ 
tuosos,  where  one  of  them  produced  many  curious 
observations  which  he  had  lately  made  in  the 
anatomy  of  a  human  body.  Another  of  the  com¬ 
pany  communicated  to  us  several  wonderful  dis¬ 
coveries  which  he  had  also  made  on  the  same 
subject,  by  the  help  of  very  fine  glasses.  This 
gave  birth  to  a  great  variety  of  uncommon  re¬ 
marks,  and  furnished  discourse  for  the  remaining 
part  of  the  day.  6 

The  different  opinions  which  were  started  on 
this  occasion  presented  to  my  imagination  so 
many  new  ideas,  that  by  mixing  with  those  which 
were  already  there,  they  employed  my  fancy  all 
the  last  night,  and  composed  a  very  wild,  extra¬ 
vagant  dream. 

1  was  invited,  methought,  to  the  dissection  of  a 
beau’s  head,  and  a  coquette’s  heart,  which  were 
both  of  them  laid  on  a  table  before  us.  An  ima¬ 
ginary  operator  opened  the  first  with  a  great  deal 
of  nicety,  which  upon  a  cursory  and  superficial 
view,  appeared  like  the  head  of  another  man;  but 
upon  applying  our  glasses  to  it,  we  made  a  very 
odd  discovery,  namely,  that  what  we  looked  upon 
as  brains,  were  not  such  in  reality,  but  a  heap  of 
strange  materials  wound  up  in  that  shape  and  tex¬ 
ture,  and  packed  together  with  wonderful  art  in 
the  several  cavities  of  the  skull.  For,  as  Homer 
tells  us,  that  the  blood  of  the  gods  is  not  real 
blood,  but  only  something  like  it ;  so  we  found 
that  the  brain  of  a  beau  is  not  a  real  brain,  but 
only  something  like  it. 

The  pineal  gland,  which  many  of  our  modern 
philosophers  suppose  to  be  the  seat  of  the  soul, 
smelt  verv  strong  of  essence  and  orange-flower 
water,  and  was  encompassed  with  a  kind  of  horny 
substance,  cut  into  a  thousand  little  faces  or  mir¬ 
rors,  which  were  imperceptible  to  the  naked  eye, 
insomuch  that  the  soul,  if  there  had  been  any 
here,  must  have  been  always  taken  up  in  contem¬ 
plating  her  own  beauties. 

We  observed  a  large  antrum  or  cavity  in  the 
sinciput,  that  was  filled  with  ribbons,  lace,  and 
embroidery,  wrought  together  in  a  most  curious 
piece  of  net-work,  the  parts  of  which  were  like¬ 
wise,  imperceptible  to  the  naked  eye.  Another  of 
these  antrums  or  cavities  was  stuffed  with  in¬ 
visible  billets-doux,  love-letters,  pricked  dances, 
and  other  trumpery  of  the  same  nature.  In 
another  we  found  a  kind  of  powder,  which  set  the 
whole  company  a  sneezing,  and  by  the  scent  dis¬ 
covered  itself  to  be  right  Spanish.  The  several 
other  cells  were  stored  with  commodities  of  the 
same  kind,  of  which  it  would  be  tedious  to  give 
the  reader  an  exact  inventory. 

There  was  a  large  cavity  on  each  side  the  head, 
which  I  must  not  omit.  That  on  the  right  side 
was  filled  with  fictions,  flatteries,  and  falsehoods, 
vows,  promises,  and  protestations  :  that  on  the 
left  with  oaths  and  imprecations.  There  issued 
out  a  duct  from  each  of  these  cells,  which  ran  into 
the  root  of  the  tongue,  where  both  joined  together, 
and  passed  forward  in  one  common  duct  to  the 


340 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


tip  of  it.  We  discovered  several  little  roads  or 
canals  running  from  the  ear  into  the  brain,  and 
took  particular  care  to  trace  them  out  through 
their  several  passages.  One  of  them  extended 
itself  to  a  bundle  of  sonnets  and  little  musical 
instruments.  Others  ended  in  several  bladders 
which  were  filled  either  with  wind  or  froth. 
But  the  large  canal  entered  into  a  great  cavity  of 
the  skull,  from  whence  there  went  another  canal 
into  the  tongue.  This  great  cavity  was  filled  with 
a  kind  of  spongy  substance,  which  the  French 
anatomists  call  gallimatias,  and  the  English  non¬ 
sense. 

The  skins  of  the  forehead  were  extremely  tough 
and  thick,  and,  what  very  much  surprised  us,  had 
not  in  them  any  single  blood-vessel  that  we  were 
able  to  discover,  either  with  or  without  our  glasses; 
from  whence  we  concluded  that  the  party,  when 
alive,  must  have  been  entirely  deprived  of  the 
faculty  of  blushing. 

The  os  cribriforme  was  exceedingly  stuffed,  and 
in  some  places  damaged  with  snuff.  We  could 
not  but  take  notice  in  particular  of  that  small 
muscle  which  is  not  often  discovered  in  dissec¬ 
tion,  and  draws  the  nose  upward,  when  it  ex¬ 
presses  the  contempt  which  the  owner  of  it  has, 
upon  seeing  anything  he  does  not  like,  or  hearing 
anything  he  does  not  understand.  I  need  not 
tell  my  learned  reader,  this  is  that  muscle  which 
performs  the  motion  so  often  mentioned  by  the 
Latin  poets,  when  they  talk  of  a  man’s  cocking 
his  nose,  or  playing  the  rhinoceros. 

We  did  not  'find  anything  very  remakable  in 
the  eye,  saving  only,  that  the  musculi  amatorii, 
or,  as  we  may  translate  it  into  English,  the  ogling 
muscles,  were  very  much  worn  and  decayed  with 
use  ;  whereas,  on  the  contrary,  the  elevator,  or 
the  muscle  which  turns  the  eye  toward  heaven, 
did  not  appear  to  have  been  used  at  all. 

I  have  only  mentioned  in  this  dissection  such 
new  discoveries  as  we  were  able  to  make,  and 
have  not  taken  any  notice  of  those  parts  which 
seem  to  be  met  with  in  common  heads.  As  for 
the  skull,  the  face,  and  indeed  the  whole  outward 
shape  and  figure  of  the  head,  we  could  not  dis¬ 
cover  any  difference  from  what  we  observe  in  the 
heads  of  other  men.  We  were  informed  that  the 
person  to  whom  this  head  belonged,  had  passed 
for  a  man  above  five-and-thirty  years:  during 
which  time  he  ate  and  drank  like  other  people, 
dressed  well,  talked  loud,  laughed  frequently, 
and  on  particular  occasions  had  acquitted  him¬ 
self  tolerably  at  a  ball  or  an  assembly  ;.  to  which 
one  of  the  company  added,  that  a  certain  knot  of 
ladies  took  him  for  a  wit.  He  was  cut  off  in  the 
flower  of  his  age  by  the  blow  of  a  paring-shovel, 
having  been  surprised  by  an  eminent  citizen, 
as  he  was  tendering  some  civilities  to  his 
wife. 

When  we  had  thoroughly  examined  this  head, 
with  all  its  apartments,  and  its  several  kinds  of 
furniture,  we  put  up  the  brain  such  as  it  was,  into 
its  proper  place,  and  laid  it  aside  under  a  broad 
piece  of  scarlet  cloth,  in  order  to  be  prepared,  and 
kept  in  a  great  repository  of  dissections ;  our 
operator  telling  us  that  the  preparation  would 
not  be  so  difficult  as  that  of  another  brain,  for 
that  he  had  observed  several  of  the  little  pipes 
and  tubes  which  ran  through  the  brain  were  al¬ 
ready  filled  with  a  kind  of  mercurial  substance, 
which  he  looked  upon  to  be  true  quicksilver. 

He  applied  himself  in  the  next  place  to  the 
coquette’s  heart,  which  he  likewise  laid  open  with 
great  dexterity.  There  occurred  to  us  many  par¬ 
ticularities  in  this  dissection  ;  but  being  unwil¬ 
ling  to  burden  my  reader’s  memory  too  much,  I 


shall  reserve  this  subject  for  the  speculation  of 

another  dav. — L. 

•/ 


No.  276.]  WEDNESDAY,  JAN.  16,  1711-12. 

Errori  nomen  virtus  posuisset  honestum. 

Hor.  1  Sat.  iii,  42. 

Misconduct  screen’d  behind  a  specious  name. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  hope  you  have  philosophy  enough  to  be 
capable  of  hearing  the  mention  of  your  faults. 
Your  papers  which  regard  the  fallen  part  of  the 
fair  sex  are,  I  think,  written  with  an  indelicacy 
which  makes  them  unworthy  to  be  inserted  in  the 
writings  of  a  moralist  who  knows  the  world.  I 
cannot  allow  that  you  are  at  liberty  to  observe 
upon  the  actions  of  mankind  with  the  freedom 
which  you  seem  to  resolve  upon  ;  at  least,  if  you 
do  so,  you  should  take  along  with  you  the  dis¬ 
tinction  of  manners  of  the  world,  according  to 
the  quality  and  wav  of  life  of  the  persons  con¬ 
cerned.  A  man  of  breeding  speaks  of  even  mis¬ 
fortune  among  ladies,  without  giving  it  the  most 
terrible  aspect  it  can  bear ;  and  this  tenderness 
toward  them  is  much  more  to  be  preserved  when 
you  speak  of  vices.  All  mankind  are  so  far  re¬ 
lated,  that  care  is  to  be  taken  in  things  to  which 
all  are  liable,  you  do  not  mention  what  concerns 
one  in  terms  which  shall  disgust  another.  Thus 
to  tell  a  rich  man  of  the  indigence  of  a  kinsman 
of  his,  or  abruptly  to  inform  a  virtuous  woman  of 
the  lapse  of  one  who  until  then  was  in  the  same 
degree  of  esteem  with  herself,  is  a  kind  of  in¬ 
volving  each  of  them  in  some  participation  of 
those  disadvantages.  It  is  therefore  expected 
from  every  writer,  to  treat  his  argument  in  such 
a  manner,  as  is  most  proper  to  entertain  the  sort 
of  readers  to  whom  his  discourse  is  directed.  It  is 
not  necessary  when  you  write  to  the  tea-table, 
that  you  should  draw  vices  which  carry  all  the 
horror  of  shame  and  contempt :  if  you  paint  an 
impertinent  self-love,  an  artful  glance,  an  assumed 
complexion,  you  say  all  which  you  ought  to  sup¬ 
pose  they  can  possibly  be  guilty  of.  *  When  you 
talk  with  limitation,  you  behave  yourself  so  as 
that  you  may  expect  others  in  conversation  may 
second  your  raillery;  but  when  you  do  it  in  a 
style  which  everybody  else  forbears  in  respect 
to  their  quality,  they  have  an  easy  remedy 
in  forbearing  to  read  you,  and  hearing  no  more 
of  their  faults.  A  man  that  is  now  and  then 
guilty  of  an  intemperance  is  not  be  called  a 
drunkard;  but  the  rule  of  polite  raillery  is  to 
speak  of  a  man’s  faults  as  if  you  loved  him.  Of 
this  nature  is  what  was  said  by  Csesar :  when  one 
was  railing  with  an  uncourtly  vehemence,  and 
broke  out  with,  *  What  must  we  call  him  who  was 
taken  in  an  intrigue  with  another  man’s  wife?’ 
Caesar  answered  very  gravely,  ‘A  careless,  fellow.’ 
This  was  at  once  a  reprimand  for  speaking  of  a 
crime  which  in  those  days  had  not  the  abhor¬ 
rence  attending  it  as  it  ought,  as  well  as  an  inti¬ 
mation  that  all  intemperate  behavior  before  su¬ 
periors  loses  its  aim,  by  accusing  in  a  method 
unfit  for  the  audience.  A  word  to  the  wise.  All 
I  mean  here  to  say  to  you  is,  that  the  most  free 
person  of  quality  can  go  no  farther  than  being  a 
kind  woman  ;  and  you  should  never  say  of  a  man 
of  figure  worse  than  that  he  knows  the  world. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

“  Francis  Courtly.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  a  woman  of  an  unspotted  reputation 
and  know  nothing  I  have  ever  done  which  should 


THE  SPECTATOR 


encourage  such  insolence ;  but  here  was  one  the 
other  day,  and  he  was  dressed  like  a  gentleman 
too,  who  took  the  liberty  to  name  the  words  ‘lusty 
iellow  in  my  presence.  I  doubt  not  but  you  will 
resent  it  in  behalf  of, 

“  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

“  Celia.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

^  ou  lately  put  out  a  dreadful  paper,  wherein, 
you  promise  a  full  account  of  the  state  of  criminal 
love,  and  call  all  the  fair  who  have  transgressed 
in  that  kind  by  one  very  rude  name  which  I  do 
not  care  to  repeat :  but  I  desire  to  know  of  you 
whether  I  am  or  am  not  one  of  those  ?  My  case 
is  as  follows  :  I  am  kept  by  an  old  bachelor  who 
took  me  so  young  that  I  know  not  how  he  came 
by  me.  He  is  a  bencher  of  one  of  the  inns  of 
court,  a  very  gay,  healthy  old  man,  which  is  a 
very  lucky  thing  for  him:  who  has  been,  he  tells 
me ;  a  scowerer,  a  scamperer,  a  breaker  of  win¬ 
dows,  and  invader  of  constables,  in  the  days  of 
yore,  when  all  dominion  ended  with  the  day, 
and  males  and  females  met  helter-skelter,  and 
the  scowerers  drove  before  them  all  who  pretended 
to  keep  up  order  or  rule  to  the  interruption  of 
love  and  honor.  This  is  his  way  of  talk,  for  he 
is  very  gay  when  he  visits  me  ;  but  as  his  former 
knowledge  of  the  town  has  alarmed  him  into  an 
invincible  jealousy,  he  keeps  me  in  a  pair  of  slip¬ 
pers,  neat  bodice,  warm  petticoats,  and  my  own 
hair  woven  in  ringlets,  after  a  manner,  he  says, 
he  remembers.  I  am  not  mistress  of  one  farthing 
of  money,  but  have  all  necessaries  provided  for 
me,  under  the  guard  of  one  who  procured  for  him 
while  h^  had  any  desires  to  gratify.  I  know 
nothing  of  a  wench’s  life  but  the  reputation  of  it : 

I  have  a  natural  voice,  and  a  pretty  untaught 
step  in  dancing.  His  manner  is  to  bring  an  old 
fellow  who  has  been  his  servant  from  his  youth, 
and  is  gray-headed.  This  man  makes  on  the 
violin  a  certain  jiggish  noise  to  which  I  dance, 
and  v  hen  that  is  over  I  sing  to  him  some  loose 
air  that  has  more  wantonness  than  music  in  it. 
You  must  have  seen  a  strange  windowed  house 
near  Hydepark,  which  is  so  built  that  no  one  can 
look  out  of  any  of  the  apartments :  my  rooms  are 
after  this  manner,  and  I  never  see  man,  woman, 
or  child,  but  in  company  with  the  two  persons 
above-mentioned.  He  sends  me  in  all  the  books, 
pamphlets,  plays,  operas,  and  songs,  that  come 
out ;  and  his  utmost  delight  in  me,  as  a  woman,  is 
to  talk  over  his  old  amours  in  my  presence,  to 
play  with  my  neck,  say  f  the  time  was,’  give  me 
a  kiss,  and  bid  me  be  sure  to  follow  the  directions 
°f  my  guardian  (the  above-mentioned  lady),  and 
I  shall  never  want.  The  truth  of  my  case  is,  I  sup¬ 
pose,  that  I  was  educated  for  a  purpose  he  did 
not  know  lie  should  be  unfit  for  when  I  came  to 
years.  Now,  Sir,  what  I  ask  of  you  as  a  casuist, 
is  to  tell  me  how  far  in  these  circumstances  I  am 
innocent,  though  submissive:  he  guilty,  though 
impotent?  5  J  6 

“I  am.  Sir,  your  constant  Reader, 

“  PuCELLA.” 

“  To  the  Man  called  the  Spectator. 

“  Friend, 

“Forasmuch  as  at  the  birth  of  thy  labor,  thou 
didst  promise  upon  thy  word,  that,  letting  alone 
the  vanities  that  do  abound,  thou  wouldst  only 
endeavor  to  straighten  the  crooked  morals  of  this 
our  Babylon,  I  gave  credit  to  thy  fair  speeches, 
and  admitted  one  of  thy  papers,  every  day,  save 
Sunday,  into  my  house,  for  the  edification  of  my 
daughter  Tabitha,  and  to  the  end  that  Susanna  the 


341 

wife  of  my  bosom  might  profit  thereby.  But,  alas! 
my  mend,  I  find  that  thou  art  a  liar,  and  that  the 
ti  uth  is  not  in  thee;  else  why  didst  thou  in  a  paper 
w  nch  thou  didst  lately  put  forth,  make  mention 
ol  those  vain  coverings  for  the  heads  of  our  fe¬ 
males,  which  thou  lovest  to  liken  unto  tulips,  and 
re  late)y  sprung  up  among  us?  Nay,  why 
didst  thou  make  mention  of  them  in  such  a  seem- 
ing,  as  if  thou  diast  approve  the  invention,  inso¬ 
much  that  my  daughter  Tabitha  beginneth  to  wax 
wanton,  and  to  lust  after  these  foolish  vanities  ? 
Surely  thou  dost  see  with  the  eyes  of  the  flesh. 
Verily,  therefore,  unless  thou  dost  speedily  amend, 
and  leave  off  following  thine  own  imaginations,  I 
will  leave  off  thee. 

“Thy  Friend, 

“  As  hereafter  thou  dost  demean  thyself, 

T-  “  Hezekiah  Broadbrim.” 


No.  277.]  THURSDAY,  JANUARY  17,  1711-12. 

- fas  est  et  ab  hoste  doceri. 

Ovid,  Met.,  lib.  iv,  vor.  426. 
Receive  instruction  from  an  enemy. 

I  presume  I  need  not  inform  the  polite  part  of 
my  readers,  that  before  our  correspondence  with 
France  was  unhappily  interrupted  by  the  war,  our 
ladies  had  all  their  fashions  from  thence;  which 
the  milliners  took  care  to  furnish  them  with  by 
means  ol  a  jointed  baby,  that  came  regularly  over 
once  a  month,  habited  after  the  manner  of  the 
most  eminent  toasts  in  Paris. 

I  am  credibly  informed,  that  even  in  the  hottest 
time  of  the  war,  the  sex  made  several  efforts,  and 
raised  large  contributions  toward  the  importation 
of  this  wooden  mademoiselle. 

Whether  the  vessel  they  sent  out  was  lost  or 
taken,  or  whether  its  cargo  was  seized  on  by  the 
officers  of  the  custom-house  as  a  piece  of  contra¬ 
band  goods,  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  learn:  it  is 
however  certain,  that  their  first  attempts  were 
without  success,  to  the  no  small  disappointment 
of  our  whole  female  world;  but  as  their  con¬ 
stancy  and  application,  in  a  matter  of  so  great  im¬ 
portance,  can  never  be  sufficiently  commended,  so 
I  am  glad  to  find,  that  in  spite  of  all  opposition, 
they  have  at  length  carried  their  point,  of  which 
I  received  advice  by  the  two  following  letters  : 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  so  great  a  lover  of  whatever  is  French, 
that  I  lately  discarded  an  humble  admirer,  be¬ 
cause  he  neither  spoke  that  tongue  nor  drank 
claret.  I  have  long  bewailed  in  secret  the  cala¬ 
mities  of  my  sex  during  the  war,  in  all  which 
time  we  have  labored  under  the  insupportable 
inventions  of  English  tire-women,  who  though 
they  sometimes  copy  indifferently  well,  can  never 
compose  with  that  ‘  gout’  they  do  in  France. 

“  I  was  almost  in  despair  of  ever  more  seeing  a 
model  from  that  dear  country,  when  last  Sunday 
I  overheard  a  lady  in  the  next  pew  to  me  whisper 
another,  that  at  the  Seven  Stars,  in  King-street, 
Covent-garden,  there  was  a  mademoiselle  com¬ 
pletely  dressed,  just  come  from  Paris. 

“  I  was  in  the  utmost  impatience  during  the 
remaining  part  of  the  service,  and  as  soon  as  ever 
it  was  over,  having  learnt  the  milliner’s  ‘  addresse,’ 

I  went  directly  to  her  house  in  King-street,  but 
was  told  that  the  French  lady  was  at  a  person’s 
of  quality  in  Pall-mall,  and  would  not  be  back 
again  until  very  late  that  night.  I  was  therefore 
obliged  to  renew  my  visit  early  this  morning, 
and  had  then  a  full  view  of  the  deal-  moppet  from 
head  to  foot. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


342 

“  You  cannot  imagine,  worthy  Sir,  how  ridi¬ 
culously  I  find  we  have  been  trussed  up  during 
the  war„  and  how  infinitely  the  French  dress  ex¬ 
cels  ours.  '  f 

“  The  mantua  has  no  lead  in  the  sleeves,  and 
I  hope  we  are  not  lighter  than  the  French  ladies, 
so  as  to  want  that  kind  of  ballast ;  the  petticoat 
has  no  whalebone,  but  sits  with  an  air  altogether 
gallant  and  degage :  the  coiffure  is  inexpressibly 
pretty,  and  in  short,  the  whole  dress  has  a  thou¬ 
sand  beauties  in  it  which  I  would  not  have  as 
yet  made  too  public. 

“I  thought  fit,  however,  to  give  you  this  notice, 
that  you  may  not  be  surprised  at  my  appearing  d 
la  mode  de  Paris  on  the  next  birth-night. 

“  I  am  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

“  Teraminta.” 

Within  an  hour  after  I  had  read  this  letter,  I  re¬ 
ceived  another  from  the  owner  of  the  puppet. 

“  Sir, 

“  On  Saturday  last,  being  the  12th  instant,  there 
arrived  at  my  house  in  King-street,  Covent-garden, 
a  French  baby  for  the  year  1712.  I  have  taken  the 
utmost  care  to  have  her  dressed  by  the  most  cele¬ 
brated  tire-women  and  mantua-makers  in  Paris, 
and  do  not  find  that  I  have  any  reason  to  be  sorry 
for  the  expense  I  have  been  at  in  her  clothes  and 
importation:  however,  as  I  know  no  person  who  is 
so  good  a  judge  of  dress  as  yourself,  if  you  please 
to  call  at  my  house  in  your  way  to  the  city,  and 
take  a  view  of  her,  I  promise  to  amend  whatever 
you  shall  disapprove  in  your  next  paper,  before  I 
exhibit  her  as  a  pattern  to  the  public. 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  Admirer, 

“and  most  obedient  Servant, 

“Betty  Cross-stitch.” 

As  I  am  willing  to  do  anything  in  reason  for  the 
service  of  my  countrywomen,  and  had  much 
rather  prevent  faults  than  find  them,  I  went  last 
night  to  the  house  of  the  above-mentioned  Mrs. 
Cross-stitch.  As  soon  as  I  entered,  the  maid  of 
the  shop,  who,  I  suppose,  was  prepared  for  my 
coming,  without  asking  me  any  questions,  intro¬ 
duced  me  to  the  little  damsel,  and  ran  away  to 
call  her  mistress. 

The  puppet  was  dressed  in  a  cherry-colored 
gown  and  petticoat,  with  a  short  working  apron 
over  it,  which  discovered  her  shape  to  the  most 
advantage.  Her  hair  was  cut  and  divided  very 
prettily,  with  several  ribbons  stuck  up  and  down 
in  it.  The  milliner  assured  me,  that  her  com- 
lexion  was  such  as  was  worn  by  the  ladies  of  the 
est  fashion  in  Paris.  Her  head  was  extremely 
high,  on  which  subject  having  long  since  declarec. 
my  sentiments,  I  shall  say  nothing  more  to  it  at 
present.  I  was  also  offended  at  a  small  patch  she 
wore  on  her  breast,  which  I  cannot  suppose  is 
placed  there  with  any  good  design. 

Her  necklace  was  of  an  immoderate  length, 
being  tied  before  in  such  a  manner,  that  the  two 
ends  hung  down  to  her  girdle ;  but  whether  these 
supply  the  place  of  kissing-strings  in  our  enemy’s 
country,  and  whether  our  British  ladies  have  any 
occasion  for  them,  I  shall  leave  to  their  serious 
consideration. 

After  having  observed  the  particulars  of  her 
dress,  as  I  was  taking  a  view  of  it  altogether,  the 
shopmaid,  who  is  a  pert  wench,  told  me  that 
mademoiselle  had  something  very  curious  in  the 
tying  of  her  garters;  but  as  I  pay  a  due  respect 
even  to  a  pair  of  sticks  when  they  are  under  pet¬ 
ticoats,  I  did  not  examine  into  that  particular. 
Upon  the  whole,  I  was  well  enough  pleased  with 
the  appearance  of  this  gay  lady,  and  the  more  so, 


because  she  is  not  talkative;  a  quality  very  rarely 
to  be  met  with  in  the  rest  of  her  countrywomen. 

As  1  was  taking  my  leave,  the  milliner  further 
informed  me,  that  with  the  assistance  of  a  watch¬ 
maker,  who  was  her  neighbor,  and  the  ingenious 
Mr.  Powel,  she  had  also  contrived  another  puppet, 
which  by  the  help  of  several  little  springs  to  be 
wound  up  within  it,  could  move  all  its  limbs,  and 
that  she  had  sent  it  over  to  her  correspondent  in 
;3aris  to  be  taught  the  various  leanings  and  bend¬ 
ings  of  the  head,  the  risings  of  the  bosom,  the 
courtesy,  and  recovery,  the  genteel  trip,  and  the 
agreeable  jet,  as  they  are  all  now  practiced  at  the 
court  of  France. 

She  added,  that  she  hoped  she  might  depend 
upon  having  my  encouragement  as  soon  as  it  ar¬ 
rived;  but  as  this  was  a  petition  of  too  great  im¬ 
portance  to  be  answered  extempore,  I  left  her 
without  a  reply,  and  made  the  best  of  my  way  to 
Will  Honeycomb’s  lodgings,  without  whose  ad¬ 
vice  I  never  communicate  anything  to  the  public 
of  this  nature. — X. 


No.  278.]  FRIDAY,  JANUARY  18,  1711-12. 

- Sermones  ego  mallem 

Repentes  per  humuin. - 

Hor.  1  Ep.  ii,  250. 

I  rather  choose  a  low  and  creeping  style. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“Sir, 

“Your  having  done  considerable  services  in  this 
great  city,  by  rectifying  the  disorders  of  families, 
and  several  wives  having  preferred  your  advice  and 
directions  to  those  of  their  husbands,  emboldens 
me  to  apply  to  you  at  this  time.  I  am  a  shop¬ 
keeper,  and  though  but  a  young  man,  I  find  by 
experience  that  nothing  but  the  utmost  diligence 
both  of  husband  and  wife  (among  trading  people) 
can  keep  affairs  in  any  tolerable  order.  My  wife, 
at  the  beginning  of  our  establishment,  showed 
herself  very  assisting  to  me  in  my  business  as 
much  as  could  lie  in  her  way,  and  I  have  reason 
to  believe  it  was  with  her  inclination ;  but  of  late 
she  has  got  acquainted  with  a  schoolman,  who 
values  himself  for  his  great  knowledge  in  the 
Greek  tongue.  He  entertains  her  frequently  in  the 
shop  with  discourses  of  the  beauties  and  excel¬ 
lencies  of  that  language;  and  repeats  to  her  several 
assages  out  of  the  Greek  poets,  wherein  he  tells 
er  there  is  unspeakable  harmony  and  agreeable 
sounds  that  all  other  languages  are  wholly  un¬ 
acquainted  with.  He  has  so  infatuated  her  with 
this  jargon,  that  instead  of  using  her  former  dili¬ 
gence  in  the  shop,  she  now  neglects  the  affairs  of 
the  house,  and  is  wholly  taken  up  with  her  tutor 
in  learning  by  heart  scraps  of  Greek,  which  she 
vents  upon  all  occasions.  She  told  me  some  days 
ago,  that  whereas  I  use  some  Latin  inscriptions  in 
my  shop,  she  advised  me  with  a  great  deal  of  con¬ 
cern  to  have  them  changed  into  Greek  ;  it  being  a 
language  less  understood,  would  be  more  confor¬ 
mable  to  the  mystery  of  my  profession;  that  our 
good  friend  would  be  assisting  to  us  in  this  work; 
and  that  a  certain  faculty  of  gentlemen  would  find 
themselves  so  much  obliged  to  me,  that  they 
would  infallibly  make  my  fortune.  In  short,  her 
frequent  importunities  upon  this,  and  other  im¬ 
pertinences  of  the  like  nature,  make  me  very  un¬ 
easy;  and  if  your  remonstrances  have  no  more 
effect  upon  her  than  mine,  I  am  afraid  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  ruin  myself  to  procure  her  a  settlement* 
at  Oxford  with  her  tutor,  for  she  is  already  too 
mad  for  Bedlam.  Now,  Sir,  you  see  the  danger 
my  family  is  exposed  to,  and  the  likelihood  of  my 
wife’s  becoming  both  troublesome  and  useless, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


unloss  her  reading  herself  in  your  paper  may  make 
her  reflect.  She  is  so  very  learned  that  I  cannot 
pretend  by  word  of  mouth  to  argue  with  her. 
She  laughed  out  at  your  ending  a  paper  in  Greek, 
and  said  it  was  a  hint  to  women  of  literature,  and 
very  civil  not  to  translate  it  to  expose  them  to  the 
vulgar.  You  see  how  it  is  with, 

“  Sir,  your  humble  Servant.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  If  you  have  that  humanity  and  compassion  in 
your  nature  that  you  take  such  pains  to  make  one 
think  you  have,  you  will  not  deny  your  voice  to  a 
distressed  damsel,  who  intends  to  be  determined 
by  your  judgment  in  a  matter  of  great  importance 
to  her.  You  must  know  then,  there  is  an  agree¬ 
able  young  fellow,  to  whose  person,  wit,  and 
humor  nobody  makes  any  objection,  that  pretends 
to  have  been  long  in  love  with  me.  To  this  I 
must  add  (whether  it  proceeds  from  the  vanity  of 
my  nature,  or  the  seeming  sincerity  of  my  lover, 
I  will  not  pretend  to  say;,  that  I  verily  believe  he 
has  a  real  value  for  me  ;  which,  if  true,  you  will 
allow  may  justly  augment  his  merit  with  his  mis¬ 
tress.  In  short,  I  am  so  sensible  of  his  good 
qualities,  and  what  I  owe  to  his  passion,  that  I 
think  I  could  sooner  resolve  to  give  up  my  liberty 
to  him  than  anybody  else,  were  there  not  an  ob¬ 
jection  to  be  made  to  his  fortunes,  in  regard  they 
do  not  answer  the  utmost  mine  may  expect,  and 
are  not  sufficient  to  secure  me  from  undergoing  the 
reproachful  phrase,  so  commonly  used,  ‘that  she 
has  played  the  fool.’  Now  though  I  am  one  of 
those  few  who  heartily  despise  equipage,  dia¬ 
monds,  and  a  coxcomb,  yet  since  such  opposite 
notions  from  mine  prevail  in  the  world,  even 
among  the  best,  and  such  as  are  esteemed  the  most 
prudent  people,  I  cannot  find  in  my  heart  to  re¬ 
solve  upon  incurring  the  censure  of  those  wise  folks, 
which  I  am  conscious  I  shall  do,  if,  when  I  enter 
into  a  married  state,  I  discover  a  thought  beyond 
that  of  equaling,  if  not  advancing  my  fortunes. 
Under  this  difficulty  I  now  labor,  not  being  in  the 
least  determined  whether  I  shall  be  governed  by 
the  vain  world,  and  the  frequent  examples  I  meet 
'  with,  or  hearken  to  the  voice  of  my  lover,  and  the 
motions  I  find  in  my  heart  in  favor  of  him.  Sir, 
your  opinion  and  advice  in  this  affair  is  the  only 
thing  I  know  can  turn  the  balance,  and  which  I 
earnestly  entreat  I  may  receive  soon;  for  until  I 
have  your  thoughts  upon  it,  I  am  engaged  not  to 
give  my  swain  a  final  discharge. 

“Beside  the  particular  obligation  you  will  lay 
on  me,  by  giving  this  subject  room  in  one  of  your 
papers,  it  is  possible  it  may  be  of  use  to  some 
others  of  my  sex,  who  will  be  as  grateful  for  the 
favor  as, 

“  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

“Florinda.” 

“P.  S.  To  tell  you  the  truth  I  am  married  to 
him  already,  but  pray  say  something  to  justify 
me.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“You  will  forgive  us  professors  of  music  if  we 
make  a  second  application  to  you,  in  order  to  pro¬ 
mote  our  design  of  exhibiting  entertainments  of 
music  in  York-buildings.  It  is  industriously  in- 
si  nyated  that  our  intention  is  to  destroy  operas 
in  general,  but  we  beg  of  you  to  insert  this  plain 
explanation  of  ourselves  in  your  paper.  Our  pur¬ 
pose  is  only  to  improve  our  circumstances,  by  im¬ 
proving  the  art  which  we  profess.  We  see  it 
utterly  destroyed  at  present ;  and  as  we  were  the 
persons  who  introduced  operas,  we  think  it  a 
groundless  imputation  that  we  should  set  up 


343 

against  the  opera  itself.  What  we  pretend  to  assert 
is,  that  the  songs  of  different  authors  injudiciously 
put  together,  and  a  foreign  tone  and  manner  which 
are  expected  in  everything  now  performed  among 
us,  has  put  music  itself  to  a  stand;  insomuch  that 
the  ears  of  the  people  cannot  now  be  entertained 
with  anything  but  what  has  an  impertinent  gayety, 
without  any  just  spirit,  or  a  languisliment  of  notes, 
without  any  passion,  or  common  sense.  We  hope 
those  persons  of  sense  and  quality  who  have  done 
us  the  honor  to  subscribe,  will  not  be  ashamed  of 
their  patronage  toward  us,  and  not  receive  im¬ 
pressions  that  patronizing  us  is  being  for  or 
against  the  opera,  but  truly  promoting  their  own 
diversions  in  a  more  just  and  elegant  manner  than 
has  been  hitherto  performed. 

“  We  are,  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servants, 

“  Thomas  Clayton, 
“Nicolino  Haym, 
“Charles  Dieupart.” 

“  There  will  be  no  performances  in  York-build¬ 
ings  until  after  that  of  the  subscription.” — T. 


No.  279.]  SATURDAY,  JANUARY  19,  1711-12. 

Reddere  personae  scit  conyenientia  cuique 

Hor.  Ars.  Poet.,  v,  316. 

lie  knows  what  best  befits  each  character. 

We  have  already  taken  a  general  survey  of  the 
fable  and  characters  in  Milton’s  Paradise  Lost. 
The  parts  which  remain  to  be  considered,  accord¬ 
ing  to  Aristotle’s  method,  are  the  sentiments  and 
the  language.  Before  I  enter  upon  the  first  of 
these,  I  must  advertise  my  reader,  that  it  is  my 
design,  as  soon  as  I  have  finished  my  general  re¬ 
flections  on  these  four  several  heads,  to  give  par¬ 
ticular  instances  out  of  the  poem  which  is  now 
before  us  of  beauties  and  imperfections  which 
may  be  observed  under  each  of  them,  as  also  of 
such  other  particulars  as  may  not  properly  fall 
under  any  of  them.  This  I  thought  fit  to  premise, 
that  the  reader  may  not  judge  too  hastily  of  this 
piece  of  criticism,  or  look  upon  it  as  imperfect, 
before  he  has  seen  the  whole  extent  of  it. 

The  sentiments  in  an  epic  poem  are  the  thoughts 
and  behavior  which  the  author  ascribes  to  the 
persons  whom  he  introduces,  and  are  just  when 
they  are  conformable  to*  the  characters  of  the 
several  persons.  The  sentiments  have  likewise  a 
relation  to  things  as  well  as  persons,  and  are  then 
perfect  when  they  are  such  as  are  adapted  to  the 
subject.  If  in  either  of  these  cases  the  poet  en¬ 
deavors  to  argue  or  explain,  to  magnify  or  dimi¬ 
nish,  to  raise  love  or  hatred,  pity  or  terror,  or  any 
other  passion,  we  ought  to  consider  whether  the 
sentiments  he  makes  use  of  are  proper  for  those 
ends.  Homer  is  censured  by  the  critics  for  his 
defect  as  to  this  particular  in  several  parts  of  the 
Iliad  and  Odyssey,  though  at  the  same  time  those 
who  have  treated  this  great  poet  with  candor,  have 
attributed  this  defect  to  the  times  in  which  he 
lived.  It  was  the  fault  of  the  age  and  not  of 
Homer,  if  there  wants  that  delicacy  in  some  of  his 
sentiments,  which  now  appears  in  the  works  of 
men  of  a  much  inferior  genius.  Beside,  if  there 
are  blemishes  in  any  particular  thoughts,  there  is 
an  infinite  beauty  in  the  greatest  part  of  them.  In 
short,  if  there  are  many  poets  who  would  not  have 
fallen  into  the  meanness  of  some  of  his  senti¬ 
ments,  there  are  none  who  could  have  risen  up  to 
the  greatness  of  others.  Virgil  has  excelled  all 
others  in  the  propriety  of  his  sentiments.  Milton 
shines  likewise  very  much  in  this  particular:  nor 
must  we  omit  one  consideration  which  adds  to  his 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


344 

honor  and  reputation.  Homer  and  Yirgil  intro¬ 
duced  persons  whose  characters  are  commonly 
known  among  men,  and  such  as  are  to  be  met  with 
either  in  history  or  in  ordinary  conversation. 
Milton’s  characters,  most  of  them,  lie  out  of  nature, 
and  were  to  be  formed  purely  by  his  own  inven¬ 
tion.  It  shows  a  greater  genius  in  Shakspeare  to 
have  drawn  his  Caliban,  than  his  Hotspur,  or 
Julius  Caesar:  the  one  was  to  be  supplied  out  of 
his  own  imagination,  whereas  the  other  might 
have  been  formed  upon  tradition,  history,  and  ob 
servation.  It  was  much  easier  therefore  for  Ho¬ 
mer  to  find  proper  sentiments  for  an  assembly  of 
Grecian  generals,  than  for  Milton  to  diversify  his 
infernal  council  with  proper  characters,  and  in¬ 
spires  them  with  a  variety  of  sentiments.  The 
love  of  Dido  and  iEneas  are  only  copies  of  what 
lias  passed  between  other  persons.  Adam  and 
Eve,  before  the  fall,  are  a  different  species  from 
that  of  mankind,  who  are  descended  from  them; 
and  none  but  a  poet  of  the  most  unbounded  in¬ 
vention,  and  the  most  exquisite  judgment,  could 
have  filled  their  conversation  and  behavior  with 
so  many  apt  circumstances  during  their  state  of 
innocence. 

Nor  is  it  sufficient  for  an  epic  poem  to  be  filled 
with  such  thoughts  as  are  natural,  unless  it  abound 
also  with  such  as  are  sublime.  Yirgil  in  this  par¬ 
ticular  falls  short  of  Homer.  He  has  not  indeed 
so  many  thoughts  that  are  low  and  vulgar  ;  but  at 
the  same  time  has  not  so  many  thoughts  that  are 
sublime  and  noble.  The  truth  of  it  is,  Yirgil  sel¬ 
dom  rises  into  very  astonishing  sentiments,  where 
he  is  not  fired  by  the  Iliad.  He  everywhere  charms 
and  pleases  us  by  the  force  of  his  own  genius  ;  but 
seldom  elevates  and  transports  us  where  he  does 
not  fetch  his  hints  from  Homer. 

Milton’s  chief  talent,  and  indeed  his  distinguish¬ 
ing  excellence,  lies  in  the  sublimity  of  his  thoughts. 
There  are  others  of  the  moderns  who  rival  him  in 
every  other  part  of  poetry  ;  but  in  the  greatness  of 
his  sentiments  he  triumphs  over  all  the  poets,  both 
modern  and  ancient,  Homer  only  excepted.  It  is 
impossible  for  the  imagination  of  man  to  distend 
itself  with  greater  ideas,  than  those  which  he  has 
laid  together  in  his  first,  second,  and  sixth  books. 
The  seventh,  which  describes  the  creation  of  the 
world,  is  likewise  wonderfully  sublime,  though 
not  so  apt  to  stir  up  emotion  in  the  mind  of  the 
reader,  nor  consequently  so  perfect  in  the  epic 
way  of  writing,  because?  it  is  filled  with  less  ac¬ 
tion.  Let  the  judicious  reader  compare  what 
Longinus  has  observed  on  several  passages  in 
Homer,  and  he  will  find  parallels  for  most  of 
them  in  the  Paradise  Lost. 

From  what  has  been  said  we  may  infer,  that  as 
there  are  two  kinds  of  sentiments,  the  natural  and 
the  sublime,  which  are  always  to  be  pursued  in  a 
heroic  poem,  there  are  also  two  kinds  of  thoughts 
which  are  carefully  to  be  avoided.  The  first  are 
such  as  are  affected  and  unnatural ;  the  second 
such  as  are  mean  and  vulgar.  As  for  the  first 
kind  of  thoughts,  we  meet  with  little  or  nothing 
that  is  like  them  in  Yirgil.  He  has  none  of  those 
trifling  points  and  puerilities  that  are  so  often  to 
be  met  with  in  Ovid,  none  of  the  epigrammatic 
turns  of  Lucan,  none  of  those  swelling  sentiments 
which  are  so  frequent  in  Statius  and  Claudian, 
none  of  those  mixed  embellishments  of  Tasso. 
Everything  is  just  and  natural.  His  sentiments 
show  that  he  had  a  perfect  insight  into  human  na¬ 
ture,  and  that  he  knew  everything  which  was  the 
most  proper  to  affect  it. 

Mr.  Dryden  has  in  some  places,  which  I  may 
hereafter  take  notice  of,  misrepresented  Yirgil’s 
way  of  thinking  as  to  this  particular,  in  the 
translation  he  has  given  us  of  the  iEneid.  I  do 


not  remember  that  Homer  any  where  falls  into 
the  faults  above-mentioned,  which  were  indeed 
the  false  refinements  of  latter  ages.  Milton,  it 
must  be  confessed,  has  sometimes  erred  in  this 
respect,  as  I  shall  show  more  at  large  in  another 
paper  ;  though  considering  how  all  the  poets  of 
the  age  in  which  he  wrote  were  infected  with  this 
wrong  way  of  thinking,  he  is  rather  to  be  ad 
mired  that  he  did  not  give  more  into  it,  than  that 
he  did  sometimes  comply  with  the  vicious  taste 
which  still  prevails  so  much  among  modern 
writers. 

But  since  several  thoughts  may  be  natural  which 
are  low  and  groveling,  an  epic  poet  should  not 
only  avoid  such  sentiments  as  are  unnatural  or 
affected,  but  also  such  as  are  mean  and  vulgar. 
Homer  has  opened  a  great  field  of  raillery  to  men 
of  more  delicacy  than  greatness  of  genius  by  the 
homeliness  of  some  of  his  sentiments.  But  as  I 
have  before  said,  these  are  rather  to  be  imputed  to 
the  simplicity  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  to 
which  I  may  also  add,  of  that  which  he  described, 
than  to  any  imperfection  in  that  divine  poet. 
Zoilus  among  the  ancients,  and  Monsieur  Per- 
rault  among  the  moderns,  pushed  their  ridicule 
very  far  upon  him,  on  account  of  some  such  senti¬ 
ments.  There  is  no  blemish  to  be  observed  in  Yir¬ 
gil  under  this  head,  and  but  a  very  few  in  Milton. 

I  shall  give  but  one  instance  of  this  improprie¬ 
ty  of  thought  in  Homer,  and  at  the  same  time 
compare  it  with  an  instance  of  the  same  nature, 
both  in  Yirgil  and  Milton.  Sentiments  which 
raise  laughter  can  very  seldom  be  admitted  with 
any  decency  into  a  heroic  poem,  whose  business 
it  is  to  excite  passions  of  a  much  nobler  nature. 
Homer,  however,  in  his  characters  of  Yulcan  and 
Thersites,  in  his  story  of  Mars  and  Yenus,  in  his 
behavior  of  Irus,  and  in  other  passages,  has  been 
observed  to  have  lapsed  into  the  burlesque  charac¬ 
ter,  and  to  have  departed  from  that  serious  air 
which  seems  essential  to  the  magnificence  of  an 
epic  poem.  I  remember  but  one  laugh  in  the 
whole  ZEneid,  which  rises  in  the  fifth  book,  upon 
Monoetes,  where  he  is  represented  as  thrown  over¬ 
board,  and  drying  himself  upon  a  rock.  But  this 
piece  of  mirth  is  so  well-timed  that  the  severest 
critic  can  have  nothing  to  say  against  it ;  for  it  is 
the  book  of  games  and  diversions,  where  the  rea¬ 
der’s  mind  may  be  supposed  sufficiently  relaxed 
for  such  an  entertainment.  The  only  piece  of 
pleasantry  in  Paradise  Lost,  is  where  the  evil 
spirits  are  described  as  rallying  the  angels  upon 
the  success  of  their  newly-invented  artillery.  This 
passage  I  look  upon  to  be  the  most  exceptionable  in 
the  whole  poem,  as  being  nothing  else  but  a  string 
of  puns,  and  those,  too,  very  indifferent  ones : 


- Satan  beheld  their  plight, 

And  to  his  mates  thus  in  derision  call’d : 

“  0  friends,  why  come  not  on  those  victors  proud  ? 

Ere  while  they  fierce  were  coming ;  and  when  we, 

To  entertain  them  fair  with  open  front 

And  breast  (what  could  we  more  ?)  propounded  terms 

Of  composition,  straight  they  chang’d  their  minds, 

Flew  off,  and  into  strange  vagaries  fell 

As  they  would  dance;  yet  for  a  dance  they  seem’d 

Somewhat  extravagant,  and  wild :  perhaps 

For  joy  of  offer’d  peace ;  but  I  suppose 

If  our  proposals  once  again  were  heard, 

We  should  compel  them  to  a  quick  result.” 

To  whom  thus  Belial  in  like  gamesome  mood : 

“  Leader,  the  terms  we  sent  were  terms  of  weight, 

Of  hard  contents,  and  full  of  force  urged  home : 

Such  as  we  might  perceive  amus’d  them  all, 

And  stumbled  many ;  who  receives  them  right, 

Had  need  from  head  to  foot  well  understand ; 

Not  understood,  this  gift  they  have  beside, 

They  show  us  when  our  foes  walk  not  ujiright.” 

Thus  they  among  themselves  in  pleasant  vein 

Stood  scoffing - 

Milton’s  Par.  Lost,  b.  vi,  1.  609,  etc. 


L. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


345 


No.  280.]  MONDAY,  JANUARY  21,  1711-12. 

Priucipibus  placuisse  viris  non  ultima  laus  est. 

IIor.  1  Ep.  xvi,  35. 

To  please  the  great  is  not  the  smallest  praise. 

Creech. 

The  desire  of  pleasing  makes  a  man  agreeable 
or  unwelcome  to  those  with  whom  he  converses, 
according  to  the  motive  from  which  that  inclina¬ 
tion  appears  to  flow.  If  your  concern  for  pleas¬ 
ing  others  arises  from  an  innate  benevolence,  it 
never  fails  of  success ;  if  from  a  vanity  to  excel, 
its  disappointment  is  no  less  certain.  What  we 
call  an  agreeable  man,  is  he  who  is  endowed  with 
the  natural  bent  to  do  acceptable  things  from  a 
delight  he  takes  merely  as  sucli ;  and  the  affec¬ 
tation  of  that  character  is  what  constitutes  a  fop. 
Under  these  leaders  one  may  draw  up  all  those 
who  make  any  manner  of  figure,  except  in  dumb- 
show.  A  rational  and  select  conversation  is  com¬ 
posed  of  persons,  who  have  the  talent  of  pleasing 
with  delicacy  of  sentiments  flowing  from  habitual 
chastity  of  thought;  but  mixed  company-is  fre¬ 
quently  made  up  of  pretenders  to  mirth,  and  is 
usually  pestered  with  constrained,  obscene,  and 
painful  witticisms.  Now  and  then  you  may  meet 
with  a  man  so  exactly  formed  for  pleasing,  that  it 
is  no  matter  what  he  is  doing  or  saying  ;  that  is 
to  say,  that  there  need  be  no  manner  of  impor¬ 
tance  in  it,  to  make  him  gain  upon  everybody 
who  hears  or  beholds  him.  This  felicity  is  not 
the  gift  of  nature  only,  but  must  be  attended  with 
happy  circumstances,  which  add  a  dignity  to  the 
familiar  behavior  which  distinguishes  him  whom 
we  call  an  agreeable  man.  It  is  from  this  that 
everybody  loves  and  esteems  Polycarpus.  He  is 
in  the  vigor  of  his  age  and  the  gayety  of  life,  but 
has  passed  through  very  conspicuous  scenes  in  it; 
though  no  soldier,  he  has  shared  the  danger,  and 
acted  with  great  gallantry  and  generosity  on  a  de¬ 
cisive  day  of  battle.  To  have  those  qualities 
which  only  make  other  men  conspicuous  in  the 
world  as  it  were  supernumerary  to  him,  is  a  cir¬ 
cumstance  which  gives  weight  to  his  most  indif¬ 
ferent  actions  :  for  as  a  known  credit  is  ready  cash 
to  a  trader,  so  is  acknowledged  merit  immediate 
distinction,  and  serves  in  the  place  of  equipage  to 
a  gentleman.  This  renders  Polycarpus  graceful 
in  mirth,  important  in  business,  and  regarded 
with  love,  in  every  ordinary  occurrence.  But  not 
to  dwell  upon  characters  which  have  such  par¬ 
ticular  recommendation  to  our  hearts,  let  us  turn 
our  thoughts  rather  to  the  methods  of  pleasing 
which  must  carry  men  through  the  world  who 
cannot  pretend  to  such  advantages.  Falling  in 
with  a  particular  humor  or  manner  of  one  above 
ou,  abstracted  from  the  general  rules  of  good 
t  ehavior,  is  the  life  of  a  slave.  A  parasite  differs 
in  nothing  from  the  meanest  servant,  but  that  the 
footman  hires  himself  for  bodily  labor,  subjected 
to  go  and  come  at  the  will  of  his  master,  but  the 
other  gives  up  his  very  soul ;  he  is  prostituted  to 
speak,  and  professes  to  think,  after  the  mode  of 
him  whom  he  courts.  This  servitude  to  a  patron, 
in  an  honest  nature,  would  be  more  grievous  than 
that  of  wearing  his  livery;  therefore  we  shall 
speak  of  those  things  only  which  are  worthy  and 
ingenuous. 

The  happy  talent  of  pleasing  either  those  above 
you  or  below  you,  seems  to  be  wholly  owing  to 
the  opinion  they  have  of  your  sincerity.  This 
quality  is  to  atteijd  the  agreeable  man  in  all  the 
actions  of  his  life;  and  I  think  there  need  no  more 
be  said  in  honor  of  it,  than  that  it  is  what  forces 
the  approbation  of  your  opponents.  The  guilty 
man  has  an  honor  for  the  judge  who  with  justice 
pronounces  against  him  the  sentence  of  death 


itself.  The  author  of  the.  sentence  at  the  head 
of  this  paper,  was  an  excellent  judge  of  human 
life,  and  passed  his  own  in  company  the  most 
agreeable  that  ever  was  in  the  world.  Augustus 
lived  among  his  friends,  as  if  he  had  his  fortune 
to  make  in  his  own  court.  Candor  and  affability, 
accompanied  with  as  much  power  as  ever  mortal 
was  vested  with,  were  what  made  him  in  the 
utmost  manner  agreeable  among  a  set  of  admirable 
men,  who  had  thoughts  too  high  for  ambition, 
and  views  too  large  to  be  gratified  by  what 
he  could  give  them  in  the  disposal  of  an  em¬ 
pire,  without  the  pleasures  of  their  mutual  con¬ 
versation.  A  certain  unanimity  of  taste  and 
judgment,  which  is  natural  to  all  of  the  same 
order  in  the  species,  was  the  band  of  this  society! 
and  the  emperor  assumed  no  figure  in  it,  but  what 
he  thought  was  his  due  from  his  private  talents 
and  qualifications,  as  they  contributed  to  advance 
the  pleasures  and  sentiments  of  the  company. 

Cunning  people,  hypocrites,  all  who  are  but  half 
virtuous,  or  half  wise,  are  incapable  of  tasting  the 
refined  pleasure  of  such  an  equal  company  as 
could  wholly  exclude  the  regard  of  fortune  in  their 
conversations.  Horace,  in  the  discourse  from 
whence  I  take  the  hint  of  the  present  speculation, 
lays  down  excellent  rules  for  conduct  in  conver¬ 
sation  with  men  of  power;  but  he  speaks  with  an 
air  of  one  who  had  no  need  of  such  an  application 
for  anything  which  related  to  himself.  It  shows 
he  understood  what  it  was  to  be  a  skillful  courtier, 
by  just  admonitions  against  importunity,  and 
showing  how  forcible  it  was  to  speak  modestly  of 
your  own  wants.  There  is,  indeed,  something 
so  shameless  in  taking  all  opportunities  to  speak 
of  your  own  affairs,  that  he  who  is  guilty  of  it 
toward  him  on  whom  he  depends,  fares  like  a 
beggar  who  exposes  his  sores,  which,  instead  of 
moving  compassion,  makes  the  man  he  begs  of 
turn  away  from  the  object. 

I  cannot  tell  what  is  become  of  him,  but  I  re¬ 
member  about  sixteen  years  ago  an  honest  fellow, 
who  so  justly  understood  how  disagreeable  the 
mention  or  appearance  of  his  want  would  make 
him,  that  I  have  often  reflected  upon  him  as  a 
counterpart  of  Irus,  whom  I  have  formerly  men¬ 
tioned.  This  man,  whom  I  have  missed  for  some 
years  in  my  walks,  and  have  heard  was  some  way 
employed  about  the  army,  made  it  a  maxim,  that 
good  wigs,  delicate  linen,  and  a  cheerful  air,  were 
to  a  poor  dependent  the  same  that  working  tools 
are  to  a  poor  artificer.  It  was  no  small  entertain¬ 
ment  to  me,  who  knew  his  circumstances,  to  see 
him,  who  had  fasted  two  days,  attribute  the  thin¬ 
ness  they  told  him  of,  to  the  violence  of  some  gal¬ 
lantries  he  had  lately  been  guilty  of.  The  skillful 
dissembler  carried  on  this  with  the  utmost  ad¬ 
dress;  and  if  any  suspected  his  affairs  were  nar¬ 
row,  it  was  attributed  to  indulging  himself  in 
some  fashionable  vice  rather  than  an  irreproach¬ 
able  poverty,  which  saved  his  credit  with  those  on 
whom  he  depended. 

The  main  art  is  to  be  as  little  troublesome  as 
you  can,  and  make  all  you  hope  for  come  rather 
as  a  favor  from  your  patron  than  claim  from  you. 
But  I  am  here  prating  of  what  is  the  method  of 
pleasing  so  as  to  succeed  in  the  world,  when  there 
are  crowds,  who  have  in  city,  town,  court,  and 
country,  arrived  to  considerable  acquisitions,  and 
yet  seem  incapable  of  acting  in  any  constant  tenor 
of  life,  but  have  gone  on  from  one  successful  error 
to  another :  therefore  I  think  I  may  shorten  this 
inquiry  after  the  method  of  pleasing;  and  as  the 
old  beau  said  to  his  son,  once  for  all,  “Pray,  Jack, 
be  a  fine  gentleman';”  so  may  I  to  my  reader, 
abridge  my  instructions,  and  finish  the  art  of 
pleasing  in  a  word,  “  Be  rich.” — T. 


346  the  spectator. 


Ho.  281.]  TUESDAY,  JANUARY  22,  1711-12. 

Pectoribus  inhi'ans  spirantia  consulit  exta. 

Virg.  Ain.,  iv,  64. 

Anxious  the  reeking  entrails  he  consults. 

Haying  already  given  an  account  of  tlie  dissec¬ 
tion  of  the  beau’s  head,  with  the  several  discove¬ 
ries  made  on  that  occasion;  I  shall  here,  according 
to  my  promise,  enter  upon  the  dissection  of  a  co¬ 
quette’s  heart,  and  communicate  to  the  public  such 
particularities  as  we  observed  in  that  curious  piece 
of  anatomy. 

I  should  perhaps  have  waved  this  undertaking, 
had  I  not  been  put  in  mind  of  my  promise  by  se¬ 
veral  of  my  unknown  correspondents,  who  are 
very  importunate  with  me  to  make  an  example  of 
the  coquette,  as  I  have  already  done  of  the  beau. 
It  is  therefore  in  compliance  with  the  request  of 
my  friends,  that  I  have  looked  over  the  minutes 
of  my  former  dream,  in  order  to  give  the  public 
an  exact  relation  of  it,  which  I  shall  enter  upon 
without  further  preface. 

Our  operator,  before  he  engaged  in  this  vision¬ 
ary  dissection,  told  us,  that  there  was  nothing  in 
his  art  more  difficult  than  to  lay  open  the  heart  of 
a  coquette,  by  reason  of  the  many  labyrinths  and 
recesses  which  are  to  be  found  in  it,  and  which  do 
not  appear  in  the  heart  of  any  other  animal. 

He  desired  us  first  of  all  to  observe  the  pericar¬ 
dium,  or  outward  case  of  the  heart,  which  we  did 
very  attentively;  and  by  the  help  of  our  glasses 
discerned  in  it  millions  of  little  scars,  which  seem 
to  have  been  occasioned  by  the  points  of  innumer¬ 
able  darts  and  arrows,  that  from  time  to  time  had 
glanced  upon  the  outward  coat;  though  we  could 
not  discover  the  smallest  orifice,  by  which  any  of 
them  had  entered  and  pierced  the  inward  sub¬ 
stance. 

Every  smatterer  in  anatomy  knows  that  this  pe¬ 
ricardium,  or  case  of  the  heart,  contains  in  it  a 
thin  reddish  liquor,  supposed  to  be  bred  from  the 
vapors  which  exhale  out  of  the  heart,  and  being 
stopped  here,  are  condensed  into  this  watery  sub¬ 
stance.  Upon  examining  this  liquor,  we  found 
that  it  had  in  it  all  the  qualities  of  that  spirit 
which  is  made  use  of  in  the  thermometer,  to  show 
the  change  of  weather. 

Nor  must  I  here  omit  an  experiment  one  of  the 
company  assured  us  he  himself  had  made  with 
this  liquor,  which  he  found  in  great  quantity 
about  the  heart  of  a  coquette  whom  he  had  for¬ 
merly  dissected.  He  affirmed  to  us,  that  he  had 
actually  inclosed  it  in  a  small  tube  made  after  the 
manner  of  a  weather-glass;  but  that  instead  of  ac¬ 
quainting  him  with  the  variations  of  the  atmos¬ 
phere,  it  showed  him  the  qualities  of  those  persons 
who  entered  the  room  where  it  stood.  He  affirmed 
also,  that  it  rose  at  the  approach  of  a  plume  of 
feathers,  an  embroidered  coat,  or  a  pair  of  fringed 
gloves;  and  that  it  fell  as  soon  as  an  ill-shaped 
periwig,  a  clumsy  pair  of  shoes,  or  an  unfashion¬ 
able  coat  came  into  his  house.  Nay,  he  proceeded 
so  far  as  to  assure  us,  that  upon  his  laughing 
aloud  when  he  stood  by  it,  the  liquor  mounted 
very  sensibly,  and  immediately  sunk  again  upon 
his  looking  serious.  In  short,  lie  told  us,  that  he 
knew  very  well,  by  this  invention,  whenever  he 
had  a  man  of  sense  or  a  coxcomb  in  his  room. 

Having  cleared  away  the  pericardium,  or  the 
case,  and  liquor  above-mentioned,  we  came  to  the 
heart  itself.  The  outward  surface  of  it  was  ex¬ 
tremely  slippery,  and  the  mucro,  or  point,  so  very 
cold  withal,  that  upon  endeavoring  to  take  hold 
of  it,  it  glided  through  the  fingers  like  a  smooth 
piece  of  ice. 

The  fibers  were  turned  and  twisted  in  a  more 
intricate  and  perplexed  manner  than  they  are 


usually  found  in  other  hearts;  insomuch  that  the 
whole  heart  was  wound  up  together  in  a  Gordian 
knot,  and  must  have  had  very  irregular  and  une¬ 
qual  motions,  while  it  was  employed  in  its  vital 
function. 

One  thing  we  thought  very  observable,  namely, 
that  upon  examining  all  the  vessels  which  came 
into  it,  or  issued  out  of  it,  we  could  not  discover 
any  communication  that  it  had  with  the  tongue. 

We  could  not  but  take  notice  likewise,  that  se¬ 
veral  of  those  little  nerves  in  the  heart  which  are 
affected  by  the  sentiments  of  love,  hatred,  and 
other  passions,  did  not  descend  to  this  before  us 
from  the  brain,  but  from  the  muscles  which  lie 
about  the  eye. 

Upon  weighing  the  heart  in  my  hand,  I  found 
it  to  be  extremely  light,  and  consequently  very 
hollow,  which  I  did  not  wonder  at,  when,  upon 
looking  into  the  inside  of  it,  I  saw  multitudes  of 
cells  or  cavities,  running  one  within  another  as 
our  historians  describe  the  apartments  of  Rosa¬ 
mond’s  bower.  Several  of  these  little  hollows 
were  stuffed  with  innumerable  sorts  of  trifles, 
which  I  shall  forbear  giving  any  particular  ac¬ 
count  of,  and  shall  therefore  only  take  notice  of 
what  lay  first  and  uppermost,  which  upon  our  un¬ 
folding  it,  and  applying  our  microscopes  to  it,  ap¬ 
peared  to  be  a  flame-colored  hood. 

We  are  informed  that  the  lady  of  this  heart, 
when  living,  received  the  addresses  of  several  who 
made  love  to  her,  and  did  not  only  give  each  of 
them  encouragement,  but  made  every  one  she 
conversed  with  believe  that  she  regarded  him  with 
an  eye  of  kindness;  for  which  reason  we  expected 
to  have  seen  the  impressions  of  multitudes  of 
faces  among  the  several  plaits  and  foldings  of  the 
heart;  but  to  our  great  surprise  not  a  single  print 
of  this  nature  discovered  itself  until  we  came  into 
the  very  core  and  center  of  it.  We  there  observed 
a  little  figure,  which,  upon  applying  our  glasses 
to  it,  appeared  dressed  in  a  very  fantastic  manner. 
The  more  I  looked  upon  it,  the  more  I  thought  I 
had  seen  the  face  before,  but  could  not  possibly 
recollect  either  the  place  or  time;  when  at  length, 
one  of  the  company,  who  had  examined  this  figure 
more  nicely  than  the  rest,  showed  us  plainly  by 
the  make  of  its  face,  and  the  several  turns  of  its 
features,  that  the  little  idol  which  was  thus  lodged 
in  the  very  middle  of  the  heart  was  the  deceased 
beau,  whose  head  I  gave  some  account  of  in  my 
last  Tuesday’s  paper. 

As  soon  as  we  had  finished  our  dissection,  we 
resolved  to  make  an  experiment  of  the  heart,  not 
being  able  to  determine  among  ourselves  the  na¬ 
ture  of  its  substance,  which  differed  in  so  many 
particulars  from  that  of  the  heart  in  other  females. 
Accordingly  we  laid  it  in  a  pan  of  burning  coals, 
when  we  observed  in  it  a  certain  salamandiine 
quality,  that  made  it  capable  of  living  in  the  midst 
of  fire  and  flame,  without  being  consumed,  or  so 
much  as  singed. 

As  we  were  admiring  this  strange  phenomenon, 
and  standing  round  the  heart  in  a  circle,  it  gave  a 
most  prodigious  sigh,  or  rather  crack,  and  dis¬ 
persed  all  at  once  in  smoke  and  vapor.  This  ima¬ 
ginary  noise,  which,  methought,  was  louder  than 
the  burst  of  a  cannon,  produced  such  a  violent 
shake  in  my  brain,  that  it  dissipated  the  fumes  of 
sleep  and  left  me  in  an  instant  broad  awake. — L. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


347 


No.  282  ]  WEDNESDAY,  JAN.  23,  1711-12. 

- Spcs  incerta  futuri. — Vma.,  iEn.  viii,  580. 

Hopes  and  fears  in  equal  balance  laid. — Dryden. 

It  i^  lamentable  thing  that  every  man  is  full 
of  complaints,  and  constantly  uttering  sentences 
against  the  fickleness  of  fortune,  when  people  ge¬ 
nerally  bring  upon  themselves  all  the  calamities 
they  fall  into,  and  are  constantly  heaping  up  mat¬ 
ter  for  their  own  sorrow  ana  disappointment. 
That  which  produces  the  greatest  part  of  the  de¬ 
lusions  of  mankind,  is  a  false  hope  which  people 
indulge  with  so  sanguine  a  flattery  to  themselves, 
that  their  hearts  are  bent  upon  fantastical  advant¬ 
ages  which  they  have  no  reason  to  believe  should 
ever  have  arrived  to  them.  By  this  unjust  mea¬ 
sure  of  calculating  their  happiness,  they  often 
mourn  with  real  affliction  for  imaginary  losses. 
When  I  am  talking  of  this  unhappy  way  of  ac¬ 
counting  for  ourselves,  I  cannot  but  reflect  upon  a 
particular  set  of  people,  who  in  their  own  favor, 
resolve  everything  that  is  possible  into  what  is 
probable,  and  then  reckon  on  that  probability  as 
on  what  mustcertainly  happen.  Will  Honeycomb, 
upon  my  observing  his  looking  on  a  lady  with 
some  particular  attention,  gave  me  an  account  of 
the  great  distresses  which  had  laid  waste  that 
very  fine  face,  and  had  given  an  air  of  melancholy 
to  a  very  agreeable  person.  That  lady  and  a 
couple  of  sisters  of  hers,  were,  said  Will,  fourteen 
years  ago,  the  greatest  fortunes  about  town;  but 
without  having  any  loss,  by  bad  tenants,  by  bad 
securities,  or  any  damage  by  sea  or  land,  are  re¬ 
duced  to  very  narrow  circumstances.  They  were 
at  that  time  the  most  inaccessible,  haughty  beau¬ 
ties  in  town;  and  their  pretensions  to  take  upon 
them  at  that  unmerciful  rate,  were  raised  upon  the 
following  scheme,  according  to  which  all  their 
lovers  were  answered. 

“  Our  father  is  a  youngish  man,  but  then  our 
mother  is  somewhat  older,  and  not  likely  to  have 
any  children  :  his  estate  being  800Z.  per  annum,  at 
twenty  years’  purchase,  is  worth  16,000/.  Our 
uncle,  who  is  above  fifty,  has  400Z.  per  annum, 
which,  at  the  aforesaid  rate,  is  8,000Z.  There  is  a 
widow  aunt,  who  has  10,000/.  at  her  own  disposal, 
left  by  her  husband,  and  an  old  maiden  aunt  who 
has  6,000Z.  Then  our  father’s  mother  has  900Z. 
per  annum,  which  is  worth  18,000/.  and  1,000Z. 
each  of  us  has  of  our  own,  which  cannot  be  taken 
from  us.  These  summed  up  together  stand  thus: 


Father’s . 

.. .800 . 

.  16,000 

Uncle’s  . 

.. .400 . 

.  8,000 

Aunts’ . 

(10,000) 

)  6,000$  . 

.  16,000 

Grandmother’s  . 

. . .900 . 

.  18,000 

Own  1,000  each. 

Total  . . 

.  3,000 

...61,000 

This,  equally  divided  between  us  three,  amounts 
to  20,000/.  each  :  an  allowance  being  given  for  an 
enlargement  upon  common  fame,  we  may  lawfully 
pass  for  30,000/.  fortunes.” 

In  prospect  of  this,  and  the  knowledge  of  their 
own  personal  merit,  every  one  was  contemptible 
in  their  eyes,  and  they  refused  those  offers  which 
had  been  frequently  made  them.  But  mark  the 
end.  The  mother  dies,  the  father  is  married  again 
and  has  a  son;  on  him  was  entailed  the  father’s, 
uncle’s,  and  grandmother’s  estate.  This  cut  off 
42,000/.  The  maiden  aunt  married  a  tall  Irish¬ 
man,  and  with  her  went  the  6,000/.  The  widow 
died,  and  left  but  enough  to  pay  her  debts  and 
bury  her;  so  that  there  remained  for  these  three 
girls  but  their  own  1,000/.  They  had  by  this  time 


passed  their  prime;  and  got  on  the  wrong  side  of 
thirty;  and  must  pass  the  remainder  of  their  days, 
upbraiding  mankind  that  they  mind  nothing  but 
money,  and  bewailing  that  virtue,  sense,  and  mo¬ 
desty,  are  had  at  present  in  no  manner  of  estima¬ 
tion. 


I  mention  this  case  of  ladies  before  any  other, 
because  it  is  the  most  irreparable;  for  though 
youth  is  the  time  least  capable  of  reflection,  it  is 
in  that  sex  the  only  season  in  which  they  can  ad¬ 
vance  their  fortunes.  But  if  we  turn  our  thoughts 
to  the  men,  we  see  such  crowds  unhappy,  from  no 
other  reason  than  an  ill-grounded  hope,  that  it  is 
hard  to  say  which  they  rather  deserve,  our  pity  or 
contempt.  It  is  not  unpleasant  to  see  a  fellow, 
after  growing  old  in  attendance,  and  after  having 
passed  half  a  life  in  servitude,  call  himself  the 
unhappiest  of  all  men,  and  pretend  to  be  disap¬ 
pointed,  because  a  courtier  broke  his  word.  He 
that  promises  himself  anything  but  what  may  na¬ 
turally  arise  from  his  own  property  or  labor,  and 
goes  beyond  the  desire  of  possessing  above  two 
parts  in  three  even  of  that,  lays  up  for  himself  an 
increasing  heap  of  afflictions  and  disappoint¬ 
ments.  There  are  but  two  means  in  the  world  of 
gaining^  by  other  men,  and  these  are  by  being 
either  agreeable,  or  considerable.  The  generality 
of  mankind  do  all  things  for  their  own  sakes;  and 
when  you  hope  anything  from  persons  above  you, 
if  you  cannot  say,  “I  can  be  thus  agreeable,  or 
thus  serviceable,”  it  is  ridiculous  to  pretend  to  the 
dignity  of  being  unfortunate  when  they  leave  you; 
you  were  injudicious  in  hoping  for  any  other  than 
to  be  neglected  for  such  as  can  come  within  these 
descriptions  of  being  capable  to  please  or  serve 
your  patron,  when  his  humor  or  interests  call  for 
their  capacity  either  way. 

It  would  not,  methinks,  be  a  useless  comparison 
between  the  condition  of  a  man  who  shuns  all  the 
pleasures  of  life,  and  of  one  who  makes  it  his 
business  to  pursue  them.  Hope  in  the  recluse 
makes  his  austerities  comfortable,  while  the  luxu¬ 
rious  man  gains  nothing  but  uneasiness  from  his 
enjoyments.  What  is  the  difference  in  happiness 
of  him  who  is  macerated  by  abstinence,  and  his 
who  is  surfeited  with  excess?  He  who  resigns 
the  world  has  no  temptation  to  envy,  hatred,  ma¬ 
lice,  anger,  but  is  in  constant  possession  of  a  se¬ 
rene  mind;  he  who  follows  the  pleasures  of  it, 
which  are  in  their  very  nature  disappointing,  is 
in  constant  search  of  care,  solicitude,  remorse,  and 
confusion. 


“Mr.  Spectator,  Jan.  the  14th,  1712. 

“  I  am  a  young  woman,  and  have  my  fortune  to 
make,  for  which  reason  I  come  constantly  to 
church  to  hear  divine  service,  and  make  conquests: 
but  one  great  hinderance  to  my  design  is,  that  our 
clerk,  who  was  once  a  gardener,  has  this  Christ¬ 
mas  so  overdecked  the  church  with  greens,  that  he 
has  quite  spoiled  my  prospect;  insomuch  that  I 
have  scarce  seen  the  young  baronet  I  dress  at 
these  three  weeks,  though  we  have  both  been  very 
constant  at  our  devotions,  and  do  not  sit  above 
three  pews  off.  The  church,  as  it  is  now  equipped, 
looks  more  like  a  green-house  than  a  place  of  wor¬ 
ship.  The  middle  aisle  is  a  very  pretty  shady 
walk,  and  the  pews  look  like  so  many  arbors  on 
each  side  of  it.  The  pulpit  itself  has  such  clust¬ 
ers  of  ivy,  holly,  and  rosemary,  about  it,  that  a 
light  fellow  in  our  pew  took  occasion  to  say,  that 
lie  congregation  heard  the  word  out  of  a  bush, 
ike  Moses.  Sir  Anthony  Love’s  pew  in  particu- 
ar  is  so  well  hedged,  that  all  my  batteries  have 
no  effect.  I  am  obliged  to  shoot  at  random  among 
lie  boughs,  without  taking  any  manner  of  aim. 
Mr.  Spectator,  unless  you  will  give  orders  for 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


348 

removing  these  greens,  I  shall  grow  a  very  awkward 
creature  at  church,  and  soon  have  little  else  to  do 
there  but  to  say  my  prayers.  I  am  in  haste,  dear 
Sir,  your  most  obedient  Servant, 

T.  “  Jenny  Simper.” 


No.  283.  ]  THURSDAY,  JAN.  24,  1711-12. 

Magister  artis  ingenique  largitor 

Venter -  Pers,  Prol.,  ver.  10. 

Necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention. 

English  Proverbs. 

Lucian  rallies  the  philosophers  in  his  time,  who 
could  not  agree  whether  they  should  admit  riches 
into  the  number  of  real  goods  ;  the  professors  of 
the  severer  sects  threw  them  quite  out,  while  others 
as  resolutely  inserted  them. 

I  am  apt  to  believe,  that  as  the  world  grew 
more  polite,  the  rigid  doctrines  of  the  first  were 
wholly  discarded ;  and  I  do  not  find  any  one  so 
hardy  at  present  as  to  deny  that  there  are  very 
great  advantages  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  plentiful 
fortune.  Indeed  the  best  and  wisest  ot  men, 
though  they  may  possibly  despise  a  good  part  of 
those  things  which  the  world  calls  pleasures,  can, 
I  think,  hardly  be  insensible  of  that  weight  and 
dignitv  which  a  moderate  share  of  wealth  adds  to 
their  characters,  counsels,  and  actions. 

We  find  it  a  general  complaint  in  professions 
and  trades,  that  the  richest  members  of  them  are 
chiefly  encouraged,  and  this  is  falsely  imputed  to 
the  ill-nature  of  mankind,  who  are  ever  bestowing 
their  favors  on  such  as  least  want  them.  Whereas 
if  we  fairly  consider  their  proceedings  in  this 
case,  we  shall  find  them  founded  on  undoubted 
reason :  since,  supposing  both  equal  in  their 
natural  integrity,  I  ought  in  common  prudence, 
to  fear  foul  play  from  an  indigent  person,  rather 
than  from  one  whose  circumstances  seem  to  have 
placed  him  above  the  bare  temptation  of  money. 

This  reason  also  makes  the  commonwealth  re¬ 
gard  her  richest  subjects,  as  those  who  are  most 
concerned  for  her  quiet  and  interest,  and  conse¬ 
quently  fittest  to  be  intrusted  with  her  highest 
employments.  On  the  contrary,  Catiline’s  saying 
to  those  men  of  desperate  fortunes  who  applied 
themselves  fo  him,  and  of  whom  he  afterward 
composed  his  army,  that  they  had  nothing  to 
hope  for,  but  from  a  civil  war,  was  too  true  not 
to  make  the  impressions  he  desired. 

I  believe  I  need  not  fear  but  that  what  I  have 
said  in  praise  of  money,  will  be  more  than  suf¬ 
ficient  with  most  of  my  readers  to  excuse  the 
subject  of  my  present  paper,  which  I  intend  as  an 
essay  on  the  ways  to  raise  a  man’s  fortune,  or  the 
art  of  growing  rich. 

The  first  and  most  infallible  method  toward  the 
attaining  of  this  end  is  thrift.  All  men  are  not 
equally  qualified  for  getting  money,  but  it  is  in 
the  power  of  every  one  alike  to  practice  this 
virtue,  and  I  believe  there  are  very  few  persons 
who,  if  they  please  to  reflect  on  their  past  lives, 
will  not  find  that  had  they  saved  all  those  little 
sums  which  they  have  spent  unnecessarily,  they 
might  at  present  have  been  masters  of  a  compe¬ 
tent  fortune.  Diligence  justly  claims  the  next 
place  to  thrift ;  I  find  both  these  excellently  well 
recommended  to  common  use  in  the  three  follow¬ 
ing  Italian  proverbs : 

Never  do  that  by  proxy  which  you  can  do  yourself, 

Never  defer  that  till  to-morrow  which  you  can  do  to-day, 

Nev^r  neglect  small  matters  and  expenses. 

A  third  instrument  of  growing  rich  is  method 
in  business,  which,  as  well  as  the  two  former,  is 
also  attainable  by  persons  of  the  meanest  capa¬ 
cities. 


The  famous  De  Witt,  one  of  the  greatest  states¬ 
men  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  being  asked  by 
a  friend  how  he  was  able  to  dispatch  that  multi¬ 
tude  of  affairs  in  which  he  was  engaged  ?  replied, 
that  his  whole  art  consisted  in  doing  one^Qjung  at 
once.  “  If,”  says  he,  “  I  have  any  necessary  dis¬ 
patches  to  make,  I  think  of  nothing  else  until 
those  are  finished:  if  any  domestic  affairs  require 
my  attention,  I  give  myself  up  wholly  to  them 
until  they  are  set  in  order.” 

In  short,  we  often  see  men  of  dull  and  phleg¬ 
matic  tempers  arriving  to  great  estates,  by  mak¬ 
ing  a  regular  and  orderly  disposition  of  their  bu¬ 
siness,  and  that  without  it  the  greatest  parts  and 
most  lively  imaginations  rather  puzzle  their  af¬ 
fairs,  than  bring  them  to  a  happy  issue. 

From  what  has  been  said,  I  think  I  may  lay  it 
down  as  a  maxim,  that  every  man  of  good  com¬ 
mon  sense  may,  if  he  please,  in  his  particular 
station  of  life,  most  certainly  be  rich.  The  reason 
why  we  sometimes  see  that  men  of  the  greatest 
capacities  are  not  so,  is  either  because  they  de¬ 
spise  wealth  in  comparison  of  something  else  j 
or  at  least  are  not  content  to  be  getting  an  estate, 
unless  they  may  do  it  in  their  own  way,  and  at 
the  same  time  enjoy  all  the  pleasures  and  gratifi¬ 
cations  of  life. 

But  beside  these  ordinary  forms  of  growing 
rich,  it  must  be  allowed  that  there  is  room,  for 
genius  as  well  in  this  as  in  all  other  circum- 
stances  of  life. 

Though  the  ways  of  getting  money  were  long 
since  very  numerous,  and  though  so  many  new 
ones  have  been  found  out  of  late  years,  there  is 
certainly  still  remaining  so  large  a  field  for  in¬ 
vention,  that  a  man  of  an  indifferent  head  might 
easily  sit  down  and  draw  up  such  a  plan  for  the 
conduct  and  support  of  his  life,  as  was  never  yet 
once  thought  ot. 

We  daily  see  methods  put  in  practice  by  hungry 
and  ingenious  men,  which  demonstrate  the  power 
of  invention  in  this  particular. 

It  is  reported  of  Scaramouch,  the  first  famous 
Italian  comedian,  that  being  at  Paris  and  in  great 
want,  he  bethought  himself  of  constantly  plying 
near  the  door  of  a  noted  perfumer  in  that  city, 
and  when  anyone  came  out  who  had  been  buying 
snuff,  never  failed  to  desire  a  taste  of  them :  when 
he  had  by  this  means  got  together  a  quantity 
made  up  of  several  different  sorts,  he  sold  it 
ao-ain  at  a  lower  rate  to  the  same  perfumer,  who, 
finding  out  the  trick,  called  it  “  Tabac  de  mille 
dears”  or,  “  Snuff  of  a  thousand  flowers.”  The 
story  further  tells  us,  that  by  this  means  he  got  a 
very  comfortable  subsistence,  until  making  too 
much  haste  to  grow  rich,  he  one  day  took  such  an 
unreasonable  pinch  out  of  the  box  of  a  Swiss  offi¬ 
cer,  as  engaged  him  in  a  quarrel,  and  obliged  him 
to  quit  this  ingenious  way  of  life. 

Nor  can  I  in  this  place  omit  doing  justice  to  a 
youth  of  my  own  country,  who  though  he  is  scarce 
yet  twelve  years  old,  has  with  great  industry  and 
application  attained  to  the  art  of  beating  the  gre¬ 
nadier’s  march  on  his  chin.  I  am  credibly  in¬ 
formed  that  by  this  means  he  does  not  only  main¬ 
tain  himself  and  his  mother,  but  that  he  is  laying 
up  money  every  day,  with  a  design,  if  the  war 
continues,  to  purchase  a  drum  at  least,  if  not  a 
pair  of  colors. 

I  shall  conclude  these  instances  with  the  device  of 
the  famous  Rabelais,  when  he  was  at  a  great  dis¬ 
tance  from  Paris,  and  without  money  to  bear  his  ex¬ 
penses  thither.  The  ingenious  author  being  thus 
sharp-set,  got  together  a  convenient  quantity  of 
brick-dust,  and  having  disposed  of  it  into  several 
papers,  wrote  upon  one,  “Poison  for  monsieur  ; 
upon  a  second,  “  Poison  for  the  dauphin,  and  on 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


a  third,  “  Poison  for  the  king/’  Having  made  this 
provision  for  the  royal  family  of  France,  he  laid 
his  papers  Bo  that  his  landlord,  who  was  an  in¬ 
quisitive  man,  and  a  good  subject,  might  get  a 
sight  of  them. 

The  plot  succeeded  as  he  desired.  The  host 
gave  immediate  intelligence  to  the  secretary  of 
state.  The  secretary  presently  sent  down  a  spe¬ 
cial  messenger,  who  brought  up  the  traitor  to 
court  and  provided  him  at  the  king’s  expense 
with  proper  accommodations  on  the  road.  As 
soon  as  he  appeared,  he  was  known  to  be  the 
celebrated  Rabelais,  and  his  powder  upon  exami¬ 
nation  being  found  very  innocent,  the  jest  was 
only  laughed  at;  for  which  a  less  eminent  droll 
would  have  been  sent  to  the  galleys. 

Trade  and  commerce  might  doubtless  be  still 
varied  a  thousand  ways,  out  of  which  would  arise 
such  branches  as  have  not  yet  been  touched. 
1  he  famous  Doily  is  still  fresh  in  every  one’s 
memory,  who  raised  a  fortune  by  finding  out  ma¬ 
terials  for  such  stuffs  as  might  at  once  be  cheap 
and  genteel.  I  have  heard  it  affirmed,  that  had 
not  he  discovered  this  frugal  method  of  gratifying 
our  pride,  we  should  hardly  have  been  able  to 
carry  on  the  last  war. 

I  regard  trade  not  only  as  highly  advantageous 
to  the  commonwealth  in  general,  but  as  the  most 
natural  and  likely  method  of  making  a  man’s  for¬ 
tune  :  having  observed,  since  my  being  a  Specta¬ 
tor  in  the  world,  greater  estates  got  about  ’Change, 
than  at  Whitehall  or  St.  James’s.  I  believe  I 
may  also  add,  that  the  first  acquisitions  are  gene¬ 
rally  attended  with  more  satisfaction,  and  as  good 
a  conscience. 

I  must  not,  however,  close  this  essay  without 
observing,  that  what  has  been  said  is  only  in¬ 
tended  for  persons  in  the  common  ways  of  thriv¬ 
ing,  and  is  not  designed  for  those  men  who  from 
low  beginnings  push  themselves  up  to  the  top  of 
states,  and  the  most  considerable  figures  in  life. 
My  maxim  of  saving  is  not  designed  for  such  as 
these,  since  nothing  is  more  usual  than  for  thrift 
to  disappoint  the  ends  of  ambition;  it  being  al¬ 
most  impossible  that  the  mind  should  be  intent 
upon  trifles,  while  it  is  at  the  same  time  forming 
some  great  design. 

I  may  therefore  compare  these  men  to  a  great 
poet,  who,  as  Longinus  says,  while  he  is  full  of 
the  most  magnificent  ideas,  is  not  always  at  lei¬ 
sure  to  mind  the  little  beauties  and  niceties  of 
his  art. 

I  would,  however,  have  all  my  readers  take 
great  care  how  they  mistake  themselves  for  un¬ 
common  geniuses,  and  men  above  rule,  since  it  is 
very  easy  for  them  to  be  deceived  in  this  parti 
cular. — X. 


No.  284.]  FRIDAY,  JANUARY  25,  1711-12. 

Posthabui  tamen  illorum  mea  seria  ludo.* 

Virg.,  Eel.  vii,  17. 

Their  mirth  to  share,  I  bid  my  business  wait. 

Ax  unaffected  behavior  is  without  question  a 
very  great  charm ;  but  under  the  notion  of  being 
unconstrained  and  disengaged,  people  take  upon 
them  to  be  itnconcerned  in  any  duty  of  life.  A 
general  negligence  is  what  they  assume  upon  all 
occasions,  and  set  up  for  an  aversion  to  all  man¬ 
ner  of  business  and  attention.  “  I  am  the  care- 
lessest  creature  in  the  world,  I  have  certainly  the 
worst  memory  of  any  man  living,”  are  frequent 
expressions  in  the  mouth  of  a  pretender  of  this 
sort.  It  is  a  professed  maxim  with  these  people 

*  The  motto  of  the  original  paper  in  folio  was  what  is  now 
the  motto  of  No.  54.  “  Strenua  nos  exercet  inertia.” — Hor. 


349 

never  to  think;  there  is  something  so  solemn  in 
reflection,  they,  forsooth,  can  never  give  them¬ 
selves  time  for  such  a  way  of  employing  them¬ 
selves.  It  happens  often  that  this  sort  of  man  is 
heavy  enough  in  his  nature  to  be  a  good  proficient 
in  such  matters  as  are  attainable  by  industry ;  but, 
alas  !  he  has  such  an  ardent  desire  to  be  what  he 
is  not,  to  be  too  volatile,  to  have  the  faults  of  a 
person  of  spirit,  that  he  professes  himself  the 
most  unfit  man  living  for  any  manner  of  applica¬ 
tion.  When  this  humor  enters  into  the  head  of  a 
female,  she  generally  professes  sickness  upon 
all  occasions,  and  acts  all  things  with  an  indis¬ 
posed  air.  She  is  offended,  but  her  mind  is  too 
lazy  to  raise  her  to  anger,  therefore  she  lives  only  as 
actuated  by  a  violent  spleen,  and  gentle  scorn. 
She  has  hardly  curiosity  to  listen  to  scandal  of 
her  acquaintance,  and  has  never  attention  enough 
to  hear  them  commended.  This  affectation  In 
both  sexes  makes  them  vain  of  being  useless,  and 
take  a  certain  pride  in  their  insignificancy. 

Opposite  to  this  folly  is  another  no  less  unrea¬ 
sonable,  and  that  is,  the  “  impertinence  of  being 
always  in  a  hurry.”  There  are  those  who  visit 
ladies, -and  beg  pardon,  before  they  are  well  seated 
in  their  chairs,  that  they  just  called  in,  but  are 
obliged  to  attend  business  of  importance  else¬ 
where  the  very  next  moment.  Thus  they  run 
from  place  to  place,  professing  that  they  are 
obliged  to  be  still  in  another  company  than  that 
which  they  are  in.  These  persons  who  are  just 
a-going  somewhere  else  should  never  be  detained; 
let  all  the  world  allow  that  business  is  to  be 
minded,  and  their  affairs  will  be  at  an  end.  Their 
vanity  is  to  be  importuned,  and  compliance  with 
their  multiplicity  of  affairs  will  effectually  dis¬ 
patch  them.  The  traveling  ladies,  who  have  half 
the  town  to  see  in'  an  afternoon,  may  be  pardoned 
for  being  in  a  constant  hurry;  but  it  is  inexcusa¬ 
ble  in  men  to  come  where  they  have  no  business, 
to  profess  they  absent  themselves  where  they 
have.  It  has  been  remarked  by  some  nice  observ¬ 
ers  and  critics,  that  there  is  nothing  discovers  the 
true  temper  of  a  person  so  much  as  his  letters.  I 
have  by  me  two  epistles,  which  are  written  by  two 
people  of  the  different  humors  above-mentioned. 
It  is  wonderful  that  a  man  cannot  observe  upon 
himself  when  he  sits  down  to  write,  but  that  he 
will  gravely,  commit  himself  to  paper  the  same 
man  that  he  is  in  the  freedom  of  conversation.  I 
have  hardly  seen  a  line  from  any  of  these  gentle¬ 
men,  but  spoke  them  as  absent  from  what  they 
were  doing,  as  they  profess  they  are  when  they 
come  into  company.  For  the  folly  is,  that  they 
have  persuaded  themselves  they  really  are  busy. 
Thus  their  whole  time  is  spent  in  suspense  of  the 
present  moment  to  the  next,  and  then  from  the 
next  to  the  succeeding,  which,  to  the  end  of  life  is 
to  pass  away  with  pretense  to  many  things,  and 
execution  of  nothing. 

“  Sir, 

“  The  post  is  just  going  out,  and  I  have  many 
other  letters  of  very  great  importance  to  write  this 
evening,  but  I  could  not  omit  making  my  compli¬ 
ments  to  you  for  your  civilities  to  me  when  I  was 
last  in  town.  It  is  my  misfortune  to  be  so  full 
of  business,  that  I  cannot  tell  you  a  thousand 
things  I  have  to  say  to  you.  I  must  desire  you 
to  communicate  the  contents  of  this  to  no  one 
living:  but  believe  me  to  be,  with  the  greatest 
fidelity, 

“  Sir,  your  most  obedient,  humble  Servant, 

“  Stephen  Courier.’ 

“  Madam, 

“I  hate  writing,  of  all  things  in  the  world;  how- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


350 

ever,  though  I  have  drank  the  waters,  and  am 
told  I  ought  not  to  use  my  eyes  so  much,  I  cannot 
forbear  writing  to  you,  to  tell  you  I  have  been  to 
the  last  degree  hipped  since  I  saw  you.  How 
could  you  entertain  such  a  thought,  as  that  I 
could  hear  of  that  silly  fellow  with  patience? 
Take  my  word  for  it,  there  is  nothing  in  it;  and 
you  may  believe  it  when  so  lazy  a  creature  as  I 
am  undergo  the  pains  to  assure  you  of  it,  by 
taking  pen,  ink,  and  paper  in  my  hand.  Forgive 
this ;  vou  know  I  shall  not  often  offend  in  this 
kind. 

“I  am  very  much  your  Servant, 

“  Bridget  Eitherdown.” 

“  The  fellow  is  of  your  country,  prithee  send 
me  word,  however,  whether  he  has  so  great  an 
estate.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator,  Jan.  24,  1712. 

“I  am  clerk  of  the  parish  from  whence  Mrs. 
Simper  sends  her  complaint,  in  your  Spectator  of' 
Wednesday  last.  I  must  beg  of  you  to  publish 
this  as  a  public  admonition  to  the  aforesaid  Mrs. 
Simper,  otherwise  all  my  honest  care  in  the  dis¬ 
position  of  the  greens  in  the  church  will  have  no 
effect;  I  shall  therefore,  with  your  leave,  lay  be¬ 
fore  you  the  whole  matter.  I  was  formerly,  as 
she  charges  me,  for  several  years  a  gardener  in  the 
county  of  Kent:  but  I  most  absolutely  deny  that  it 
was  out  of  any  affection  I  retain  for  my  old  em¬ 
ployment  that  I  have  placed  my  greens  so  liberally 
about  the  church,  but  out  of  a  particular  spleen  I 
conceived  against  Mrs.  Simper  (and  others  of  the 
same  sisterhood)  some  time  ago.  As  to  herself,  I 
had  one  day  set  the  hundredth  Psalm,  and  was 
singing  the  first  line  in  order  to  put  the  congrega¬ 
tion  into  the  tune;  she  was  all  the  while  courtseying 
to  Sir  Anthony,  in  so  affected  and  indecent  a  man- 
/  ner,  that  the  indignation  I  conceived  at  it  made  me 
forget  myself  so  far,  as  from  the  tune  of  that  psalm 
to  wander  into  Southwell  tune,  and  from  thence  into 
Windsor  tune,  still  unable  to  recover  myself,  until 
I  had  with  the  utmost  confusion  set  a  new  one. 
Nay,  I  have  often  seen  her  rise  up  and  smile,  and 
courtsey  to  one  at  the  lower  end  of  the  church  in 
the  midst  of  a  Gloria  Patri ;  and  when  I  have 
spoken  the  assent  to  a  prayer  with  a  long  Amen, 
uttered  with  decent  gravity,  she  has  been  rolling 
her  eyes  round  about  in  such  a  manner,  as  plainly 
showed,  however  she  was  moved,  it  was  not  to¬ 
ward  a  heavenly  object.  In  fine,  she  extended  her 
conquests  so  far  over  the  males,  and  raised  such 
envy  in  the  females,  that  what  between  the  love 
of  those,  and  the  jealousy  of  these,  I  was  almost 
the  only  person  that  looked  in  a  prayer-book  all 
church-time.  I  had  several  projects  in  my  head 
to  put  a  stop  to  this  growing  mischief ;  but  as  I 
have  long  lived  in  Kent,  and  there  often  heard  how 
the  Kentish  men  evaded  the  Conqueror,  by  carry¬ 
ing  green  boughs  over  their  heads,  it  put  roe  in 
mind  of  practicing  this  device  against  Mrs.  Simper. 
I  find  I  have  preserved  many  a  young  man  from 
her  eye-shot  by  this  means:  therefore  humbly  pray 
the  boughs  may  be  fixed,  until  she  shall  give  se¬ 
curity  for  her  peaceable  intentions. 

“Your  humble  Servant, 

T.  “  Francis  Sternhold.” 


No.  235.]  SATURDAY,  JANUARY  26,  1711-12. 

Ne,  quicunque  Deus,  quicunque  adhibebitur  heros, 

Regal i  conspectus  in  auro  nuper  et  ostro, 

Migret  in  obscuras  humili  sermone  tabernas ; 

Aut,  dum  vitat  humum,  nubes  et  inania  captet. 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  Ter.  227. 

But  then  they  did  not  wrong  themselves  so  much, 

To  make  a  god,  a  hero,  or  a  king, 

(Stript  of  his  golden  crown,  and  purple  robe) 

Descend  to  a  mechanic  dialect ; 

Nor  (to  avoid  such  meanness)  soaring  high, 

With  empty  sound,  and  airy  notions  fly. — Roscommon. 

Having  already  treated  of  the  fable,  the  charac¬ 
ters,  and  sentiments  in  Paradise  Lost,  we  are  in 
the  last  place,  to  consider  the  language ;  and  as 
the  learned  world  is  very  much  divided  upon 
Milton  as  to  this  point,  I  hope  they  will  excuse 
me  if  I  appear  particular  in  any  of  my  opinions, 
and  incline  to  those  who  judge  most  advanta¬ 
geously  of  the  author. 

It  is  requisite  that  the  language  of  a  heroic 
poem  should  be  both  perspicuous  and  sublime. 
In  proportion  as  either  of  these  two  qualities  are 
wanting,  the  language  is  imperfect.  Perspicuity 
is  the  first  and  most  necessary  qualification;  inso¬ 
much  that  a  good-natured  reader  sometimes  over¬ 
looks  a  little  slip  even  in  the  grammar  or  syntax, 
where  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  mistake  the 
poet’s  sense.  Of  this  kind  is  that  passage  in 
Milton,  wherein  he  speaks  of  Satan: 

- God  and  his  Son  except, 

Created  thing  naught  valu’d  he  nor  shunn’d : 

and  that  in  which  he  describes  Adam  and  Eve: 

Adam  the  goodliest  man  of  men  since  bom 
His  sons,  the  fairest  of  her  daughters  Eve. 

It  is  plain,  that  in  the  former  of  these  passages, 
according  to  the  natural  syntax,  the  Divine  Per¬ 
sons  mentioned  in  the  first  line  are  represented  as 
created  beings;  and  that,  in  the  other,  Adam  and 
Eve  are  confounded  with  their  sons  and  daughters. 
Such  little  blemishes  as  these,  when  the  thought 
is  great  and  natural,  we  should,  with  Horace,  im¬ 
pute  to  a  pardonable  inadvertency,  or  to  the  weak¬ 
ness  of  human  nature,  which  cannot  attend  to 
each  minute  particular,  and  give  the  last  finishing 
to  every  circumstance  in  so  long  a  work.  The 
ancient  critics,  therefore,  who  were  actuated  by  a 
spirit  of  candor,  rather  than  that  of  caviling,  in¬ 
vented  certain  figures  of  speech,  on  purpose  to 
palliate  little  errors  of  this  nature  in  the  writings 
of  those  authors  who  had  so  many  greater  beauties 
to  atone  for  them. 

If  clearness  and  perspicuity  were  only  to  be 
consulted,  the  poet  would  have  nothing  else  to  do 
but  to  clothe  his  thoughts  in  the  most  plain  and 
natural  expressions.  But  sinoe  it  often  happens 
that  the  most  obvious  phrases,  and  those  which 
are  used  in  ordinary  conversation,  become  too 
familiar  to  the  ear,  and  contract  a  kind  of  mean¬ 
ness  by  passing  through  the  mouths  of  the  vulgar; 
a  poet  should  take  particular  care  to  guard  him¬ 
self  against  idiomatic  ways  of  speaking.  Ovid 
and  Lucan  have  many  poornesses  of  expression 
upon  this  account,  as  taking  up  with  the  first 
phrases  that  offered,  without  putting  themselves 
to  the  trouble  of  looking  after  such  as  would  not 
only  have  been  natural,  but  also  elevated  and 
sublime.  Milton  has  but  few  failings  in  this  kind, 
of  which,  however,  you  may  meet  with  some  in¬ 
stances,  as  in  the  following  passages: 

Embryos  and  idiots,  eremites  and  friars, 

White,  black,  and  gray,  with  all  their  trumpery 

Here  pilgrims  roam - 

- A  while  discourse  they  hold, 

No  fear  lest  dinner  cool;  when  thus  began 

Our  author - 

Who  of  all  ages  to  succeed,  but  feeling 
The  evil  on  him  brought  by  me,  will  curse 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


My  head, — ill  fare  our  ancestor  impure, 
For  this  we  may  thank  Adam. 


great  masters  in  composition  know  very 
well  that  many  an  elegant  phrase  becomes  im¬ 
proper  for  a  poet  or  an  orator,  when  it  has  been 
debased  by  common  use.  For  this  reason  the 
woiks  of  ancient  authors,  which  are  written  in 
dead  languages,  have  a  great  advantage  over  those 
which  are  written  in  languages  that  are  now 
spoken.  Were  there  any  mean  phrases  or  idioms 
in  V  lrgil  or  Homer,  they  would  not  shock  the  ear 
ot  the  most  delicate  modern  reader,  so  much  as  ! 
they  would  have  done  that  of  an  old  Greek  or ! 
Roman,  because  we  never  hear  them  pronounced 
in  our  streets,  or  in  ordinary  conversation. 

It  is  not  therefore  sufficient,  that  the  language 
of  an  epic  poem  be  perspicuous,  unless  it  be  also 
sublime.  To  this  end  it  ought  to  deviate  from 
tne  common  forms  and  ordinary  phrases  of  speech. 
The  judgment  of  a  poet  very  much  discovers  itself 
m,  shunning  the  common  roads  of  expression, 
without  falling  into  such  ways  of  speech  as  may 
seem  stiff  and  unnatural:  he  must  not  swell  into  a  j 
false  sublime,  by  endeavoring  to  avoid  the  other 
extreme.  Among  the  Greeks,  HSschylus,  and 
sometimes  Sophocles,  were  guilty  of  this  fault;' 
among  the  Latins,  Claudian  and  Statius  ;  and 
among  our  own  countrymen,  Shakspeare  and  Lee. 
In  these  authors  the  affectation  of  greatness  often 
hurts  the  perspicuity  of  .the  style,  as  in  many 
others  the  endeavor  after  perspicuity  prejudices 
its  greatness.  r  J 

Aristotle  has  observed,  that  the  idiomatic  stvle 
may  be  avoided,  and  the  sublime  formed,  by  the 
following  methods.  First,  by  the  use  of  meta¬ 
phors:  such  are  those  of  Milton: 

Imparadis  d  in  one  another’s  arms. 

■ - And  in  his  hand  a  reed 

Stood  waving  tipp’d  with  fire. - . 

The  grassy  clods  now  calv’d - .. .  . 

Spangled  with  eyes - ., 

In  these  and  innumerable  other  instances,  the 
metaphors  are  very  bold  but  just:  I  must  however 
observe,  that  if  the  metaphors  are  not  so  thick 
sown  in  Milton,  which  always  savors  too  much 
of  wit,  that  they  never  clash  with  one  another 
which,  as  Aristotle  observes,  turns  a  sentence  into 
a  kind  of  enigma  or  riddle;  and  that  he  seldom 
has  recourse  to  them  where  the  proper  and  natural 
words  will  do  as  well.  * 

Another  way  of  raising  the  language,  and 
giving  it  a  poetical  turn,  is  to  make  use  of  the 
idioms  of  other  tongues.  Virgil  is  full  of  the 
Greek  forms  of  speech,  which  the  critics  call 
Hellenisms,  as  Horace  in  his  odes  abounds  with 
them  much  more  than  Virgil.  I  need  not  mention 
the  several  dialects  which  Homer  has  made  use  of 
for  this  end.  Milton,  in  conformity  with  the 
practice  of  the  ancient  poets,  and  with  Aristotle’s 
luie,  has  infused  a  great  many  Latinisms,  as  well 
as  Giaecisms,  and  sometimes  Hebraisms,  into  the 
language  of  his  poem;  as  toward  the  beginning 
of  it:  ®  h 

Nor  did  they  not  perceive  the  evil  plight 
In  which  they  were,  or  the  fierce  pains  not  feel. 

1  et  to  their  general’s  voice  they  soon  obey’d _ 

— -  —Who  shall  tempt  with  wandering  feet 
The  dark  unbottom’d  infinite  abyss, 

And  through  the  palpable  obscure  find  out 
His  uncouth  way,  or  spread  his  airy  flight 
Upborne  with  indefatigable  wings 
Over  the  vast  abrupt  ? 

- So  both  ascend 

In  the  visions  of  God. - Book  n. 

Under  this  head  may  be  reckoned  the  placing  the 
adjective  after  the  substantive,  the  transposition 
ot  words,  the  turning  the  adjective  into  a  sub- 
stantive,  with  several  other  foreign  modes  of 


351 

I  speech  which  this  poet  has  naturalized  to  give 
his  verse  the  greater  sound,  and  throw  it  out  of 
prose. 

The  third  method  mentioned  by  Aristotle,  is 
what  agrees  with  the  genius  of  the  Greek  lan¬ 
guage  more  than  with  that  of  any  other  tongue, 
and  is  therefore  more  used  by  Homer  than  by  any 
ot  ler  poet.  I  mean  the  lengthening  of  a  phrase 
by  the  addition  of  words,  which  may  either  be 
inserted  or  omitted,  as  also  by  the  extending  or 
contracting  of  particular  words  by  the  insertion 
or  omission  of  certain  syllables.  Milton  has  put 
m  practice  this  method  of  raising  his  language, 
as  far  as  the  nature  of  our  tongue  will  permit,  as 
m  the  passage  above-mentioned,  eremite,  for  what 
is  hermit  in  common  discourse.  If  you  observe 
the  measure  of  his  verse,  he  has  with  great  judg¬ 
ment  suppressed  a  syllable  in  several  words  and 
shortened  those  of  two  syllables  into  one’-  by 
which  method,  beside  the  above-mentioned  ad¬ 
vantage,  he  has  given  a  greater  variety  to  his 
numbers.  But  this  practice  is  more  particularly 
remarkable  in  the  names  of  persons  and  of 
Countries,  as  Beelzebub,  Hessebon,  and  in  many 
other  particulars,  wherein  he  has  either  changed 
the  name,  or  made  use  of  that  which  is  not  the 
most  commonly  known,  that  he  might  the  better 
deviate  from  the  language  of  the  vulgar. 

1  he  same  reason  recommended  to°  him  several 
old  words;  which  also  makes  his  poem  appear  the 
more  venerable,  and  gives  it  a  greater  air  of  anti¬ 
quity. 

.  must  likewise  take  notice,  that  there  are  in 
Milton  se\  eral  words  of  liis  own  coining  as  “ccr- 
berean,  miscreated,  hell-doomed,  embryoA  atoms  ” 
and  many  others.  If  the  reader  is  offended  At 
this  liberty  in  our  English  poet,  I  would  recom¬ 
mend  to  him  a  discourse  in  Plutarch,  which  shows 
us  how  frequently  Homer  has  made  use  of  the 
same  liberty. 

Milton,  by  the  above-mentioned  helps,  and  by 
the  choice  of  the  noblest  words  and  phrases  which 
our  tongue  would  afford  him,  has  carried  our  lan¬ 
guage  to  a  greater  height  than  any  of  the  Eno-lish 
poets  have  ever  done  before  or  after  him,°and 
made  the  sublimity  of  his  style  equal  to  that  of 
his  sentiments. 

I  have  been  the  more  particular  in  these  obser- 
vations  on  Milton’s  style,  because  it  is  in  that  part 
of  hun  m  which  he  appears  the  most  singular. 
The  remarks  I  have  here  made  upon  the  practice 
ot  other  poets,  with  my  observations  out  of  Aris¬ 
totle,  will  perhaps  alleviate  the  prejudice  which 
some  have  taken  to  his  poem  upon  this  account; 
though  after  all  I  must  confess  that  I  think  hi s 
style,  though  admirable  in  general,  is  in  some 
places  too  much  stiffened  and  obscured  by  the 
frequent  use  of  those  methods  which  Aristotle  has 
prescribed  for  the  raising  of  it. 

1  his  ledundancy  of  those  several  wavs  of  speech 
which  Aristotle  calls  “foreign  language  ”  and 
with  which  Milton  has  so  very  much  enriched, 
and  in  some  places  darkened,  the  language  of  his 
poem,  was  the  more  proper  for  his  use,  because 
his  poem  is  written  in  blank  verse.  Rhvme 
without  any  other  assistance,  throws  the  langua^A 
off  from  prose,  and  very  often  makes  an  indiffer¬ 
ent.  phrase  pass  unregarded;  but  where  the  verse 
is  not  built  upon  rhymes,  there  pomp  of  sound 
and  energy  of  expression  are  indispensably  neces- 
sary  tn  support  the  style,  and  keep  it  from  falling 
into  the  flatness  of  prose. 

Those  who  have  not  a  taste  for  this  elevation  of 
style,  and  are  apt  to  ridicule  a  poet  when  he  de¬ 
parts  from  the  common  forms  of  expression,  would 
do  well  to  see  how  Aristotle  has  treated  an  an¬ 
cient  author  called  Euclid,  fo”  his  insipid  mirth 


352 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


upon  this  occasion.  Mr.  Dryden  used  to  call 
these  sort  of  men  his  prose-critics. 

I  should,  under  this  head  of  the  language,  con¬ 
sider  Milton’s  numbers,  in  which  he  has  made 
use  of  several  elisions,  which  are  not  customary 
among  other  English  poets,  as  may  be  particularly 
observed  in  his  cutting  off  the  letter  Y,  when  it 
precedes  a  vowel.  This,  and  some  other  innova¬ 
tions  in  the  measure  of  his  verse,  has  varied  his 
numbers  in  such  a  manner,  as  makes  them  inca¬ 
pable  of  satiating  the  ear,  and  cloying  the  reader, 
which  the  same  uniform  measure  would  certainly 
have  done,  and  which  the  perpetual  returns  of 
rhyme  never  fail  to  do  in  long  narrative  poems.  I 
shall  close  these  reflections  upon  the  language  of 
Paradise  Lost  with  observing,  that  Milton  has 
copied  after  Homer  rather  than  Virgil  in  the  length 
of  his  periods,  the  copiousness  of  his  phrases, 
and  the  running  of  his  verses  into  one  another. 

L. 


Ho.  286.]  MONDAY,  JANUARY  28,  1711-12. 

Nomina  honesta  praetenduntur  vitiis. 

Tacit.  Ann.,  1.  xiv,  c.  21. 

Specious  names  are  lent  to  cover  vices. 

“  York,  Jan.  18,  1711-12. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  pretend  not  to  inform  a  gentleman  of  so 
much  taste,  whenever  he  pleases  to  use  it;  but  it 
may  not  be  amiss  to  inform  your  readers,  that  there 
is  a  false  delicacy,  as  well  as  a  true  one.  True 
delicacy,  as  I  take  it,  consists  in  exactness  of 
judgment  and  dignity  of  sentiment,  or,  if  you 
will,  purity  of  affection,  as  this  is  opposed  to  cor¬ 
ruption  and  grossness.  There  are  pedants  in 
breeding,  as  well  as  in  learning.  The  eye  that 
cannot  bear  the  light  is  not  delicate,  but  sore.  A 
good  constitution  appears  in  the  soundness  and 
vigor  of  the  parts,  not  in  the  squeamishness  of 
the  stomach;  and  a  false  delicacy  is  affectation, 
not  politeness.  What  then  can  be  the  standard 
of  delicacy,  but  truth  and  virtue  ?  Virtue,  which 
as  the  satirist  long  since  observed,  is  real  honor : 
whereas  the  other  distinctions  among  mankind  are 
merely  titular.  Judging  by  that  rule,  in  my  opin¬ 
ion,  and  in  that  of  many  of  your  virtuous  female 
readers,  you  are  so  far  from  deserving  Mr.  Court¬ 
ly’s  accusation,  that  you  seem  too  gentle,  and  to 
allow  too  many  excuses  for  an  enormous  crime, 
which  is  the  reproach  of  the  age,  and  is  in  all  its 
branches  and  degrees  expressly  forbidden  by  that 
religion  we  pretend  to  profess :  and  whose  laws, 
in  a  nation  that  calls  itself  Christian,  one  would 
think  should  take  place  of  those  rules  which  men 
of  corrupt  minds,  and  those  of  weak  understand¬ 
ings,  follow.  I  know  not  anything  more  perni¬ 
cious  to  good  manners,  than  the  giving  fair  names 
to  foul  actions :  for  this  confounds  vice  and  vir¬ 
tue,  and  takes  off  that  natural  horror  we  have  to 
evil.  An  innocent  creature,  who  would  start  at 
the  name  of  strumpet,  may  think  it  pretty  to  be 
called  a  mistress,  especially  if  her  seducer  has 
tkken  care  to  inform  her,  that  a  union  of  hearts  is 
the  principal  matter  in  the  sight  of  heaven,  and 
that  the  business  at  church  is  a  mere  idle  ceremo¬ 
ny.  Who  knows  not  that  the  difference  between 
obscene  and  modest  words  expressing  the  same 
action,  consists  only  in  the  accessory  idea,  for 
there  is  nothing  immodest  in  letters  and  syllables. 
Fornication  and  adultery  are  modest  words;  be¬ 
cause  they  express  an  evil  action  as  criminal,  and 
so  as  to  excite  horror  and  aversion;  whereas  words 
representing  the  pleasure  rather  than  the  sin,  are, 
for  this  reason,  indecent  and  dishonest.  Your 
papers  would  be  chargeable  with  something  worse 


than  indelicacy,  they  would  be  immoral,  did  you 
treat  the  detestable  sins  of  uncleanness  in  the 
same  manner  as  you  rally  an  impertinent  self-love 
and  an  artful  glance;  as  those  laws  would  be  very 
unjust  that  should  chastise  murder  and  petty  lar¬ 
ceny  with  the  same  punishment.  Even  delicacy 
requires  that  the  pity  shown  to  distressed  indigent 
wickedness,  first  betrayed  into,  and  then  expelled 
the  harbors  of  the  brothel,  should  be  changed  to 
detestation,  when  we  consider  pampered  vice  in 
the  habitations  of  the  wealthy.  The  most  free 
person  of  quality,  in  Mr.  Courtly’s  phrase,  that 
is,  to  speak  properly,  a  woman  of  figure  who  has 
forgot  her  birth  and  breeding,  dishonored  her  re¬ 
lations  and  herself,  abandoned  her  virtue  and  re¬ 
putation,  together  with  the  natural  modesty  of  her 
sex,  and  risked  her  very  soul,  is  so  far  from  de¬ 
serving  to  be  treated  with  no  worse  character  than 
that  of  a  kind  woman,  which  is,  doubtless,  Mr. 
Courtly’s  meaning  (if  he  has  any),  that  one  can 
scarce  "  be  too  severe  on  her,  inasmuch  a$  she 
sins  against  greater  restraints,  is  less  exposed, 
and  liable  to  fewer  temptations;  than  beauty  in 
poverty  and  distress.  It  is  hoped,  therefore,  Sir, 
that  you  will  not  lay  aside  your  generous  design 
of  exposing  that  monstrous  wickedness  of  the 
town,  wTiereby  a  multitude  of  innocents  are  sacri¬ 
ficed  in  a  more  barbarous  manner  than  those  who 
were  offered  to  Moloch.  The  unchaste  are  pro¬ 
voked  to  see  their  vice  exposed,  and  the  chaste 
cannot  rake  into  such  filth  without  danger  of  de¬ 
filement,  but  a  mere  spectator  may  look  into  the 
bottom,  and  come  off  without  partaking  in  the 
guilt.  The  doing  so  will  convince  us  you  pursue 
public  good,  and  not  merely  your  own  advantage; 
but  if  your  zeal  slackens,  how  can  one  help  think¬ 
ing  that  Mr.  Courtly’s  letter  is  but  a  feint  to  get 
off  from  a  subject,  in  which  either  your  own,  or 
the  private  and  base  ends  of  others  to  whom  you 
are  partial,  or  those  of  whom  you  are  afraid, 
would  not  endure  a  reformation  ? 

“  I  am.  Sir, 

“  Your  humble  Servant  and  Admirer,  so  long 
as  you  tread  in  the  paths  of  truth,  virtue, 
ana  honor.” 

“  Trin.  Coll.  Cantab.  Jan.  12,  1711-12. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  It  is  my  fortune  to  have  a  chamber-fellow, 
with  whom,  though  I  agree  very  well  in  many 
sentiments,  yet  there  is  one  in  which  we  are  as 
contrary  as  light  and  darkness.  We  are  both  in 
love.  His  mistress  is  a  lovely  fair,  and  mine  a 
lovely  brown.  Now,  as  the  praise  of  our  mistresses’ 
beauty  employs  much  of  our  time,  we  have 
frequent  quarrels  in  entering  upon  that  subject, 
while  each  says  all  he  can  to  defend  his  choice. 
For  my  own  part,  I  have  racked  my  fancy  to  the 
utmost;  and  sometimes  with  the  greatest  warmth 
of  imagination  have  told  him,  that  night  was 
made  before  day,  and  many  more  fine  things, 
though  without  any  effect;  nay,  last  night  I  could 
not  forbear  saying,  with  more  heat  than  judgment, 
that  the  devil  ought  to  be  painted  white.  Now 
my  desire  is,  Sir,  that  you  would  be  pleased  to 
give  us  in  black  and  white  your  opinion  in  the 
matter  of  dispute  between  us :  which  will  either 
furnish  me  with  fresh  and  prevailing  arguments  to 
maintain  my  own  taste,  or  make  me  with  less  re¬ 
pining  allow  that  of  my  chamber-fellow.  I  know 
very  well  that  I  have  J  ack  Cleveland*  and  Bond’s 
Horace  on  my  side;  but  then  he  has  such  a  band 
of  rhymers  and  romance-writers,  with  which  he 


*  See  Poems  by  J.  Cleveland,  1653,  24mo.  The  Senses’  Fes¬ 
tival,  p.  1. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


opposes  me,  and  is  so  continually  chiming  to  the 
tune  of  golden  tresses,  yellow  locks,  milk,  marble, 
ivory,  silver,  swans,  snow,  daisies,  doves,  and  the 
Lord  knows  what;  which  he  is  always  sounding 
with  so  much  vehemence  in  my  ears,  that  he  often 
puts  me  in  a  brown  study  Iioav  to  answer  him; 
and  1  find  that  I  am  in  a  fair  way  to  be  quite  con¬ 
founded,  without  your  timely  assistance  afforded 
to,  bir, 

“  Your  humble  Servant, 

“  Philobrune.” 


No.  287.]  TUESDAY,  JANUARY  29,  1711-12. 

Dear  native  land,  liow  do  the  good  and  wise 

Thy  happy  clime  and  countless  blessings  prize! 

Men  and. 

I  look  upon  it  as  a  peculiar  happiness,  that 
were  I  to  choose  of  what  religion  I  would  be,  and 
under  what  government  I  would  live,  I  should 
most  certainly  give  the  preference  to  that  form  of 
religion  and  government  which  is  established  in 
my  own  country.  In  this  point  I  think  I  am  de¬ 
termined  by  reason  and  conviction;-  but  if  I  shall 
be  told  that  I  am  actuated  by  prejudice,  I  am  sure 
it  is  an  honest  prejudice;  it  is  a  prejudice  that 
arises  from  the  love  of  my  country,  and  therefore 
such  a  one  as  I  will  always  indulge.  I  have  in 
several  papers  endeavored  to  express  my  duty  and 
esteem  for  the  church  of  England,  and  design  this 
as  an  essay  upon  the  civil  part  of  our  constitution, 
having  often  entertained  myself  with  reflections 
on  this  subject,  which  I  have  not  met  with  in 
other  writers. 

That  form  of  government  appears  to  me  the 
most  reasonable,  which  is  most  conformable  to  the 
eq  uality  that  we  find  in  human  nature,  provided 
it  be  consistent  with  public  peace  and  tranquillity. 
This  is  what  may  properly  be  called  liberty, 
which  exempts  one  man  from  subjection  to  anoth¬ 
er,  so  far  as  the  order  and  economy  of  government 
will  permit. 

Liberty  should  reach  every  individual  of  a 
people,  as  they  all  share  one  common  nature;  if  it 
only  spreads  among  particular  branches,  there  had 
better  be  none  at  all,  since  such  a  liberty  only  a o-- 
gravates  the  misfortune  of  those  who  are  deprived 
of  it,  by  setting  before  them  a  disagreeable  sub¬ 
ject  of  comparison. 

This  liberty  is  best  preserved,  where  the  legis- 
lative  power  is  lodged  in  several  persons,  espe¬ 
cially  if  those  persons  are  of  different  ranks  and 
interests,  for  where  they  are  of  the  same  rank, 
and  consequently  have  an  interest  to  manage  pe¬ 
culiar  to  that  rank,  it  differs  but  little  from  a  des- 
potical  government  in  a  single  person.  But  the 
greatest  security  a  people  can  have  for  their  liber¬ 
ty,  is  when  the  legislative  power  is  in  the  hands 
of  persons  so  happily  distinguished,  that  by  pro¬ 
viding  foi  the  particular  interests  of  their  several 
ranks,  they  are  providing  for  the  whole  body  of 
the  people:  or,  in  other  words,  when  there  is  no 
part  of  the  people  that  has  not  a  common  interest 
with  at  least  one  part  of  the  legislators. 

If  there  be  but  one  body  of  legislators,  it  is  no 
better  than  a  tyranny;  if  there  are  only  two,  there 
will  want  a  casting  voice,  and  one  of  them  must 
at  length  be  swallowed  up  by  the  disputes  and 
contentions  that  will  necessarily  arise  between 
them.  Four  would  have  the  same  inconvenience 
as  two,  and  a  greater  number  would  cause  too 
much  confusion.  I  could  never  read  a  passage  in 
Fqlvbius  and  another  in  Cicero  to  this  purpose, 
without  a  secret  pleasure  in  applying  it  to  the 
English  constitution,  which  it  suits  much  better 
than  the  Roman.  Both  these  great  authors  give 


353 

the  pre-eminence  to  a  mixed  government,  consist¬ 
ing  of  three  branches,  the  regal,  the  noble,  and  the 
popular.  They  had,  doubtless,  in  their  thoughts, 
the  constitution  of  the  Roman  commonwealth,  in 
which  the  consul  represented  the  king,  the  senate 
the  nobles,  and  the  tribunes  the  people.  This  di¬ 
vision  of  the  three  powers  in  the  Roman  constitu¬ 
tion  was  by  no  means  so  distinct  .and  natural,  as 
it  is  in  the  English  form  of  government.  Among 
several  objections  that  might  be  made  to  it,  I  think 
the  chief  are  those  that  affect  the  consular  power 
which  had  only  the  ornaments  without  the  force 
of  the  regal  authority.  Their  number  had  not  a 
casting  voice  in  it;  for  which  reason,  if  one  did 
not  chance  to  be  employed  abroad,  while  the  other 
sat  at  home,  the  public  business  was  sometimes  at 
a  stand,  while  the  consuls  pulled  two  different 
wavs  in  it.  Beside,  I  do  not  find  that  the  consuls 
had  ever  a  negative  voice  in  the  passing  of  a  law, 
or  decree  of  the  senate;  so  that  indeed  they  were 
rather  the  chief  body  of  the  nobility,  or  the  first 
ministers  of  state,  than  a  distinct  branch  of  the 
sovereignty,  in  which  none  can  be  looked  upon  as 
a  part,  who  are  not  a  part  of  the  legislature.  Had 
the  consuls  been  invested  with  the  regal  authority 
to  as  great  a  degree  as  our  monarchs,  there  would 
never  have  been  any  occasions  for  a  dictatorship, 
which  had  in  it  the  power  of  all  the  three  orders, 
and  ended  in  the  subversion  of  the  whole  consti¬ 
tution. 

Such  a  history  as  that  of  Suetonius,  which 
gives  us  a  succession  of  absolute  princes,  is  to  me 
an  unanswerable  argument  against  despotic  pow¬ 
er.  Where  the  prince  is  a  man  of  wisdom  and 
virtue,  it  is  indeed  happy  for  his  people  that  he  is 
absolute;  but  since  in  the  common  run  of  man¬ 
kind,  foi  one  that  is  wise  and  good  you  find  ten 
of  a  contrary  character,  it  is  very  dangerous  for  a 
nation  to  stand  to  its  chance,  or  to  have  its 
public  happiness  or  misery  depend  on  the  virtue 
or  vices  of  a  single  person.  Look  into  the  histo- 
ry  I  have  mentioned,  or  into  any  series  of  abso¬ 
lute  princes,  how  many  tyrants  must  you  read 
through,  before  you  come  to  an  emperor  that 
is  supportable.  But  this  is  not  all;  an  honest 
private  man  often  grows  cruel  and  abandoned, 
when  converted  into  an  absolute  prince.  Give  a 
man  power  of  doing  what  he  pleases  with  impu- 
mty>  you  extinguish  his  fear,  and  consequently 
overturn  in  him  one  of  the  great  pillars  of  mora¬ 
lity.  This,  too,  we  find  confirmed  by  matter  of 
fact.  How  many  hopeful  heirs  apparent  to  grand 
empires,  when  in  the  possession  of  them,  have 
become  such  monsters  of  lust  and  cruelty  as  are  a 
reproach  to  human  nature  I 

borne  tell  us  we  ought  to  make  our  governments 
on  earth  like  that  in  heaven,  which,  say  they,  is 
altogether  monarchical  and  unlimited.  Was  man 
like  his  Creator  in  goodness  and  justice,  I  should 
be  for  allowing  this  great  model;  but  where  good¬ 
ness  and  justice  are  not  essential  to  the  ruler,  I 
would  by  no  means  put  myself  into  his  hands  to 
be  disposed  of  according  to  his  particular  will 
and  pleasure. 

It  is  odd  to  consider  the  connection  between 
despotic  government  and  barbarity,  and  how  the 
making  oi  one  person  more  than  man,  makes  the 
rest  less.  Above  nine  parts  of  the  world  in  ten 
are  in  the  lowest  state  ol  slavery,  and  consequent¬ 
ly  sunk  in  the  most  gross  and  brutal  ignorance. 
European  slavery  is  indeed  a  state  of  liberty,  if 
compared  with  that  which  prevails  in  the  other 
three  divisions  of  the  world:  and  therefore  it  is  no 
wonder  that  those  who  grovel  under  it,  have  many 
tracks  of  light  among  them,  of  which  the  others 
are  wholly  destitute. 

Riches  and  plenty  are  the  natural  fruits  of -lib- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


354 

erty,  and  where  these  abound,  learning  and  all 
the  liberal  arts  will  immediately  lift  up  their 
heads  and  flourish.  As  a  man  must  have  no  slav¬ 
ish  fears  and  apprehensions  hanging  upon  his 
mind,  who  will  indulge  the  flights  of  fancy  or 
speculation,  and  push  his  researches  into  all  the 
abstruse  corners  of  truth,  so  it  is  necessary  for 
him  to  have  about  him  a  competency  of  all  the 
conveniences  of  life. 

The  first  thing  every  one  looks  after,  is  to  pro¬ 
vide  himself  with  necessaries.  This  point  will 
engross  our  thoughts  until  it  be  satisfied.  If  this 
is  taken  care  of  to  our  hands,  we  look  out  for 
pleasures  and  amusements  ;  and  among  a  great 
number  of  idle  people,  there  will  be  many  whose 
pleasures  will  lie  in  reading  and  contemplation. 
These  are  the  two  great  sources  of  knowledge, 
and  as  men  grow  wise  they  naturally  love  to  com¬ 
municate  their  discoveries;  and  others  seeing  the 
happiness  of  such  a  learned  life,  and  improving 
by  their  conversation,  emulate,  imitate,  and  sur¬ 
pass  one  another,  until  a  nation  is  filled  with 
races  of  wise  and  understanding  persons.  Ease 
and  plenty  are  therefore  the  great  cherishers  of 
knowledge;  and  as  most  of  the  despotic  govern¬ 
ments  of  the  world  have  neither  of  them,  they  are 
naturally  overrun  with  ignorance  and  barbarity. 
In  Europe,  indeed,  notwithstanding  several  of  its 
princes  are  absolute,  there  are  men  famous  for 
knowledge  and  learning;  but  the  reason  is,  be¬ 
cause  the  subjects  are  many  of  them  rich  and 
wealthy,  the  prince  not  thinking  fit  to  exert  him¬ 
self  in  his  full  tyranny  like  the  princes  of  the 
eastern  nations,  lest  his  subjects  should  be  invited 
to  new-mould  their  constitution,  having  so  many 
prospects  of  liberty  within  their  view.  But  in  all 
despotic  governments,  though  a  particular  prince 
may  favor  arts  and  letters,  there  is  a  natural  de¬ 
generacy  of  mankind,  as  you  may  observe  from 
Augustus’s  reign,  how  the  Romans  lost  themselves 
by  degrees  until  they  fell  to  an  equality  with  the 
most  barbarous  nations  that  surrounded  them. 
Look  upon  Greece  under  its  free  states,  and  you 
would  think  its  inhabitants  lived  in  different  cli¬ 
mates,  and  under  different  heavens,  from  those 
at  present,  so  different  are  the  geniuses  which 
are  formed  under  Turkish  slavery,  and  Grecian 
liberty. 

Beside  poverty  and  want,  there  are  other  rea¬ 
sons  that  debase  the  minds  of  men  who  live  under 
slavery,  though  I  look  on  this  as  the  principal. 
This  natural  tendency  of  despotic  power  to  igno¬ 
rance  and  barbarity,  though  not  insisted  upon  by 
others,  is,  I  think,  an  unanswerable  argument 
against  that  form  of  government,  as  it  shows  how 
repugnant  it  is  to  the  good  of  mankind  and  the 
perfection  of  human  nature,  which  ought  to  be  the 
great  ends  of  all  civil  institutions. — L. 


No.  288.]  WEDNESDAY,  JAN.  30,  1711-12. 

—  Pavor  est  utrique  molestus. 

Hor.  1  Ep.  vi,  10. 

Both  fear  alike. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“When  you  spoke  of  the  jilts  and  coquettes, 
you  then  promised  to  be  very  impartial,  and  not 
to  spare  even  your  own  sex,  should  any  of  their 
secret  or  open  faults  come  under  your  cognizance; 
which  has  given  me  encouragement  to  describe  a 
certain  species  of  mankind  under  the  denomina¬ 
tion  of  male  jilts.  They  are  gentlemen  who  do 
not  design  to  marry,  yet,  that  they  may  appear  to 
have  some  sense  of  gallantry,  think  they  must  pay 
theii  devoirs  to  one  particular  fair;  in  order  to 


which,  they  single  out  from  among  the  herd  of 
females  her  to  whom  they  design  to  make  their 
fruitless  addresses.  This  done,  they  first  take 
every  opportunity  of  being  in  her  company,  and 
they  never  fail  upon  all  occasions  to  be  particular 
to  her,  laying  themselves  at  her  feet,  protesting  the 
reality  of  their  passion  with  a  thousand  oaths, 
soliciting  a  return,  and  saying  as  manv  fine  things 
as  their  stock  of  wit  will  allow  :  and  if  they  are 
not  deficient  that  way,  generally  speak  so  as  to 
admit  of  a  double  interpretation  ;  which  the 
credulous  fair  is  too  apt  to  turn  to  her  own  advan¬ 
tage,  since  it  frequently  happens  to  be  a  raw,  in¬ 
nocent  young  creature,  who  thinks  all  the  world 
as  sincere  as  herself,  and  so  her  unwary  heart  be¬ 
comes  an  easy  prey  to  those  deceitful  monsters, 
who  no  sooner  perceive  it,  but  immediately  they 
grow  cool,  and  shun  her  whom  they  before  seemed 
so  much  to  admire,  and  proceed  to  act  the  same 
common  place  villany  toward  another.  A  cox¬ 
comb,  flushed  with  many  of  these  infamous  victo¬ 
ries,  shall  say  he  is  sorry  for  the  poor  fools,  protest 
and  vow  he  never  thought  of  matrimony,  and 
wonder  talking  civilly  can  be  so  strangely  misin¬ 
terpreted.  Now,  Mr.  Spectator,  you  that  are  a 
professed  friend  to  love,  will,  I  hope,  observe 
upon  those  who  abuse  that  noble  passion,  and 
raise  it  in  innocent  minds  by  a  deceitful  affecta¬ 
tion  of  it,  after  which  they  desert  the  enamored. 
Pray  bestow  a  little  of  your  counsel  on  those  fond 
believing  females  who  already  have,  or  are  in 
danger  of  having,  broken  hearts;  in  which  you 
will  oblige  a  great  part  of  this  town,  but  in  a  par¬ 
ticular  manner, 

“Sir, 

“Your  (yet  heart-whole)  Admirer, 

“  and  devoted  humble  Servant, 

“Melainia.” 

Melainia’s  complaint  is  occasioned  by  so  gene¬ 
ral  a  folly,  that  it  is  wonderful  one  could  so  long 
overlook  it.  But  this  false  gallantry  proceeds 
from  an  impotence  of  mind,  which  makes  those 
who  are  guilty  of  it  incapable  of  pursuing  what 
they  themselves  approve.  Many  a  man  wishes  a 
woman  his  wife  whom  he  dare  not  take  for  such. 
Though  no  one  has  power  over  his  inclinations  or 
fortunes,  he  is  a  slave  to  common  fame.  For  this 
reason,  I  think  Melainia  gives  them  too  soft  a 
name  in  that  of  male  coquets.  I  know  not  why 
irresolution  of  mind  should  not  be  more  contempti¬ 
ble  than  impotence  of  body;  and  these  frivolous 
admirers  would  be  too  tenderly  used,  in  being 
only  included  in  the  same  term  with  the  insuffi¬ 
cient  another  way.  They  whom  my  correspon¬ 
dent  calls  male  coquets,  should  hereafter  be  called 
fribblers.  A  fribbler  is  one  who  professes  rapture 
and  admiration  for  the  woman  whom  he  addresses, 
and  dreads  nothing  so  much  as  her  consent.  His 
heart  can  flutter  by  the  force  of  imagination,  but 
cannot  fix  from  the  force  of  judgment.  It  is  not 
uncommon  for  the  parents  of  young  women  of 
moderate  fortune  to  wink  at  the  addresses  of  frib¬ 
blers,  and  expose  their  children  to  the  ambiguous 
behavior  which  Melainia  complains  of,  until  by  the 
fondness  to  one  they  are  to  lose,  they  become  in¬ 
capable  of  love  toward  others,  and,  by  consequence, 
in  their  future  marriage  lead  a  joyless  or  a  mise¬ 
rable  life.  As  therefore  I  shall,  in  the  specula¬ 
tions  which  regard  love,  be  as  severe  as  I  ought 
on  jilts  and  libertine  women,  so  will  I  be  as  little 
merciful  to  insignificant  and  mischievous  men. 
In  order  to  this,  all  visitants  who  frequent  fami¬ 
lies  wherein  there  are  young  females,  are  forth¬ 
with  required  to  declare  themselves,  or  absent 
from  places  where  their  presence  banishes  such  as 
would  pass  their  time  more  to  the  advantage  of 


THE  SPECTATOR 


those  whom  they  visit.  It  is  a  matter  of  too  great 
moment  to  be  dallied  with  :  and  I  .shall  expect 
from  all  my  young  people  a  satisfactory  account 
of  appearances.  Strephon  has  from  the  publica¬ 
tion  hereof  seven  days  to  explain  the  riddle  he 
presented  to  Eudamia;  and  Chloris  an  hour  after 
this  comes  to  her  hand,  to  declare  whether  she 
will  have  Philotas,  whom  a  woman  of  no  less 
merit  than  herself,  and  of  superior  fortune,  lan 
guishes  to  call  her  own. 


355 


No.  289.  ]  THURSDAY,  JAN.  31,  1711-12. 

A  itas  summa  brevis  spem  nos  vetat  inehoare  longam. 

ilOR.  1  Od.  iv,  15. 

Life  s  span  forbids  us  to  extend  our  cares, 

And  stretch  our  hopes  beyond  our  years. — Creech. 


“To  the  Spectator. 

“  Sir, 

“  Since  so  many  dealers  turn  authors,  and  write 
quaint  advertisements  in  praise  of  their  wares, 
one  who  from  an  author  turned  dealer  may  be  al¬ 
lowed  for  the  advancement  of  trade  to  turn  author 
again.  I  will  not  however  set  up,  like  sd»ne  of 
them,  for  selling  cheaper  than  the  most  able  honest 
tradesman  can;  nor  dq  I  send  this  to  be  better 
known  for  choice  and  cheapness  of  China  and 
Japan  wares,  tea,  fans,  muslins,  pictures,  arrack, 
and  other  Indian  goods.  Placed  as  I  am  in  Lead- 
enhall-street,  near  the  India  company,  and  the 
center  of  that  trade,  thanks  to  my  fair  customers, 
my  -warehouse  is  graced  as  well  as  the  benefit 
days  of  my  plays  and  operas;  and 'the  foreign 
goods  I  sell,  seem  no  less  acceptable  than  the  for¬ 
eign  books  I  translated,  Rabelais,  and  Don  Quix¬ 
ote.  This  the  critics  allow  me,  and  while  they 
like  my  wares  they  may  dispraise  my  writings. — 
But  as  it  is  not  so  well  known  yet,  that  I  frequent¬ 
ly  cross  the  seas  of  late,  and  speak  in  Dutch  and 
trench,  beside  other  languages,  I  have  the  con- 
veniency  of  buying  and  importing  rich  brocades, 
Dutch  atlases,  with  gold  and  silver,  or  without, 
and  other  foreign  silks  of  the  newest  modes  and 
best  fabrics,  fine  Flanders  lace,  linens,  and  pic¬ 
tures,  at  the  best  hand;  this  my  new  way  of  trade 
I  have  fallen  into,  I  cannot  better  publish  than 
by  an  application  to  you.  My  wares  are  fit  only 
for  such  of  your  readers;  and  I  would  beg  of  you 
to  print  this  address  in  your  paper,  that  those 
whose  minds  you  adorn  may  take  the  ornaments 
for  their  persons  and  houses  from  me.  This,  Sir, 
if  I  may  presume  to  beg  it,  will  be  the  greater 
favor,  as  1  have  lately  received  rich  silks  and  fine 
lace  to  a  considerable  value,  which  will  be  sold 
cheap  for  a  quick  return,  and  as  I  have  also  a 
large  stock  of  other  goods.  Indian  silks  were 
formerly  a  great  branch  of  our  trade;  and  since 
■we  must  not  sell  them,  we  must  seek  amends  by 
dealing  in  others.  This  I  hope  will  plead  for  one 
who  would  lessen  the  number  of  teasers  of  the 
Muses,  and  who,  suiting  his  spirit  to  his  circum¬ 
stances,  humbles  the  poet  to  exalt  the  citizen. 
Like  a  true  tradesman,  I  hardly  ever  look  into  any 
books,  but  those  of  accounts.  To  say  the  truth,  I 
cannot,  I  think,  give  you  a  better  idea  of  my  being 
a  downright  man  of  traffic,  than  by  acknowledg¬ 
ing  I  oftener  read  the  advertisements,  than  the 
matter  of  even  your  paper.  I  am  under  a  great 
temptation  to  take  this  opportunity  of  admonish- 
ing  other  writers  to  follow  my  example,  and 
trouble  the  town  no  more;  but  as  it  is  mv  present 
business  to  increase  the  number  of  buyers  rather 
than  sellers,  I  hasten  to  tell  you  that  I  am.  Sir, 

“  Your  most  humble, 

“  and  most  obedient  Servant, 

T.  “  Peter  Motteux.” 


T. 


Upon  taking  my  seat  in  a  coffee-house  I  often 
draw  the  eyes  of  the  whole  room  upon  me,  when 
in  the  hottest  seasons  of  news,  and  at  a  time  per¬ 
haps  that  the  Dutch  mail  is  just  come  in,  they 
hear  me  ask  the  coffee-man  for  His  last  week’s  bill 
o  moitality  .  I  find  that  I  have  been  sometimes 
taken  on  this  occasion  for  a  parish  sexton,  some¬ 
times  for  an  undertaker,  and  sometimes  for  a  doc¬ 
tor  of  physic.  In  this,  however,  I  am  guided  by 
the  spirit  of  a  philosopher,  as  I  take  occasion 
from  thence  to  reflect  upon  the  regular  increase 
and  diminution  of  mankind,  and  consider  the 
several  various  ways  through  which  we  pass  from 
life  to  eternity.  I  am  very  well  pleased  with 
these  weekly  admonitions,  that  bring  into  my  mind 
such  thoughts  as  ought  to  be  the  daily  entertain¬ 
ment  of  every  reasonable  creature;  and  consider 
with  pleasure  to  myself,  by  which  of  those  de¬ 
liverances,  or,  as  we  commonly  call  them,  distem¬ 
pers,  I  may  possibly  make  my  escape  out  of  this 
Avorld  of  sorrows,  into  that  condition  of  existence, 
wherein  I  hope  to  be  happier  and  better  than  it  is 
possible  for  me  at  present  to  conceive. 

But  this  is  not  ail  the  use  I  make  of  the  above- 
mentioned  weekly  paper.  A  bill  of  mortality  is, 
in  my  opinion,  an  unanswerable  argument  for  a 
Pi  evidence.  How  can  we,  without  supposing 
ourselves  under  the  constant  care  of  a  Supreme 
Being,  give  any  possible  account  for  that  nicepro.- 
portion,  which  we  find  in  every  great  city,  be¬ 
tween  the  deaths  and  births  of  its  inhabitants,  and 
between  the  number  of  males  and  that  of  females 
brought  into  the  world?  What  else  could  adjust 
in  so  exact  a  manner  the  recruits  of  every  nation 
to  its  losses,  and  divide  these  new  supplies  of 
people  into  such  equal  bodies  of  both  sexes  ? 
Chance  could  never  hold  the  balance  Avith  so 
steady  a  hand.  Were  we  not  counted  out  by  an 
intelligent  supervisor,  we  should  sometimes  be 
ovei charged  with  multitudes,  and  at  others  waste 
away  into  a  desert:  we  should  be  sometimes  a 
populus  yirorum,  as  Florus  elegantly  expresses  it,  a 
generation  of  males,  and  at  others  a  species  of 
women.  We  may.  extend  this  consideration  to 
every  species  of  living  creatures,  and  consider  the 
whole  animal  -world  as  a  huge  army  made  up  of 
innumerable  corps,  if  I  may  use  that  term,  whose 
quotas  have  been  kept  entire  near  five  thousand 
years,  in  so  wonderful  a  manner,  that  there  is  not 
probably  a  single  species  lost  during  this  long 
tract  of  time.  Could  we  have  general  bills  of 
mortality  of  every  kind  of  animals,  or  particular 
ones  of  every  species  in  each  continent  or  island, 

I  could  almost  say  in  every  wood,  marsh,  or 
mountain,  what  astonishing  instances  would  they 
be  of  that  Providence  which  W'atches  over  all  his- 
works  ? 

I  have  heard  of  a  great  man  in  the  Romish 
church,  who  upon  reading  those  words  in  the  fifth: 
chapter  of  Genesis,  “And  all  the  days  that  Adam 
lived  were  nine  hundred  and  thirty  years,  and  he 
died  ;  and  all  the  days  of  Seth  were  nine  hundred 
and  twelve  years,  and  he  dic'd ;  and  all  the  days 
of  Methuselah  were  nine  hundred  and  sixty-nine 
years,  and  he  died ;”  immediately  shut  himself  up 
in  a  convent,  and  retired  from  the  world,  as  not. 
thinking  anything  in  this  life  worth  pursuing, 
which  had  not  regard  to  another. 

The  truth  of  it  is,  there  is  nothing  in  history 
which  is  so  improving  to  the  reader  as  those  ac¬ 
counts  which  we  meet  with  of  the  deaths  of  emi- 


356  THE  SPE ( 

nent  persons,  and  of  their  behavior  in  that  dread-  , 
ful  season.  I  may  also  add,  that  there  are  no 
parts  in  history  which  affect  and  please  the  reader 
in  so  sensible  a  manner.  The  reason  I  take  to  be 
this,  there  is  no  other  single  circumstance  in  the 
story  of  any  person,  which  can  possibly  be  the 
case  of  every  one  who  reads  it.  A  battle  or  a 
triumph  are  conjectures  in  which  not  one  man  in 
a  million  is  likely  to  be  engaged  :  but  when  we  see 
a  person  at  the  point  of  death,  we  cannot  forbear 
being  attentive  to  everything  he  says  or  does, 
because  we  are  sure  that  some  time  or  other  we 
shall  ourselves  be  in  the  same  melancholy  cir¬ 
cumstances.  The  general,  the  statesman,  or  the 
philosopher,  are  perhaps  characters  which  we  may 
never  act  in,  but  the  dying  man  is  one  whom, 
sooner  or  later,  we  shall  certainly  resemble. 

It  is,  perhaps,  for  the  same  kind  of  reason,  that 
few  books  written  in  English  have  been  so  much 
perused  as  Dr.  Sherlock’s  Discourse  upon  Death  ; 
though  at  the  same  time  I  must  own,,  that  he 
who  has  not  perused  this  excellent  piece,  has 
not  perhaps  read  one  of  the  strongest  persuasives 
to  a  religious  life  that  ever  was  written  in  any 
language. 

The  consideration  with  which  I  shall  close  this 
essay  upon  death,  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  and 
most  beaten  morals  that  has  been  recommended 
to  mankind.  But  its  being  so  very  common,  and 
so  universally  received,  though  it  takes  away 
from  it  the  grace  of  novelty,  adds  very  much,  to 
the  weight  of  it,  as  it  shows  that  it  falls  in  with 
the  general  sense  of  mankind.  In  short,  I  would 
have  every  one  consider  that  he  is  in  this  life 
nothing  more  than  a  passenger,  and  that  he  is 
not  to  set  up  his  rest  here,  but  to  keep  an  atten¬ 
tive  eye  upon  that  state  of  being  to  which  he  ap¬ 
proaches  every  moment,  and  tvhich  will  be  forever 
fixed  and  permanent.  This  single  consideration 
would  be  sufficient  to  extinguish  the  bitterness  of 
hatred,  the  thirst  of  avarice,  and  the  cruelty  of 
ambition. 

I  am  very  much  pleased  with  the  passage  of 
Antiphanes,  a  very  ancient  poet,  who  lived  near  a 
hundred  years  before  Socrates,  which  represents 
the  life  of  man  under  this  view,  as  I  have  here 
translated  it  word  for  word.  “  Be  not  grieved,” 
says  he,  “  above  measure  for  thy  deceased  friends. 
They  are  not  dead,  but  have  only  finished  that 
journey  which  it  is  necessary  for  every  one  of  us  to 
take.  We  ourselves  must  go  to  that  great  place 
of  reception  in  which  they  are  all  of  them  assem¬ 
bled,  and  in  this  general  rendezvous  of  mankind, 
live  together  in  another  state  of  being.” 

I  think  I  have,  in  a  former  paper,  taken  notice 
of  these  beautiful  metaphors  in  Scripture,  where 
life  is  termed  a  pilgrimage,  and  those  who  pass 
through  it  are  called  strangers  and  sojourners 
upon  earth.  I  shall  conclude  this  with  a  story 
which  I  have  somewhere  read  in  the  travels  of 
Sir  John  Chardin.  That  gentleman,  after  having 
told  us  that  the  inns  which  receive  the  caravans 
tin  Persia,  and  the  eastern  countries,  are  called  by 
'the  name  of  caravansaries,  gives  us  a  relation  to 
the  following  purpose : — 

“A  dervise  traveling  through  Tartarv,  being 
arrived  at  the  town  of  Balk,  went  into  the  king’s 
palace  by  mistake,  as  thinking  it  to  be  a  public 
inn  or  caravansary.  Having  looked  about  him 
-for  some  time,  he  entered  into  a  long  gallery, 
where  he  laid  down  his  wallet,  and  spread  his 
carpet,  in  order  to  repose  himself  upon  it,  after 
the  manner  of  the  eastern  nations.  He  had  not 
been  long  in  this  posture  before  he  was  discovered 
by  some  of  the  guards,  who  asked  him  what  was 
his  business  in  that  place?  The  dervise  told 
them  he  intended  to  take  up  his  night’s  lodging 


!  TAT  OR. 

in  that  caravan sary.  The  guards  let  him  know, 
in  a  very  angry  manner,  that  the  house  he  was  in 
was  not  a  caravansary,  but  the  king’s  palace.  It 
happened  that  the  king  himself  passed  through 
the  gallery  during  this  debate,  and  smiling  at  the 
mistake  of  the  dervise,  asked  him  how  he  could 
possibly  be  so  dull  as  not  to  distinguish  a  palace 
from  a  caravansary ;  ‘  Sir,’  says  the  dervise,  ‘  give 
me  leave  to  ask  your  majesty  a  question  or  two. 
Who  were  the  persons  that  lodged  in  this  house 
when  it  was  first  built  ?’  The  king  replied,  ‘  His 
ancestors.’  ‘And  who,’  says  the  dervise,  ‘was 
he  last  person  that  lodged  here  ?’  The  king  re¬ 
plied,  ‘His  father.’  ‘And  who  is  it,’  says  the 
dervise,  ‘  that  lodges  here  at  present  ?’  The  king 
told  him,  that  it  was  he  himself.  ‘And  who,’ 
says  the  dervise,  ‘  will  be  here  after  you  ?’  The 
king  answered,  ‘  The  young  prince,  his  son.’  ‘Ah, 
Sir,’  said  the  dervise,  ‘  a  house  that  changes  its  in¬ 
habitants  so  often,  and  receives  such  a  perpetual 
succession  of  guests,  is  not  a  palace  but  a  cara¬ 
vansary.’  ” — L. 


Ho.  290.]  FRIDAY,  FEBRUARY  1,  1711-12. 

Projicit  ampullas  et  Besquipedalia  verba. 

Hor.,  Are.  Poet.,  ver.  97.* 

Forgets  his  swelling  and  gigantic  words. 

Roscommon. 

The  players,  who  know  I  am  very  much  their 
friend,  take  all  opportunities  to  express  a  grati¬ 
tude  to  me  for  being  so.  They  could  not  have  a 
better  occasion  of  obliging  me,  than  one  which 
they  lately  took  hold  of.  They  desired  my  friend 
Will  Honeycomb  to  bring  me  to  the  reading  of  a 
new  tragedy  ;  it  is  called  The  Distressed  Mother. 

I  must  confess,  though  some  days  are  passed 
since  I  enjoyed  that  entertainment,  the  passions 
of  the  several  characters  dwell  strongly  upon  my 
imagination  ;  and  I  congratulate  the  age,  that 
they  are  at  last  to  see  truth  and  human  life  repre¬ 
sented  in  the  incidents  which  concern  heroes  and 
heroines.  The  style  of  the  play  is  such  as  be¬ 
comes  those  of  the  first  education,  and  the  senti¬ 
ments  worthy  those  of  the  highest  figure.  It  was 
a  most  exquisite  pleasure  to  me,  to  observe  real 
tears  drop  from  the  eyes  of  those  who  had  long 
made  it  their  profession  to  dissemble  affliction  ; 
and  the  player  who  read  frequently  threw  down 
the  book,  until  he  had  given  vent  to  the  humanity 
which  rose  in  him  at  some  irresistible  touches  of 
the  imagined  sorrow.  We  have  seldom  had  any 
female  distress  on  the  stage,  which  did  not,  upon 
cool  examination,  appear  to  flow  from  the  weak¬ 
ness  rather  than  the  misfortune  of  the  person 
represented  :  but  in  this  tragedy  you  are  not  en¬ 
tertained  with  the  ungoverned  passions  of  such 
as  are  enamored  of  each  other,  merely  as  they 
are  men  and  women,  but  their  regards  are  founded 
upon  high  conceptions  of  each  other’s  virtue  and 
merit ;  and  the  character  which  gives  name  to  the 
play,  is  one  who  has  behaved  herself  with  heroic 
virtue  in  the  most  important  circumstances  of  a 
female  life,  those  of  a  wife,  a  widow,  and  a 
mother.  If  there  be  those  whose  minds  have 
been  too  attentive  upon  the  affairs  of  life,  to  have 
any  notion  of  the  passion  of  love  in  such  extremes 
as  are  known  only  to  particular  tempers,  yet  in 
the  above-mentioned  considerations,  the  sorrow 
of  the  heroine  will  move  even  the  generality  of 
mankind.  Domestic  virtues  concern  all  the  world, 
and  there  is  no  one  living  who  is  not  interested 
that  Andromache  should  be  an  inimitable  character. 


*  The  motto  in  the  original  paper  in  folio  was  from  Horace 
likewise. — “  Spirat  tragicum  satis,  et  feliciter  audet.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


The  generous  affection  to  the  memory  of  her  de¬ 
ceased  husband,  that  tender  care  for  her  son, 
which  is  ever  heightened  with  the  consideration 
of  his  father,  and  these  regards  preserved  in  spite 
of  being  tempted  with  the  possession  of  the  high¬ 
est  greatness,  are  what  cannot  but  be  venerable 
even  to  such  an  audience  as  at  present  frequents 
the  English  theater.  My  friend  will  Honeycomb 
commended  several  tender  things  that  were  said, 
and  told  me  they  were  very  genteel;  but  whispered 
me,  that  he  feared  the  piece  was  not  busy  enough 
for  the  present  taste.  To  supply  this,  he  recom¬ 
mended  to  the  players  to  be  very  careful  in  their 
scenes  ;  and,  above  all  things,  that  every  part 
should  be  perfectly  new  dressed.  I  was  very, 
glad  to  find  that  they  did  not  neglect  my  friend’s 
admonition,  because  there  are  a  great  many  in  this 
class  of  criticism  who  may  be  gained  by  it ;  but 
indeed  the  truth  is,  that  as  to  the  work  itself,  it  is 
everywhere  Nature.  The  persons  are  of  the  high¬ 
est  quality  in  life,  even  that  of  princes  ;  but  their 
quality  is  not  represented  by  the  poet,  with  direc¬ 
tions  that  guards  and  waiters  should  follow  them 
in  every  scene,  but  their  grandeur  appears  in 
greatness  of  sentiment,  flowing  from  minds  wor¬ 
thy  their  condition.  To  make  a  character  truly 
£reat,  this  author  understands,  that  it  should  have 
its  foundation  in  superior  thoughts  and  maxims 
of  conduct.  It  is  very  certain,  that  many  an  hon¬ 
est  woman  would  make  no  difficulty,  though  she 
had  been  the  wife  of  Hector,  for  the  sake  of  a 
kingdom,  to  marry  the  enemy  of  her  husband’s 
family  and  country ;  and  indeed  who  can  deny 
but  she  might  be  still  an  honest  woman,  but  no 
heroine  i*  that  may  be  defensible,  nay  laudable, 
in  one  character,  which  would  be  in  the  highest 
degree  exceptionable  in  another.  When  Cato 
Uticensis  killed  himself,  Cottius,  a  Roman  of 
ordinary  quality  and  character,  did  the  same  thing; 
upon  which  one  said,  smiling,  “Cottius  might 
have  lived,  though  Csesar  has  seized  the  Roman 
liberty.  Cottius’s  condition  might  have  been 
the  same,  let  things  at  the  upper  end  of  the  world 
pass  as  they  would.  What  is  further  very  extra¬ 
ordinary  in  that  work,  is,  that  the  persons  are  all 
of  them  laudable,  and  their  misfortunes  arise 
rather  from  unguarded  virtue,  than  propensity  to 
vice.  The  town  has  an  opportunity  of  doing 
itself  justice  in  supporting  the  representations  of 
passion,  sorrow,  indignation,  even  despair  itself, 
within  the  rules  of  decency,  honor,  and  good- 
breeding  ;  and  since  there  is  none  can  flatter  him¬ 
self  his  life  will  be  always  fortunate,  they  may 
here  see  sorrow  as  they  would  wish  to  bear  it 
whenever  it  arrives. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

I  am  appointed  to  act  a  part  in  the  new  tra¬ 
gedy  called  The  Distressed  Mother.  It  is  the  cele¬ 
brated  grief  of  Orestes  which  I  am  to  personate  ; 
but  I  shall  not  act  as  I  ought,  for  I  shall  feel  it  too 
intimately  to  be  aide  to  utter  it.  I  was  last  night 
repeating  a  paragraph  to  myself,  which  I  took3 to 
be  an  expression  of  rage,  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
sentence  t.iere  was  a  stroke  of  self-pity  which 
quite  unmanned  me  Be  pleased,  Sir,  to  print 
this  letter,  that  when  I  am  oppressed  in  this  man¬ 
ner  at  such  an  interval,  a  certain  part  of  the 
audience  may  not  think  I  am  out;  and  I  hope 
with  this  allowance,  to  do  it  with  satisfaction.  ' 

“  I  am,  Sir, 

“  \  our  most  humble  servant, 

“  George  Powell.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  As  I  was  walking  the  other  day  in  the  Park,  I 
saw  a  gentleman  with  a  very  short  face ;  I  desire 


357 

to  know  whether  it  was  you.  Pray  inform  me  as 
soon  as  you  can,  lest  I  become  the  most  heroic 
Hecatissa’s  rival. 

“  1  our  humble  Servant  to  command, 

“  Sophia.” 

“  Dear  Madam, 

“H  is  not  me  you  are  in  love  with,  for  I  was 
very  ill,  and  kept  my  chamber  all  that  day. 

“  Your  most  humble  Servant, 
r^*  “  The  Spectator.” 


No.  291.]  SATURDAY,  FEBRUARY  2, 1711-12. 

—— — Ubi  plura  nitent  iu  carmine,  non  ego  paucis 
Unenuar  maculis,  quas  aut  incuria  fudit, 

Aut  humana  parum  cavet  natura. - 

IIor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  351. 

But  in  a  poem  elegantly  writ, 

I  will  not  quarrel  with  a  slight  mistake, 

Such  as  our  nature’s  frailty  may  excuse. — Roscommon. 

I  have  now  considered  Milton’s  Paradise  Lost 
under  those  four  great  heads  of  the  fable,  the 
characters,  the  sentiments,  and  the  language  ;  and 
have  shown  that  he  excels  in  general  under  each 
of  these  heads.  1  hope  that  1  have  made  several 
discoveries  which  may  appear  new,  even  to  those 
who  are  versed  in  critical  learning.  Were  I  in¬ 
deed  to  choose  my  readers,  by  whose  judgment  I 
would  stand  or  fall,  they  should  not  be  such  as 
are  acquainted  only  with  the  French  and  Italian 
critics,  but  also  with  the  ancient  and  modern  who 
have  written  in  either  of  the  learned  languages. 
Above  all,  I  would  have  them  well  versed  in  the 
Gieek  and  Latin  poets,  without  which  a  man  very 
often  fancies  that  he  understands  a  critic,  when  in 
reality  lie  does  not  comprehend  his  meaning. 

It  is  in  criticism  as  in  all  other  sciences  and 
speculations  ;  one  who  brings  with  him  any  im¬ 
plicit  notions  and  observations,  which  he  has 
made  in  his  reading  of  the  poets,  will  find  his 
own  reflections  methodized  and  explained,  and 
perhaps  several  little  hints  that  have  passed  in 
his  mind,  perfected  and  improved  in  the  works  of 
a  good  critic  ;  whereas  one  who  has  not  these 
previous  lights  is  very  often  an  utter  stranger  to 
what  he  reads,  and  apt  to  put  a  wrong  interpreta¬ 
tion  upon  it.  r 

Nor  is  it  sufficient  that  a  man,  who  sets  up  for 
a  judge  iu  criticism,  should  have  perused  the 
authors  above-mentioned,  unless  he  has  also  a 
clear  and  logical  head.  Without  this  talent  he  is 
perpetually  puzzled  and  perplexed  amidst  his  own 
blunders,  mistakes  the  sense  of  those  he  would 
confute,  or,  if  he  chances  to  think  right,  does  not 
know  how  to  convey  his  thoughts  to  another  with 
clearness  and  perspicuity.  Aristotle,  who  was  the 
best  critic,  was  also  one  of  the  best  logicians  that 
ever  appeared  in  the  world. 

Mr.  Locke’s  Essay  on  Human  Understanding 
would  be  thought  a  very  odd  book  for  a  man  to 
make  himself  master  of,  who  would  get  a  reputa¬ 
tion  by  critical  writings;  though  at  the  same  time 
it  is  veiy  ceitain,  that  an  author  who  has  not 
learned  the  art  of  distinguishing  between  words 
and  things,  and  of  ranging  his  thoughts  and  set¬ 
ting  them  in  proper  lights,  whatever  notions  he 
may  have,  will  lose  himself  in  confusion  and  ob¬ 
scurity.  I  might  further  observe  that  there  is  not 
a  Greek  or  Latin  critic,  who  has  not  shown,  even 
in  the  style  of  his  criticisms,  that  he  was  a  mas¬ 
ter  of  all  the  elegance  and  delicacy  of  his  native 
tongue. 

9  he  truth  of  it  is,  there  is  nothing  more  absurd, 
than  for  a  man  to  set  up  for  a  critic,  without  a 
good  insight  into  all  the  parts  of  learning; 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


358 

whereas  many  of  those,  who  have  endeavored  to 
signalize  themselves  by  works  of  this  nature, 
among  our  English  writers,  are  not  only  defective 
in  the  above-mentioned  particulars,  but  plainly 
discover,  by  the  phrases  which  they  make  use  of, 
and  by  their  confused  way  of  thinking,  that  they 
are  not  acquainted  with  the  most  common  and 
ordinary  systems  of  arts  and  sciences.  A  few 
general  rules  extracted  out  of  the  French  authors, 
with  a  certain  cant  of  words,  has  sometimes  set 
up  an  illiterate  heavy  writer  for  a  most  judicious 
and  formidable  critic. 

One  great  mark,  by  which  you  may  discover  a 
critic  who  has  neither  taste  nor  learning,  is  this, 
that  he  seldom  ventures  to  praise  any  passage  in 
an  author  which  has  not  been  before  received  and 
applauded  by  the  public,  and  that  his  criticism 
turns  wholly  upon  little  faults  and  errors..  This 
part  of  a  critic  is  so  very  easy  to  succeed  in,  that 
we  find  every  ordinary  reader,  upon  the  publish¬ 
ing  of  a  new  poem,  has  wit  and  ill-nature  enough 
to  turn  several  passages  of  it  into  ridicule,  and 
very  often  in  the  right  place.  This  Mr.  Dryden 
has  very  agreeably  remarked  in  these  two  cele¬ 
brated  lines  : 

Errors,  like  straws,  upon  the  surface  flow; 

He  who  would  search  for  pearls,  must  dive  helow. 

A  true  critic  ought  to  dwell  rather  upon  excel¬ 
lencies  than  imperfections,  to  discover  the  con¬ 
cealed  beauties  of  a  writer,  and  communicate  to 
the  world  such  things  as  are  worth  their  observa¬ 
tion.  The  most  exquisite  words,  and  finest  strokes 
of  an  author,  are  those  which  very  often  appear 
the  most  doubtful  and  exceptionable  to  a  man  who 
wants  a  relish  for  polite  learning;  and  they  are 
these,  which  a  sour  undistinguishing  critic  gene¬ 
rally  attacks  with  the  greatest  violence.  Tully 
observes,  that  it  is  very  easy  to  brand  or  fix  a 
mark  upon  what  he  calls  verb um  ar dens,  or  as  it 
may  be  rendered  into  English,  “  a  glowing,  bold 
expression,”  and  to  turn  it  into  ridicule  by  a  cold 
ill-natured  criticism.  A  little  wit  is  equally  capa¬ 
ble  of  exposing  a  beauty  and  of  aggravating  a 
fault ;  and  though  such  a  treatment  of  an  author 
naturally  produces  indignation  in  the  mind  of  an 
understanding  reader,  it  has  however  its  effect 
among  the  generality  of  those  whose  hands  it  falls 
into,  the  rabble  of  mankind  being  very  apt. to 
think  that  everything  which  is  laughed  at,  with 
any  mixture  of  wit,  is  ridiculous  in  itself. 

Such  a  mirth  as  this  is  always  unseasonable  in 
a  critic,  as  it  rather  prejudices  the  reader  than 
convinces  him,  and  is  capable  of  making  a  beau¬ 
ty,  as  well  as  a  blemish,  the  subject  of  derision. 
A  man  who  cannot  write  with  wit  on  a  proper 
subject,  is  dull  and  stupid;  but  one  who  shows  it 
in  an  improper  place,  is  as  impei'4inent  and  ab¬ 
surd.  Beside,  a  man  who  has  the  gift  of  ridicule 
is  apt  to  find  fault  with  anything  that  gives  him 
an  opportunity  of  exerting  his  beloved  talent,  and 
very  often  censures  a  passage,  not  because  there 
is  any  fault  in  it,  but  because  he  can  be  merry 
upon  it.  Such  kinds  of  pleasantry  are  vei’y  unfair 
and  disingenuous  in  works  of  criticism,  in  which 
the  greatest  masters,  both  ancient  and  modern, 
have  always  appeared  with  a  serious  and  instruc¬ 
tive  air. 

As  I  intend  in  my  next  paper  to  show  the  de¬ 
fects  in  Milton’s  Paradise  Lost,  I  thought  fit  to 
premise  these  few  particulars,  to  the  end  that  the 
reader  may  know  1  enter  upon  it  as  on  a  very  un¬ 
grateful  work,  and  that  I  shall  just  point  at  the 
imperfections  without  endeavoring  to  inflame 
them  with  ridicule.  I  must  also  observe  with 
Longinus,  that  the  productions  of  a  great  genius, 
with  many  lapses  and  inadvertences,  are  infinitely 


preferable  to  the  works  of  an  inferior  kind, of  au¬ 
thor,  which  are  scrupulously  exact,  and  conform¬ 
able  to  all  the  rules  of  correct  writing. 

I  shall  conclude  my  paper  with  a  story  out  of 
Boccalini,  which  sufficiently  shows  us  the  opinion 
that  judicious  author  entertained  of  the  sort  of 
critics  I  have  been  here  mentioning.  A  famous 
critic,  says  he,  having  gathered  together  all  the 
faults  of  an  eminent  poet,  made  a  present  of 
them  to  Apollo,  who  received  them  very  gracious¬ 
ly,  and  resolved  to  make  the  author  a  suitable  re¬ 
turn  for  the  trouble  he  had  been  at  in  collecting 
them.  In  order  to  this,  he  set  before  him  a  sack 
of  wlxeat,  as  it  had  been  thrashed  out  of  the  sheaf. 
He  then  bid  him  pick  out  the  chaff  from  among 
the  corn,  and  lay  it  aside  by  itself.  The  critic 
applied  himself  to  the  task  with  great  industry 
and  pleasure,  and,  after  having  made  the  due 
separation,  was  presented  by  Apollo  with  the 
chaff  for  his  pains. — L. 


No.  292.]  MONDAY,  FEBRUARY  4,  1711-12. 

Illam,  quicquid  agit,  quoquo  vestigia  flectit, 

Componit  1'urtim,  subsequiturque  decor. 

Tibul.  4,  Eleg.  ii,  8. 

Whate’er  she  does,  where’er  her  steps  she  bends, 

Grace  on  each  action  silently  attends. 

As  no  one  can  be  said  to  enjoy  health,  who  is 
only  not  sick,  without  he  feel  within  himself  a 
lightsome  and  invigorating  principle,  which  will 
not  suffer  him  to  remain  idle,  but  still  spurs  him 
on  to  action;  so  in  the  practice  of  every  virtue, 
there  is  some  additional  grace  required  to  give  a 
claim  of  excelling  in  this  or  that  particular  action. 
A  diamond  may  want  polishing,  though  the  value 
may  be  intrinsically  the  same;  and  the  same  good 
may  be  done  with  different  degrees  of  luster.  No 
man  should  be  contented  with  himself  that  he 
barely  does  well,  but  he  should  perform  every¬ 
thing  in  the  best  and  most  becoming  manner  that 
he  is  able. 

Tully  tells  us  he  wrote  his  book  of  Offices,  be¬ 
cause  there  was  no  time  of  life  in  which  some  cor¬ 
respondent  duty  might  not  be  practiced:  nor  is 
there  a  duty  without  a  certain  decency  accompa¬ 
nying  it,  by  which  every  virtue  it  is  joined  to 
will  seem  to  be  doubled.  Another  may  do  the 
same  thing,  and  yet  the  action  want  that  air  and 
beauty  which  distinguish  it  from  others  ;  like 
that  inimitable  sunshine  Titian  is  said  to  have 
diffused  over  his  landscapes;  which  denotes  them 
his,  and  has  been  always  unequaled  by  any  other 
person. 

There  is  no  one  action  in  which  this  quality  I 
am  speaking  of  will  be  more  sensibly  perceived, 
than  in  granting  a  request,  or  doing  an  office  of 
kindness.  Mummius,  by  his  way  of  consenting 
to  a  benefaction,  shall  make  it  lose  its  name;  while 
Carus  doubles  the  kindness  and  the  obligation. 
From  the  first,  the  desired  request  drops  indeed 
at  last,  but  from  so  doubtful  a  brow,  that  the 
obliged  has  almost  as  much  reason  to  resent  the 
manner  of  bestowing  it,  as  to  be  thankful  for  the 
favor  itself.  Carus  invites  with  a  pleasing  air, 
to  give  him  an  opportunity  of  doing  an  act  of  hu¬ 
manity,  meets  the  petition  half  way,  and  con¬ 
sents  to  a  request  with  a  countenance  which  pro¬ 
claims  the  satisfaction  of  his  mind  in  assisting 
the  distressed. 

The  decency  then  that  is  to  be  observed  in  libe¬ 
rality,  seems  to  consist  in  its  being  performed  with 
such  cheerfulness,  as  may  express  the  godlike 
pleasure  to  be  met  with  in  obliging  one’s  fellow- 
creatures;  that  may  show  good-nature  and  benevo¬ 
lence  overflowed,  and  do  not,  as  in  some  men,  run 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


upon  the  tilt,  and  taste  of  the  sediments  of  a 
grudging,  incommunicative  disposition. 

Since  1  have  intimated  that  the  greatest  deco¬ 
rum  is  to  be  preserved  in  the  bestowing  our  good 
offices,  I  will  illustrate  it  a  little,  by  an  example 
drawn  from  private  life,  which  carries  with  it  such 
a  profusion  ot  liberality,  that  it  can  be  exceedec 
by  nothing  but  the  humanity  and  good-nature 
which  accompanies  it.  It  is  a  letter  of  Pliny, 
which  1  shall  here  translate,  because  the  action 
will  best  appear  in  its  first  dress  of  thought,  with¬ 
out  any  foreign  or  ambitious  ornaments. 

“  Pliny  to  Quintilian. 

“  Though  I  am  fully  acquainted  with  the  con- 
tentmgnt  and  just  moderation  of  your  mind,  and 
the  conformity  the  education  you  have  given  your 
daughter  bears  to  your  own  character;  yet  since 
she  is  suddenly  to  be  married  to  a  person  of  dis¬ 
tinction,  whose  figure  in  the  world  makes  it  ne¬ 
cessary  for  her  to  be  at  a  more  than  ordinary  ex- 
ense,  in  clothes  and  equipage  suitable  to  her  hus- 
and’s  quality;  by  which,  though  her  intrinsic 
worth  be  not  augmented,  yet  will  it  receive  both 
ornament  and  luster:  and  knowing  your  estate  to 
be  as  moderate  as  the  riches  of  your  mind  are 
abundant,  I  must  challenge  to  myself  some  part 
of  the  burden;  and  as  a  parent  of  your  child,  I 
present  her  with  twelve  hundred  and  fifty  crowns, 
toward  these  expenses;  which  sum  had  been  much 
larger,  had  I  not  feared  the  smallness  of  it  would 
be  the  greatest  inducement  with  you  to  accept  of 
it.  Farewell.5’ 

Thus  should  a  benefaction  be  done  with  a  good 
grace,  and  shine  in  the  strongest  point  of  light;  it 
should  not  only  answer  all  the  hopes  and  exigen¬ 
cies  of  the  receiver,  but  even  outrun  his  wishes. 
It  is  this  happy  manner  of  behavior  which  adds 
new  charms  to  it,  and  softens  those  gifts  of  art 
and  nature,  which  otherwise  would  be  rather  dis¬ 
tasteful  and  agreeable.  Without  it,  valor  would 
degenerate  into  brutality,  learning  into  pedantry, 
and  the  genteelest  demeanor  into  affectation. 
Even  Religion  itself,  unless  Decency  be  the  hand¬ 
maid  which  waits  upon  her,  is  apt  to  make  peo¬ 
ple  appear  guilty  of  sourness  and  ill-humor:  but 
this  shows  Virtue  in  her  first  original  form,  adds 
a  comeliness  to  Religion,  and  gives  its  professors 
the  justest  title  to  “  the  beauty  of  holiness.”  A 
man  fully  instructed  in  this  art,  may  assume  a 
thousand  shapes,  and  please  in  all ;  he  may  do  a 
thousand  actions  shall  become  none  other  but  him¬ 
self;  not  that  the  things  themselves  are  different, 
but  the  manner  of  doing  them. 

If  you  examine  each  feature  by  itself,  Aglaura 
and  Calliclea  are  equally  handsome ;  but  take 
them  in  the  whole,  and  you  cannot  suffer  the  com¬ 
parison:  the  one  is  full  of  numberless  nameless 
graces,  the  other  of  as  many  nameless  faults. 

The  comeliness  of  person,  and  the  decency  of 
behavior,  add  infinite  weight  to  what  is  pro¬ 
nounced  by  any  one.  It  is  the  want  of  this  that 
often  makes  the  rebukes  and  advice  of  old  ri«-id 
persons  of  no  effect,  and  leave  a  displeasure^in 
minds  of  those  they  are  directed  to  :  but  youth 
and  beauty,  if  accompanied  with  a  graceful  and 
becoming  severity,  are  of  mighty  force  to  raise, 
even  in  the  most  profligate,  a  sense  of  shame! 
in  Milton,  the  devil  is  never  described  ashamed 
but  once,  and  that  at  the  rebuke  of  a  beauteous 
angel : 

So  spake  the  cherub ;  and  his  grave  rebuke, 

Severe  in  youthful  beauty,  added  grace 
Invincible.  Abash’d  the  devil  stood, 

And  felt  how  awful  Goodness  is,  and  saw 

Virtue  in  her  own  shape  how  lovely !  saw  and  pin’d 

Ilis  loss. 


359 

The  care  of  doing  nothing  unbecoming  has  ac¬ 
companied  the  greatest  minds  to  their  last  mo¬ 
ments.  They  avoided  even  an  indecent  posture 
in  the  very  article  of  death.  Thus  Caisar  gather¬ 
ed  his  robe  about  him,  that  he  might  not  fall  in  a 
manner  unbecoming  of  himself;  and  the  greatest 
concern  that  appeared  in  the  behavior  of  Lucretia 
when  she  stabbed  herself,  was,  that  her  body 
should  lie  in  an  attitude  worthy  the  mind  wliicn 
had  inhabited  it : 

— - Ne  uon  procumbat  honeste, 

Extrema  htec  etiam  cura  cadentis  erat. 

Ovid,  Fast,  iii,  833. 

’T  was  her  last  thought,  how  decently  to  fall. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  a  young  woman  without  a  fortune;  but 
of  a  very  high  mind:  that  is,  good  Sir,  I  am  to 
the  last  degree  proud  and  vain.  I  am  ever  rail¬ 
ing  at  the  rich,  for  doing  things,  which,  upon 
search  into  my  heart,  I  find  I  am  only  angry  at, 
because  I  cannot  do  the  same  myself.  I  wear  the 
hooped  petticoat,  and  am  all  in  calicoes  when  the 
finest  are  in  silks.  It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  be 
poor  and  proud;  therefore,  if  you  please,  a  lecture 
on  that  subject  for  the  satisfaction  of  your  uneasy 
humble  Servant, 

Z.  “Jezebel.” 


No.  293.]  TUESDAY,  FEBRUARY  5,  1711-12. 

The  prudent  still  have  fortune  on  their  side. 

Frag.,  Vet.  Poet. 

The  famous  Grecian,  in  his  little  book  wherein 
he  lays  down  maxims  for  a  man’s  advancing  him¬ 
self  at  court,  advises  his  reader  to  associate  him¬ 
self  with  the  fortunate,  and  to  shun  the  company 
of  the  unfortunate  ;  which,  notwithstanding  the 
baseness  of  the  precept  to  an  honest  mind,  may 
rave  something  useful  in  it,  for  those  who  push 
their  interest  in  the  world.  It  is  certain,  a  great 
Dart  of  what  we  call  good  or  ill  fortune,  rises  out 
of  right  or  wrong  measures  and  schemes  of  life. 
When  I  hear  a  man  complain  of  his  being  unfor¬ 
tunate  in  all  his  undertakings,  I  shrewdly  sus¬ 
pect  him  for  a  very  weak  man  in  his  affairs.  In 
conformity  with  this  way  of  thinking.  Cardinal 
Richelieu  used  to  say,  that  unfortunate  and  im¬ 
prudent  were  but  two  words  for  the  same  thing. 
As  the  cardinal  himself  had  a  great  share  both 
of  prudence  and  good  fortune,  his  famous  antago¬ 
nist,  the  Count  d  Olivares,  was  disgraced  at  the 
court  of  Madrid,  because  it  was  alleged  against 
lim  that  he  had  never  any  success  in  his  under¬ 
takings.  This,  says  an  eminent  author,  was  in¬ 
directly  accusing  him  of  imprudence. 

Cicero  recommended  Pompey  to  the  Romans  for 
their  general  upon  three  accounts,  as  he  was  a 
man  of  courage,  conduct,  and  good  fortune.  It 
was,  perhaps,  for  the  reason  above-mentioned, 
namely,  that  a  series  of  good  fortune  supposes  a 
prudent  management  in  the  person  whom  it  befalls, 
that  not  only  Sylla  the  dictator,  but  several  of  the 
Roman  emperors,  as  is  still  to  be  seen  upon  their 
medals,  among  their  other  titles,  gave  themselves 
that  of  Felix  or  Fortunate.  The  heathens,  indeed, 
seem  to  have  valued  a  man  more  for  his  good  for¬ 
tune  than  for  any  other  quality,  which  I  think  is 
very  natural  for  those  who  have  not  a  strong 
belief  of  another  world.  For  how  can  I  conceive 
a  man  crowned  with  many  distinguishing  bless¬ 
ings  that  has  not  some  extraordinary  fund  of  merit 
and  perfection  in  him,  which  lies  open  to  the 
Supreme  eye,  though  perhaps  it  is  not  discovered 
by  my  observation?  What  is  the  reason  Homer’s 
and  Virgil’s  heroes  do  not  form  a  resolution,  or 
strike  a  blow,  without  the  conduct  and  direction 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


360 

of  some  deity?  Doubtless,  because  the  poets 
esteemed  it  the  greatest  honor  to  be  favored  by 
the  gods,  and  thought  the  best  way.  of  praising  a 
man  was,  to  recount  those  favors  which  naturally 
implied  an  extraordinary  merit  in  the  person  on 
whom  they  descended. 

Those  who  believe  a  future  state  of  rewards  and 
punishments  act  very  absurdly,  if  they  form  their 
opinions  of  a  man’s  merit  from  his  successes.  But 
certainly,  if  I  thought  the  whole  circle  of  our 
being  was  included  between  our  births  and  deaths. 

I  should  think  a  man’s  good  fortune  the  measure 
and  standard  of  his  real  merit,  since  Providence 
would  have  no  opportunity  of  rewarding  his  virtue 
and  perfections, but  in  the  present  life.  A  virtuous 
unbeliever,  who  lies  under  the  pressure  of  mis¬ 
fortunes,  has  reason  to  cry  out,  as  they  say  Brutus 
did,  a  little  before  his  death  :  “0  Virtue,  I  have 
worshiped  thee  as  a  substantial  good,  but  I  find 
thou  art  an  empty  name.” 

But  to  return  to  our  first  point.  Though  Pru¬ 
dence  does  undoubtedly  in  a  great  measure  pro¬ 
duce  our  good  or  ill  fortune  in  the  world,  it  is 
certain  there  are  many  unforeseen  accidents  and  oc¬ 
currences,  which  very  often  pervert  the  finest 
schemes  that  can  be  laid  by  human  wisdom.  “The 
race  is  not  always  to  the  swift  nor  the  battle  to 
the  strong.”  Nothing  less  than  infinite  wisdom 
can  have  an  absolute  command  over  fortune ;  the 
highest  degree  of  it  which  man  can  possess,  is  by 
no  means  equal  to  fortuitous  events,  and  to  such 
contingencies  as  may  rise  in  the  prosecution  of  our 
affairs.  Nay,  it  very  often  happens,  that  prudence, 
which  has  always  in  it  a  great  mixture  of  caution, 
hinders  a  man  from  being  so  fortunate,  as  he 
might  possibly  have  been  without  it.  A  person 
who  only  aims  at  what  is  likely  to  succeed,  and 
follows  closely  the  dictates  of  human  prudence, 
never  meets  with  those  great  and  unforeseen  suc¬ 
cesses,  which  are  often  the  effect  of  a  sanguine 
temper  or  a  more  happy  rashness ;  and  this  per¬ 
haps  may  be  the  reason,  that,  according  to  the 
common  observation,  Fortune,  like  other  females, 
delights  rather  in  favoring  the  voung  than  the 
old. 

Upon  the  whole,  since  man  is  so  short-sighted 
a  creature,  and  the  accidents  which  may  happen 
to  him  so  various,  I  cannot  but  be  of  Dr.  Tillot- 
son’s  opinion  in  another  case,  that  were  there 
any  doubt  of  Providence,  yet  it  certainly  would 
be  very  desirable  there  should  be  such  a  Being 
of  infinite  wisdom  and  goodness,  on  whose  direc¬ 
tion  we  might  rely  in  the  conduct  of  human 
life. 

It  is  a  great  presumption  to  ascribe  our  suc¬ 
cesses  to  our  own  management,  and  not  to  esteem 
ourselves  upon  any  blessing,  rather  as  it  is  the 
bounty  of  Heaven  than  the  acquisition  of  our  own 
prudence.  I  am  very  well  pleased  with  a  medal 
which  was  struck  by  Queen  Elizabeth,  a  little 
after  the  defeat  of  the  invincible  armada,  to  per¬ 
petuate  the  memory  of  that  extraordinary  event. 
It  is  well  known  how  the  King  of  Spain,  and 
others  who  were  the  enemies  of  that  great  prin¬ 
cess,  to  derogate  from  her  glory,  ascribed  the  ruin 
of  their  fleet  rather  to  the  violence  of  storms  and 
tempests,  than  to  the  bravery  of  the  English. 
Queen  Elizabeth,  instead  of  looking  upon  this  as 
a  diminution  of  her  honor,  valued  herself  upon 
such  a  signal  favor  of  Providence,  and  according¬ 
ly,  in  the  reverse  of  the  medal  above-mentioned, 
has  represented  a  fleet  beaten  by  a  tempest,  and 
falling  foul  upon  one  another,  with  that  religious 
inscription,  “Afflavit  Deus,  et  dissipantur.'’  “  He 
blew  with  his  wind,  and  they  were  scattered.” 

It  is  remarked  of  a  famous  Grecian  general, 


whose  name  I  cannot  at  present  recollect,*  and 
who  had  been  a  particular  favorite  of  Fcfrtune,, 
that  upon  recounting  his  victories  among  his 
friends,  he  added  at  the  end  of  several  great 
actions,  “And  in  this  fortune  had  no  share.” 
After  which  it  is  observed  in  history,  that  he 
never  prospered  in  anything  he  undertook. 

As  arrogance  and  a  conceitedness  of  our  own 
abilities  are  very  shocking  and  offensive  to  men 
of  sense  and  virtue,  we  may  be  sure  they  are 
highly  displeasing  to  that  Being  who  delights  in 
a  humble  mind,  and  by  several  of  his  dispensa¬ 
tions  seems  purposely  to  show  us,  that  our  own 
schemes,  or  prudence,  have  no  share  in  our  ad¬ 
vancements. 

Since  on  this  subject  I  have  already  admitted 
several  quotations,  which  have  occurred  \o  ray 
memory  upon  writing  this  paper,  I  will  conclude 
it  with  a  little  Persian  fable.  A  drop  of  water 
fell  out  of  a  cloud  into  the  sea,  and  finding  itself 
lost  in  such  an  immensity  of  fluid  matter,  broke 
out  into  the  following  reflection:  “Alas!  What  an 
inconsiderable]-  creature  am  I  in  this  prodigious 
ocean  of  waters !  My  existence  of  no  concern  to 
the  universe;  I  am  reduced  to  a  kind  of  nothing, 
and  am  less  than  the  least  of  the  works  of  God.” 
It  so  happened  that  an  oyster,  which  lay  in  the 
neighborhood  of  this  drop,  chanced  to  gape  and 
swallow  it  up  in  the  midst  of  this  its  humble  so¬ 
liloquy.  The  drop,  says  the  fable,  lay  a  great 
while  hardening  in  the  shell,  until  by  degrees  it 
was  ripened  into  a  pearl,  which  falling  into  the 
hands  of  a  diver,  after  a  long  series  of  adventures, 
is  at  present  that  famous  pearl  which  is  fixed  on 
the  top  of  the  Persian  diadem. — L. 


No.  294.]  WEDNESDAY,  FEB  6,  1711-12. 

Difficile  est  plurimum  virtutem  revereri  qui  semper  secun- 
da  fortuna  sit  usus. — Tull,  ad  Herennium. 

The  man  who  is  always  fortunate,  cannot  easily  have  much 
reverence  for  virtue. 

Insolence  is  the  crime  of  all  others  which  every 
man  is  apt  to  rail  at;  and  yet  there  is  one  respect 
in  which  almost  all  men  living  are  guilty  of  it, 
and  that  is  in  the  case  of  laying  a  greater  value 
upon  the  gifts  of  fortune  than  we  ought.  It  is 
here  in  England  come  into  our  very  language  as  a 
propriety  of  distinction,  to  say,  when  we  would 
speak  of  persons  to  their  advantage,  “They  are 
people  of  condition.”  There  is  no  doubt  but  the 
proper  use  of  riches  implies,  that  a  man  should 
exert  all  the  good  qualities  imaginable ;  and  if  we 
mean  by  a  man  of  condition  or  quality,  one  who, 
according  to  the  wealth  he  is  master  of,  shows 
himself  just,  beneficent,  and  charitable,  that  term 
ought  very  deservedly  to  be  had  in  the  highest 
veneration;  but  when  wealth  is  used  only  as  it  is 
the  support  of  pomp  and  luxury,  to  be  rich  is  very 
far  from  being  a  recommendation  to  honor  and  re¬ 
spect.  It  is  indeed  the  greatest  insolence  imagin¬ 
able,  in  a  creature  who  would  feel  the  extremes  of 
thirst  and  hunger,  if  he  did  not  prevent  his  ap¬ 
petites,  before  they  call  upon  him,  to  be  so  forget¬ 
ful  of  the  common  necessities  of  human  nature,  as 
never  to  cast  an  eye  upon  the  poor  and  needy. 
The  fellow  who  escaped  from  a  ship  which  struck 
upon  a  rock  in  the  west,  and  joined  with  the 
country  people  to  destroy  his  brother  sailors,  and 
make  her  a  wreck,  was  thought  a  most  execrable 


*  Timotheus  the  Athenian.  See  Shaw’s  edit,  of  Lord  Ba¬ 
con’s  Works,  4to.,  vol.  i,  p.  219. 

f  Altered  from  insignificant,  according  to  a  direction  in 
Spect.  in  folio.,  No.  295. 


THE  SPE 

creature;  but  does  not  every  man  who  enjoys  the 
possession  of  what  he  naturally  wants  and  is  un¬ 
mindful  of  the  unsupplied  distress  of  other  men, 
betray  the  same  temper'  of  mind?  When  a  man 
looks  about  him,  and,  with  regard  to  riches  and 
poverty,  beholds  some  drawn  in  pomp  and  equip¬ 
age,  and  they,  and  their  very  servants,  with  an  air  of 
scorn  and  triumph,  overlooking  the  multitude  that 
pass  by  them;  and  in  tlio  same  street  a  creature  of 
the  same  make,  crying  out,  in  the  name  of  all  that 
is  good  and  sacred,  to  behold  his  misery,  and  give 
him  some  supply  against  hunger  and  nakedness; 
who  would  believe  these  two  beings  were  of  the 
same  species?  But  so  it  is,  that  the  consideration 
of  fortune  has  taken  up  all  our  minds,  and  as  I 
have  often  complained,  poverty  and  riches  stand 
in  our  imaginations  in  the  places  of  guilt  and  in¬ 
nocence.  But  in  all  seasons  there  will  be  some 
instances  of  persons  who  have  souls  too  large  to 
be  taken  with  popular  prejudices,  and,  while  the 
rest  of  mankind  are  contending  for  superiority  in 
power  and  wealth,  have  their  thoughts  bent  upon 
the  necessities  of  those  below  them.  The  charity 
schools,  which  have  been  erected  of  late  years,  are 
the  greatest  instances  of  public  spirit  the  age  has 

f)roduced.  But,  indeed,  when  we  consider  how 
ong  this  sort  of  beneficence  has  been  on  foot,  it  is 
rather  from  the  good  management  of  those  in¬ 
stitutions,  than  from  the  number  or  value  of  the 
benefactions  to  them,  that  they  make  so  great  a 
figure.  One  would  think  it  impossible  that  in  the 
space  of  fourteen  years  there  should  'not  have  been 
five  thousand  pounds  bestowed  in  gifts  this  way, 
nor  sixteen  hundred  children,  including  males  and 
females,  put  out  to  methods  of  industry.  It  is 
not  allowed  me  to  speak  of  luxury  and  folly  with 
the  severe  spirit  they  deserve;  I  shall  only  there¬ 
fore  say,  I  shall  very  readily  compound  with  any 
lady  in  a  hooped  petticoat,  if  she  give  the  price 
of  one  half  yard  of  the  silk  toward  clothing,  feed¬ 
ing,  and  instructing  an  innocent  helpless  creature 
of  her  own  sex,  in  one  of  these  schools.  The 
consciousness  of  such  an  action  will  give  her 
features  a  nobler  life  on  this  illustrious  day,*  than 
all  the  jewels  that  can  hang  in  her  hair,  or  can  be 
clustered  in  her  bosom.  It  would  be  uncourtly 
to  speak  in  harsher  words  to  the  fair,  but  to  men 
one  may  take  a  little  more  freedom.  It  is  mon¬ 
strous  how  a  man  can  live  with  so  little  reflection, 
as  to  tancy  he  is  not  in  a  condition  very  unjust 
and  disproportioned  to  the  rest  of  mankind,  while 
he  enjoys  wealth,  and  exerts  no  benevolence  or 
bounty  to  others.  As  for  this  particular  occasion 
oi  these  schools,  there  cannot  any  offer  more 
worthy  a  generous  mind.  Would  you  do  a  hand¬ 
some  thing  without  return;  do  it  for  an  infant  that 
is  not  sensible  of  the  obligation.  Would  you  do 
it  for  public  good:  do  it  for  one  who  will  be  an 
honest  artificer.  Would  you  do  it  for  the  sake  of 
heaven;  give  it  to  one  who  shall  be  instructed  in 
the  worship  of  him  for  whose  sake  you  gave  it. 

It  is,  methmks,  a  most  laudable  institution  this, 
if  it  were  of  no  other  expectation  than  that  of 
producing  a  race  of  good  and  useful  servants,  who 
will  have  more  than  a  liberal,  a  religious  educa¬ 
tion.  What  would  not  a  man  do  in  common  pru¬ 
dence,  to  lay  out  in  purchase  of  one  about  him, 
who  would"  add  to  all  his  orders  he  gave,  the 
weight  of  the  commandments,  to  enforce  an  obe¬ 
dience  to  them  ?  for  one  who  would  consider  his 
master  as  his  father,  his  friend,  and  benefactor, 
upon  easy  terms,  and  in  expectation  of  no  other 
return,  but  moderate  wages  and  gentle  usage?  It 
is  the  common  vice  of  children,  to  run  too  much 


*  The  birthday  of  her  majesty  Queen  Anne,  who  was  born 
Feb.  6,  1665,  and  died  Aug.  1, 1714,  aged  49. 


3TATOR.  361 

among  the  servants;  from  such  as  are  educated  in 
these  places  they  would  see  nothing  but  lowliness 
in  the  servant,  which  would  not  be  disingenuous 
in  the  child.  All  the  ill  offices  and  defamatory 
whispers,  which  take  their  birth  from  domestics, 
^would  be  prevented,  if  this  charity  could  be  made 
universal:  and  a  good  man  might  have  a  know¬ 
ledge  of  the  whole  life  of  the  persons  he  designs 
to  take  into  his  house  for  his  own  service,  or  that 
of  his  family  or  children,  long  before  they  were 
admitted.  1  his  would  create  endearing  depen- 
dencies;  and  the  obligation  would  have  a  paternal 
air  in  the  master,  who  would  be  relieved  from 
much  care  and  anxiety  by  the  gratitude  and  dili¬ 
gence  of  a  humble  friend,  attending  him  as  his 
servant.  I  fall  into  this  discourse  from  a  letter 
sent  to  me,  to  give  me  notice  that  fifty  boys  would 
be  clothed,  and  take  their  seats  (at  the  charge  of 
some  generous  benefactors)  in  St.  Bride’s  church, 
on  Sunday  next.  I  wish  I  could  promise  to  my¬ 
self  anything  which  my  correspondent  seems  to 
expect  from  a  publication  of  it  in  this  paper;  for 
there  can  be  nothing  added  to  what  so  many  ex¬ 
cellent  and  learned  men  have  said  on  this  occa¬ 
sion.  But  that  there  may  be  something  here  which 
would  move  a  generous  mind,  like  that  of  him 
who  wrote  to  me,  I  shall  transcribe  a  handsome 
paragraph  of  Dr.  Snape’s  sermon  on  these  chari¬ 
ties,  which  my  correspondent  inclosed  with  his 
letter. 

“  The  wise  Providence  has  amply  compensated 
the  disadvatages  of  the  poor,  and  indigent,  in 
wanting  many  of  the  conveniencies  of  this  life, 
by  a  more  abundant  provision  for  their  happiness 
in  the  next.  Had  they  been  higher  born,  or  more 
richly  endowed,  they  would  have  wanted  this  man¬ 
ner  of  education,  of  which  those  only  enjoy  the 
benefit,  who  are  low  enough  to  submit  to  it;  where 
they  have  such  advantages  without  money,  and 
without  price,  as  the  rich  cannot  purchase  with  it. 
The  learning  which  is  given,  is  generally  more 
edifying  to  them,  than  that  which  is  sold  to  others. 
Thus  do  they  become  exalted  in  goodness,  by 
being  depressed  in  fortune,  and  their  poverty  is, 
in  reality,  their  preferment.” 


No.  295.]  THURSDAY,  FEBRUARY  7,  1711-12. 

Prodiga  non  sentit  pereuntem  foemina  censum : 

At  velut  exhausta  redivivus  pullulet  arda 
Nummus,  et  e  pleno  semper  tollatur  acervo, 

Non  unquam  reputat,  quanti  sibi  gaudia  constent. 

Juv.,  Sat.  vi,  361. 

But  womankind,  that  never  knows  a  mean, 

Down  to  the  dregs  their  sinking  fortunes  drain. 

Hourly  they  give,  and  spend,  and  waste  and  wear, 

And  think  no  pleasure  can  be  bought  too  dear. 

Dkyden. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  turned  of  my  great  climacteric,  and  am 
naturally  a  man  of  a  meek  temper.  About  a  do¬ 
zen  years  ago  I  was  married,  for  my  sins,  to  a 
young  woman  of  good  family,  and  of  a  high 
spirit;  but  could  not  bring  her  to  close  with  me, 
before  I  had  entered  into  a  treaty  with  her,  longer 
than  that  of  the  grand  alliance."  Among  other  ar¬ 
ticles,  it  was  therein  stipulated,  that  she  should 
have  400Z.  a-year  for  pin-money,  which  I  obliged 
myself  to  pay  quarterly  into  the  hands  of  one 
who  acted  as  her  plenipotentiary  in  that  affair.  I 
have  ever  since  religiously  observed  my  part  in 
this  solemn  agreement.  Now,  Sir,  so  it  is,  that 
the  lady  has  had  several  children  since  I  married 
her;  to  which,  if  I  should  credit  our  malicious 
neighbors,  her  pin-money  has  not  a  little  contri¬ 
buted.  The  education  of  these  my  children  who, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


362 

contrary  to  ray  expectation,  are  born  to  me  every  ; 
year,  straitens  me  so  much,  that  I  have  begged 
their  mother  to  free  me  from  the  obligation  of  the 
above-mentioned  pin-money,  that  it  may  go  to¬ 
ward  making  a  provision  for  her  family.  This 
proposal  makes  her  noble  blood  swell  in  her  veins, 
insomuch  that,  finding  me  a  little  tardy  in  my  last 
quarter’s  payment,  she  threatens  me  every  day  to 
arrest  me;  and  proceeds  so  far  as  to  tell  me  that  if 
I  do  not  do  her  justice,  I  shall  die  in  a  jail.  To 
this  she  adds,  when  her  passion  will  let  her  argue 
calmly,  that  she  has  several  plav-debts  on  her 
hands,  which  must  be  discharged  very  suddenly, 
and  that  she  cannot  lose  her  money  as  becomes  a 
woman  of  fashion,  if  she  makes  me  any  abate¬ 
ment  in  this  article.  I  hope,  Sir,  you  will  take  an 
occasion  from  hence  to  give  your  opinion  upon  a 
subject  which  you  have  not  yet  touched,  and  inform 
us  if  there  are  any  precedents  for  this  usage  among 
our  ancestors;  or  whether  you  find  any  mention  of 
pin-money  in  Grotius,  Puffendorf,  or  any  other  of 
the  civilians. 

“  I  am  ever  the  humblest  of  your  Admirers, 

“  Josiah  Fribble,  Esq.” 

As  there  is  no  man  living  who  is  a  more  pro¬ 
fessed  advocate  for  the  fair  sex  than  myself,  so 
there  is  none  that  would  be  more  unwilling  to  in¬ 
vade  any  of  their  ancient  rights  and  privileges; 
but  as  the  doctrine  of  pin-money  is  of  a  late  date, 
unknown  to  our  great-grandmothers,  and  not  yet 
received  by  many  of  our  modern  ladies,  I  think  it 
is  for  the  interest  of  both  sexes  to  keep  it  from 
spreading. 

Mr.  Fribble  may  not,  perhaps,  be  much  mista¬ 
ken  where  he  intimates,  that  the  supplying  a 
man’s  wife  with  pin-money,  is  furnishing  her  with 
arms  against  himself,  and  in  a  manner,  becoming 
accessory  to  his  own  dishonor.  We  may,  indeed, 
generally  observe,  that  in  proportion  as  a  woman 
is  more  or  less  beautiful,  and  her  husband  ad¬ 
vanced  in  years,  she  stands  in  need  of  a  greater  or 
less  number  of  pins,  and,  upon  a  treaty  of  mar¬ 
riage,  rises  or  falls  in  her  demands  accordingly. 
It  must  likewise  be  owned,  that  high  quality  in  a 
mistress  does  very  much  inflame  this  article  in 
the  marriage-reckoning. 

But  where  the  age  and  circumstances  of  both 
parties  are  pretty  much  upon  a  level,  I  cannot  but 
think  the  insisting  upon  pin-money  is  very  extra¬ 
ordinary;  and  yet  we  find  several  matches  broken 
off  upon  this  very  head.  What  would  a  foreigner, 
or  one  who  is  a  stranger  to  this  practice,  think  of 
a  lover  that  forsakes  his  mistress,  because  he  is 
not  willing  to  keep  her  in  pins?  But  what  would 
he  think  of  the  mistress,  should  he  be  informed 
that  she  asks  five  or  six  hundred  pounds  a  year 
for  this  use?  Should  a  man  unacquainted  with 
our  customs  be  told  the  sums  which  are  allowed 
in  Great  Britain,  under  the  title  of  pin-money, 
what  a  prodigious  consumption  of  pins  would  he 
think  there  was  in  this  island  ?  “  A  pin  a  day,” 

says  our  frugal  proverb,  “  is  a  groat  a  year ;”  so 
that,  according  to  this  calculation,  my  friend 
Fribble’s  wife  must  every  year  make  use  of  eight 
million  six  hundred  and  forty  thousand  new 
pins. 

I  am  not  ignorant  that  our  British  ladies  allege 
they  comprehend  under  this  general  term  several 
other  conveniences  of  life;  I  could  therefore  wish, 
for  the  honor  of  my  countrywomen,  that  they  had 
rather  called  it  needle-money,  which  might  have 
implied  something  of  good  housewifery,  and  not 
have  given  the  malicious  world  occasion  to  think, 
that  dress  and  trifles  have  always  the  uppermost 
place  in  a  woman’s  thoughts. 

1  know  several  of  my  fair  readers  urge  in  de¬ 


fense  of  this  practice,  that  it  is  but  a  necessary 
provision  they  make  for  themselves,  in  case  their 
husband  proves  a  churl,  or  miser;  so  that  they  con¬ 
sider  this  allowance  as  a  kind  of  alimony,  which 
they  may  lay  their  claim  to,  without  actually  sep¬ 
arating  from  their  husbands.  But,  with  submis¬ 
sion,  I  think  a  woman  who  will  give  up  herself  to 
a  man  in  marriage,  where  there  is  the  least  room 
for  such  an  apprehension,  and  trust  her  person  to 
one  whom  she  will  not  rely  on  for  the  common 
necessaries  of  life,  may  very  properly  be  accused 
(in  the  phrase  of  a  homely  proverb)  of  being 
“  penny  wise  and  pound  foolish.” 

It  is  observed  of  over-cautious  generals,  that 
they  never  engage  in  battle  without  securing  a  re¬ 
treat,  in  case  the  event  should  not  answer  their 
expectations;  on  the  other  hand,  the  greatest  con¬ 
querors  have  burnt  their  ships,  or  broke  down  the 
bridges  behind  them,  as  being  determined  either 
to  succeed  or  die  in  the  engagement.  In  the  same 
manner  I  should  very  much  suspect  a  woman  who 
takes  such  precautions  for  her  retreat,  and  con¬ 
trives  methods  how  she  may  live  happily,  without 
the  affection  of  one  to  whom  she  joins  herself  for 
life.  Separate  purses  between  man  and  wife  are, 
in  my  opinion,  as  unnatural  as  separate  beds.  A 
marriage  cannot  be  happy,  where  the  pleasures, 
inclinations,  and  interests  of  both  parties  are  not 
the  same.  There  is  no  greater  incitement  to  love 
in  the  mind  of  man,  than  the  sense  of  a  person’s 
depending  upon  him  for  her  ease  and  happiness; 
as  a  woman  uses  all  her  endeavors  to  please  the 
person  whom  she  looks  upon  as  her  honor,  her 
comfort,  and  her  support. 

For  this  reason,  1  am  not  very  much  surprised 
at  the  behavior  of  a  rough  country  ’squire,  who, 
being  not  a  little  shocked  at  the  proceeding  of  a 
young  widow  that  would  not  recede  from  her  de¬ 
mands  of  pin-money,  was  so  enraged  at  her  mer¬ 
cenary  temper,  that  he  told  her  in  great  wrath, 
“  As  much  as  she  thought  him  her  slave,  he  would 
show  all  the  world  he  did  not  care  a  pin  for  her.” 
Upon  which  he  flew  out  of  the  room,  and  never 
saw  her  more. 

Socrates  in  Plato’s  Alcibiades,  says  he  was  in¬ 
formed  by  one  who  had  traveled  through  Persia, 
that  as  he  passed  over  a  great  tract  of  land,  and 
inquired  what  the  name  of  the  place  was,  they 
told  him  it  was  the  Queen’s  Girdle  :  to  which  he 
adds,  that  another  wide  field  which  lay  by  it,  was 
called  the  Queen’s  Vail;  and  that  in  the  same 
manner  there  was  a  large  portion  of  ground  set 
aside  for  every  part  of  her  majesty’s  dress.  These 
lands  might  not  be  improperly  called  the  Queen 
of  Persia’s  pin-money. 

I  remember  my  friend  Sir  Roger,  who,  I  dare 
say,  never  read  this  passage  in  Plato,  told  me  some 
time  since,  that  upon  his  courting  the  perverse 
widow  (of  whom  I  have  given  an  account  in 
former  papers)  he  had  disposed  of  a  hundred  acres 
in  a  diamond  ring,  which  he  would  have  presented 
her  with,  had  she  thought  fit  to  accept  it;  and  that 
upon  her  wedding-day,  she  should  have  carried 
on  her  head  fifty  of  the  tallest  oaks  upon  his 
estate.  He  further  informed  me,  that  he  would 
have  given  her  a  coal-pit  to  keep  her  in  cle.an 
linen,  that  he  would  have  allowed  her  the  profits 
of  a  windmill  for  her  fans,  and  have  presented  her 
once  in  three  years  with  the  shearing  of  his  sheep 
for  her  under-petticoats.  To  which  the  knight 
always  adds,  that  though  he  did  not  care  for  fine 
clothes  himself,  there  should  not  have  been  a 
woman  in  the  country  better  dressed  than  my 
Lady  Coverley.  Sir  Roger,  perhaps,  may  in  this, 
as  well  as  in  many  other  of  his  devices,  appear 
somewhat  odd  and  singular;  but  if  the  humor  of 
pin-money  prevails,  1  think  it  would  be  very 


THE  SPE 

proper  for  every  gentleman  of  an  estate  to  mark 
out  so  many  acres  of  it  under  the  title  of  “  The 
Pins.”— L. 


No.  296. J  FRIDAY,  FEBRUARY  8,  1711-12. 

— Nugis  addere  poudus. — IIor.  1  Ep.  xix,  42. 

Add  weight  to  trifles. 

“Dear  Spec., 

“Having  lately  conversed  much  with  the  fair 
sex  on  the  subject  of  your  speculations  (which, 
since  their  appearance  in  public,  have  been  the 
chief  exercise  of  the  female  loquacious  faculty),  I 
found  the  fair  ones  possessed  with  a  dissatisfac¬ 
tion  at  your  prefixing  Greek  mottoes  to  the  frontis- 

ffieces  of  your  late  papers;  and  as  a  man  of  gal- 
antry,  I  thought  it  a  duty  incumbent  on  me  to 
impart  it  to  you  in  hopes  of  a  reformation,  which 
is  only  to  be  effected  by  a  restoration  of  the  Latin 
to  the  usual  dignity  in  your  papers,  which  of  late 
the  Greek,  to  the  great  displeasure  of  your  female 
readers,  has  usurped;  for  though  the  Latin  has  the 
recommendation  of  being  as  unintelligible  to 
them  as  the  Greek,  yet  being  written  in  the  same 
character  with  their  mother  tongue,  by  the  assist¬ 
ance  of  a  spelling-book  it  is  legible;  which  qua¬ 
lity  the  Greek  wants :  and  since  the  introduction 
of  operas  into  this  nation,  the  ladies  are  so 
charmed  with  sounds  abstracted  from  their  ideas, 
that  they  adore  and  honor  the  sound  of  Latin,  as 
it  is  old  Italian.  I  am  a  solicitor  for  the  fair  sex, 
and  therefore  think  myself  in  that  character  more 
likely  to  be  prevalent  in  this  request,  than  if  I 
should  subscribe  myself  by  my  proper  name. 

“J.  M.” 

“  I  desire  you  may  insert  this  in  one  of  your 
speculations,  to  show  my  zeal  for  removing  the 
dissatisfaction  of  the  fair  sex,  and  restoring  you 
to  their  favor.” 

“Sir, 

“I  was  some  time  since  in  company  with  a 
young  officer,  who  entertained  us  with  the  con¬ 
quest  he  had  made  over  a  female  neighbor  of  his  : 
when  a  gentleman  who  stood  by,  as  I  suppose, 
envying  the  captain’s  good  fortune,  asked  him 
what  reason  he  had  to  believe  the  lady  admired 
him?  ‘Why,’  says  he,  ‘my  lodgings  are  opposite 
to  hers,  and  she  is  continually  at  her  window  either 
at  work,  reading,  taking  snuff,  or  putting  herself 
in  some  toying  posture,  on  purpose  to  draw  my 
eyes  that  way.’  The  confession  of  this  vain  sol¬ 
dier  made  me  reflect  on  some  of  my  own  actions: 
for  you  must  know,  Sir,  I  am  often  at  a  window 
which  fronts  the  apartments  of  several  gentlemen, 
who  I  doubt  not  have  the  same  opinion  of  me.  I 
must  own  I  love  to  look, at  them  all,  one  for  being 
well  dressed,  a  second  for  his  fine  eye,  and  one 
particular  one,  because  he  is  the  least  man  I  ever 
saw;  but  there  is  something  so  easy  and  pleasant 
in  the  manner  of  my  little  man,  that  I  observe  he 
is  a  favorite  of  all  His  acquaintance.  I  could  go 
on  to  tell  you  of  many  others,  that  I  believe  think 
I  have  encouraged  them  from  my  window :  but 
pray  let  me  have  your  opinion  of  the  use  of  a  win¬ 
dow,  in  the  apartment  of  a  beautiful  lady;  and 
how  often  she  may  look  out  at  the  same  man, 
without  being  supposed  to  have  a  mind  to  jump 
out  to  him. 

“Yours, 

“  Aurelia  Careless.” 
Twice. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  have  for  some  time  made  love  to  a  lady,  who 
received  it  with  all  the  kind  returns  I  ought  to 


CTATOR.  363 

expect:  but,  without  any  provocation  that  I  know 
of,  she  has  of  late  shunned  me  with  the  utmost 
abhorrence,  insomuch  that  she  went  out  of  church 
last  Sunday,  in  the  midst  of  divine  service,  upon 
my  coming  into  the  same  pew.  Pray,  Sir,  what 
must  I  do  in  this  business  ? 

“  Your  Servant, 

“  Euphues.” 

Let  her  alone  ten  days. 

“York,  Jan.  20,  1711-12. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“We  have  in  this  town  a  sort  of  people  who 
retend  to  wit,  and  write  lampoons;  I  have  lately 
een  the  subject  of  one  of  them.  The  scribbler 
had  not  genius  enough  in  verse  to  turn  my  age,  as 
indeed  I  am  an  old  maid,  into  raillery,  for  affect¬ 
ing  a  youthier  turn  than  is  consistent  with  my 
time  of  day;  and  therefore  he  makes  the  title  of 
his  madrigal,  the  character  of  Mrs.  Judith  Love- 
bane,  born  in  the  year  1680.  What  I  desire  of  you 
is,  that  you  disallow  that  a  coxcomb,  who  pre¬ 
tends  to  write  verse,  should  put  the  most  mali¬ 
cious  thing  he  can  say  in  prose.  This  I  humbly 
conceive  will  disable  our  country  wits,  who,  in¬ 
deed,  take  a  great  deal  of  pains  to  say  anything 
in  rhyme,  though  they  say  it  very  ill. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

“  Susanna  Lovebane.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“We  are  several  of  us,  gentlemen  and  ladies, 
who  board  in  the  same  house,  and  after  dinner  one 
of  our  company  (an  agreeable  man  enough  other¬ 
wise)  stands  up  and  reads  your  paper  to  us  all. 
We  are  the  ci vilest  people  in  the  world  to  one  an¬ 
other,  and  therefore  I  am  forced  to  this  way  of 
desiring  our  reader  when  he  is  doing  this  office, 
not  to  stand  afore  the  fire.  This  will  be  a  general 
good  to  our  family  this  cold  weather.  He  will, 
I  know,  take  it  to  be  our  common  request  when 
he  comes  to  these  words,  ‘  Pray,  Sir,  sit  down;’ 
which  I  desire  you  to  insert,  and  you  will  par¬ 
ticularly  oblige, 

“Your  daily  Reader, 

“Charity  Frost.” 

“  Sir, 

“  I  am  a  great  lover  of  dancing,  but  cannot 
perform  so  well  as  some  others;  however,  by  my 
out-of-the-way  capers,  and  some  original  grimaces, 
I  do  not  fail  to  divert  the  company,  particularly 
the  ladies,  who  laugh  immoderately  all  the  time. 
Some,  who  pretend  to  be  my  friends,  tell  me  they 
do  it  in  derision,  and  would  advise  me  to  leave  it 
off,  withal  that  I  make  myself  ridiculous.  I  do 
not  know  what  to  do  in  this  affair,  but  I  am  re¬ 
solved  not  to  give  over  upon  any  account,  until  I 
have  the  opinion  of  the  Spectator. 

“  Your  humble  Servant, 
“John  Trott.” 

“  If  Mr.  Trott  is  not  awkward  out  of  time,  he  has 
a  right  to  dance  let  who  will  laugh;  but  if  he  has 
no  ear  he  will  interrupt  others;  and  I  am  of  opin¬ 
ion  he  should  sit  still.  Given  under  my  hand  this 
fifth  of  February,  1711-12. 

T.  “The  Spectator.” 


No.  297.]  SATURDAY,  FEBRUARY  9,  1711-12. 

- velut  si 

Egregio  inspersos  reprendas  corpore  nacvos. 

IIor.  1  Sat.  vi,  66. 

As  perfect  'beauties  somewhere  have  a  mole. — Creech. 

After  what  I  have  said  in  my  last  Saturday’s 
paper,  I  shall  enter  on  the  subject  of  this  without 


THE  SPECTATOR 


364 

further  preface,  and  remark  the  several  defects 
which  appear  in  the  fable,  the  characters,  the  sen¬ 
timents,  and  the  language  of  Milton’s  Paradise 
Lost;  not  doubting  but  the  reader  will  pardon  me, 
if  I  allege  at  the  same  time  whatever  may  be  said 
for  the  extenuation  of  such  defects.  The  first  im¬ 
perfection  which  I  shall  observe  in  the  fable  is, 
that  the  event  of  it  is  unhappy. 

The  fable  of  every  poem  is,  according  to  Aristo¬ 
tle’s  division,  either  simple  or  implex.  It  is  call¬ 
ed  simple  when  there  is  no  change  of  fortune  in 
it:  implex,  when  the  fortune  of  the  chief  actor 
changes  from  bad  to  good,  or  from  good  to  bad. 
The  implex  fable  is  thought  the  most  perfect :  I 
suppose,  because  it  is  more  proper  to  stir  up  the 
passions  of  the  reader,  and  to  surprise  him  with 
a  great  variety  of  accidents. 

The  implex  fable  is  therefore  of  two  kinds  :  in 
the  first,  the  chief  actor  makes  his  way  through  a 
long  series  of  dangers  and  difficulties,  until  he  ar¬ 
rives  at  honor  and  prosperity,  as  we  see  in  the 
stories  of  Ulysses  and  HEneas;  in  the  second,  the 
chief  actor  in  the  poem  falls  from  some  eminent 
pitch  of  honor  and  prosperity,  into  misery  and 
disgrace.  Thus  we  see  Adam  and  Eve  sinking 
from  a  state  of  innocence  and  happiness,  into  the 
most  abject  condition  of  sin  and  sorrow. 

The  most  taking  tragedies  among  the  ancients 
were  built  on  this  last  sort  of  implex  fable,  par¬ 
ticularly  the  tragedy  of  CEdipus,  which  proceeds 
upon  a  story,  if  we  may  believe  Aristotle,  the 
most  proper  for  tragedy  that  could  be  invented  by 
the  wit  of  man.  1  have  taken  some  pains  in  a 
former  paper  to  show,  that  this  kind  of  implex 
fable,  wherein  the  event  is  unhappy,  is  more  apt  to 
affect  an  audience  than  that  of  the  first  kind;  not¬ 
withstanding  many  excellent  pieces  among  the 
ancients,  as  well  as  most  of  those  which  have 
been  written  of  late  years  in  our  own  country,  are 
raised  upon  contrary  plans.  I  must  however  own, 
that  I  think  this  kind  of  fable,  which  is  the  most 
perfect  in  tragedy,  is  not  so  proper  for  an  heroic 
poem. 

Milton  seems  to  have  been  sensible  of  this  im¬ 
perfection  in  his  fable,  and  has  therefore  endea¬ 
vored  to  cure  it  by  several  expedients  ;  particular¬ 
ly  by  the  mortification  which  the  great  adversary 
of  mankind  meets  with  upon  his  return  to  the  as¬ 
sembly  of  infernal  spirits,  as  it  is  described  in  a 
beautiful  passage  of  the  third  book;  and  likewise 
by  the  vision  wherein  Adam,  at  the  close  of  the 
poem,  sees  his  offspring  triumphing  over  his  great 
enemy,  and  himself  restored  to  a  happier  paradise 
than  that  from  which  he  fell. 

.  There  is  another  objection  against  Milton’s  fa¬ 
ble,  which  is  indeed  almost  the  same  with  the 
former,  though  placed  in  a  different  light,  namely. 
That  the  hero  in  the  Paradise  Lost  is  unsuc¬ 
cessful,  and  by  no  means  a  match  for  his  enemies. 
This  gives  occasion  for  Mr.  Dryden’s  reflection, 
that  the  devil  was  in  reality  Milton’s  hero.  I 
think  I  have  obviated  this  objection  in  my  first 
paper.  The  Paradise  Lost  is  an  epic,  or  narrative 
poem,  and  lie  that  looks  for  a  hero  in  it,  searches 
for  that  which  Milton  never  intended;  but  if  he 
will  indeed  fix  the  name  of  a  hero  upon  any  per¬ 
son  in  it,  it  is  certainly  the  Messiah  who  is  the 
hero,  both  in  the  principal  action  and  the  chief 
episodes.  Paganism  could  not  furnish  out  a  real 
action  for  a  fable  greater  than  that  of  the  Iliad  or 
HEneid,  and  therefore  a  heathen  could  not  form  a 
higher  notion  of  a  poem  than  one  of  that  kind 
which  they  call  an  heroic.  Whether  Milton’s  is 
not  of  a  sublimer  nature  I  will  not  presume  to  de¬ 
termine;  it  is  sufficient  that  I  show  there  is  in  the 
Paradise  Lost  all  the  greatness  of  plan,  regularity 


of  design,  and  masterly  beauties  which  we  disco¬ 
ver  in  Homer  and  Virgil. 

I  must  in  the  next  place  observe,  that  Milton 
has  interwoven  in  the  texture  of  this  fable  some 
particulars  which  do  not  seem  to  have  probability 
enough  for  an  epic  poem,  particularly  in  the  ac¬ 
tions  which  he  ascribes  to  Sin  and  Death,  and  the 
picture  which  he  draws  of  the  “Limbo  of  Vani¬ 
ty,”  with  other  passages  in  the  second  book. 
Such  allegories  rather  savor  of  the  spirit  of 
Spenser  and  Ariosto,  than  of  Homer  and  Virgil. 

In  the  structure  of  his  poem  he  has  likewise 
admitted  too  many  digressions.  It  is  finely  ob¬ 
served  by  Aristotle,  that  the  author  of  an  heroic 
poem  should  seldom  speak  himself,  but  throw  as 
much  of  his  work  as  he  can  into  the  mouths  of 
those  who  are  his  principal  actors.  Aristotle  has 
given  no  reason  for  this  precept :  but  I  presume  it 
is  because  the  mind  of  the  reader  is  more  awed, 
and  elevated,  when  he  hears  HEneas  or  Achilles 
speak,  than  when  Virgil  or  Homer  talk  in  their 
own  persons.  Beside  that,  assuming  the  charac¬ 
ter  of  an  eminent  man  is  apt  to  fire  the  imagina¬ 
tion,  and  raise  the  ideas  of  the  author.  Tully 
tells  us,  mentioning  his  dialogue  of  old  age,  in 
which  Cato  is  the  chief  speaker,  that  upon  a  re¬ 
view  of  it  he  was  agreeably  imposed  upon,  and 
fancied  that  it  was  Cato,  and  not  he  himself,  who 
uttered  his  thoughts  on  that  subject. 

If  the  reader  would  be  at  the  pains  to  see  how 
the  story  of  the  Iliad  and  the  AEneid  is  delivered 
by  those  persons  who  act  in  it,  he  will  be  sur¬ 
prised  to  find  how  little  either  of  these  poems 
proceeds  from  the  authors.  Milton  has,  in  the 
general  disposition  of  his  fable,  very  finely  ob¬ 
served  this  great  rule ;  insomuch  that  there  is 
scarce  a  tenth  part  of  it  which  comes  from  the 
poet;  the  rest  is  spoken  either  by  Adam  or  Eve, 
or  by  some  good  or  evil  spirit  who  is  engaged, 
either  in  their  destruction,  or  defense. 

From  what  has  been  here  observed,  it  appears, 
that  digressions  are  by  no  means  to  be  allowed  of 
in  an  epic  poem.  If  the  poet,  even  in  the  ordi¬ 
nary  course  of  his  narration,  should  speak  as  little 
as  possible,  he  should  certainly  never  let  his  nar¬ 
ration  sleep  for  the  sake  of  any  reflections  of  his 
own.  I  have  often  observed  with  a  secret  admi¬ 
ration,  that  the  longest  reflection  in  the  HEneid  is 
in  that  passage  of  the  tenth  book,  where  Turnus 
is  represented  as  dressing  himself  in  the  spoils 
of  Pallas,  whom  he  had  slain.  Virgil  here  dets 
his  fable  stand  still,  for  the  sake  of  the  following 
remark.  “How  is  the  mind  of  man  ignorant  of 
futurity,  and  unable  to  bear  prosperous  fortune 
with  moderation !  The  time  will  come  when 
Turnus  shall  wish  that  he  had  left  the  body  of 
Pallas  untouched,  and  curse  the  day  on  which  he 
dressed  himself  in  these  spoils.”  As  the  great 
event  of  the  HEneid,  and  the  death  of  Turnus, 
whom  MEneas  slew  because  he  saw  him  adorned 
with  the  spoils  of  Pallas,  turns  upon  this  incident, 
Virgil  went  out  of  his  way  to  make  this  reflection 
upon  it,  without  which  so  small  a  circumstance 
might  possibly  have  slipped  out  of  his  reader’s 
memory.  Lucan,  who  was  an  injudicious  poet, 
lets  drop  his  story  very  frequently  for  the  sake  of 
his  unnecessary  digressions,  or  his  diverticula,  as 
Scaliger  calls  them.  If  he  gives  us  an  account  of 
the  prodigies  which  preceded  the  civil  war,  he  de¬ 
claims  upon  the  occasion,  and  shows  how  much 
happier  it  would  be  for  man,  if  he  did  not  feel 
his  evil  fortune  before  it  comes  to  pass:  and  suffer 
not  only  by  its  real  weight,  but  by  the  apprehen¬ 
sion  of  it.  Milton’s  complaint  for  his  blindness, 
his  panegyric  on  marriage,  his  reflections  on 
Adam  and  Eve’s  going  naked,  of  the  angels’  eat- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


ing,  and  several  other  passages  in  his  poem,  are 
liable  to  the  same  exception,  though  I  must  con¬ 
fess  there  is  so  great  a  beauty  in  these  very  di¬ 
gressions,  that  I  would  not  wish  them  out  of  his 
poem. 

I  have  in  a  former  paper  spoken  of  the  charac¬ 
ters  of  Milton’s  Paradise  Lost,  and  declared  my 
opinion  as  to  the  allegorical  persons  who  are  in¬ 
troduced  in  it. 

If  we  look  into  the  sentiments,  I  think  they  are 
sometimes  defective  under  the  following  heads  ; 
first,  as  there  are  several  of  them  too  much  point¬ 
ed,  and  some  that  even  degenerate  into  puns.  Of 
this  last  kind  I  am  afraid  is  that  in  the  first  book, 
where,  speaking  of  the  pigmies,  he  calls  them 

- -The  small  infantry 

Warr’d  on  by  cranes - 

Another  blemish  that  appears  in  some  of  his 
thoughts,  is  his  frequent  allusion  to  heathen  fa¬ 
bles,  which  are  not  certainly  of  a  piece  with  the 
divine  subject  of  which  he  treats.  I  do  not  find 
fault  with  these  allusions  where  the  poet  himself 
represents  them  as  fabulous,  as  lie  does  in  some 
places,  but  where  he  mentions  them  as  truths  and 
matters  of  fact.  The  limits  of  my  paper  will  not 
give  me  leave  to  be  particular  in  instances  of  this 
kind;  the  reader  will  easily  remark  them  in  his 
perusal  of  the  poem. 

A  third  fault  in  his  sentiments  is  an  uneasy  os¬ 
tentation  of  learning,  which  likewise  occurs  very 
frequently.  It  is  certain  that  both  Homer  and  Vir¬ 
gil  were  masters  of  all  the  learning  of  their 
times,  but  it  shows  itself  in  their  works  after  an 
indirect  and  concealed  manner.  Milton  seems 
ambitious  of  letting  us  know,  by  his  excursions 
on  free-will  and  predestination,  and  his  man}^ 
glances  upon  history,  astronomy,  geography,  and 
the  like,  as  well  as  by  the  terms  and  phrases  he 
sometimes  makes  use  of,  that  he  was  acquainted 
with  the  whole  circle  of  arts  and  sciences. 

If,  in  the  last  place,  we  consider  the  language 
of  this  great  poet,  we  must  allow  what  I  have 
hinted  in  a  former  paper,  that  it  is  often  too  much 
labored,  and  sometimes  obscured  by  old  words, 
transpositions,  and  foreign  idioms.  Seneca’s  ob¬ 
jection  to  the  style  of  a  great  author,  “  Riget  ejus 
oratio,  nihil  in  ca  placidum,  nihil  lene,”  is  what 
many  critics  make  to  Milton.  As  I  cannot  wholly 
refute  it,  so  I  have  already  apologized  for  it  in  an¬ 
other  paper:  to  which  1  may  further  add,  that 
Milton’s  sentiments  and  ideas  were  so  wonderfully 
sublime,  that  it  would  have  been  impossible  for 
him  to  have  represented  them  in  their  full  strength 
and  beauty,  without  having  recourse  to  these  for¬ 
eign  assistances.  Our  language  sunk  under  him, 
and  was  unequal  to  that  greatness  of  soul  which 
furnished  him  with  such  glorious  conceptions. 

A  second  fault  in  his  language  is,  that  he  often 
affects  a  kind  of  jingle  in  his  words,  as  in  the  fol¬ 
lowing  passages  and  many  others: 

And  brought  into  the  world  a  world  of  woe. 

- Begirt  th’  Almighty  throne 

Beseeching  or  besieging - 

This  tempted  our  attempt - 

At  one  slight  bound  high  overleap’d  all  bound. 

I  know  there  are  figures  for  this  kind  of  speech; 
that  some  of  the  greatest  ancients  have  been  guilty 
of  it,  and  that  Aristotle  himself  has  given  it  a 
place  in  his  rhetoric  among  the  beauties  of  that 
art.  But  as  it  is  in  itself  poor  and  trifling,  it  is, 

I  think,  at  present  universally  exploded  by  all 
the  masters  of  polite  writing. 

The  last  fault  which  I  shall  take  notice  of  in 
Milton’s  style,  is  the  frequent  use  of  what  the 
learned  call  technical  words,  or  terms  of  art.  It 
is  one  of  the  greatest  beauties  of  poetry,  to  make 


365 

hard  things  intelligible,  and  to  deliver  what  is 
abstruse  of  itself  in  such  eaSy  language  as  may 
be  understood  by  ordinary  readers,  beside,  that 
the  knowledge  of  a  poet  should  rather  seem  born 
with  him,  or  inspired,  than  drawn  with  books  and 
systems.  I  have  often  wondered  how  Mr.  Dryden 
could  translate  a  passage  out  of  Virgil  after  the 
following  manner : 

Tack  to  the  larboard  and  stand  off  to  sea, 

Veer  starboard  sea  and  land. - 

Milton  makes  use  of  larboard  in  the  same  man¬ 
ner..  V  hen  he  is  upon  building,  he  mentions 
doric  pillars,  pilasters,  cornice,  frieze,  architrave. 
When  he  talks  of  heavenly  bodies,  you  meet  with 
ecliptic  and  eccentric,  the  trepidation,  stars  drop¬ 
ping  from  the  zenith,  rays  culminating  from  the 
equator:  to  which  might  be  added  many  instances 
of  the  like  kind  in  several  other  arts  and  sciences. 

I  shall  in  my  next  papers  give  an  account  of 
the  many  particular  beauties  in  Milton,  which 
would  have  been  too  long  to  insert  under  those 
general  heads  I  have  already  treated  of,  and  with 
which  I  intend  to  conclude  this  piece  of  cri¬ 
ticism. — L. 


Ho.  298.]  MONDAY,  FEBRUARY  11,  1711-12. 

Nusquam  tuta  tides - 

Virg.  uEn.,  iv,  373. 

Honor  is  nowhere  safe. 

“London,  Feb.  9,  1711-12. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  a  virgin,  and  in  no  case  despicable,  but 
yet  such  as  I  am  I  must  remain,  or  else  become, 
it  is  to  be  feared,  less  happy ;  for  I  find  not  the 
least  good  effect  from  the  good  correction  you 
some  time  since  gave  that  too  free,  that  looser  part 
of  our  sex  which  spoils  the  men  ;  the  same  con¬ 
nivance  at  the  vices,  the  same  easy  admittance  of 
addresses,  the  same  vitiated  relish  of  the  conver¬ 
sation  of  the  greatest  rakes  (or,  in  a  more  fash¬ 
ionable  way  of  expressing  one’s  self,  of  such  as 
have  seen  the  world  most)  still  abounds,  increases, 
multiplies. 

“  The  humble  petition,  therefore,  of  many  of 
the  most  strictly  virtuous  and  of  myself  is,  that 
you  will  once  more  exert  your  authority,  and  that 
according  to  your  late  promise,  your  full,  your 
impartial  authority,  on  this  sillier  branch  of  our 
kind  ;  for  why  should  they  be  the  uncontrollable 
mistresses  of  our  fate  ?  Why  should  they  with 
impunity  indulge  the  males  in  licentiousness 
while  single,  and  we  have  the  dismal  hazard  and 
plague  of  reforming  them  when  married  ?  Strike 
home.  Sir,  then,  and  spare  not,  or  all  our  maiden 
hopes,  our  gilded  hopes  of  nuptial  felicity  are 
frustrated,  are  vanished,  and  you  yourself  as  well 
as  Mr.  Courtly,  will,  by  smoothing  over  immodest 
practices  whth  the  gloss  of  soft  and  harmless 
names,  forever  forfeit  our  esteem.  Nor  think  that 
I  am  herein  more  severe  than  need  be  ;  if  I  have 
not  reason  more  than  enough,  do  you  and  the 
world  judge  from  this  ensuing  account,  which,  I 
think,  will  prove  the  evil  to  be  universal. 

“You  must  know,  then,  that  since  your  repre¬ 
hension  of  this  female  degeneracy  came  out,  I 
have  had  a  tender  of  respects  from  no  less  than 
five  persons,  of  tolerable  figure  too,  as  times  go  : 
but  the  misfortune  is  that  four  of  the  five  are  pro¬ 
fessed  followers  of  the  mode.  They  would  face 
me  down,  that  all  women  of  good  sense  ever  were, 
and  ever  will  be,  latitudinarians  in  wedlock ; 
and  always  did  and  will  give  and  take,  what  they 
profanely  term  conjugal  liberty  of  conscience. 

“  The  two  first  of  them,  a  captain  and  a  mer- 


THE  SPECT  ATO  R. 


366 


chant,  to  strengthen  their  arguments,  pretend  to 
repeat  after  a  couple  of  ladies  of  quality  and  wit, 
that  Venus  was  always  kind  to  Mars  ;  and  what 
soul  that  has  the  least  spark  of  generosity  can 
deny  a  man  of  bravery  anything  ?  And  how  piti¬ 
ful  a  trader  that,  whom  no  woman  but  his  own 
wife  will  have  correspondence  and  dealings  with? 
Thus  these  ;  while  the  third,  the  country  squire, 
confessed,  that  indeed  he  was  surprised  into  good¬ 
breeding,  and  entered  into  the  knowledge  of  the 
world  unawares  ;  that  dining  the  other  day  at  a 
gentleman’s  house,  the  person  who  entertained 
was  obliged  to  leave  him  with  his  wife  and  nieces; 
where  they  spoke  with  so  much  contempt  of  an 
absent  gentleman  for  being  so  slow  at  a  hint,  that 
he  resolved  never  to  be  drowsy,  unmannerly,  or 
stupid,  for  the  future,  at  a  friend’s  house  ;  and  on 
a  hunting  morning  not  to  pursue  the  game  either 
with  the  husband  abroad  or  with  the  wife  at  home. 

“  The  next  that  came  was  a  tradesman,  no  less 
full  of  the  age  than  the  former  ;  for  he  had  the 
gallantry  to  tell  me,  that  at  a  late  junket  which 
he  was  invited  to,  the  motion  being  made,  and  the 
question  being  put,  it  was,  by  maid,  wife,  and 
widow,  resolved  neniine  contradicente,  that  a  young 
sprightly  journeyman  is  absolutely  necessary  in 
their  way  of  business  :  to  which  they  had  the  as¬ 
sent  and  concurrence  of  the  husbands  present.  I 
dropped  him  a  courtsey,  and  gave  him  to  under¬ 
stand  that  this  was  his  audience  of  leave. 

“  I  am  reckoned  pretty,  and  have  had  very 
many  advances  beside  these  ;  but  have  been  very 
averse  to  hear  any  of  them,  from  my  observation 
on  those  above-mentioned,  until  I  hoped  some 
good  from  the  character  of  my  present  admirer,  a 
clergyman.  But  I  find  even  among  them  there 
are  indirect  practices  relating  to  love,  and  our 
treaty  is  at  present  a  little  in  suspense,  until  some 
circumstances  are  cleared.  There  is  a  charge 
against  him  among  the  women,  and  the  case  is 
this  :  It  is  alleged,  that  a  certain  endowed  female 
would  have  appropriated  herself  to,  and  consoli¬ 
dated  herself  with,  a  church'’  which  my  divine 
now  enjoys  (or,  which  is  the  same  thing,  did 
rostitute  herself  to  her  friends  doing  this  for 
er);  that  my  ecclesiastic,  to  obtain  the  one,  did 
engage  himself  to  take  off  the  other  that  lay  on 
hand  ;  but  that  on  his  success  in  the  spiritual,  he 
again  renounced  the  carnal. 

“  I  put  this  closely  to  him,  and  taxed  him  with 
disingenuity.  He  to  clear  himself  made  the  sub¬ 
sequent  defense,  and  that  in  the  most  solemn 
manner  possible: — that  he  was  applied  to,  and 
instigated  to  accept  of  a  benefice  : — that  a  condi¬ 
tional  offer  thereof  was  indeed  made  him  at  first, 
but  with  disdain  by  him  rejected  : — that  when 
nothing  (as  they  easily  perceived)  of  this  nature 
could  bring  him  to  their  purpose,  assurance  of  his 
being  entirely  unengaged  beforehand,  and  safe 
from  all  their  after-expectations  (the  only  strata¬ 
gem  left  to  draw  him  in),  was  given  him  : — that 
pursuant  to  this  the  donation  itself  was  without 
delay,  before  several  reputable  witnesses,  tendered 
to  him  gratis,  with  the  open  profession  of  not  the 
least  reserve,  or  most  minute  condition  ;  but  that 
yet  immediately  after  induction,  his  insidious 
introducer  (or  her  crafty  procurer,  which  you 
will)  industriously  spread  the  report  which  had 
reached  my  ears,  not  only  in  the  neighborhood  of 
that  said  church,  but  in  London,  in  the  university, 
in  mine  and  his  own  country,  and  wdierever  else 
it  might  probably  obviate  his  application  to  any 
other  woman,  and  so  confine  him  to  this  alone  : 
in  a  word,  that  as  he  never  did  make  any  previous 
offer  of  his  service,  or  the  least  step  to  her  affec¬ 
tion  ;  so  on  his  discovery  of  these  designs  thus 
laid  to  trick  him,  he  could  not  but  afterward,  in 


justi'ce  to  himself,  vindicate  both  his  innocence 
and  freedom,  by  keeping  his  proper  distance. 

“  This  is  his  apology,  and  I  think  I  shall  be 
satisfied  with  it.  But  I  cannot  conclude  my  te¬ 
dious  epistle  without  recommending  to  you  not 
only  to  resume  your  former  chastisement,  but  to 
add  to  your  criminals  the  simoniacal  ladies,  who 
seduce  the  sacred  order  into  the  difficulty  of 
either  breaking  a  mercenary  troth  made  to  them, 
whom  they  ought  not  to  deceive,  or  by  breaking 
or  keeping  it  offending  against  Him  whom  they 
cannot  deceive.  Your  assistance  and  labors  of 
this  sort  would  be  of  great  benefit,  and  your 
speedy  thoughts  on  this  subject  would  be  very 
seasonable  to,  Sir, 

“.Your  most  humble  servant, 

“Chastity  Loveworth.” 


No.  299.]  TUESDAY,  FEBRUARY  12, 1711-12. 

Malo  Venusinam,  quam  te,  Cornelia,  mater 
Gracchorum,  si  cum  magnis  virtutibus  alters 
Grande  supercilium,  et  numeras  in  dote  triumphos. 
Tolle  tuum  precor  Annibalem,  Yictumque  Syphacem 
In  castris;  et  cum  tota  Carthagine  migra. 

Juv.,  Sat.  vi,  166. 

Some  country  girl,  scarce  to  a  courtsey  bred, 

Would  I  much  rather  than  Cornelia  wed; 

If  supercilious,  haughty,  proud  and  vain, 

She  brought  her  fathers  triumphs  in  her  train, 

Away  with  all  your  Carthaginian  state ; 

Let  vanquish'd  Hannibal  without  doors  wait, 

Too  burly  and  too  big  to  pass  my  narrow  gate. 

Dryden. 

It  is  observed,  that  a  man  improves  more  by 
reading  the  story  of  a  person  eminent  for  prudence 
and  virtue,  than  by  the  finest  rules  and  precepts 
of  morality.  In  the  same  manner  a  representa¬ 
tion  of  those  calamities  and  misfortunes  which  a 
weak  man  suffers  from  wrong  measures,  an  d  ill- 
concerted  schemes  of  life,  is  apt  to  make  a  deeper 
impression  upon  our  minds,  than  the  wisest  max¬ 
ims  and  instructions  that  can  be  given  us,  for 
avoiding  the  like  follies  and  indiscretions  in  our 
own  private  conduct.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  I 
lay  before  my  readers  the  following  letter,  and 
leave  it  with  him  to  make  his  own  use  of  it,  with¬ 
out  adding  any  reflections  of  my  own  upon  the 
subject  matter. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Having  carefully  perused  a  letter  sent  you  by 
Josiah  Fribble,  Esq.,  with  your  subsequent  dis¬ 
course  upon  pin-money,  I  do  presume  to  trouble 
you  with  an  account  of  my  own  case,  which  I 
look  upon  to  be  no  less  deplorable  than  that  of 
’Squire  Fribble.  I  am  a  person  of  no  extraction, 
having  begun  the  world  with  a  small  parcel  of 
rusty  iron,  and  was  for  some  years  commonly 
known  by  the  name  of  Jack  Anvil.*  I  have 
naturally  a  very  happy  genius  for  getting  money, 
insomuch  that  by  the  age  of  five-and-twenty  I 
had  scraped  together  four  thousand  two  hundred 
pounds,  five  shillings  and  a  few  odd  pence.  I 
then  launched  out  into  considerable  business,  and 
became  a  bold  trader  both  by  sea  and  land,  which 
in  a  few  years  raised-  me  a  very  great  fortune. 
For  these  my  good  services  I  was  knighted  in  the 
thirty-fifth  year  of  my  age,  and  lived  with  great 

*  It  has  been  said  by  some,  that  the  author  of  this  letter 
alluded  here  to - Gore,  of  Tring,  and  Lady  Mary  Comp¬ 

ton;  but  others  with  more  probability  have  assured  the  an¬ 
notator,  that  the  letter  referred  to  Sir  Ambrose  Crowley  and 
his  lady.  See  Tat.,  ed.  1786,  cr.  Svo.,  vol.  v,  additional  notes, 
p.  405  and  406.  N.  B.  This  ironmonger  changed  his  name 
from  Crowley  to  Crawley,  a  folly  which  seems  to  be  ridiculed 
here  by  the  change  of  Anvil  into  Envil,  absurdly  made  by  his 
lady. 


THE  SUE  CT  A  TOR. 


dignity  among  my  city  neighbors  by  the  name  of 
Sir  John  Anvil.  Being  in  my  temper  very  ambi¬ 
tious,  I  was  now  bent  upon  making  a  family,  and 
accordingly  resolved  that  my  descendants  should 
have  a  dash  of  good  blood  in  their  veins.  In 
order  to  this,  I  made  love  to  the  Lady  Mary  Odd¬ 
ly,  an  indigent  young  woman  of  quality.  To 
cut  short  the  marriage-treaty,  I  threw  her  a  carte 
blanche,  as  our  newspapers  call  it,  desiring  her  to 
write  upon  it  her  own  terms.  She  was  very  con¬ 
cise  in  her  demands,  insisting  only  that  the  dis¬ 
posal  of  my  fortune,  and  the  regulation  of  my 
family  should  be  entirely  in  her  hands.  Her 
father  and  brothers  appeared  exceedingly  averse  to 
this  match,  and  would  not  see  me  for  some  time  : 
but  at  present  are  so  well  reconciled,  that  they  dine 
with  me  almost  every  day,  and  have  borrowed 
considerable  sums  of  me  ;  which  my  Lady  Mary 
very  often  twits  me  with,  when  she  would  show 
me  how  kind  her  relations  are  to  me.  She  had  no 
portion,  as  I  told  you  before  ;  but  what  she  wanted 
in  fortune  she  makes  up  in  spirit.  She  at  first 
changed  my  name  to  Sir  John  Envil,  and  at  pres¬ 
ent  writes  herself  Mary  Enville.  I  have  had 
some  children  by  her,  whom  she  has  christened 
with  the  surnames  of  her  family,  in  order,  as  she 
tells  me,  to  wear  out  the  homeliness  of  their  pa¬ 
rentage  by  the  father’s  side.  Our  eldest  son  is 
the  honorable  Oddly  Enville,  Esq.,  and  our  eldest 
daughter  Harriet  Enville.  Upon  her  first  coming 
into  my  family,  she  turned  off  a  parcel  of  very 
careful  servants  who  had  been  long  with  me,  and 
introduced  in  their  stead  a  couple  of  black-a- 
moors,  and  three  or  four  very  genteel  fellows  in 
laced  liveries,  beside  her  French  woman,  who  is 
perpetually  making  a  noise  in  the  house  in  a 
language  which  nobody  understands,  except  my 
Lady  Mary.  She  next  set  herself  to  reform  every 
room  in  my  house,  having  glazed  all  my  chimney- 
pieces  with  looking-glasses,  and  planted  every 
corner  with  such  heaps  of  china,  that  I  am  ob¬ 
liged  to  move  about  my  own  house  with  the 
greatest  caution  and  circumspection,  for  fear  of 
hurting  some  of  our  brittle  furniture.  She  makes 
an  illumination  once  a  week  with  wax  candles  in 
one  of  our  largest  rooms,  in  order  as  she  phrases 
it,  to  see  company  ;  at  which  time  she  always 
desires  me  to  be  abroad,  or  to  confine  myself  to 
the  cock-loft,  that  I  may  not  disgrace  her  amon^ 
her  visitants  of  quality.  Her  footmen,  as  I  told 
you  before,  are  such  beaux,  that  I  do  not  much 
care  for  asking  them  questions;  when  I  do,  they 
answer  with  a  saucy  frown,  and  say  that  every¬ 
thing  which  I  find  fault  with  was  done  by  my 
Ladv  Mary’s  order.  She  tells  me  that  she  in¬ 
tends  they  shall  wear  swords  with  their  next 
liveries,  having  lately  observed  the  footmen  of 
two  or  three  persons  of  quality  hanging  behind 
the  coach  with  swords  by  their  sides.  As  soon  as 
the  first  honeymoon  was  over,  I  represented  to  her 
the  unreasonableness  of  those  daily  innovations 
which  she  made  in  my  family;  but  she  told  me  I 
was  no  longer  to  consider  myself  as  Sir  Jphn 
Anvil,  but  as  her  husband ;  and  added  with  a 
frown,  that  I  did  not  seem  to  know  who  she  was. 

I  was  surprised  to  be  treated  thus,  after  such 
familiarities  as  had  passed  between  us.  But  she 
has  since  given  me  to  know,  that  whatever  freedoms 
she  may  sometimes  indulge  me  in,  she  expects  in 
general  to  be  treated  with  the  respect  that  is  due 
to  her  birth  and  quality.  Our  children  have  been 
trained  up  from  their  infancy  with  so  many  ac¬ 
counts  of  their  mother’s  family,  that  they  know 
the  stories  of  all  the  great  men  and  women  it  has 
produced.  Their  mother  tells  them,  that  such-a- 
one  commanded  in  such  a  sea-engagement,  that 
their  great-grandfather  had  a  horse  shot  under  him 


367 

at  Edge-hill,  that  their  uncle  was  at  the  siege  of 
Buda,  and  that  her  mother  danced  in  a  ball  at 
court  with  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  ;  with  abund¬ 
ance  of  fiddle-faddle  of  the  same  nature.  I  was 
the  other  day  a  little  out  of  countenance  at  a 
question  of  my  little  daughter  Harriet,  who  asked 
rn®»  Tlth  a  Sreak  deal  °f  innocence,  why  I  never 
told  her  of  the  generals  and  admirals  that  had 
been  in  my  family?  As  for  my  eldest  son,  Oddly, 
he  has  been  so  spirited  up  by  his  mother,  that  if 
he  does  not  mend  his  manners  I  shall  go  near  to 
disinherit  him.  He  drew  his  sword  upon  me 
before  he  was  nine  years  old,  and  told  me  that  he 
e  ~Pe.c^et  used  like  a  gentleman :  upon  my 

offering  to  correct  him  for  his  insolence,  my  Lady 
Mary  stepped  in  between  us,  and  told  me  1  ought 
to  consider  there  was  some  difference  between  his 
mother  and  mine.  She  is  perpetually  finding  out 
the  features  of  her  own  relations  in  every  one  of 
my  children,  though,  by  the  way,  I  have  a  little 
chubfaced  boy  as  like  me  as  he  can  stare,  if  I  durst 
say  so;  but  what  most  angers  me,  when  she  sees 
me  playing  with  any  of  them  upon  my  knee,  she 
has  begged  me  more  than  once  to  converse  with 
the  children  as  little  as  possible,  that  they  may 
not  learn  any  of  my  awkward  tricks. 

‘  \  ou  must  further  know,  since  I  am  opening 
my  heart  to  you,  that  she  thinks  herself  my  supe¬ 
rior  in  sense,  as  she  is  in  quality,  and  therefore 
treats  me  as  a  plain  well-meaning  man,  who  does 
not  know  the  world.  She  dictates  to  me  in  my 
own  business,  sets  me  right  in  points  of  trade, 
and  if  I  disagree  with  her  about  any  of  my  ships 
at  sea,  wonders  that  I  will  dispute  with  her,  when 
I  know  very  well  that  her  great-grandfather  was 
a  flag-officer. 

“  To  complete  my  sufferings,  she  has  teased  me 
for  this  quarter  of  a  year  last  past  to  remove  into 
one  of  the  squares  at  the  other  end  of  the  town, 
promising,  for  my  encouragement,  that  I  shall 
have  as  good  a  cock-loft  as  any  gentleman  in  the 
square  ;  to  which  the  Honorable  Oddly  Enville, 
Esq.,  always  adds,  like  a  jack-a-napes  as  he  is,* 
that  he  hopes  it  will  be  as  near  the  court  as  pos- 
sible.  *  1 

“ In  short,  Mr.  Spectator,  I  am  so  much  out  of 
my  natural  element,  that  to  recover  my  old  v7ay 
of  life  I  would  be  content  to  begin  the  world 
again,  and  be  plain  Jack  Anvil:  but,  alas!  I  am 
in  for  life,  and  am  bound  to  subscribe  myself,  with 
great  sorrow  of  heart, 

•“Your  humble  Servant, 

■k-  “John  Enville,  Kn’t.” 


No.  300.]  TUESDAY,  FEB.  13,  1 711-12. 

- Diversum  vitio  vitium  prope  majus. 

Hor.  1  Ep.  xviii,  5. 

- Another  failing  of  the  mind, 

Greater  than  this,  of  quite  a  different  kind. — Pooley. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  When  you  talk  of  the  subject  of  love,  and  the 
relations  arising  from  it,  methinks  you  should 
take  care  to  leave  no  fault  unobserved  which  con¬ 
cerns  the  state  of  marriage.  The  great  vexation 
that  I  have  observed  in  it  is,  that  the  wadded 
couple  seem  to  w’ant  opportunities  of  being  often 
enough  alone  together,  and  are  forced  to  quarrel 
and  be  fond  before  company.  Mr.  Hotspur  and 
his  lady,  in  a  room  full  of  their  friends,  are  ever 
saying  something  so  smart  to  each  other,  and  that 
but  just  within  rules,  that  the  whole  company 
stand  in  the  utmost  anxiety  and  suspense,  for  fear 
of  their  falling  into  extremities  which  they  could 
not  be  present  at.  On  the  other  side,  Tom  Fadcllc 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


368 

and  liis  pretty  spouse,  wherever  they  come,  are 
billing  and  cooing  at  such  a  rate,  as  they  think 
must  do  our  hearts  good  to  behold  them.  Cannot 
you  possibly  propose  a  mean  between  being  wasps 
and  doves  in  public?  I  should  think,  if  you  ad¬ 
vised  to  hate  or  love  sincerely  it  would  be  better; 
for  if  they  would  be  so  discreet  as  to  hate  from 
the  very  bottoms  of  their  hearts,  their  aversion 
would  be  too  strong  for  little  gibes  every  moment; 
and  if  they  loved  with  that  calm  and  noble  valor 
which  dwells  in  the  heart,  with  a  warmth  like 
that  of  life-blood,  they  would  not  be  so  impatient 
of  their  passions  as  to  fall  into  observable  fond¬ 
ness.  This  method,  in  each  case,  would  save  ap¬ 
pearances;  but  as  those  who  offend  on  the  fond 
side  are  much  the  fewer,  I  would  have  you  begin 
with  them,  and  go  on  to  take  notice  of  a  most  im- 
ertinent  license  married  women  take,  not  only  to 
e  very  loving  to  their  spouses  in  public,  but  also 
make  nauseous  allusions  to  private  familiarities, 
and  the  like.  Lucina  is  a  lady  of  the  greatest  dis¬ 
cretion,  you  must  know,  in  the  world;  and  withal 
very  much  a  physician.  Upon  the  strength  of 
these  two  qualities  there  is  nothing  she  will  not 
speak  of  before  us  virgins;  and  she  every  day  talks 
with  a  very  grave  air  in  such  a  manner,  as  is  very 
improper  so  much  as  to  be  hinted  at,  but  to  obvi¬ 
ate  the  greatest  extremity.  Those  whom  they  call 
good  bodies,  notable  people,  hearty  neighbors, 
and  the  purest,  goodest  company  in  the  world,  are 
the  great  offenders  in  this  kind.  Here  I  think  I 
have  laid  before  you  an  open  field  for  pleasantry; 
and  hope  you  will  show  these  people  that  at  least 
they  are  not  witty;  in  which  you  will  save  from 
many  a  blush  a  daily  sufferer,  who  is  very  much 
your  most  humble  Servant, 

“  Susannah  Love  worth.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“In  yours  of  Wednesday,  the  30th  past,  you 
and  your  correspondents  are  very  severe  on  a  sort 
of  men,  whom  you  call  male  coquets;  but  without 
any  other  reason,  in  my  apprehension,  than  that 
of  paying  a  shallow  compliment  to  the  fair  sex, 
by  accusing  some  men  of  imaginary  faults,  that 
the  women  may  not  seem  to  be  the  more  faulty 
sex;  though  at  the  same  time  you  suppose  there 
are  some  so  weak  as  to  be  imposed  upon  by  fine 
things  and  false  addresses.  I  cannot  persuade 
myself  that  your  design  is  to  debar  the  sexes  the 
benefit  of  each  other’s  conversation  within  the 
rules  of  honor;  nor  will  you,  I  dare  say,  recom¬ 
mend  to  them,  or  encourage  the  common  tea-table 
talk,  much  less  that  of  politics  and  matters  of 
state,  and  if  these  are  forbidden  subjects  of  dis¬ 
course,  then  as  long  as  there  are  any  women  in 
the  world  who  take  a  pleasure  in  hearing  them¬ 
selves  praised,  and  can  bear  the  sight  of  a  man 
prostrate  at  their  feet,  so  long  I  shall  make  no 
wonder  that  there  are  those  of  the  other  sex  who 
will  pay  them  those  impertinent  humiliations. 
We  should  have  few  people  such  fools  as  to  prac¬ 
tice  flattery,  if  all  were  so  wise  as  to  despise  it. 
I  do  not  deny  but  you  would  do  a  meritorious  act, 
if  you  could  prevent  all  impositions  on  the  sim¬ 
plicity  of  young  women;  but  I  must  confess,  I 
do  not  apprehend  you  have  laid  the  fault  on  the 
proper  persons  ;  and  if  I  trouble  you  with  my 
thoughts  upon  it,  I  promise  myself  your  pardon. 
Such  of  the  sex  as  are  raw  and  innocent,  and 
most  exposed  to  these  attacks,  have,  or  their  pa¬ 
rents  are  much  to  blame  if  they  have  not,  one  to 
advise  and  guard  them,  and  are  obliged  them¬ 
selves  to  take  care  of  them ;  but  if  these,  who 
ought  to  hinder  men  from  all  opportunities  of  this 
sort  of  conversation,  instead  of  that  encourage 
and  promote  it,  the  suspicion  is  very  just  that 


there  are  some  private  reasons  for  it;  and  I  will 
leave  it  to  you  to  determine  on  which  side  a  part 
is  then  acted.  Some  women  there  are  who  are  ar¬ 
rived  at  years  of  discretion,  1  mean  are  got  out 
of  the  hands  of  their  parents  and  governors,  and 
are  set  up  for  themselves,  who  are  yet  liable  to 
these  attempts;  but  if  these  are  prevailed  upon, 
you  must  excuse  me  if  I  lay  the  fault  upon  them, 
that  their  wisdom  is  not  grown  with  their  years. 
My  client,  Mr.  Strephon,  whom  you  summoned 
to  declare  himself,  gives  you  thanks  however  for 
your  warning,  and  begs  the  favor  only  to  enlarge 
his  time  for  a  week,  or  to  the  last  day  of  the  term, 
and  then  he  will  appear  gratis,  and  pray  no  day 
over.  “Yours, 

“  Philanthropos.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  was  last  night  to  visit  a  lady  whom  I  much 
esteem,  and  always  took  for  my  friend  ;  but  met 
with  so  very  different  a  reception  from  what  I  ex¬ 
pected,  that  I  cannot  help  applying  myself  to  you 
on  this  occasion.  In  the  room  of  that  civility  and 
familiarity  I  used  to  be  treated  with  by  her,  an 
affected  strangeness  in  her  looks,  and  coldness  in 
her  behavior,  plainly  told  me  I  was  not  the  wel¬ 
come  guest  which  the  regard  and  tenderness  she 
has  so  often  expressed  for  me  gave  me  reason  to 
flatter  myself  to  think  I  was.  Sir,  this  is  certainly 
a  great  fault,  and  I  assure  you  a  very  common 
one;  therefore  I  hope  you  will  think  it  a  fit  sub¬ 
ject  for  some  part  of  a  Spectator.  Be  pleased  to 
acquaint  us  how  we  must  behave  ourselves  toward 
this  valetudinary  friendship,  subject  to  so  many 
heats  and  colds,  and  you  will  oblige, 

“  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

“  Miranda.” 

“  Sir, 

“I  cannot  forbear  acknowledging  the  delight 
your  late  Spectators  on  Saturdays  have  given  me; 
for  they  are  written  in  the  honest  spirit  of  criti¬ 
cism,  and  called  to  my  mind  the  following  four 
lines  I  had  read  long  since  in  a  prologue  to  a  play 
called  Julius  Csesar,*  which  has  deserved  a  better 
fate.  The  verses  are  addressed  to  the  little 
critics  : 

Show  your  small  talent,  and  let  that  suffice  ye ; 

But  grow  not  vain  upon  it,  I  advise  ye. 

For  every  fop  can  find  out  faults  in  plays ; 

You’ll  ne’er  arrive  at  knowing  when  to  praise. 

“Yours, 

T.  “D.  G  ” 


No.  301.]  THURSDAY,  FEB.  14,  1711-12. 

Possint  ut  juvenes  visere  fervidi 
Multo  non  sine  risu 

Dilapsam  in  cineres  facem. — Hor.  4  Od.  xiii,  26. 

That  all  may  laugh  to  see  that  glaring  light, 

Which  lately  shone  so  fierce  and  bright, 

End  in  a  stink  at  last,  and  vanish  into  night. — Anon. 

We  are  generally  so  much  pleased  with  any  lit¬ 
tle  accomplishments,  either  of  body  or  mind, 
which  have  once  made  us  remarkable  in  the  world, 
that  we  endeavor  to  persuade  ourselves  it  is  not 
in  the  power  of  time  to  rob  us  of  them.  We  are 
eternally  pursuing  the  same  methods  which  first 
procured  us  the  applauses  of  mankind.  It  is  from 
this  notion  that  an  author  writes  on,  though  he 
is  come  to  dotage;  without  ever  considering  that 
his  memory  is  impaired,  and  that  he  hath  lost 
that  life,  and  those  spirits,  which  formerly  raised 


*  A  tragedy  by  William  Alexander,  Earl  of  Stirling,  fol., 
1629,  and  much  the  most  regular  and  dramatic  piece  of  this 
noble  author. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


his  fancy,  and  fired  his  imagination.  The  same 
folly  hinders  a  man  from  submitting  his  behavior 
to  his  age,  and  makes  Clodius,  who  was  a  cele¬ 
brated  dancer  at  five-and-twenty,  still  love  to  hob¬ 
ble  in  a  minuet,  though  lie  is  past  threescore.  It 
is  this,  in  a  word,  which  fills  the  town  with  elder¬ 
ly  fops  a,nd  superannuated  coquettes. 

Canidia,  a  lady  of  this  latter  species,  passed  by 
me  yes  lei  day  in  a  coach.  Canidia  was  a  haughty 
beauty  of  the  last  age,  and  was  followed  by  crowds 
of  adorers,  whose  passions  only  pleased  her,  as 
they  gave  her  opportunities  of  playing  the  tyrant. 
She  then  contracted  that  awful  cast  of  the  eye  and 
forbidding  frown,  which  she  has  not  yet  laid 
aside,  and  has  still  all  the  insolence  of  beauty 
without  its  charms.  If  she  now  attracts  the  eyes 
of  any  beholders,  it  is  only  by  being  remark¬ 
ably  ridiculous;  even  her  own  sex  laugh  at  her 
affectation;  and  the  men,  who  always  enjoy  an 
ill-natured  pleasure  in  seeing  an  imperious  beauty 
humbled  and  neglected,  regard  her  with  the  same 
satisfaction  that  a  free  nation  sees  a  tyrant  in  dis¬ 
grace. 

Will  Honeycomb,  who  is  a  great  admirer  of  the 
gallantries  in  King  Charles  the  Second’s  reign, 
lately  communicated  to  me  a  letter  written  by  a 
wit  of  that  age  to  his  mistress,  who  it  seems  was 
a  lady  of  Canidia’s  humor;  and  though  I  do  not 
always  approve  of  my  friend  Will’s  taste,  I  liked 
this  letter  so  well  that  I  took  a  copy  of  it,  with 
which  I  shall  here  present  my  reader: 

“To  CtOE. 

“  Madam, 

“  Since  my  waking  thoughts  have  never  been 
able  to  influence  you  in  my  favor,  I  am  resolved 
to  try  whether  my  dreams  can  make  any  impres¬ 
sion  on  you.  To  this  end  I  shall  give  you  an  ac¬ 
count  ot  a  very  odd  one  which  my  fancy  presented 
to  me  last  night,  within  a  few  hours  after  I  left 
you. 

.  “  Methought  I  was  unaccountably '  con veyed 
into  the  most  delicious  place  mine  eyes  ever  be¬ 
held:  it  was  a  large  valley  divided  by  a  river  of 
the  purest  water  I  had  ever  seen.  The  ground  on 
each  side  of  it  rose  by  an  easy  ascent,  and  was 
covered  with  flowers  of  an  infinite  variety,  which, 
as  they  were  reflected  in  the  water,  doubled  the 
beauties  of  the  place,  or  rather  formed  an  ima¬ 
ginary  scene  more  beautiful  than  the  real.  On 
each  side  of  the  river  was  a  range  of  lofty  trees, 
whose  boughs  were  loaded  with  almost  as  many 
birds  as  leaves.  Every  tree  was  full  of  harmony. 

“I  had  not  gone  far  in  this  pleasant  valley, 
when  I  perceived  that  it  was  terminated  by  a  most 
magnificent  temple.  The  structure  was  ancient 
and  regular.  On  the  top  of  it  was  figured  the  god 
Saturn,  in  the  same  shape  and  dress  as  the  poets 
usually  represent  Time. 

“As  I  was  advancing  to  satisfy  my  curiosity 
by  a  nearer  view,  I  was  stopped  by  an  object  far 
nioie  beautiful  than  any  1  had  before  discover- 
e  .,}n  *  whole  place.  I  fancy,  Madam,  you 
will  easily  guess  that  this  could  hardly  be  any- 
thing  but  yourself :  in  reality  it  was  so;  you  lay 
extended  on  the  flowers  by  the  side  of  the  river, 
so  that  your  hands,  which  were  thrown  in  a  neg¬ 
ligent  posture,  almost  touched  the  water.  Your 
eyes  were  closed;  but  if  your  sleep  deprived  me 
of  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  them,  it  left  me  at 
leisure  to  contemplate  several  other  charms  which 
disappear  when  your  eyes  are  open.  I  could  not 
but  admire  the  tranquillity  you  slept  in,  espe¬ 
cially  when  I  considered  the  uneasiness  you  pro¬ 
duce  in  so  many  others. 

“  While  I  was  wholly  taken  up  in  these  reflec¬ 
tions,  the  doors  of  the  temple  flew  open,  with  a 


369 

very  great  noise;  and  lifting  up  my  eyes,  I  saw 
two  figures  in  human  shape,  coming  into  the  val- 
ley.  Upon  a  nearer  survey,  I  found  them  to  be 
Youth  and  Love.  rI  lie  first  was  encircled  with  a 
kind  of  purple  light,  that  spread  a  glory  over  all 
the  place:  the  other  held  a  flaming  torch  in  his 
hand.  I  could  observe,  that  all  the  way  as  they 
came  tow  aid  us  the  colors  of  the  flowers  appear¬ 
ed  more  lively,  the  trees  shot  out  in  blossoms,  the 
birds  threw  themselves  into  pairs,  and  serenaded 
them  as  they  passed  :  the  whole  face  of  nature 
glowed  with  new  beauties.  They  were  no  sooner 
arrived  at  the  place  where  you  lay,  than  they 
seated  themselves  on  each  side  of  you.  On  their 
appioach  methought  I  saw  a  new  bloom  arise  in 
your  face,  and  new  charms  diffuse  themselves  over 
your  whole  person.  You  appeared  more  than 
mortal;  but  to  my  great  surprise,  continued  fast 
asleep,  though  the  two  deities  made  several  gentle 
efforts  to  awaken  you. 

Affter  a  short  time.  Youth  (displaying  a  pair 
of  wings,  which  I  had  not  before  taken  notice  of ) 
flew  off.  Love  still  remained,  and  holding  the 
torch  which  he  had  in  his  hand  before  your  face, 
you  still  appeared  as  beautiful  as  ever.  The 
glaring  of  the  light  in  your  eyes  at  length  awaken¬ 
ed  you ;  when,  to  my  great  surprise,  instead  of 
acknowledging  the  favor  of  the  deity,  you  frowned 
upon  him,  and  struck  the  torch  out  of  his  hand 
into  the  river.  The  god,  after  having  regarded 
you  with  a  look  that  spoke  at  once  his  pity  and 
displeasure,  flew  away.  Immediately  a  kind  of 
gloom  overspread  the  whole  place.  At  the  same 
time  I  saw  a  hideous  specter  enter  at  one  end  of 
the  valley.  His  eyes  were  sunk  into  his  head, 
his  face  was  pale  and  withered,  and  his  skin 
puckered  up  in  wrinkles.  As  he  walked  on  the 
sides  of  the  bank  the  river  froze,  the  flowers  faded, 
the  trees  shed  their  blossoms,  the  birds  dropped 
from  off  the  boughs,  and  fell  dead  at  his  feet.  By 
these  marks  I  knew  him  to  be  Old  Age.  Yon 
were  seized  with  the  utmost  horror  and  amaze¬ 
ment  at  his  approach.  You  endeavored  to  have 
fled,  but  the  phantom  caught  you  in  his  arms.  You 
may  easily  guess  at  the  change  you  suffered  in  this 
embrace.  For  my  own  part,  though  I  am  still 
too  full  of  the  dreadful  idea,  I  will  not  shock  you 
with  a  description  of  it.  I  was  so  startled  at  the 
sight,  that  my  sleep  immediately  left  me,  and  I 
found  myself  awake,  at  leisure  to  consider  of  a 
dream  which  seems  too  extraordinary  to  be  with¬ 
out  a  meaning.  I  am.  Madam,  with  the  greatest 
passion, 

“  Your  most  obedient, 

X.  “  most  humble  Servant,”  etc. 


No.  302. J  FRIDAY,  FEBRUARY  15,  1711-12. 

- Lachrymffique  decorae, 

Gratior  et  pulchro  veniens  in  corpore  yirtus. 

Virg.  iEn.,  v,  343. 

Becoming  sorrows,  and  a  virtuous  mind 
More  lovely  in  a  beauteous  form  enshrin’d. 

I  READ  what  I  give  for  the  entertainment  of  this 
day  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  and  publish  it 
just  as  it  came  to  my  hands.  I  shall  be  very  glad 
to  find  there  are  many  guessed  at  for  Emilia. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“If  this  paper  has  the  good  fortune  to  be  ho¬ 
nored  with  a  place  in  your  writings,  I  shall  be  the 
more  pleased,  because  the  character  of  Emilia  is 
not  an  imaginary  but  a  real  one.  I  have  indus¬ 
triously  obscured  the  whole  by  the  addition  of  one 
or  two  circumstances  of  no  consequence,  that  the 
person  it  is  drawn  from  might  still  be  concealed, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


370 

and  that  the  writer  of  it  might  not  be  in  the  least 
suspected,  and  for  some  other  reasons,  I  choose 
not  to  give  it  in  the  form  of  a  letter :  but  if,  be¬ 
side  the  faults  of  the  composition,  there  be  any¬ 
thing  in  it  more  proper  for  a  correspondent  than 
the  Spectator  himself  to  write,  I  submit  it  to  your 
better  judgment,  to  receive  any  other  model  you 
think  fit. 

“I  am,  Sir, 

“Your  very  humble  Servant.” 

There  is  nothing  which  gives  ofie  so  pleasing  a 
prospect  of  human  nature,  as  the  contemplation 
of  wisdom  and  beauty :  the  latter  is  the  peculiar 
portion  of  that  sex  which  is  therefore  called  fair ; 
but  the  happy  concurrence  of  both  these  excel¬ 
lencies  in  the  same  person,  is  a  character  too  celes¬ 
tial  to  be  frequently  met  with.  Beauty  is  an  over¬ 
weening  self-sufficient  thing,  careless  of  providing 
itself  any  more  substantial  ornaments;  nay,  so 
little  does  it  consult  its  own  interests,  that  it  too 
often  defeats  itself,  by  betraying  that  innocence, 
which  renders  it  lovely  and  desirable.  As  there¬ 
fore  virtue  makes  a  beautiful  woman  appear  more 
beautiful,  so  beauty  makes  a  virtuous  woman 
really  more  virtuous.  While  I  am  considering 
these  two  perfections  gloriously  united  in  one  per¬ 
son,  I  Cannot  help  representing  to  my  mind  the 
image  of  Emilia. 

Who  ever  beheld  the  charming  Emilia,  without 
feeling  in  his  breast  at  once  the  glow  of  love,  and 
the  tenderness  of  virtuous  friendship?  The  un¬ 
studied  graces  of  her  behavior,  and  the  pleasing 
accents  of  her  tongue,  insensibly  draw  you  on  to 
wish  for  a  nearer  enjoyment  of  them;  but  even  her 
smiles  carry  in  them  a  silent  reproof  to  the  im¬ 
pulses  of  licentious  love.  Thus,  though  the  at- 
tractives  of  her  beauty  play  almost  irresistibly 
upon  you,  and  create  desire,  you  immediately 
stand  corrected,  not  by  the  severity,  but  the  de¬ 
cency,  of  her  virtue.  That  sweetness  and  good- 
humor,  which  is  so'visible  in  her  face,  naturally 
diffuses  itself  into  every  word  and  action  :  a  man 
must  be  a  savage,  who,  at  the  sight  of  Emilia,  is 
not  more  inclined  to  do  her  good,  than  gratify 
himself.  Her  person  as  it  is  thus  studiously  em¬ 
bellished  by  nature,  thus  adorned  with  unpreme¬ 
ditated  graces,  is  a  fit  lodging  for  a  mind  so 
fair  and  lovely;  there  dwell  rational  piety,  modest 
hope,  and  cheerful  resignation. 

Many  of  the  prevailing  passions  of  mankind 
do  undeservedly  pass  under  the  name  of  religion; 
which  is  thus  made  to  express  itself  in  action,  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  nature  of  the  constitution  in  which 
it  resides;  so  that  were  we  to  make  a  judgment 
from  appearances,  one  would  imagine  religion  in 
some  is  little  better  than  sullenness  and  reserve, 
in  many  fear,  in  others  the  despondings  of  a 
melancholy  complexion,  in  others  the  formality 
of  insignificant  unaffecting  observances,  in  others 
severity,  in  others  ostentation.  In  Emilia  it  is  a 
principle  founded  in  reason,  and  enlivened  with 
hope;  it  does  not  break  forth  into  irregular  fits  and 
sallies  of  devotion,  but  it  is  a  uniform  and  con¬ 
sistent  tenor  of  action;  it  is  strict  without  severity; 
compassionate  without  weakness;  it  is  the  perfec¬ 
tion  of  that  good-humor  which  proceeds  from 
the  understanding,  not  the  effect  of  an  easy  con¬ 
stitution. 

By  a  generous  sympathy  in  nature,  we  feel  our¬ 
selves  disposed  to  mourn  when  any  of  our  fellow- 
creatures  are  afflicted;  but  injured  innocence  and 
beauty  in  distress  is  an  object  that  carries  in  it 
something  inexpressibly  moving;  it  softens  the 
most  manly  heart  with  the  tenderest  sensations 
of  love  and  compassion,  until  at  length  it  con¬ 
fesses  its  humanity,  and  flows  out  into  tears. 


Were  I  to  relate  that  part  of  Emilia’s  life  which 
has  given  her  an  opportunity  of  exerting  the 
heroism  of  Christianity,  it  would  make  too  sad, 
too  .tender  a  story;  but  when  I  consider  her  alone 
in  the  midst  of  her  distresses,  looking  beyond 
this  gloomy  vale  of  affliction  and  sorrow,  into  the 
joys  of  heaven  and  immortality,  and  when  I  see 
her  in  conversation  thoughtless  and  easy,  as  if  she 
were  the  most  happy  creature  in  the  world,  I  am 
transported  with  aamiration.  Surely  never  did 
such  a  philosophic  soul  inhabit  such  a  beauteous 
form!  For  beauty  is  often  made  a  privilege 
against  thought  and  reflection  ;  it  laughs  at 
wisdom,  and  will  not  abide  the  gravity  of  its  in¬ 
structions. 

Were  I  able  to  represent  Emilia’s  virtues  in 
their  proper  colors,  and  their  due  proportions, 
love  or  flattery  might  perhaps  be  thought  to  have 
drawn  the  picture  larger  than  life;  but  as  this  is 
but  an  imperfect  draught  of  so  excellent  a  charac¬ 
ter,  and  as  I  cannot,  I  will  not,  hope  to  have  any  in¬ 
terest  in  her  person ,  all  that  I  can  say  of  her  is  but  im¬ 
partial  praise  extorted  from  me  by  the  prevailing 
brightness  of  her  virtues.  So  rare  a  pattern  of 
female  excellence  ought  not  to  be  concealed,  but 
should  be  set  out  to  the  view  and  imitation  of  the 
world;  for  how  amiable  does  virtue  appear  thus, 
as  it  were,  made  visible  to  us,  in  so  fair  an  ex¬ 
ample  ! 

Honoria’s  disposition  is  of  a  very  different  turn: 
her  thoughts  are  wholly  bent  upon  conquest  and 
arbitrary  power.  That  she  has  some  wit  and 
beauty  nobody  denies,  and  therefore  has  the  esteem 
of  all  her  acquaintance  as  a  woman  of  an  agree¬ 
able  person  and  conversation ;  but  (whatever  her 
husband  may  think  of  it)  that  is  not  sufficient  for 
Honoria:  she  waves  that  title  to  respect  as  a  mean 
acquisition,  and  demands  veneration  in  the  right 
of  an  idol ;  for  this  reason,  her  natural  desire  of 
life  is  continually  checked  with  an  inconstant 
fear  of  wrinkles  and  old  age. 

Emilia  cannot  be  supposed  ignorant  of  her  per¬ 
sonal  charms,  though  she  seems  to  be  so;  but  she 
will  not  hold  her  happiness  upon  so  precarious  a 
tenure,  while  her  mind  is  adorned  with  beauties 
of  a  more  exalted  and  lasting  nature.  When  in 
the  full  bloom  of  youth  and  beauty  we  saw  her 
surrounded  with  a  crowd  of  adorers,  she  took  no 
pleasure  in  slaughter  and  destruction,  gave  no 
false  deluding  hopes  which  might  increase  the 
torments  of  her  disappointed  lovers;  but  having 
for  some  time  given  to  the  decency  of  a  virgin 
coyness,  and  examined  the  merit  of  their  several 
pretensions,  she  at  length  gratified  her  own,  by 
resigning  herself  to  the  ardent  passion  of  Bromius. 
Bromius  was  then  master  of  many  good  qualities 
and  a  moderate  fortune,  which  was  soon  after  un¬ 
expectedly  increased  to  a  plentiful  estate.  This 
for  a  good  while  proved  his  misfortunes,  as  it 
furnished  his  inexperienced  age  with  the  oppor¬ 
tunities  of  evil  company,  and  a  sensual  life.  He 
might  have  longer  wandered  in  the  labyrinths  of 
vice  and  folly,  had  not  Emilia’s  prudent  conduct 
won  him  over  to  the  government  of  his  reason. 
Her  ingenuity  has  been  constantly  employed  in 
humanizing  his  passions,  and  refining  his  plea¬ 
sures.  She  has  showed  him,  by  her  own  example, 
that  virtue  is  consistent  with  decent  freedoms, 
and  good-humor,  or  rather  that  it  cannot  subsist 
without  them.  Her  good  sense  readily  instructed 
her,  that  a  silent  example,  and  an  easy  unrepining 
behavior,  will  always  be  more  persuasive  than 
the  severity  of  lectures  and  admonitions;  and  that 
there  is  so  much  pride  interwoven  into  the  make 
of  human  nature,  that  an  obstinate  man  must  only 
take  the  hint  from  another,  aiid  then  be  left  to  ad¬ 
vise  and  correct  himself.  Thus  by  an  artful  train 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


of  management,  and  unseen  persuasions,  having 
at  first  brought  him  not  to  dislike,  and  at  length  to 
be  pleased  with  that  which  otherwise  he  would 
not  have  borne  to  hear  of,  she  then  knew  how  to 
press  and  secure  this  advantage;  by  approving  it 
as  his  thought,  and  seconding  it  as  his  proposal. 
By  this  means  she  has  gained  an  interest  in  some 
ot  his  leading  passions,  and  made  them  accessory 
to  his  reformation.  J 

There  is  another  particular  of  Emilia’s  conduct 
whicii  I  cannot  forbear  mentioning  :  to  some,  per¬ 
haps,  it  may  at  first  sight  appear  but  a  trifling  in¬ 
considerable  circumstance;  but,  for  my  part,  I 
think  it  highly  worthy  of  observation,  and  to  be 
recommended  to  the  consideration  of  the  fair  sex. 
I  have  often  thought  wrapping-gowns  and  dirty 
linen,  with  all  that  huddled  economy  of  dress 
which  passes  under  the  name  of  “a  mob,”  the 
bane  of  conjugal  love,  and  one  of  the  readiest 
means  imaginable  to  alienate  the  affection  of  a 
husband,  especially  a  fond  one.  I  have  heard 
some  ladies  who  have  been  surprised  by  company 
in  such  a  dishabille,  apologize  for  it  after  this 
manner:  “  Truly,  I  am  ashamed  to  be  caught  in 
this  pickle:  but  my  husband  and  I  were  sitting  all 
alone  by  ourselves,  and  I  did  not  expect  to&  see 
such  good  company.”  This,  by  the  way,  is  a  fine 
compliment  to  the  good  man,  which  it  is  ten  to 
one  but  he  returns  in  dogged  answers  and  a 
churlish  behavior,  without  knowing  what  it  is 
that  puts  him  out  of  humor. 

.  Emilia’s  observation  teaches  her,  that  as  little 
inadvertencies  and  neglects  cast  a  blemish  upon  a 
great  character  ;  so  the  neglect  of  apparel,  even 
among  the  most  intimate  friends,  does  insensibly 
lessen  their  regards  to  each  other,  by  creating  a 
familiarity  too  low  and  contemptible.  She  under¬ 
stands  the  importance  of  those  things  which  the 
generality  account  trifles;  and  considers  every¬ 
thing  as  a  matter  of  consequence  that  has  the  least 
tendency  toward  keeping  up  or  abating  the  affec¬ 
tion  of  her  husband:  him  she  esteems  as  a  fit  ob¬ 
ject  to  employ  her  ingenuity  in  pleasing,  because 
he  is  to  be  pleased  for  life. 

By  the  help  of  these,  afid  a  thousand  other 
nameless  arts,  which  it  is  easier  for  her  to  practice 
than  for  another  to  express,  by  the  obstinacy  of 
her  goodness  and  unprovoked  submission,  in  spite 
of  all  her  afflictions  and  ill-usage,  Bromius  is 
become  a  man  of  sense  and  a  kind  husband,  and 
Emilia  a  happy  wife. 

.  Ye  guardian  angels,  to  whose  care  Heaven  has 
intrusted  its  dear  Emilia,  guide  her  still  forward 
in  the  paths  of  virtue,  defend  her  from  the  inso¬ 
lence  and  wrongs  of  this  undiscerning  world  :  at 
length,  when  we  must  no  more  converse  with  such 
purity  on  earth,  lead  her  gently  hence,  innocent 
and  unreprovable,  to  a  better  place,  where,  by  an 
easy  transition  from  what  she  now  is,  she  may 
shine  forth  an  angel  of  light. _ T. 


371 


No.  303.]  SATURDAY,  FEB.  16,  1711-12. 

- Volet  haec  sub  luce  videri, 

Judicis  argutum  quae  non  formidat  acumen. 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  363. 

- Some  choose  the  clearest  light, 

And  boldly  challenge  the  most  piercing  eye. 

Roscommon. 

I  have  seen,  in  the  works  of  a  modern  philoso¬ 
pher,  a  map  of  the  spots  in  the  sun.  My  last 
paper  of  the  faults  and  blemishes  in  Milton’s 
Paradise  Lost  may  be  considered  as  a  piece  of  the 
same  nature.  To  pursue  the  illusion :  as  it  is  ob¬ 
served  that  among  the  bright  parts  of  the  luminous 
body  above-mentioned  there  are  some  which  glow 


more  intensely,  and  dart  a  stronger  light  than 
vn  1S’>SO’  notwithstanding  I  have  already  shown 
Milton  s  poem  to  be  very  beautiful  in  general,  I 
shall  now  proceed  to  take  notice  of  such  beauties 
as  appear  to  me  more  exquisite  than  the  rest. 
Milton  has  proposed  the  subject  of  his  poem  in 
the  following  verses: 

<  >f  man’s  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Ot  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world  and  all  our  woe, 
vv  ith  loss  ot  Eden,  till  one  greater  man 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat. 

Sing,  heavenly  Muse! 

These  lines  are,  perhaps,  as  plain,  simple,  and 
unadorned,  as  any  of  the  whole  poem,  in  which 
particular  the  author  has  conformed  himself  to  the 
example  of  Homer,  and  the  precept  of  Horace. 

His  invocation  to  a  work  which  turns  in  a  great 
measure  upon  the  creation  of  the  world,  is  very 
properly  made  to  the  Muse  who  inspired  Moses  in 
those  oooks  from  whence  our  author  drew  his  sub¬ 
ject,  and  to  the  Holy  Spirit,  who  is  therein  repre¬ 
sented  as  operating  after  a  particular  manner  in 
the  first  production  of  nature.  This  whole  exor¬ 
dium  rises  very  happily  into  noble  language  and 
sentiments,  as  I  think  the  transition  to  the  fable  is 
exquisitely  beautiful  and  natural. 

The  nine  days’  astonishment,  in  which  the 
angels  lay  entranced  after  their  dreadful  overthrow 
and  fall  from  heaven,  before  they  could  recover 
either  the  use  of  thought  or  speech,  is  a  noble  cir¬ 
cumstance,  and  very  finely  imagined.  The  divi¬ 
sion  of  hell  into  seas  of  fire,  and  into  firm  ground 
impregnated  with  the  same  furious  element,  with 
that  particular  circumstance  of  the  exclusion  of 
Hope  from  those  infernal  regions,  are  instances  of 
the  same  great  and  fruitful  invention. 

.  The  thoughts  in  the  first  speech  and  descrip¬ 
tion  of  Satan,  who  is  one  of  the  principal  actors 
ill  this  poem,  are  wonderfully  proper  to  give  us  a 
full  idea  of  him.  His  pride,  envy,  and  revenge 
obstinacy,  despair,  and  impenitence,  are  all  of 
them  very  artfully  interwoven.  In  short,  his  first 
speech  is  a  complication  of  all  those  passions 
winch  discover  themselves  separately  in  several 
other  of  his  speeches  in  the  poem.  The  whole 
part  of  this  great  enemy  of  mankind  is  filled  Avith 
such  incidents,  as  are  very  apt  to  raise  and  terrify 
the  reader’s  imagination.  Of  this  nature,  in  the 
book  now  before  us,  is  his  being  the  first  that 
awakens  out  of  the  general  trance,  with  his  pos- 
tuie  on  the  burning  lake;  his  rising  from  it,  and 
the  description  of  his  shield  and  spear  : 

Tima  Satan  talking  to  his  nearest  mate, 

With  head  up-lift  above  the  wave,  and  eyes 
That  sparkling  blaz'd,  his  other  parts  beside 
Prone  on  the  flood  extended  long  and  large 

Lay  floating  many  a  rood - 

Forthwith  upright  he  rears  from  off  the  pool 
His  mighty  stature ;  on  each  hand  the  flames 
Driv’n  backward  slope  their  pointing  spires,  and  roll’d 
In  billows,  leave  i’  th’  midst  a  horrid  vale. 

Then,  with  expanded  wings  he  steers  his  flight 
Aloft,  incumbent  on  the  dusky  air 

That  felt  unusual  weight - 

- Ilis  pond’rous  shield, 

Ethereal  temper,  massy,  large,  and  round, 

Behind  him  cast;  the  broad  circumference 
Hung  on  his  shoulders  like  the  moon,  whose  orb 
Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artists  view 
At  ev’ning  from  the  top  of  Fesole, 

Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands, 

Rivers,  or  mountains,  on  her  spotty  globe. 

His  spear  (to  equal  which  the  tallest  pine  ' 

Hewn  on  Norwegian  hills  to  be  the  mast 
Of  some  great  admiral,  were  but  a  wand) 

He  walk’d  with,  to  support  uneasy  steps 
Over  the  burning  marl- - 

To  which  we  may  add  his  call  to  the  fallen 
angels  that  lay  plunged  and  stupified  in  the  sea. 
of  fire:  * 

Ho  call’d  so  loud,  that  all  the  hollow  deep 
Of  hell  resounded. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


372 

But  there  is  no  single  passage  in  the  whole 
poem  worked  up  to  a  greater  sublimity,  than  that 
wherein  his  person  is  described  in  those  celebrated 
lines  : 

- He  above  the  rest 

#In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent, 

Stood  like  a  tower,  etc. 

His  sentiments  are  every  way  answerable  to  his 
character,  and  suitable  to  a  created  being  of  the 
most  exalted  and  most  depraved  nature.  Such  is 
that  in  which  he  takes  possession  of  his  place  of 
torments  : 

- Hail,  horrors !  hail, 

Infernal  world !  and  thou,  profoundest  hell, 

Receive  thy  new  possessor,  one  who  brings 
A  mind  not  to  be  chang’d  by  place  or  time. 

And  afterward : 

- Here  at  least 

We  shall  be  free!  th’  Almighty  hath  not  built 
Here  for  his  envy;  will  not  drive  us  hence: 

Here  we  may  reign  secure;  and  in  my  choice 
To  reign  is  worth  ambition,  though  in  hell ; 

Better  to  reign  in  hell,  than  serve  in  heav’n. 

Amidst  those  impieties  which  this  enraged 
spirit  utters  in  other  places  of  the  poem,  the 
author  has  taken  care  to  introduce  none  that  is  not 
big  with  absurdity,  and  incapable  of  shocking  a 
religious  reader;  his  words,  as  the  poet  himself 
describes  them,  bearing  only  a  “  semblance  of 
worth,  not  substance.”  He  is,  likewise,  with 
great  art  described  as  owning  his  adversary  to  be 
Almighty.  Whatever  perverse  interpretation  he 
puts  on  the  justice,  mercy,  and  other  attributes  of 
the  Supreme  Being,  he  frequently  confesses  his 
omnipotence,  that  being  the  perfection  he  was 
forced  to  allow  him,  and  the  only  consideration 
which  could  support  his  pride  under  the  shame  of 
his  defeat. 

Nor  must  I  here  omit  that  beautiful  circumstance 
of  his  bursting  out  into  tears,  upon  his  survey 
of  those  innumerable  spirits  whom  he  had  in¬ 
volved  in  the  same  guilt  and  ruin  with  himself : 

- He  now  prepar’d 

To  speak :  whereat  their  doubled  ranks  they  bend 
From  wing  to  wing,  and  half  inclose  him  round 
With  all  his  peers :  Attention  held  them  mute. 

Thrice  he  essay’d,  and  thrice,  in  spite  of  scorn, 

Tears,  such  as  angels  weep,  burst  forth - 

The  catalogue  of  evil  spirits  has  abundance  of 
learning  in  it,  and  a  very  agreeable  turn  of  poetry, 
which  rises  in  a  great  measure  from  its  describing 
the  places  where  they  were  worshiped,  by  those 
beautiful  marks  of  rivers  so  frequent  among  the 
ancient  poets.  The  author  had,  doubtless,  in  this 
place  Homer’s  catalogue  of  ships,  and  Virgil’s  list 
of  warriors,  in  his  view.  The  characters  of  Mo¬ 
loch  and  Belial  prepare  the  reader’s  mind  for 
their  respective  speeches  and  behavior  in  the  sec¬ 
ond  and  sixth  books.  The  account  of  Thammuz 
is  finely  romantic,  and  suitable  to  what  we  read 
among  the  ancients  of  the  worship  which  was 
paid  to  that  idol; 

*- - Thammuz  came  next  behind, 

Whose  annual  wound  in  Lebanon  allur’d 
The  Syrian  damsels  to  lament  his  fate 
In  am’rous  ditties  all  a  summer’s  day ; 

While  smooth  Adonis  from  his  native  rock 
Ran  purple  to  the  sea,  suppos’d  with  blood 
Of  Thammuz  yearly  wounded :  the  love  tale 
Infected  Sion’s  daughter  with  like  heat, 

Whose  wanton  passions  in  the  sacred  porch 
Ezekiel  saw;  when,  by  the  vision  led, 

His  eyes  survey’d  the  dark  idolatries 
Of  alienated  Judah - 


*  This  quotation  from  Milton,  and  the  paragraph  immedi¬ 
ately  following  it  were  not  in  the  first  publication  of  this  paper 
in  folio. 


The  reader  will  pardon  me  if  I  insert  as  a  note 
on  this  beautiful  passage,  the  account  given  us  by 
the  late  ingenious  Mr.  Maundrell  of  this  ancient 
piece  of  worship,  and  probably  the  first  occasion 
of  such  a  superstition.  u  We  came  to  a  fair  large 
river;  doubtless  the  ancient  river  Adonis,  as  fa¬ 
mous  for  the  idolatrous  rites  performed  here  in  la¬ 
mentation  of  Adonis.  We  had  the  fortune  to  see 
what  may  be  supposed  to  be  the  occasion  of  that 
opinion  which  Lucian  relates  concerning  this 
river,  viz:  That  this  stream,  at  certain  seasons  of 
the  year,  especially  about  the  feast  of  Adonis,  is 
of  a  bloody  color;  which  the  heathens  looked 
upon  as  proceeding  from  a  kind  of  sympathy  in 
the  river  for  the  death  of  Adonis,  who  was  killed 
by  a  wild  boar  in  the  mountains,  out  of  which 
this  stream  rises.  Something  like  this  we  saw  ac¬ 
tually  come  to  pass;  for  the  water  was  stained  to 
a  surprising  redness:  and,  as  we  observed  in  tra¬ 
veling,  had  discolored  the  sea  a  great  way  into  a 
reddish  hue,  occasioned  doubtless  by  a  sort  of 
minium,  or  red  earth,  washed  into  the  river  by  the 
violence  of  the  rain,  and  not  by  any  stain  from 
Adonis’s  blood.” 

The  passage  in  the  catalogue,  explaining  the 
manner  how  spirits  transform  themselves  by  con¬ 
traction  or  enlargement  of  their  dimensions,  is  in¬ 
troduced  with  great  judgment,  to  make  way  for 
several  surprising  accidents  in  the  sequel  of  the 
poem.  There  follows  one  at  the  very  end  of  the 
first  book,  which  is  what  the  French  critics  call 
marvelous,  but  at  the  same  time  probable,  by  rea¬ 
son  of  the  passage  last  mentioned.  As  soon  as  the 
infernal  palace  is  finished,  we  are  told  the  multi¬ 
tude  ana  rabble  of  spirits  immediately  shrunk 
themselves  into  a  small  compass,  that  there  might 
be  room  for  such  a  numberless  assembly  in  this 
capacious  hall.  But  it  is  the  poet’s  refinement 
upon  this  thought  which  I  most  admire,  and  which 
indeed  is  very  noble  in  itself.  For  he  tells  us, 
that  notwithstanding  the  vulgar  among  the  fallen 
spirits  contracted  their  forms,  those  of  the  first 
rank  and  dignity  still  preserved  their  natural  di¬ 
mensions: 

Thus  incorporeal  spirits  to  smallest  forms 
Reduc’d  their  shapes  immense,  and  were  at  large, 
Though  without  number,  still  amidst  the  hall 
Of  that  infernal  court.  But  far  within, 

And  in  their  own  dimensions  like  themselves, 

The  great  seraphic  lords  and  cherubim 
In  close  recess  and  secret  conclave  sat, 

A  thousand  demi-gods  on  golden  seats, 

Frequent  and  full - 

The  character  of  Mammon,  and  the  description 
of  the  Pandsemonium,  are  full  of  beauties. 

There  are  several  other  strokes  in  the  first  book 
wonderfully  poetical,  and  instances  of  that  sub¬ 
lime  genius  so  peculiar  to  the  author.  Such  is 
the  description  of  Azazel’s  stature,  and  the  infer¬ 
nal  standard  which  he  unfurls;  as  also  of  that 
ghastly  light  by  which  the  fiends  appear  to  one 
another  in  their  place  of  torments  : 

The  seat  of  desolation,  void  of  light, 

Save  what  the  glimm’ring  of  those  livid  flames 
Casts  pale  and  dreadful - 

The  shout  of  the  whole  host  of  fallen  angels 
when  drawn  up  in  battle  array : 

- The  universal  host  up  sent 

A  shout  that  tore  hell’s  concave,  and  beyond 
Frighted  the  reign  of  Chaos  and  old  Night. 

The  review,  which  the  leader  makes  of  his  in 
fernal  army: 


- He  through  the  armed  files 

Darts  his  experienc’d  eye,  and  soon  traverse 


the  spectator. 

Tho  whole  battalion  views,  their  order  due 
Their  visages  and  stature  as  of  gods, 

Their  number  last  he  sums ;  and  now  his  heart 
Distends  with  pride,  and  hard’ning  in  his  strength 
Glories -  ° 


The  flash  of  light  which  appeared  upon  the 
drawing  of  their  swords  : 

He  spalce;  and  to  confirm  his  words  out  flew 
Millions  of  flaming  swords,  drawn  from  the  thighs 
Ot  mighty  cherubim;  the  sudden  blaze 
Far  round  illumin’d  hell. 

The  sudden  production  of  the  Pandaemonium  : 

Anon  out  of  the  earth  a  fabric  huge 
Dose  like  an  exhalation,  with  the  sound 
Of  dulcet  symphonies  and  voices  sweet. 

The  artificial  illuminations  made  in  it; 

- From  the  arch’d  roof 

Pendent  by  subtile  magic,  many  a  row 
Of  starry  lamps  and  blazing  cressets,*  fed 
With  Naphtha  and  Asphaltus,  yielded  light 
As  from  a  sky. - - 

.  There  are  also  several  noble  similes  and  allu¬ 
sions  in  the  first  book  of  Paradise  Lost.  And  here 
I  must  observe,  that  when  Milton  alludes  either  to 
things  or  persons,  he  never  quits  his  simile  until 
it  rises  to  some  very  great  idea,  which  is  often 
foreign  to  the  occasion  that  gave  birth  to  it.  The 
resemblance  does  not,  perhaps,  last  above  a  line 
or  two,  but  the  poet  runs  on  with  the  hint  until 
he  has  raised  out  of  it  some  glorious  image  or 
sentiment,  pi  oper  to  inflame  the  mind  of  the  reader, 
and  to  give  it  that  sublime  kind  of  entertain¬ 
ment  which  is  suitable  to  the  nature  of  an  heroic 
poem.  Those  who  are  acquainted  with  Homer’s 
and  Virgil’s  way  of  writing,  cannot  but  be 
pleased  with  this  kind  of  structure  in  Milton’s 
similitudes.  I  am  the  more  particular  on  this 
head,  because  ignorant  readers,  who  have  formed 
their  taste  upon  the  quaint  similes  and  little  turns 
of  wit,  which  are  so  much  in  vogue  among  modern 
poets,  cannot  relish  these  beauties,  which  are  of  a 
much  higher  nature,  and  are  therefore  apt  to  cen¬ 
sure  Milton’s  comparisons,  in  which  they  do  not 
see  any  surprising  points  of  likeness.  Monsieur 
Perrault  was  a  man  ot  this  vitiated  relish,  and  for 
that  very  reason  has  endeavored  to  turn  into  ridi¬ 
cule  several  of  Homer’s  similitudes,  which  he 
calls  “  comparaisons  a  longue  queue,”  “  long-tailed 
comparisons.”  I  shall  conclude  this  paper  on  the 
first  book  of  Milton  with  the  answer  which  Mon¬ 
sieur  Boileau  makes  to  Perrault  on  this  occasion ; 

“  Comparisons,”  says  he,  “  in  odes  and  epic  poems, 
are  not  introduced  only  to  illustrate  and  embellish 
the  discourse,  but  to  amuse  and  relax  the  mind  of 
the  reader,  by  frequently  disengaging  him  from 
too  paint ul  an  attention  to  the  principal  subject, 
and  by  leading  him  into  other  agreeable  images. 
Homer,,  says  he,  excelled  in  this  particular,  whose 
comparisons  abound  with  such  images  of  nature 
as  are  proper  to  relieve  and  diversify  his  subjects. 
He  continually  instructs  the  reader,  and  makes 
him  take  notice,  even  in  objects  which  are  every 
day  betore  his  eyes,  of  such  circumstances  as  he 
should  not  otherwise  have  observed.  To  this  he 
adds,  .as  a  maxim  universally  acknowledged, 

“  that  it  is  not  necessary  in  poetry  for  the  points 
of  the  comparison  to  correspond  with  one  another 
exactly,  but  that  a  general  resemblance  is  suffi¬ 
cient,  and  that  too  much  nicety  in  this  particular 
savors  of  the  rhetorician  and  epigrammatist. 

In  short,  if  Ave  look  into  the  conduct  of  Homer 
Virgil,  and  Milton,  as  the  great  fable  is  the  soul 


*  Cresset,  i.  e.,  a  blazing  light  set  on  a  beacon,  in  French 
“croisette,”  because  beacons  formerly  had  crosses  on  their 

tops. — Johnson. 


373 

of  each  poem,  so  to  give  their  works  an  agreeable 
variety,  their  episodes  are  so  many  short  fables, 
and  their  similes  so  many  short  episodes ;  to 
which  you  may  add,  if  you  please,  that  their  meta¬ 
phors  are  so  many  short  similes.  If  the  reader 
considers  the  comparisons  in  the  first  book  of  Mil- 
ton,  of  the  sun  in  an  eclipse,  of  the  sleeping  levi- 
athan,  of  the  bees  swarming  about  their  hive  of 
the  fairy  dance,  in  the  view  wherein  1  have  here 
placed  them,  lie  will  easily  discover  the  great 
beauties  that  are  in  each  of  those  passages.- _ L. 


Ho.  304.J  MONDAY,  FEBRUARY  18,  1711-12. 

\  ulnus  alit  venis  et  casco  carpitur  igni. 

VlRU.  JEn.,  iv,  2. 

A  latent  fire  preys  on  bis  feverish  veins. 

The  circumstances  of  my  correspondent,  whose 
letter  I  now  insert,  are  so  frequent,  that  I  cannot 
Avant  compassion  so  much  as  to  forbear  laying  it 
before  the  town.  There  is  something  so  mean 
and  inhuman  in  a  direct  Smithfield  bargain  for 
children,  that  if  this  lover  carries  his  point,  and 
observes  the  rules  he  pretends  to  follow,  I  do  not 
only  wish  him  success,  but  also  that  it  may  ani¬ 
mate  others  to  follow  his  example.  I  know  not 
one  motive  relating  to  this  life  which  could  pro¬ 
duce  so  many  honorable  and  worthy  actions,  as 
the  hopes  of  obtaining  a  woman  of  merit.  There 
would  ten  thousand  Avays  of  industry  and  honest 
ambition  be  pursued  by  young  men,  who  believed 
that  the  persons  admired  had  value  enough  for 
then  passion  to  attend  the  event  of  their  °’ood 
fortune  in  all  their  applications,  in  order  to  make 
their  circumstances  fall  in  with  the  duties  they 
owe  to  themselves,  their  families,  and  their  coun¬ 
try.  All  these  relations  a  man  should  think  of 
Avho  intends  to  go  into  the  state  of  marriage,  and 
expects  to  make  it  a  state  of  pleasure  and  satis¬ 
faction. 

“Me.  Spectator, 

“  I  have  for  some  years  indulged  a  passion  for  a 
young  lady  of  age  and  quality  suitable  to  my  own, 
but  very  much  superior  in  fortune.  It  is  the 
fashion  Avitli  paients  (how  justly  I  leave  you  to 
judge)  to  make  all  regards  give  way  to  the  ar¬ 
ticle  of  wealth.  From  this  one  consideration 
it  is,  that  I  have  concealed  the  ardent  love  I 
liav  e  for  her;  but  I  am  beholden  to  the  force  of 
my  love  for  many  advantages  which  I  reaped  from 
it  toward  the  better  conduct  of  my  life.  A  certain 
complacency  to  all  the  world,  a  strong  desire  to 
oblige  wherever  it  lay  in  my  power,  and  a  cir¬ 
cumspect  behavior  in  all  my  Avords  and  actions, 
have  rendered  me  more  particularly  acceptable  to 
all  my  friends  and  acquaintance.  Love  has  had 
the  same  good  effect  upon  my  fortune,  and  I  have 
increased  in  riches,  in  proportion  to  my  advance¬ 
ment  in  those  arts  which  make  a  man  agreeable 
and  amiable.  There  is  a  certain  sympathy  which 
av ill  tell  my  mistress  from  these  circumstances, 
that  it  is  I  who  wrote  this  for  her  reading,  if  you 
Avill  please  to  insert  it.  Ihere  is  not  a  downright 
enmity,  but.  a  great  coldness  between  our  parents; 
so  that  if  either  of  us  declared  any  kind  senti¬ 
ments  foi  each  other,  her  friends  Avould  be  very 
backward  to  lay  an  obligation  upon  our  family, 
and  mine,  to  receive  it  from  hers.  Under  these 
delicate  circumstances  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  act 
with  safety.  I  have  no  reason  to  fancy  my  mis¬ 
tress  has  any  regard  for  me,  but  from  a  very  dis¬ 
interested  value  which  I  have  for  her.  If  from 
any  hint  in  any  future  paper  of  yours  she  gives 
me  the  least  encouragement,  I  doubt  not  but  I 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


374 


shall  surmount  all  other  difficulties;  and  inspired 
by  60  noble  a  motive  for  the  care  of  my  fortune, 
as  the  belief  she  is  to  be  concerned  in  it,  I  will 
not  despair  of  receiving  her  one  day  from  her 
father’s  own  hand. 

“I  am,  Sir, 

“  Your  most  obedient,  humble  Servant, 

“  Clytander.” 

“To  his  Worship  the  Spectator. 

“  The  humble  petition  of  Anthony  Title-page, 
stationer,  in  the  center  of  Lincoln’s-inn-fields. 

“  Showeth, 

“  That  your  petitioner  and  his  forefathers,  have 
been  sellers  of  books  for  time  immemorial:  that 
your  petitioner’s  ancestor,  Crouchback  Title-page, 
was  the  first  of  that  vocation  in  Britain ;  who 
keeping  his  station  (in  fair  weather)  at  the  corner 
of  Lothbury,  was,  by  way  of  eminency,  called 
‘The  Stationer,’  a  name  which  from  him  all  suc¬ 
ceeding  booksellers  have  affected  to  bear:  that  the 
station  of  your  petitioner  and  his  father  has  been 
in  the  place  of  his  present  settlement  ever  since 
that  square  has  been  built:  that  your  petitioner 
has  formerly  had  the  honor  of  your  worship’s 
custom,  and  hopes  you  never  had  reason  to  com¬ 
plain  of  your  pennyworths  :  that  particularly  he 
sold  you  your  first  Lilly’s  Grammar,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  Wit’s  Commonwealth,  almost  as  good 
as  new :  moreover,  that  your  first  rudimental 
essays  in  spectatorship  were  made  in  your  peti¬ 
tioner’s  shop,  w'here  you  often  practiced  for  hours 
together,  sometimes  on  the  little  hieroglyphics 
either  gilt,  silvered,  or  plain,  which  the  Egyptian 
woman  on  the  other  side  of  the  shop  had  wrought 
in  gingerbread,  and  sometimes  on  the  English 
youths  who  in  sundry  places  there  were  exer¬ 
cising  themselves  in  the  traditional  sports  of  the 
field. 

“  From  these  considerations  it  is;  that  your  pe¬ 
titioner  is  encouraged  to  apply  himself  to  you, 
and  to  proceed  humbly  to  acquaint  your  worship, 
that  he  has  certain  intelligence  that  you  receive 
great  numbers  of  defamatory  letters  designed  by 
their  authors  to  be  published,  wdiich  you  throw 
aside  and  totally  neglect:  Your  petitioner  there¬ 
fore  prays,  that  you  will  please  to  bestow  on  him 
those  refuse  letters,  and  he  hopes  by  printing 
them  to  get  a  more  plentiful  provision  for  his 
family;  or,  at  the  worst,  he  may  be  allowed  to 
sell  them  by  the  pound  weight  to  his  good  cus¬ 
tomers  the  pastry-cooks  of  London  and  West¬ 
minster. 

“And  your  Petitioner  shall  ever  pray,”  etc. 

“To  the  Spectator. 

“  The  humble  petition  of  Bartholomew  Ladylove, 
of  Round-court,  in  the  parish  of  St.  Martin’s 
in  the  Fields,  in  behalf  of  himself  and  neigh¬ 
bors.  b 

“Showeth, 

“  That  your  petitioners  have,  with  great  indus¬ 
try  and  application,  arrived  at  the  most  exact  art 
of  invitation  or  entreaty:  that  by  a  beseeching  air 
and  persuasive  address,  they  have  for  many  years 
last  past  peaceably  drawTn  in  every  tenth  passen¬ 
ger,  whether  they  intended  or  not  to  call  at  their 
shops,  to  come  in  and  buy;  and  from  that  softness 
of  behavior  have  arrived  among  tradesmen  at  the 
gentle  appellation  of  ‘The  Fawners.’ 

“  That  there  have  of  late  set  up  among  us  cer¬ 
tain  persons  from  Monmouth  street  and  Long-lane, 
who  by  the  strength  of  their  arms,  and  loudness 


of  their  throats,  draw  off  the  regard  of  all  pas¬ 
sengers  from  your  said  petitioners  ;  from  which 
violence  they  are  distinguished  by  the  name  of 
‘The  Worriers.’ 

“  That  while  your  petitioners  stand  ready  to  re¬ 
ceive  passengers  with  a  submissive  bow,  and 
repeat  with  a  gentle  voice,  ‘  Ladies,  what  do  you 
want?  pray  look  in  here;’  the  worriers  reach  out 
their  hands  at  pistol-shot,  and  seize  the  customers 
at  arms’  length. 

“  That  while  the  fawners  strain  and  relax  the 
muscles  of  their  faces,  in  making  a  distinction  be¬ 
tween  a  spinster  in  a  colored  scarf  and  a  hand¬ 
maid  in  a  straw  hat,  the  worriers  use  the  same 
roughness  to  both,  and  prevail  upon  the  easiness 
of  the  passengers,  to  the  impoverishment  of  your 
petitioners. 

“Your  petitioners  therefore  most  humbly  pray, 
that  the  worriers  may  not  be  permitted  to  inhabit 
the  politer  parts  of  the  town;  and  that  Round- 
court  may  remain  a  receptacle  for  buyers  of  a 
more  soft  education. 

“And  your  Petitioners,”  etc. 

***  The  petition  of  the  New-exchange,  concern¬ 
ing  the  arts  of  buying  and  selling,  and  particu¬ 
larly  valuing  goods,  by  the  complexion  of  the 
seller,  will  be  considered  on  another  occasion. — T. 


No.  305.]  TUESDAY,  FEBRUARY  19,  1711-12. 

Non  tali  auxilio,  nec  defensoribus  istis 

Tempus  eget. -  Virg.  jEn.,  ii,  521. 

These  times  want  other  aids. — Dryden. 

Our  late  newspapers  being  full  of  the  project 
now  on  foot  in  the  court  of  France  for  establish¬ 
ing  a  political  academy,  and  I  myself  having  re¬ 
ceived  letters  from  several  virtuosos  among  my 
foreign  correspondents,  which  give  some  light 
into  that  affair,  I  intend  to  make  it  the  subject  of 
this  day’s  speculation.  A  general  account  of  this 
project  may  be  met  with  in  the  Daily  Courant  of 
last  Friday,  in  the  following  words,  translated 
from  the  Gazette  of  Amsterdam  : 

Paris,  February  12.  “It  is  confirmed,  that  the 
King  has  resolved  to  establish  a  new  academy  for 
politics,  of  "which  the  Marquis  de  Torcy,  minister 
and  secretary  of  state,  is  to  be  protector.  Six 
academicians  are  to  be  chosen,  endowed  with  pro¬ 
per  talents,  for  beginning  to  form  this  academy, 
into  which  no  person  is  to  be  admitted  under 
twenty-five  years  of  age:  they  must  likewise  have 
each  an  estate  of  t"wo  thousand  livres  a  year,  either 
in  possession,  or  to  come  to  them  by  inheritance. 
The  King  will  allow  to  each  a  pension  of  a  thou¬ 
sand  livres.  They  are  likewise  to  have  able  mas¬ 
ters  to  teach  them  the  necessary  sciences,  and  to 
instruct  them  in  all  the  treaties  of  peace,  alliance, 
and  others,  "which  have  been  made  in  several  ages 
past.  These  members  are  to  meet  twice  a  week 
at  the  Louvre.  From  this  seminary  are  to  be 
chosen  secretaries  to  embassies,  wdio  by  degrees 
may  advance  to  higher  employments.” 

Cardinal  Richelieu’s  politics  made  France  the 
terror  of  Europe.  The  statesmen  who  have  ap¬ 
peared  in  that  nation  of  late  years  have,  on  the 
contrary,  rendered  it  either  the  pity  or  contempt 
of  its  neighbors.  The  cardinal  erected  that 
famous  academy  which  has  carried  all  the  parts 
of  polite  learning  to  the  greatest  height.  His 
chief  design  in  that  institution  "was  to  divert  the 
men  of  genius  from  meddling  with  politics,  a  pro¬ 
vince  in  which  he  did  not  care  to  have  any  one 
else  interfere  with  him.  On  the  contrary,  the 
Marquis  de  Torcy  seems  resolved  to  make  several 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


375 


young  men  in  France  as  wise  as  himself,  and  is 
therefore  taken  up  at  present  in  establishing  a 
nursery  of  statesmen. 

Some  private  letters  add,  that  there  will  also  be 
erected  a  seminary  of  petticoat  politicians,  who 
are  to  be  brought  up  at  the  feet  of  Madame  de 
Maiutenon,  and  to  be  dispatched  into  foreign 
courts  upon  any  emergencies  of  state:  but  as  the 
news  of  this  last  project  has  not  been  yet  confirm¬ 
ed,  I  shall  take  no  further  notice  of  it. 

Several  of  my  readers  may  doubtless  remember 
that  upon  the  conclusion  of  the  last  war,  which 
had  been  carried  on  so  successfully  by  the  enemy, 
their  generals  were  many  of  them  transformed  into 
ambassadors;  but  the  conduct  of  those  who  have 
commanded  in  the  present  war,  has  it  seems, 
brought  so  little  honor  and  advantage  to  their 
great  monarch,  that  he  is  resolved  to  trust  .his  af¬ 
fairs  no  longer  in  the  hands  of  those  military  gen¬ 
tlemen. 

The  regulations  of  this  new  academy  very 
much  deserve  our  attention.  The  students  are  to 
have  in  possession  or  reversion,  an  estate  of  two 
thousand  French  livres  per  annum,  which,  as  the 
present  exchange  runs,  will  amount  to  at  least  one 
hundred  and  twenty-six  pounds  English.  This, 
with  the  royal  allowance  of  a  thousand  livres, 
will  enable  them  to  find  themselves  in  coffee  and 
snuff;  not  to  mention  newspapers,  pens  and  ink, 
wax  and  wafers,  with  the  like  necessaries  for 
politicians. 

A  man  must  be  at  least  five-and-twenty  before 
he  can  be  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  this  aca¬ 
demy,  though  there  is  no  question  but  many 
rave  persons  of  a  much  more  advanced  age,  who 
ave  been  constant  readers  of  the  Paris  Gazette, 
will  be  glad  to  begin  the  world  anew,  and  enter 
themselves  upon  this  list  of  politicians. 

The  society  of  these  hopeful  young  gentlemen 
is  to  be  under  the  direction  of  six  professors,  who, 
it  seems,  are  to  be  speculative  statesmen,  and 
drawn  out  of  the  body  of  the  royal  academy. 
These  six  wise  masters,  according  to  my  private 
letters,  are  to  have  the  following  parts  allotted  to 
them. 

The  first  is  to  instruct  the  students  in  state 
legerdemain;  as  how  to  take  off  the  impression 
of  a  seal,  to  split  a  wafer,  to  open  a  letter,  to  fold 
it  up  again,  with  other  the  like  ingenious  feats  of 
dexterity  and  art.  When  the  students  have  ac¬ 
complished  themselves  in  this  part  of  their  pro¬ 
fession,  they  are  to  be  delivered  into  the  hands  of 
their  second  instructor,  who  is  a  kind  of  posture- 
master. 

This  artist  is  to  teach  them  how  to  nod  judi¬ 
ciously,  to  shrug  up  their  shoulders  in  a  dubious 
case,  to  connive  with  either  eye,  and  in  a  word, 
the  whole  practice  of  political  grimace. 

The  third  is  a  sort  of  language-master,  who  is 
to  instruct  them  in  a  style  proper  for  a  minister 
in  his  ordinary  discourse.  And  to  the  end  that 
this  college  of  statesmen  may  be  thoroughly  prac¬ 
ticed  in  the  political  style,  they  are  to  make  use 
of  it  in  their  common  conversations,  before  they 
are  employed  either  in  foreign  or  domestic  affairs. 
If  one  of  them  asks  another  what  o’clock  it  is,  the 
other  is  to  answer  him  indirectly,  and,  if  possi¬ 
ble,  to  turn  off  the  question.  If  he  is  desired  to 
change  a  louisd’or,  he  must  beg  time  to  consider 
of  it.  If  it  be  inquired  of  him  whether  the  King 
is  at  Versailles  or  Marly,  he  must  answer  in  a 
whisper.  If  he  be  asked  thq  news  of  the  last  Ga¬ 
zette,  or  the  subject  of  a  proclamation,  lie  is  to 
reply  that  he  has  not  yet  read  it;  or  if  he  does  not 
care  for  explaining  himself  so  far,  he  needs  only 
draw  up  his  brow  in  wrinkles,  or  elevate  the  left 
shoulder. 


The  fourth  professor  is  to  teach  the  whole  art 
of  political  characters  and  hieroglyphics;  and  to 
the  end  that  they  may  be  perfect  also  in  this  prac¬ 
tice,  they  are  not  to  send  a  note  to  one  another 
(though  it  be  but  to  borrow  a  Tacitus  or  a  Maclii- 
avel)  which  is  not  written  in  cipher. 

Their  fifth  professor,  it  is  thought,  will  be 
chosen  out  of  the  society  of  Jesuits,  and  is  to  be 
well  read  in  the  controversies  of  probable  doc¬ 
trines,  mental  reservation,  and  the  rights  of  prin¬ 
ces.  This  learned  man  is  to  instruct  them  in  the 
grammar,  syntax,  and  construing  part  of  Treaty 
Latin;  how  to  distinguish  between  the  spirit  and 
the  letter,  and  likewise  demonstrate  how  the  same 
form  of  jvords  may  lay  an  obligation  upon  any 
prince  in  Europe,  different  from  that  which  it  lays 
upon  his  most  Christian  Majesty.  He  is  likewise 
to  teach  them  the  art  of  finding  flaws,  loop-holes, 
and  evasions  in  the  most  solemn  compacts,  and 
particularly  a  great  rabbinical  secret,  revived  of 
late  years  by  the  fraternity  of  Jesuits,  namely, 
that  contradictory  interpretations  of  the  same  arti¬ 
cle  may  both  of  them  be  true  and  valid. 

When  our  statesmen  are  sufficiently  improved 
by  these  several  instructors,  they  are  to  receive 
their  last  polishing  from  one  who  is  to  act  among 
them  as  master  of  the  ceremonies.  This  gentle¬ 
man  is  to  give  them  lectures  upon  the  important 
points  of  the  elbow-chair  and  the  stair-head,  to 
instruct  them  in  the  different  situations  of  the 
right  hand,  and  to  furnish  them  with  bows  and 
inclinations  of  all  sizes,  measures,  and  propor¬ 
tions.  In  short,  this  professor  is  to  give  the  soci¬ 
ety  their  stiffening,  and  infuse  into  their  manners 
that  beautiful  political  starch,  which  may  qualify 
them  for  levees,  conferences,  visits,  and  make 
them  shine  in  what  vulgar  minds  are  apt  to  look 
upon  as  trifles. 

I  have  not  yet  heard  any  further  particulars, 
which  are  to  be  observed  in  this  society  of  un¬ 
fledged  statesmen;  but  I  must  confess,  had  I  a  son 
of  five-and-twenty,  that  should  take  it  into  his 
head  at  that  age  to  set  up  for  a  politician,  I  think 
I  should  go  near  to  disinherit  him  for  a  blockhead. 
Beside,  I  should  be  apprehensive  lest  the  same 
arts  which  are  to  enable  him  to  negotiate  between 
potentates,  might  a  little  infect  his  ordinary  beha¬ 
vior  between  man  and  man.  There  is  no  question 
but  these  young  Machiavels  will  in  a  little  time 
turn  their  college  upside  down  with  plots  and 
stratagems,  and  lay  as  many  schemes  to  circum¬ 
vent  one  another  in  a  frog  or  a  salad,  as  they  may 
hereafter  put  in  practice  to  overreach  a  neighbor¬ 
ing  prince  or  state. 

We  are  told  that  the  Spartans?,  though  they  pun¬ 
ished  theft  in  the  young  men  when  it  was  disco¬ 
vered,  looked  upon  it  as  honorable  if  it  succeeded. 
Provided  the  conveyance  was  clean  and  unsus¬ 
pected,  a  youth  might  afterward  boast  of  it.  This, 
say  the  historians,  was  to  keep  them  sharp,  and 
to  hinder  them  from  being  imposed  upon,  either 
in  their  public  or  private  negotiations.  Whether 
any  such  relaxations  of  morality,  such  little  jeux 
d’ esprit,  ought  not  to  be  allowed  in  this  intended 
seminary  of  politicians,  I  shall  leave  to  the  wis¬ 
dom  of  their  founder. 

In  the  meantime,  we  have  fair  warning  given 
us  by  this  doughty  body  of  statesmen:  and  as 
Sylla  saw  many  Mariuses  in  Caesar,  so  I  think  we 
may  discover  many  Torcys  in  this  college  of  aca¬ 
demicians.  Whatever  we  think  of  ourselves,  I 
am  afraid  neither  our  Smyrna  nor  St.  James’s  will 
be  a  match  for  it.  Our  coffee-houses  are,  indeed, 
very  good  institutions;  but  whether  or  no  these 
our  British  schools  of  politics  may  furnish  out  as 
able  envoys  and  secretaries  as  an  academy  that  is 
set  apart  for  that  purpose  will  deserve  our  serious 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


376 


consideration,  especially  if  we  remember  that  our 
country  is  more  famous  for  producing  men  of  in¬ 
tegrity  than  statesmen;  and  that,  on  the  contrary, 
French  truth  and  British  policy  make  a  conspicu¬ 
ous  figure  in  nothing :  as  the  Earl  of  Rochester 
has  very  well  observed  in  his  admirable  poem  upon 
that  barren  subject. — L. 


No.  306.]  WEDNESDAY,  FEB.  20,  1711-12. 

- Quae  forma,  ut  se  tibi  semper 

Imputet? -  Juv.,  Sat.  vi,  177. 

What  beauty,  or  what  chastity,  can  bear  • 

So  great  a  price,  if  stately  and  severe 
She  still  insults? — Dkyden. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  write  this  to  communicate  to  you  a  misfor¬ 
tune  which  frequently  happens,  and  therefore  de¬ 
serves  a  consolatory  discourse  on  the  subject.  I 
was  within  this  half-year  in  the  possession  of  as 
much  beauty  and  as  many  lovers  as  any  young 
lady  in  England.  But  my  admirers  have  left  me, 
and  I  cannot  complain  of  their  behavior.  I  have 
within  that  time  had  the  small-pox  :  and  this  face, 
which  (according  to  many  amorous  epistles  which 
I  have  by  me)  was  the  seat  of  all  that  is  beautiful 
in  woman,  is  now  disfigured  with  scars.  It  goes 
to  the  very  soul  of  me  to  speak  what  I  really 
think  of  my  face;  and  though  I  think  I  did  not 
overrate  my  beauty  while  I  had  it,  it  has  ex¬ 
tremely  advanced  in  its  value  with  me,  now  it  is 
lost.  There  is  one  circumstance  which  makes  my 
case  very  particular;  the  ugliest  fellow  that  ever 
retended  to  me,  was  and  is  most  in  my  favor,  and 
e  treats  me  at  present  the  most  unreasonably.  If 
you  could  make  him  return  an  obligation  which  he 
owes  me,  in  liking  a  person  that  is  not  amiable.  But 
there  is,  I  fear,  no  possibility  of  making  passion 
move  by  the  rules  of  reason  and  gratitude.  But  say 
what  you  can  to  one  who  has  survived  herself, 
and  knows  not  how  to  act  in  a  new  being.  My 
lovers  are  at  the  feet  of  my  rivals,  my  rivals  are 
every  day  bewailing  me,  and  I  cannot  enjoy  what 
I  am,  by  reason  of  the  distracting  reflection  upon 
what  I  was.  Consider  the  woman  I  was  did  not 
die  of  old  age,  but  I  was  taken  off  in  the  prime  of 
youth,  and  according  to  the  course  of  nature  may 
have  forty  years  after-life  to  come.  I  have  nothing 
of  myself  left  which  I  like,  but  that 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

#  “  Parthenissa.” 

When  Louis  of  France  had  lost  the  battle  of 
Ramilies,  the  addresses  to  him  at  that  time  were 
full  of  his  fortitude,  and  they  turned  his  misfor¬ 
tune  to  his  glory;  in  that,  during  his  prosperity, 
he  could  never  have  manifested  his  heroic  con¬ 
stancy  under  distresses,  and  so  the  world  had  lost 
the  most  eminent  part  of  his  character.  Parthe- 
nissa’s  condition  gives  her  the  same  opportunity: 
and  to  resign  conquests  is  a  task  as  difficult  in  a 
beauty  as  a  hero.  In  the  very  entrance  upon  this 
work  she  must  burn  all  her  love-letters;  or  since 
she  is  so  candid  as  not  to  call  her  lovers,  who  fol¬ 
low  her  no  longer,  unfaithful,  it  would  be  a  very 
good  beginning  of  a  new  life  from  that  of  a 
beauty,  to  send  them  back  to  those  who  wrote 
them,  with  this  honest  inscription,  “  Articles  of  a 
marriage  treaty  broken  off  by  the  small-pox.”  I 
have  known  but  one  instance  where  a  matter  of 
this  kind  went  on  after  a  like  misfortune,  where 
the  lady,  who  was  a  woman  of  spirit,  wrote  this 
billet  to  her  lover: — 


Sir, 

“  If  you  flattered  me  before  I  had  this  terrible 
malady,  pray  come  and  see  me  now:  but  if  you 
sincerely  liked  me,  stay  away,  for  I  am  not  the 
same 

“  CORINNA.” 

The  lover  thought  there  was  something  so 
sprightly  in  her  behavior,  that  he  answered : 

“  Madam, 

“  I  am  not  obliged  since  you  are  not  the  same 
woman,  to  let  you  know  whether  I  flattered  you  or 
not;  but  I  assure  you  I  do  not,  when  I  tell  you  I 
now  like  you  above  all  your  sex,  and  hope  you 
will  bear  what  may  befall  me  when  we  are  both 
one,  as  well  as  you  do  what  happens  to  yourself 
now  you  are  single;  therefore  I  am  ready  to  take 
such  a  spirit  for  my  companion  as  soon  as  you 
please. 

“  Amilcar.” 

If  Parthenissa  can  now  possess  her  own  mind 
and  think  as  little  of  her  beauty  as  she  ought  to 
have  done  when  she  had  it,  there  will  be  no  great 
diminution  of  her  charms;  and  if  she  was  for¬ 
merly  affected  too  much  with  them,  an  easy  beha¬ 
vior  will  more  than  make  up  for  the  loss  of  them. 
Take  the  whole  sex  together,  and  you  find  those 
who  have  the  strongest  possession  of  men’s  hearts 
are  not  eminent  for  their  beauty.  You  see  it  often 
happen  that  those  who  engage  men  to  the  greatest 
violence,  are  such  as  those  who  are  strangers  to 
them  would  take  to  be  remarkably  defective  for 
that  end.  The  fondest  lover  I  know,  said  to  me 
one  day  in  a  crowd  of  women  at  an  entertainment 
of  music,  “  You  have  often  heard  me  talk  of  my 
beloved;  that  woman  there,” continued  he,  smiling, 
when  he  had  fixed  my  eve,  “  is  her  very  picture.” 
The  lady  he  showed  me  was  by  much  the  least  re¬ 
markable  for  beauty  of  any  in  the  whole  assembly; 
but  having  my  curiosity  extremely  raised,  I  could 
not  keep  my  eyes  oft’  her.  Her  eyes  at  last  met 
mine,  and  with  a  sudden  surprise  she  looked 
round  her  to  see  who  near  her  was  remarkably 
handsome  that  I  was  gazing  at.  This  little  act 
explained  the  secret.  She  did  not  understand  her¬ 
self  for  the  object  of  love,  and  therefore  she  was 
so.  The  lover  is  a  very  honest,  plain  man;  and 
what  charmed  him  was  a  person  that  goes  along 
with  him  in  the  cares  and  joys  of  life,  not  taken 
up  with  herself,  but  sincerely  attentive,  with  a 
ready  and  cheerful  mind,  to  accompany  him  in 
either. 

I  can  tell  Parthenissa  for  her  comfort,  that  the 
beauties,  generally  speaking,  are  the  most  imper 
tinent  and  disagreeable  of  women.  An  apparent 
desire  of  admiration,  a  reflection  upon  their  own 
merit,  and  a  precise  behavior  in  their  general  con 
duct,  are  almost  inseparable  accidents  in  beauties. 
All  you  obtain  of  them,  is  granted  to  importunity 
and  solicitation  for  what  did  not  deserve  so  mucn 
of  your  time,  and  you  recover  from  the  possession 
of  it  as  out  of  a  dream. 

You  are  ashamed  of  the  vagaries  of  fancy  which 
so  strangely  misled  you,  and  your  admiration  of  a 
beauty,  merely  as  such,  is  inconsistent  with  a  tol¬ 
erable  reflection  upon  yourself.  The  cheerful 
good-humored  creatures,  into  whose  heads  it 
never  entered  that  they  could  make  any  man  un¬ 
happy,  are  the  persons  formed  for  making  men 
happy.  There  is  Miss  Liddy  can  dance  a  jig, 
raise  paste,  write  a  good  hand,  keep  an  account, 
give  a  reasonable  answer,  and  do  as  she  is  bid; 
while  her  eldest  sister,  Madam  Martha,  is  out  of 
humor,  has  the  spleen,  learns  by  reports  of  people 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


of  higher  quality  new  ways  of  being  uneasy  and 
displeased;  and  this  happens  for  no  reason  in  the 
world,  but  that  poor  Liddy  knows  she  has  no  such 
thing  as  a  certain  negligence  that  is  so  becoming; 
that  there  is  not  I  know  not  what  in  her  airj  and 
that  if  she  talks  like  a  fool,  there  is  no  one  will 
say,  “Well!  I  know  not  what  it  is,  but  every¬ 
thing  pleases  when  she  speaks  it.” 

Ask  any  of  the  husbands  of  your  great  beauties, 
and  they  will  tell  you  that  they  hate  their  wives 
nine  hours  of  every  day  they  pass  together.  There 
is  such  a  particularity  forever  affected  by  them 
that  they  are  encumbered  with  their  charms  in  all 
they  say  or  do.  They  pray  at  public  devotions  as 
they  are  beauties.  They  converse  on  ordinary  oc¬ 
casions  as  they  are  beauties.  Ask  Belinda  what 
it  is  o’clock,  and  she  is  at  a  stand  whether  so 
great  a  beauty  should  answer  you.  In  a  word,  I 
think,  instead  of  offering  to  administer  consola¬ 
tion  to  Parthenissa,  I  should  congratulate  her  me¬ 
tamorphosis;  and  however  she  thinks  she  was  not 
the  least  insolent  in  the  prosperity  of  her  charms, 
she  was  enough  so  to  find  she  may  make  herself  a 
much  more  agreeable  creature  in  her  present  ad¬ 
versity.  The  endeavor  to  please  is  highly  promo¬ 
ted  by  a  consciousness  that  the  approbation  of  the 
person  you  would  be  agreeable  to,  is  a  favor  you 
do  not  deserve;  for  in  this  case  assurance  of  suc¬ 
cess  is  the  most  certain  way  to  disappointment. 
Good-nature  will  always  supply  the  absence  of 
beauty,  but  beauty  cannot  long  supply  the  absence 
of  good-nature. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

“Madam,  February  18.- 

“  I  have  yours  of  this  day,  wherein  you  twice 
bid  me  not  disoblige  you,  but  you  must  explain 
yourself  further,  before  I  know  what  to  do. 

“  Your  most  obedient  Servant, 

T.  “The  Spectator.” 


Ho.  307.]  THURSDAY,  FEBRUARY  21,  1711-12. 

- Versate  diu,  quid  ferre  recusent, 

Quid  valeant  humeri. - 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  39. 

- Often  try  what  weight  you  can  support, 

And  what  your  shoulders  are  too  weak  to  bear. 

Roscommon. 

I  am  so  well  pleased  with  the  following  letter, 
that  I  am  in  hopes  it  will  not  be  a  disagreeable 
present  to  the  public : — 

“  Sir, 

“  Though  I  believe  none  of  your  readers  more 
admire  your  agreeable  manner  of  working  up 
trifles  than  myself,  yet  as  your  speculations  are 
now  swelling  into  volumes,  and  will  in  all  proba¬ 
bility  pass  down  to  future  ages,  methinks  I  would 
have  no  single  subject  in  them,  wherein  the  ge¬ 
neral  good  of  mankind  is  concerned,  left  unfi¬ 
nished. 

“  1  have  a  long  time  expected  with  great  impa¬ 
tience  that  you  would  enlarge  upon  the  ordinary 
mistakes  which  are  committed  in  the  education  of 
our  children.  I  the  more  easily  flattered  myself 
that  you  would  one  time  or  other  resume  this  con¬ 
sideration,  because  you  tell  us  that  your  168th 
paper  was  only  composed  of  a  few  broken  hints  ; 
but  finding  myself  hitherto  disappointed,  I  have 
ventured  to  send  you  my  own  thoughts  on  this 
subject. 

“  I  remember  Pericles,  in  his  famous  oration  at 
the  funeral  of  those  Athenian  young  men  who  per¬ 
ished  in  the  Samian  expedition,  has  a  thought 
very  much  celebrated  by  several  ancient  critics, 


377 

namely,  that  the  loss  which  the  commonwealth 
suffered  by  the  destruction  of  its  youth,  was  like 
the  loss  which  the  year  would  suffer  by  the  de¬ 
struction  of  the  spring.  The  prejudice  which  the 
public  sustains  from  a  wrong  education  of  child- 
len,  is  an  evil  of  the  same  nature,  as  it  in  a  man¬ 
ner  starves  posterity,  and  defrauds  our  country  of 
those  persons,  who,  with  due  care,  might  make 
an  eminent  figure  in  their  respective  posts  of  life. 

1  have  seen  a  book  written  by  Juan  Huartes,  a 
Spanish  physician,  entitled  Examen  de  Ingenios, 
wherein  he  lays  it  down  as  one  of  his  first  posi¬ 
tions,  that  nothing  but  nature  can  qualify  a  man 
for  leai  ning;  and  that  without  a  proper  tempera¬ 
ment  for  the  particular  art  or  science  which  he 
studies,  his  utmost  pains  and  application,  assisted 
by  the  ablest  masters,  will  be  to  no  purpose. 

“He  illustrates  this  by  the  example  of  Tully’s 
son  Marcus.  J 

“Cicero,  in  order  to  accomplish  his  son  in  that 
sort  of  learning  which  he  designed  him  for,  sent 
him  to  Athens,  the  most  celebrated  academy  at 
that  time  in  the  world,  and  where  a  vast  concourse, 
out  of  the  most  polite  nations,  could  not  but 
furnish  the  young  gentleman  with  a  multitude  of 
great  examples  and  accidents  that  might  insen¬ 
sibly  have  instructed  him  in  his  designed  studies. 
He  placed  him  under  the  care  of  Cratippus,  who 
was  one  of  the  greatest  philosophers  of  the  age, 
and  as  if  all  the  books  which  were  at  that  time 
written  had  not  been  sufficient  for  his  use,  he  com¬ 
posed  others  on  purpose  for  him:  notwithstanding 
all  this,  history  informs  us  that  Marcus  proved  a 
mere  blockhead,  and  that  nature  (who,  it  seems, 
was  even  with  the  son  for  her  prodigality  to  the 
father)  rendered  him  incapable  of  improving  by 
all  the  rules  of  eloquence,  the  precepts  of  philo¬ 
sophy,  his  own  endeavors,  and  the  most  refined 
conversation  in  Athens.  This  author  therefore 
proposes,  that  there  should  be  certain  triers  or 
examiners  appointed  by  the  state,  to  inspect  the 
genius  of  every  particular  boy,  and  to  allot  him 
the  part  that  is  most  suitable  to  his  natural 
talents. 

“  Plato  in  one  of  his  dialogues  tells  us,  that  So¬ 
crates,  who  was  the  son  of  a  midwife,  used  to  say, 
that  as  his  mother,  though  she  was  very  skillful 
in  her  profession,  could  not  deliver  a  woman  un¬ 
less  she  was  first  with  child,  so  neither  could  he 
himself  raise  knowledge  out  of  a  mind  where 
nature  had  not  planted  it. 

“Accordingly,  the  method  this  philosopher 
took,  of  instructing  his  scholars  by  several  inter¬ 
rogatories  or  questions,  was  only  helping  the 
birth,  and  bringing  their  own  thoughts  to  light. 

“  The  Spanish  doctor  above-mentioned,  as  his 
speculations  grew  more  refined,  asserts  that  every 
kind  of  wit  has  a  particular  science  correspond¬ 
ing  to  it,  and  in  which  alone  it  can  be  truly  ex¬ 
cellent.  As  to  those  geniuses,  which  may  seem  to 
have  an  equal  aptitude  for  several  things,  he  re¬ 
gards  them  as  so  many  unfinished  pieces  of  nature 
wrought  off  in  haste. 

“There  are  indeed  but  very  few  to  whom  nature 
has  been  so  unkind,  that  they  are  not  capable  of 
shining  in  some  science  or  other.  There  is  a  cer¬ 
tain  bias  toward  knowledge  in  every  mind,  which 
may  be  strengthened  and  improved  by  proper  ap¬ 
plications. 

“  The  story  of  Clavius*  is  very  well  known. 
He  was  entered  in  a  college  of  Jesuits,  and  after 
having  been  tried  at  several  parts  of  learning,  was 
upon  the  point  of  being  dismissed  as  a  hopeless 


*  Christopher  Clavius,  a  geometrician  and  astronomer 
author  of  five  volumes  in  folio,  who  died  at  Rome  in  1612, 
aged  75. 


378 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


blockhead,  until  one  of  the  fathers  took  it  into  his 
head  to  make  an  essay  of  his  arts  in  geometry, 
which,  it  seems,  hit  his  genius  so  luckily,  that  he 
afterward  became  one  of  the  greatest  mathemati¬ 
cians  of  the  age.  It  is  commonly  thought  that  the 
sagacity  of  these  fathers,  in  discovering  the  talent 
of  a  young  student,  has  not  a  little  contributed 
to  the  figure  which  their  order  has  made  in  the 
world. 

“  How  different  from  this  manner  of  education 
is  that  which  prevails  in  our  own  country  !  where 
nothing  is  more  usual  than  to  see  forty  or  fifty 
boys  of  several  ages,  tempers,  and  inclinations, 
ranged  together  in  the  same  class,  employed  upon 
the  same  authors,  and  enjoined  the  same  tasks! 
Whatever  their  natural  genius  may  be,  they  are  all 
to  be  made  poets,  historians,  and  orators  alike. 
They  ate  all  obliged  to  have  the  same  capacity,  to 
bring  in  the  same  tale  of  verse,  and  to  furnish 
out  the  same  portion  of  prose.  Every  boy  is 
bound  to  have  as  good  a  memory  as  the  captain  , 
of  the  form.  To  be  brief,  instead  of  adapting 
studies  to  the  particular  genius  of  a  youth,  we  ex- 

Eect  from  the  young  man,  that  he  should  adapt 
is  genius  to  his  studies.  This,  I  must  confess,  is 


not  so  much  to  be  imputed  to  the  instructor  as  to  the 

Earent,  who  will  never  be  brought  to  believe,  that 
is  son  is  not  capable  of  performing  as  much  as 
his  neighbor’s,  and  that  he  may  not  make  him 
whatever  he  has  a  mind  to. 

“  If  the  present  age  is  more  laudable  than  those 
which  have  gone  before  it  in  any  single  particu¬ 
lar,  it  is  in  that  generous  care  which  several  well- 
disposed  persons  have  taken  in  the  education  of 
poor  children:  and  as  in  these  charity-schools  there 
is  no  place  left  for  the  overweening  fondness  of  a 
parent,  the  directors  of  them  would  make  them 
beneficial  to  the  public,  if  they  considered  the 
precept  which  I  have  been  thus  long  inculcating. 
They  might  easily,  by  well  examining  the  parts 
of  those  under  their  inspection,  make  a  just  dis¬ 
tribution  of  them  into  proper  classes  and  divi¬ 
sions,  and  allot  to  them  this  or  that  particular 
study,  as  their  genius  qualifies  them  for  profes¬ 
sions,  trades,  handicrafts,  or  service,  by  sea  or 
land. 

“  How  is  this  kind  of  regulation  wanting  in  the 
three  great  professions ! 

“  Dr.  South,  complaining  of  persons  who  took 
upon  them  holy  orders,  though  altogether  un¬ 
qualified  for  the  sacred  function,  says  somewhere, 
that  many  a  man  runs  his  head  against  a  pulpit, 
who  might  have  done  his  country  excellent  service 
at  the  plow- tail. 


“In  like  manner  many  a  lawyer,  who  makes  but 
an  indifferent  figure  at  the  bar,  might  have  made 
a  very  elegant  waterman,  and  have  shone  at  the 
Temple  stairs,  though  he  can  get  no  business  in 
the  house. 


“  I  have  known  a  corn-cutter,  who  with  a  right 
education  would  have  been  an  excellent  physi¬ 
cian. 

To  descend  lower,  are  not  our  streets  filled 
with  sagacious  draymen,  and  politicians  in  liver¬ 
ies?  We  have  several  tailors  of  six  feet  high,  and 
meet  with  many  a  broad  pair  of  shoulders  that 
are  thrown  away  upon  a  barber,  when  perhaps  at 
the  same  time  we  see  a  pigmy  porter  reeling  under 
a  burden,  who  might  have  managed  a  needle  with 
much  dexterity,  or  have  snapped  his  fingers  with 
geat  ease  to  himself,  and  advantage  to  the  public. 

‘‘The  Spartans,  though  they  acted  with  the 
spirit  which  I  am  here  speaking  of,  carried  it 
much  further  than  what  I  propose.  Among  them 
it  was  not  lawful  for  the  father  himself  to  brinw 
up  his  children  after  his  own  fancy.  As  soon  as 
they  were  seven  years  old,  they  were  all  listed  in 


j  several  companies,  and  disciplined  by  the  public. 
The  old  men  were  spectators  of  their  performances, 
who  often  raised  quarrels  among  them,  and  set 
them  at  strife  with  one  another,  that  by  those 
early  discoveries  they  might  see  how  their  several 
talents  lay,  and,  without  any  regard  to  their  quali- 
ty,  disposed  of  them  accordingly,  for  the  service 
of  the  commonwealth.  By  this  means,  Sparta 
soon  became  the  mistress  of  Greece,  and  famous 
through  the  whole  world  for  her  civil  and  military 
discipline. 

“  If  you  think  this  letter  deserves  a  place 
among  your  speculations,  I  may  perhaps  trouble 
you  with  some  other  thoughts  on  the  same  subject. 

X.  “  I  am,”  etc. 


Ho.  308.]  FRIDAY,  FEBRUARY  22,  1711-12. 

- J  am  proterva 

Fronte  petet  Lalage  maritime 

Hor.  1  Od.  5,  lib.  ii,  ver.  15. 

- Lalage  will  soon  proclaim 

Her  love,  nor  blush  to  own  her  flame. — Creech. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  give  you  this  trouble  in  order  to  propose  my¬ 
self  to  you  as  an  assistant  in  the  weighty  cares 
which  you  have  thought  fit  to  undergo  for  the 
public  good.  I  am  a  very  great  lover  of  women, 
that  is  to  say,  honestly;  and  as  it  is  natural  to 
study  what  one  likes,  I  have  industriously  ap¬ 
plied  myself  to  understand  them.  The  present 
circumstance  relating  to  them  is,  that  I  think  there 
wants  under  you,  as  Spectator,  a  person  to  be  dis¬ 
tinguished  and  vested  in  the  power  and  quality 
of  a  censor  on  marriages.  I  lodge  at  the  Temple, 
and  know,  by  seeing  women  come  hither,  and 
afterward  observing  them  conducted  by  their 
counsel  to  judges’  chambers,  that  there  is  a  custom 
in  case  of  making  conveyance  of  a  wife’s  estate, 
that  she  is  carried  to  a  judge’s  apartment,  and  left 
alone  with  him,  to  be  examined  in  private,  whether 
she  has  not  been  frightened  or  sweetened  by  her 
spouse  into  the  act  she  is  going  to  do,  or  whether 
it  is  of  her  own  free  will.  Now.  if  this  be  a 
method  founded  upon  reason  and  equity,  why 
should  there  not  be  also  a  proper  officer  for  ex¬ 
amining  such  as  are  entering  into  the  state  of 
matrimony,  whether  they  are  forced  by  parents  on 
one  side,  or  moved  by  interest  only  on  the  other, 
to  come  together,  and  bring  forth  such  awkward 
heirs  as  are  the  product  of  half  love  and  con¬ 
strained  compliances?  There  is  nobody,  though 
I  say  it  myself,  would  be  fitter  for  this  office  than 
I  am:  for  I  am  an  ugly  fellow,  of  great  wit  and 
sagacity.  My  father  was  a  hale  country  ’squire, 
my  mother  a  witty  beauty  of  no  fortune.  The 
match  was  made  by  consent  of  my  mother’s  parents 
against  her  own,  and  I  am  the  child  of  the  rape 
on  the  wedding  night;  so  that  I  am  as  healthy  and 
as  homely  as  my  father,  but  as  sprightly  and 
agreeable  as  my  mother.  It  would  be  of  great 
ease  to  you,  if  you  would  use  me  under  you,  that 
matches  might  be  better  regulated  for  the  future, 
and  we  might  have  no  more  children  of  squabbles. 

I  shall  not  reveal  all  my  pretensions  until  I  receive 
your  answer:  and  am,  Sir, 

“  Your  most  humble  Servant 

“Mules  Palfrey.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  one  of  those  unfortunate  men  within  the 
city-walls,  who  am  married  to  a  woman  of  quality, 
but  her  temper  is  somewhat  different  from  that  of 
Lady  Anvil.  My  lady’s  whole  time  and  thoughts 
aie  spent  in  keeping  up  to  the  mode  both  in  ap¬ 
parel  and  furniture.  All  the  goods  in  my  house 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


have  been  chauged  three  times  in  seven  years.  I 
have  had  seven  children  by  her:  and  by  our  mar¬ 
riage-articles  she  was  to  have  her  apartment  new 
furnished  as  often  as  she  lay  in.  Nothing  in  our 
house  is  useful  but  that  which  is  fashionable;  my 
pewter  holds  out  generally  half  a  year,  my  plate 
a  full  twelvemonth;  chairs  are  not  fit  to  sit  in  that 
were  made  two  years  since,  nor  beds  fit  for  any¬ 
thing  but  to  sleep  in,  that  have  stood  up  above 
that  time.  My  dear  is  of  opinion  that  an  old 
fashioned  grate  consumes  coals,  but  gives  no  heat. 
If  she  drinks  out  of  glasses  of  last  year  she  can 
not  distinguish  wine  from  small-beer.  Oh,  dear 
Sir,  you  may  guess  all  the  rest. 

“Yours.” 

“P.  S.  I  could  bear  even  all  this,  if  I  were  not 
obliged  also  to  eat  fashionably.  I  have  a  plain 
stomach,  and  have  a  constant  loathing  of  whatever 
comes  to  my  own  table;  for  which  reason  I  dine 
at  the  chop-house  three  days  in  the  week;  where 
the  good  company  wonders  they  never  see  you  of 
late.  I  am  sure,  by  your  unprejudiced  discourses, 
you  love  broth  better  than  soup.” 

“Mr.  Spectator,  Will’s,  Feb.  19. 

“You  may  believe  you  are  a  person  as  much 
talked  of  as  any  man  in  town.  I  am  one  of  your 
best  friends  in  this  house,  and  have  laid  a  wager, 
you  are  so  candid  a  man,  and  so  honest  a  fellow, 
that  you  will  print  this  letter,  though  it  is  in  re¬ 
commendation  of  a  newspaper  called  The  Histo¬ 
rian.  I  have  read  it  carefully,  and  find  it  written 
with  skill,  good-sense,  modesty,  and  fire.  You 
must  allow  the  town  is  kinder  to  you  than  you 
deserve;  and  I  doubt  not  but  you  have  so  much 
sense  of  the  world’s  change  of  humor,  and  insta¬ 
bility  of  all  human  things,  as  to  understand,  that 
the  only  way  to  preserve  favor  is  to  communicate 
it  to  others  with  good-nature  and  judgment.  You 
are  so  generally  read,  that  what  you  speak  of  will 
be  read.  This,  with  men  of  sense  and  taste,  is 
all  that  is  wanting  to  recommend  The  Historian. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  daily  Advocate, 

“Reader  Gentle.” 

I  was  very  much  surprised  this  morning  that 
any  one  should  find  out  my  lodging,  and  know  it 
so  well  as  to  come  directly  to  my  closet-door,  and 
knock  at  it,  to  give  me  the  following  letter.  When 
I  came  out  I  opened  it,  and  saw,  by  a  very  strong 
pair  of  shoes  and  a  warm  coat  the  bearer  had  on, 
that  he  walked  all  the  way  to  bring  it  me,  though 
dated  from  York.  My  misfortune  is  that  I  cannot 
talk,  and  I  found  the  messenger  had  so  much  of 
me,  that  he  could  think  better  than  speak.  He 
had,  I  observed,  a  polite  discerning,  hid  under  a 
shrewd  rusticity.  He  delivered  the  paper  with  a 
Yorkshire  tone  and  a  town  leer. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  privilege  you  have  indulged  John  Trot 
has  proved  of  very  bad  consequence  to  our  illus¬ 
trious  assembly,  which,  beside  the  many  excellent 
maxims  it  is  founded  upon,  is  remarkable  for  the 
extraordinary  decorum  observed  in  it.  One  in¬ 
stance  of  which  is,  that  the  carders  (who  are 
always  of  the  first  quality)  never  begin  to  play 
until  the  French  dances  are  finished,  and  the 
country  dances  begin;  but  John  Trot  having  now 
got  your  commission  in  his  pocket  (which  every 
one  here  has  a  profound  respect  for)  has  the  as¬ 
surance  to  set  up  for  a  minuet-dancer.  Not  only 
so,  but  he  has  brought  down  upon  us  the  whole 
body  of  the  Trots,  which  are  very  numerous, 
with  their  auxiliaries  the  hobblers  and  the  skip¬ 
pers,  by  which  means  the  time  is  so  much  wasted, 


379 

that  unless  we  break  all  rules  of  government,  it 
must  redound  to  the  utter  subversion  of  the  brag- 
table,  the  discreet  members  of  which  value  time, 
as  Fribble’s  wife  does  her  pin-money.  We  are 
pretty  well  assured  that  your  indulgence  to  Trot 
was  only  in  relation  to  country  dances;  however, 
we  have  deferred  issuing  an  order  of  council  upon 
the  premises,  hoping  to  get  you  to  join  with  us, 
that  Trot,  nor  any  of  his  clan,  presume  for  the 
future  to  dance  any  but  country  dances,  unless  a 
hornpipe  upon  a  festival  day.  If  you  will  do 
this,  you  will  oblige  a  great  many  ladies,  and 
particularly  your  most  humble  Servant, 

“York,  Feb.  16.  “Eliza  Sweepstakes.” 

“I  never  meant  any  other  than  that  Mr.  Trot 
should  confine  himself  to  country  dances.  And 
I  further  direct,  that  he  shall  take  out  none  but 
his  own  relations  according  to  their  nearness  of 
blood,  but  any  gentlewoman  may  take  out  him. 
“London,  Feb.  21.  “  The  Spectator.” 

T.  - 

No.  309.]  SATURDAY,  FEB.  23,  1711-12. 

Di,  quibus  imperium  est  Animarum,  TJmbraeque  sflentes 
Et  Chaos,  et  Phlegethon,  loca  nocte  silentia  late : 

Sit  milii  fas  audita  loqui!  sit  numine  vestro 
Pandere  res  alta  terra  et  caligine  mersas. 

*  Virg.  iEn.  vi,  ver.  264. 

Ye  realms,  yet  unreveal’d  to  human  sight, 

Ye  gods,  who  rule  the  regions  of  the  night, 

Ye  gliding  ghosts,  permit  me  to  relate 

The  mystic  wonders  of  your  silent  state. — Dryden. 

I  have  before  observed  in  general,  that  the  per¬ 
sons  whom  Milton  introduces  into  his  poem  always 
discover  such  sentiments  and  behavior  as  are 
in  a  peculiar  manner  conformable  to  their  respec¬ 
tive  characters.  Every  circumstance  in  tlieir 
speeches  and  actions  is  with  great  justice  and 
delicacy  adapted  to  the  persons  who  speak  and 
act.  As  the  poet  very  much  excels  in  this  con¬ 
sistency  of  his  characters,  I  shall  beg  leave  to 
consider  several  passages  of  the  second  book  in 
this  light.  That  superior  greatness  and  mock- 
majesty  which  is  ascribed  to  the  prince  of  the  fallen 
angels,  is  admirably  preserved  in  the  beginning 
of  this  book.  His  opening  and  closing  the  debate ; 
his  taking  on  himself  that  great  enterprise,  at  the 
thought  of  which  the  whole  infernal  assembly 
trembled;  his  encountering  the  hideous  phantom 
who  guarded  the  gates  of  hell,  and  appeared  to 
him  in  all  his  terrors;  are  instances  of  that  proud 
and  daring  mind  which  could  not  brook  submis-v 
sion,  even  to  Omnipotence  ! 

Satan  was  now  at  band,  and  from  bis  seat 
Tbe  monster,  moving  onward,  came  as  fast 
With  horrid  strides;  hell  trembled  as  he  strode. 

Th’  undaunted  fiend  what  this  might  be  admir’d, 
Admir’d,  not  fear’d - 

The  same  boldness  and  intrepidity  of  behavior 
discovers  itself  in  the  several  adventures  which  he 
meets  with,  during  his  passage  through  the  regions 
of  unformed  matter,  and  particularly  in  his  address 
to  those  tremendous  powers  who  are  described  as 
presiding  over  it. 

The  part  of  Moloch  is  likewise,  in  all  its  circum¬ 
stances,  full  of  that  fire  and  fury  which  distinguish 
this  spirit  from  the  rest  of  the  fallen  angels.  He 
is  described  in  the  first  book  as  besmeared  with 
the  blood  of  human  sacrifices,  and  delighted  with 
the  tears  of  parents,  and  the  cries  of  children.  In 
the  second  book  he  is  marked  out  as  the  fiercest 
spirit  that  fought  in  heaven;  and  if  we  consider 
the  figure  which  he  makes  in  the  sixth  book, 
where  the  battle  of  the  angels  is  described,  we  find 
it  every  way  answerable  to  the  same  furious, 
enraged  character: 


380 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


- Where  the  might  of  Gabriel  fought, 

And  with  fierce  ensigns  pierc’d  the  deep  array 
Of  Moloch,  furious  king,  who  him  defied. 

And  at  his  chariot-wheels  to  drag  him  bound 
Threaten’d,  nor  from  the  Holy  One  of  heav’n. 

Refrain’d  his  tongue  blasphemous:  but  anon, 

Down  cloven  to  the  waist,  with  shatter’d  arms 
And  uncouth  pain  fled  bellowing. 

It  may  be  worth  while  to  observe,  that  Milton 
has  represented  this  violent  impetuous  spirit,  who 
is  hurried  on  by  such  precipitate  passions,  as  the 
first  that  rises  in  the  assembly  to  give  his  opinion 
upon  their  present  posture  of  affairs.  Accordingly 
he  declares  himself  abruptly  for  war,  and  appears 
incensed  at  his  companions  for  losing  so  much 
time  as  even  to  deliberate  upon  it.  All  his  senti 
ments  are  rash,  audacious  and  desperate.  Such 
as  that  of  arming  themselves  with  their  tortures, 
and  turning  their  punishments  upon  him  who  in¬ 
flicted  them 

- No,  let  us  rather  choose, 

Arm’d  with  hell  flames  and  fury,  all  at  once 
O’er  heaven’s  high  tow’rs  to  force  resistless  way, 
Turning  our  tortures  into  horrid  arms 
Against  the  tort’rer ;  when  to  meet  the  noise 
Of  his  almighty  engine  he  shall  hear 
Infernal  thunder,  and  for  lightning  see 
Black  fire  and  horror  shot  with  equal  rage 
Among  his  angels ;  and  his  throne  itself 
Mix’d  with  Tartarian  sulphur,  and  strange  fire, 

His  own  invented  torments. - 

His  preferring  annihilation  to  shame  or  misery  is 
also  highly  suitable  to  his  character;  as  the  com¬ 
fort  he  draws  from  their  disturbing  the  peace  of 
heaven,  that  if  it  be  not  victory  it  is  revenge,  is  a 
sentiment  truly  diabolical,  and  becoming  the  bit¬ 
terness  of  this  implacable  spirit. 

Belial  is  described  in  the  first  book  as  the  idol  of 
the  lewd  and  luxurious.  He  is  in  the  second  book, 
pursuant  to  that  description,  characterized  as  timo¬ 
rous  and  slothful ;  and  if  we  look  into  the  sixth 
book,  we  find  him  celebrated  in  the  battle  of  angels 
for  nothing  but  that  scoffing  speech  which  he 
makes  to  Satan,  on  their  supposed  advantage  over 
the  enemy.  As  his  appearance  is  uniform,  and 
of  a-piece,  in  these  three  several  views,  we  find 
his  sentiments  in  the  infernal  assembly  everyway 
conformable  to  his  character.  Such  are  his  appre¬ 
hensions  of  a  second  battle,  his  horrors  of  annihi¬ 
lation,  his  preferring  to  be  miserable  rather  than 
“  not  to  be.”  I  need  not  observe,  that  the  contrast 
of  thought  in  this  speech,  and  that  which  precedes 
it,  gives  an  agreeable  variety  to  the  debate. 

Mammon’s  character  is  so  fully  drawn  in  the 
first  book,  that  the  poet  adds  nothing  to  it  in  the 
second.  We  were  before  told,  that  he  was  the 
first  who  taught  mankind  to  ransack  the  earth  for 
gold  and  silver,  and  that  he  was  the  architect  of 
Pandsemonium,  or  the  infernal  palace,  where  the 
evil  spirits  were  to  meet  in  council.  His  speech 
in  this  book  is  every  way  suitable  to  so  depraved 
a  character.  How  proper  is  that  reflection  of  their 
being  unable  to  taste  the  happiness  of  heaven, 
were  they  actually  there,  in  the  mouth  of  one, 
who,  while  he  was  in  heaven,  is  said  to  have  had 
his  mind  dazzled  with  the  outward  pomps  and 
glories  of  the  place,  and  to  have  been  more  intent 
on  the  riches  of  the  pavement  than  on  the  beatific 
vision.  I  shall  also  leave  the  reader  to  judge  how 
agreeable  the  following  sentiments  are  to  the  same 
character : 

- This  deep  world 

Of  darkness  do  we  dread  ?  IIow  oft  amidst 
Thick  clouds  and  dark  doth  heav’n’s  all-ruling  sire 
Choose  to  reside,  his  glory  unobscur’d, 

And  with  the  majesty  of  darkness  round 

Covers  his  throne ;  from  whence  deep  thunders  roar. 

Mustering  their  rage,  and  heaven  resembles  hell! 

As  he  our  darkness,  cannot  we  his  light 


Imitate  when  we  please?  Thi3  desert  soil 
Wants  not  her  hidden  luster,  gems  and  gold; 

Nor  want  we  skill  or  art,  from  whence  to  raise 
Magnificence ;  and  what  can  heav’n  show  more  ? 

Beelzebub,  who  is  reckoned  the  second  in  dig¬ 
nity  that  fell,  and  is,  in  the  first  book,  the  second 
that  awakens  out  of  the  trance,  and  confers  with 
Satan  upon  the  situation  of  their  affairs,  maintains 
his  rank  in  the  book  now  before  us.  There  is  a 
wonderful  majesty  described  in  his  rising  up  to 
speak.  He  acts  as  a  kind  of  moderator  between 
the  two  opposite  parties,  and  proposes  a  third  un¬ 
dertaking,  which  the  whole  assembly  gives  into. 
The  motion  he  makes  of  detaching  one  of  their 
body  in  search  of  a  new  world,  is  grounded  upon 
a  project  devised  by  Satan,  and  cursorily  propos¬ 
ed  by  him  in  the  following  lines  of  the  first  book; 

Space  may  produce  new  worlds,  whereof  so  rife 
There  went  a  fame  in  heav’n,  that  he  ere  long 
Intended  to  create,  and  therein  plant 
A  generation,  whom  his  choice  regard 
Should  favor  equal  to  the  sons  of  heav’n : 

Thither,  if  but  to  pry,  shall  be  perhaps 
Our  first  eruption,  thither  or  elsewhere : 

For  this  infernal  pit  shall  never  hold 
Celestial  spirits  in  bondage,  nor  th’  abyss 
Long  under  darkness  cover.  But  these  thoughts 
Full  counsel  must  mature : - 

It  is  on  this  project  that  Beelzebub  grounds  his 
proposal; 

- What  if  wo  find 

Some  easier  enterprise  ?  There  is  a  place 
(If  ancient  and  prophetic  fame  in  heav’n 
Err  not),  another  world,  the  happy  seat 
Of  some  new  race  call’d  man,  about  this  time 
To  be  created  like  to  us,  though  less 
In  pow’r  and  excellence,  but  favor’d  more 
Of  him  who  rules  above ;  so  was  his  will 
Pronounc’d  among  the  gods,  and  by  an  oath, 

That  shook  heav’n’s  whole  circumference,  confirm’d. 


Their  rising  all  at  once  was  as  the  sound 
Of  thunder  heard  remote - 

The  diversions  of  the  fallen  angels,  with  the  par¬ 
ticular  account  of  their  place  of  habitation,  are  de¬ 
scribed  with  great  pregnancy  of  thought,  and  copi¬ 
ousness  of  invention.  The  diversions  are  every 
way  suitable  to  beings  who  had  nothing  left  them 
but  strength  and  knowledge  misapplied.  Such 
are  their  contentions  at  the  race,  and  in  feats  of 
arms,  with  their  entertainment  in  the  following 
lines : 

Others  with  vast  Typhasan  rage  more  fell 
Rend  up  both  rocks  and  hills,  and  ride  the  air 
In  whirlwind ;  hell  scarce  holds  the  wild  uproar. 

Their  music  is  employed  in  celebrating  their 
own  criminal  exploits,  and  their  discourse  in 


The  reader  may  observe  how  just  it  was,  not  to 
omit  in  the  first  book  the  project  upon  which 
the  whole  poem  turns;  as  also  that  the  prince  of 
the  fallen  angels  was  the  only  proper  person  to 
give  it  birth,  and  that  the  next  to  him  in  dignity 
was  the  fittest  to  second  and  support  it. 

There  is  beside,  I  think,  something  wonder¬ 
fully  beautiful,  and  very  apt  to  affect  the  reader’s 
imagination,  in  this  ancient  prophesy  or  report  in 
heaven,  concerning  the  creation  of  man.  Nothing 
could  show  more  the  dignity  of  the  species,  than 
this  tradition  which  ran  of  them  before  their  exis¬ 
tence.  They  are  represented  to  have  been  the  talk 
of  heaven  before  they  were  created.  Virgil,  in 
compliment  to  the  Roman  commonwealth,  makes 
the  heroes  of  it  appear  in  their  state  of  pre-exis¬ 
tence;  but  Milton  does  a  far  greater  honor  to 
mankind  in  general,  as  he  gives  us  a  glimpse  of 
them  even  before  they  are  in  being. 

The  rising  of  this  great  assembly  is  described 
in  a  very  sublime  and  poetical  manner. 


381 


THE  SPE 

sounding  the  unfathomable  depths  of  fate,  free¬ 
will,  and  foreknowledge. 

The  several  circumstances  in  the  description  of 
hell  are  finely  imagined;  as  the  four  rivers  which 
disgorge  themselves  into  the  sea  of  fire,  the  ex¬ 
tremes  of  cold  and  heat,  and  the  river  of  oblivion. 
The  monstrous  animals  produced  in  that  infernal 
world  are  represented  by  a  single  line,  which  gives 
us  a  more  horrid  idea  of  them,  than  a  much  longer 
description  would  have  done : 

- Nature  breeds, 

Perverse,  all  monstrous,  all  prodigious  things, 

Abominable,  inutterablo,  and  worse 

Than  fables  yet  have  feign’d,  or  fear  conceiv’d, 

Gorgons  and  hydras,  and  chimeras  dire. 

This  episode  of  the  fallen  spirits,  and  their 
place  of  habitation,  comes  in  very  happily  to  un¬ 
bend  the  mind  of  the  reader  from  its  attention  to 
the  debate.  An  ordinary  poet  would  indeed  have 
spun  out  so  many  circumstances  to  a  great  length, 
and  by  that  means  have  weakened,  instead  of  illus¬ 
trated,  the  principal  fable. 

The  flight  of  Satan  to  the  gates  of  hell  is  finely 
imagined. 

I  have  already  declared  my  opinion  of  the  alle¬ 
gory  concerning  sin  and  death,  which  is,  however, 
a  very  finished  piece  in  its  kind,  when  it  is  not 
considered  as  a  part  of  an  epic  poem.  The  genea¬ 
logy  of  the  several  persons  is  contrived  with  great 
delicacy.  Sin  is  the  daughter  of  Satan,  and  Death 
the  offspring  of  Sin.  The  incestuous  mixture  be¬ 
tween  Sin  and  Death  produces  those  monsters 
and  hell-hounds  which  from  time  to  time  enter 
into  their  mother,  and  tear  the  bowels  of  her  who 
gave  them  birth. 

These  are  the  terrors  of  an  evil  conscience,  and 
the  proper  fruits  of  sin,  which  naturally  rise  from 
the  apprehensions  of  death.  This  last  beautiful 
moral  is,  I  think,  clearly  intimated  in  the  speech 
of  Sin,  where,  complaining  of  this  her  dreadful 
issue,  she  adds. 

Before  mine  eyes  in  opposition  sits 

Grim  Death,  my  son  and  foe,  who  sets  them  on, 

And  me  his  parent  would  full  soon  devour 
For  want  of  other  prey,  but  that  he  knows 
His  end  with  mine  involv’d. - 

I  need  not  mention  to  the  reader  the  beautiful 
circumstance  in  the  last  part  of  this  quotation. 
He  will  likewise  observe  how  naturally  the  three 
persons  concerned  in  this  allegory  are  tempted  by 
one  common  interest  to  enter  into  a  confederacy 
together,  and  how  properly  Sin  is  made  the  por¬ 
tress  of  hell,  and  the  only  being  that  can  open  the 
gates  to  that  world  of  tortures. 

The  descriptive  part  of  this  allegory  is  likewise 
very  strong,  and  full  of  sublime  ideas.  The  figure 
of  Death,  the  regal  crown  upon  his  head,  his 
menace  of  Satan,  his  advancing  to  the  combat,  the 
outcry  at  his  birth,  are  circumstances  too  noble  to 
be  passed  over  in  silence,  and  extremely  suitable  to 
this  king  of  terrors.  I  need  not  mention  the  just¬ 
ness  of  thought  which  is  observed  in  the  genera¬ 
tion  of  these  several  symbolical  persons;  that  Sin 
was  produced  upon  the  first  revolt  of  Satan,  that 
Death  appeared  soon  after  he  was  cast  into  hell, 
and  that  the  terrors  of  conscience  were  conceived 
at  the  gate  of  this  place  of  torments.  The  descrip¬ 
tion  of  the  gates  is  very  poetical,  as  the  opening 
of  them  is  full  of  Milton’s  spirit : 

- On  a  sudden  open  fly 

With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  sound 
Th’  infernal  doors,  and  on  their  hinges  grate 
Ilarsh  thunder,  that  the  lowest  bottom  shook 
Of  Erebus.  She  open’d,  but  to  shut 
Excell’d  her  pow’r ;  the  gates  wide  opeu  stood, 

That  with  extended  wings  a  banner’d  host 
Under  spread  ensigns  marching  might  pass  through 


CT  ATOR. 

With  horse  and  chariots  rank’d  in  loose  array ; 

So  wide  they  stood,  and  like  a  furnace  mouth 

Cast  forth  redounding  smoke  and  ruddy  flame. 

Tn  Satan’s  voyage  through  the  chaos  there  are 
several  imaginary  persons  described,  as  residing 
in  that  immense  waste  of  matter.  This  may,  per¬ 
haps,  be  conformable  to  the  taste  of  those  critics 
who  are  pleased  with  nothing  in  a  poet  which  has 
not  life  and  manners  ascribed  to  it:  but  for  my 
own  part,  I  am  pleased  most  with  those  passages 
in  this  description  which  carry  in  them  a  greater 
measure  of  probability,  and  are  such  as  might 
possibly  have  happened.  Of  this  kind  is  his  first 
mounting  in  the  smoke  that  rises  from  the  infer¬ 
nal  pit,  his  falling  into  a  cloud  of  niter,  and  the 
like  combustible  materials,  that  by  their  explosion 
still  hurried  him  forward  in  his  voyage:  his 
springing  upward  like  a  pyramid  of  fire,  with  his 
laborious  passage  through  that  confusion  of  ele¬ 
ments  which  the  poet  calls 

The  womb  of  nature,  and  perhaps  her  grave. 

The  glimmering  light  which  shot  into  the  chaos 
from  the  utmost  verge  of  the  creation,  with  the 
distant  discovery  of  the  earth  that  hung  close  by 
the  moon,  are  wonderfully  beautiful  and  poetical. 


No.  310.]  MONDAY,  FEBRUARY  25,  1711-12. 

Connubio  j  ungam  stabili. - 

Vms.  JEn.,  i,  77. 

I’ll  tie  the  indissoluble  marriage-knot. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  a  certain  young  woman  that  love  a  cer¬ 
tain  young  man  very  heartily;  and  my  father  and 
mother  were  for  it  a  great  while,  but  now  they 
say  I  can  do  better,  but  I  think  I  cannot.  They 
bid  me  not  love  him,  and  I  cannot  unlove  him. 
What  must  I  do  ?  Speak  quickly. 

“  Biddy  Dow-bake.” 

“Dear  Spec.,  Feb.  19,  1712. 

“  I  have  loved  a  lady  entirely  for  this  year  and 
a  half,  though  for  a  great  part  of  the  time  (which 
has  contributed  not  a  little  to  my  pain)  I  have 
been  debarred  the  liberty  of  conversing  with  her. 
The  ground  of  our  difference  was  this;  that  when 
we  had  inquired  into  each  other’s  circumstances, 
we  found  that  at  our  first  setting  out  in  the  world, 
we  should  owe  five  hundred  pounds  more  than 
her  fortune  would  pay  off.  My  estate  is  seven 
hundred  pounds  a-year,  beside  the  benefit  of  tin 
mines.  Now,  dear  Spec.,  upon  this  state  of  the 
case,  and  the  lady’s  positive  declaration  that  there 
is  still  no  other  objection,  I  beg  you  will  not  fail 
to  insert  this,  with  your  opinion,  as  soon  as  possi¬ 
ble,  whether  this  ought  to  be  esteemed  a  just  cause 
or  impediment  why  we  should  not  be  joined,  and 
you  will  forever  olilige  yours  sincerely, 

“  Dick  Lovesick.” 
postscript. 

“  Sir,  if  I  marry  this  lady  by  the  assistance  of 
your  opinion,  you  may  expect  a  favor  for  it.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  have  the  misfortune  to  be  one  of  those  un¬ 
happy  men  who  are  distinguished  by  the  name  of 
discarded  lovers;  but  I  am  the  less  mortified  at 
my  disgrace,  because  the  young  lady  is  one  of 
those  creatures  who  set  up  for  negligence  of  men, 
are  forsooth  the  most  rigidly  virtuous  in  the  world, 
and  yet  their  nicety  will  permit  them  at  the  com¬ 
mand  of  parents  to  go  to  bed  to  the  most  utter 


382 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


stranger  that  can  be  proposed  to  them.  As  to  me, 
myself,  I  was  introduced  by  the  father  of  my  mis¬ 
tress;  but  find  I  owe  my  being  at  first  received  to 
a  comparison  of  my  estate  with  that  of  a  former 
lover,  and  that  I  am  now  in  like  manner  turned 
off  to  give  way  to  a  humble  servant  still  richer 
than  I  am.  What  makes  this  treatment  the  more 
extravagant  is,  that  the  young  lady  is  in  the  man¬ 
agement  of  this  way  of  fraud,  and  obeys  her  fa¬ 
ther’s  orders  on  these  occasions  without  any  man¬ 
ner  of  reluctance,  but  does  it  with  the  same  air 
that  one  of  your  men  of  the  world  would  signify 
the  necessity  of  affairs  for  turning  another  out  of 
office.  When  I  came  home  last  night,  I  found  this 
letter  from  my  mistress  : — 

“  Sir, 

“I  hope  you  will  not  think  it  any  manner  of 
disrespect  to  your  person  or  merit/,  that  the  intended 
nuptials  between  us  are  interrupted.  My  father 
says  he  has  a  much  better  offer  for  me  than  you 
can  make,  and  has  ordered  me  to  break  off  the 
treaty  between  us.  If  it  had  proceeded,  I  should 
have  behaved  myself  with  all  suitable  regard  to 
you,  but  as  it  is,  I  beg  we  may  be  strangers  for 
the  future.  Adieu.  “Lydia.” 

“  This  great  indifference  on  this  subject,  and 
the  mercenary  motives  for  making  alliances,  is 
what  I  think  lies  naturally  before  you,  and  I  beg 
of  you  to  give  me  your  thoughts  upon  it.  My 
answer  to  Lydia  was  as  follows,  which  I  hope  you 
will  approve  :  for  you  are  to  know  the  woman’s 
family  affect  a  wonderful  ease  on  these  occasions, 
though  they  expect  it  should  be  painfully  received 
on  the  man’s  side  : — 

“  Madam, 

“  I  have  received  yours,  and  knew  the  prudence 
of  your  house  so  well,  that  I  always  took  care  to 
be  ready  to  obey  your  commands,  though  they 
should  be  to  see  you  no  more.  Pray  give  my  ser¬ 
vice  to  all  the  good  family.  Adieu. 

“  Clitophon.” 

“  The  opera  subscription  is  full.” 

MEMORANDUM. 

The  censor  of  marriage  to  consider  this  letter, 
and  report  the  common  usages  on  such  treaties, 
with  how  many  pounds  or  acres  are  generally  es¬ 
teemed  sufficient  reason  for  preferring  a  new  to  an 
old  pretender;  with  his  opinion  what  is  proper  to 
be  determined  in  such  cases  for  the  future.  See 
No.  308,  let.  1. 

“Mu  Spectator, 

“  There  is  an  elderly  person  lately  left  off  busi¬ 
ness  and  settled  in  our  town,  in  order,  as  he 
thinks,  to  retire  from  the  world;  but  he  has 
brought  with  4dm  such  an  inclination  for  tale¬ 
bearing,  that  he  disturbs  both  himself  and  all  our 
neighborhood.  Notwithstanding  this  frailty,  the 
honest  gentleman  is  so  happy  as  to  have  no  ene¬ 
my  :  at  the  same  time  he  has  not  one  friend  who 
will  venture  to  acquaint  him  with  his  weakness. 
It  is  not  to  be  doubted,  but  if  this  failing  were  set 
in  a  proper  light,  he  would  quickly  perceive  the 
indecency  and  evil  consequences  of  it.  Now,  Sir, 
this  being  an  infirmity,  which  I  hope  may  be  cor¬ 
rected,  and  knowing  that  he  pays  much  Reference 
to  you,  I  beg  that  when  you  are  at  leisure  to  give 
us  a  speculation  on  gossiping,  you  would  think 
of  my  neighbor.  You  will  hereby  oblige  several 
who  will  be  glad  to  find  a  reformation  in  their 
gray-haired  friend :  and  how  becoming  will  it  be 
■for  him,  instead  of  pouring  forth  words  at  all  ad¬ 


ventures,  to  set  a  watch  before  the  door  of  his 
mouth,  to  refrain  his  tongue,  to  check  its  impetu¬ 
osity,  and  guard  against  the  sallies  of  that  little 
pert,  forward,  busy  person;  which,  under  a  sober 
conduct,  might  prove  a  useful  member  of  society! 
In  compliance  with  those  intimations,  I  have 
taken  the  liberty  to  make  this  address  to  you. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  most  obscure  Servant, 

“  Philantiiropos.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  This  is  to  petition  you  in  behalf  of  myself 
and  many  more  of  your  gentle  readers,  that  at  any 
time  when  you  may  have  private  reasons  against 
letting  us  know  what  you  think  yourself,  you 
would  be  pleased  to  pardon  us  such  letters  of  your 
correspondent  as  seem  to  be  of  no  use  but  to  the 
printer. 

“  It  is  further  our  humble  request,  that  you 
would  substitute  advertisements  in  the  place  of 
such  epistles;  and  that  in  order  hereunto  Mr. 
Buckley  may  be  authorized  to  take  up  of  your 
zealous  friend  Mr.  Charles  Lillie,  any  quantity  of 
words  he  shall  from  time  to  time  have  occasion 
for. 

“  The  many  useful  parts  of  knowledge  which 
may  be  communicated  to  the  public  this  way  will, 
we  hope,  be  a  consideration  in  favor  of  your  pe¬ 
titioners. 

“  And  your  Petitioners,”  etc. 

Note.  That  particular  regard  be  had  to  this  pe¬ 
tition;  and  the  papers  marked  letter  R.  may  be 
carefully  examined  for  the  future. — T. 


No.  311.]  TUESDAY,  FEB.  26,  1711-12. 

Nec  Veneris  pharetris  macer  est,  aut  lampa.de  fervet; 

Inde  faces  ardent,  verriunt  a  dote  sagittae. 

Juv.,  Sat.  vi,  137. 

He  sighs,  adores,  and  courts  her  ev’ry  hour : 

Who  would  not  do  as  much  for  such  a  dowor? — 1)ryi>en. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  amazed  that,  among  all  the  variety  of 
characters  with  which  you  have  enriched  your 
speculations,  you  have  never  given  us  a  picture 
of  those  audacious  young  fellows  among  us  who 
commonly  go  by  the  name  of  the  fortune-stealers. 
You  must  know,  Sir,  I  am  one  who  live  in  a  con¬ 
tinual  apprehension  of  this  sort  of  people,  that  lie 
in  wait,  day  and  night,  for  our  children,  and  may 
be  considered  as  a  kind  of  kidnappers  within  the 
law.  I  am  the  father  of  a  young  heiress,  whom 
I  begin  to  look  upon  as  marriageable,  and  who 
has  looked  upon  herself  as  such  for  above  these 
six  years.  She  is  now  in  the  eighteenth  year  of 
her  age.  The  fortune-hunters  have  already  cast 
their  eyes  upon  her,  and  take  care  to  plant  them¬ 
selves  in  her  view  whenever  she  appears  in  any 
public  assembly.  I  have  myself  caught  a  young 
jackanapes,  with  a  pair  of  silver-fringed  gloves, 
in  the  very  fact.  You  must  know.  Sir,  1  have  kept 
her  as  a  prisoner  of  state  ever  since  she  was  in 
her  teens.  Her  chamber-windows  are  cross-barred; 
she  is  not  permitted  to  go  out  of  the  house  but 
with  her  keeper,  who  is  a  staid  relation  of  my 
own ;  I  have  likewise  forbid  her  the  use  of  pen 
and  ink,  for  this  twelvemonth  last  past,  and  do 
not  suffer  a  band-box  to  be  carried  into  her  room 
before  it  has  been  searched.  Notwithstanding 
these  precautions,  I  am  at  my  wit’s  end  for  fear  of 
any  sudden  surprise.  There  were,  two  or  three 
nights  ago,  some  fiddles  heard  in  the  street,  which  I 
am  afraid  portend  me  no  good;  not  to  mention  a  tall 
Irishman,  that  has  been  seen  walking  before  my 


THE  SPE 

house  more  than  once  this  winter.  My  kinswoman 
likewise  informs  me,  that  the  girl  has  talked  to 
her  twice  or  thrice  of  a  gentleman  in  a  fair  wig, 
and  that  she  loves  to  go  to  church  more  than  ever 
she  did  in  her  life.  She  gave  me  the  slip  about  a 
week  ago,  upon  which  my  whole  house  was  in 
alarm.  I  immediately  dispatched  a  hue  and  cry 
after  her  to  the  ’Change,  to  her  mantuamaker,  anti 
to  the  young  ladies  that  visit  her;  but  after  above  an 
hour  s  search  she  returned  of  herself,  having  been 
taking  a  walk,  as  she  told  me,  bv  Rosamond’s 
pond.  I  have  hereupon  turned  ofr  her  woman, 
doubled  her  guards,  and  given  new  instructions 
to  mv  relation,  who,  to  give  her  her  due,  keeps  a 
watchful  eye  over  all  her  motions.  This,  Sir, 
keeps  me  in  a  perpetual  anxiety,  and  makes  me 
very  often  watch  when  my  daughter  sleeps,  as  I 
am  afraid  she  is  even  with  me  in  her  turn.  Now, 
Sir,  what  I  would  desire  of  you  is,  to  represent 
to  this  fluttering  tribe  of  young  fellows,  who  are 
for  making  their  fortunes  by  these  indirect  means, 
that  stealing  a  man’s  daughter  for  the  sake  of  her 
portion  is  but  a  kind  of  a  tolerated  robbery,  and 
that  they  make  but  a  poor  amends  to  the  father, 
whom  they  plunder  after  this  manner,  by  going 
to  bed  with  his  child.  Dear  Sir,  be  speedy  in 
your  thoughts  upon  this  subject,  that,  if  possible, 
they  may  appear  before  the  disbanding  of  the 
army. 

“  I  am,  Sir, 

“  Your  most  humble  Servant, 

“  Tim.  Watchwell.” 

Themistocles,  the  great  Athenian  general,  being 
asked  whether  he  would  rather  choose  to  marry 
his  daughter  to  an  indigent  man  of  merit,  or  to  a 
worthless  man  of  an  estate,  replied,  that  he  should 
prefer  a  man  without  an  estate  to  an  estate  with¬ 
out  a  man.  The  worst  of  it  is,  our  modern  fortune- 
hunters  are  those  who  turn  their  heads  that  way, 
because  they  are  good  for  nothing  else.  If  "a 
young  fellow  finds  he  can  make  nothing  of  Coke 
and  Littleton,  he  provides  himself  with  a  ladder 
of  ropes,  and  by  that  means  very  often  enters  upon 
the  premises. 

The  same  art  of  scaling  has  been  likewise  prac¬ 
ticed  with  good  success  by  many  military  engi¬ 
neers.  Stratagems  of  this  nature  make  parts  and 
industry  superfluous,  and  cut  short  the  way  to 
riches. 

Nor  is  vanity  a  less  motive  than  idleness  to  this 
kind  of  mercenary  pursuit.  A  fop,  who  admires  ! 
his  person  in  a  glass,  soon  enters  into  a  resolution 
of  making  his  fortune  by  it,  not  questioning  but 
that  every  woman  that  falls  in  his  wav  will  do 
him  as  much  justice  as  he  does  himself.  When  an  I 
heiress  sees  a  man  throwing  particular  graces  into 
his  ogle,  or  talking  loud  within  her  hearing,  she 
ought  to  look  to  herself  ;  but  if  withal  she  ob¬ 
serves  a  pair  of  red  heels,  a  patch,  or  any  other 
particularity  in  his  dress,  she  cannot  take  too 
much  care  of  her  person.  These  are  baits  not  to 
be  trifled  with,  charms  that  have  done  a  world  of 
execution,  and  made  their  way  into  hearts  which 
have  been  thought  impregnable.  The  force  of  a 
man  with  these  qualifications  is  so  well  known, 
that  I  am  credibly  informed  there  are  several 
female  undertakers  about  the  ’Change,  who,  upon 
the  arrival  of  a  likely  man  out  of  the  neighboring 
kingdom,  will  furnish  him  with  a  proper  dress 
from  head  to  foot,  to  be  paid  for  at  a  double  price 
on  the  day  of  marriage. 

We  must,  however,  distinguish  between  for¬ 
tune-hunters  and  fortune- stealers.  The  first  are 
those  assiduous  gentlemen  who  employ  their 
whole  lives  in  the  chase,  without  ever  coming  at  1 
the  quarry.  Suffenus  has  combed  and  powdered 


C  T  A  T  0  R .  333 

at  the  ladies  for  thirty  years  together  ;  and  taken 
his  stand  in  a  side-box,  until  lie  lias  grown 
wrinkled  under  their  eyes.  He  is  now  laying  the 
same  snares  for  the  present  generation  of  ^beauties 
which  lie  practiced  on  their  mothers.  Cottilus, 
after  having  made  his  applications  to  more  than 
you  meet  with  in  Mr.  Cowley’s  ballad  of.  mis¬ 
tresses,  was  at  last  smitten  with  a  city  lady  of  £20,- 
000  sterling  ;  but  died  of  old  age  before  he  could 
biing  matters  to  bear.  Nor  must  I  here  omit  my 
worthy  friend  Mr.  Honeycomb,  who  has  often 
told  us  in  the  club,  that  lor  twen ty -years  succes- 
sively,  upon  the  death  of  a  childless  rich  man,  he 
immediately  drew  on  his  boots,  called  for  his 
horse,  and  made  up  to  the  widow.  When  he 
is  rallied  upon  his  ill-success.  Will,  with  his  usual 
gay ety ,  tells  us,  that  he  always  found  her  pre- 
engaged.  1 

Widows  are  indeed  the  great  game  of  your  for¬ 
tune-hunters.  There  is  scarce  a  young  fellow  in 
the  town,  of  six  feet  high,  that  has  not  passed  in 
review  before  one  or  other  of  these  wealthy  relicts. 
Hudibras’s  Cupid,  who 

“ - —took  his  stand 

Upon  a  widow’s  jointure*  land,” 

Is  daily  employed  in  throwing  darts,  and  kind¬ 
ling  flames.  But  as  for  widows,  they  are  such  a 
subtile  generation  of  people,  that  they  may  be  left 
to  their  own  conduct ;  or  if  they  make  a  false 
step  in  it,  they  are  answerable  for  it  to  nobody 
but  themselves.  The  young,  innocent  creatures 
who  have  no  knowledge  and  experience  of  the 
world,  are  those  whose  safety  I  would  principally 
consult  in  this  speculation.  The' stealing  of  such 
a  one  should,  in  my  opinion,  be  as  punishable  as 
a  rape.  Where  there  is  no  judgment  there  is  no 
choice  ;  and  why  the  inveigling  a  woman  before 
she  is  come  to  years  of  discretion  should  not  be 
as  criminal  as  the  seducing  of  her  before  she  is  ten 
years  old,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  comprehend. — L. 


No.  312.]  WEDNESDAY,  FEB.  27,  1711-12. 

Quod  huic  officium,  quae  laus,  quod  decus  erit  tanti,  quod 
adipisci  cum  dolore  corporis  vclit,  qui  dolorem  summum 
malum  sibi  persuaserit?  Quam  porro  quis  ignominiam, 
quam  turpitudinem  non  pertulerit,  ut  effugiat  dolorem,  si 
id  summum  malum  esse  decreverit? — Tull. 

\\  hat  duty,  what  praise,  or  what  honor  will  he  think  worth 
enduring  bodily  pain  for,  who  has  persuaded  himself  that, 
pain  is  the  chief  evil?  Nay,  to  what  ignominy,  to  what 
baseness,  will  he  not  stoop,  to  avoid  pain,  if  he  has  deter¬ 
mined  it  to  be  the  chief  evil  ? 

It  is  a  very  melancholy  reflection,  that  men  are 
usually  so  weak,  that  it  is  absolutely  necessary 
for  them  to  know  sorrow  and  pain,  to  be  in  their 
right  senses.  Prosperous  people  (for  happy  there 
are  none)  are  hurried  away  with  a  fond  sense  of 
their  present  condition,  and  thoughtless  of  the 
mutability  of  fortune.  Fortune  is  a  term  which 
we  must  use  in  such  discourses  as  these,  for  what 
is  wrought  by  the  unseen  hand  of  the  Disposer  of 
all  things.  But  methinks  the  disposition  of  a 
mind  which  is  truly  great,  is  that  which  makes 
misfortunes  and  sorrows  little  when  they  befall 
ourselves,  great  and  lamentable  \vhen  they  befall 
other  men.  The  most  unpardonable  malefactor 
in  the  world  going  to  his  death,  and  bearing  it 
with  composure,  would  win  the  pity  of  those  who 
should  behold  him  ;  and  this  not  because  his  ca¬ 
lamity  is  deplorable,  but  because  he  seems  him¬ 
self  not  to  deplore  it.  We  suffer  for  him  who  is 


*  The  name  of  the  widow  here  alluded  to  was  Tomson.  Sec 
Grey’s  edit,  of  Hudibras,  vol.  i,  part  i,  canto  iii,  p.  212,  213. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


384 

less  sensible  of  bis  own  misery,  and  are  inclined 
to  despise  him  who  sinks  under  the  weight  of  his 
distresses.  On  the  other  hand,  without  any  touch 
of  envy,  a  temperate  and  well  governed  mind  looks 
down  on  such  as  are  exalted  with  success,  with  a 
certain  shame  for  the  imbecility  of  human  nature, 
that  can  so  far  forget  how  liable  it  is  to  calamity 
as  to  grow  giddy  with  only  the  suspense  of  sor¬ 
row,  which  is  the  portion  of  all  men.  He,  there¬ 
fore,  who  turns  his  face  from  the  unhappy  man, 
who  will  not  look  again  when  his  eye  is  cast  upon 
modest  sorrow,  who  shuns  affliction  like  a  conta¬ 
gion,  does  but  pamper  himself  up  for  a  sacrifice, 
and  contract  in  himself  a  greater  aptitude  to  mis¬ 
ery  by  attempting  to  escape  it.  A  gentleman, 
where  I  happened  to  be  last  night,  fell  into  a  dis¬ 
course  which  I  thought  showed  a  good  discerning 
in  him.  He  took  notice,  that  wherever  men  have 
looked  into  their  heart  for  the  idea  of  true  excel¬ 
lence  in  human  nature,  they  have  found  it  to  con 
sist  in  suffering  after  a  right  manner,  and  with  a 
good  grace.  Heroes  are  always  drawn  bearing 
sorrows,  struggling  with  adversities,  undergoing 
all  kinds  of  hardships,  and  having,  in  the  service 
of  mankind,  a  kind  of  appetite  to  difficulties  and 
dangers.  The  gentleman  went  on  to  observe  that 
it  is  from  this  secret  sense  of  the  high  merit  which 
there  is  in  patience  under  calamities,  that  the 
writers  of  romances,  when  they  attempt  to  furnish 
out  characters  of  the  highest  excellence,  ransack  na¬ 
ture  for  things  terrible  ;  they  raise  a  new  creation 
of  monsters,  dragons,  and  giants  ;  where  the  dan¬ 
ger  ends,  the  hero  ceases  :  when  he  has  won  an 
empire,  or  gained  his  mistress,  the  rest  of  his 
story  is  not  worth  relating.  My  friend  carried 
his  discourse  so  far  as  to  say,  that  it  was  for 
higher  beings  than  men  to  join  happiness  and 
greatness  in  the  same  idea  ;  but  that  in  our  condi¬ 
tion  we  have  no  conception  of  superlative  excel¬ 
lence,  or  heroism,  but  as  it  is  surrounded  with 
a  shade  of  distress. 

It  is  certainly  the  proper  education  we  should 
give  ourselves,  to  be  prepared  for  the  ill  events 
and  accidents  we  are  to  meet  with  in  a  life  sen¬ 
tenced  to  be  a  scene  of  sorrow;  but  instead  of 
this  expectation,  we  soften  ourselves  with  pros¬ 
pects  of  constant  delight,  and  destroy  in  our 
minds  the  seeds  of  fortitude  and  virtue,  which 
should  support  us  in  hours  of  anguish.  The 
constant  pursuit  of  pleasure  has  in  it  something 
insolent  and  improper  for  our  being.  There  is  a 
pretty  sober  liveliness  in  the  Ode  of  Horace  to 
Delius,  where  he  tells  him,  loud  mirth,  or  im¬ 
moderate  sorrow,  inequality  of  behavior  either  in 
adversity  or  prosperity,  are  alike  ungraceful  in 
man  that  is  born  to  die.  Moderation  in  both  cir¬ 
cumstances  is  peculiar  to  generous  minds.  Men 
of  that  sort  ever  taste  the  gratifications  of  health, 
and  all  other  advantages  of  life,  as  if  they  were 
liable  to  part  with  them,  and  when  bereft  of"  them, 
resign  them  with  a  greatness  of  mind  which  shows 
they  know  their  value  and  duration.  The  con¬ 
tempt  of  pleasure  is  a  certain  preparatory  for  the 
contempt  of  pain.  Without  this,  the  mind  is,  as 
it  were,  taken  suddenly  by  an  unforeseen  event ; 
but  he  that  has  always,  during  health  and  pros¬ 
perity,  been  abstinent  in  his  satisfactions,  enjoys, 
in  the  worst  of  difficulties,  the  reflection,  that  his 
anguish  is  not  aggravated  with  the  comparison  of 
past  pleasures  which  upbraid  his  present  condi¬ 
tion.  Tully  tells  us  a  story  after  Pompey,  which 
gives  us  a  good  taste  of  the  pleasant  manner  the 
men  of  wit  and  philosophy  had  in  old  times,  of 
alleviating  the  distresses  of  life  by  the  force  of 
reason  and  philosophy.  Pompey,  when  he  came 
to  Rhodes,  had  a  curiosity  to  visit  the  famous 
philosopher  Possidonius  ;  but  finding  him  in  his 


sick  bed,  he  bewailed  the  misfortune  that  he 
should  not  hear  a  discourse  from  him  :  “But  you 
may,’’  answered  Possidonius ;  and  immediately 
entered  into  the  point  of  stoical  philosophy,  which 
says,  pain  is  not  an  evil.  During  the  discourse, 
upon  every  puncture  he  felt  from  his  distemper, 
he  smiled  and  cried  out,  “  Pain,  pain,  be  as  im¬ 
pertinent  and  troublesome  as  you  please,  I  shall 
never  own  that  thou  art  an  evil.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Having  seen  in  several  of  your  papers  a  con¬ 
cern  for  the  honor  of  the  clergy,  ana  their  doing 
everything  as  becomes  their  character,  and  par¬ 
ticularly  performing  the  public  service  with  a  due 
zeal  and  devotion  ;  I  am  the  more  encouraged  to 
lay  before  them,  by  your  means,  several  expres¬ 
sions  used  by  some  of  them  in  their  prayers  be¬ 
fore  sermon,  which  I  am  not  well  satisfied  in. 
As  their  giving  some  titles  and  epithets  to  great 
men,  which  are  indeed  due  to  them  in  their  sev¬ 
eral  ranks  and  stations,  but  not  properly  used,  I 
think,  in  our  prayers.  Is  it  not  contradiction  to 
say,  illustrious,  right  reverend,  and  right  honora¬ 
ble  poor  sinners  ?  These  distinctions  are  suited 
only  to  our  state  here,  and  have  no  place  in  heav¬ 
en  ;  we  see  they  are  omitted  in  the  liturgy;  which, 
I  think,  the  clergy  should  take  for  their  pattern  in 
their  own  forms  of  devotion.*  There  is  another 
expression  which  I  would  not  mention,  but  that  I 
have  heard  it  several  times  before  a  learned  con¬ 
gregation,  to  bring  in  the  last  petition  of  the 
prayer  in  these  words,  ‘0  let  not  the  Lord  be 
angry,  and  I  will  speak  but  this  once  ;’  as  if  there 
was  no  difference  between  Abraham’s  interceding 
for  Sodom,  for  which  he  had  no  warrant,  as  we 
can  find,  and  our  asking  those  things  which  we 
are  required  to  pray  for ;  they  would  therefore 
have  much  more  reason  to  fear  his  anger  if  they 
did  not  make  such  petitions  to  him.  There  is 
another  pretty  fancy.  When  a  young  man  has  a 
mind  to  let  us  know  who  gave  him  his  scarf,  he 
speaks  a  parenthesis  to  the  Almighty.  *  Bless,  as 
I  am  in  duty  bound  to  pray,  the  right-honorable 
the  countess  ;’  is  not  that  as  much  as  to  say, 

‘  Bless  her,  for  thou  knowest  I  am  her  chaplain  V 
“  Y our  humble  Servant, 

T.  “J.  0” 


Ho.  313.]  THURSDAY,  FEB.  28,  1711-12. 

Exigite  ut  mores  teneros  ceu  pollice  ducat, 

Ut  si  quis  cera  vultum  facit — - Juv.,  Sat.  vii,  227. 

Bid  him  beside  his  daily  pains  employ, 

To  form  the  tender  manners  of  the  boy, 

And  work  him,  like  a  waxen  babe,  with  art, 

To  perfect  symmetry  in  every  part. — Ch.  Dryden. 

I  shall  give  the  following  letter  no  other  re¬ 
commendation  than  by  telling  my  readers  that 

*  In  the  original  publication  of  this  paper  in  folio,  there 
was  the  following  passage,  left  out  when  the  papers  were 
printed  in  volumes  in  1712 : — 

[Another  expression  which  I  take  to  be  improper,  is  this, 
“the  whole  race  of  mankind,”  when  they  pray  for  all  men; 
for  race  signifies  lineage  or  descent;  and  if  the  race  of  man¬ 
kind  may  be  used  for  the  present  generation  (though,  I  think, 
not  very  fitly),  the  whole  race  takes  in  all  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end  of  the  world.  I  don’t  remember  to  have  met 
with  that  expression,  in  their  sense,  anywhere  but  in  the  old 
version  of  Psalm  xiv,  which  those  men,  I  suppose,  have  but 
little  esteem  for.  And  some,  when  they  have  prayed  for  all 
schools  and  nurseries  of  good  learning,  and  true  religion, 
especially  the  two  universities,  add  these  words,  “Grant  that 
from  them,  and  all  other  places  dedicated  to  thy  worship 
and  service,  may  come  forth  such  persons,”  etc.  But  what 
do  they  mean  by  all  other  places  ?  It  seems  to  me,  that  this 
is  either  a  tautology,  as  being  the  same  with  all  schools  and 
nurseries  before  expressed,  or  else  it  runs  too  far;  for  there 
are  several  places  dedicated  to  the  divine  service,  which  can 
not  properly  be  intended  here,] — Spectator  in  folio. 


385 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


it  comes  from  the  same  hand  with  that  of  last 
Thursday.  »  *  *  *  * 

“  Sir, 

“I  send  you,  according  to  my  promise,  some 
further  thoughts  on  the  education  of  youth,  in 
which  I  intend  to  discuss  that  famous  question, 
‘Whether  the  education  of  a  public  school,  or 
under  a  private  tutor,  is  to  be  preferred  ?’ 

“  -A-s  some  of  the  greatest  men  in  most  ages 
have  been  of  very  different  opinions  in  this  mat¬ 
ter,  I  shall  give  a  short  account  of  what  I  think 
may  be  best  urged  on  both  sides,  and  afterward 
leave  every  person  to  determine  for  himself. 

“It  is  certain  from  Suetonius,  that  the  Romans 
thought  the  education  of  their  children  a  business 
properly  belonging  to  the  parents  themselves ; 
and  Plutarch,  in  the  Life  of  Marcus  Cato,  tells  us, 
that  as  soon  as  his  son  was  capable  of  learning, 
Cato  would  suffer  nobody  to  teach  him  but  him¬ 
self,  though  he  had  a  servant  named  Chilo,  who 
was  an  excellent  grammarian,  and  who  taught  a 
great  many  other  youths. 

“  On  the  contrary,  the  Greeks  seemed  more  in¬ 
clined  to  public  schools  and  seminaries. 

“A  private  education  promises,  in  the  first 
place,  virtue  and  good  breeding  ;  a  public  school, 
manly  assurance,  and  an  early  knowledge  in  the 
ways  of  the  world. 

.  “  Mr.  Locke,  in  his  celebrated  treatise  on  educa¬ 
tion,  confesses  that  there  are  inconveniences  to  be 
feared  on  both  sides :  ‘  If,’  says  he,  ‘  I  keep  my 
son  at  home,  he  is  in  danger  of  becoming  my 
young  master ;  if  I  send  him  abroad  ;  it  is  scarce 
possible  to  keep  him  from  the  reigning  contagion 
of  rudeness  and  vice.  He  will  perhaps  be  more 
innocent  at  home,  but  more  ignorant  of  the  world, 
and  more  sheepish  when  he  comes  abroad.’  How¬ 
ever,  as  this  learned  author  asserts  that  virtue  is 
much  more  difficult  to  be  obtained  than  a  know¬ 
ledge  of  the  world,  and  that  vice  is  a  more  stubborn, 
as  well  as  a  more  dangerous  fault  than  sheepish¬ 
ness,  he  is  altogether  for  a  private  education  ;  and 
the  more  so,  because  he  does  not  see  why  a  youth, 
with  right  management,  might  not  attain  the  same 
assurance  in  his  father’s  house,  as  at  a  public 
school.  To  this  end,  he  advises  parents  to  accus¬ 
tom  their  sons  to  whatever  strange  faces  come  to 
the,  house  :  to  take  them  with  them  when  they 
visit  their  neighbors,  and  to  engage  them  in  con¬ 
versation  with  men  of  parts  and  breeding. 

“  It  may  be  objected  to  this  method,  that  con¬ 
versation  is  not  the  only  thing  necessary  :  but 
that  unless  it  be  a  conversation  with  such  as  are 
in  some  measure  their  equals  in  parts  and  years, 
there  can  be  no  room  for  emulation,  contention, 
and  several  of  the  most  lively  passions  of  the 
mind ;  which,  without  being  sometimes  moved 
by  these  means,  may  possibly  contract  a  dullness 
and  insensibility. 

One  of  the  greatest  writers  our  nation  ever 
produced  observes,  that  a  boy  who  forms  parties, 
and  makes  himself  popular  in  a  school  or  a  college, 
would  act  the  same  part  with  equal  ease  in  a 
senate  or  a  privy-council;  and  Mr.  Osborne, 
speaking^  like  a  man  versed  in  the  ways  of  the 
world  affirms,  that  the  well  laying  and  carrying 
on  of  a  design  to  rob  an  orchard,  trains  up  a 
youth  insensibly  to  caution,  secrecy,  and  circum¬ 
spection,  and  fits  him  for  matters  of  greater  im¬ 
portance. 

“  In  short,  a  private  education  seems  the  most 
natural  method  for  the  forming  of  a  virtuous  man; 
a  public  education  for  making  a  man  of  business! 
The  first  would  furnish  out  a  good  subject  for 
Plato’s  republic,  the  latter  a  member  for  a  com- 

mUnit^5°VerrUn  With  arti^ce  ^  corruPtion. 


“  It  must,  however,  be  confessed,  that  a  person 
ao  the  head  of  a  public  school  has  sometimes  so 
,k°ys  undcr  his  direction,  that  it  is  impos¬ 
sible  he  should  extend  a  due  proportion  of  his 
care  to  each  of  them.  This  is  however,  in  reality 
the  fault  of  the  age,  in  which  we  often  see  twenty 
parents,  who,  though  each  expects  his  son  should 
be  made  a.  scholar,  are  not  contented  all  together 
to  make  it  worth  while  for  any  man  of  liberal 
education  to  take  upon  him  the  care  of  their  in¬ 
struction. 

In  our  great  schools,  indeed,  this  fault  has 
been  of  late  years  rectified,  so  that  we  have  at  pre¬ 
sent  not  only  ingenious  men  for  the  chief  masters, 
but  such  as  have  proper  ushers  and  assistants 
under  them.  I  must  nevertheless  own,  that  for 
want  of  the  same  encouragement  in  the  country, 
we  have  many  a  promising  genius  spoiled  and 
abused  in  those  little  seminaries. 

“  I  am  the  more  inclined  to  this  opinion,  hav¬ 
ing  myself  experienced  the  usage  of  two  rural 
masters,  each  of  them  very  unfit  for  the  trust  they 
took  upon  them  to  discharge.  The  first  imposed 
much  more  upon  me  than  my  parts,  though  none 
of  the  wTeakest,  could  endure;  and  used  me  bar¬ 
barously  for  not  performing  impossibilities.  The 
latter  was  of  quite  another  temper ;  and  a  boy  who 
would  run  upon  his  errands,  wash  his  coffee-pot, 
or  ring  the  bell,  might  have  as  little  conversation 
with  any  of  the  classics  as  he  thought  fit.  I  have 
known  a  lad  at  this  place  excused  his  exercise  for 
assisting  the  cook-maid;  and  remember  a  neigh¬ 
boring  gentleman’s  son  was  among  us  five  years, 
most  of  which  time  he  employed  in  airing  and 
watering  our  master’s  gray  pad.  I  scorned  to 
compound  for  my  faults  by  doing  any  of  these 
elegant  offices,  and  was  accordingly  the  best 
scholar,  and  the  worst  used  of  any  boy  in  the 
school. 

“  I  shall  conclude  this  discourse  with  an  ad¬ 
vantage  mentioned  by  Quintilian,  as  accompany¬ 
ing  a  public  way  of  education,  which  I  have  not 
yet  taken  notice  of ;  namely,  that  we  very  often 
contract  such  friendships  at  school,  as  are  a  ser¬ 
vice  to  us  all  the  following  parts  of  our  lives. 

“  I  shall  give  you  under  this  head,  a  story  very 
well  known  to  several  persons,  and  which  you 
may  depend  upon  as  real  truth. 

“  Every  one,  who  is  acquainted  with  Westmin- 
ster-school,  knows  that  there  is  a  curtain  which 
used  to  be  drawn  across  the  room,  to  separate  the 
upper  school  from  the  lower.  A  youth  happened, 
by  some  mischance,  to  tear  the  above-mentioned 
curtain.  The  severity  of  the  master*  was  too  well 
known  for  the  criminal  to  expect  any  pardon  for 
such  a  fault ;  so  that  the  boy,  who  was  of  a  meek 
temper,  was  terrified  to  death  at  the  thoughts  of 
his  appearance,  when  his  friend  who  sat  next  to 
him  bade  him  be  of  good  cheer,  for  that  he  would 
take  the  fault  on  himself.  He  kept  his  word 
accordingly.  As  soon  as  they  were  grown  up  to 
be  men,  the  civil  war  broke  out,  in  which  our  two 
friends  took  the  opposite  sides ;  one  of  them  fol¬ 
lowed  the  parliament,  the  other  the  royal  party. 

“  As  their  tempers  were  different,  the  youth 
who  had  torn  the  curtain  endeavored  to  raise 
himself  on  the  civil  list,  and  the  other,  who  had 
borne  the  blame  of  itj  on  the  military.  The  first 
succeeded  so  well,  that  he  was  in  a  short  time 
made  a  judge  under  the  protector.  The  other 
was  engaged  in  the  unhappy  enterprise  of  Pen- 
ruddock  and  Groves  in  the  West.  I  suppose,  Sir, 

I  need  not  acquaint  you  with  the  event  of  that 
undertaking.  Every  one  knows  that  the  royal 
party  was  routed,  and  all  the  heads  of  them. 


*  Busby. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


386 

among  whom  was  the  curtain  champion,  impri¬ 
soned  at  Exeter.  It  happened  to  be  his  friend’s 
lot  at  that  time  to  go  the  western  circuit.  The 
trial  of  the  rebels,  as  they  were  then  called,  was 
very  short,  and  nothing  now  remained  but  to  pass 
sentence  on  them ;  when  the  judge  hearing  the 
name  of  his  old  friend,  and  observing  his  face 
more  attentively,  which  he  had  not  seen  for  many 
years,  asked  him  if  he  was  not  formerly  a  West¬ 
minster  scholar?  By  the  answer,  he  was  soon 
convinced  that  it  was  his  former  generous  friend: 
and  without  saying  anything  more  at  that  time, 
made  the  best  of  his  way  to  London,  where  em¬ 
ploying  all  his  power  and  interest  with  the  pro¬ 
tector,  he  saved  liis  friend  from  the  fate  of  his  un¬ 
happy  associates. 

“The  gentleman  whose  life  was  thus  preserved 
by  the  gratitude  of  his  school-fellow,  was  after¬ 
ward  the  father  of  a  son,  whom  he  lived  to  see 
promoted  in  the  church,  and  who  still  deservedly 
fills  one  of  the  highest  stations  in  it.”* 

X. 


No.  314.]  FRIDAY,  FEBRUARY  29,  1711-12. 

Tandem  desine  matrem 

Tempestiva  sequi  viro. - 

Hor.  1  Od.  xxiii,  11. 

Attend  thy  mother’s  heels  no  more, 

Now  grown  mature  for  man,  and  ripe  for  joy. 

Creech. 

“  Mr.  Spectator,  February  7,  1711-12. 

"I  am  a  young  man  about  eighteen  years  of  age, 
and  have  been  in  love  with  a  young  woman  of  the 
same  age  about  this  half  year.  I  go  to  see  her 
six  days  in  the  week,  but  never  could  have  the 
happiness  of  being  with  her  alone.  If  any  of  her 
friends  are  at  home,  she  will  see  me  in  their  com¬ 
pany;  but  if  they  be  not  in  the  way,  she  flies  to  her 
chamber.  I  can  discover  no  signs  of  her  aversion: 
but  either  a  fear  of  falling  into  the  toils  of  matri¬ 
mony,  or  a  childish  timidity,  deprives  us  of  an 
interview  apart,  and  drives  us  upou  the  difficulty 
of  languishing  out  our  lives  in  fruitless  expecta¬ 
tion.  Now,  Mr.  Spectator,  if  you  think  us  ripe 
for  economy,  persuade  the  dear  creature,  that  to 
pine  away  into  barrenness  and  deformity  under  a 
mother’s  shade,  is  not  so  honorable,  nor  does  she 
appear  so  amiable,  as  she  would  in  full  bloom. 

[There  is  a  great  deal  left  out  before  he  con¬ 
cludes.] 

“  Mr.  Spectator,  your  humble  Servant, 

“  Bob  Harmless.” 

If  this  gentleman  be  really  no  more  than  eighteen, 
I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say,  he  is  the  most 
knowing  infant  I  have  yet  met  with.  He  does 
not,  I  fear,  yet  understand,  that  all  he  thinks  of  is 
another  woman;  therefore,  until  he  has  given  a 
further  account  of  himself,  the  young  lady  is 
hereby  directed  to  keep  close  to  her  mother. 

The  Spectator. 

I  cannot  comply  with  the  request  in  Mr.  Trot’s 
letter :  but  let  it  go  just  as  it  came  to  my  hands 
for  being  so  familiar  with  the  old  gentleman,  as 
rough  as  he  is  to  him.  Since  Mr.  Trot  has  an  am¬ 
bition  to  make  him  his  father-in-law,  he  ought  to 
treat  him  with  more  respect ;  beside,  his  style  to 
me  might  have  been  more  distant  than  he  has 
thought  fit  to  afford  me:  moreover,  his  mistress 

*  The  gentleman  here  alluded  to  was  Colonel  Wake,  father 
to  Dr.  Wake,  bishop  of  Lincoln,  and  afterward  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury.  As  Penruddock  in  the  course  of  the  trial  takes 
occasion  to  say,  “he  sees  Judge  Nicholas  on  the  bench,”  it  is 
most  likely  that  ho  was  the  judge  of  the  assize,  who  tried 
this  cavalier. 


shall  continue  in  her  confinement,  until  he  has 
found  out  which  word  in  his  letter  is  not  rightly* 
spelt. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  shall  ever  own  myself  your  obliged,  humble 
servant,  for  the  advice  you  gave  me  concerning 
my  dancing;  which,  unluckily,  came  too  late:  for 
as  I  said,  I  would  not  leave  off  capering  until  I 
had  your  opinion  of  the  matter.  I  was  at  our 
famous  assembly  the  day  before  I  received  your 
papers,  and  there  was  observed  by  an  old  gentle¬ 
man,  who  was  informed  I  had  a  respect  for  his 
daughter.  He  told  me  I  was  an  insignificant 
little  fellow,  and  said,  that  for  the  future  he  would 
take  care  of  his  child,  so  that  he  did  not  doubt 
but  to  cross  my  amorous  inclinations.  The  lady 
is  confined  to  her  chamber,  and  for  my  part,  I  am 
ready  to  hang  myself  with  the  thoughts  that  I 
have  danced  myself  out  of  favor  with  her  father. 
I  hope  you  will  pardon  the  trouble  I  give;  but  shall 
take  it  for  a  mighty  favor,  if  you  will  give  me  a 
little  more  of  your  advice  to  put  me  in  a  right  way 
to  cheat  the  old  dragon  ana  obtain  my  mistress. 
I  am  once  more,  Sir, 

“  Your  obliged,  humble  Servant, 

“  John  Trot.” 

“York,  Feb.  23,  1711-12. 

“  Let  me  desire  you  to  make  what  alterations 
you  please,  and  insert  this  as  soon  as  possible. 
Tardon  mistakes  by  haste.” 

I  never  do  pardon  mistakes  by  haste. 

The  Spectator. 

“Sir,  Feb.  27,  1711-12. 

“  Pray  be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  know  what  you 
esteem  to  be  the  chief  qualification  of  a  good  poet, 
especially  of  one  who  writes  plays;  and  you  will 
very  much  oblige,  Sir, 

“  Your  very  humble  Servant, 

“N.  B.” 

To  be  a  very  well-bred  man. 

The  Spectator. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“You  are  to  know  that  I  am  naturally  brave, 
and  love  fighting  as  well  as  any  man  in  England. 
This  gallant  temper  of  mine  makes  me  extremely 
delighted  with  battles  on  the  stage.  I  give  you 
this  trouble  to  complain  to  you  that  Nicolini  re¬ 
fused  to  gratify  me  in  that  part  of  the  opera  for 
which  I  have  most  taste.  I  observe  it  is  become 
a  custom,  that  whenever  any  gentlemen  are  particu¬ 
larly  pleased  witli  a  song,  at  their  crying  out, 
‘  Encore,’  or  *  Altro  Volto,’  the  performer  is  so 
obliging  as  to  sing  it  over  again.  1  was  at  the  opera 
the  last  time  Hydaspes  was  performed.  At  that  part 
of  it  where  the  hero  engages  with  the  lion,  the 
graceful  manner  with  which  he  put  that  terrible 
monster  to  death  gave  me  so  great  a  pleasure,  and 
at  the  same  time  so  iust  a  sense  of  that  gentle¬ 
man’s  intrepidity  and  conduct,  that  I  could  not 
forbear  desiring  a  repetition  of  it,  by  crying  out 
‘  Altro  Volto,7  in  a  very  audible  voice  ;  ana  my 
friends  flatter  me  that  I  pronounced  those  words 
with  a  tolerable  good  accent,  considering  that  was 
but  tho  third  opera  I  had  ever  seen  in  my  life. 
Yet,  notwithstanding  all  this,  there  was  so  little 
regard  had  to  me,  that  the  lion  was  carried  off, 
and  went  to  bed,  without  being  killed  any  more 
that  night.  Now,  Sir,  pray  consider  that  I  did 
not  understand  a  word  of  what  Mr.  Nicolini  said 
to  this  cruel  creature  ;  beside,  I  have  no  ear  for 


*  In  the  original  publication  in  folio,  it  is  printed  “  wright- 
ly,”  the  mis-spelt  word  probably  in  Mr.  Trot’8  letter. 


THE  SPECTATOR 


music;  so  that,  during  the  long  dispute  between 
them,  the  whole  entertainment  I  had  was  from  my 
eyes.  Why  then  have  not  I  as  much  right  to  have 
a  graceful  action  repeated  as  another  has  a  pleas¬ 
ing  sound,  since  he  only  hears,  as  I  only  see,  and 
we  neither  of  us  know  that  there  is  any  reasonable 
thing  a-doing?  Pray,  Sir,  settle  the  business  of 
this  claim  in  the  audience,  and  let  us  know  when 
we  may  cry  ‘Altro  Volto  *  Anglice ,  ‘Again,  Again,’ 
for  the  future.  I  am  an  Englishman,  and  expect 
some  reason  or  other  to  be  given  me,  and  perhaps 
an  ordinary  one  may  serve;  but  I  expect  your 
answer. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

“  Toby  Rentfree.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator,  •  Nov.  29. 

“  \  ou  must  give  me  leave,  among  the  rest  of 
your  female  correspondents,  to  address  you  about 
an  affair  which  has  already  given  you  many  a 
speculation  ;  and  which,  I  know,  I  need  not  tell 
you  has  had  a  very  happy  influence  over  the  adult 
part  of  our  sex;  but  as  many  of  us  are  either  too 
old  to  learn,  or  too  obstinate  in  the  pursuit  of  the 
vanities  which  have  been  bred  up  with  us  from 
our  infancy,  and  all  of  us  quitting  the  stage  while 
you  are  prompting  us  to  act  our  part  well ;  you 
ought,  methinks,  rather  to  turn  your  instructions 
for  the  benefit  of  that  part  of  our  sex  who  are  yet 
in  their  native  innocence,  and  ignorant  of  the  vices 
and  that  variety  of  unhappiness  that  reign  among  us, 
“I  must  tell  you,  Mr.  Spectator,  that  it  is  as 
much  a  part  of  your  office  to  oversee  the  education 
of  the  female  part  of  the  nation,  as  well  as  of  the 
male;  and  to  convince  the  world  you  are  not  par¬ 
tial,  pray  proceed  to  detect  the  mal-administration 
of  governesses  as  successfully  as  you  have  expos¬ 
ed  that  of  pedagogues  ;  and  rescue  our  sex  from 
the  prejudice  and  tyranny  of  education  as  well  as 
that  of  your  own,  who,  without*  your  seasonable 
interposition,  are  like  to  improve  upon  the  vices 
tli at  are  now  in  vogue. 

“  I  who  know  the  dignity  of  your  post,  as  Spec¬ 
tator,  and  the  authority  a  skillful  eye  ought  to  bear 
in  the  female  world,  could  not  forbear  consulting 
you,  and  beg  your  advice  in  so  critical  a  point,  as 
is  that  of  the  education  of  young  gentlewomen. 
Haying  already  provided  myself  with  a  very  con¬ 
venient  house  in  a  good  air,  I  am  not  without  hope 
but  that  you  will  promote  this  generous  design. 

I  must  further  tell  you,  Sir,  that  all  who  shall  be 
committed  to  my  conduct,  beside  the  usual  accom¬ 
plishments  of  the  needle,  dancing,  and  the  French 
tongue,  shall  not  fail  to  be  your  constant  readers. 

It  is  therefore  my  humble  petition,  that  you  will 
entertain  the  town  on  this  important  subject,  and 
so  far  oblige  a  stranger,  as  to  raise  a  curiosity 
and  inquiry  in  my  behalf,  by  publishing  the  fol¬ 
lowing  advertisement. 

“  lam,  Sir, 

“  1  our  constant  Admirer, 

“M.  W.” 


387 


I  his  is  to  give  notice,  that  the  Spectator  has 
taken  upon  him  to  be  visitant  of  all  boarding- 
schools  where  young  women  are  educated  ;  and 
designs  to  proceed  in  the  same  office  after  the 
same  manner  that  the  visitants  of  colieges  do  in 
the  two  famous  universities  of  this  land 
All  lovers  who  write  to  the  Spectator,  are  de- 
sirod  to  forbear  one  expression  which  is  in  most 
of  the  letters  to  him,  either  out  of  laziness  or 
want  of  invention,  and  is  true  of  not  above  two 
thousand  women  in  the  whole  world  :  viz.  “  She 
has  in  her  all  that  is  valuable  in  woman.” — T. 


No.  315.]  SATURDAY,  MARCH  1,  1711-12. 

Nec  Deus  intersit,  nisi  dignus  vindice  nodus 
Incident-  Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  191. 

Never  presume  to  make  a  god  appear, 

But  for  a  business  worthy  of  a  god. — Roscommon. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  Boarding-School  for  young  Gentlewomen, 
which  was  formerly  kept  on  Mile-End-Green,  be- 
ing  laid  down,  there  is  now  one  set  up  almost  op¬ 
posite  to  it,  at  the  two  Golden  Balls,  and  much 
more  convenient  in  every  respect ;  where  beside 
the  common  instructions  given  to  young  gentle¬ 
women,  they  will  be  taught  the  whole  art  of  pastry 
and  preserving,  with  whatever  may  render  them 
accomplished.  Those  who  please  to  make  trial 
of  the  vigilance  and  ability  of  the  persons  con¬ 
cerned,  may  inquire  at  the  Two  Golden  Balls  on 
Mile-End-Green,  near  Stepney,  where  they  will 
receive  further  satisfaction. 


Horace  advises  a  poet  to  consider  thoroughly 
the  nature  and  force  of  his  genius.  Milton  seems 
to  have  known  perfectly  well  wherein  his  strength 
lay,  and  has  therefore  chosen  a  subject  entirely 
conformable  to  those  talents  of  which  he  was 
master.  As  his  genius  was  wonderfully  turned 
to  the  sublime,  his  subject  was  the  noblest  that 
could  have  entered  into  the  thoughts  of  man. 
Eveiything  that  is  truly  great  and  astonishing 
has  a  place  in  it.  The  whole  system  of  the  intel¬ 
lectual  world  ;  the  chaos,  and  the  creation  ;  heav¬ 
en,  earth,  and  hell ;  enter  into  the  constitution  of 
his  poem. 

Having  in  the  first  and  second  books  represented 
the  infernal  world  with  all  its  horrors,  the  thread 
of  his  fable  naturally  leads  him  into  the  opposite 
regions  of  bliss  and  glory. 

.  Milton’s  majesty  forsakes  him  anywhere,  it  is 
in  those  parts  of  his  poem  where  the  divine  per¬ 
sons  are  introduced  as  speakers.  One  may,  I 
hink,  observe,  that  the  author  proceeds  with  a 
find  of  fear  and  trembling,  while  lie  describes 
the  sentiments  of  the  Almighty.  He  dares  not 
give  his  imagination  its  full  play,  but  chooses  to 
confine  himself  to  such  thoughts  as  are  drawn 
ii om  the  books  of  the  most  orthodox  divines,  and 
to  such  expressions  as  may  be  met  with  in  Scrip¬ 
ture,  the  beauties,  therefore,  which  we  are  to  look 
for  in  these  speeches,  are  not  of  a  poetical  nature, 
n°i  proper  to  fill  the  mind  with  sentiments  of 
grandeur,  as  with  thoughts  of  devotion.  The 
passions  which  they  are  designed  to  raise,  are  a 
divine  love  and  religious  fear.  The  particular 
beauty  of  the  speeches  in  the  third  book,  consists 
m  that  shortness  and  perspicuity  of  style,  in 
v  hich  the  poet  has  couched  the  greatest  mysteries 
of  Christianity,  and  drawn  together  in  a  regular 
scheme,  the  whole  dispensation  of  Providence 
with  respect  to  man.  He  has  represented  all  the 
abstruse  doctrines  of  predestination,  free-will  and 
grace,  as  also  the  great  points  of  the  incarnation 
and  redemption  (which  naturally  grow  up  in  a, 
poem  that  treats  of  the  fall  of  man),  with  great 
energy  of  expression,  and  in  a  clearer  and  stronger 
light  than  1  ever  met  with  in  any  other  writer. 
As  these  points  are  dry  in  themselves  to  the  gen¬ 
erality  of  readers,  the  concise  and  clear  manner 
in  which  he  has  treated  them  is  very  much  to  be 
admired,  as  is  likewise  that  particular  art  which 
he  has  made  use  of  in  the  interspersing  of  all 
those  graces  of  poetry  which  the  subject  was 
capable  of  receiving. 

rhe  survey  of  the  whole  creation,  and  of  every¬ 
thing  that  is  transacted  in  it,  is  a  prospect  worthy 
of  Omniscience,  and  as  much  above  that  in  whicn 
Virgil  has  drawn  his  Jupiter,  as  the  Christian 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


388 

idea  of  the  Supreme  being  is  more  rational  and 
sublime  than  that  of  the  Heathens.  The  particu¬ 
lar  objects  on  which  he  is  described  to  have  cast 
his  eye,  are  represented  in  the  most  beautiful  and 
lively  manner : — 

“  Now  had  th’  Almighty  Father  from  above 

(From  the  pure  empyrean  where  he  sits 

High  thron’d  above  all  height)  bent  down  his  eye, 

His  own  works  and  their  works  at  once  to  view. 

About  him  all  the  sanctities  of  heaven 
Stood  thick  as  stars,  and  from  his  sight  receiv’d 
Beatitude  past  utt’rance.  On  his  right 
The  radiant  image  of  his  glory  sat, 

His  only  Son.  On  earth  he  first  beheld 
Our  two  first  parents,  yet  the  only  two 
Of  mankind,  in  the  happy  garden  plac’d, 

Reaping  immortal  fruits  of  joy  and  love ; 
Uninterrupted  joy,  unrival’d  love, 

In  blissful  solitude.  He  then  survey’d 
Hell  and  the  gulf  between,  and  Satan  there 
Coasting  the  wall  of  heav’n  on  this  side  night, 

In  the  dull  air  sublime ;  and  ready  now 
To  stoop  with  varied  wings  and  willing  feet 
On  the  bare  outside  of  this  world,  that  seem’d 
Firm  land  imbosom’d  without  firmament; 

Uncertain  which,  in  ocean,  or  in  air, 

Him  God  beholding  from  his  prospect  high, 

Wherein  past,  present,  future,  he  beholds, 

Thus  to  his  only  Son  foreseeing  spake.” 

Satan’s  approach  to  the  confines  of  the  creation 
is  finely  imaged  in  the  beginning  of  the  speech 
which  immediately  follows.  The  elfects  of  this 
speech  in  the  blessed  spirits,  and  in  the  divine 
person  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  cannot  but  fill 
the  mind  of  the  reader  with  a  secret  pleasure  and 
complacency : 

“Thus  while  God  spake,  ambrosial  fragrance  fill’d 
All  heav’n,  and  in  the  blessed  spirits  elect 
Sense  of  new  joy  ineffable  diffus’d. 

Beyond  compare  the  Son  of  God  was  seen 
Most  glorious ;  in  him  all  his  Father  shone 
Substantially  expressed ;  and  in  his  face 
Divine  compassion  visibly  appear’d, 

Love  without  end,  and  without  measure  grace.” 

I  need  not  point  out  the  beauty  of  that  circum¬ 
stance  wherein  the  whole  host  of  angels  are  repre¬ 
sented  as  standing  mute  ;  nor  show  how  proper 
the  occasion  was  to  produce  such  a  silence  in 
heaven.  The  close  of  this  divine  colloquy,  with 
the  hymn  of  angels  that  follows  upon  it,  are  so 
wonderfully  beautiful  and  poetical,  that  I  should 
not  forbear  inserting  the  Avhole  passage,  if  the 
bounds  of  my  paper  would  give  me  leave  : — 

“  No  sooner  had  the  Almighty  ceas’d  but  all 
The  multitude  of  angels  with  a  shout! 

(Loud  as  from  numbers  without  number,  sweet 
As  from  blest  voices)  utt’ring  joy,  heav’n  rung 
With  jubilee,  and  loud  hosannas  fill’d 
Th’  eternal  regions,”  etc.,  etc. - 

Satan’s  walk  upon  the  outside  of  the  universe, 
which  at  a  distance  appeared  to  him  of  a  globular 
form,  but  upon  his  nearer  approach  looked  like  an 
unbounded  plain,  is  natural  and  noble ;  as  his 
roaming  upon  the  frontiers  of  the  creation,  be¬ 
tween  that  mass  of  matter  which  was  wrought 
into  a  world,  and  that  shapeless,  unformed  heap 
of  materials  which  still  lay  in  chaos  and  confu¬ 
sion,  strikes  the  imagination  with  something  as¬ 
tonishingly  great  and  wild.  I  have  before  spoken 
of  the  Limbo  of  Vanity,  which  the  poet  places 
upon  this  outermost  surface  of  the  universe,  and 
shall  here  explain  myself  more  at  large  on  that  and 
other  parts  of  the  poem,  which  are  of  the  same 
shadowy  nature. 

Aristotle  observes  that  the  fable  of  an  epic 
oem  should  abound  in  circumstances  that  are 
otli  credible  and  astonishing ;  or.  as  the  French 
critics  choose  to  phrase  it,  the  fable  should  be 
filled  with  the  probable  and  the  marvelous.  This 
rule  is  as  fine  and  just  as  any  in  Aristotle’s  whole 
Art  of  Poetry. 

If  the  fable  is  only  probable,  it  differs  nothing 


from  a  true  history  ;  if  it  is  only  marvelous,  it  is 
no  better  than  a  romance.  The  great  secret,  there¬ 
fore,  of  heroic  poetry,  is  to  relate  such  circum¬ 
stances  as  may  produce  in  the  reader  at  the  same 
time  both  belief  and  astonishment.  This  is  brought 
to  pass  iu  a  well-chosen  fable,  by  the  account  of 
such  things  as  have  really  happened,  or  at  least 
of  such  things  as  have  happened  according  to  the 
received  opinions  of  mankind.  Milton’s  fable  is 
a  masterpiece  of  this  nature  :  as  the  war  in  heav¬ 
en,  the  condition  of  the  fallen  angels,  the  state  of 
innocence,  the  temptation  of  the  serpent  and  the 
fall  of  man  ;  though  they  are  very  astonishing  in 
themselves,  and  are  not  only  credible,  but  actual 
points  of  faith. 

The  next  method  of  reconciling  miracles  with 
credibility,  is  by  a  happy  'invention  of  the  poet ; 
as  in  particular,  when  he  introduces  agents  of  a 
superior  nature,  who  are  capable  of  effecting  what 
is  wonderful,  and  what  is  not  to  be  met  with  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  things.  Ulysses’  ship  be¬ 
ing  turned  into  a  rock,  and  ^Eneas’s  fleet  into  a 
shoal  of  water-nymphs,  though  they  are  very 
surprising  accidents,  are  nevertheless  probable 
when  we  are  told,  that  they  were  the  gods  who 
thus  transformed  them.  It  is  this  kind  of  ma¬ 
chinery  which  fills  the  poems  both  of  Homer  and 
Virgil  with  such  circumstances  as  are  wonderful 
but  not  impossible,  and  so  frequently  produce  in 
the  reader  the  most  pleasing  passion  that  can  rise 
in  the  mind  of  man,  which  is  admiration.  If 
there  be  any  instance  in  the  JSneid  liable  to 
exception  upon  this  account,  it  is  in  the  beginning 
of  the  third  book,  where  .(Eneas  is  represented  as 
tearing  up  the  myrtle  that  dropped  blood.  To 
qualify  this  wonderful  circumstance,  Polydorus 
tells  a  story  from  the  root  of  the  myrtle,  that 
the  barbarous  inhabitants  of  the  country  having 
pierced  him  with  spears  and  arrows,  the  wood 
which  was  left  in'his  body  took  root  in  his  wounds, 
and  gave  birth  to  that  bleeding  tree.  This  cir¬ 
cumstance  seems  to  have  the  marvelous  without 
the  probable,  because  it  is  represented  as  proceed¬ 
ing  from  natural  causes,  without  the  interposition 
of  any  god,  or  other  supernatural  power  capable 
of  producing  it.  The  spears  and  arrows  grow  of 
themselves  without  so  much  as  the  modern  help 
of  enchantment.  If  we  look  into  the  fiction  of 
Milton’s  fable,  though  we  find  it  full  of  surpris¬ 
ing  incidents,  they  are  generally  suited  to  our  no¬ 
tions  of  the  things  and  persons  described,  and 
tempered  with  a  due  measure  of  probability.  I 
must  only  make  an  exception  to  the  Limbo  of 
Vanity,  with  his  Episode  of  Sin  and  Death,  and 
some  of  the  imaginary  persons  in  his  chaos. 
These  passages  are  astonishing,  but  not  credible ; 
the  reader  cannot  so  far  impose  upon  himself  as 
to  see  a  possibility  in  them  ;  they  are  the  descrip¬ 
tion  of  dreams  and  shadows,  not  of  things  or 
persons.  I  know  that  many  critics  look  upon 
the  stories  of  Circe,  Polypheme,  the  Sirens,  nay 
the  whole  Odyssey  and  Iliad,  to  be  allegories  ; 
but  allowing  this  to  be  true,  they  are  fables, 
which,  considering  the  opinions  of  mankind  that 
prevailed  in  the  age  of  the  poet,  might  possibly 
have  been  according  to  the  letter.  The  persons 
are  such  as  might  have  acted  what  is  ascribed  to 
them,  as  the  circumstances  in  which  they  are  re¬ 
presented  might  possibly  have  been  truths  and 
realities.  This  appearance  of  probability  is  so 
absolutely  requisite  in  the  greater  kinds  of  poetry, 
that  Aristotle  observes  the  ancient  tragic  writers 
made  use  of  the  names  of  such  great  men  as  had 
actually  lived  in  the  world,  though  the  tragedy 
proceeded  upon  adventures  they  were  never  en¬ 
gaged  in,  on  purpose  to  make  the  subject  more 
credible.  In  a  word,  beside  the  hidden  meaning 


THE  SPECTATOR, 


of  an  epic  allegory,  the  plain,  literal  sense  ought 
to  appear  probable.  The  story  should  be  such  as 
an  ordinary  reader  may  acquiesce  in,  whatever 
natural,  moral,  or  political  truth  may  be  discov¬ 
ered  in  it  by  men  of  greater  penetration. 

Satan,  after  having  long  wandered  upon  the 
surface  or  outmost  wall  of  the  universe,  discovers 
at  last  a  wide  gap  in  it,  which  led  into  the  crea¬ 
tion  and  is  described  as  the  opening  through 
which  the  angels  pass  to  and  fro  into  the  lower 
world,  upon  their  errands  to  mankind.  His  sit- 
tmg  upon  the  brink  of  this  passage,  and  taking  a 
survey  of  the  whole  face  of  nature  that  appeared 
to  nun  new  and  fresh  in  all  its  beauties,  with  the 
simile  illustrating  the  circumstance,  fills  the  mind 
of  the  leader  with  as  surprising  and  glorious  an 
idea  as  any  that  arises  in  the  whole  poem.  He 
looks  down  into  that  vast  hollow  of  the  universe 
with  the  eye,  or  (as  Milton  calls  it  in  his  first 
book)  with  the  ken  of  an  angel.  He  surveys 
all  the  wonders  in  the  immense  amphitheater  that 
lies  between  both  the  poles  of  heaven,  and  takes 
in  at  one  view  the  whole  round  of  the  creation. 

His  flight  between  the  several  worlds  that 
shone  on  every  side  of  him,  with  the  particular 
description  of  the  sun,  are  set  forth  in  all  the  wan- 
tonness  of  a  luxuriant  imagination.  His  shape, 
speech,  and  behavior  upon  his  transforming  him¬ 
self  into  an  angel  of  light,  are  touched  with  ex¬ 
quisite  beauty.  The  poet’s  thoughts  of  directing 
Satan  to  the  sun,  which,  in  the  vulgar  opinion  of 
mankind,  is  the  most  conspicuous  part  of  the 
creation,  and  the  placing  in  it  an  angel,  is  a  cir¬ 
cumstance  very  finely  contrived,  and  the  more 
adjusted  to  a  poetical  probability,  as  it  was  a 
received  doctrine  among  the  most  famous  philoso¬ 
phers,  that  every  orb  had  its  intelligence  ;  and  as 
an  apostle  in  sacred  writ  is  said  to  have  seen  such 
an  angel  in  the  sun.  In  the  answer  which  this 
angel  returns  to  the  disguised  evil  spirit,  there  is 
such  a  becoming  majesty  as  is  altogether  suitable 
to  a  superior  being.  The  part  of  it  in  which  he 
represents  himself  as  present  at  the  creation,  is 
very  noble  in  itself,  and  not  only  proper  where  it 
is  introduced,  but  requisite  to  prepare  the  reader 
for  what  follows  in  the  seventh  book  :• — 


389 


‘  I  when  at  his  word  the  formless  mass, 

Ihis  world  s  material  mould,  came  to  a  heap; 
Confusion  heard  his  voice,  and  wild  Uproar 
Stood  rul’d,  stood  vast  infinitude  confin’d, 

Till  at  his  second  bidding  Darkness  fled, 

Light  shone,”  etc. 

In  the  following  part  of  the  speech  he  points 
out  the  earth  with  such  circumstances,  that  the 
reader  can  scarce  forbear  fancying  himself  em¬ 
ployed  on  the  same  distant  view  of  it: 

downward  on  that  globe,  whose  hither  side 
With  light  from  hence,  though  but  reflected,  shines: 
That  place  is  earth,  the  seat  of  man,  that  light 
His  day,”  etc. 

I  must  not  conclude  my  reflections  upon  this 
third  book  of  Paradise  Lost,  without  taking  no- 
tice  of  that  celebrated  complaint  of  Milton  with 
which  it  opens,  and  which  certainly  deserves  all 
the  praises  that  have  been  given  it;  though,  as  I 
have  before  hinted,  it  may  rather  be  looked  upon 
as  an  excrescence,  than  as  an  essential  part  of  the 
poem  The  same  observation  might  be  applied  to 
that  beautiful  digression  upon  hypocrisy  in  the 
same  book. 

L. 


No.  316.]  MONDAY,  MARCH  3, 1711-12. 

Libertas;  quae  sera,  tamen  respexit  inertem. 

Virg.,  Eel.  i.  28 

Freedom,  which  came  at  length,  though  slow  to  com©. 

Drtdsn. 

"Mr.  Spectator, 

I*  you  ever  read  a  letter  which  is  sent  with 
the  more  pleasure  for  the  reality  of  its  complaints, 
tins  may  have  reason  to  hope  for  a  favorable  ac¬ 
ceptance;  and  if  time  be  the  most  irretrievable 
loss,  the  regrets  which  follow  will  be  thought.  I 
hope,  the  most  justifiable.  The  regaining  of  my 
liberty  from  a  long  state  of  indolence  and  inacti¬ 
vity,  and  the  desire  of  resisting  the  further  en¬ 
croachments  of  idleness,  make  me  apply  to  you- 
and  the  uneasiness  with  which  I  recollect  the  past 
years,  and  the  apprehension  with  which  I  expect 
the  future,  soon  determine  me  to  it.  Idleness  is  so 
general  a  distemper,  that  I  cannot  but  imagine 
a  speculation  on  this  subject  will  be  of  universal 
use.  There  is  hardly  any  one  person  without 
some  allo\r  of  it;  and  thousands  beside  myself 
spend  more  time  in  an  idle  uncertainty  which  to 
begin  first  of  two  affairs,  than  would  have  been 
sufficient  to  have  ended  them  both.  The  occasion 
of  this  seems  to  be  the  want  of  some  necessary 
employment,  to  put  the  spirits  in  motion,  and 
awaken  them  out  of  their  lethargy.  If  I  had  less 
leisure,  I  should  have  more;  for  1  should  then 
find  my  time  distinguished  into  portions,  some  for 
business,  and  others  for  the  indulging  of  plea- 
suies,  but  now  one  face  of  indolence  overspreads 
the  whole,  and  I  have  no  landmark  to  direct  my¬ 
self  by.  Were  one’s  time  a  little  straitened  by 
business,  like  water  inclosed  in  its  banks,  it 
would  have  some  determined  course;  but  unless  it 
be  put  into  some  channel  it  has  no  current,  but  be¬ 
comes  a  deluge  without  either  use  or  motion. 

‘‘When  Scauderbeg,  Prince  of  Epirus,  was  dead, 
the  Turks,  who  had  but  too  often  felt  the  force  of 
his  arm  in  the  battles  he  had  won  from  them,  ima¬ 
gined  that  by  wearing  a  piece  of  his  bones  near 
their  heart,  they  should  be  animated  with  a  vigor 
force  like  to  that  which  inspired  him  when 
living.  As  I  am  like  to  be  but  of  little  use  while 
I  live,  I  am  resolved  to  do  what  good  I  can  after 
my  decease;  and  have  accordingly  ordered  my 
bones  to  be  disposed  of  in  this  manner  for  the 
good  of  my  countrymen,  who  are  troubled  with 
too  exorbitant  a  degree  of  fire.  All  fox -hunters, 
upon  wearing  me,  would  in  a  short  time  be 
brought  to  endure  their  beds  in  a  morning,  and 
perhaps  even  quit  them  with  regret  at  ten.  Instead 
of  hurrying  away  to  tease  a  poor  animal,  and  run 
away  from  their  own  thoughts,  a  chair  or  a  cha- 
liot  would  be  thought  the  most  desirable  means 
of  performing  a  remove  from  one  place  to  another. 

I  should  be  a  cure  for  the  unnatural  desire  of  John 
Trot  for  dancing,  and  a  specific  to  lessen  the  in¬ 
clination  Mrs.  Fidget  has  to  motion,  and  cause  her 
always  to  give  her  approbation  to  the  present 
place  she  is  in.  In  fine,  no  Egyptian  mummy 
was  ever  half  so  useful  in  physic,  as  I  should  be 
to  these  feverish  constitutions,  to  repress  the  vio¬ 
lent  sallies  ol  youth,  and  give  each  action  its 
proper  weight  and  repose. 

“  I  can  stifle  any  violent  inclination,  and  op¬ 
pose  a  torrent  of  anger,  or  the  solicitations  of  re¬ 
venge,  with  success.  Indolence  is  a  stream  which 
flows  slowly  on,  but  yet  undermines  the  founda¬ 
tion  of  every  virtue.  A  vice  of  a  more  lively  na¬ 
ture  were  a  more  desirable  tyrant  than  this  rust 
of  the  mind,  which  gives  a  tincture  of  its  nature 
to  every  action  of  one’s  life.  It  were  as  little  ha¬ 
zard  to  be  lost  in  a  storm,  as  to  lie  thus  perpetu¬ 
ally  becalmed;  and  it  is  to  no  purpose  to  have 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


390 

•within  one  the  seeds  of  a  thousand  good  qualities, 
if  we  want  the  vigor  and  resolution  necessary  for 
the  exerting  them.  Death  brings  all  persons  back 
to  an  equality;  and  this  image  of  it,  this  slumber 
of  the  mind,  leaves  no  difference  between  the 
greatest  genius  and  the  meanest  understanding. 
A  faculty  of  doing  things  remarkably  praise¬ 
worthy,  thus  concealed,  is  of  no  more  use  to  the 
owner,  than  a  heap  of  gold  to  the  man  who  dares 
not  use  it. 

“  To-morrow,  is  still  the  fatal  time  when  all  is 
to  be  rectified.  To-morrow  comes,  it  goes,  and 
still  I  please  myself  with  the  shadow,  while  I 
lose  the  reality;  unmindful  that  the  present  time 
alone  is  ours,  the  future  is  yet  unborn,  and  the 
past  is  dead,  and  can  only  live  (as  parents  in  their 
children)  in  the  actions  it  has  produced. 

“  The  time  we  live  ought  not  to  be  computed  by 
the  number  of  years,  but  by  the  use  that  has  been 
made  of  it:  thus,  it  is  not  the  extent  of  ground, 
but  the  yearly  rent  which  gives  the  value  to  the 
estate.  Wretched  and  thoughtless  creatures,  in 
the  only  place  where  covetousness  were  a  virtue, 
we  turn  prodigals!  Nothing  lies  upon  our  hands 
with  such  uneasiness,  nor  have  there  been  so  many 
devices  for  any  one  thing,  as  to  make  it  slide  away 
imperceptibly  and  to  no  purpose.  A  shilling  shall 
be  hoarded  up  with  care,  while  that  which  is 
above  the  price  of  an  estate  is  flung  away  with 
disregard  and  contempt.  There  is  nothing,  now- 
a-days,  so  much  avoided  as  a  solicitous  improve¬ 
ment  of  every  part  of  time;  it  is  a  report  must  be 
shunned  as  one  tenders  the  name  of  a  wit  and  a 
fine  genius,  and  as  one  fears  the  dreadful  charac¬ 
ter  of  a  laborious  plodder;  but  notwithstanding 
this,  the  greatest  wits  any  age  has  produced 
thought  far  otherwise;  for  who  can  think  either 
Socrates  or  Demosthenes  lost  any  reputation,  by 
their  continued  pains  both  in  overcoming  the  de¬ 
fects  and  improving  the  gifts  of  nature?  All  are 
acquainted  with  the  labor  and  assiduity  with 
which  Tully  acquired  his  eloquence.  Seneca  in 
his  letters  to  Lucilius  assures  him,  there  was  not 
a  day  in  which  he  did  not  either  write  something, 
or  read  and  epitomize  some  good  author;  and  I 
remember  Pliny  in  one  of  his  letters,  where  he 
gives  an  account  of  the  various  methods  he  used 
to  fill  up  every  vacancy  of  time,  after  several  em¬ 
ployments  which  he  enumerates:  ‘sometimes,’ 
says  he,  ‘  I  hunt:  but  even  then  I  carry  with  me 
a  pocket-book,  that  while  my  servants  are  busied 
in  disposing  of  the  nets  and  other  matters,  I  may 
be  employed  in  something  that  may  be  useful  to 
me  in  my  studies;  and  that  if  I  miss  of  my  game, 
I  may  at  the  least  bring  home  some  of  my  own 
thoughts  with  me,  and  not  have  the  mortification 
of  having  caught  nothing  all  day. 

“  Thus,  Sir,  you  see,  how  many  examples  I  re¬ 
call  to  mind,  and  what  arguments  I  use  with  my¬ 
self,  to  regain  my  liberty:  but  as  I  am  afraid  it  is 
no  ordinary  persuasion  that  will  be  of  service,  I 
shall  expect  your  thoughts  on  this  subject  with 
the  greatest  impatience,  especially  since  the  good 
will  not  be  confined  to  me  alone,  but  will  be  of 
universal  use.  For  there  is  no  hope  of  amend¬ 
ment  where  men  are  pleased  with  their  ruin,  and 
while  they  think  laziness  is  a  desirable  character; 
whether  it  be  that  they  like  the  state  itself,  or  that 
they  think  it  gives  them  a  new  luster  when  they 
do  exert  themselves,  seemingly  to  be  able  to  do 
that  without  labor  and  application,  which  others 
attain  to  but  with  the  greatest  diligence. 

“  I  am,  Sir, 

“Your  most  obliged,  humble  Servant, 

“  Samuel  Slack.” 


Clytander  to  Cleone. 

“  Madam, 

“  Permission  to  love  you  is  all  that  I  desire  to 
conquer  all  the  difficulties  those  about  you  place 
in  my  way,  to  surmount  and  acquire  all  those 
qualifications  you  expect  in  him  who  pretends  to 
the  honor  of  being, 

“  Madam, 

“Your  most  devoted,  humble  Servant, 

“  Clytandek.” 


No.  317.]  TUESDAY,  MARCH  4,  1711-12. 

- Fruges  consumere  nati. — IIor.  1  Ep.  ii,  27. 

- Born  to  drink  and  eat. — Creech. 

Augustus,  a  few  minutes  before  his  death,  asked 
his  friends  who  stood  about  him,  if  they  thought 
he  had  acted  his  part  well;  and  upon  receiving 
such  an  answer  as  was  due  to  his  extraordinary 
merit,  “  Let  me  then,”  says  he,  “  go  off  the  stage 
with  your  applause;  ”  using  the  expression  with 
which  the  Roman  actors  made  their  exit  at  the 
conclusion  of  a  dramatic  piece.*  I  could  wish 
that  men,  while  they  are  in  health,  would  consider 
well  the  nature  of  the  part  they  are  engaged  in, 
and  what  figure  it  will  make  in  the  minds  of  those 
they  leave  behind  them,  whether  it  was  worth 
coming  into  the  World  for;  whether  it  be  suitable 
to  a  reasonable  being;  in  short,  whether  it  appears 
graceful  in  this  life,  or  will  turn  to  advantage  in 
the  next.  Let  the  sycophant  or  the  buffoon,  the 
satirist,  or  the  good  companion,  consider  with 
himself,  when  his  body  shall  be  laid  in  the  grave, 
and  his  soul  pass  into  another  state  of  existence, 
how  much  it  will  redound  to  his  praise  to  have  it 
said  of  him,  that  no  man  in  England  ate  better, 
that  he  had  an  admirable  talent  at  turning  his 
friends  into  ridicule,  that  nobody  outdid  him  at 
an  ill-natured  jest,  or  that  he  never  went  to  bed 
before  he  had  dispatched  his  third  bottle.  These 
are,  however,  very  common  funeral  orations, 
and  eulogiums  on  deceased  persons  wrho  have 
acted  among  mankind  with  some  figure  and  repu¬ 
tation. 

But  if  we  look  into  the  bulk  of  our  species, 
they  are  such  as  are  not  likely  to  be  remembered  a 
moment  after  their  disappearance.  They  leave 
behind  them  no  traces  of  their  existence,  but  are 
forgotten  as  though  they  had  never  been.  They 
are  neither  wTanted  by  the  poor,  regretted  by  the 
rich,  nor  celebrated  by  the  learned.  They  are 
neither  missed  in  the  commonwealth,  nor  lamented 
by  private  persons.  Their  actions  are  of  no  sig- 
nificancy  to  mankind,  and  might  have  been  per¬ 
formed  by  creatures  of  much  less  dignity  than 
those  Avho  are  distinguished  by  the  faculty  of  rea¬ 
son.  An  eminent  French  author  speaks  some¬ 
where  to  the  following  purpose  :  I  have  often  seen 
from  my  chamber-window  two  noble  creatures, 
both  of  them  of  an  erect  countenance  and  en¬ 
dowed  with  reason.  These  two  intellectual  beings 
are  employed  from  morning  to  night  in  rubbing 
two  smooth  stones  one  upon  another:  that  is,  as 
the  vulgar  phrase  is,  in  polishing  marble. 

My  friend,  Sir  Andrew  Freeport,  as  we  were 
sitting  in  the  club  last  night,  gave  us  an  account 
of  a  sober  citizen,  who  died  a  few  days  since. 
This  honest  man  of  greater  consequence  in  his 
owrn  thoughts  than  in  the  eye  of  the  wmrld,  had 
for  some  years  past  kept  a  journal  of  his  life.  Sir 
Andrew  showed  us  one  week  of  it.  Since  the  oc¬ 
currences  set  down  in  it  mark  out  such  a  road  of 


*Vos  valete  et  plaudite. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


391 


action  as  that  I  have  been  speaking  of,  I  shall 
resent  my  reader  with  a  faithful  copy  of  it;  after 
aviug  first  informed  him,  that  the  deceased  per¬ 
son  had  in  his  youth  been  bred  to  trade,  but  find¬ 
ing  himself  not  so  well  turned  for  business,  he 
had  for  several  years  last  past  lived  altogether 
upon  a  moderate  annuity.* 

Monday,  eight  o’clock.  I  put  on  my  clothes, 
and  walked  into  the  parlor. 

Nine  o’clock,  ditto.  Tied  my  knee-strings  and 
washed  my  hands. 

Hours  ten,  eleven,  and  twelve.  Smoked  three 

£ipes  of  Virginia.  Read  the  Supplement  and 
'aily  Co u rant.  Things  go  ill  in  the  north.  Mr. 
Nisby’s  opinion  thereupon. 

One  o’clock  in  the  afternoon.  Chid  Ralph  for 
mislaying  my  tobacco-box. 

Two  o’clock.  Sat  down  to  dinner.  Mem.  Too 
many  plums  and  no  suet. 

From  three  to  four.  Took  my  afternoon’s  nap. 
From  four  to  six.  Walked  into  the  fields.  Wind 
S.  S.  E. 

From  six  to  ten.  At  the  club.  Mr.  Nisby’s 
opinion  about  the  peace. 

Ten  o’clock.  Went  to  bed,  slept  sound. 

Tuesday ,  being  holiday,  eight  o’clock.  Rose  as 
usual. 

Nine  o’clock.  Washed  hands  and  face,  shaved, 
put  on  my  double-soled  shoes. 

Ten,  eleven,  twelve.  Took  a  walk  to  Islington. 
One.  Took  a  pot  of  Mother  Cob’s  mild. 
Between  two  and  three.  Returned,  dined  on  a 
knuckle  of  veal  and  bacon.  Mem.  Sprouts  want- 

hree.  Nap  as  usual. 

From  four  to  six  Coffee-house.  Read  the  news. 
A  dish  of  twist.  Grand  vizier  strangled. 

From  six  to  ten.  At  the  club.  Mr.  Nisby’s  ac¬ 
count  of  the  Great  Turk. 

Ten.  Dream  of  the  grand  vizier.  Broken 
sleep. 

Wednesday,  eight  o’clock.  Tongue  of  my  shoe- 
buckle  broke.  Hands  but  not  face. 

Niue.  Paid  off  the  butcher’s  bill.  Mem.  To  be 
allowed  for  the  last  leg  of  mutton. 

Ten,  eleven.  At  the  coffee-house.  More  work 
in  the  north.  Stranger  in  a  black  wig  asked  me 
how  stocks  went. 

From  twelve  to  one.  Walked  in  the  fields. 
Wind  to  the  south. 

From  one  to  two.  Smoked  a  pipe  and  a  half. 
Two.  Dined  as  usual.  Stomach  good. 

Three.  Nap  broke  by  the  falling  of  a  pewter 
dish.  Mem.  Cook-maid  in  love,  and  grown  care¬ 
less. 

From  four  to  six.  At  the  coffee-house.  Advice 
from  Smyrna  that  the  grand  vizier  was  first  of  all 
strangled,  and  afterward  beheaded. 

Six  o’clock  in  the  evening.  Was  half  an  hour 
in  the  club  before  anybody  else  came.  Mr.  Nisby 
of  opinion  that  the  grand  vizier  was  not  strangled 
the  sixth  instant. 

Ten  at  night.  Went  to  bed.  Slept  without 
waking  until  nine  the  next  morning. 

Thursday,  nine  o’clock.  Stayed  within  until 
two  o’clock  for  Sir  Timothy  ;  who  did  not  bring 
me  my  aunuity  according  to  his  promise. 


*  This  journal  was,  it  may  be,  genuine,  but  certainly  pub¬ 
lished  here  as  a  banter  on  a  gentleman  who  was  a  member 
of  a  congregation  of  dissenters,  commonly  called  Indepen¬ 
dents,  where  a  Mr.  Nesbit  officiated  at  that  time  as  minister. 
The  curious  may  find  information  “  satis  superque,”  con¬ 
cerning  Mr.  Nestit,  in  John  Dunton’s  account  of  his  Life, 
Errors,  and  Opinions.  The  person  who  kept  this  insipid 
journal  led  just  such  a  life  as  is  described  and  ridiculed  here, 
and  was  continually  asking  or  quoting  his  pastor’s  opinion 
on  every  subject. 


;  Two  in  the  afternoon.  Sat  down  to  dinner. 
Loss  of  appetite.  Small  beer  sour.  Beef  over¬ 
corned. 

Three.  Could  not  take  my  nap. 

Four  and  five.  Gave  Ralph  a  box  on  the  ear. 
Turned  off  my  cook-maid.  Sent  a  messenger  to 
Sir  Timothy.  Mem.  I  did  not  go  to  the  club  to¬ 
night.  Went  to  bed  at  nine  o’clock. 

Friday.  Passed  the  morning  in  meditation 
upon  Sir  Timothy,  who  was  with  me  a  quarter 
beforeMwelve. 

Twelve  o’clock.  Bought  a  new  head  to  my 
cane,  and  a  tongue  to  my  buckle.  Drank  a  glass 
of  purl  to  recover  appetite. 

Two  and  three.  Dined  and  slept  well. 

From  four  to  six.  Went  to  the  coffee-house. 
Met  Mr.  Nisby  there.  Smoked  several  pipes. 
Mr.  Nisby  of  opinion  that  laced  coffee  is  bad  for 
the  head. 

Six  o’clook.  At  the  club  as  steward.  Sat  late. 

Twelve  o’clock.  Went  to  bed,  dreamt  that  I 
drank  small  beer  with  the  grand  vizier. 

Saturday.  Waked  at  eleven,  walked  in  the 
fields,  wind  N.E. 

Twelve.  Caught  in  a  shower. 

One  in  the  afternoon.  Returned  home  and  dried 
myself. 

Two.  Mr.  Nisby  dined  with  me.  First  course, 
marrow-bones ;  second,  ox-cheek,  with  a  bottle  of, 
Brooks  and  Hellier. 

Three.  Overslept  myself. 

Six.  Went  to  the  club.  Like  to  have  fallen 
into  a  gutter.  Grand  Vizier  certainly  dead. 

I  question  not  but  the  reader  will  be  surprised 
to  find  the  above-mentioned  journalist  taking  so 
much  care  of  a  life  that  was  filled  with  such  in¬ 
considerable  actions,  and  received  so  very  small 
improvements  ;  and  yet  if  we  look  into  the  beha¬ 
vior  of  many  whom  we  daily  converse  with,  we 
shall  find  the  most  of  their  hours  are  taken  up 
in  those  three  important  articles  of  eating,  drink¬ 
ing,  and  sleeping.  I  do  not  suppose  that  man 
loses  his  time,  who  is  not  engaged  in  public 
affairs,  or  in  an  illustrious  course  of  action.  On 
the  contrary,  I  believe  our  hours  may  very  often 
be  more  profitably  laid  out  in  such  transactions 
as  make  no  figure  in  the  world,  than  in  such  as 
are  apt  to  draw  upon  them  the  attention  of  man¬ 
kind.  One  may  become  wiser  and  better  by  se¬ 
veral  methods  of  employing  one’s-self  in  secrecy 
and  silence,  and  do  what  is  laudable  without 
noise  or  ostentation.  I  would,  however,  recom¬ 
mend  to  every  one  of  my  readers,  the  keeping  a 
journal  of  their  lives  for  one  week,  and  setting 
down  punctually  their  whole  series  of  employ¬ 
ment  during  that  space  of  time.  This  kind  of 
self-examination  would  give  them  a  true  state  of 
themselves,  and  incline  them  to  consider  seriously 
what  they  are  about.  One  day  would  rectify  the 
omissions  of  another,  and  make  a  man  weigh  all 
those  indifferent  actions,  which,  though  they  are 
easily  forgotten,  must  certainly  be  accounted  for. 


No.  318.]  WEDNESDAY,  MARCH  5,  1711-12. 

- Non  omnia  possumus  omnes. — Virg.,  Eel.  viii,  63. 

With  different  talents  form’d,  we  variously  excel.* 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  A  certain  vice,  which  you  have  lately  at¬ 
tacked,  has  not  yet  been  considered  by  you  as 

*  This  motto  is  likewise  prefixed  to  Spectator,  No.  404.  The 
original  motto  on  this  paper  in  folio  was, 

ltideat,  et  pulset  lasciva  decentius  aetas. 

IIor.  Ep.  ii,  2,  ult. 

Lascivious  age  might  better  play  the  fool. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


392 

growing  so  deep  in  the  heart  of  man,  that  the 
affectation  outlives  the  practice  of  it.  You  must 
have  observed,  that  men  who  have  been  bred  in 
arms  preserve  to  the  most  extreme  and  feeble  old 
age,  a  certain  daring  in  their  aspect.  In  like 
manner,  they  who  have  passed  their  time  in  gal¬ 
lantry  and  adventure,  keep  up,  as  well  as  they 
can,  the  appearance  of  it,  and  carry  a  petulant 
inclination  to  their  last  moments.  Let  this  serve 
for  a  preface  to  a  relation  I  am  going  to  give  you 
of  an  old  beau  in  town,  that  has  not  only  been 
amorous,  and  a  follower  of  women  in  general,  but 
also,  in  spite  of  the  admonition  of  gray  hairs, 
been  from  his  sixty-third  year  to  his  present 
seventieth  in  an  actual  pursuit  of  a  young  lady, 
the  wife  of  his  friend,  and  a  man  of  merit.  The 
gay  old  Escalus  has  wit,  good  health,  and  is  per¬ 
fectly  well-bred;  but,  from  the  fashion  and  man¬ 
ners  of  the  court  when  he  was  in  his  bloom,  has 
such  a  natural  tendency  to  amorous  adventure, 
that  he  thought  it  would  be  an  endless  reproach 
to  him  to  make  no  use  of  a  familiarity  he  was 
allowed  at  a  gentleman’s  house,  whose  good-hu¬ 
mor  and  confidence  exposed  his  wife  to  the  ad¬ 
dresses  of  any  who  should  take  it  into  their  head 
to  do  him  the  good  office.  It  is  not  impossible 
that  Escalus  might  also  resent  that  the  husband 
was  particularly  negligent  of  him ;  and  though 
he  gave  many  intimations  of  a  passion  toward  the 
wife,  the  husband  either  did  not  see  them,  or  put 
him  to  the  contempt  of  overlooking  them.  In 
the  mean  time  Isabella  (for  so  we  shall  call  our 
heroine),  saw  his  passion,  and  rejoiced  in  it,  as  a 
foundation  for  much  diversion,  and  an  opportu¬ 
nity  of  indulging  herself  in  the  dear  delight  of 
being  admired,  addressed  to,  and  flattered,  with 
no  ill  consequence  to  her  reputation.  This  lady 
is  of  a  free  and  disengaged  behavior,  ever  in 
good-humor,  such  as  is  the  image  of  innocence 
with  those  who  are  innocent,  and  an  encourage¬ 
ment  to  vice  with  those  who  are  abandoned. 
From  this  kind  of  carriage,  and  an  apparent  ap¬ 
probation  of  his  gallantry,  Escalus  had  frequent 
opportunities  of  laying  amorous  epistles  in  her 
way,  fixing  his  eyes  attentively  upon  her  actions, 
of  performing  a  thousand  little  offices  which  are 
neglected  by  the  unconcerned,  but  are  so  many 
approaches  toward  happiness  with  the  enamored. 
It  was  now,  as  is  above  hinted,  almost  the  end 
of  the  seventh  year  of  his  passion,  when  Escalus, 
from  general  terms,  and  the  ambiguous  respect 
which  criminal  lovers  retain  in  their  addresses, 
began  to  bewail  that  his  passion  grew  too  violent 
for  him  to  answer  any  longer  for  his  behavior 
toward  her,  and  that  he  hoped  she  would  have 
consideration  for  his  long  and  patient  respect,  to 
excuse  the  emotions  of  a  heart  now  no  longer 
under  the  direction  of  the  unhappy  owner  of  it. 
Such,  for  some  months,  had  been  the  language  of 
Escalus  both  in  his  talk  and  his  letters  to  Isa¬ 
bella,  who  returned  all  the  profusion  of  kind 
things  which  had  been  the  collection  of  fifty  years, 

‘  I  must  not  hear  you  ;  you  will  make  me  forget 
that  you  are  a  gentleman;  1  would  not  willingly 
lose  you  as  a  friend;’  and  the  like  expressions, 
which  the  skillful  interpret  to  their  own  advan¬ 
tage,  as  well  as  knowing  that  a  feeble  denial  is  a 
modest  assent.  I  should  have  told  you,  that 
Isabella,  during  the  whole  progress  of  this  amour, 
communicated  it  to  her  husband;  and  that  an  ac¬ 
count  of  Escalus’s  love  was  their  usual  entertain¬ 
ment  after  half  a  day’s  absence.  Isabella,  there¬ 
fore,  upon  her  lover’s  late  more  open  assaults, 
with  a  smile  told  her  husband  she  could  hold  out 
no  longer,  but  that  his  fate  was  now  come  to  a 
crisis.  After  she  had  explained  herself  a  little 
further,  with  her  husband’s  approbation  she  pro-  I 


ceeded  in  the  following  manner.  The  next  time 
that  Escalus  was  alone  with  her,  and  repeated  his 
importunity,  the  crafty  Isabella  looked  on  her  fan 
with  an  air  of  great  attention,  as  considering  of 
what  importance  such  a  secret  was  to  her ;  and 
upon  the  repetition  of  a  warm  expression,  she 
looked  at  him  with  an  eye  of  fondness,  and  told 
him  he  was  past  that  time  of  life  which  could  make 
her  fear  he  would  boast  of  a  lady’s  favor;  then  turn¬ 
ed  away  her  head,  with  a  very  well-acted  confusion, 
which  favored  the  escape  of  the  aged  Escalus.  This 
adventure  was  matter  of  great  pleasantry  to  Isabella 
and  her  spouse;  and  they  had  enjoyed  it  two  days 
before  Escalus  could  recollect  himself  enough  to 
form  the  following  letter : 

“Madam, 

“What  happened  the  other  day  gives  me  a 
lively  image  of  the  inconsistency  of  human  pas¬ 
sions  and  inclinations.  We  pursue  what  we  are 
denied,  and  place  our  affections  on  what  is  absent, 
though  we  neglected  it  when  present.  As  long  as 
you  refused  my  love,  your  refusal  did  so  strongly 
excite  my  passion,  that  I  had  not  once  the  leisure 
to  think  of  recalling  my  reason  to  aid  me  against 
the  design  upon  your  virtue.  But  when  that 
virtue  began  to  comply  in  my  favor,  my  reason 
made  an  effort  over  my  love,  and  let  me  see  the 
baseness  of  my  behavior  in  attempting  a  woman 
of  honor.  I  own  to  you,  it  was  not  without  the 
most  violent  struggle  that  I  gained  this  victory 
over  myself;  nay  I  will  confess  my  shame,  and 
acknowledge,  I  could  not  have  prevailed  but  by 
flight.  However,  Madam,  I  beg  that  you  will 
believe  a  moment’s  weakness  has  not  destroyed 
the  esteem  I  had  for  you,  wrhich  was  confirmed  by 
so  many  years  of  obstinate  virtue.  You  have 
reason  to  rejoice  that  this  did  not  happen  within 
the  observation  of  one  of  the  young  fellows,  who 
would  have  exposed  your  weakness,  and  gloried 
in  his  own  brutish  inclinations. 

“I  am,  Madam, 

“Your  most  devoted,  humble  Servant.” 

“Isabella,  with  the  help  of  her  husband,  re¬ 
turned  the  following  answer : 

“Sir, 

“I  cannot  but  account  myself  a  very  happy  wo¬ 
man,  in  having  a  man  for  a  lover  that  can  write  so 
w'ell,  and  give  so  good  a  turn  to  a  disappointment. 
Another  excellence  you  have  above  all  other  pre¬ 
tenders  I  have  heard  of ;  on  occasions  where  the 
most  reasonable  men  lose  all  their  reason,  you 
have  yours  most  powerful.  We  have  each  of  us 
to  thank  our  genius,  that  the  passion  of  one  abat¬ 
ed  in  proportion  as  that  of  the  other  grew  violent. 
Does  it  not  yet  come  into  your  head  to  imagine, 
that  I  knew  my  compliance  was  the  greatest 
cruelty  I  could  be  guilty  of  toward  you?  In  re¬ 
turn  for  your  long  and  faithful  passion,  I  must 
let  you  know  that  you  are  old  enough  to  become  a 
little  more  gravity  ;  but  if  you  will  leave  me,  and 
coquet  it  anywhere  else,  may  your  mistress 
yield. 

T.  “Isabella.” 


No.  319.]  THURSDAY,  MARCH  6,  1711-12. 

Quo  teneam  vultus  mutantem  protea  nodo  ? 

Hor.  1  Ep.  i,  90. 

Say  while  they  change  on  thus,  what  chains  can  bind 
These  varying  forms,  this  Proteus  of  the  mind  1 

Francis. 

I  have  endeavored  in  the  course  of  my  papers 
to  do  justice  to  the  age,  and  have  taken  care  as 
much  as  possible  to  keep  myself  a  neuter  between 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


both  sexes.  I  have  neither  spared  the  ladies  out 
of  complaisance,  nor  the  men  out  of  partiality; 
but  notwithstanding  the  great  integrity  with 
which  I  have  acted  in  this  particular,  I  find  my- 
self  taxed  w  ith  an  inclination  to  favor  my  own 
half  of  the  species.  Whether  it  be  that  the  wo¬ 
men  afford  a  more  fruitful  field  for  speculation,  or 
whether  they  run  more  in  my  head  than  the  men, 
I  cannot  tell;  but  I  shall  set  down  the  charge  as  it 
is  laid  against  me  in  the  following  letter: 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  always  make  one  among  a  company  of  young 
females,  who  peruse  your  speculations  every 
morning.  I  am  at  present  commissioned  by  our 
whole  assembly  to  let  you  know,  that  we  fear  you 
are  a  little  inclined  to  be  partial  toward  your  own 
sex.  We  must  however  acknowledge,  with  all 
due  gratitude,  that  in  some  cases  you  have  given 
our  revenge  on  the  men,  and  done  us  justice. 
We  comd  not  easily  have  forgiven  you  several 
strokes  in  the  dissection  of  the  coquette’s  heart, 
if  you  had  not,  much  about  the  same  time,  made 
a  sacrifice  to  us  of  a  beau’s  skull. 

“  ^  ou  may,  however,  Sir,  please  to  remember, 
that  not  long  since  you  attacked  our  hoods  and 
commodes  in  such  a  manner,  as  to  use  your  own 
expression,  made  very  many  of  us  ashamed  to 
show  our  heads.  We  must  therefore  beg  leave  to 
represent  to  you,  that  we  are  in  hopes,  if  you  will 
please  to  make  a  due  inquiry,  the  men  in  all  ages 
would  be  found  to  have  been  little  less  whimsical 
in  adorning  that  part  than  ourselves.  The  differ¬ 
ent  forms  of  their  wigs,  together  with  the  various 
cocks  of  their  hats,  all  flatter  us  in  this  opinion. 

“I  had  a  humble  servant  last  summer,  who  the 
first  time  he  declared  himself  was  in  a  full-bot¬ 
tomed  wig:  but  the  day  after,  to  my  no  small  sur¬ 
prise,  he  accosted  me  in  a  thin  natural  one.  I 
received  him,  at  this  our  second  interview,  as  a 
perfect  stranger,  but  was  extremely  confounded 
when  his  speech  discovered  who  he  was.  I  re¬ 
solved,  therefore,  to  fix  his  face  in  my  memory  for 
the  future:  but  as  I  was  walking  in  the  park  the 
same  evening,  he  appeared  to  me  in  one  of  those 
wigs  that  I  think  you  call  a  night-cap,  which  had 
altered  him  more  effectually  than  before.  He  after¬ 
ward  played  a  couple  of  black  riding  wigs  upon 
me  with  the  same  success,  and,  in  short,  assumed 
a  new  face  almost  every  day  in  the  first  month  of 
his  courtship. 

.  “  I  observed  afterward,  that  the  variety  of  cocks 
into  which  he  moulded  his  hat  had  not  a  little  con¬ 
tributed  to  his  impositions  upon  me. 

“  let,  as  if  all  these  ways  were  not  sufficient 
to  distinguish  their  heads,  you  must  doubtless, 
Sir,  have  observed,  that  great  numbers  of  young 
fellows  have,  for  several  months  last  past,  taken 
upon  them  to  wear  feathers. 

We  hope,  therefore,  that  these  may  with  as 
much  justice  be  called  Indian  princes,  as  you  have 
styled  a  woman  in  a  colored  hood  an  Indian 
queen;  and  that  you  will  in  due  time  take  these 
airy  gentlemen  into  consideration. 

“  We  the  more  earnestly  beg  that  you  would  put 
a  stop  to  this  practice,  since  it  has  already  lost  us 
one  of  the  most  agreeable  members  of  our  society, 
who,  after  having  refused  several  good  estates,  and 
two  titles,  was  lured  from  us  last  week  by  a  mixed 
feather. 

“  I  am  ordered  to  present  you  with  the  respects 
of  our  whole  company,  and  am.  Sir, 

“  Your  very  humble  Servant, 

“  Dorinda.” 

“Note.  The  person  wearing  the  feather,  though 


•  393 

our  friend  took  him  for  an  officer  in  the  guards, 
has  proved  to  be  an  errant  linen-draper.”* 

I  am  not  now  at  leisure  to  give  my  opinion 
upon  the  hat  and  feather:  however,  to  wipe  off  the 
present  imputation,  and  gratify  my  female  cor¬ 
respondent,  I  shall  here  print  a  letter  which  I 
lately  received  from  a  man  of  mode,  who  seems  to 
have  a  very  extraordinary  genius  in  his  way. 

“  Sir, 

“  I  presume  I  need  not  inform  you,  that  among 
men  of  dress  it  is  a  common  phrase  to  say,  ‘  Mr. 
Such-a-one  has  struck  a  bold  stroke;’  by  which  we 
understand,  that  he  is  the  first  man  who  has  had 
courage  enough  to  lead  up  a  fashion.  Accordingly 
when  our  tailors  take  measure  of  us,  they  always 
demand,  whether  we  will  have  a  plain  suit  or 
strike  a  bold  stroke?’  I  think  I  may  without 
vanity  say,  that  I  have  struck  some  of  the  boldest 
and  most  successful  strokes  of  any  man  in  Great 
Britain.  I  was  the  first  that  struck  the  long 
pocket  about  two  years  since:  I  was  likewise  the 
author  of  the  frosted  button,  which  when  I  saw 
the  town  come  readily  into,  being  resolved  to 
strike  while  the  iron  was  hot,  I  produced  much 
about  the  same  time  the  scollop  flap,  the  knotted 
cravat,  and  made  a  fair  push  for  the  silver-clocked 
stocking. 

X  few  months  after  I  brought  up  the  modish 
jacket,  or  the  coat  with  close  sleeves.  I  struck 
this  at  first  in  a  plain  Doily;  but  that  failing,  I 
struck  it  a  second  time  in  blue  camlet,  and  re¬ 
peated  the  stroke  in  several  kinds  of  cloth,  until 
at  last  it  took  effect.  There  are  two  or  three 
young  fellows  at  the  other  end  of  the  town  who 
have  always  their  eye  upon  me,  and  answer  me 
stroke  for  stroke.  I  was  once  so  unwary  as  to 
mention  my  fancy  in  relation  to  a  new-fashioned 
surtout  before  one  of  these  gentlemen,  who  was 
disingenuous  enough  to  steal  my  thought,  and  by 
that  means  prevented  my  intended  stroke. 

I  have  a  design  this  spring  to  make  very  con¬ 
siderable  innovations  in  the  waistcoat;  and  have 
already  begun  with  a  coup  d’essai  upon  the  sleeves, 
which  has  succeeded  very  well. 

“I  must  further  inform  you,  if  you  will  promise 
to  encourage,  or  at  least  to  connive  at  me,  that  it 
is  my  design  to  strike  such  a  stroke  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  the  next  month  as  shall  surprise  the  whole 
town. 

“  I  do  not  think  it  prudent  to  acquaint  you  with 
all  the  particulars  of  my  intended  dress;  but  will 
only  tell  you,  as  a  sample  of  it,  that  I  shall  very 
speedily  appear  at  White’s  in  a  cherry-colored 
hat.  I  took  this  hint  from  the  ladies*  hoods, 
which  I  look  upon  as  the  boldest  stroke  that  sex 
has  struck  for  these  hundred  years  last  past. 

“I  am.  Sir, 

“  Your  most  obedient,  most  humble  Servant, 

“  Will  Sprightly.” 

I  have  not  time  at  present  to  make  any  reflec¬ 
tions  on  this  letter;  but  must  not  however  omit 
that  having  shown  it  to  Will  Honeycomb,  he  de¬ 
sires  to  be  acquainted  with  the  gentleman  who 
wrote  it.f — X. 


*  Only  an  ensign  in  the  train-bands.— Spec,  in  folio. 

t  This  last  paragraph  was  not  in  the  original  publication  in 
folio. 


THE  SPECTATO  R. 


394 

No.  320.]  FRIDAY,  MARCH  7,  1711-12. 

- Non  pronuba  Juno, 

Non  Hymenaous  aclest,  non  illi  gratia  lecto. 
Eumenides  tenuere  faces  de  funere  raptas : 

Eumenides  stravere  torum - 

Ovid,  Met.,  vi,  428. 

Nor  Hymen  nor  the  Graces  here  preside, 

Nor  Juno  to  befriend  the  blooming  bride; 

But  fiends  with  fun’ral  brands  the  process  led, 

And  furies  waited  at  the  genial  bed.* — Croxal. 

4  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  You  have  given  many  hints  in  your  papers  to 
the  disadvantage  of  persons  of  your  own  sex, 
who  lay  plots  upon  women.  Among  other  hard 
words  you  have  published  the  term  ‘Male  Coquets/ 
and  been  very  severe  upon  such  as  give  them¬ 
selves  the  liberty  of  a  little  dalliance  of  heart,  and 
playing  fast  and  loose  between  love  and  indiffer¬ 
ence,  until  perhaps  an  easy  young  girl  is  reduced 
to  sighs,  dreams,  and  tears,  and  languishes  away 
her  life  for  a  careless  coxcomb,  who  looks  aston¬ 
ished,  and  wonders  at  such  an  effect  from  what  in 
him  was  all  but  common  civility.  Thus  you  have 
treated  the  men  who  were  irresolute  in  marriage; 
but  if  you  design  to  be  impartial,  pray  be  so 
honest  as  to  print  the  information  I  now  give  you 
of  a  certain  set  of  women  who  never  coquet  for 
the  matter,  but,  with  a  high  hand,  marry  whom  they 
please  to  whom  they  please.  As  for  my  part  I  should 
not  have  concerned  myself  with  them,  but  that  1 
understand  I  am  pitched  upon  by  them  to  be  mar¬ 
ried,  against  my  will,  to  one  I  never  saw  in  my  life. 
It  has  been  my  misfortune,  Sir,  very  innocently, 
to  rejoice  in  a  plentiful  fortune,  of  which  I  am 
master,  to  bespeak  a  fine  chariot,  to  give  directions 
for  two  or  three  handsome  snuffboxes,  and  as 
many  suits  of  fine  clothes;  but  before  any  of  these 
were  ready,  I  heard  reports  of  my  being  to  be 
married  to  two  or  three  different  young  women. 
Upon  my  taking  notice  of  it  to  a  young  gentle¬ 
man  who  is  often  in  my  company,  he  told  me 
smiling,  I  was  in  the  inquisition.  You  may 
believe  I  was  not  a  little  startled  at  what  he  meant, 
and  more  so  when  he  asked  me  if  I  had  bespoke 
anything  of  late  that  wras  fine.  I  told  him  several; 
upon  which  he  produced  a  description  of  my 
person,  from  the  tradesmen  whom  I  had  employed, 
and  told  me  that  they  had  certainly  informed 
against  me.  Mr.  Spectator,  whatever  the  world 
may  think  of  me,  I  am  more  coxcomb  than  fool, 
and  I  grow  very  inquisitive  upon  this  head,  not 
a  little  pleased  with  the  novelty.  My  friend 
told  me,  there  were  a  certain  set  of  women  of 
fashion,  whereof  the  number  of  six  made  a  com¬ 
mittee,  who  sat  thrice  a  week,  under  the  title  of 
‘  The  Inquisition  on  Maids  and  Bachelors.’  It 
seems,  whenever  there  comes  such  an  unthinking 
gay  thing  as  myself  to  town,  he  must  want  all 
manner  of  necessaries,  or  be  put  into  the  inquisi¬ 
tion  by  the  first  tradesman  he  employs.  They 
have  constant  intelligence  witli  cane-sliops,  per¬ 
fumers,  toy-men,  coach-makers,  and  china-houses. 
From  these  several  places  these  undertakers  for 
marriages  have  as  constant  and  regular  corres¬ 
pondence  as  the  funeral-men  have  with  vintners 
and  apothecaries.  All  bachelors  are  under  their 
immediate  inspection ;  and  my  friend  produced 
to  me  a  report  given  into  their  board,  wherein  an 
old  uncle  of  mine,  who  came  to  town  with  me, 
and  myself  were  inserted,  and  we  stood  thus:  the 
uncle  smoky,  rotten,  poor ;  the  nephew^  raw,  but 
no  fool;  sound  at  present,  very  rich.  My  informa- 

t  The  motto  to  this  paper  in  the  original  publication  in 
folio,  was, 

Has  sunt  quai  tenui  sudant  in  Cyclade. 

Juv.,  Sat.  vi,  258. 

How  hard  they  labor  in  their  little  sphere. 


|  tion  did  not  end  here;  but  my  friend’s  advices  are 
so  good,  that  he  could  show  me  a  copy  of  the 
letter  sent  to  the  young  lady  who  is  to  have  me; 
which  I  inclose  to  you:  — 

“  Madam, 

“  This  is  to  let  you  know,  that  you  are  to  be 
married  to  a  beau  that  comes  out  on  Thursday,  six 
in  the  evening.  Be  at  the  park.  You  cannot  but 
know  a  virgin  fop;  they  have  a  mind  to  look 
saucy,  but  are  out  of  countenance.  The  board 
has  denied  him  to  several  good  families.  I  wish 
you  joy.  “  Corinna.” 

What  makes  my  correspodent’s  case  the  more 
deplorable  is,  that,  as  I  find  by  the  report  from  my 
censor  of  marriages,  the  friend  he  speaks  of  is 
employed  by  the  inquisition  to  take  him  in,  as 
the  phrase  is.  After  all  that  is  told  him,  he  has 
information  only  of  one  woman  that  is  laid  for 
him,  and  that  the  wrong  one;  for  the  lady  commis¬ 
sioners  have  devoted  him  to  another  than  the 
person  against  whom  they  have  employed  their 
agent  his  friend  to  alarm  him.  The  plot  is  laid 
so  well  about  this  young  gentleman,  that  he  has 
no  friend  to  retire  to,  no  place  to  appear  in,  or 
part  of  the  kingdom  to  fly  into,  but  he  must  fall 
into  the  notice,  and  be  subject  to  the  power  of  the 
inquisition.  They  have  their  emissaries  and  sub¬ 
stitutes  in  all  parts  of  this  united  kingdom.  The 
first  step  they  usually  take,  is  to  find  from  a  cor¬ 
respondence,  by  their  messengers  and  whisperers, 
with  some  domestic  of  the  bachelor  (who  is  to  be 
hunted  into  the  toils  they  have  laid  for  him),  what 
are  his  manners,  his  familiarities,  his  good  quali¬ 
ties,  or  vices;  not  as  the  good  in  him  is  a  recom¬ 
mendation,  or  the  ill  a  diminution,  but  as  they 
affect  to  contribute  to  the  main  inquiry,  what 
estate  he  has  in  him.  When  this  point  is  well  re¬ 
ported  to  the  board,  they  can  take  in  a  wild  roar¬ 
ing  fox-hunter,  as  easily  as  a  soft,  gentle  young 
fop  of  the  town.  The  way  is  to  make  all  places 
uneasy  to  him,  but  the  scenes  in  which  they  have 
alloted  him  to  act.  His  brother  huntsmen,  bottle 
companions,  his  fraternity  of  fops,  shall  be  brought 
into  the  conspiracy  against  him.  This  matter  is 
not  laid  in  so  barefaced  a  manner  before  him  as  to 
have  intimated,  Mrs.  Such-a-one  would  make  him 
a  very  proper  wife;  but,  by  the  force  of  their  cor¬ 
respondence,  they  shall  make  it  (as  Mr.  Waller 
said  of  the  marriage  of  the  dwarfs)  as  imprac¬ 
ticable  to  have  any  woman  beside  her  they  design 
him,  as  it  would  have  been  in  Adam  to  have  re¬ 
fused  Eve.  The  man  named  by  the  commission 
for  Mrs.  Such-a-one  shall  neither  be  in  fashion, 
nor  dare  ever  to  appear  in  company,  should  he  at¬ 
tempt  to  evade  their  determination. 

The  female  sex  wholly  govern  domestic  life; 
and  by  this  means,  when  they  think  fit  they  can 
sow  dissensions  between  the  dearest  friends,  nay, 
make  father  and  son  irreconcilable  enemies,  in 
spite  of  all  the  ties  of  gratitude  on  one  part,  and 
the  duty  of  protection  to  be  paid  on  the  other. 
The  ladies  of  the  inquisition  understand  this  per¬ 
fectly  well;  and  where  love  is  not  a  motive  to  a 
man’s  choosing  one  whom  they  allot,  they  can 
"with  very  much  art  insinuate  stories  to  the  disad¬ 
vantage  of  his  honesty  or  courage,  until  the  crea¬ 
ture  is  too  much  dispirited  to  bear  up  against  a 
general  ill  reception,  "which  he  everywhere  meets 
with,  and  in  due  time  falls  into  their  appointed 
wedlock  for  shelter.  I  have  a  long  letter  bearing 
date  the  fourth  instant,  which  gives  me  a  large  ac¬ 
count  of  the  policies  of  this  court;  and  find  there 
is  now  before  them  a  very  refractory  person,  who 
has  escaped  all  their  machinations  for  two  years 
last  past;  but  they  have  prevented  two  successive 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


matches  winch  wore  of  his  own  inclination  ;  the 
one  by  a  report  that  his  mistress  was  to  be  mar¬ 
ried,  and  the  very  day  appointed,  wedding-clothes 
bought,  and  all  things  ready  for  her  being  given 
to  another;  the  second  time  by  insinuating  to  all 
his  mistress’s  friends  and  acquaintance,  that  he 
had  been  false  to  several  other  women  and  the 
like.  The  poor  man  is  now  reduced  to  profess  he 
designs  to  lead  a  single  life;  but  the  inquisition 
give  out  to  all  his  acquaintance,  that  nothing  is 
intended  but  the  gentleman’s  own  welfare  and 
happiness.  When  this  is  urged,  he  talks  still 
more  humbly,  and  protests  he  aims  only  at  a  life 
without  pain  or  reproach ;  pleasure,  honor,  or 
riches,  are  things  for  which  he  has  no  taste.  But 
notwithstanding  all  this,  and  what  else  he  may 
defend  himself  with,  as  that  the  lady  is  too  old  or 
too  young:  of  a  suitable  humor,  or  the  quite  con¬ 
trary;  and  that  it  is  impossible  they  can  ever  do 
other  than  wrangle  from  June  to  January,  every¬ 
body  tells  him  all  this  is  spleen,  and  he  must  have 
a  wife;  while  all  the  members  of  the  inquisition 
are  unanimous  in  a  certain  woman  for  him,  and 
they  think  they  all  together  are  better  able  to  judge 
than  he,  or  any  other  private  person  whatsoever. 

**  Sir,  Temple,  March  3,  1711. 

“Your  speculation  this  day  on  the  subject  of 
idleness  has  employed  me,  ever  since  I  read  it,  in 
sorrowful  reflections  on  my  having  loitered  away 
the  term  (or  rather  the  vacation)  of  ten  years  in 
this  place,  and  unhappily  suffered  a  good  chamber 
and  study  to  lie  idle  as  long.  My  books  (except 
those  I  have  taken  to  sleep  upon)  have  been 
totally  neglected,  and  my  Lord  Coke  and  other 
venerable  authors  were  never  so  slighted  in  their 
lives.  I  spend  most  of  the  day  at  a  neighboring 
coffee-house,  where  we  have  what  I  may  call  a 
lazy  club.  We  generally  come  in  night-gowns, 
with  our  stockings  about  our  heels,  and  sometimes 
but  one  on.  Our  salutation  at  entrance  is  a  yawn 
and  a  stretch,  and  then  without  more  ceremony  we 
take  our  place  at  tho  lolling-table,  where  our  dis¬ 
course  is,  what  I  fear  you  would  not  read,  there¬ 
fore  shall  not  insert.  But  I  assure  you,  Sir,  I 
heartily  lament  this  loss  of  time,  and  am  now  re¬ 
solved  (if  possible,  with  double  diligence)  to  re¬ 
trieve  it,  being  effectually  awakened,  by  the  argu¬ 
ments  of  Mr.  Slack,  out  of  the  senseless  stupidity 
that  has  so  long  possessed  me.  And  to  demon¬ 
strate  that  penitence  accompanies  my  confessions, 
and  constancy  my  resolutions,  I  have  locked  my 
door  for  a  year,  and  desire  you  would  let  my 
companions  know  I  am  not  within.  I  am,  with 
great  respect,  “  Sir, 

“Your  most  obedient  Servant, 

“N.  B.” 


No.  321.]  SATURDAY,  MARCH  8,  1711-12. 

Nec  satis  est  pulchra  esse  poemata,  dulcia  sunto. 

IIor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  ver.  99. 

’Tis  not  enough  a  poem’s  finely  writ: 

It  must  affect  and  captivate  the  soul. 

Those  who  know  how  many  volumes  have  been 
written  on  the  poems  of  Homer  and  Virgil  will 
easily  pardon  the  length  of  my  discourse  upon 
Milton.  The  Paradise  Lost,  is  looked  upon,  by 
the  best  judges,  as  the  greatest  production,  or  at 
least  the  noblest  work  of  genius,  in  our  language, 
and  therefore  deserves  to  be  set  before  an  English 
reader  in  its  full  beauty.  For  this  reason,  though 
I  have  endeavored  to  give  a  general  idea  of  its 
graces  and  imperfections  in  my  first  six  papers,  I 
thought  myself  obliged  to  bestow  one  upon  every 
book  in  particular.  The  first  three  books  I  have 
already  dispatched,  and  am  now  entering  upon  the 


395 

fourth.  I  need  not  acquaint  my  reader  that  there 
are  multitudes  of  beauties  in  this  great  author,  es¬ 
pecially  in  the  descriptive  parts  of  this  poem, 
which  I  have  not  touched  upon;  it  being  my  in¬ 
tention  to  point  out  those  only  which  appear  to  be 
the  most  exquisite,  or  those  which  are  not  so  obvi¬ 
ous  to  ordinary  readers.  Every  one  that  has  read 
the  critics  who  have  written  upon  the  Odyssey, 
the  Iliad,  and  the  ^Eneid,  knows  very  well,  that 
though  they  agree  in  their  opinions  of  the  great 
beauties  in  those  poems,  they  have,  nevertheless, 
each  of  them  discovered  several  master-strokes, 
which  have  escaped  the  observation  of  the  rest. 
In  the  same  manner,  I  question  not  but  any  writer 
who  shall  treat  of  this  subject  after  me,  may  find 
several  beauties  in  Milton,  which  I  have  not  taken 
notice  of.  I  must  likewise  observe,  that  as  the 
greatest  masters  of  critical  learning  differ  among 
one  another,  as  to  some  particular  points  in  an 
epic  poem,  I  have  not  bound  myself  scrupulously 
to  the  rules  which  any  of  them  have  laid  down 
upon  that  art,  but  have  taken  the  liberty  some¬ 
times  to  join  with  one,  and  sometimes  with  anoth¬ 
er,  and  sometimes  to  differ  from  all  of  them,  when 
I  have  thought  that  the  reason  of  the  thing  was 
on  my  side. 

We  may  conclude  the  beauties  of  the  fourth 
book  under  three  heads.  In  the  first  are  those  pic¬ 
tures  of  still-life,  which  we  meet  with  in  the  de¬ 
scription  of  Eden,  Paradise,  Adam’s  Bower,  etc. 
In  the  next  are  the  machines,  which  comprehend 
the  speeches  and  behavior  of  the  good  and  bad 
angels.  In  the  last  is  the  conduct  of  Adam  and 
Eve,  who  are  the  principal  actors  in  the  poem. 

In  the  description  of  Paradise,  the  poet  has  ob¬ 
served  Aristotle’s  rule  of  lavishing  all  the  orna¬ 
ments  of  diction  on  the  weak  inactive  parts  of  the 
fable  which  are  not  supported  by  the  beauty  of 
sentiments  and  characters.  Accordingly  the  read¬ 
er  may  observe,  that  the  expressions  are  more 
florid  and  elaborate  in  these  descriptions,  than  in 
most  other  parts  of  the  poem.  I  must  further  add, 
that  though  the  drawings  of  gardens,  rivers,  rain¬ 
bows,  and  the  like  dead  pieces  of  nature,  are 
justly  censured  in  an  heroic  poem,  when  they  run 
out  into  an  unnecessary  length — the  description 
of  Paradise  would  have  been  faulty,  had  not  the 
poet  been  very  particular  in  it,  not  only  as  it  is 
the  scene  of  the  principal  action,  but  as  it  is  re¬ 
quisite  to  give  us  an  idea  of  that  happiness  from 
which  our  first  parents  fell.  The  plan  of  it  is 
wonderfully  beautiful,  and  formed  upon  the  short 
sketch  which  we  have  of  it  in  holy  writ.  Milton’s 
exuberance  of  imagination  has  poured  forth  such 
a  redundancy  of  ornaments  on  this  seat  of  happi¬ 
ness  and  innocence,  that  it  would  be  endless  to 
point  out  each  particular. 

I  must  not  quit  this  head  without  further  ob¬ 
serving,  that  there  is  scarce  a  speech  of  Adam  or 
Eve  in  the  whole  poem,  wherein  the  sentiments 
and  allusions  are  not  taken  from  this  their  delight¬ 
ful  habitation.  The  reader,  during  their  whole 
course  of  action,  always  finds  himself  in  the  walks 
of  Paradise.  In  short,  as  the  critics  have  re¬ 
marked,  that  in  those  poems  wherein  shepherds 
are  the  actors,  the  thoughts  ought  always  to  take 
a  tincture  from  the  woods,  fields,  and  rivers;  so 
we  may  observe,  that  our  first  parents  seldom  lose 
sight  of  their  happy  station  in  anything  they 
speak  or  do:  and  if  the  reader  will  give  me  leave 
to  use  the  expression,  that  their  thoughts  are  al¬ 
ways  “  paradisaical.” 

We  are  in  the  next  place  to  consider  the  ma¬ 
chines  of  the  fourth  nook.  Satan  being  now 
within  prospect  of  Eden,  and  looking  round  upon 
the  glories  of  the  creation,  is  filled  with  senti¬ 
ments  differeni  from  those  which  he  discovered 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


396 

while  he  was  in  hell.  The  place  inspires  him 
with  thoughts  more  adapted  to  it.  He  reflects 
upon  the  happy  condition  from  whence  he  fell, 
and  breaks  forth  into  a  speech  that  is  softened 
with  several  transient  touches  of  remorse  and 
self-accusation  :  but  at  length  he  confirms  himself 
in  impenitence,  and  in  his  design  of  drawing  man 
into  Ids  own  state  of  guilt  and  misery.  This  con¬ 
flict  of  passions  is  raised  with  a  great  deal  of  art, 
as  the  opening  of  his  speech  to  the  sun  is  very 
bold  and  noble : 

“0  thou  that,  with  surprising  glory  crown’d, 

Look’st  from  thy  sole  dominion  like  the  god 
Of  this  new  world ;  at  whose  sight  all  the  stars 
Hide  their  diminished  heads ;  to  thee  I  call, 

But  with  no  friendly  voice :  and  add  thy  name, 

0  Sun !  to  tell  thee  how  I  hate  thy  beams, 

That  bring  to  my  remembrance  from  what  state 
I  fell,  how  glorious  once  above  thy  sphere.” 

This  speech  is,  I  think,  the  finest  that  is 
ascribed  to  Satan,  in  the  whole  poem.  The  evil 
spirit  afterward  proceeds  to  make  his  discoveries 
concerning  our  first  parents,  and  to  learn  after 
what  manner  they  may  be  best  attacked.  His 
bounding  over  the  walls  of  Paradise;  his  sitting 
in  the  shape  of  a  cormorant  upon  the  tree  of  life, 
which  stood  in  the  center  of  it,  and  overtopped  all 
the  other  trees  of  the  garden;  his  alighting  among 
the  herd  of  animals,  which  are  so  beautifully  re¬ 
presented  as  playing  about  Adam  and  Eve,  to¬ 
gether  with  his  transforming  himself  into  different 
shapes,  in  order  to  hear  their  conversation;  are 
circumstances  that  give  an  agreeable  surprise  to 
the  reader,  and  are  devised  with  great  art,  to  con¬ 
nect  that  series  of  adventures  in  which  the  poet 
has  engaged  this  artificer  of  fraud. 

The  thought  of  Satan’s  transformation  into  a 
cormorant,  and  placing  himself  on  the  tree  of  life, 
seems  raised  upon  that  passage  in  the  Iliad,  where 
two  deities  are  described  as  perching  on  the  top 
of  an  oak  in  the  shape  of  vultures. 

His  planting  himself  at  the  ear  of  Eve  under 
the  form  of  a  toad,  in  order  to  produce  vain 
dreams  and  imaginations,  is  a  circumstance  of  the 
same  nature:  as  his  starting  up  in  his  own  form 
is  wonderfully  fine,  both  in  the  literal  description, 
and  in  the  moral  which  is  concealed  under  it.  His 
answer  upon  his  being  discovered,  and  demanded 
to  give  an  account  of  himself,  is  conformable  to 
the  pride  and  intrepidity  of  his  character : 

“  Know  ye  not,  then,”  said  Satan,  fill’d  with  scorn, 

“  Know  ye  not  me !  Ye  knew  me  once  no  mate 
For  you,  there  sitting  where  you  durst  not  soar; 

Not  to  know  me  argues  yourself  unknown, 

The  lowest  of  your  throng” - 

Zeplion’s  rebuke,  with  the  influence  it  had  on 
Satan,  is  exquisitely  graceful  and  moral.  Satan 
is  afterward  led  away  to  Gabriel,  the  chief  of  the 
guardian  angels,  who  kept  watch  in  Paradise. 
His  disdainful  behavior  on  this  occasion  is  so  re¬ 
markable  a  beauty,  that  the  most  ordinary  reader 
cannot  but  take  notice  of  it.  Gabriel’s  discover¬ 
ing  his  approach  at  a  distance,  is  drawn  with 
great  strength  and  liveliness  of  imagination : 

“  0  friends,  I  hear  the  tread  of  nimble  feet 
Hasting  this  way,  and  now  by  glimpse  discern 
Ithuriel  and  Zephon  through  the  shade, 

And  with  them  comes  a  third  of  regal  port 
But  faded  splendor  wan ;  who  by  his  gait 
And  fierce  demeanor  seems  the  prince  of  hell; 

Not  likely  to  part  hence  without  contest; 

Stand  firm,  for  in  his  look  defiance  low’rs.” 

The  conference  between  Gabriel  and  Satan 
abounds  with  sentiments  proper  for  the  occasion, 
and  suitable  to  the  persons  of  the  two  speakers. 
Satan  clothing  himself  with  terror  when  he  pre¬ 
pares  for  the  combat  is  truly  sublime,  and  at  least 
equal  to  Homer’s  description  of  Discord,  celebra¬ 


ted  by  Longinus,  or  to  that  of  Fame  in  Virgil, 
who  are  both  represented  with  their  feet  standing 
upon  the  earth,  and  their  heads  reaching  above 
the  clouds : 

While  thus  he  spake,  th’  angelic  squadron  bright 
Turn’d  fiery  red,  sharp’ning  in  mooned  horns 
Their  phalanx,  and  began  to  hem  him  round 
With  ported  spears,  etc. 

- On  the  other  side  Satan  alarm’d, 

Collecting  all  his  might,  dilated  stood 
Like  Teneriffe  or  Atlas  unremoved. 

His  stature  reach’d  the  sky,  and  on  his  crest 
Sat  Horror  plum’d. - 

I  must  here  take  notice,  that  Milton  is  every¬ 
where  full  of  hints,  and  sometimes  literal  transla¬ 
tions,  taken  from  the  greatest  of  the  Greek  and 
Latin  poets.  But  this  I  may  reserve  for  a  dis¬ 
course  by  itself,  because  I  would  not  break  the 
thread  of  these  speculations,  that  are  designed  for 
English  readers,  with  such  reflections  as  would  be 
of  no  use  but  to  the  learned. 

I  must,  however,  observe  in  this  place,  that  the 
breaking  off  the  combat  between  Gabriel  and  Sa¬ 
tan,  by  the  hanging  out  of  the  golden  scales  in 
heaven,  is  a  refinement  upon  Homer’s  thought, 
who  tells  us,  that  before  the  battle  between  Hector 
and  Achilles,  Jupiter  weighed  the  event  of  it  in  a 
pair  of  scales.  The  reader  may  see  the  whole 
passage  in  the  22d  Iliad. 

V  irgil,  before  the  last  decisive  combat,  describes 
Jupiter  in  the  same  manner,  as  weighing  the 
fates  of  Turnus  and  HSneas.  Milton,  though  he 
fetched  this  beautiful  circumstance  from  the  Iliad 
and  HCneid,  does  not  only  insert  it  as  a  poetical 
embellishment,  like  the  authors  above-mentioned, 
but  makes  an  artful  use  of  it  for  the  proper  carry¬ 
ing  on  of  his  fable,  and  for  the  breaking  off  the 
combat  between  the  two  warriors,  who  were  upon 
the  point  of  engaging.  To  this  we  may  further 
add,  that  Milton  is  the  more  justified  in  this  pas¬ 
sage,  as  we  find  the  same  noble  allegory  in  holy 
writ,  where  a  wicked  prince,  some  few  hours  be¬ 
fore  he  was  assaulted  and  slain,  is  said  to  have 
been  “  weighed  in  the  scales,  and  to  have  been 
found  wanting.” 

I  must  here  take  notice,  under  the  head  of  the 
machines,  that  Uriel’s  gliding  down  to  the  earth 
upon  a  sunbeam,  with  the  poet’s  device  to  make 
him  descend,  as  well  in  his  leturn  to  the  sun  as  in 
his  coming  from  it,  is  a  prettiness  that  might  have 
been  admired  in  a  little  fanciful  poet,  but  seems 
below  the  genius  of  Milton.  The  description  of 
the  host  of  armed  angels  walking  their  nightly 
round  in  Paradise  is  of  another  spirit: 

So  saying,  on  he  led  his  radiant  files. 

Dazzling  the  moon; 

as  that  account  of  the  hymns  which  our  -first  pa¬ 
rents  used  to  hear  them  sing  in  these  their  mid¬ 
night  walks  is  altogether  divine,  and  inexpressi¬ 
bly  amusing  to  the  imagination. 

'We  are,  in  the  last  place,  to  consider  the  part 
which  Adam  and  Eve  act  in  the  fourth  book.  The 
description  of  them  as  they  first  appeared  to  Sa¬ 
tan,  is  exquisitely  drawn,  and  sufficient  to  make 
the  fallen  angel  gaze  upon  them  with  all  that 
astonishment,  and  those  emotions  of  envy,  in 
which  he  is  represented : 

Two  of  far  nobler  shape,  erect  and  tall, 

Godlike  erect,  with  native  honor  clad 
In  naked  majesty,  seem’d  lords  of  all ; 

And  worthy  seem’d ;  for  in  their  looks  divine 
The  image  of  their  glorious  Maker  shone, 

Truth,  wisdom,  sanctitude  severe  and  pure; 

Severe,  but  in  true  filial  freedom  plac’d ; 

For  contemplation  he  and  valor  form’d, 

For  softness  she  and  sweet  attractive  grace, 

He  for  God  only,  she  for  God  in  him. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


His  fkir  largo  front,  and  eye  sublime,  declared 
Absolute  rule:  and  hyacinthian  locks 
Round  from  his  parted  forelock  manly  hung 
Clustering,  but  not  beneath  his  shoulders  broad. 

She,  as  a  vail,  down  to  her  slender  waist 
Her  unadorned  golden  tresses  wore. 

Dishevel’d,  but  in  wanton  ringlets  wav’d. — 

So  pass’d  they  naked  on,  nor  shunn’d  the  sight 
Of  God  or  angel,  for  they  thought  no  ill : 

So  hand  in  hand  they  pass’d,  the  loveliest  pair 
That  ever  since  in  love’s  embraces  met. 

There  is  a  fine  spirit  of  poetry  in  the  lines 
which  follow,  wherein  they  are  described  as  sit¬ 
ting  on  abed  of  flowers  by  the  side  of  a  fountain, 
amidst  a  mixed  assembly  of  animals. 

The  speeches  of  these  two  first  lovers  flow 
equally  from  passion  and  sincerity.  The  profes¬ 
sions  they  make  to  one  another  are  full  of  warmth; 
but  at  the  same  time  founded  on  truth.  In  a  word, 
they  are  the  gallantries  of  Paradise : 

- When  Adam,  first  of  men - 

“  Sole  partner  and  sole  part  of  all  these  joys, 

Dearer  thyself  than  all; - - 

Rut  let  us  ever  praise  Him,  and  extol 
His  bounty,  following  our  delightful  task, 

To  prune  these  growing  plants,  and  tend  these  flow’rs, 
Which  were  it  toilsome,  yet  with  thee  were  sweet.” 

To  whom  thus  Eve  replied :  “  0  thou  for  whom, 

And  from  whom,  I  was  form’d,  flesh  of  thy  flesh, 

And  without  whom  am  to  no  end,  my  guide 
And  head,  what  thou  hast  said  is  just  and  right. 

For  we  to  Him  indeed  all  praises  owe, 

And  daily  thanks :  I  chiefly,  who  enjoy 
So  far  the  happier  lot,  enjoying  thee 
Pre-eminent  by  so  much  odds,  while  thou 
Like  consort  to  thyself  canst  nowhere  find,”  etc. 

The  remaining  part  of  Eve’s  speech,  in  which 
she  gives  an  account  of  herself  upon  her  first  cre¬ 
ation,  and  the  manner  in  which  she  was  brought 
to  Adam,  is,  I  think,  as  beautiful  a  passage  as 
any  in  Milton,  or  perhaps  in  any  other  poet  what¬ 
soever.  These  passages  are  all  worked  off  with 
so  much  art,  that  they  are  capable  of  pleasing  the 
most  delicate  reader  without  offending  the  most 
severe. 

“That  day  I  oft  remember,  when  from  sleep,”  etc. 

A  poet  of  less  judgment  and  invention  than  this 
reat  author,  would  have  found  it  very  difficult  to 
ave  filled  these  tender  parts  of  the  poem  with 
sentiments  proper  for  a  state  of  innocence;  to  have 
described  the  warmth  of  love,  and  the  professions 
of  it,  without  artifice  or  hyperbole;  to  have  made 
the  man  speak  the  most  endearing  things  without 
descending  from  his  natural  dignity,  and  the 
woman  receiving  them  without  departing  from 
the  modesty  of  her  character:  in  a  word,  to  adjust 
the  prerogatives  of  wisdom  and  beauty,  and  make 
each  appear  to  the  other  in  its  proper  force  and 
loveliness.  This  mutual  subordination  of  the 
two  sexes  is  wonderfully  kept  up  in  the  whole 

Eoem,  as  particularly  in  the  speech  of  Eve  I  have 
.  efore  mentioned,  and  upon  the  conclusion  of  it 
in  the  following  lines: 

So  spake  our  general  mother,  and  with  eyes 
Of  conjugal  attraction  unreprov’d, 

And  meek  surrender,  half-embracing  lean’d 
On  our  first  father;  half  her  swelling  breast 
Naked  met  his  under  the  flowing  gold 
Of  her  loose  tresses  hid;  he  in  delight 
Both  of  her  beauty  and  submissive  charms 
Smil’d  with  superior  love. - 

The  poet  adds,  that  the  devil  turned  away  with 
envy  at  the  sight  of  so  much  happiness. 

We  have  another  view  of  our  first  parents  in 
their  evening  discourses,  which  is  full  of  pleasing 
images  and  sentiments  suitable  to  their  condition 
and  characters.  The  speech  of  Eve  in  particular, 
is  dressed  up  in  such  a  soft  and  natural  turn  of 
words  and  sentiments,  as  cannot  be  sufficiently 
admired. 

I  shall  closo  my  reflections  upon  this  book  with 


397 

observing  the  masterly  transition  which  the  poet 
makes  to  their  evening  worship  in  the  following 
lines :  ® 

Thus  at  their  shady  lodge  arriv’d,  both  stood, 

Both  turned,  and  under  open  sky  ador’d 
The  God  that  made  both  sky,  air,  earth,  and  heav’n, 
vYhich  they  beheld,  the  moon’s  resplendent  globe. 
And  starry  pole :  “  Thou  also  mad’st  the  night, 
Maker  omnipotent,  and  thou  the  day,”  etc. 

Most  of  the  modern  heroic  poets  have  imitated 
the  ancients,  in  beginning  a  speech  without  pre¬ 
mising  that  the  person  said  thus  or  thus;  but  as 
it  is  easy  to  imitate  the  ancients  in  the  omission 
of  two  or  three  words,  it  requires  judgment  to  do 
it  in  such  a  manner  as  they  shall  'not  be  missed, 
and  that  the  speech  may  begin  naturally  without 
them.  There  is  a  fine  instance  of  this  kind  out  of 
Homer,  in  the  twenty-third  chapter  of  Longinus. 


Ho.  322.]  MONDAY,  MARCH  10,  1711-12. 

- Ad  humum  moerore  gravi  deducit  et  angit. 

IIok.  Ars.  Poet.,  v,  110. 

- Grief  wrings  her  soul,  and  bends  it  down  to  earth. 

Francis. 

It  is  often  said,  after  a  man  has  heard  a  story 
with  extraordinary  circumstances,  “it  is  a  very 
good  one,  if  it  be  true  :”  but  as  for  the  following 
relation,  I  should  be  glad  were  I  sure  it  were  false. 
It  is  told  with  such  simplicity,  and  there  are  so 
many  artless  touches  of  distress  in  it,  that  I  fear 
it  comes  too  much  from  the  heart : — 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Some  years  ago  it  happened  that  I  lived  in  the 
same  house  with  a  young  gentleman  of  merit, 
with  whose  good  qualities  I  was  so  much  taken, 
as  to  make  it  my  endeavor  to  show  as  many  as  I 
was  able  in  myself.  Familiar  converse  improved 
general  civilities  into  an  unfeigned  passion  on 
both  sides.  He  watched  an  opportunity  to  declare 
himself  to  me,  and  I,  who  could  not  expect  a  man 
of  so  great  an  estate  as  his,  received  his  addresses 
in  such  terms,  as  gave  him  no  reason  to  believe  I 
was  displeased  with  them,  though  I  did  nothing 
to  make  him  think  me  more  easy  than  was  decent. 
His  father  was  a  very  hard,  worldly  man,  and 
proud;  so  that  there  was  no  reason  to  believe  he 
would  easily  be  brought  to  think  there  was  any¬ 
thing  in  any  woman’s  person,  or  character,  that 
could  balance  the  disadvantage  of  an  unequal 
fortune.  In  the  meantime  the  son  continued  his 
application  to  me,  and  omitted  no  occasion  of  de¬ 
monstrating  the  most  disinterested  passion  imagi¬ 
nable  to  me;  and  in  plain  direct  terms  offered  to 
marry  me  privately,  and  keep  it  so  till  he  should 
be  so  happy  as  to  gain  his  father’s  approbation, 
or  become  possessed  of  his  estate.  I  passionately 
loved  him,  and  you  will  believe  I  did  not  deny 
such  a  one  what  was  my  interest  also  to  grant. 
However,  I  was  not  so  young  as  not  to  take  the 
precaution  of  carrying  with  me  a  faithful  servant, 
who  had  been  also  my  mother’s  maid,  to  be  pre¬ 
sent  at  the  ceremony.  When  that  was  over,  I 
demanded  a  certificate  to  be  signed  by  the  minis¬ 
ter,  my  husband,  and  the  servant  I  just  now  spoke 
of.  After  our  nuptials,  w*e  conversed  together 
very  familiarly  in  the  same  house:  but  the  re¬ 
straints  we  were  generally  under,  and  the  inter¬ 
views  we  had  being  stolen  and  interrupted,  made 
our  behavior  to  each  other  have  rather  the  impa¬ 
tient  fondness  which  is  visible  in  lovers,  than  the 
regular  and  gratified  affection  which  is  to  be  ob¬ 
served  in  man  and  wife.  This  observation  made 
the  father  very  anxious  for  his  son,  and  press  him 
to  a  match  he  had  in  his  eye  for  him.  To  relieve 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


398 

my  husband  from  this  importunity,  and  conceal 
the  secret  of  our  marriage,  which  I  had  reason  to 
know  would  not  be  long  in  my  power  in  town,  it 
was  resolved  that  I  should  retire  into  a  remote 
place  in  the  country,  and  converse  under  feigned 
names  by  letter.  We  long  continued  this  way  of 
commerce;  and  I  with  my  needle,  a  few  books, 
and  reading  over  and  over  my  husband’s  letters, 
passed  my  time  in  a  resigned  expectation  of  better 
days.  Be  pleased  to  take  notice,  that  within  four 
months  after  I  left  my  husband  I  was  delivered 
of  a  daughter,  who  died  within  a  few  hours  after 
her  birth.  This  accident,  and  the  retired  manner 
of  life  I  led,  gave  criminal  hopes  to  a  neighboring 
brute  of  a  country  gentleman,  whose  folly  was  the 
source  of  all  my  affliction.  This  rustic  is  one  of 
those  rich  clowns  who  supply  the  want  of  all 
manner  of  breeding  by  the  neglect  of  it,  and  with 
noisy  mirth,  half  understanding,  and  ample  for¬ 
tune,  force  themselves  upon  persons  and  things, 
without  any  sense  of  time  or  place.  The  poor  ig¬ 
norant  people  where  I  lay  concealed,  and  now 
passed  for  a  widow,  wondered  I  could  be  so  shy 
and  strange,  as  they  called  it,  to  the  squire;  and 
were  bribed  by  him  to  admit  him  whenever  he 
thought  lit :  I  happened  to  be  sitting  in  a  little 
parlor  which  belonged  to  my  own  part  of  the 
house,  and  musing  over  one  of  the  fondest  of  my 
husband’s  letters,  in  which  I  always  kept  the  cer¬ 
tificate  of  my  marriage,  when  this  rude  fellow 
came  in,  and  with  the  nauseous  familiarity  of  such 
unbred  brutes,  snatched  the  papers  out  of  my 
hand.  I  was  immediately  under  so  great  a  con¬ 
cern,  that  I  threw  myself  at  his  feet,  and  begged 
of  him  to  return  them.  He,  with  the  same  odious 
pretense  to  freedom  and  gayety,  swore  he  would 
read  them.  I  grew  more  importunate,  he  more 
curious,  till  at  last,  with  an  indignation  arising 
from  a  passion  I  then  first  discovered  in  him,  he 
threw  the  papers  into  the  fire,  swearing  that  since 
he  was  not  to  read  them,  the  man  who  wrote  them 
should  never  be  so  happy  as  to  have  me  read  them 
over  again.  It  is  insignificant  to  tell  you  my  tears 
and  reproaches  made  the  boisterous  calf  leave  the 
room  ashamed  and  out  of  countenance,  when  I 
had  leisure  to  ruminate  on  this  accident  with 
more  than  ordinary  sorrow.  However,  such  was 
then  my  confidence  in  my  husband,  that  I  wrote 
to  him  the  misfortune,  and  desired  another  paper 
of  the  same  kind.  He  deferred  writing  two  or 
three  posts,  and  at  last  answered  me  in  general, 
that  he  could  not  then  send  me  what  I  asked  for; 
but  when  he  could  find  a  proper  conveyance,  I 
should  be  sure  to  have  it.  From  this  time  his 
letters  were  more  cold  every  day  than  the  other, 
and,  as  he  grew  indifferent,  I  grew  jealous.  This 
has  at  last  brought  me  to  town,  where  1  find  both 
the  witnesses  of  my  marriage  dead,  and  that  my 
husband,  after  three  months’  cohabitation,  has 
buried  a  young  lady  whom  he  married  in  obedi¬ 
ence  to  his  father.  In  a  word,  he  shuns  and  dis¬ 
owns  me.  Should  I  come  to  the  house  and  con¬ 
front  him,  the  father  would  join  in  supporting  him 
against  me,  though  he  believed  my  story:  should 
I  talk  it  to  the  world,  what  reparation  can  I  ex¬ 
pect  for  an  injury  I  cannot  make  out?  I  believe  he 
means  to  bring  me,  through  necessity,  to  resign 
my  pretensions  to  him  for  some  provision  for  my 
life;  but  I  will  die  first.  Pray  bid  him  remember 
what  he  said,  and  how  he  was  charmed  when  he 
laughed  at  the  heedless  discovery  I  often  made  of 
myself :  let  him  remember  how  awkward  I  was  in 
my  indifference  toward  him  before  company :  ask 
him,  how  I,  who  could  never  conceal  my  love  for 
him,  at  his  own  request,  can  part  with  him  for¬ 
ever?  Oh,  Mr.  Spectator,  sensible  spirits  know 
no  indifference  in  marriage:  what  then  do  you 


think  is  my  piercing  affliction? — I  leave  you  to 
represent  my  distress  your  own  way,  in  which  I 
desire  you  to  be  speedy,  if  you  have  compassion 
for  innocence  exposed  to  infamy. 

T.  “Octavia.” 


Ho.  323.]  TUESDAY,  MARCH  11,  1711-12. 

- Modo  vir,  modo  feemina. — Virg. 

Sometimes  a  man  sometimes  a  woman.* 

The  journal  with  which  I  presented  my  reader 
on  Tuesday  last,  has  brought  me  in  several  letters 
with  accounts  of  many  private  lives  cast  into  that 
form.  I  have  the  “Rake’s  Journal,”  the  “Sot’s 
Journal,”  the  “  Whoremaster’s  Journal,”  and 
among  several  others,  a  very  curious  piece,  enti¬ 
tled,  “The  Journal  of  a  Mohock.”  By  these  in¬ 
stances,  I  find  that  the  intention  of  my  last  Tues¬ 
day’s  paper  has  been  mistaken  by  many  of  my 
readers.  I  did  not  design  so  much  to  expose  vice 
as  idleness,  and  aimed  at  those  persons  who 
passed  away  their  time  rather  in  trifles  and  im¬ 
pertinence,  than  in  crimes  and  immoralities.  Of¬ 
fenses  of  this  latter  kind  are  not  to  be  dallied 
with,  or  treated  in  so  ridiculous  a  manner.  In 
short,  my  journal  only  holds  up  folly  to  the  light, 
and  shows  the  disagreeableness  of  such  actions  as 
are  indifferent  in  themselves,  and  blamable  only 
as  they  proceed  from  creatures  endowed  with 
reason. 

My  following  correspondent,  who  calls  herself 
Clarinda,  is  such  a  journalist  as  I  require.  She 
seems  by  her  letter  to  be  placed  in  a  modish  state 
of  indifference  between  vice  and  virtue,  and  to  be 
susceptible  of  either,  were  there  proper  pains 
taken  with  her,  Had  her  journal  been  filled  with 
gallantries,  or  such  occurrences  as  had  shown  her 
wholly  divested  of  her  natural  innocence,  not¬ 
withstanding  it  might  have  been  more  pleasing  to 
the  generality  of  readers,  I  should  not  have  pub¬ 
lished  it :  but  as  it  is  only  the  picture  of  a  lazy 
life,  filled  with  a  fashionable  kind  of  gayety  and 
laziness,  I  shall  set  down  five  days  of  it,  as  1  have 
received  it  from  the  hand  of  my  fair  correspon¬ 
dent. 

“  Dear  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  You  having  set  your  readers  an  exercise  in  one 
of  your  last  week’s  papers,  I  have  performed  mine 
according  to  your  orders,  and  herewith  send  it  you 
inclosed.  You  must  know,  Mr.  Spectator,  that  I 
am  a  maiden  lady  of  a  good  fortune,  who  have 
had  several  good  matches  offered  me  for  these  ten 
years  last  past,  and  have  at  present  warm  applica¬ 
tions  made  to  me  by  ‘A  Very  Pretty  Fellow.’  As 
I  am  at  my  own  disposal,  I  come,  up  to  town  every 
winter,  and  pass  my  time  in  it  after  the  manner 
you  will  find  in  the  following  journal,  which  I  be¬ 
gan  to  write  the  very  day  after  your  Spectator 
upon  that  subject.” 

Tuesday  night.  Could  not  go  to  sleep  till  one 
in  the  morning  for  thinking  of  my  journal. 

Wednesday.  From  eight  till  ten.  Drank  two 
dishes  of  chocolate  in  bed,  and  fell  asleep  after 
them. 

From  ten  to  eleven.  Ate  a  slice  of  bread  and 
butter,  drank  a  dish  of  bohea,  and  read  the  Spec¬ 
tator. 

From  eleven  to  one.  At  my  toilette,  tried  a 
new  hood.  Gave  orders  forYeny  to  be  combed 
and  washed.  Mem.  I  look  best  in  blue. _ 

*This  motto,  not  to  be  found  in  Virgil,  was  probably 
quoted  from  memory,  instead  of  the  following  lines: 

— Et  iuvenis  quondam,  nunc  foemina. 

Virg.  iEn.,  -yi,  448. 

A  man  before,  now  to  a  woman  chang’d. 


TIIE  SPECTATOR. 


399 


From  one  till  half  an  hour  after  two.  Drove  to 
the  ’Change.  Cheapened  a  couple  of  fans. 

Till  four.  At  dinner.  Mem.  Mr.  Froth  passed 
by  in  his  new  liveries. 

From  four  to  six.  Dressed;  paid  a  visit  to  old 
Lady  Blithe  and  her  sister,  having  before  heard 
they  were  gone  out  of  town  that  day. 

From  six  to  eleven.  At  basset.  Mom.  Never 
set  again  upon  the  ace  of  diamonds. 

Thursday.  From  eleven  at  night  to  eight  in  the 
morning.  Dreamed  that  I  punted*  to  Mr.  Froth. 

.  From  eight  to  ten.  Chocolate.  Read  two  acts 
in  Aurengzebe  a-bed. 

From  ten  to  eleven.  Tea-table.  Sent  to  borrow 
Lady  Faddle’s  Cupid  for  Veny.  Read  the  play¬ 
bills.  Received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Froth.  Mem. 
Locked  it  up  in  my  strong  box. 

Rest  of  the  morning.  Fontange,  the  tire-wo¬ 
man,  her  account  of  my  lady  Blithe’s  wash. 
Broke  a  tooth  in  my  little  tortoise-shell  comb.  Sent 
Frank  to  know  how  my  Lady  Hectic  rested  after 
her  monkey’s  leaping  out  at  window.  Looked 

Eale.  Fontange  tells  me  my  glass  is  not  true, 
'ressed  by  three. 

From  three  to  four.  Dinner  cold  before  I  sat 
down. 

From  four  to  eleven.  Saw  company,  Mr. 
Froth’s  opinion  of  Milton.  His  accounts  of  the 
Mohocks.  His  fancy  for  a  pincushion.  Picture 
in  the  lid  of  his  snuff-box.  Old  Lady  Faddle 
promises  me  her  woman  to  cut  my  hair.  Lost 
five  guineas  at  crimp. 

Twelve  o’clock  at  night.  Went  to  bed. 

Friday.  Eight  in  the  morning.  A-bed.  Read 
over  all  Mr.  Froth’s  letters.  Cupid  and  Veny. 

Ten  o’clock.  Stayed  within  all  day,  not  at 
home. 

From  ten  to  twelve.  In  conference  with  my 
mantuamaker.  Sorted  a  suit  of  ribbons.  Broke 
my  blue  china  cup. 

From  twelve  to  one.  Shut  myself  up  in  my 
chamber,  practiced  Lady  Betty  Modley’s  skuttle.f 
One  in  the  afternoon.  Called  for  my  flowered 
handkerchief.  Worked  half  a  violet  leaf  in  it. 
Eyes  ached  and  head  out  of  order.  Threw  by  my 
work,  and  read  over  the  remaining  part  of  Au¬ 
rengzebe. 

From  three  to  four.  Dined. 

From  four  to  twelve.  Changed  my  mind,  dressed, 
went  abroad,  and  played  at  crimp  till  midnight. 
Found  Mrs.  Spitely  at  home.  Conversation:  Mrs. 
Brilliant’s  necklace  false  stones.  Old  Lady  Love- 
day  going  to  be  married  to  a  young  fellow  that  is 
not  worth  a  groat.  Miss  Prue  gone  into  the  coun¬ 
try.  Tom  Townley  has  red  hair.  Mem.  Mrs. 
Spitely  whispered  in  my  ear,  that  she  had  some¬ 
thing  to  tell  me  about  Mr.  Froth  ;  I  am  sure  it  is 
not  true. 

Between  twelve  and  one.  Dreamed  that  Mr. 
Froth  lay  at  my  feet,  and  called  me  Indamora. 

Saturday.  Rose  at  eight  o’clock  in  the  morn¬ 
ing.  Sat  down  to  my  toilette. 

From  eight  to  nine.  Shifted  a  patch  for  half 
an  hour  before  I  could  determine  it.  Fixed  it 
above  my  left  eyebrow. 

From  nine  to  twelve.  Drank  my  tea  and  dressed. 
From  twelve  to  two.  At  chapel.  A  great  deal 
of  good  company.  Mem.  The  third  air  in  the 
new  opera.  Lady  Blithe  dressed  frightfully. 

From  three  to  four.  Dined.  Miss  Kitty  called 
upon  me  to  go  to  the  opera  before  I  was  risen 
from  table. 

From  dinner  to  six.  Drank  tea.  Turned  off  a 
footman  for  being  rude  to  Veny. 


Six  o’clock.  Went  to  the  opera.  I  did  not  see 
Ar'"  Froth  till  the  beginning  of  the  second  act. 
Mr.  froth  talked  to  a  gentleman  in  a  black  wig' 
bowed  to  a  lady  in  the  front  box.  Mr.  Froth  and 
ms  friend  clapped  Nicolini  in  the  third  act.  Mr. 
f  roth  cried  out  “  Ancora.”  Mr.  Froth  led  me  to 
my  chair.  I  think  he  squeezed  my  hand. 

Eleven  at  night.  Went  to  bed.  Melancholy 
dreams.  Methought  Nicolini  said  he  was  Mr. 
Froth. 

Sunday.  Indisposed. 

Monday.  Eight  o’clock.  Waked  by  Miss  Kitty. 
Aurengzebe  lay  upon  the  chair  by  me.  Kitty 
repeated  without  book  the  eight  best  lines  in  the 
play.  Went  in  our  mobs*  to  the  dumb  man, 
according  to  appointment.  Told  me  that  my 
lover’s  name  began  with  a  G.  Mem.  The  con- 
jureif  was  within  a  letter  of  Mr.  Froth’s  name,  etc. 

“Upon  looking  back  into  this  journal,  I  find 
that  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  whetner  I  pass  my 
time  well  or  ill ;  and  indeed  never  thought  of 
considering  how  I  did  it  before  I  perused  your 
speculations  upon  that  subject.  I  scarce  find  a 
single  action  in  these  five  days  that  I  can  thor¬ 
oughly  approve  of,  except  in  the  working  upon 
the  violet-leaf,  which  I  am  resolved  to  finish  the 
first  day  l  am  at  leisure.  As  for  Mr.  Froth  and 
Veny,  I  did  not  think  they  took  up  so  much  of 
my  time  and  thoughts  as  I  find  they  do  upon  my 
journal..  The  latter  of  them  I  will  turn  off,  if 
ou  insist  upon  it ;  and  if  Mr.  Froth  does  not 
ring  matters  to  a  conclusion  very  suddenly,  I 
will  not  let  my  life  run  away  in  a  dream. 

“Your  humble  Servant, 

“  Clarinda.” 

To  resume  one  of  the  morals  of  my  first  paper, 
and  to  confirm  Clarinda  in  her  good  inclinations, 

I  would  have  her  consider  what  a  pretty  figure 
she  would  make  among  posterity,  were  the  history 
of  her  whole  life  published  like  these  five  days 
of  it.  I  shall  conclude  my  paper  with  an  epitaph 
written  by  an  uncertain  author  on  Sir  Philip  Sid¬ 
ney's  sister,  a  lady  who  seems  to  have  been  of  a 
temper  very  much  different  from  that  of  Clarinda. 
The  last  thought  of  it  is  so  very  noble,  that  I.  dare 
say  my  reader  will  pardon  me  the  quotation. 

ON  THE  COUNTESS  DOWAGER  OF  PEMBROKE. 

“  Underneath  this  marble  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 

Sidney’s  sister,  Pembroke’s  mother; 

Death,  ere  thou  hast  kill’d  another, 

Fair  and  learn’d,  and  good  as  she, 

Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee.” 

L. 


No.  324.]  WEDNESDAY,  MAR.  27,  1711-12. 

0  curvae  in  terris  animse,  et  c-oelestium  inanes! 

Pf.rs,  Sat.  ii,  61. 

0  souls,  in  whom  no  heavenly  fire  is  found, 

Flat  minds,  and  ever  groveling  on  the  ground !  J 

Drydex. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  materials  you  have  collected  toward  a 
general  history  of  clubs,  make  so  bright  a  part  of 
your  Speculations,  that  I  think  it  is  but  a  justice 
we  all  owe  the  learned  world,  to  furnish  you  with 
such  assistances  as  may  promote  that  useful  work. 


*  A  huddled  economy  of  dress  so  called, 
f  Duncan  Campbel. 

JThe  motto  prefixed  to  this  paper  in  its  original  form  in 
folio,  was  taken  from  Juvenal: 


*  A  term  in  the  game  of  basset. 
fA  pace  of  affected  precipitation. 


Saevis  inter  se  convenit  ursis. 
Even  bears  with  bears  agree. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


400 

For  this  reason  I  could  not  forbear  communica¬ 
ting  to  you  some  imperfect  informations  of  a  set 
of  men  (if  you  will  allow  them  a  place  in  that 
species  of  being)  who  have  lately  erected  them¬ 
selves  into  a  nocturnal  fraternity,  under  the  title 
of  the  Mohock  Club,  a  name  borrowed,  it  seems, 
from  a  sort  of  cannibals  in  India,  who  subsist 
upon  plundering  and  devouring  all  the  nations 
about  them.  The  president  is  styled  ‘  Emperor 
of  the  Mohocks  and  his  arms  are  a  Turkish 
crescent,  which  his  imperial  majesty  bears  at 
present  in  a  very  extraordinary  manner  engraved 
upon  his  forehead.  Agreeable  to  their  name,  the 
avowed  design  of  their  institution  is  mischief ; 
and  upon  this  foundation  all  their  rules  and  orders 
are  framed.  An  outrageous  ambition  of  doing 
all  possible  hurt  to  their  fellow-creatures,  is  the 
reat  cement  of  their  assembly,  and  the  only  quali- 
cation  required  in  the  members.  In  order  to 
exert  this  principle  in  its  full  strength  and  per¬ 
fection,  they  take  care  to  drink  themselves  to  a 
pitch,  that  is,  beyond  the  possibility  of  attending 
to  any  motions  of  reason  or  humanity ;  then 
make  a  general  sally,  and  attack  all  that  are  so 
unfortunate  as  to  walk  the  streets  through  which 
they  patrol.  Some  are  knocked  down,  others 
cut  and  carbonadoed.  To  put  the  watch  to  a 
total  rout,  and  mortify  some  of  those  inoffensive 
militia,  is  reckoned  a  coup  d’ eclat.  The  particular 
talents  by  which  these  misanthropes  are  distin¬ 
guished  from  one  another,  consist  in  the  various 
kinds  of  barbarities  which  they  execute  upon  their 
prisoners.  Some  are  celebrated  for  a  happy  dex¬ 
terity  in  tipping  the  lion  upon  them  ;  which  is  per¬ 
formed  by  squeezing  the  nose  flat  to  the  face,  and 
boring  out  the  eyes  with  their  fingers.  Others 
are  called  the  dancing-masters,  and  teach  their 
scholars  to  cut  capers,  by  running  swords  through 
their  legs  ;  a  new  invention  whether  originally 
French  I  canuot  tell.  A  third  are  the  tumblers, 
whose  office  it  is  to  set  women  on  their  heads, 
and  commit  certain  indecencies,  or  rather  barbari¬ 
ties,  on  the  limbs  which  they  expose.  But  these 
I  forbear  to  mention,  because  they  cannot  but  be 
very  shocking  to  the  reader  as  well  as  the  Specta¬ 
tor.  In  this  manner  they  carry  on  a  war  against 
mankind  •  and  by  the  standing  maxims  of  their 
policy,  are  to  enter  into  no  alliances  but  one,  and 
that  is  offensive  and  defensive  with  all  bawdy- 
houses  in  general,  of  which  they  have  declared 
themselves  protectors  and  guarantees. 

“  I  must  own,  Sir,  these  are  only  broken,  inco¬ 
herent  memoirs  of  this  wonderful  society  ;  but 
they  are  the  best  I  have  been  yet  able  to  procure  : 
for,  being  but  of  late  established,  it  is  not  ripe  for 
a  just  history ;  and,  to  be  serious,  the  chief  design 
of  this  trouble  is  to  hinder  it  from  ever  being  so. 
You  have  been  pleased,  out  of  a  concern  for  the 
good  of  your  countrymen,  to  act,  under  the  char¬ 
acter  of  Spectator,  not  only  the  part  of  a  looker- 
on,  but  an  overseer  of  their  actions  ;  and  when¬ 
ever  such  enormities  as  this  infest  the  town,  we 
immediately  fly  to  you  for  redress.  I  have  reason 
to  believe,  that  some  thoughtless  youngsters,  out 
of  a  false  notion  of  bravery,  and  an  immoderate 
fondness  to  be  distinguished  for  fellows  of  fire, 
are  insensibly  hurried  into  this  senseless,  scanda¬ 
lous  project.  Such  will  probably  stand  corrected 
by  your  reproofs,  especially  if  you  inform  them, 
that  it  is  not  courage  for  half  a  score  fellows,  mad 
with  wine  and  lust,  to  set  upon  two  or  three  so¬ 
berer  than  themselves  ;  and  that  the  manners  of 
Indian  savages  are  not  becoming  accomplishments 
to  an  English  fine  gentleman.  Such  of  them  as 
have  been  bullies  and  scowerers  of  a  long  stand¬ 
ing,  and  are  grown  veterans  in  this  kind  of  ser¬ 
vice,  are,  I  fear,  too  hardened  to  receive  any  im¬ 


pressions  from  your  admonitions.  But  I  beg  you 
would  recommend  to  their  perusal  your  ninth 
Speculation.  They  may  there  be  taught  to  take 
warning  from  the  club  of  Duelists  ;  and  be  put  in 
mind,  that  the  common  fate  of  those  men  of  hon¬ 
or  was  to  be  hanged. 

“I  am.  Sir, 

“  Your  most  humble  Servant, 

“  March  10, 1711-12.  “  Philanthropos.” 

The  following  letter  is  of  a  quite  contrary 
nature  ;  but  I  add  it  here  that  the  reader  may  ob¬ 
serve,  at  the  same  view,  how  amiable  ignorance 
may  be,  when  it  is  shown  in  its  simplicities  ;  and 
how  detestable  in  barbarities.  It  is  written  by  an 
honest  countryman  to  his  mistress,  and  came  to 
the  hands  of  a  lady  of  good  sense,  wrapped  about 
a  thread  paper,  who  has  long  kept  it  by  her  as  an 
image  of  artless  love. 

“  To  her  I  very  much  respect ,  Mrs.  Margaret  Clark. 

“  Lovely,  and  0  that  I  could  write  loving  Mrs. 
Margaret  Clark,  I  pray  you  let  affection  excuse 
presumption.  Having  been  so  happy  as  to  enjoy 
the  sight  of  your  sweet  countenance  and  comely 
body,  sometimes  when  I  had  occasion  to  buy 
treacle  or  liquorish  powder  at  the  apothecary’s 
shop,  I  am  so  enamored  with  you,  that  I  can  no 
more  keep  close  my  flaming  desires  to  become 
your  servant.*  And  I  am  the  more  bold  now  to 
write  to  your  sweet  self,  because  I  am  now  my 
own  man,  and  may  match  where  I  please  ;  for  my 
father  is  taken  away,  and  now  I  am  come  to  my 
living,  which  is  ten  yard  land,  and  a  house  ;  and 
there  is  never  a  yard  landf  in  our  field,  but  it  is 
as  well  worth  ten  pounds  a  year  as  a  thief  is 
worth  a  halter,  and  all  my  brothers  and  sisters 
are  provided  for :  beside,  I  have  good  house¬ 
hold  stuff,  though  I  say  it,  both  brass  and  pewter, 
linens  and  woolens  ;  and  though  my  house  be 
thatched,  yet,  if  you  and  I  match,  it  shall  go  hard 
but  I  will  have  one-half  of  it  slated.  If  you 
think  well  of  this  motion,  I  will  wait  upon  you 
as  soon  as  my  new  clothes  are  made,  and  hay- 
harvest  is  in.  I  could,  though  I  say  it,  have  good 
*  *  *  *  ”  The  rest  is  torn  off ;  and  posterity 
must  be  contented  to  know,  that  Mrs.  Margaret 
Clark  was  very  pretty ;  but  are  left  in  the  dark 
as  to  the  name  of  her  lover. — T. 


*  This  letter  was  really  conveyed,  in  the  manner  here  men¬ 
tioned,  to  a  Mrs.  Cole,  the  wife  of  a  churlish  attorney,  in  or 
near  Northampton,  who  would  not  suffer  her  to  correspond 
with  anybody.  It  was  written  by  a  substantial  freeholder  in 
Northamptonshire,  whose  name  was  Gabriel  Bullock,  and 
given  to  Steele  by  his  friend,  the  ingenious  antiquary,  Mr. 
Browne  Willis.  Mrs.  Cantrell,  niece  to  Mrs.  Cole,  fortunately 
remembered  what  was  torn  off  from  the  letter  by  a  child  at 
play,  so  that  it  is  given  here  entire  on  good  authority. — P. 

“  .  .  .  .  good  matches  among  my  neighbors.  My  mother, 
peace  be  with  her  soul !  the  good  old  gentlewoman,  has  left 
me  good  store  of  household  linen  of  her  own  spinning,  a 
chest  full.  If  you  and  I  lay  our  means  together,  it  shall 
go  hard  but  I  will  pave  the  way  to  do  well.  Your  loving 
servant  till  death,  Mister  Gabriel  Bullock,  now  my  father  is 
dead.” 

f  A  yard  land  ( vergata  terra. )  in  some  counties  contains  20 
acres,  in  some  24,  and  in  others  30  acres  of  land. — Lee  Tertnee 
de  la  Ley.  Ed.  16C7. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


No.  325.]  THURSDAY,  MAR.  13,  1711-12. 

- Quid  frustra  simulacra  fugacia  captas? 

Quod  petis,  est  nusquam:  quod  amas,  avertere,  pcrdcs 

Ista  repercusse,  quam  cernis,  imagiuis  umbra  est, 

Nil  liabet  ista  sui:  tecum  venitque,  manetque; 

Tecum  discedit,  si  tu  discedere  possis. 

Ovid,  Met.  iii,  432. 

(From  the  fable  of  Narcissus.) 

What  could,  fond  youth,  this  helpless  passion  move? 

What  kindled  in  thee  this  unpitied  love? 

Thy  own  warm  blush  within  the  water  glows; 

With  thee  the  color’d  shadow  comes  and  goes;' 

Its  empty  being  on  thyself  relies ; 

Step  thou  aside,  and  the  frail  charmer  dies. 

Addison. 

Will  Honeycomb  diverted  us  last  night  with  an 
account  of  a  young  fellow’s  first  discovering  his 
passion  to  his  mistress.  The  young  lady  was 
one,  it  seems,  who  had  long  before  conceived  a 
favorable  opinion  of  him,  and  was  still  in  hopes 
that  he  would  some  time  or  other  make  his  ad¬ 
vances.  As  he  was  one  day  talking  with  her  in 
company  of  her  two  sisters,  the  conversation 
happening  to  turn  upon  love,  each  of  the  yoimg 
ladies  was,  by  way  of  raillery,  recommending  a 
wife  to  him  ;  when  to  the  no  small  surprise  of  her 
who  languished  for  him  in  secret,  he  told  them, 
with  a  more  than  ordinary  seriousness,  that  his* 
heart  had  been  long  engaged  to  one  whose  name 
he  thought  himself  obliged  in  honor  to  conceal  ; 
but  that  he  could  show  her  picture  in  the  lid  of 
his  snuff-box.  The  young  lady,  who  found  her¬ 
self  most  sensibly  touched  by  this  confession,  took 
the  first  opportunity  that  offered  of  snatching  his 
box  out  of  liis  hand.  He  seemed  desirous  of  re¬ 
covering  it ;  but  finding  her  resolved  to  look  into 
the  lid,  begged  her,  that,  if  she  should  happen  to 
know  the  person,  she  would  not  reveal  her  name. 
Upon  carrying  it  to  the  window,  she  was  very 
agreeably  surprised  to  find  there  was  nothing 
within  the  lid  but  a  little  looking-glass;  on  which, 
after  she  had  viewed  her  own  face  with  more  pleas¬ 
ure  than  ever  she  had  done  before,  she  returned 
the  box  with  a  smile,  telling  him  she  could  not 
but  admire  his  choice. 

Will,  fancying  that  this  story  took,  immediately 
fell  into  a  dissertation  on  the  usefulness  of  look¬ 
ing-glasses  ;  and,  applying  himself  to  me,  asked 
if  there  were  any  looking-glasses  in  the  times  of 
the  Greeks  and  Romans;  for  that  he  had  often  ob¬ 
served,  in  the  translations  of  poems  out  of  those 
languages,  that  people  generally  talked  of  seeing 
themselves  in  wells,  fountains,  lakes,  and  rivers. 
Nay,  says  he,  I  remember  Mr.  Dryden,  in  his 
Ovid,  tells  us  of  a  swinging-fellow,  called  Poly- 
pheme,  that  made  use  of  the  sea  for  his  looking- 
glass,  and  could  never  dress  himself  to  advantage 
but  in  a  calm. 

My  friend  Will,  to  show  us  the  whole  compass 
of  his  learning  upon  this  subject,  further  informed 
us,  that  there  were  still  several  nations  in  the 
world  so  very  barbarous  as  not  to  have  any  look- 
ing-glasses  among  them ;  and  that  he  had  lately 
read  a  voyage  to  the  South  Sea,  in  which  it  is 
said  that  the  ladies  of  Chili  always  dressed  their 
heads  over  a  basin  of  water. 

I  am  the  more  particular  in  my  account  of 
Will’s  last  night’s  lecture  on  these  natural  mirrors, 
as  it  seems  to  bear  some  relation  to  the  following 
letter,  which  I  received  the  day  before. 

"Sir, 


401 

place  in  the  same  book,  where  the  poet  lets  us 
know,  that  the  first  women  immediately  after  her 
creation  ran  to  a  looking-glass,  and  became  so 
enamored  of  her  own  face,  that  she  had  never  re¬ 
moved  to  view  any  of  the  other  works  of  nature, 
had  she  not  been  led  off  to  a  man?  If  you  think 
fit  to  set  down  the  whole  passage  from  Milton, 
vour  readers  will  be  able  to  judge  for  themselves, 

findii7-e  (3uotation  will  not  a  little  contribute  to 
the  filling  up  of  your  paper. 

“Your  humble  Servant, 

“R.  T.” 

The  last  consideration  urged  by  my  querist  is 
so  strong,  that  I  cannot  forbear  closing  with  it. 
ihe  passage  he  alludes  to  is  part  of  Eve’s  speech 
to  Adam,  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  passages 
in  the  whole  poem. 

That  day  I  oft  remember,  when  from  sleep 
I  first  awak’d,  and  found  myself  repos’d 
Under  a  shade  of  flow’rs,  much  wond’ring  where 
And  what  1  was,  whence  thither  brought,  and  how. 
hot  distant  far  from  thence  a  murmuring  sound 
Of  waters  issu’d  from  a  cave,  and  spread 
Into  a  liquid  plain,  and  stood  unmov’d, 

Pure  as  th’  expanse  of  heaven :  I  thither  went 
With  unexperienc’d  thought,  and  laid  me  down 
On  the  green  hank,  to  look  into  the  clear 
Smooth  lake,  that  to  me  seem’d  another  sky 
As  I  bent  down  to  look,  just  opposite 
A  shape  within  the  watery  gleam  appear’d, 

Bending  to  look  on  me:  I  started  hack, 

It  started  hack ;  but  pleas’d  I  soon  return’d, 

Pleas’d  it  return’d  as  soon  with  answering  looks 
Of  sympathy  and  love :  there  I  had  fix’d 
Mine  eyes  till  now,  and  pin’d  with  vain  desire, 

Had  not  a  voice  thus  warn’d  me :  “  What  thou  seest, 
What  there  thou  seest,  fair  creature,  is  thyself; 

With  thee  it  came  and  goes:  but  follow  me, 

And  I  will  bring  thee  where  no  shadow  stays 
Thy  coming  and  thy  soft  embraces;  he 
Whose  image  thou  art,  him  shalt  thou  enjoy 
Inseparably  thine:  to  him  shalt  bear 
Multitudes  like  thyself,  and  thence  be  called 
Mother  of  human  race.”  What  could  I  do. 

But  follow  straight,  invisibly  thus  led? 

Till  I  espied  thee,  fair  indeed  and  tall, 

Under  a  plantain;  yet,  methought,  less  fair, 

Less  winning  soft,  less  amiably  mild, 

Than  that  smooth  watery  image;  back  I  turn’d; 

Thou  following  criedst  aloud,  “Return,  fair  Eve' 
Whom  fly’st  thou?  Whom  thou  fly’st,  of  him  thou  art, 
His  flesh,  his  bone;  to  give  thee  being,  I  lent 
Out  of  my  side  to  thee,  nearest  my  heart, 

Substantial  life,  to  have  thee  by  my  side, 

Henceforth  an  individual  solace  dear: 

Part  of  my  soul,  I  seek  thee,  and  thee  claim 
My  other  half!”— With  that  thy  gentle  hand 
Seiz’d  mine;  I  yielded,  and  from  that  time  see 
How  beauty  is  excell’d  by  manly  grace 
And  wisdom,  which  alone  is  truly  fair. 

So  spake  our  general  mother - . 

X. 


No.  326.]  FRIDAY,  MARCH  14,  1711-12. 

Inclusam  Danaen  turris  ahenea, 
Robustmque  fores,  et  vigilum  canum 
Tristes  exubise  munierant  satis 
Nocturnis  ab  adulteris: 

Si  non— - - 

Hor.,  Lib.  iii,  Od.  xvi,  1. 

Of  watchful  dogs  an  odious  ward 
Right  well  one  hapless  virgin  guard, 

When  in  a  tower  of  brass  immur’d, 

By  mighty  bars  of  steel  secur’d, 

Although  by  mortal  rake-hells  lewd 
With  all  their  midnight  arts  pursued, 

Had  not - - 

Francis,  vol.  ii,  p.  77. 


“I  have  read  your  last  Saturday’s  observations 
on  the  fourth  book  of  Milton  with  great  satisfac¬ 
tion,  and  am  particularly  pleased  with  the  hid¬ 
den  moral  which  you  have  taken  notice  of  in 
several  parts  of  the  poem.  The  design  of  this 
letter  is  to  desire  your  thoughts,  whether  there 
may  not  also  be  some  moral  couched  under  that 
26 


ADAPTED. 

Be  to  her  faults  a  little  blind, 

Be  to  her  virtues  very  kind, 

And  clap  your  padlock  on  her  mind. 

Padlock. 


"  Mr.  Spectator, 


“Your  correspondent’s  letter  relating  to  for- 
!  tune-hunters,  and  your  subsequent  discourse  upon 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


402 

it,  have  given  me  encouragement  to  send  you  a 
state  of  my  case,  by  which  you  will  see,  that  the 
matter  complained  of  is  a  common  grievance  both 
to  city  and  country. 

“I  am  a  country  gentleman  of  between  five  and 
six  thousand  a  year.  It  is  my  misfortune  to  have 
a  very  fine  park  and  an  only  daughter;  upon  which 
account  I  have  been  so  plagued  with  deer-stealers 
and  fops,  that  for  these  four  years  past  I  have 
scarce  enjoyed  a  moment’s  rest.  I  look  upon  my¬ 
self  to  be  in  a  state  of  war;  and  am  forced  to  keep 
a  constant  watch  in  my  seat,  as  a  governor  would 
do  that  commanded  a  town  on  the  frontier  of  an 
enemy’s  country.  I  have  indeed  pretty  well  se¬ 
cured  my  park;  having  for  this  purpose  provided 
myself  of  four  keepers,  who  are  lett-handed,  and 
handle  a  quarter-staff  beyond  any  other  fellows  in 
the  country.  And  for  the  guard  of  my  house, 
beside  a  band  of  pensioner-matrons  and  an  old 
maiden  relation  whom  I  keep  on  constant  duty,  I 
have  blunderbusses  always  charged,  and  fox-gins 
planted  in  private  places  about  my  garden,  of 
which  I  have  given  frequent  notice  in  the  neigh¬ 
borhood;  yet  so  it  is,  that  in  spite  of  all  my  care, 

I  shall  every  now  and  then  have  a  saucy  rascal 
ride  by,  reconnoitering  (as  I  think  you  call  it) 
under  my  windows,  as  sprucely  dressed  as  if  he 
were  going  to  a  ball.  I  am  aware  of  this  way  of 
attacking  a  mistress  on  horseback,  having  heard 
that  it  is  a  common  practice  in  Spain;  and  have 
therefore  taken  care  to  remove  my  daughter  from 
the  road -side  of  the  house,  and  to  lodge  her  next 
the  garden.  But  to  cut  short  my  story.  What 
can  a  man  do  after  all?  I  durst  not  stand  for 
member  of  parliament  last  election,  for  fear  of 
some  ill  consequence  from  my  being  off  my  post. 
What  I  would  therefore  desire  of  you  is,  to  pro¬ 
mote  a  project  I  have  set  on  foot,  and  upon  which 
I  have  written  to  some  of  my  friends,  and  that  is, 
that  care  may  be  taken  to  secure  our  daughters  by 
law,  as  well  as  our  deer ;  and  that  some  honest 
gentleman,  of  a  public  spirit,  would  move  for 
leave  to  bring  in  a  bill  for  the  better  preserving 
of  the  female  game.  “I  am,  Sir, 

“Your  humble  Servant.” 

“Mile-End  Green,  March  6,  1711-12. 
“Mr.  Spectator, 

“Here  is  a  young  man  walks  by  our  door  every 
day  about  the  dusk  of  the  evening.  He  looks  up 
at  my  window,  as  if  to  see  me;  and  if  I  steal  to¬ 
ward  it  to  peep  at  him,  he  turns  another  way,  and 
looks  frightened  at  finding  what  he  was  looking  for. 
The  air  is  very  cold;  and  pray  let  him  know,  that, 
if  he  knocks  at  the  door,  he  will  be  carried  to  the 
parlor  fire,  and  I  will  come  down  soon  after,  and 
give  him  an  opportunity  to  break  his  mind. 

“I  am,  Sir, 

“Your  most  humble  Servant, 

“Mary  Comfit.” 

“If  I  observe  he  cannot  speak,  I’ll  give  him 
time  to  recover  himself,  and  ask  him  how  he 
does.” 

“  Dear  Sir, 

“I  beg  you  to  print  this  without  delay,  and  by 
the  first  opportunity  give  us  the  natural  causes  of 
longing  in  women:  or  put  me  out  of  fear  that  my 
wife  will  one  time  or  other  be  delivered  of  some¬ 
thing  as  monstrous  as  anything  that  has  yet  ap¬ 
peared  to  the  world ;  for  they  say  the  child  is  to 
bear  a  resemblance  of  what  was  desired  by  the 
mother.  I  have  been  married  upward  of  six  years, 
have  had  four  children  and  my  wife  is  now  big 
with  the  fifth.  The  expenses  she  has  put  me  to, 
in  procuring  what  she  has  longed  for  during  her 


pregnancy  with  them,  would  not  only  have  hand¬ 
somely  defrayed  the  charges  of  the  month,  but  of 
their  education  too;  her  fancy  being  so  exorbitant  in 
the  first  year  or  two,  as  not  to  confine  itself  to  the 
usual  objects  of  eatables  and  drinkables,  but  run¬ 
ning  out  after  equipages  and  furniture,  and  the 
like  extravagances.  To  trouble  you  only  with  a 
few  of  them;  when  she  was  with  child  of  Tom, 
ray  eldest  son,  she  came  home  one  day  just  faint¬ 
ing,  and  told  me  she  had  been  visiting  a  relation, 
whose  husband  had  made  her  a  present  of  a 
chariot  and  a  stately  pair  of  horses :  and  that  she 
was  positive  she  could  not  breathe  a  week  longer, 
unless  she  took  the  air  in  the  fellow  to  it  of  her 
own  within  that  time.  This,  rather  than  lose  an 
heir,  I  readily  complied  with.  Then  the  furni¬ 
ture  of  her  best  room  must  be  instantly  changed 
or  she  should  mark  the  child  with  some  of  the 
frightful  figures  of  the  old-fashioned  tapestry. 
Well,  the  upholsterer  was  called,  and  her  longing 
saved  that  bout.  When  she  went  with  Molly,  she 
had  fixed  her  mind  upon  a  new  set  of  plate,  a.nd 
as  much  china  as  would  have  furnished  an  Indian 
shop:  these  also  I  cheerfully  granted,  for  fear  of 
being  father  to  an  Indian  pagod.  Hitherto  I  found 
her  demands  rose  upon  every  concession;  and  had 
she  gone  on,  I  had  been  ruined  ;  but  by  good 
fortune,  with  her  third,  which  was  Peggy,  the 
height  of  her  imagination  came  down  to  the  corner 
of  a  venison-pasty,  and  brought  her  once  even 
upon  her  kness  to  gnaw  off  the  ears  of  a  pig  from 
the  spit.  The  gratifications  of  her  palate  were 
easily  preferred  to  those  of  her  vanity:  and  some¬ 
times  a  partridge,  or  a  quail,  or  a  wheat-ear,  or 
the  pestle  of  a  lark,  were  cheerfully  purchased ; 
nay,  I  could  be  contented  though  I  were  to  feed 
her  with  green-peas  in  April,  or  cherries  in  May. 
But  with  the  babe  she  now  goes,  she  is  turned  girl 
again,  and  fallen  to  eating  of  chalk,  pretending  it 
"will  make  the  child’s  skin  white;  and  nothing  will 
serve  her  but  I  must  bear  her  company,  to  pievent 
its  having  a  shade  of  my  brown.  In  this,  how¬ 
ever,  I  have  ventured  to  deny  her.  No  longer  ago 
than  yesterday,  as  we  were  coming  to  toAvn,  she 
saw  a  parcel  of  crows,  so  heartily  at  breakfast  on 
a  piece  of  horse-flesh,  that  she  had  an  invincible 
desire  to  partake  with  them,  and  (to  my  infinite 
surprise)  begged  the  coachman  to  cut  her  off  a 
slice,  as  if  it  were  for  himself,  which  the  fellow 
did;  and  as  soon  as  she  came  home,  she  fell  to  it 
with  such  an  appetite,  that  she  seemed  rather  to 
devour  than  eat  it.  What  her  next  sally  will  be  I 
cannot  guess;  but,  in  the  meantime,  my  request  to 
you  is,  that  if  there  be  any  way  to  come  at  these 
wild  unaccountable  rovings  of  imagination  by 
reason  and  argument,  you’d  speedily  afford  us 
your  assistance.  This  exceeds  the  grievance  of 
pin-money  ;  and  I  think  in  every  settlement  there 
ought  to  be  a  clause  inserted,  that  the  father 
should  be  answerable  for  the  longings  of  his 
daughter.  But  I  shall  impatiently  expect  your 
thoughts  in  this  matter,  and  am, 

“  Sir,  your  most  obliged,  and 

.  “Most  faithful,  humble  Servant,  “T.  B.' 

“Let  me  know  whether  you  think  the  next 
child  will  love  horses  as  much  as  Molly  does 
china-ware.” — T. 


No.  327.]  SATURDAY,  MARCH  15,  1711-12. 

— Major  rerum  mihi  nascitur  ordo.  _ 

Virg.,  iEn.  vu,  48. 

A  larger  scene  of  action  is  display’d.— Dryden. 

We  were  told  in  the  foregoing  book,  how  the 
evil  spirit  practiced  upon  Eve  as  she  lay  asleep, 
in  order  to  inspire  her  with  thoughts  of  vanity, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


pride,  and  ambition.  The  author,  who  shows  a  won- 
aei  ful  ait  throughout  his  whole  poem,  for  preparin'1- 
the  reader  for  the  several  occurrences  that  arise 
in  it,  founds,  upon  the  above-mentioned  circum¬ 
stance,  the  first  part  of  the  fifth  book.  Adam, 
upon  his  awaking,  finds  Eve  still  asleep,  with  an 
unusual  discomposure  in  her  looks.  Tne  posture 
in  which  he  regards  her  is  described  with  a  ten¬ 
derness  not  to  be  expressed,  as  the  whisper  with 
which  he  awakens  her  is  the  softest  that  ever  was 
conveyed  to  a  lover’s  ear. 

His  wonder  wiui,  to  find  awaken’d  Eve 
ith  tresses  discompos’d,  and  glowing  cheek, 

As  through  unquiet  rest:  he,  on  his  side 
leaning  half-raised,  with  looks  of  cordial  love 
Hung  over  her  enamor’d,  and  beheld 
Beauty,  which,  whether  waking  or  asleep, 

Shot  forth  peculiar  graces;  then,  with  voice 
Mild  as  when  Zephyrus  on  Flora  breathes, 

Her  hand  soft  touching,  whisper’d  thus:  “Awake, 

My  fairest,  my  espous’d,  my  latest  found, 

Heav  n’s  last  best  gift,  my  ever  new  delight, 

Awake:  the  morning  shines,  and  the  fresh  field 
Calls  us;  we  lose  the  prime,  to  mark  how  spring 
Our  tender  plants,  how  blows  the  citron  grove, 

Mdiat  drops  of  myrrh,  and  what  the  balmy  reed 
How  nature  paints  her  colors,  how  the  bee 
Sits  on  the  bloom  extracting  liquid  sweet.” 

Such  whispering  wak’d  her,  but  with  startled  eye 
On  Adam,  whom  embracing,  thus  she  spake: 

0  sole,  in  whom  my  thoughts  find  all  repose. 

My  glory,  my  perfection !  glad  I  see 
Thy  face,  and  morn  return’d - 


403 


courtship  of  Milton’s  Adam,  and  could  not  be 
heard  by  Eve  in  her  state  of  innocence,  excepting 
only  in  a  dream  produced  on  purpose  to  taint  her 
imagination.  Other  vain  sentiments  of  the  same 
kind,  in  this  relation  of  her  dream,  will  be  obvi¬ 
ous  to  every  reader.  Though  the  catastrophe  of 
the  poem  is  finely  presaged  on  this  occasion,  the 
particulars  of  it  are  so  artfully  shadowed,  that 
t  ley  do  not  anticipate  the  story  which  follows  in 
the  ninth  book  I  shall  only  add,  that  though 
the  vision  itself  is  founded  upon  truth,  the  cir¬ 
cumstances  of  it  are  full  of  that  wildness  and  in¬ 
consistency  which  are  natural  to  a  dream.  Adam, 
conformable  to  his  superior  character  for  wisdom 
instructs  and  comforts  Eve  upon  this  occasion: 

So  cheer’d  he  his  fair  spouse,  and  she  was  cheer’d. 

But  silently  a  gentle  tear  let  fall 

From  either  eye,  and  wip’d  them  with  her  hair: 

1  wo  other  precious  drops,  that  ready  stood 
Each  in  their  crystal  sluice,  he,  ere  they  fell, 

Biss  d,  as  the  gracious  signs  of  sweet  remorse 
And  pious  awe,  that  fear’d  to  have  offended. 


I  cannot  but  take  notice,  that  Milton,  in  the 
conferences  between  Adam  and  Eve,  had  his  eye 
very  much  upon  the  book  of  Canticles,  in  which 
there  is  a  noble  spirit  of  eastern  poetry,  and  very 
often  not  unlike  what  we  meet  with"  in  Homer 
who  is  generally  placed  near  the  age  of  Solomon! 
1  think  there  is  no  question  but  the  poet  in  the 
preceding  speech  remembered  those  two  passao-es 
which  are  spoken  on  the  like  occasion,  and  filled 
with  the  same  pleasing  images  of  nature. 

“My  beloved  spake,  and  said  unto  me,  Rise  up 
my  love,  my  fair  one,  and  come  away !  for,  lo !  the 
winter  is  past,  the  rain  is  over  and  gone,  the  flow¬ 
ers  appear  on  the  earth,  the  time  of  the  singino-  0f 
birds  is  come,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard 
in  our  land.  The  fig-tree  putteth  forth  her  green 
fags,  and  the  vines  with  the  tender  grapes  give  a 
good  smell  Arise,  my  love,  my  fair  one,  and 
come  away ! 

“  Come,  my  beloved !  let  us  go  forth  into  the 
faeld,  let  us  get  up  early  into  the  vineyards,  let  us  see 
whether  the  vine  flourish,  whether  the  tender 
grapes  appear,  and  the  pomegranates  bud  forth.” 

His  preferring  the  garden  of  Eden  to  that 

- Where  the  sapient  king 

Held  dalliance  with  his  fair  Egyptian  spouse, 

hisTfind^  ^  P°6t  had  this  deliShtful  scene  in 

Eve’s  dream  is  full  of  those  high  conceits  en¬ 
gendering  pride,  which,  we  are  told,  the  devil  en- 

nartVnfeH  l°hlnStiVnt,°  ^  0f  this  kind  W  that 
part  of  it  ^ here  she  fancies  herself  awakened  by 

Adam  in  the  following  beautiful  lines :  J 

‘‘SVooTP?hVshileUntET6?  Nr  is  the  Pleasant  time, 
xne  cool,  the  silent,  save  where  silence  yields 

To  the  night-warbling  bird,  that  now  awake 

lines  sweetest  his  love-labor’d  song:  now  reigns 

I  ull-orb  d  the  moon,  and  with  more  pleasing  fight 

Shadowy  sets  off  the  face  of  things.  In  vain 

If  none  regard.  Heav’n  wakes  with  all  his  eves 

Whom  to  behold  but  thee,  nature’s  desire  7  ’ 

AthSfaS  Kgh,u  al!  things  J°y>  with  ravishment, 
Attracted  by  thy  beauty  still  to  gaze!” 

injudicious  poet  would  have  made  Adam 
talk  through  the  wfiole  work  in  such  sentiments  as 
these:  but  flattery  and  falsehood  are  not  the 


The  morning  hymn  is  written  in  imitation  of 
one  of  those  psalms  where,  in  the  overflowing  of 
gratitude  and  praise,  the  Psalmist  calls  not  only 
upon  the  angels,  but  upon  the  most  conspicuous 
parts  of  the  inanimate  creation  to  join  with  him.  in 
extolling  their  common  Maker.  Invocations  of  this 
nature  fall  the  mind  with  glorious  ideas  of  God’s 
works,  and  awaken  that  divine  enthusiasm  which 
is  so  natural  to  devotion.  But  if  this  calling  upon 
the  dead  parts  of  nature  is  at  all  times  a  proper 
kind  of  worship,  it  was  in  a  particular  manner 
suitable  to  our  first  parents,  who  had  the  creation 
fiesh  upon  their  minds,  and  had  not  seen  the  vari- 

ous  dispensations  of  Providence,  nor  consequently 
could  be  acquainted  with  those  many  topics  of 
praise  which  might  afford  matter  to  the  devotions 
of  their  posterity.  I  need  not  remark  the  beauti¬ 
ful  spirit  of  poetry  which  runs  through  the  whole 
hymn,  nor  the  holiness  of  that  resolution  with 
which  it  concludes. 

Having  already  mentioned  those  speeches  which 
are  assigned  to  the  persons  in  this  poem,  I  pro¬ 
ceed  to  the  description  which  the  poets  give  us  of 
RaphaeL  Hm  departure  from  before  the  throne 
and  his  flight  through  the  choirs  of  angels  is 
finely  imagined.  As  Milton  everywhere  fills  his 
poem  with  circumstances  that  are  marvelous 
and  astonishing,  he  describes  the  gate  of  heaven 
as  framed  after  such  a  manner,  that  it  opened  of 
itself  upon  the  approach  of  the  angel  who  was  to 
pass  through  it.  w 


-Till  at  the  gate 


Of  heav’n  arriv’d,  the  gate  self-open’d  wide 
On  golden  hinges  turning,  as  by  work 
Divine,  the  sovereign  Architect  had  fram’d. 


The  poet  here  seems  to  hare  regarded  two  or 
three  passages  in  the  18tli  Iliad,  as  that  in  partic- 
ular  where  speaking  of  Vulcan,  Homer  says,  that 
he  had  made  twenty  tripods  running  on  golden 
wheels;  which,  upon  occasion,  might  o-o  of  them 
selves  to  the  assembly  of  the  gods,  and,  when 
there  was  no  more  use  for  them,  return  again  after 
the  same  manner.  Scaliger  has  rallied  Homer 
™7  severely  upon  this  point,  as  M.  Dacier  has 
endeavored  to  defend  it.  I  will  not  pretend  to 
determine  whether,  in  this  particular  of  Homer, 
the  marvelous  does  not  lose  sight  of  the  probable. 
As  the  miraculous  workmanship  of  Milton’s  gates 
is  not  so  extraordinary  as  this  of  the  tripods,  so  I 
am  persuaded  he  would  not  have  mentioned  it, 
had  not  he  been  supported  in  it  by  a  passage  in 
the  Scripture,  which  speaks  of  wheels  in  heaven 
ia  lad  life  in  them,  and  moved  of  themselves, 
or  stood  still,  in  conformity  with  the  cherubim 
wfaom  they  accompanied. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


404 

There  is  no  question  but  Milton  had  this  cir¬ 
cumstance  in  his  thoughts;  because  in. the  follow¬ 
ing  book  he  describes  the  chariot  of  the  Messiah 
with  living  wheels,  according  to  the  plan  in  Eze¬ 
kiel’s  vision  : — 

- 'Forth  rushed  with  whirlwind  sound 

The  chariot  of  paternal*  Deity. 

Flashing  thick  flames,  wheel  within  wheel  undrawn, 
Itself  instinct  with  spirit - . 

I  question  not  but  Bossu,  and  the  two  Daciers. 
who  are  for  vindicating  everything  that  is  censured 
in  Homer,  by  something  parallel  in  holy  writ, 
would  have  been  very  well  pleased  had  they 
thought  of  confronting  Vulcan’s  tripods  with 
Ezekiel’s  wheels. 

Raphael’s  descent  to  the  earth,  with  the  figure 
of  his  person,  is  represented  in  very  lively  colors. 
Several  of  the  French,  Italian,  and  English  poets, 
have  given  a  loose  to  their  imaginations  in  the 
description  of  angels:  but  I  do  not  remember  to 
have  met  with  any  so  finely  drawn,  and  so  con¬ 
formable  to  the  notions  which  are  given  of  them 
in  Scripture,  as  this  in  Milton.  After  having  set 
him  forth  in  all  his  heavenly  plumage,  and  repre¬ 
sented  him  as  alighted  upon  the  earth,  the  poet 
concludes  his  description  with  a  circumstance 
which  is  altogether  new,  and  imagined  with  the 
greatest  strength  of  fancy: 

- Like  Maia’s  son  he  stood, 

And  shook  his  plumes,  that  heavenly  fragrance  fill  d 
The  circuit  wide - . 

Raphael’s  reception  by  the  guardian  angels,  his 
passing  through  the  wilderness  of  sweets,  his 
distant  appearance  to  Adam,  have  all  the  graces 
that  poetry  is  capable  of  bestowing..  The  author 
afterward  gives  us  a  particular  description  of  Eve 
in  her  domestic  employments : 

So  saying,  with  dispatchful  looks  in  haste 
She  turns,  on  hospitable  thoughts  intent, 

What  choice  to  choose  for  delicacy  best, 

What  order,  so  contrived,  as  not  to  mix 
Tastes  not  well  join’d,  inelegant,  but  bring 
Taste  after  taste,  upheld  with  kindliest  change ; 

Bestirs  her  then,”  etc. 

Though  in  this,  and  other  parts  of  the  same 
book,  the  subject  is  only  the  housewifery  of  our 
first  parents,  'it  is  set  off  with  so  many  pleasing 
images  and  strong  expressions,  as  make  it  none  of 
the  least  agreeable  parts  in  this  divine  work. 

The  natural  majesty  of  Adam,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  his  submissive  behavior  to  the  superior 
being  who  had  vouchsafed  to  be  his  guest;  the 
solemn  “hail”  which  the  angel  bestows  upon  the 
mother  of  mankind,  with  the  figure  of  Eve  min¬ 
istering  at  the  table;  are  circumstances  which  de¬ 
serve  to  be  admired. 

Raphael’s  behavior  is  every  way  suitable  to  the 
dignity  of  his  nature,  and  to  that  character  of  a 
sociable  spirit  with  which  the  author  has  so  judi¬ 
ciously  introduced  him.  He  had  received  instruc¬ 
tions  to  converse  with  Adam,  as  one  friend  con¬ 
verses  with  another,  and  to  warn  him  of  the 
enemy,  who  was  contriving  his  destruction:  ac¬ 
cordingly,  he  is  represented  as  sitting  down  at 
table  wfith  Adam,  and  eating  of  the  fruits  of  Pa¬ 
radise.  The  occasion  naturally  leads  him  to  his 
discourse  on  the  food  of  angels.  After  having 
thus  entered  into  conversation  with  man  upon 
more  indifferent  subjects,  he  warns  him  of  his 
obedience,  and  makes  a  natural  transition  to  the 


*  This  epithet,  to  say  the  least,  is  superfluous,  being  essen¬ 
tially  included  in  the  very  idea  of  Deity.  If  used  in  contra¬ 
distinction  from  filial,  it  is  idolatrous,  and  repugnant  to  the 
doctrine  established  in  the  original  records  of  Christianity. 
This  is  not  noted  here  as  a  curious  criticism,  but  as  a  very 
serious  truth. 


history  of  that  fallen  angel  who  was  employed  in 
the  circumvention  of  our  first  parents. 

Had  I  followed  Monsieur  Bossu’s  method  in  my 
first  paper  on  Milton,  I  should  have  dated  the  ac¬ 
tion  of  Paradise  Lost  from  the  beginning  of  Ra¬ 
phael’s  speech  in  this  book,  as  he  supposes  the 
action  of  the  FEneid  to  begin  in  the  second  book  of 
that  poem.  I  could  allege  many  reasons  for  my 
drawing  the  action  of  the  uEneid  rather  from  its 
immediate  beginning  in  the  first  book,  than  from 
its  remote  beginning  in  the  second:  and  show 
why  I  have  considered  the  sacking  of  Troy  as  an 
episode,  according  to  the  common  acceptation  of 
that  word.  But  as  this  would  be  a  dry  unenter¬ 
taining  piece  of  criticism,  and  perhaps  unneces¬ 
sary  to  those  who  have  read  my  first  papers,  I 
shall  not  enlarge  upon  it.  Whichever  of  the  no¬ 
tions  be  true,  the  unity  of  Milton’s  action  is  pre¬ 
served  according  to  either  of  them;  whether  we 
consider  the  fall  of  man  in  its  immediate  begin¬ 
ning,  as  proceeding  from  the  resolutions  taken  ,  in 
the  infernal  council,  or  in  its  more  remote  begin¬ 
ning,  as  proceeding  from  the  first  revolt,  of  the 
angels  in  heaven.  The  occasion  which  Milton 
assigns  for  this  revolt,  as  it  is  founded  on  hints  in 
holy  writ,  and  on  the  opinion  of  some  great 
writers,  so  it  was  the  most  proper  that  the  poet 
could  have  made  use  of. 

The  revolt  in  heaven  is  described  with  great 
force  of  imagination,  and  a  fine  variety  of  circum¬ 
stances.  The  learned  reader  cannot  but  be  pleased 
with  the  poet’s  imitation  of  Homer  in  the  last  of 
the  following  lines : 

At  length  into  the  limits  of  the  north 
They  came,  and  Satan  took  his  royal  seat 
High  on  a  hill,  far  blazing,  as  a  mount 
liais’d  on  a  mount,  -with  pyramids  and  tow’rs 
From  diamond  quarries  hewn,  and  rocks  of  gold, 

The  palace  of  great  Lucifer  (so  call 
That  structure  in  the  dialect  of  men 
Interpreted) - — 

Homer  mentions  persons  and  things,  which,  he 
tells  us,  in  the  language  of  the  gods  are  called  by 
different  names  from  those  they  go  by  in  the  lan¬ 
guage  of  men.  Milton  has  imitated  him  with  his 
usual  judgment  in  this  particular  place,  wherein 
he  has  likewise  the  authority  of  Scripture  to  jus¬ 
tify  him.  The  part  of  Abdiel,  who  was  the  only 
spirit  that  in  this  infinite  host  of  Angels  pre¬ 
served  his  allegiance  to  his  Maker,  exhibits  to  us 
a  noble  moral  of  religious  singularity.  The  zeal 
of  the  seraphim  breaks  forth  in  a  becoming 
warmth  of  sentiments  and  expressions,  as  the 
character  which  is  given  us  of  him  denotes  that 
generous  scorn  and  intrepidity  which  attend  he¬ 
roic  virtue.  The  author,  doubtless,  designed  it 
as  a  pattern  to  those  who  live  among  mankind  in 
their  present  state  of  degeneracy  and  corruption  : 

So  spake  the  seraph  Abdiel,  faithful  found 
Among  the  faithless,  faithful  only  he ; 

Among  innumerable  false,  unmov’d, 

Unshaken,  unseduc’d,  unterrified ; 

His  loyalty  he  kept,  his  love,  his  zeal : 

Nor  number  nor  example  with  him  wrought 
To  swerve  from  truth,  or  change  his  constant  mind, 
Though  single.  From  amidst  them  forth  he  pass  d, 
Long  way  thro’  hostile  scorn,  which  he  sustain’d 
Superior,  nor  of  violence  fear’d  aught; 

And,  with  retorted  scorn,  his  back  he  turned 
L.  On  those  proud  tow’rs  to  swift  destruction  doom’d. 


No.  328.]  MONDAY,  MARCH  17,  1711-12. 

Nullum  a  labore  me  reclinat  otium. 

Hor.  Epod.  xvn,  24. 

Day  chases  night,  and  night  the  day, 

But  no  relief  to  me  convey. — Dcncombe. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  believe  that  this  is  the  first  complaint 
that  ever  was  made  to  you  of  this  nature,  so  you 


THE  SPE  CTATOR, 


are  the  first  person  I  ever  could  prevail  upon  my¬ 
self  to  lay  it  before.  When  I  tell  you  1  have  a 
healthy,  vigorous  constitution,  a  plentiful  estate, 
no  inordinate  desires,  and  am  married  to  a  virtuous 
lovely  woman,  who  neither  wants  wit  nor  good 
nature,  and  by  whom  I  have  a  numerous  offspring 
to  perpetuate  ray  family,  you  will  naturally  con¬ 
clude  me  a  happy  man.  But,  notwithstanding 
these  promising  appearances,  I  am  so  far  from  it, 
that  the  prospect  of  being  ruined  and  undone  by 
a  sort  of  extravagance,  which  of  late  years  is  in  a 
less  degree  crept  into  every  fashionable  family, 
deprives  me  of  all  the  comforts  of  life,  and  ren¬ 
ders  me  the  most  anxious,  miserable  man  on  earth. 
My  wife,  who  was  the  only  child  and  darling  care 
of  an  indulgent  mother,  employed  her  early  years 
in  learning  all  those  accomplishments  we  gene¬ 
rally  understand  by  good-breeding  and  polite 
education.  She  sings,  dances,  plays  on  the  lute 
and  harpsichord,  paints  prettily,  is  a  perfect  mis¬ 
tress  of  the  French  tongue,  and  has  made  a  con¬ 
siderable  progress  in  Italian.  She  is  beside  ex¬ 
cellently  skilled  in  all  domestic  sciences,  as  pre¬ 
serving,  pickling,  pastry,  making  wines  of  fruits 
of  our  own  growth,  embroidering,  and  needle¬ 
works  of  every  kind.  Hitherto,  you  will  be  apt 
to  think  there  is  very  little  cause  of  complaint; 
but  suspend  your  opinion  till  I  have  further  ex¬ 
plained  myself,  and  then,  I  make  no  question,  you 
will  come  over  to  mine.  You  are  not  to  imagine  I 
find  fault  that  she  possesses  or  takes  delight  in 
the  exercises  of  those  qualifications  I  just  now 
mentioned;  ’tis  the  immoderate  fondness  she  has 
to  them  that  I  lament,  and  that  what  is  only  de¬ 
signed  for  the  innocent  amusement  and  recreation 
of  life  is  become  the  whole  business  and  study  of 
hers.  The  six  months  we  are  in  town  (for  the 
year  is  equally  divided  between  that  and  the 
country),  from  almost  break  of  day  till  noon,  the 
whole  morning  is  laid  out  in  practicing  with  her 
several  masters;  and,  to  make  up  the  losses  oc¬ 
casioned  by  her  absence  in  summer,  every  day  in 
the  week  their  attendance  is  required;  and  as  they 
are  all  people  eminent  in  their  professions,  their 
skill  and  time  must  be  recompensed  accordingly. 
So  how  far  these  aricles  extend,  I  leave  you.  to 
judge.  Limning,  one  would  think,  is  no  expensive 
diversion;  but,  as  she  manages  the  matter,  ’tis  a 
very  considerable  addition  to  her  disbursements  ; 
which  you  will  easily  believe,  when  you  know 
she  paints  fans  for  all  her  female  acquaintance, 
and  draws  all  her  relations’  pictures  in  miniature; 
the  first  must  be  mourned  by  nobody  but  Colmar’ 
and  the  other  set  by  nobody  but  Charles  Mather.* 
What  follows  is  still  much  worse  than  the  former; 
for,  as  I  told  you  she  is  a  great  artist  at  her  needle, 
’tis  incredible  what  sums  she  expends  in  embroi¬ 
dery  ;  for,  beside  what  is  appropriated  to  her 
personal  use,  as  mantuas,  petticoats,  stomachers, 
handkerchiefs,  purses,  pin-cushions,  and  working- 
aprons,  she  keeps  four  French  Protestants  con¬ 
tinually  employed  in  making  divers  pieces  of 
superfluous  furniture,  as  quilts,  toilets,  hangings 
for  closets,  beds,  window-curtains,  easy  chairs, 
and  tabourets ;  nor  have  I  any  hopes  of  ever  re¬ 
claiming  her  from  this  extravagance,  while  she 
obstinately  persists  in  thinking  it  a  notable  piece 
of  good  housewifery,  because  they  are  madeathome, 
and  she  has  had  some  share  in  the  performance. 
There  would  be  no  end  of  relating  to  vpu  the  par¬ 
ticulars  of  the  annual  charge,  in  furbishing  her 
store-room  with  a  profusion  of  pickles  and&  pre¬ 
serves;  for  she  is  not  contented  with  having  every¬ 
thing,  unless  it  be  done  every  way,  in  which  she 
consults  an  hereditary  book  of  receipts;  for  her- 


405 


female  ancestors  have  been  always  famed  for  good 
housewifery,  one  of  whom  is  made  immortal,  by 
giving  her  name  to  an  eye-water  and  two  sorts  of 
puddings.  I  cannot  undertake  to  recite  all  her 
medicinal  preparations,  as  salves,  sere-cloths, 
powders,  confects,  cordials,  ratafia,  persico,  orange- 
flower,  and  cherry-brandy,  together  with  innu¬ 
merable  sorts  of  simple  waters.  But  there  is 
nothing  I  lay  so  much  to  my  heart  as  that  de¬ 
testable  catalogue  of  counterfeit  wines,  which  de¬ 
li  ve  their  names  from  the  fruits,  herbs  or  trees,  of 
whose  juices  they  are  chiefly  compounded.  They 
are  loathsome  to  the  taste,  and  pernicious  to  the 
health;  and  as  they  seldom  survive  the  year,  and 
then  are  thrown  away,  under  a  false  pretense  of 
frugality,  I  may  affirm  they  stand  me  in  more 
than  if  I  entertained  all  our  visitors  with  the  best 
burgundy  and  champagne.  Coffee,  chocolate,  and 
green,  imperial,  peco,  and  bohea  teas,  seem  to  be 
trifles;  but  when  the  pauper  appurtenances  of  the 
tea-table  are  added,  they  swell  the  account  higher 
than  one  would  imagine.  cannot  conclude  with¬ 
out  doing  her  justice  in  'one  article,  where  her 
frugality  is  so  remarkable,  I  must  not  deny  her 
the  merit  of  it,  and  that  is  in  relation  to  her  child¬ 
ren,  who  are  all  confined,  both  boys  and  girls,  to 
one  large  room  in  the  remotest  part  of  the  house, 
with  bolts  on  the  doors  and  bars  to  the  windows, 
under  the  care  and  tuition  of  an  old  woman,  who 
had  been  dry-nurse  to  her  grandmother.  This  is 
their  residence  all  the  year  round  ;  and,  as  they 
are  never  allowed  to  appear,  she  prudently  thinks 
it  needless  to  be  at  any  expense  in  apparel  or 
learning.  Her  eldest  daughter  to  this  day  would 
have  neither  read  nor  wrote,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
the  butler,  who  being  the  son  of  a  country  attor¬ 
ney,  lias  taught  her  such  a  hand  as  is  generally 
used  for  engrossing  bills  in  chancery.  By  this 
time  I  have  sufficiently  tired  your  patience  with 
my  domestic  grievances ;  which  I  hope  you  will 
agree  could  not  well  be  contained  in  a  narrow 
compass,  when  you  consider  what  a  paradox  I 
undertook  to  maintain  in  the  beginning  of  ray 
epistle,  and  which  manifestly  appears  to  be  but 
too  melancholy  a  truth.  And  now  I  heartily  wish 
the  relation  I  have  given  of  my  misfortunes  may 
be  of  use  and  benefit  to  the  public.  By  the  ex¬ 
ample  I  have  set  before  them,  the  truly  virtuous 
wives  may  learn  to  avoid  these  errors  which  have 
so  unhappily  misled  mine,  and  which  are  visibly, 
these  three: — First,  in  mistaking  the  proper  ob¬ 
jects  of  her  esteem,  and  fixing  her  affections  upon 
such  things  as  are  only  the  trappings  and  decora¬ 
tions  of  her  sex.  Secondly,  in  not  distinguishing 
what  becomes  the  different  stages  of  life.  And, 
lastly,  the  abuse  and  corruption  of  some  excellent 
qualities,  which,  if  circumscribed  within  just 
bounds,  Avould  have  been  the  blessing  and  pros¬ 
perity  of  her  family ;  but  by  a  vicious  extreme, 
are  like  to  be  the  bane  and  destruction  of  it.” — T. 


•At  the  date  of  this  paper  a  noted  toyman  in  Fleet-street. 


Ho.  328.*]  MONDAY,  MARCH  17,  1711-12. 

Delectata  ilia  urbanitate  tam  stulta. 

Petron.  Arb. 

Delighted  with  unaffected  plainness. 

That  useful  part  of  learning  which  consists  in 
emendations,  knowledge  of  different  readings,  and 

*As  many  of  our  readers  may  be  pleased  to  see,  “  in  puris 
naturalibus,”  the  original  paper,  in  room  of  which  the  pre¬ 
sent  number  was  very  early  substituted,  and  as  this  curiosi¬ 
ty  may  now  be  inoffensively  gratified,  it  is  here  faithfully  re¬ 
printed  from  the  copy  in  folio,  in  its  order,  marked  as  at  first, 
No.  328*,  only  with  the  addition  of  an  asterisk.  It  had  the 
signature  T  at  the  bottom ;  but  see  the  desire  annexed  to  the 
short  letter  in  the  following  note,  both  which  made  the  con¬ 
cluding  part  of  No.  330  in  the  original  publication  of  these 
papers  in  folio. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


40G 

the  like,  is  what  in  all  ages  persons  extremely 
wise  and  learned  have  had  in  great  veneration. 
For  this  reason  I  cannot  but  rejoice  at  the  follow¬ 
ing  epistle,  which  lets  us  into,  the  true  author  of 
the  letter  to  Mrs.  Margaret  Clark,  part  of  which  I 
did  myself  the  honor  to  publish  in  a  former  paper. 

I  must  confess  I  do  not  naturally  affect  critical 
learning;  but  finding  myself  not  so  much  regarded 
as  I  am  apt  to  flatter  myself  I  may  deserve  from 
some  professed  patrons  of  learning,  I  could  not  but 
do  myself  the  justice  to  show  I  am  not  a  stranger 
to  such  erudition  as  they  smile  upon,  if  I  were 
duly  encouraged.  However,  this  is  only  to  let  the 
world  see  what  I  could  do ;  and  I  shall  not  give 
my  reader  any  more  of  this  kind,  if  he  will  forgive 
the  ostentation  I  show  at  present. 

“  Sir,  March  13,  1711-12.  x 

“Upon  reading  your  paper  of  yesterday,  I  took 
the  pains  to  look  out  a  copy  I  had  formerly  taken, 
and  remembered  to  be  very  like  your  last  letter  : 
comparing  them,  I  found  they  were  the  very  same; 
and  have,  underwritten,  sent  you  that  part  of  it 
which  you  say  was  torn  off.  I  hope  you  will  in¬ 
sert  it,  that  posterity  may  know  ’twas  Gabriel 
Bullock  that  made  love  in  that  natural  style  of 
which  you  seem  to  be  so  fond.  But,  to  let  you 
see  I  have  other  manuscripts  in  the  same  way,  I 
have  sent  you  inclosed  three  copies,  faithfully 
taken  by  my  own  hand  from  the  originals,  which 
were  written  by  a  Yorkshire  gentleman  of  a  good 
estate  to  Madam  Mary,  and  an  uncle  of  hers,  a 
knight  very  well  known  by  the  most  ancient  gentry 
in  that  and  several  other  counties  of  Great  Bri¬ 
tain.  I  have  exactly  followed  the  form  and  spelling. 
I  have  been  credibly  informed  that  Mr.  William  Bul¬ 
lock,  the  famous  comedian,  is  the  descendant  of  this 
Gabriel,  who  begot  Mr.  William  Bullock’s  great¬ 
grandfather  on  the  body  of  the  above-mentioned 
Mrs.  Margaret  Clark.  As  neither  Speed,  nor 
Baker,  nor  Selden,  take  notice  of  it,  I  will  not 
pretend  to  be  positive ;  but  desire  that  the  letter 
may  be  reprinted,  and  what  is  here  recovered  may 
be  in  Italics. 

“I  am,  Sir, 

“Your  daily  Reader.” 

“  To  her  I  very  much  respect,  Mrs.  Marg.  Clark.” 

“Lovely,  and  oh  that  I  could  say  loving  Mrs. 
Margaret  Clark,  I  pray  you  let  affection  excuse 
presumption.  Having  been  so  happy  as  to  enjoy 
the  sight  of  your  sweet  countenance  and  comely 
body  sometimes  when  I  had  occasion  to  buy  treacle 
or  liquorish  powder  at  the  apothecary’s  shop,  I 
am  so  enamored  with  you,  that  I  can  no  more 
keep  close  my  flaming  desire  to  become  your 
servant.  And  I  am  the  more  bold  now  to 
write  to  your  sweet  self,  because  I  am  now  my 
own  man,  and  may  match  where  I  please ;  for  my 
father  is  taken  away;  and  now  I  am  come  to  my 
living,  which  is  ten  yard  land  and  a  house ;  and 
there  is  never  a  yard  of  land*  in  our  field  but  is 
as  well  worth  ten  pounds  a  year  as  a  thief’s  worth 
a  halter;  and  all  my  brothers  and  sisters  are  pro¬ 
vided  for:  beside  I  have  good  household  stuff, 
though  I  say  it,  both  brass  and  pewter,  linens  and 
woolens;  and  though  my  house  be  thatched,  yet 
if  you  and  I  match,  it  shall  go  hard  but  I  will 
have  one  half  of  it  slated.  If  you  shall  think 
well  of  this  motion,  I  will  wait  upon  you  as  soon 
as  my  new  clothes  are  made,  and  hay-harvest  is 
in.  I  could,  though  I  say  it  have  good  matches  in 
our  town;  hut  my  mother  ( God’s  peace  be  with  her) 
charged  me  on  her  death-bed  to  marry  a  gentlewoman, 


*  In  some  countries  20,  in  some  24,  and  in  others  30  acres 
of  land. — Virgata  Terra 


one  who  had  been  well  trained  up  in  the  sewing  and 
cookery.  I  do  not  think  but  that  if  you  and  I  can 
agree  to  marry,  and  lay  our  means  together,  1  shall 
be  made  grand  juryman  ere  two  or  three  years  come 
about,  and  that  will  be  a  great  credit  to  us.  If  1 
could  have  got  a  messenger  for  sixpence,  I  would  have 
sent  one  on  purpose,  and  some  trifle  or  other  for  a 
token  of  my  love ;  but  I  hope  there  is  nothing  lost  for 
that  neither.  So,  hoping  you  will  take  this  letter  in 
good  part,  and  answer  it  with  what  care  and  speed 
you  can,  I  rest  and  remain 

“  Yours,  if  my  own, 

“  Sweeepston,  “  Mr.  Gabriel  Bullock 
Leicestershire.  “  now  my  father  is  dead.” 

“  When  the  coal  carts  come,  I  shall  send  oftener; 
and  may  come  in  one  of  them  myself.”* 

“  For  Sir  William  to  go  to  london  at  Westminster  re¬ 
member  a  parlement. 

“  Sir, 

“William,  i  hope  that  you  are  well,  i  write  to 
let  you  know  that  i  am  in*  trouble  about  a  lady 
your  nease  ;  and  i  do  desire  that  you  will  be  my 
friend;  for  when  i  did  com  to  see  her  at  your  hall, 
i  was  mighty  Abuesed.  i  would  fain  a  see  you  at 
topecliff,  and  thay  would  not  let  me  go  to  you;  but 
i  desire  that  you  will  be  our  friends,  for  it  is  no 
dishonor  neither  for  you  nor  she,  for  God  did  make 
us  all.  i  wish  that  i  might  see  yu,  for  they  say 
that  you  are  a  good  man;  and  many  doth  wounder 
at  it,  but  madam  norton  is  abuesed  and  ceated  two 
i  believe,  i  might  a  had  many  a  lady,  but  I  con 
have  none  but  her  with  a  good  consons,  for  there 
is  a  God  that  know  our  hearts,  if  you  and  ma¬ 
dam  norton  will  come  to  York,  there  i  shill  meet 
you,  if  God  be  willing,  and  if  you  be  pleased,  so 
be  not  angterie  till  you  know  the  trutes  of  things. 

“  I  give  my  to  me  lady,  and 
to  Mr.  Aysenby,  and  to 

“  George  Nelson.  madam  norton,  March 

the  19th,  1706.” 

“  This  is  for  madam  inary  norton  disforth  Lady  she 
went  to  York. 

“  Madam  Mary.  Deare  loving  sweet  lady,  i 
hope  you  are  well.  Do  not  go  to  london,  for  they 
will  put  you  in  the  nunnery,  and  heed  not  Mrs. 
Lucy  what  she  saith  to  you,  for  she  will  ly  and 
ceat  you.  go  from  to  another  place,  and  we  will  gate 
wed  so  with  speed,  mind  what  i  write  to  you,  for 
if  they  gate  you  to  london  they  will  keep  you  there; 
and  so  let  us  gate  wed,  and  we  will  both  go.  so 
if  you  go  to  london,  you  rueing  yourself,  so  heed 
not  what  none  of  them  saith  to  you:  let  us  gate 
wed,  and  we  shall  lie  to  gader  any  time,  i  will 
do  anything  for  you  to  my  poore.  i  hope  the 
devil  will  faile  them  all,  for  a  hellish  company 
there  be.  from  their  cursed  trick  and  mischiefus 
ways  good  lord  bless  and  deliver  both  you  and 
me. 

“  I  think  to  be  at  York  the  24  day.’ 

“This  is  for  madam  marry  norton  to  go  to  london  for  a 
lady  that  belongs  to  dishforth. 

“  Madam  Mary  i  hope  you  are  well,  i  am  soary 
that  you  went  away  from  York,  deare  loving  sweet 
lady,  i  writt  to  let  you  know  that  i  do  remain  faith 
full;  and  if  can  let  me  know  where  i  can  meet  you 
i  will  wed  you,  and  I  will  do  anything  to  my 
poor;  for  you  are  a  good  woman,  and  will  be  a 
loving  Misteris.  i  am  in  troubel  for  you,  so  if  you 
will  come  to  york  i  will  wed  you.  so  with  speed 
come,  and  I  will  have  none  but  you.  so,  sweet. 


*  See  No.  324,  and  note,  where  this  letter  is  given  imper 
fectly,  and  supplied  otherwise. 


THE  SPE 

love,  heed  not  what  to  say  to  me,  and  will)  speed 
come;  heed  not  what  none  of  them  say  to  you; 
your  Maid  makes  you  believe  ought. 

“  So  deare  love  think  of  Mr.  george  Nillson  with 
speed ;  i  sent  2  or  3  letters  before. 

“  I  gave  misteris  elcock  some  nots,  and  thay 
put  me  in  pruson  all  the  night  for  me  pains,  and 
non  new  wliear  i  was,  and  I  did  gat  cold. 

“  But  it  is  for  mrs.  Lucy  to  go  a  good  way  from 
home,  for  in  york  and  round  about  she  is  known  ; 
to  writ  any  more  her  deeds,  the  same  will  tell 
hor  soul  is  black  "within,  hor  corkis  stinks  of  hell. 

“March  19th,  ] 706.”* 


No.  329.]  TUESDAY,  MARCH  18,  1711-12. 

Ire  tamen  restat,  Numa  quo  devenit  et  Ancus. 

Hor.  1  Ep.  vi,  27. 

With  Ancus,  and  with  Numa,  kings  of  Rome, 

We  must  descend  into  the  silent  tomb. 

My  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  told  me  t’other 
night,  that  he  had  been  reading  my  paper  upon 
Westminster-abbey,  in  which,  says  he,  there  are 
a  great  many  ingenious  fancies.  He  told  me  at 
the  same  time,  that  he  observed,  I  had  promised 
another  paper  upon  the  tombs,  and  that  he  should 
be  glad  to  go  and  see  them  with  me,  not  having 
visited  them  since  he  had  read  history.  I  could 
not  imagine  at  first  how  this  came  into  the 
knight’s  head,  till  I  recollected  that  he  had  been 
busy  all  last  summer  upon  Baker’s  Chronicle, 
which  he  has  quoted  several  times  in  his  disputes 
with  Sir  Andrew  Freeport  since  his  last-  coming  to 
town.  Accordingly  I  promised  to  call  upon  him 
the  next  morning,  that  we  might  go  together  to 
the  abbey. 

I  found  the  knight  under  the  butler’s  hands, 
who  always  shaves  him.  He  was  no  sooner 
dressed,  than  he  called  for  a  glass  of  the  widow 
Truby’s  wTater,  which  he  told  me  he  always  drank 
before  he  went  abroad.  He  recommended  me  a 
dram  of  it  at  the  same  time  with  so  much  hearti¬ 
ness,  that  I  could  not  forbear  drinking  it.  As  soon 
as  I  had  got  it  down,  I  found  it  very  unpalatable; 
upon  which  the  knight,  observing  that  I  had  made 
several  wry  faces,  told  me  that  he  knew  I  should 
not  like  it  at  first,  but  that  it  was  the  best  thing  in 
the  world  against  the  stone  or  gravel. 

I  could  have  wished  indeed  that  he  had  ac¬ 
quainted  me  with  the  virtues  of  it  sooner;  but  it 
was  too  late  to  complain,  and  I  knew  what  he 
had  done  was  out  of  good-will.  Sir  Roger  told 
me  further,  that  he  looked  upon  it  to  be  very  good 
for  a  man  while  he  stayed  in  town,  to  keep  off 


*  In  a  MS.  written  by  Dr.  Birch,  now  before  the  annotator, 
it  is  said,  that  an  original  number  of  the  Spectator  in  folio 
was  withdrawn  at  the  time  of  its  republication  in  volumes, 
on  the  remonstrance  of  a  family  who  conceived  themselves 
injured  by  its  appearance  in  print.  It  was,  most  probably, 
this  very  paper. 

The  following  short  letter,  with  the  desire  annexed  to  it, 
a.re  subjoined  to  No.  330  in  the  original  publication  of  the 
Spectator  in  folio:  as  they  evidently  relate  to  this  paper 
which  was  suppressed  very  soon  after  its  original  date,  they 
are  here  reprinted  for  the  first  time. 

“  Mr.  Spectator,  March  18, 1711-12. 

“The  ostentation  you  showed  yesterday  [March  17]  would 
have  been  pardonable,  had  you  provided  better  for  the  two 
extremities  of  your  paper,  and  placed  in  the  one  the  letter  R, 
in  the  other, 

Nescio  quid  meditans  nugarum  et  totus  in  illis. 

A  word  to  the  wise. 

“I  am  your  humble  Servant, 

“  T.  Trash.” 

According  to  the  emendation  of  the  above  correspondent, 
the  reader  is  desired,  in  the  paper  of  the  17th,  to  read  R, 

for  T. 


C  T  A  T  0  R .  4Q7 

infection,  and  that  he  got  together  a  quantity  of 
it  upon  the  first  news  of  the  sickness  being  at 
Dantzick:  when  of  a  sudden  turniug  short  to  one 
ot  his  servants,  who  stood  behind  him,  he  bid 
him  call  a  hackney-coach,  and  take  care  it  was  an 
elderly  man  that  drove  it. 

He  then  resumed  his  discourse  upon  Mrs.  Tru- 
by  s  water,  telling  me  that  the  widow  Truby  was 
one  who  did  more  good  than  all  the  doctors  and 
apothecaries  in  the  country;  that  she  distilled 
every  poppy  that  grew  within  five  miles  of  her  ; 
that  she  distributed  her  water  gratis  among  all 
sorts  of  people :  to  which  the  knight  added,  that 
she  had  a  very  great  jointure,  and  that  the  whole 
country  would  fain  have  it  a  match  between  him 
and  her ;  “  and  truly,”  says  Sir  Roger,  “  if  I  had 
not  been  engaged,  perhaps  I  could  not  have  done 
better.” 

His  discourse  was  broken  off  by  his  man’s  telling 
him  he  had  called  a  coach.  Upon  our  going  to 
it,  after  having  cast  his  eye  upon  the  wheels]  he 
asked  the  coachman  if  his  axletree  was  good; 
upon  the  fellow’s  telling  him  he  would  warrant  it, 
the  knight  turned  to  me,  told  me  he  looked  like’ 
an  honest  man,  and  went  in  without  further 
ceremony. 

We  had  not  gone  far,  when  Sir  Roger,  popping 
out  his  head,  called  the  coachman  down  from  his 
box,  and,  upon  presenting  himself  at  the  window, 
asked  him  if  he  smoked.  As  I  was  considering 
what  this  would  end  in,  he  bid  him  stop  by  the 
way  at  any  good  tobacconist’s,  and  take  in  a  roll 
of  their  be$t  Virginia.  Nothing  material  hap¬ 
pened  in  the  remaining  part  of  our  journey,  till 
we  were  set  down  at  the  west  end  of  the  abbey. 

As  we  went  up  the  body  of  the  church,  the 
knight  pointed  at  the  trophies  upon  one  of  the 
new  monuments,  and  cried  out,  “  A  brave  man, 
I  warrant  him !”  Passing  afterward  by  Sir  Cloudes- 
ly  Shovel,  he  flung  his  hand  that  way,  and  cried, 
“  Sir  Cloudesly  Shovel !  a  very  gallant  man.” 
As  we  stood  before  Busby’s  tomb,  the  knight 
uttered  himself  again  after  the  same  manner: 
“Dr.  Busby!  a  great  man!  he  whipped  my 
grandfather;  a  very  great  man!  I  should  have 
gone  to  him  myself,  if  I  had  not  been  a  block¬ 
head  :  a  very  great  man  !” 

We  were  immediately  conducted  into  the  little 
chapel  on  the  right  hand.  Sir  Roger  planting 
himself  at  our  historian’s  elbow,  was  very  atten¬ 
tive  to  everything  he  said,  particularly  to  the 
account  he  gave  us  of  the  lord  who  had  cut  off 
the  king  of  Morocco’s  head.  Among  several  other 
figures,  he  was  very  well  pleased  to  see  the  states¬ 
man  Cecil  upon  his  knees;  and  concluding  them 
all  to  be  great  men,  was  conducted  to  the  figure 
which  represents  that  martyr  to  good  housewifely 
who  died  by  the  prick  of  a  needle.  Upon  our 
interpreter’s  telling  us  that  she  was  a  maid  of 
honor  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  the  knight  was  very 
inquisitive  into  her  name  and  family;  and,  after 
having  regarded  her  finger  for  some  time,  “  1 
wonder,”  says  he,  “that  Sir  Richard  Baker  has 
said  nothing  of  her  in  his  Chronicle.” 

We  were  then  conveyed  to  the  two  coronation 
chairs,  where  my  old  friend,  after  having  heard 
that  the  stone  under  the  most  ancient  of  them, 
which  was  brought  from  Scotland,  was  called 
Jacob’s  pillar,  sat  himself  down  in  the  chair,  and, 
looking  like  the  figure  of  an  old  Gothic  king, 
asked  our  interpreter,  what  authority  they  had 
to  say  that  Jacob  had  ever  been  in  Scotland? 
The  fellow,  instead  of  returning  him  an  answer, 
told  him,  that  he  hoped  his  honor  would  pay  his 
forfeit.  I  could  observe  Sir  Roger  a  little  ruffled 
upon  being  thus  trepanned  ;  but  our  guide  not  in¬ 
sisting  upon  his  demand,  the  knight  soon  re- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


408 

covered  his  good  humor,  and  whispered  in  my 
ear,  that  if  Will  Wimble  were  with  us,  and  saw 
those  chairs,  it  would  go  hard  but  he  would  get 
a  tobacco  stopper  out  of  one  or  t’other  of  them. 

Sir  Roger  in  the  next  place,  laid  his  hand  upon 
Edward  the  Third’s  sword,  and  leaning  upon  the 
pommel  of  it,  gave  us  the  whole  history  of  the 
Black  Prince:  concluding,  that  in  Sir  Richard 
Baker’s  opinion,  Edward  the  third  was  one  of  the 
greatest  princes  that  ever  sat  upon  the  English 
throne. 

We  were  then  shown  Edward  the  Confessor’s 
tomb;  upon  which  Sir  Roger  acquainted  us,  that 
he  was  the  first  who  touched  for  the  evil :  and 
afterward  Henry  the  Fourth’s;  upon  which  he 
shook  his  head,  and  told  us  there  was  fine  reading 
in  the  casualties  of  that  reign. 

Our  conductor  then  pointed  to  that  monument 
where  there  is  the  figure  of  one  of  our  English 
kings  without  a  head ;  and  upon  giving  us  to 
know,  that  the  head,  which  was  of  beaten  silver, 
had  been  stolen  away  several  years  since  ;  “  Some 
whig,  I ’ll  warrant  you,”  says  Sir  Roger;  “you 
ought  to  lock  up  your  kings  better ;  they  will 
carry  off  the  body  too,  if  you  don’t  take  care.” 

The  glorious  name  of  Henry  the  Fifth  and  Queen 
Elizabeth  gave  the  knight  great  opportunities  of 
shining,  and  of  doing  justice  to  Sir  Richard  Ba¬ 
ker,  who,  as  our  knight  observed  with  some  sur¬ 
prise,  had  a  great  many  kings  in  him,  whose 
monuments  he  had  not  seen  in  the  abbey. 

For  my  own  part,  I  could  not  but  be  pleased  to 
see  the  knight  show  such  an  honest  passion  for 
the  glory  of  his  country,  and  such  a  respectful 
gratitude  to  the  memory  of  its  princes. 

I  must  not  omit,  that  the  benevolence  of  my 
good  old  friend,  which  flows  out  toward  every 
one  he  converses  with,  made  him  very  kind  to 
our  interpreter,  whom  he  looked  upon  as  an  extra¬ 
ordinary  man:  for  which  reason  he  shook  him 
by  the  hand  at  parting,  telling  him,  that  he 
should  be  very  glad  to  see  him  at  his  lodgings  in 
Norfolk  buildings,  and  talk  over  these  matters 
with  him  more  at  leisure. — L. 


No.  330.]  WEDNESDAY,  MARCH  19,  1711-12. 

Maxima  debetur  pueris  reyerentia - 

Juv.,  Sat.  xiv,  48. 

To  youth  the  greatest  reverence  is  due. 

The  following  letters,  written  by  two  very  con¬ 
siderate  correspondents,  both  under  twenty  years 
of  age,  are  very  good  arguments  of  the  necessity 
of  taking  into  consideration  the  many  incidents 
which  affect  the  education  of  youth. 

“  Sir, 

“I  have  long  expected  that,  in  the  course  of 
your  observations  upon  the  several  parts  of 
human  life,  you  would  one  time  or  other  fall 
upon  a-subject,  which,  since  you  have  not,  I  take 
the  liberty  to  recommend  to  you.  What  1  mean 
is,  the  patronage  of  young  modest  men  to  such 
as  are  able  to  countenance,  and  introduce  them 
into  the  world.  For  want  of  such  assistances,  a 
youth  of  merit  languishes  in  obscurity  or  poverty 
when  his  circumstances  are  low,  and  runs  into 
riot  and  excess  when  his  fortunes  are  plentiful.  I 
cannot  make  myself  better  understood,  than  by 
sending  you  a  history  of  myself,  which  I  shall 
desire  you  to  insert  in  your  paper,  it  being  the 
only  way  I  have  of  expressing  my  gratitude  for 
the  ^highest  obligations  imaginable. 

“  I  am  the  son  of  a  merchant  of  the  city  of 
London,  who,  by  many  losses,  was  reduced  from 


a  very  luxuriant  trade  and  credit  to  very  narrow 
circumstances,  in  comparison  to  that  of  his  former 
abundance.  This  took  away  the  vigor  of  his 
mind,  and  all  manner  of  attention  to  a  fortune 
which  he  now  thought  desperate;  insomuch  that 
he  died  without  a  will,  having  before  buried  my 
mother,  in  the  midst  of  his  other  misfortunes.  I 
was  sixteen  years  of  age  when  I  lost  my  father ; 
and  an  estate  of  200Z.  a-year  came  into  my  pos¬ 
session,  without  friend  or  guardian  to  instruct  me 
in  the  management  or  enjoyment  of  it.  The  na¬ 
tural  consequence  of  this  was  (though  I  wanted 
no  director,  and  soon  had  fellows  who  found  me 
out  for  a  smart  young  gentleman,  and  led  me  into 
all  the  debaucheries  of  which  I  was  capable), 
that  my  companions  and  I  could  not  well  be 
supplied  without  running  into  debt,  which  I  did 
very  frankly,  till  I  was  arrested,  and  conveyed, 
with  a  guard  strong  enough  for  the  most  despe¬ 
rate  assassin,  to  a  bailiff’s  house,  where  I  lay  four 
days  surrounded  with  very  merry,  but  not  very 
agreeable  company.  As  soon  as  I  had  extricated 
myself  from  this  shameful  confinement,  I  reflected 
upon  it  with  so  much  horror,  that  I  deserted  all 
my  old  acquaintance,  and  took  chambers  in  an 
inn  of  court,  with  a  resolution  to  study  the  law 
with  all  possible  application.  I  trifled  away  a 
whole  year  in  looking  over  a  thousand  intricacies, 
without  a  friend  to  apply  to  in  any  case  of  doubt ; 
so  that  I  only  lived  there  among  men  as  little 
children  are  sent  to  school  before  they  are  capable 
of  improvement,  only  to  be  out  of  harm’s  way. 
In  the  midst  of  this  state  of  suspense,  not  know¬ 
ing  how  to  dispose  of  myself,  I  was  sought  for  by 
a  relation  of  mine;  who,  upon  observing  a  good 
inclination  in  me,  used  me  with  great  familiarity, 
and  carried  me  to  his  seat  in  the  country.  When 
I  came  there  he  introduced  me  to  all  the  good 
company  in  the  county;  and  the  great  obligation 
I  have  to  him  for  this  kind  notice,  and  residence 
with  him  ever  since,  has  made  so  strong  an  im¬ 
pression  upon  me,  that  he  has  an  authority  of  a 
father  over  me,  founded  upon  the  love  of  a  bro¬ 
ther.  I  have  a  good  study  of  books,  a  good  stable 
of  horses  always  at  my  command  ;  and,  though  I 
am  not  now  quite  eighteen  years  of  age,  familiar 
converse  on  his  part,  and  a  strong  inclination  to 
exert  myself  on  mine,  have  had  an  effect  upon  me 
that  makes  me  acceptable  wherever  I  go.  Thus,  Mr. 
Spectator,  by  this  gentleman’s  favor  and  patron¬ 
age,  it  is  my  own  fault  if  I  am  not  wiser  and  richer 
every  day  I  live.  I  speak  this  as  well  by  subscrib¬ 
ing  the  initial  letters  of  my  name  to  thank  him,  as  to 
incite  others  to  an  imitation  of  his  virtue.  It  would 
be  a  worthy  work  to  show  what  great  charities 
are  to  be  done  without  expense,  and  how  many 
noble  actions  are  lost,  out  of  inadvertency,  in 
persons  capable  of  performing  them,  if  they  were 
put  in  mind  of  it.  If  a  gentleman  of  figure  in  a 
county  would  make  his  family  a  pattern  for  sobri¬ 
ety,  good  sense,  and  breeding,  and  would  kindly 
endeavor  to  influence  the  education  and  growing 
prospects  of  the  younger  gentry  about  him,  I  am 
apt  to  believe  it  would  save  him  a  great  deal  of 
stale  beer  on  a  public  occasion,  and  render  him 
the  leader  of  his  country  from  their  gratitude  to 
him,  instead  of  being  a  slave  to  their  riots  and 
tumults,  in  order  to  be  made  their  representative. 
The  same  thing  might  be  recommended  to  all 
who  have  made  any  progress  in  any  parts  of 
knowledge,  or  arrived  at  any  degree  in  a  profes¬ 
sion  :  others  may  gain  preferments  and  fortunes 
from  their  patrons ;  but  I  have,  I  hope,  received 
from  mine  good  habits  and  virtues.  I  repeat  to 
you,  Sir,  my  request  to  print  this,  in  return  for 
all  the  evil  a  helpless  orphan  shall  ever  escape 
and  all  the  good  he  shall  receive  in  this  life 


THE  SPE 

both  which  are  wholly  owing  to  this  gentleman’s 
favor  to 

•  "  Sir,  your  most  obedient  Servant, 

"S.  P” 

"Mr.  Spectator, 

"I  am  a  lad  of  about  fourteen.  I  find  a  mighty 
pleasure  in  learning.  I  have  been  at  the  Latin 
school  four  years.  I  don’t  know  I  ever  played 
truant,  or  neglected  any  task  my  master  set  me  in 
my  life.  I  think  on  what  I  read  in  school  as  I  go 
home  at  noon  and  night,  and  so  intently,  that  I 
have  often  gone  half  a  mile  out  of  my  way,  not 
minding  whither  I  went.  Our  maid  tells  me  she 
often  hears  me  talk  Latin  in  my  sleep,  and  I  dream 
two  or  three  nights  in  a  week  I  am  reading  Juve¬ 
nal  and  Homer.  My  master  seems  as  well  pleased 
with  my  performances  as  any  boy’s  in  the  same 
class.  1  think,  if  I  know  my  own  mind,  I  would 
choose  rather  to  be  a  scholar  than  a  prince  without 
learning.  I  have  a  very  good,  affectionate  father; 
but  though  very  rich,  yet  so  mighty  near,  that  he 
thinks  much  ot  the  charges  of  my  education.  He 
often  tells  me  he  believes  my  schooling  will  ruin 
him;  that  I  cost  him  God  knows  what  in  books. 

I  tremble  to  tell  him  I  want  one.  I  am  forced  to 
keep  my  pocket-money,  and  lay  it  out  for  a  book 
now  and  then,  that  he  don’t  know  of.  He  has  or¬ 
dered  my  master  to  buy  no  more  books  for  me,  but 
says  he  will  buy  them  himself.  I  asked  him  for 
Horace  t’other  day,  and  he  told  me  in  a  passion  he 
did  not  believe  I  was  fit  for  it,  but  only  my  master 
had  a  mind  to  make  him  think  I  had  got  a  great 
way  in  my  learning.  1  am  sometimes  a  month 
behind  other  boys  in  getting  the  books  my  master 
gives  orders  for.  All  the  boys  in  the  school,  but 
I,  have  the  classic  authors  in  usurn  Delphini,  gilt 
and  lettered  on  the  back.  My  father  is  often  reck¬ 
oning  up  how  long  I  have  been  at  school,  and  tells 
me  he  fears  I  do  little  good.  My  father’s  carriage 
so  discourages  me,  that  he  makes  me  grow  dull 
and  melancholy.  My  master  wonders  what  is  the 
matter  with  me;  I  am  afraid  to  tell  him;  for  he  is 
a  man  that  likes  to  encourage  learning,  and  would 
be  apt  to  chide  my  father,  and,  not  knowing  his 
temper,  may  make  him  worse.  Sir,  if  you  have 
any  love  for  learning,  I  beg  you  would  give  me 
some  instructions  in  this  case,  and  persuade  pa¬ 
rents  to  encourage  their  children  when  they  find 
them  diligent  and  desirous  of  learning.  I  have 
heard  some  parents  say,  they  would  do  anything 
for  their  children,  if  they  would  but  mind  their 
learning :  I  would  be  glad  to  be  in  their  place. 
Dear  Sir,  pardon  my  boldness.  If  you  will  but 
consider  and  pity  my  case,  I  will  pray  for  your 
prosperity  as  long  as  I  live. 

"Your  humble  Servant, 

"James  Discipulus.” 

"London,  March  2,  1711.” 

T. 


No.  331.]  THURSDAY,  MARCH  20,  1711-12. 

- Stolid  am  prabet  tibi  yellore  barbem.— 

Pers.,  Sat.  ii,  28. 

Holds  out  bis  foolish  beard  for  thee  to  pluck. 

When  I  was  last  with  my  friend  Sir  Roger  in 
Westmi  nster-abbey,  I  observed  that  he  stood  longer 
than  ordinary  before  the  bust  of  a  venerable  old 
man.  I  was  at  a  loss  to  guess  the  reason  of  it; 
when,  after  some  time,  he  pointed  to  the  figure, 
and  asked  me  if  I  did  not  think  that  our  forefath¬ 
ers  looked  much  wiser  in  their  beards  than  we  do 
without  them  ?  "  For  my  part,”  says  he,  "  when 

I  am  walking  in  my  gallery  in  the  country,  and 
see  my  ancestors,  who  many  of  them  died  before 


ctator.  409 

they  were  of  my  age,  I  cannot  forbear  regarding 
them  as  so  many  old  patriarchs,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  looking  upon  myself  as  an  idle  smock-faced 
young  fellow.  I  love  to  see  your  Abrahams,  your 
Isaacs,  and  your  Jacobs,  as  we  have  them  in  old 
pieces  ol  tapestry,  with  beards  below  their  gir¬ 
dles,  that  cover  half  the  hangings.”  The  knight 
added,  “if  I  would  recommend  beards  in  one  of 
my  papers,  and  endeavor  to  restore  human  faces 
to  their  ancient  dignity,  that,  upon  a  month's 
warning,  he  would  undertake  to  lead  up  the  fash¬ 
ion  himself  in  a  pair  of  whiskers.” 

I  smiled  at  my  friend  s  fancy;  but,  after  we 
pai  ted,  could  not  forbear  reflecting  on  the  meta¬ 
morphosis  our  faces  have  undergone  in  this  par¬ 
ticular.  r 

.The  beaid,  conformable  to  the  notion  of  my 
friend  Sir  Roger,  was  for  many  ages  looked  upon  as 
the  type  of  wisdom.  Lucian  more  than  once  ral¬ 
lies  the  philosophers  of  his  time,  who  endeavored 
to  rival  one  another  in  beards;  and  represents  a 
learned  man  who  stood  for  a  professorship  in  phi¬ 
losophy,  as  unqualified  for  it  by  the  shortness  of 
his  beard. 

yElian,  in  his  account  of  Zoilus,  the  pretended 
critic,  who  wrote  against  Homer  and  Plato,  and 
thought  himself  wiser  than  all  who  had  gone  be¬ 
fore  him,  tells  us  that  this  Zoilus  had  a  very  long 
beard  that  hung  down  upon  his  breast,  but  no 
hair  upon  his  head,  which  he  always  kept  close 
shaved,  regarding,  it  seems,  the  hairs  of  his  head 
as  so  many  suckers,  which,  if  they  had  been  suf¬ 
fered  to  grow,  might  have  drawn  away  the  nour¬ 
ishment  from  his  chin,  and  by  that  means  have 
starved  his  beard. 

I  have  read  somewhere,  that  one  of  the  popes 
refused  to  accept  an  edition  of  a  saint’s  works, 
which  were  presented  to  him,  because  the  saint, 
in  his  effigies  before  the  book,  was  drawn  without 
a  beard. 

We  see  by  these  instances  what  homage  the 
world  has  formerly  paid  to  beards;  and  that  a  bar¬ 
ber  was  not  then  allowed  to  make  those  depreda¬ 
tions  on  the  faces  of  the  learned,  which  have  been 
permitted  him  of  late  years. 

Accordingly  several  wise  nations  have  been  so 
extremely  jealous  of  the  least  ruffle  offered  to  their 
beards,  that  they  seem  to  have  fixed  the  point  of 
honor  principally  in  that  part.  The  Spaniards 
were  wonderfully  tender  in  this  particular.  Don 
Quevedo,  in  his  third  vision  on  the  last  judgment, 
has  carried  the  humor  very  far,  when  he  tells  us 
that  one  of  his  vain-glorious  countrymen  after 
having  received  sentence,  was  taken  into  custody 
by  a  couple  of  evil  spirits;  but  that  his  guides 
happening  to  disorder  his  mustachios,  they  were 
forced  to  recompense  them  with  a  pair  of  curling- 
irons,  before  they  could  get  him  to  file  off. 

If  we  look  into  the  history  of  our  own  nation, 
we  shall  find  that  the  beard  flourished  in  the 
Saxon  heptarchy,  but  was  very  much  discouraged 
under  the  Norman  line.  It  shot  out,  however, 
from  time  to  time,  in  several  reigns  under  different 
shapes.  The  last  effort  it  made  seems  to  have 
been  in  Queen  Mary’s  days,  as  the  curious  reader 
may  find,  if  he  pleases  to  peruse  the  figures  of 
Cardinal  Pole  and  Bishop  Gardiner;  though,  at 
the  same  time,  I  think  it  may  be  questioned,  if 
zeal  against  popery  has  not  induced  our  Protestant 
painters  to  exteud  the  beards  of  these  two  perse¬ 
cutors  beyond  their  natural  dimensions,  in  order 
to  make  them  appear  the  more  terrible. 

I  find  but  few  beards  worth  taking  notice  of  in 
the  reign  of  King  James  the  First. 

During  the  civil  wars  there  appeared  one,  which 
makes  too  great  a  figure  in  story  to  be  passed  over 
in  silence;  I  mean  that  of  the  redoubted  Hudibras, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


410 

an  account  of  which  Butler  has  transmitted  to 
posterity  in  the  following  lines  : 

Ilis  tawny  beard  was  th’  equal  grace 
Both  of  his  wisdom  and  his  face ; 

In  cut  and  dye  so  like  a  tile, 

A  sudden  view  it  would  beguile ; 

The  upper  part  thereof  was  whey, 

The  nether  orange  mixt  with  gray. 

The  whisker  continued  for  some  time  among  us 
after  the  extirpation  of  beards;  but  this  is  a  sub¬ 
ject  Avliich  I  shall  not  here  enter  upon,  having 
discussed  it  at  large  in  a  distinct  treatise,  which 
I  keep  by  me  in  manuscript,  upon  the  mustachio. 

If  my  friend  Sir  Roger’s  project  of  introducing 
beards  should  take  effect,  I  fear  the  luxury  of  the 
present  age  would  make  it  a  very  expensive 
fashion.  There  is  no  question  but  the  beaux 
would  soon  provide  themselves  with  false  ones  of 
the  lightest  colors,  and  the  most  immoderate 
lengths.  A  fair  beard  of  the  tapestry  size,  which 
Sir  Roger  seems  to  approve,  could  not  come  under 
twenty  guineas.  The  famous  golden  beard  of 
JEsculapius  would  hardly  be  more  valuable  than 
one  made  in  the  extravagance  of  the  fashion. 

Beside,  we  are  not  certain  that  the  ladies  would 
not  come  into  the  mode,  when  they  take  the  air 
on  horseback.  They  already  appear  in  hats  and 
feathers,  coats  and  periwigs  :  and  I  see  no  reason 
why  we  may  not  suppose  that  they  would  have 
their  riding-beards  on  the  same  occasion. 

I  may  give  the  moral  of  this  discourse  in  another 
paper. — X. 


Ho.  332.]  FRIDAY,  MARCH  21,  1712. 

- Minus  aptus  acutis 

Naribus  horum  hominum - Hor.  1  Sat.  iii,  29. 

He  cannot  bear  the  raillery  of  the  age. — Creech. 

“Dear  Short  Face, 

“  In  your  speculation  of  Wednesday  last,  you 
have  given  us  some  account  of  that  worthy  soci¬ 
ety  of  brutes,  the  Mohocks;  wherein  you  have 
particularly  specified  the  ingenious  performances 
of  the  lion  tippers,  the  dancing-masters,  and  the 
tumblers :  but  as  you  acknowledged  you  had  not 
then  a  perfect  history  of  the  whole  club,  you  might 
very  easily  omit  one  of. the  most  notable  species 
of  it,  the  sweaters,  which  may  be  reckoned  a  sort 
of  dancing-masters  too.  It  is,  it  seems,  the  cus¬ 
tom  for  half  a  dozen,  or  more,  of  these  well-dis¬ 
posed  savages,  as  soon  as  they  have  inclosed  the 
persons  upon  whom  they  design  the  favor  of  a 
sweat,  to  whip  out  their  swords,  and  holding  them 
parallel  to  the  horizon,  they  describe  a  sort  of 
magic  circle  round  about  him  with  the  points.  As 
soon  as  this  piece  of  conjuration  is  performed, 
and  the  patient  without  doubt  already  beginning 
to  wax  warm,  to  forward  the  operation,  that  mem¬ 
ber  of  the  circle  toward  whom  he  is  so  rude  as  to 
turn  his  back  first,  runs  his  sword  directly  into 
that  part  of  the  patient  whereon  school-boys  are 
punished;  and  as  it  is  very  natural  to  imagine  this 
will  soon  make  him  tack  about  to  some  other 
point,  every  gentleman  does  himself  the  same  jus¬ 
tice  as  often  as  he  receives  the  affront.  After  this 
jig  has  gone  two  or  three  times  round,  and  the  pa¬ 
tient  is  thought  to  have  sweat  sufficiently,  he  is 
very  handsomely  rubbed  down  by  some  attend¬ 
ants,  who  carry  with  them  instruments  for  that 
purpose,  and  so  discharged.  This  relation  I  had 
from  a  friend  of  mine,  who  has  lately  been  under 
this  discipline.  He  tells  me  he  had  the  honor  to 
dance  before  the  emperor  himself,  not  without  the 
applause  and  acclamations  both  of  his  imperial 
majesty  and  the  whole  ring;  though  I  dare  say, 
neither  I,  nor  any  of  his  acquaintance,  ever 


dreamt  he  would  have  merited  any  reputation  by 
his  activity. 

“  I  can  assure  you,  Mr.  Spectator,  I  was  very 
near  being  qualified  to  have  given  you  a  faithful 
and  painful  account  of  this  walking  bagnio,  if  I 
may  so  call  it,  myself.  Going  the  other  night 
along  Fleet-street,  and  having,  out  of  curiosity, 
just  entered  into  discourse  with  a  wandering  fe¬ 
male  who  was  traveling  the  same  way,  a  couple 
of  fellows  advanced  toward  us,  drew  their  swords, 
and  cried  out  to  each  other,  ‘A  sweat!  a  sweat!’ 
Whereupon,  suspecting  they  were  some  of  the 
ringleaders  of  the  bagnio,  I  also  drew  my  sword, 
and  demanded  a  parley;  but  finding  none  would 
be  granted  me,  and  perceiving  others  behind  them 
filing  off  with  great  diligence  to  take  me  in  flank, 

I  began  to  sweat  for  fear  of  being  forced  to  it: 
but  very  luckily  betaking  myself  to  a  pair  of  heels, 
which  I  had  good  reason  to  believe  would  do  me 
justice,  I  instantly  got  possession  of  a  very  snug 
corner  in  a  neighboring  alley  that  lay  in  my  rear; 
which  post  I  maintained  for  above  half  an  hour 
with  great  firmness  and  resolution,  though  not 
letting  this  success  so  far  overcome  me  as  to  make 
me  unmindful  of  the  circumspection  that  was  ne-  - 
cessary  to  be  observed  upon  my  advancing  again 
toward  the  street;  by  v  hich  prudence  and  good 
management  I  made  a  handsome  and  orderly  re¬ 
treat,  having  suffered  no  other  damage  in  this  ac¬ 
tion  than  the  loss  of  my  baggage,  and  the  dislo¬ 
cation  of  one  of  my  shoe-heels,  which  last  I  am 
just  now  informed  is  in  a  fair  way  of  recovery. 
These  sweaters,  by  what  I  can  learn  from  my 
friend,  and  by  as  near  a  view  as  I  was  able  to 
take  of  them  myself,  seem  to  me  to  have  at  present 
but  a  rude  kind  of  discipline  among  them.  It  is 
probable,  if  you  would  take  a  little  pains,  with 
them,  they  might  be  brought  into  better  order. 
But  I’ll  leave  this  to  your  own  discretion;  and 
will  only  add,  that  if  you  think  it  worth  while  to 
insert  this  by  way  of  caution  to  those  who  have  a 
mind  to  preserve  their  skins  whole  from  this  sort 
of  cupping,  and  tell  them  at  the  same  time  the  ha¬ 
zard  of  treating  with  night-walkers,  you  will  per¬ 
haps  oblige  others,  as  well  as 

“  Your  very  humble  Servant, 

“  Jack  Lightfoot.” 

“  P.  S.  My  friend  will  have  me  acquaint  you, 
that  though  he  would  not  willingly  detract  from 
the  merit  of  that  extraordinary  strokesman,  Mr. 
Sprightly,  yet  it  is  his  real  opinion,  that  some  of 
those  fellows  who  are  employed  as  rubbers  to  this 
new-fashioned  bagnio,  have  struck  as  bold  strokes 
as  ever  he  did  in  his  life. 

“  I  had  sent  this  four- and -twenty  hours  sooner, 
if  I  had  not  had  the  misfortune  of  being  in  a 
great  doubt  about  the  orthography  of  the  word 
bagnio.  I  consulted  several  dictionaries,  but 
found  no  relief :  at  last  having  recourse  both  to 
the  bagnio  in  Hewgate-street,  and  to  that  in 
Chancery-lane,  and  finding  the  original  manu¬ 
scripts  upon  the  sign-posts  of  each  to  agree  liter¬ 
ally  with  my  own  spelling,  I  returned  home  full 
of  satisfaction,  in  order  to  dispatch  this  epistle.” 

“  Mr  Spectator, 

“As  you  have  taken  most  of  the  circumstances  of 
human  life  into  your  consideration,  we  the  under¬ 
written  thought  it  not  improper  for  us  also  to  re¬ 
present  to  you  our  condition.  We  are  three  ladies 
who  live  in  the  country,  and  the  greatest  improve¬ 
ment  we  make  is  by  reading.  We  have  taken  a 
small  journal  of  our  lives,  and  find  it  extremely 
opposite  to  your  last  Tuesday’s  speculation.  We 
rise  by  seven,  and  pass  the  beginning  ot  each  day 
in  devotion,  and  looking  into  those  affairs  that 


411 


THE  SPE 

fall  within  the  occurrences  of  a  retired  life;  in 
the  afternoon  we  sometimes  enjoy  the  good  com¬ 
pany  of  some  friend  or  neighbor,  or  else  work  or 
read:  at  night  we  retire  to  our  chambers,  and  take 
leave  of  each  other  for  the  whole  night  at  ten 
o’clock.  We  take  particular  care  never  to  be 
sick  of  a  Saturday.  Mr.  Spectator,  we  are  all 
very  good  maids,  but  ambitious  of  characters 
which  we  think  more  laudable,  that  of  being  very 
good  wives.  If  any  of  your  correspondents  in¬ 
quire  for  a  spouse  for  an  honest  country  gentleman, 
whose  estate  is  not  dipped,  and  wants  a  wife  that 
can  save  half  his  revenue,  and  yet  make  a  better 
figure  than  any  of  his  neighbors  of  the  same  estate, 
with  finer-bred  women,  you  shall  have  farther 
notice  from, 

“  Sir,  your  courteous  Readers, 

“  Martha  Busie, 

“  Deborah  Thrifty, 

T .  “  Alice  Early.” 


No.  333.]  SATURDAY,  MARCH  22,  1711-12. 

- vocat  in  eertamina  divos. — Viro. 

He  calls  embattled  deities  to  arms. 

We  are  now  entering  upon  the  sixth  book  of 
Paradise  Lost,  in  which  the  poet  describes  the 
battle  of  the  angels  ;  having  raised  his  reader’s 
expectation,  and  prepared  him  for  it  by  several 
passages  in  the  preceding  books.  I  omitted 
quoting  these  passages  in  my  observations  on  the 
former  books,  having  purposely  reserved  them  for 
the  opening  of  this,  the  subject  of  which  gave 
occasion  to  them.  The  Author’s  imagination  was 
so  inflamed  with  this  great  scene  of  action,  that 
wherever  he  speaks  of  it,  he  rises,  if  possible, 
above  himself.  Thus,  where  he  mentions  Satan 
in  the  beginning  of  his  poem  : 

- Him  the  Almighty  Power 

Hurl’d  headlong  flaming  from  th’  ethereal  sky, 

With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion  down 
To  bottomless  perdition,  there  to  dwell 
In  adamantine  chains  and  penal  fire, 

Who  durst  defy  th’  Omnipotent  to  arms. 

We  have  likewise  several  noble  hints  of  it  in 
the  infernal  conference : 

0  prince !  0  chief  of  many-throned  powers, 

That  led  th’  embattled  seraphim  to  war, 

Too  well  I  see,  and  rue  the  dire  event, 

That  with  sad  overthrow  and  foul  defeat 
Hath  lost  us  heav’n ;  and  all  this  mighty  host 
In  horrible  destruction  laid  thus  low. 

But  see !  the  angry  victor  has  recall’d 
His  ministers  of  vengeance  and  pursuit 
Back  to  the  gates  of  heav’n.  The  sulphurous  hail 
Shot  after  us  in  storm,  o’erblown,  hath  laid 
The  fiery  surge,  that  from  the  precipice 
Of  heav’n  receiv’d  us  falling :  and  the  thunder, 
Wing’d  with  red  lightning,  and  impetuous  rage, 
Perhaps  has  spent  his  shafts,  and  ceases  now 
To  bellow  through  the  vast  and  boundless  deep. 

There  are  several  other  very  sublime  images  on 
the  same  subject  in  the  first  book,  as  also  in  the 
second  : 

What  when  we  fled  amain,  pursued  and  struck 
With  heav’n’s  afflicting  thunder,  and  besought 
The  deep  to  shelter  us :  this  hell  then  seem’d 
A  refuge  from  those  wounds. - 

In  short,  the  poet  never  mentions  anything  of 
this  battle,  but  in  such  images  of  greatness  and 
terror  as  are  suitable  to  the  subject.  Among 
several  others  I  cannot  forbear  quoting  that  pas¬ 
sage  where  the  Power,  who  is  described  as  pre¬ 
siding  over  the  chaos,  speaks  in  the  second 
l  ook : 


CT  ATOR. 

Thus  Satan;  and  him  thus  the  Anarch  old, 

With  falt’ring  speech  and  visage  incompos’d, 

Answer’d,  “I  know  thee,  stranger,  who  thou  art, 

That  mighty  leading  angel,  who  of  late 
Made  head  against  heaven’s  King,  tho’  overthrown. 

I  saw  and  heard;  for  such  a  num’rous  host 
Fled  not  in  silence  through  the  frighted  deep 
With  ruin  upon  ruin,  rout  on  rout, 

Confusion  worse  confounded;  and  heaven’s  gates 
Pour’d  out  by  millions  her  victorious  bands 
Pursuing  ” - 

It  required  great  pregnancy  of  invention,  and 
strength  of  imagination  to  fill  this  battle  with 
such  circumstances  as  should  raise  and  astonish 
the  mind  of  the  reader;  and  at  the  same  time  an 
exactness  of  judgment,  to  avoid  everything  that 
might  appear  light  or  trivial.  Those  who  look 
into  Homer  are  surprised  to  find  his  battles  still 
rising  one  above  another,  and  improving  in  horror 
to  the  conclusion  of  the  Iliad.  Milton’s  fight  of 
angels  is  wrought  up  with  the  same  beauty.  It  is 
ushered  in  with  such  signs  of  wrath  as  are  suitable 
to  Omnipotence  incensed.  The  first  engagement 
is  carried  on  under  a  cope  of  fire,  occasioned  by 
the  flights  of  innumerable  burning  darts  and 
arrows  which  are  discharged  from  either  host. 
The  second  onset  is  still  more  terrible,  as  it  is 
filled  with  those  artificial  thunders,  which  seem 
to  make  the  victory  doubtful,  and  produce  a  kind 
of  consternation  even  in  the  good  angels.  This 
is  followed  by  the  tearing  up  of  mountains  and 
promontories;  till  in  the  last  place  the  Messiah 
comes  forth  in  the  fullness  of  majesty  and  terror. 
The  pomp  of  his  appearance,  amidst  the  roarings 
of  his  thunders,  the  flashes  of  his  lightnings,  and 
the  noise  of  his  chariot-wheels,  is  described  with 
the  utmost  flights  of  human  imagination. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  first  and  last  day’s 
engagement  which  does  not  appear  natural,  and 
agreeable  enough  to  the  ideas  most  readers  would 
conceive  of  a  fight  between  two  armies  of  angels. 

The  second  day’s  engagement  is  apt  to  startle 
an  imagination  which  has  not  been  raised  and 
qualified  for  such  a  description,  by  the  reading 
of  the  ancient  poets,  and  of  Homer  in  particular. 
It  was  certainly  a  very  bold  thought  in  our  author, 
to  ascribe  the  first  use  of  artillery  to  the  rebel 
angels.  But  as  such  a  pernicious  invention  may 
be  well  supposed  to  have  proceeded  from  sucn 
authors,  so  it  enters  very  probably  into  the 
thoughts  of  that  being,  who  is  all  along  described 
as  aspiring  to  the  majesty  of  his  Maker.  Such 
engines  were  the  only  instruments  he  could  have 
made  use  of  to  imitate  those  thunders,  that  in  all 
poetry  both  sacred  and  profane,  are  represented  as 
the  arms  of  the  Almighty.  The  tearing  up  the 
hills  was  not  altogether  so  daring  a  thought  as 
the  former.  We  are,  in  some  measure,  prepared 
for  such  an  incident  by  the  description  of  the 
giants’  war,  which  we  meet  with  among  the  an¬ 
cient  poets.  What  still  made  this  circumstance 
the  more  proper  for  the  poet’s  use,  is  the  opinion 
of  many  learned  men,  that  the  fable  of  the  giants’ 
war  which  makes  so  great  a  noise  in  antiquity, 
and  gave  birth  to  the  sublimest  description  in 
Hesiod’s  works,  was  an  allegory  founded  upon 
this  very  tradition  of  a  fight  between  the  good 
and  bad  angels. 

It  may,  perhaps,  be  worth  while  to  consider 
with  what  judgment  Milton,  in  this  narration, 
has  avoided  everything  that  is  mean  and  trivial 
in  the  descriptions  of  the  Latin  and  Greek  poets; 
and  at  the  same  time  improved  every  great  hint 
which  he  met  with  in  their  works  upon  this  sub¬ 
ject.  Homer,  in  that  passage  which  Longinus  has 
celebrated  for  its  sublimeness,  and  which  Virgil 
and  Ovid  have  copied  after  him,  tells  us  that  the 
giants  threw  Ossa  upon  Olympus,  and  Pelion 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


412 

upon  Ossa.  He  adds  an  epithet  to  Pelion,  which 
very  much  swells  the  idea,  by  bringing  up  to 
the  reader’s  imagination  all  the  woods  that  grew 
upon  it.  There  is  further  a  greater  beauty  in  his 
singling  out  by  name  these  three  remarkable 
mountains  so  well  known  to  the  Greeks.  This 
last  is  such  a  beauty,  as  the  scene  of  Milton’s  war 
could  not  possibly  furnish  him  with.  Claudian, 
in  his  fragment  upon  the  giant’s  war,  has  given 
full  scope  to  that  wildness  of  imagination  which 
was  natural  to  him.  He  tells  us  that  the  giants 
tore  up  whole  islands  by  the  roots,  and  threw  them 
at  the  gods.  He  describes  one  of  them  in  parti¬ 
cular,  taking  up  Lemnos  in  his  arms,  and  whirl¬ 
ing  it  to  the  skies,  with  all  Vulcan’s  shop  in  the 
midst  of  it.  Another  tears  up  Mount  Ida,  with 
the  river  Enipeus,  which  ran  down  the  sides  of 
it ;  but  the  poet,  not  content  to  describe  him  with 
this  mountain  upon  his  shoulders,  tells  us  that 
the  river  flowed  down  his  back  as  he  held  it  up 
in  that  posture.  It  is  visible  to  every  judicious 
reader  that  such  ideas  savor  more  of  the  burlesque 
than  of  the  sublime.  They  proceed  from  a  wanton-  j 
ness  of  imagination,  and  rather  divert  the  mind 
than  astonish  it.  Milton  has  taken  everything 
that  is  sublime  in  these  several  passages,  and 
composes  out  of  them  the  following  great  image : 

From  their  foundations  loos’rung  to  and  fro, 

They  pluck’d  the  seated  hills,  with  all  their  load, 

Rocks,  waters,  woods,  and  by  the  shaggy  tops 
Uplifting  bore  them  in  their  hands. 

We  have  the  full  majesty  of  Homer,  in  this 
short  description,  improved  by  the  imagination 
of  Claudian  without  its  puerilities. 

I  need  not  point  out  the  description  of  the 
fallen  angels  seeing  the  promontories  hanging 
over  their  heads  in  such  a  dreadful  manner,  with 
the  other  numberless  beauties  in  this  book,  which 
are  so  conspicuous,  that  they  cannot  escape  the 
notice  of  the  most  ordinary  reader. 

There  are  indeed  so  many  wonderful  strokes  of 
poetry  in  this  book,  and  such  a  variety  of  sublime 
ideas,  that  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  have 
given  them  a  place  within  the  bounds  of  this 
paper.  Beside  that  I  find  it  in  a  great  measure 
done  to  my  hand  at  the  end  of  my  Lord  Roscom¬ 
mon’s  Essay  on  Translated  Poetry.  I  shall  refer 
my  reader  thither  for  some  of  the  master-strokes 
of  the  sixth  book  of  Paradise  Lost,  though  at  the 
same  time  there  are  many  others  which  that  noble 
author  has  not  taken  notice  of. 

Milton,  notwithstanding  the  sublime  genius  he 
was  master  of,  has  in  this  book  drawn  to  his 
assistance  all  the  helps  he  could  meet  with  among 
the  ancient  poets.  The  sword  of  Michael,  which 
makes  so  great  a  havoc  among  the  bad  angels, 
was  given  him,  we  are  told,  out  of  the  armory  of 
God  : 

- But  the  sword 

Of  Michael  from  the  armory  of  God 
Was  giv’n  him,  temper’d  so  that  neither  keen 
Nor  solid  might  resist  that  edge:  it  met 
The  sword  of  Satan,  with  steep  force  to  smite 
Descending,  and  in  half  cut  sheer - 

This  passage  is  a  copy  of  that  in  Virgil, 
wherein  the  poet  tells  us,  that  the  Sword  of  iEneas, 
which  was  given  him  by  a  deity,  broke  into  pieces 
the  sword  of  Turnus  which  came  from  a  mortal 
forge.  As  the  moral  in  this  place  is  divine,  so 
by  the  way  we  may  observe,  that  the  bestowing 
on  a  man  who  is  favored  by  heaven  such  an  alle¬ 
gorical  weapon  is  very  conformable  to  the  old 
eastern  way  of  thinking.  Not  only  Homer  has 
made  use  of  it,  but  we  find  the  Jewish  hero  in 
the  Book  of  Maccabees,  who  had  fought  the  bat¬ 
tles  of  the  chosen  people  with  so  much  glory  and 


success,  receiving  in  his  dream  a  sword  from  the 
hand  of  the  prophet  Jeremiah.  The  following 
passage,  where  Satan  is  described  as  wounded  by 
the  sword  of  Michael,  is  in  imitation  of  Homer. 

The  griding  sword  with  discontinuous  wound 
Pass’d  through  him;  but  th’  ethereal  substanoe  clos’d, 
Not  long  divisible;  and  from  the  gash 
A  stream  of  nectarous  humor  issuing  flow’d 
Sanguine  (such  as  celestial  spirits  may  bleed), 

And  all  his  armor  stain’d. - 

Homer  tells  in  the  same  manner,  that  upon  Dio- 
medes  wounding  the  gods,  there  flowed  from  the 
wound  an  ichor,  or  pure  kind  of  blood,  which  was 
not  bred  from  mortal  viands  :  and  that,  though 
the  pain  was  exquisitely  great,  the  wound  soon 
closed  up  and  healed  in  those  beings  who  are 
vested  with  immortality. 

I  question  not  but  Milton,  in  his  description  of  his 
furious  Moloch  flying  from  the  battle,  and  bellow¬ 
ing  with  the  wound  he  had  received,  had  his  eye 
on  Mars  in  the  Iliad:  who  upon  his  being  wound¬ 
ed,  is  represented  as  retiring  put  of  the  tight,  and 
|  making  an  outcry  louder  than  that  of  a  whole 
army  when  it  begins  the  charge.  Homer  adds, 
that  the  Greeks  and  Trojans,  who  were  engaged  in  a 
general  battle,  were  terrified  on  each  side  with  the 
bellowing  of  this  wounded  deity.  The  reader 
will  easily  observe  how  Milton  has  kept  all  the 
horror  of  this  image,  without  running  into  the 
ridicule  of  it: 

- Where  the  might  of  Gabriel  fought, 

And  with  fierce  ensigns  pierc’d  the  deep  array 
Of  Moloch,  furious  king!  who  him  defi’d, 

And  at  his  charioUwheels  to  drag  him  bound, 
Threaten’d,  nor  from  the  Holy  One  of  heav’n 
Refrain’d  his  tongue  blasphemous :  but  anon 
Down  cloven  to  the  waist,  with  shatter’d  arms 
And  uncouth  pain  fled  bellowing. - 

Milton  has  likewise  raised  his  description  in 
this  book  with  many  images  taken  out  of  the 
poetical  parts  of  Scripture.  The  Messiah’s  chariot, 
as  I  have  before  taken  notice,  is  formed  upon  a 
vision  of  Ezekiel,  who,  as  Grotius  observes,  has 
very  much  in  him  of  Homer’s  spirt  in  the  poetical 
parts  of  his  prophesy. 

The  following  lines  in  that  glorious  commission 
which  is  given  the  Messiah  to  extirpate  the  host 
of  rebel  angels,  is  drawn  from  a  sublime  passage 
in  the  Psalms: 

Go  then,  thou  mightiest,  in  thy  Father’s  might, 

Ascend  my  chariot,  guide  the  rapid  wheels 
That  shake  heav’n’s  basis ;  bring  forth  all  my  war, 

My  bow,  my  thunder,  my  almighty  arms 
Gird  on,  and  sword  on  thy  puissant  thigh. 

The  reader  will  easily  discover  many  other 
strokes  of  the  same  nature. 

There  is  no  question  but  Milton  had  heated  his 
imagination  with  the  fight  of  the  gods  in  Homer, 
before  he  entered  upon  this  engagement  of  the 
angels.  Homer  there  gives  us  a  scene  of  men,  he¬ 
roes,  and  gods,  mixed  together  in  battle.  Mars 
animates  the  contending  armies,  and  lifts  up  his 
voice  in  such  a  manner,  that  it  is  heard  distinctly 
amidst  all  the  shouts  and  confusion  of  the  fight. 
Jupiter  at  the  same  time  thunders  over  their  heads 
while  Neptune  raises  such  a  tempest,  that  the 
whole  field  of  battle,  and  all  the  tops  of  the 
mountains,  shake  about  them.  The  poet  tell  us, 
that  Pluto  himself,  whose  habitation  was  in  the 
very  center  of  the  earth,  was  so  affrighted  at  the 
shock,  that  he  leaped  from  his  throne.  Homer 
afterward  describes  Vulcan  as  pouring  down  a 
storm  of  fire  upon  the  river  Xanthus,  and  Minerva 
as  throwing  a  rock  at  Mars;  who  he  tells  us,  covered 
seven  acres  in  his  fall. 

As  Homer  has  introduced  into  the  battle  of  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


gods  everything  that  is  great  and  terrible  in  na¬ 
ture,  Milton  has  filled  his  fight  of  good  and  bad 
angels  with  all  the  like  circumstances  of  horror. 
The  shout  of  armies,  the  rattling  of  brazen  chariots, 
the  hurling  of  rocks  and  mountains,  the  earth¬ 
quake,  the  fire,  the  thunder,  are  all  of  them 
employed  to  lift  up  the  reader’s  imagination,  and 
give  him  a  suitable  idea  of  so  great  an  action. 
With  what  art  has  the  poet  represented  the  whole 
body  of  the  earth  trembling,  even  before  it  was 
created ! 

All  heav’n  resounded ;  and  had  earth  been  then, 

All  earth  had  to  its  center  shook. - 

In  how  sublime  and  just  a  manner  does  he 
afterward  describe  the  whole  heaven  shaking  under 
the  wheels  of  the  Messiah’s  chariot,  with  that  ex¬ 
ception  to  the  throne  of  God ! 

- Under  his  burning  •wheels 

The  steadfast  empyrean  shook  throughout, 

All  but  the  throne  itself  of  God. - 

Notwithstanding  the  Messiah  appears  clothed 
with  so  much  terror  and  majesty,  the  poet  has  still 
found  means  to  make  his  readers  conceive  an  idea 
of  him  beyond  what  he  himself  is  able  to  describe: 

Yet  half  his  strength  he  put  not  forth,  but  check’d 
His  thunder  in  mid  volley ;  for  he  meant 
Not  to  destroy,  but  root  them  out  of  heaven. 

In  a  word,  Milton’s  genius,  which  was  so  great 
in  itself,  and  so  strengthened  by  all  the  helps  of 
learning,  appears  in  this  book  every  way  equal  to 
the  subject,  which  was  the  most  sublime  that 
could  enter  into  the  thoughts  of  a  poet.  As  he 
knew  all  the  arts  of  affecting  the  mind,  he  has 
given  it  certain  resting-places,  and  opportunities 
of  recovering  itself  from  time  to  time  ;  several 
speeches,  reflections,  similitudes,  and  the  like 
reliefs,  being  interspersed  to  diversify  his  nar¬ 
ration,  and  ease  the  attention  of  the  reader. 

L. 


No.  334.]  MONDAY,  MARCH  24,  1711-12. 

- Voluisti,  in  suo  genere,  unumqucmque  nostrum  quasi 

quendam  esse  Roscium,  dixistique  non  tarn  ea  quee  recta 
essent  probari,  quam  quae  prava  sunt  fastidiis  aclhsert-s- 
cere. — Cic.  de  Gestu. 

You  would  have  each  of  us  be  a  kind  of  Roscius  in  his  wav ; 
and  you  have  said  that  fastidious  men  are  not  so  much 
pleased  with  what  is  right,  as  disgusted  at  what  is  wrong. 

It  is  very  natural  to  take  for  our  whole  lives  a 
light  impression  of  a  thing,  which  at  first  fell 
into  contempt  with  us  for  want  of  consideration. 
The  real  use  of  a  certain  qualification  (which  the 
wiser  part  of  mankind  look  upon  as  at  best  an 
indifferent  thing,  and  generally  a  frivolous  circum¬ 
stance)  sjiows  the  ill  consequence  of  such  pre¬ 
possessions.  What  I  mean,  is  the  art,  skill,  ac¬ 
complishment,  or  whatever  you  will  call  it,  of 
dancing.  I  knew  a  gentleman  of  great  abilities, 
who  bewailed  the  want  of  his  education  to  the 
end  of  a  very  honorable  life.  He  observed  that 
there  was  not  occasion  for  the  common  use  of 
great  talents;  that  they  are  but  seldom  in  demand; 
and  that  these  very  great  talents  were  often  ren¬ 
dered  useless  to  a  man  for  want  of  small  attain¬ 
ments.  A  good  mien  (a  becoming  motion,  gesture, 
and  aspect)  is  natural  to  some  men;  but  even  these 
would  be  highly  more  graceful  in  their  carriage, 
if  what  they  do  from  the  force  of  nature  were  con¬ 
firmed  and  heightened  from  the  force  of  reason. 
To  one  who  has  not  at  all  considered  it,  to  men¬ 
tion  the  force  of  reason  on  such  a  subject  will  ap¬ 
pear  fantastical;  but  when  you  have  a  little  at¬ 
tended  to  it,  an  assembly  of  men  will  have  quite 


413 

another  view;  and  they  will  tell  you,  it  is  evident 
from  plain  and  infallible  rules,  wny  this  man  with 
those  beautiful  features,  and  a  wrell-fashioned 
person,  is  not  so  agreeable  as  he  who  sits  by  him 
without  any  of  those  advantages.  When  we  read, 
wre  do  it  without  any  exerted  act  of  memory  that 
presents  the  shape  of  the  letters;  but  habit  makes 
us  do  it  mechanically,  without  staying,  like 
children,  to  recollect  and  join  those  letters.  A 
man  "who  has  not  had  the  regard  of  his  gesture  in 
any  part  of  his  education,  will  find  himself  unable 
to  act  with  freedom  before  new  company,  as  a 
child  that  is  but  now  learning,  would  be  to  read 
without  hesitation.  It  is  for  the  advancement 
of  the  pleasure  we  receive  in  being  agreeable  to 
each  other  in  ordinary  life,  that  one  would  wish 
dancing  were  generally  understood  as  conducive, 
as  it  really  is,  to  a  proper  deportment  in  matters 
that  appear  the  most  remote  from  it.  A  man  of 
learning  and  sense  is  distinguished  from  others  as 
he  is  such,  though  he  never  runs  upon  points  too 
difficult  for  the  rest  of  the  world;  in  like  manner 
the  reaching  out  of  the  arm,  and  the  most  ordinary 
motion,  discovers  whether  a  man  ever  learnt  to 
know  what  is  the  true  harmony  and  composure  of 
his  limbs  and  countenance.  Whoever  has  seen 
Booth,  in  the  character  of  Pyrrhus,  march  to  his 
throne  to  receive  Orestes,  is  convinced  that  ma¬ 
jestic  and  great  conceptions  are  expressed  in  the 
very  step;  but,  perhaps,  though  no  other  man 
could  perform  that  incident  as  well  as  he  does,  he 
himself  would  do  it  with  a  yet  greater  elevation 
were  he  a  dancer.  This  is  so  dangerons  a  sub¬ 
ject  to  treat  with  gravity,  that  I  shall  not  at  pre- 
sent  enter  into  it  any  further:  but  the  author  of  the 
following  letter  has  treated  it  in  the  essay  he 
speaks  of  in  such  a  manner,  that  I  am  beholden 
to  him  for  a  resolution,  that  I  will  never  hereafter 
think  meanly  of  anything,  till  I  have  heard  what 
they  who  have  another  opinion  of  it  have  to  say 
in  its  defense. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Since  there  are  scarce  any  of  the  arts  and 
sciences  that  have  not  been  recommended  to  the 
world  by  the  pens  of  some  of  the  professors, 
masters,  or  lovers  of  them,  whereby  the  useful 
ness,  excellence,  and  benefit  arising  from  them, 
both  as  to  the  speculative  and  practical  part,  have 
been  made  public,  to  the  great  advantage  and  im¬ 
provement  of  such  arts  and  sciences ;  why  should 
dancing,  an  art  celebrated  by  the  ancients  in  so 
extraordinary  a  manner,  be  totally  neglected  by 
the  moderns,  and  left  destitute  of  any  pen  to  re¬ 
commend  its  various  excellences  and  substantial 
merit  to  mankind? 

“  The  low  ebb  to  which  dancing  is  now  fallen, 
is  altogether  owing  to  this  silence.  The  art  is 
esteemed  only  as  an  amusing  trifle  ;  it  lies  alto¬ 
gether  uncultivated,  and  is  unhappily  fallen  under 
the  imputation  of  illiterate  and  mechanic.  As 
Terence,  in  one  of  his  prologues,  complains  of 
the  rope-dancers  drawing  all  the  spectators  from 
his  play;  so  we  may  well  say,  that  capering  and 
tumbling  is  now  preferred  to,  and  supplies  the 
place  of,  just  and  regular  dancing  on  our  theaters. 
It  is,  therefore,  in  my  opinion,  high  time  that 
some  one  should  come  in  to  its  assistance,  and  re¬ 
lieve  it  from  the  many  gross  and  growing  errors 
that  have  crept  into  it,  and  overcast  its  real  beau¬ 
ties;  and,  to  set  dancing  in  its  true  light,  would 
show  the  usefulness  and  elegance  of  it,  with  the 
pleasure  and  instruction  produced  from  it;  and 
also  lav  down  some  fundamental  rules,  that  might 
so  tend  to  the  improvement  of  its  professors,  and  in¬ 
formation  of  the  spectators,  that  the  first  might  be 
the  better  able  to  perform,  and  the  latter  rendered 


THE  SPECT ATO  R. 


414 

more  capable  of  judging  what  is  (if  there  be  any¬ 
thing)  valuable  in  this  art. 

“  To  encourage  therefore  some  ingenious  pen 
capable  of  so  generous  an  undertaking,  and  in 
some  measure  to  relieve  dancing  from  the  disad¬ 
vantages  it  at  present  lies  under,  I,  who  teach  to 
dance,*  have  attempted  a  small  treatise  as  an 
Essay  toward  a  History  of  Dancing  :  in  which  I 
have  inquired  into  its  antiquity,  origin,  and  use, 
and  shown  what  esteem  the  ancients  had  for  it.  I 
have  likewise  considered  the  nature  and  perfection 
of  all  its  several  parts,  and  how  beneficial  and 
delightful  it  is  both  as  a  qualification  and  an  ex¬ 
ercise  ;  and  endeavored  to  answer  all  objections 
that  have  been  maliciously  raised  against  it.  I 
have  proceeded  to  give  an  account  of  the  particu¬ 
lar  dances  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  whether 
religious,  warlike,  or  civil  ;  and  taken  particular 
notice  of  that  part  of  dancing  relating  to  the 
ancient  stage,  in  which  the  pantomimes  had  so 
great  a  share.  Nor  have  I  been  wanting  in  giving 
an  historical  account  of  some  particular  masters 
excellent  in  that  surprising  art;  after  which  I  have 
advanced  some  observations  on  modern  dancing, 
both  as  to  the  stage,  and  that  part  of  it  so  ab¬ 
solutely  necessary  for  the  qualification  of  gentle¬ 
men  and  ladies;  and  have  concluded  with  some 
short  remarks  on  the  origin  and  progress  of  the 
character  by  which  dances  are  written  down,  and 
communicated  to  one  master  from  another.  If 
some  great  genius  after  this  would  arise,  and  ad¬ 
vance  this  art  to  that  perfection  it  seems  capable 
of  receiving,  what  might  not  be  expected  from  it? 
For,  if  we  consider  the  origin  of  arts  and  sciences, 
we  shall  find  that  some  of  them  took  rise  from 
beginnings  so  mean  and  unpromising,  that  it  is 
very  wonderful  to  think  that  ever  such  surprising 
structures  should  have  been  raised  upon  such 
ordinary  foundations.  But  what  cannot  a  great 
genius  effect?  Who  would  have  thought  that  the 
clangorous  noise  of  a  smith’s  hammers  should 
have  given  the  first  rise  to  music?  Yet  Macrobius, 
in  his  second  book,  relates  that  Pythagoras,  in 
passing  by  a  smith’s  shop,  found  that  the  sounds 
proceeding  from  the  hammers  were  either  more 
grave  or  acute,  according  to  the  different  weights 
of  the  hammers.  The  philosopher,  to  improve 
this  hint,  suspends  different  weights  by  strings  of 
the  same  bigness,  and  found  in  a  like  manner  that 
the  sounds  answered  to  the  weights.  This  being 
discovered,  he  found  out  those  numbers  which 
produced  sounds  that  were  consonant:  as  that  two 
strings  of  the  same  substance  and  tension,  the  one 
being  double  the  length  of  the  other,  gave  that 
interval  which  is  called  diapason,  or  an  eighth: 
the  same  was  also  effected  from  two  strings  of  the 
same  length  and  size,  the  one  having  four  times 
the  tension  of  the  other.  By  these  steps,  from  so 
mean  a  beginning,  did  this  great  man  reduce,  what 
was  only  before  noise,  to  one  of  the  most  de¬ 
lightful  sciences,  by  marrying  it  to  the  mathe¬ 
matics;  and  by  that  means  caused  it  to  be  one  of 
the  most  abstract  and  demonstrative  of  sciences. 
Who  knows  therefore  but  motion,  whether  de¬ 
corous  or  representative,  may  not  (as  it  seems 
highly  probable  it  may)  be  taken  into  considera¬ 
tion  by  some  person  capable  of  reducing  it  into  a 
regular  science,  though  not  so  demonstrative  as 
that  proceeding  from  sounds,  yet  sufficient  to 
entitle  it  to  a  place  among  the  magnified  arts? 

“  Now,  Mr.  Spectator,  as  you  have  declared 
yourself  visitor  of  dancing-schools,  and  this  being 
an  undertaking  which  more  immediately  respects 
them,  I  think  myself  indispensably  obliged,  before 


*  An  Essay  toward  <j  History  of  Dancing,  etc.  By  John 
Weaver,  12mo.,  1712, 


I  proceed  to  the  publication  of  this  my  essay,  to 
asK  your  advice;  and  hold  it  absolutely  necessary 
to  have  your  approbation,  in  order  to  recommend 
my  treatise  to  the  perusal  of  the  parents  of  such 
as  learn  to  dance,  as  well  as  to  the  young  ladies 
to  whom,  as  visitor,  you  ought  to  be  guardian. 

“  Salop,  March  19,  “  I  am,  Sir, 

1711-12.  “  Your  most  humble  Servant.” 

T. 


No.  335.]  TUESDAY,  MARCH  25,  1711-12. 

Itespicere  exemplar  vitae  morumquc  jubebo 
Doctum  imitatorem,  et  veras  bine  ducere  voces. 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  327. 
Keep  Nature’s  great  original  in  view, 

And  thence  the  living  images  pursue. — Francis. 

My  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  when  we  last 
met  together  at  the  club,  told  me  that  he  had  a 
great  mind  to  see  the  new  tragedy*  with  me,  as¬ 
suring  me  at  the  same  time,  that  he  had  not  been 
at  a  play  these  twenty  years.  “  The  last  I  saw,” 
said  Sir  Roger,  “was  the  Committee,  which  I 
should  not  have  gone  to  neither,  had  not  I  been 
told  beforehand  that  it  was  a  good  church  of  Eng¬ 
land  comedy.”  He  then  proceeded  to  inquire  of  me 
who  this  distressed  mother  was;  and  upon  hearing 
that  she  was  Hector’s  widow,  he  told  me  that  her 
husband  was  a  brave  man,  and  that  when  he  was 
a  school-boy  he  had  read  his  life  at  the  end  of  the 
dictionary.  My  friend  asked  me  in  the  next  place, 
if  there  would  not  be  some  danger  in  coming 
home  late,  in  case  the  Mohocks  should  be  abroad. 

“I  assure  you,”  says  he,  “I  thought  I  had  fallen 
into  their  hands  last  night;  for  I  observed  two  or 
three  lusty  black  men  that  followed  me  half  way 
up  Fleet-street,  and  mended  their  pace  behind  me, 
in  proportion  as  I  put  on  to  get  away  from  them. 
You  must  know,”  continued  the  knight  with  a 
smile,  “I  fancied  they  had  a  mind  to  hunt  me;  for 
I  remember  an  honest  gentleman  in  my  neighbor¬ 
hood,  who  was  served  such  a  trick  in  King  Charles 
the  Second’s  time,  for  which  reason  he  has  not 
ventured  himself  in  town  ever  since.  I  might 
have  shown  them  very  good  sport,  had  this  been 
their  design  ;  for,  as  I  am  an  old  fox-hunter,  I 
should  have  turned  and  dodged;  and  Jiave  played 
them  a  thousand  tricks  they  had  never  seen  in 
their  lives  before.”  Sir  Roger  added,  that  “  if 
these  gentlemen  had  any  such  intention,  they  did 
not  succeed  very  well  in  it;  for  I  threw  them  out,” 
says  he,  “at  the  end  of  Norfolk-street,  where  I 
doubled  the  corner,  and  got  shelter  in  my  lodg¬ 
ings  before  they  could  imagine  what  was  become 
of  me.  However,”  says  the  knight,  “if  Captain 
Sentry  will  make  one  with  us  to-morrow  night, 
and  you  will  both  of  you  call  upon  me  about  four 
o’clock,  that  we  may  be  at  the  house  before  it  is 
full,  I  will  have  my  own  coach  in  readiness  to 
attend  you,  for  John  tells  me  he  has  got  the 
fore-wheels  mended.” 

The  captain,  who  did  not.  fail  to  meet  me  there 
at  the  appointed  hour,  bid  Sir  Roger  fear  nothing, 
for  that  he  had  put  on  the  same  sword  which  he 
made  use  of  at  the  battle  of  Steenkirk.f  Sir  Ro¬ 
ger’s  servants,  and  among  the  rest  my  old  friend 
the  butler,  had,  I  found,  provided  themselves  with 
good  oaken  plants,  to  attend  their  master  upon 
this  occasion.  When  we  had  placed  him  in  his 
coach,  with  myself  at  his  left  hand,  the  captain 


*  The  Distressed  Mother. 

f  In  1692.  Gentlemen  wore  about  this  time  a  kind  of  neck¬ 
cloth  called  a  Steenkirk,  probably  from  its  being  taken  notice 
of  first  at  this  battle.  In  like  manner,  and  for  a  similar 
reason,  a  wig  was  called  Ramillies,  being  introduced,  or 
having  become  fashionable,  about  the  time  of  that  battle, 
1706. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


before  him,  and  his  butler  at  the  head  of  his  foot¬ 
men  in  the  rear,  we  convoyed  him  in  safety  to  the 
playhouse,  where,  after  having  inarched  up  the 
entry  in  good  order,  the  captain  and  I  went  in 
with  him,  and  seated  him  betwixt  us  in  the  pit. 
As  soon  as  the  house  was  full,  and  the  candles 
lighted,  my  old  friend  stood  up,  and  looked  about 
him  with  that  pleasure  which  a  mind  seasoned 
with  humanity  naturally  feels  in  itself,  at  the 
sight  of  a  multitude  of  people  who  seem  pleased 
with  one  another,  and  partake  of  the  same  com¬ 
mon  entertainment.  I  could  not  but  fancy  to  my¬ 
self,  as  the  old  man  stood  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
pit,  that  he  made  a  very  proper  center  to  a  tragic 
audience.  Upon  the  entering  of  Pyrrhus,  the 
knight  told  me,  that  he  did  not  believe  the  king 
of  Prance  himself  had  a  better  strut.  I  was  in¬ 
deed  very  attentive  to  my  old  friend’s  remarks, 
because  I  looked  upon  them  as  a  piece  of  natural 
criticism,  and  was  well  pleased  to  hear  him,  at 
the  conclusion  of  almost  every  scene,  telling  me 
that  he  could  not  imagine  how  the  play  would 
end.  One  while  he  appeared  much  concerned  for 
Andromache;  and  a  little  while  after  as  much  for 
Hermione;  and  was  extremely  puzzled  to  think 
what  would  become  of  Pyrrhus. 

When  Sir  Roger  saw  Andromache’s  obstinate 
refusal  to  her  lover’s  importunities,  he  whispered 
me  in  the  ear,  that  he  was  sure  she  would  never 
have  him;  to  which  he  added,  with  a  more  than 
ordinary  vehemence,  “You  can’t  imagine,  Sir, 
what  it  is  to  have  to  do  with  a  widow.”  Upon 
Pyrrhus’s  threatening  to  leave  her,  the  knight 
shook  his  head  aud  muttered  to  himself,  “  Ay,  do 
if  you  can.”  This  part  dwelt  so  much  upon  my 
friend’s  imagination,  that  at  the  close  of  the  third 
act,  as  I  "was  thinking  on  something  el^e,  he  whis¬ 
pered  me  in  my  ear,  “  These  widows,  Sir,  are  the 
most  perverse  creatures  in  the  world.  But  pray,” 
says  he,  “you  that  are  a  critic,  is  the  play  accord¬ 
ing  to  yodr  dramatic  rules,  as  you  call  them? 
Should  your  people  in  tragedy  always  talk  to  be 
understood  ?  Why,  there  is  not  a  single  sentence 
in  this  play  that  I  do  not  know  the  meaning  of.” 

The  fourth  act  very  luckily  began  before  I  had 
time  to  give  the  old  gentleman  an  answer. 
“  Well,”  says  the  knight,  sitting  down  with  great 
satisfaction,  “  I  suppose  we  are  now  to  see  Hec¬ 
tor’s  ghost.”  He  then  renewed  his  attention,  and, 
from  time  to  time,  fell  a-praising  the  widow.  He 
made,  indeed,  a  little  mistake  as  to  one  of  her 
pages,  whom  at  his  first  entering  he  took  for 
Astyanax;  but  quickly  set  himself  right  in  that 
particular,  though,  at  the  same  time,  he  owned  he  ; 
should  have  been  very  glad  to  have  seen  the  little 
boy,  who,  says  he,  must  needs  be  a  very  fine  child 
by  the  account  that  is  given  of  him.  Upon  Her- 
mione’s  going  off  writh  a  menace  to  Pyrrhus,  the 
audience  gave  a  loud  clap,  to  which  Sir  Roger 
added,  “  On  my  word,  a  notable  young  baggage !  ” 

As  there  was  a  very  remarkable  silence  and 
stillness  in  the  audience  during  the  whole  action, 
it  was  natural  for  them  to  take  the  opportunity  of 
the  intervals  between  the  acts  to  express  their 
opinion  of  the  players,  and  of  their  respective 
parts.  Sir  Roger,  hearing  a  cluster  of  them  praise 
Orestes,  struck  in  with  them,  and  told  them  that 
he  thought  his  friend  Pylades  was  a  very  sensible 
man.  As  they  were  afterward  applauding  Pyrrhus, 
Sir  Roger  put  in  a  second  time:  “And  let  me  tell 
you,”  says  he,  “though  he  speaks  but  little,  I  like 
the  old  fellow  in  whiskers  as  well  as  any  of  them.” 
Captain  Sentry,  seeing  two  or  three  wags  who  sat 
near  us  lean  with  an  attentive  ear  toward  Sir  Ro¬ 
ger,  and  fearing  lest  they  should  smoke  the  knight, 
plucked  him  by  the  eloow,  and  whispered  some¬ 
thing  in  his  ear,  that  lasted  till  the  opening  of  the 


415 

fifth  act.  The  knight  was  wonderfully  attentive 
to  the  account  which  Orestes  gives  of  Pyrrhus’s 
death,  and,  at  the  conclusion  of  it,  told  me  it  was 
such  a  bloody  piece  of  work,  that  he  was  glad  it 
was  not  done  upon  the  stage.  Seeing  afterward 
Orestes  in  his  raving  fit,  he  grew  more  than  ordi¬ 
narily  serious,  and  took  occasion  to  moralize  (in 
his  way)  upon  an  evil  conscience,  adding,  that 
Orestes,  in  his  madness,  looked  as  if  he  saw 
something. 

As  we  were  the  first  that  came  into  the  house, 
so  we  were  the  last  that  went  out  of  it:  being  re¬ 
solved  to  have  a  clear  passage  for  our  old  friend, 
whom  we  did  not  care  to  venture  among  the  jost¬ 
ling  of  the  crowd.  Sir  Roger  went  out  fully  satis¬ 
fied  with  his  entertainment,  and  we  guarded  him 
to  his  lodging  in  the  same  manner  that  we  brought 
him  to  the  play-house,  being  highly  pleased  for 
my  own  part,  not  only  with  the  performance  of 
the  excellent  piece  which  had  been  presented,  but 
with  the  satisfaction  which  it  had  given  to  the 
good  old  man. — L. 


Ho.  336.]  WEDNESDAY,  MARCH  26,  1712. 

- Clamant  periise  pudorem 

Cuncti  pene  patres,  ea  cum  reprehendere  concr, 

Quae  gravis  JSsopus,  quae  doctus  Roscius  egit : 

Vel  quia  nil  rectum,  nisi  quod  placuit  sibi,  ducunt; 

Vel  quia  turpe  putant  parere  minoribus,  et  quae 
Imberbes  didicere,  senes  perdenda  fateri. 

Hon.  2  Ep.  i,  80 

IMITATED. 

One  tragic  sentence  if  I  dare  deride, 

Which  Betterton’s  grave  action  dignified, 

Or  well-mouth’d  Booth  with  emphasis  proclaims 
(Tho’  but,  perhaps,  a  muster-roll  of  names), 

How  will  our  fathers  rise  up  in  a  rage, 

And  swear  all  shame  is  lost  in  George’s  age ! 

You’d  think  no  fools  disgrac’d  the  former  reign, 

Did  not  some  grave  examples  yet  remain, 

Who  scorn  a  lad  should  teach  his  father  skill, 

And,  having  once  been  wrong,  will  be  so  still. — Pope. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  As  you  are  the  daily  endeavorer  to  promote 
learning  and  good  sense,  I  think  myself  obliged 
to  suggest  to  your  consideration  whatever  may 
promote  or  prejudice  them.  There  is  an  evil 
which  has  prevailed  from  generation  to  generation, 
which  gray  hairs  and  tyrannical  custom  continue 
to  support;  I  hope  your  spectatorial  authority  will 
give  a  seasonable  check  to  the  spread  of  the  in¬ 
fection;  I  mean  old  men’s  overbearing  the  strong¬ 
est  sense  of  their  juniors  by  the  mere  force  of 
seniority;  so  that  of  a  young  man  in  the  bloom  of 
life,  anti  vigor  of  age,  to  give  a  reasonable  contra¬ 
diction  to  his  elders,  is  esteemed  an  unpardonable 
insolence,  and  regarded  as  reversing  the  decrees 
of  nature.  I  am  a  young  man,  I  confess;  yet  I 
honor  the  gray  head  as  much  as  any  one;  however, 
when,  in  company  with  old  men,  I  hear  them 
speak  obscurely,  or  reason  preposterously  (into 
which  absurdities,  prejudice,  pride,  or  interest, 
Avill  sometimes  throw  the  wisest),  I  count  it  no 
crime  to  rectify  their  reasonings,  unless  conscience 
must  truckle  to  ceremony,  and  truth  fall  a  sacrifice 
to  complaisance.  The  stiongest  arguments  are 
enervated,  and  the  brightest  evidence  disappears, 
before  those  tremendous  reasonings  and  dazzling 
discoveries  of  venerable  old  age.  ‘  You  are  young 
giddy-headed  fellows;  you  have  not  yet  had  expe¬ 
rience  of  the  world.’  Thus  we  young  folks  find 
our  ambition  cramped,  and  our  laziness  indulged; 
since  while  young  we  have  little  room  to  display 
ourselves;  and,  when  old,  the  weakness  of  nature 
must  pass  for  strength  of  sense,  and  we  hope  that 
hoary  heads  will  raise  us  above  the  attacks  of 
contradiction.  Now,  Sir,  as  you  would  enliven 
our  activity  in  the  pursuit  of  learning,  take  our 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


416 

case  into  consideration;  and,  with  a  gloss  on  brave 
Elihu’s  sentiments,  assert  the  rights  of  youth, 
and,  prevent  the  pernicious  encroachments  of 
age.  The  generous  reasonings  of  that  gallant 
youth  would  adorn  your  paper;  and  I  beg  you 
would  insert  them,  not  doubting  but  that  they 
will  give  good  entertainment  to  the  most  intelli¬ 
gent  of  your  readers. 

“  So  these  three  men  ceased  to  answer  Job,  be¬ 
cause  he  was  righteous  in  his  own  eyes.  Then 
was  kindled  the  wrath  of  Elihu,  the  son  of  Bara- 
chel  the  Buzite,  of  the  kindred  of  Ram.  Against 
Job  was  his  wrath  kindled,  because  he  justified 
himself  rather  than  God.  Also,  against  his  three 
friends  was  his  wrath  kindled,  because  they  had 
found  no  answer,  and  yet  had  condemned  Job. 
Now  Elihu  had  waited  till  Job  had  spoken,  be¬ 
cause  they  were  elder  than  he.  When  Elihu  saw 
there  was  no  answer  in  the  mouth  of  these  three 
men,  then  his  wrath  was  kindled.  And  Elihu, 
the  son  of  Barachel  the  Buzite,  answered  and  said, 
I  am  young,  and  ye  are  very  old;  wherefore  I  was 
afraid",  and  durst  not  show  you  mine  opinion.  I 
said,  Days  should  speak,  and  multitude  of  years 
should  teach  wisdom.  But  there  is  a  spirit  in 
man,  and  the  inspiration  of  the  Almighty  giveth 
them  understanding.  Great  men  are  not  always 
wise;  neither  do  the  aged  understand  judgment. 
Therefore  I  said,  Hearken  to  me,  I  also  will  show 
mine  opinion.  Behold  I  waited  for  your  words;  I 
gave  ear  to  your  reasons,  while  you  searched  out 
what  to  say.  Yea,  I  attended  unto  you.  And 
behold  there  was  none  of  you  that  convinced  Job, 
or  that  answered  his  words  :  lest  you  should  say, 
We  have  found  out  wisdom  :  God  thrusteth  him 
down,  not  man.  Now  he  hath  not  directed  his 
words  against  me  :  neither  will  I  answer  him  with 
your  speeches.  They  were  amazed;  they  answered 
no  more;  they  left  off  speaking.  When  I  had 
waited  (for  they  spake  not,  but  stood  still  and 
answered  no  more)  I  said,  I  will  answer  also  my 
part;  I  also  will  show  mine  opinion.  For  I  am 
full  of  matter,  the  spirit  within  me  constraineth 
me.  Behold,  my  belly  is  as  wine  which  hath  no 
vent,  it  is  ready  to  burst  like  new  bottles.  I  will 
speak  that  I  may  be  refreshed;  I  will  open  my 
lips  and  answer.  Let  me  not,  I  pray  you,  accept 
any  man’s  person,  neither  let  me  give  flattering 
titles  unto  man.  For  I  know  not  to  give  flatter¬ 
ing  titles;  in  so  doing  my  Maker  would  soon  take 
me  away.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  have  formerly  read  with  great  satisfaction 
your  papers  about  idols,  and  the  behavior  of  gen¬ 
tlemen  in  those  coffee-houses  where  women  offici¬ 
ate;  and  impatiently  waited  to  see  you  take  India 
and  China  shops  into  consideration :  but  since 
you  have  passed  us  over  in  silence,  either  that 
you  have  not  as  yet  thought  us  worth  your  notice, 
or  that  the  grievances  we  lie  under  have  escaped 
your  discerning  eye,  I  must  make  my  complaints 
to  you,  and  am  encouraged  to  do  it  because  you 
seem  a  little  at  leisure,  at  this  present  writing.  I 
am,  dear  Sir,  one  of  the  top  China-women  about 
town;  and  though  I  say  it,  keep  as  good  things, 
and  receive  as  fine  company,  as  any  of  this  end  of 
the  town,  let  the  other  be  who  she  will.  In  short, 
I  am  in  a  fair  way  to  be  easy,  were  it  not  for  a 
club  of  female  rakes,  who,  under  pretense  of 
taking  their  innocent  rambles  forsooth,  and  di¬ 
verting  the  spleen,  seldom  fail  to  plague  me  twice 
or  thrice  a  day,  to  cheapen  tea,  or  buy  a  screen. 
What  else  should  they  mean?  as  they  often  re¬ 
peat  it.  These  rakes  are  your  idle  ladies  of 
fashion,  who,  having  nothing  to  do,  employ  them¬ 
selves  in  tumbling  over  my  ware.  One  of  these 


no-customers  (for  by  the  way  they  seldom  or  never 
buy  anything)  calls  for  a  set  of  tea-dishes,  another 
for  a  basin,  a  third  for  my  best  green  tea,  and  even 
to  the  punch-bowl,  there’s  scare  a  piece  in  my 
shop  but  must  be  displaced,  and  the  whole  agree¬ 
able  architecture  disordered,  so  that  I  can  compare 
them  to  nothing  but  to  the  night-goblins  that  take 
a  pleasure  to  overturn  the  disposition  of  plates 
and  dishes  in  the  kitchens  of  your  housewifely 
maids.  Well,  after  all  this  racket  and  clutter, 
this  is  too  dear,  that  is  their  aversion;  another 
thing  is  charming,  but  not  wanted:  the  ladies  are 
cured  of  the  spleen,  but  I  am  not  a  shilling  the 
better  for  it.  Lord,  what  signifies  one  poor  pot  of 
tea,  considering  the  trouble  they  put  me  to?  Va¬ 
pors,  Mr.  Spectator,  are  terrible  things;  for  though 
I  am  not  possessed  by  them  myself,  I  suffer  more 
by  them  than  if  I  were.  Now  I  must  beg  you  to 
admonish  all  such  day-goblins  to  make  fewer 
visits,  or  to  be  less  troublesome  when  they  come 
to  one’s  shop ;  and  to  convince  them  that  we 
honest  shopkeepers  have  something  better  to  do, 
than  to  cure  folks  of  the  vapors  gratis.  A  young 
son  of  mine,  a  schoolboy,  is  my  secretary,  so  I 
hope  you  will  make  allowances. 

“I  am,  Sir, 

“  Your  constant  Reader,  and 
“very  humble  Servant, 

“ March  22d.  “  Rebecca  the  distressed” 

T. 


No.  337.]  THURSDAY,  MARCH  27,  1712. 

Fingit  equum  tenera  docilem  cervice  magister. 

Ix-e  viarn  quam  monstrat  eques - 

Hor.  1  Ep.  ii,  63. 

The  jockey  trains  the  young  and  tender  horse 

While  yet  soft-mouth’d,  and  breeds  him  to  the  course. 

Creeoh. 

I  have  lately  received  a  third  letter  from  the 
gentleman  who  has  already  given  the  public  two 
essays  upon  education.  As  his  thoughts  seem  to 
be  very  just  and  new  upon  this  subject,  I  shall 
communicate  them  to  the  reader. 

“  Sir, 

“  If  I  had  not  been  hindered  by  some  extraordi¬ 
nary  business,  I  should  have  sent  you  sooner  my 
further  thoughts  upon  education.  You  may 
please  to  remember,  that  in  my  last  letter  I  en¬ 
deavored  to  give  the  best  reasons  that  could  be 
urged  in  favor  of  a  private  or  public  education. 
Upon  the  whole,  it  may  perhaps  be  thought  that 
I  seemed  rather  inclined  to  the  latter,  though  at 
the  same  time  I  confessed  that  virtue,  which  ought 
to  be  our  first  principal  care,  was  more  usually 
acquired  in  the  former. 

“  I  intend,  therefore,  in  this  letter,  to  offer  at 
methods,  by  which  I  conceive  boys  might  be 
made  to  improve  in  virtue  as  they  advance  in 
t  letters. 

“I  know  that  in  most  of  our  public  schools  vice 
is  punished  and  discouraged,  whenever  it  is  found 
out;  but  this  is  far  from  being  sufficient,  unless 
our  youth  are  at  the  same  time  taught  to  form  a 
right  judgment  of  things,  and  to  know  what  is 
pi'operly  virtue. 

“  To  this  end,  whenever  they  read  the  lives  and 
actions  of  such  men  as  have  been  famous  in  their 
generation,  it  should  not  be  thought  enough  to 
make  them  barely  understand  so  many  Greek  or 
Latin  sentences;  but  they  should  be  asked  their 
opinion  of  such  an  action  or  saying,  and  obliged 
to  give  their  reasons  why  they  take  it  to  be  good 
or  bad.  By  this  means  they  would  insensibly  ar¬ 
rive  at  proper  notions  of  courage,  temperance, 
honor,  and  justice. 


"  There  must  be  great  care  taken  how  the  ex¬ 
ample  of  any  particular  person  is  recommended 
to  them  in  gross;  instead  of  which  they  ought  to 
be  taught  wherein  such  a  man,  though  great  in 
some  respects,  was  weak  and  faulty  in  others. 
For  want  of  this  caution,  a  boy  is  so  often  dazzled 
with  the  luster  of  a  great  character,  that  he  con¬ 
founds  its  beauties  with  its  blemishes,  and  looks 
even  upon  the  faulty  part  of  it  with  an  eye  of  ad¬ 
miration. 

“  I  have  often  wondered  how  Alexander,  who 
was  naturally  of  a  generous  and  merciful  disposi¬ 
tion,  came  to  be  guilty  of  so  barbarous  an  action 
as  that  of  dragging  the  governor  of  a  town  after 
his  chariot.  I  know  this  is  generally  ascribed  to 
his  passion  for  Homer :  but  I  lately  met  with  a 
passage  in  Plutarch,  which,  if  I  am  not  very  much 
mistaken,  still  gives  us  a  clearer  light  into  the 
motives  of  this  action.  Plutarch  tells  us,  that 
Alexander  in  his  youth  had  a  master  named  Lysi- 
machus,  who,  though  he  was  a  man  destitute  of 
all  politeness,  ingratiated  himself  both  with 
Philip  and  his  pupil,  and  became  the  second  man 
at  court,  by  calling  the  king  Peleus,  the  prince 
Achilles,  and  himself  Phoenix.  It  is  no  wonder 
if  Alexander,  having  been  thus  used  not  only  to 
admire  but  to  personate  Achilles,  should  think  it 
glorious  to  imitate  him  in  this  piece  of  cruelty  and 
extravagance. 

“  To  carry  this  thought  yet  further,  I  shall  sub¬ 
mit  it  to  your  consideration,  whether,  instead  of  a 
theme  or  copy  of  verses,  which  are  the  usual  exer¬ 
cises,  as  they  are  called  in  the  school  phrase,  it 
would  not  be  more  proper  that  a  boy  should  be 
tasked,  once  or  twice  a  week,  to  write  down  his 
opinion  of  such  persons  and  things  as  occur  to 
him  by  his  reading;  that  he  should  descant  upon 
the  actions  of  Turnus  or  HSneas;  show  wherein 
they  excelled,  or  where  defective;  censure  or  ap- 
rove  any  particular  action;  observe  how  it  might 
ave  been  carried  to  a  greater  degree  of  perfec¬ 
tion,  and  how  it  exceeded  or  fell  short  of  another. 
He  might  at  the  same  time  mark  what  was  moral 
in  any  speech,  and  how  far  it  agreed  with  the  cha¬ 
racter  of  the  person  speaking.  This  exercise 
would  soon  strengthen  his  judgment  in  what  is 
blamable  or  praiseworthy,  and  give  him  an  early 
seasoning  of  morality. 

“  Next  to  those  examples  which  may  be  met 
with  in  books,  I  very  much  approve  Horace’s  way 
of  setting  before  youth  the  infamous  or  honorable 
characters  of  their  cotemporaries.  That  poet 
tells  us,  this  was  the  method  his  father  made  use 
of  to  incline  him  to  any  particular  virtue,  or  give 
him  an  aversion  to  any  particular  vice.  ‘If,’ 
says  Horace,  ‘  my  father  advised  me  to  live  within 
bounds,  and  be  contented  with  the  fortune  he 
should  leave  me;  “  Do  you  not  see,”  says  he,  “  the 
miserable  condition  of  Burrus,  and  the  son  of 
Aibus  ?  Let  the  misfortunes  of  those  two  wretches 
teach  you  to  avoid  luxury  and  extravagance  ?  ”  If 
he  would  inspire  me  with  an  abhorrence  to  de¬ 
bauchery,  “Do  not,”  says  he,  “make  yourself 
like  Sectanus,  when  you  may  be  happy  in  the  en¬ 
joyment  of  lawful  pleasures.  How  scandalous,” 
says  he,  “  is  the  character  of  Trebonius,  who  was 
lately  caught  in  bed  with  another  man’s  wife!”’ 
To  illustrate  the  force  of  this  method,  the  poet 
adds,  that  as  a  headstrong  patient,  who  will  not 
at  first  follow  his  physician’s  prescriptions,  grows 
orderly  when  he  hears  that  his  neighbors  die  all 
about  him;  so  youth  is  often  frightened  from 
vice,  by  hearing  the  ill  report  it  brings  upon 
others. 

“  Xenophon’s  schools  of  equity,  in  his  life  of 
Cyrus  the  Great,  are  sufficiently  famous.  He  tells 
us,  that  the  Persian  children  went  to  school,  and 
27 


employed  their  time  as  diligently  in  learning  the 
principles  of  justice  and  sobriety,  as  the  youth  in 
other  countries  did  to  acquire  the  most  difficult 
arts  and  sciences;  their  governors  spent  most  part 
of  the  day  in  hearing  their  mutual  accusations 
one  against  the  other,  whether  for  violence,  cheat- 
ing,  slander,  or  ingratitude;  and  taught  them  how 
to  give  judgment  against  those  who  were  found  to 
be  anyways  guilty  of  these  crimes.  I  omit  the 
story  of  the  long  and  short  coat,  for  which  Cyrus 
himself  was  punished,  as  a  case  equally  known 
with  any  in  Littleton. 

“The  method  which  Apuleius  tells  us  the  In¬ 
dian  Gymnosophists  took  to  educate  their  disciples, 
is  still  more  curious  and  remarkable.  His  words 
are  as  follow:  *  When  their  dinner  is  ready,  before 
it  is  served  up,  the  masters  inquire  of  every  par¬ 
ticular  scholar  how  he  has  employed  his  time  since 
sunrising:  some  of  them  answer,  that,  having 
been  chosen  as  arbiters  between  two  persons,  they 
have  composed  their  differences,  and  made  them 
friends;  some,  that  they  have  been  executing  the 
orders  of  their  parents;  and  others,  that  they  have 
either  found  out  something  new  by  their  own  ap¬ 
plication,  or  learnt  it  from  the  instructions  of  their 
fellows.  But  if  there  happens  to  be  any  one 
among  them  who  cannot  make  it  appear  that  he 
has  employed  the  morning  to  advantage,  he  is  im¬ 
mediately  excluded  from  the  company,  and 
obliged  to  work  while  the  rest  are  at  dinner.’ 

“It  is  not  impossible,  that  from  these  several 
ways  of  producing  virtue  in  the  minds  of  boys, 
some  general  method  might  be  invented.  What  I 
would  endeavor  to  inculcate  is,  that  our  youth 
cannot  be  too  soon  taught  the  principles  of  virtue, 
seeing  the  first  impressions  which  are  made  on  the 
mind  are  always  the  strongest. 

“  The  archbishop  of  Cambray  makes  Telema- 
chus  say,  that,  though  he  was  young  in  years,  he 
was  old  in  the  art  of  knowing  how  to  keep  both 
his  own  and  his  friend’s  secrets.  ‘When  my 
father,’  says  the  prince,  ‘  went  to  the  siege  of  Troy, 
he  took  me  on  his  knees,  and,  after  having  embraced 
and  blessed  me,  as  he  was  surrounded  by  the  no¬ 
bles  of  Ithaca,  “  O  my  friends,”  says  he,  “  into 
your  hands  I  commit  the  education  of  my  son  :  if 
ever  you  loved  his  father,  show  it  in  your  care  to¬ 
ward  him;  but  above  all,  do  not  omit  to  form  him 
just,  sincere,  and  faithful  in  keeping  a  secret.” 
These  words  of  my  father,  says  Telemachus, 
‘were  continually  repeated  to  me  by  his  friends  in 
his  absence;  who  made  no  scruple  of  communica¬ 
ting  to  me  their  uneasiness  to  see  my  mother  sur¬ 
rounded  with  lovers,  and  the  measures  they  de¬ 
signed  to  take  on  that  occasion.’  He  adds,  that 
he  was  so  ravished  at  being  thus  treated  like  a 
man,  and  at  the  confidence  reposed  in  him,  that  he 
never  once  abused  it;  nor  could  all  the  insinua¬ 
tions  of  his  father’s  rivals  ever  get  him  to  betray 
what  was  committed  to  him  under  the  seal  of  se¬ 
crecy. 

“  There  is  hardly  any  virtue  which  a  lad  might 
not  thus  learn  by  practice  and  example. 

“  I  have  heard  of  a  good  man,  who  used  at  cer¬ 
tain  times  to  give  his  scholars  sixpence  a-piece, 
that  they  might  tell  him  the  next  day  how  they 
had  employed  it.  The  third  part  was  always  to 
be  laid  out  in  charity,  and  every  boy  was  blamed 
or  commended,  as  he  could  make  it  appear  that  he 
had  chosen  a  fit  object. 

“  In  short  nothing  is  more  wanting  to  our  pub¬ 
lic  schools,  than  that  the  masters  of  them  should 
use  the  same  care  in  fashioning  the  manners  of 
their  scholars,  as  in  forming  their  tongues  to  the 
learned  languages.  Wherever  the  former  is  omit¬ 
ted,  I  cannot  help  agreeing  with  Mr.  Locke,  that 
a  man  must  have  a  very  strange  value  for  words 


118 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


when,  preferring  the  languages  of  the  Greeks  and 
Romans  to  that  which  made  them  such  brave  men, 
he  can  think  it  worth  while  to  hazard  the  inno¬ 
cence  and  virtue  of  his  son  for  a  little  Greek  and 
Latin. 

“  As  the  subject  of  this  essay  is  of  the  highest 
importance,  and  what  I  do  not  remember  to  have 
yet  seen  treated  by  any  author,  I  have  sent  you 
what  occurred  to  me  on  it  from  my  own  observa¬ 
tion  or  reading,  and  which  you  may  either  sup¬ 
press  or  publish,  as  you  may  think  nt. 

X.  "I  am,  Sir,  yours,”  etc. 


No.  338.]  FRIDAY,  MARCH  28,  1712. 


- Nil  fait  unquam 

Tam  dispar  sibi - 


.* 

Hor.  1  Sat.  iii,  18. 


Made  up  of  naught  but  inconsistencies. 

I  find  the  tragedy  of  The  Distressed  Mother  is  pub¬ 
lished  to-day.  The  author  of  the  prologue,!  I 
suppose,  pleads  an  old  excuse  I  have  read  some¬ 
where,  of  “being  dull  with  design:”  and  the 
gentleman  who  wrote  the  epilogue!  has,  to  my 
knowledge,  so  much  of  greater  moment  to  value 
himself  upon,  that  he  will  easily  forgive  me  for 
publishing  the  exceptions^  made  against  gayety  at 
the  end  of  serious  entertainments  in  the  following 
letter:  I  should  be  more  unwilling  to  pardon  him 
than  anybody,  a  practice  which  cannot  have  any 
ill  consequence  but  from  the  abilities  of  the  per¬ 
son  who  is  guilty  of  it. 


“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  had  the  happiness  the  other  night  of  sitting 
very  near  you,  and  your  worthy  friend  Sir  Roger, 
at  the  acting  of  the  new  tragedy,  which  you  have 
in  a  late  paper  or  two,  so  justly  recommended.  I 
was  highly  pleased  with  the  advantageous  situa¬ 
tion  fortune  had  given  me  in  placing  me  so  near 
two  gentlemen^from  one  of  which  I  was  sure  to 
hear  such  reflections  on  the  several  incidents  of 
the  play  as  pure  nature  suggested,  and  from  the 
other,  such  as  flowed  from  the  exactest  art  and 
judgment:  though  I  must  confess  that  my  curios¬ 
ity  led; me  so  much  to  observe  the  knight’s  reflec¬ 
tions,  that  I  was  not  so  well  at  leisure  to  improve 
myself  by  yours.  Nature,  I  found,  played  her 
part  in  the  knight  pretty  well,  till  at  the  last  con¬ 
cluding  lines  she  entirely  forsook  him.  You  must 
know,  Sir,  that  it  is  always  my  custom,  when  I 
have  been  well  entertained  at  a  new  tragedy,  to 
make  my  retreat  before  the  facetious  epilogue  en¬ 
ters;  not  but  that  those  pieces  are  often  very  well 
written,  but  having  paid  down  my  half-crown,  and 
made  a  fair  purchase,  of  as  much  of  the  pleasing 
melancholy  as  the  poet’s  art  can  afford  me,  or  my 
own  nature  admit  of,  I  am  willing  to  carry  some 
of  it  home  with  me:  and  cannot  endure  to  be  at 
once  tricked  out  of  all,  though  by  the  wittiest  dex¬ 
terity  in  the  world.  However,  I  kept  my  seat  the 
other  night,  in  hopes  of  finding  my  own  senti¬ 
ments  of  this  matter  favored  by  your  friend’s; 
when,  to  my  great  surprise,  I  found  the  knight 


*  The  original  motto  to  this  paper,  at  its  first  publication  in 
folio,  was  likewise  from  Horace : 

- Servetur  ad  inum, 

Qualis  ab  incepto  processerit,  et  sibi  constet. 

Hor.  A.  P. 

t  Steele  was  the  author  of  the  prologue  to  The  Distressed 
Mother.  The  excuse  alludes  to  a  passage  at  the  end  of  Tat. 
No.  38. 

J  The  author  of  the  epilogue  to  the  play  of  A.  Phillips, 
called  The  Distressed  Mother ,  first  published  in  1712,  was  Mr. 
Eustace  BudgelL 


entering  with  equal  pleasure  into  both  parts,  and 
as  much  satisfied  with  Mrs.  Oldfield’s  gayety  as 
he  had  been  before  with  Andromache’s  greatness. 
Whether  this  were  no  more  than  an  effect  of  the 
knight’s  peculiar  humanity,  pleased  to  find  at  last, 
that,  after  all  the  tragical  doings,  everything  was 
safe  and  well,  I  do  not  know.  But  for  my  own 
part,  I  must  confess  I  was  so  dissatisfied,  that  I 
was  sorry  the  poet  had  saved  Andromache,  and 
could  heartily  have  wished  that  he  had  left  her 
stone-dead  upon  the  stage.  For  you  cannot  ima¬ 
gine,  Mr.  Spectator,  the  mischief  she  was  reserved 
to  do  me.  I  found  my  soul,  during  the  action, 
gradually  worked  up  to  the  highest  pitch,  and 
felt  the  exalted  passion  which  all  generous  minds 
conceive  at  the  sight  of  virtue  in  distress.  The 
impression,  believe  me.  Sir,  was  so  strong  upon 
me,  that  I  am  persuaded,  if  I  had  been  let  alone 
in  it,  I  could,  at  an  extremity,  have  ventured  to 
defend  yourself  and  Sir  Roger  against  half  a 
score  of  the  fiercest  Mohocks;  but  the  ludicrous 
epilogue  in  the  close  extinguished  all  my  ardor, 
and  made  me  look  upon  all  such  noble  achieve¬ 
ments  as  downright  silly  and  romantic.  What 
the  rest  of  the  audience  felt,  I  cannot  so  well  tell. 
For  myself  I  must  declare,  that  at  the  end  of  the 
play  I  found  my  soul  uniform,  and  all  of  a-piece; 
but  at  the  end  of  the  epilogue  it  was  so  jumbled 
together,  and  divided  between  jest  and  earnest, 
that,  if  you  will  forgive  me  an  extravagant  fancy, 
I  will  here  set  it  down.  I  could  not  but  fancy,  if 
my  soul  had  at  that  moment  quitted  my  body,  and 
descended  to  the  poetical  shades  in  the  posture  it 
was  then  in,  what  a  strange  figure  it  -would  have 
made  among  them.  They  would  not  have  known 
what  to  have  made  of  my  motley  specter,  half 
comic  and  half  tragic,  all  over  resembling  a  ridic¬ 
ulous  face  that  at  the  same  time  laughs  on  one 
side,  and  cries  on  the  other.  The  only  defense,  I 
think,  I  have  ever  heard  made  for  this,  as  it  seems 
to  me  the  most  unnatural  tack  of  the  comic  tail  to 
the  tragic  head,  is  this,  that  the  minds  of  the  au¬ 
dience  must  be  refreshed,  and  gentlemen  and  la¬ 
dies  not  sent  away  to  their  own  homes  with  too 
dismal  and  melancholy  thoughts  about  them:  for 
who  knows  the  consequence  of  this?  We  are 
much  obliged,  indeed,  to  the  poets,  for  the  great 
tenderness  they  express  for  the  safety  of  our  per¬ 
sons,  and  heartily  thank  them  for  it.  But  if  that 
be  all,  pray,  good  Sir,  assure  them,  that  we  are 
none  of  us  likely  to  come  to  any  great  harm;  and 
that,  let  them  do  their  best,  we  shall  in  all  proba¬ 
bility  live  out  the  length  of  our  days,  and  frequent 
the  theaters  more  than  ever.  What  makes  me 
more  desirous  to  have  some  reformation  of  this 
matter  is,  because  of  an  ill  consequence  or  two  at 
tending  it:  for  a  great  many  of  our  church  musi¬ 
cians  being  related  to  the  theater,  they  have,  in 
imitation  of  these  epilogues,  introduced,  in  their 
farewell  voluntaries,  a  sort  of  music  quite  foreign 
to  the  design  of  church-services,  to  the  great  pre¬ 
judice  of  well-disposed  people.  Those  fingering 
gentlemen  should  be  informed,  that  they  ought  to 
suit  their  airs  to  the  place  and  business,  and  that 
the  musician  is  obliged  to  keep  to  the  text  as  much 
as  the  preacher.  For  want  of  this,  I  have  found 
by  experience  a  great  deal  of  mischief.  For  when 
the  preacher  has  often,  with  great  piety,  and  art 
enough,  handled  his  subject,  and  the  judicious 
clerk  has  with  the  utmost  diligence  culled  out 
two  staves  proper  to  the  discourse,  and  I  have 
found  in  myself  and  in  the  rest  of  the  pew,  good 
thoughts  and  dispositions,  they  have  been,  ail  in 
a  moment,  dissipated  by  a  merry  jig  from  the  or¬ 
gan-loft.  One  knows  not  what  further  ill  effects 
the  epilogues  I  have  been  speaking  of  may  in  time 
produce :  but  this  I  am  credibly  informed  of,  that 


THE  SPE  CTATOR. 


Paul  Lorrain*  has  resolved  upon  a  very  sudden 
reformation  in  his  tragical  dramas;  and  that,  a 
the  next  monthly  performance',  lie  designs,  insteac 
of  a  penitential  psalm,  to  dismiss  his  audience 
with  an  excellent  new  ballad  of  his  own  compos¬ 
ing.  Pray,  Sir,  do  what  you  can  to  put  a  stop  to 
these  growing  evils,  and  you  will  very  much 
oblige 

“  Tour  humble  Servant, 

“  Physibulus.” 


No.  339.1  SATURDAY,  MARCH  29,  1712. 

- Ut  his  exordia  primis 

Omnia,  et  ipse  tener  mundi  eoncreverit  orbis. 

Turn  durare  solum  et  discludere  Nerea  ponto 
Coeperit,  et  rerum  paullatim  sumere  formas. 

Virg.,  Eel.  vi,  33. 

lie  sung  the  secret  seeds  of  nature’s  frame, 

IIow  seas,  and  earth,  and  air,  and  active  flame, 

Fell  through  the  mighty  void,  and  in  their  fall, 

Were  blindly  gather’d  in  this  goodly  ball. 

The  tender  soil  then  stiff 'ning  by  degrees, 

Shut  from  the  bounded  earth  the  bounding  seas; 

The  earth  and  ocean  various  forms  disclose, 

And  a  new  sun  to  the  new  world  arose. — Dryden. 

Longinus  has  observed,  that  there  may  be  a 
loftiness  in  sentiments  where  there  is  no  passion, 
and  brings  instances  out  of  ancient  authors  to 
support  this  his  opinion.  The  pathetic,  as  that 
great  critic  observes,  may  animate  and  inflame 
the  sublime,  but  is  not  essential  to  it.  Accord¬ 
ingly,  as  he  further  remarks,  we  very  often  find 
that  those  who  excel  most  in  stirring  up  the  pas¬ 
sions  very  often  want  the  talent  of  writing  in  the 
great  and  sublime  manner,  and  so  on  the  contrary. 
Milton  has  shown  himself  a  master  in  both  these 
ways  of  writing.  The  seventh  book,  which  we 
are  now  entering  upon,  is  an  instance  of  that  sub¬ 
lime  which  is  not  mixed  and  worked  up  with 
passion.  The  author  appears  in  a  kind  of  com¬ 
posed  and  sedate  majesty  ;  and  though  the  senti¬ 
ments  do  not  give  so  great  an  emotion  as  those  in 
the  former  book,  they  abound  with  as  magnificent 
ideas.  The  sixth  book,  like  a  troubled  ocean, 
represents  greatness  in  confusion ;  the  seventh 
affects  the  imagination  like  the  ocean  in  a  calm, 
and  fills  the  mind  of  the  reader,  without  producing 
in  it  anything  like  tumult  or  agitation. 

The  critic  above-mentioned,  among  the  rules 
which  he  lays  down  for  succeeding  in  the  sublime 
way  of  writing,  proposes  to  his  reader,  that  he 
should  imitate  the  most  celebrated  authors  who 
have  gone  before  him,  and  have  been  engaged  in 
works  of  the  same  nature  ;  as  in  particular  that, 
if  he  writes  on  a  poetical  subject,  lie  should  con¬ 
sider  how  Homer  would  have  spoken  on  such  an 
occasion.  By  this  means  one  great  genius  often 
catches  the  flame  from  another,  and  writes  in  his 
spirit,  without  copying  servilely  after  him.  There 
are  a  thousand  shining  passages  in  Virgil,  which 
have  been  lighted  up  by  Homer. 

Milton,  though  his  own  natural  strength  of  ge¬ 
nius  was  capable  of  furnishing  out  a  perfect  work, 
has  doubtless  very  much  raised  and  ennobled  his 
conceptions  by  such  an  imitation  as  that  which 
Longinus  has  recommended. 

#  IJ1  this  book,  which  gives  us  an  account  of  the 
6ix  days’  works,  the  poet  received  but  very  few  as¬ 
sistances  from  heathen  writers,  who  are  strangers 
to  the  wonders  of  creation.  But  as  there  are 


*  Paul  Lorrain  was  the  ordinary  of  Newgate  at  this  time 
which  place  he  held  for  many  years:  he  died  October  7, 1719! 
In  his  accounts  of  the  convicts  executed  at  Tyburn,  P.  Lor¬ 
rain  generally  represented  them  as  true  penitents,  and  dying 
very  well,  after  having  lived  for  the  most  part  very  ill:  they 
are  humorously  styled  Paul  Lorrain’s  saints  in  the  Tatler, 
No.  63. 


419 

many  glorious  strokes  of  poetry  upon  this  subject 
in  holy  writ,  the  author  has  numberless  allusions 
to  them  through  the  whole  course  of  this  book. 
1  he  great  critic  I  have  before  mentioned,  though 
a  heathen,  has  taken  notice  of  t lie  sublime  manner 
in  which  the  lawgiver  of  the  Jews  has  described 
the  creation  in  the  first  chapter  of  Genesis  ;  and 
there  are  many  other  passages  in  Scripture  which 
rise  up  to  the  same  majesty,  where  the  subject  is 
touched  upon.  Milton  has  shown  his  judgment 
very  lemarkably,  in  making  use  of  such  of  these 
as  were  proper  for  his  poem,  and  in  duly  qualify- 
ing  those  strains  of  eastern  poetry  whicli  were 
suited  to  readers  whose  imaginations  were  set  to 
a  higher  pitch  than  those  of  colder  climates. 

Adam  s  speech  to  the  angel,  wherein  he  desires 
an  account  of  what  had  passed  within  the  regions 
of  nature  before  the  creation,  is  very  great  and 
solemn.  The  following  lines,  in  which  he  tells 
him,  that  the  day  is  not  too  far  spent  for  him 
to  enter  upon  such  a  subject,  are  exquisite  in  their 
kind : 

And  the  great  light  of  day  yet  wants  to  run 
Much  of  his  race,  though  steep;  suspense  in  heav’n 
Held  by  thy  voice,  thy  potent  voice  he  hears, 

And  longer  will  delay  to  hear  thee  tell 
His  generation,  etc. 

The  angel’s  encouraging  our  first  parents  in  a 
modest  pursuit  after  knowledge,  with  the  causes 
which  he  assigns  for  the  creation  of  the  world, 
are  very  just  and  beautiful.  The  Messiah,  by 
whom,  as  we  are  told  in  Scripture,  the  heavens 
were  made,  goes  forth  in  the  power  of  his  Father, 
surrounded  with  a  host  of  angels,  and  clothed 
with  such  a  majesty  as  becomes  his  entering  upon 
a  work  which,  according  to  our  conceptions,  ap¬ 
pears  the  utmost  exertion  of  Omnipotence.  What 
a  beautiful  description  has  our  author  raised  upon 
that  hint  in  one  of  the  prophets  !  “  And  behold 

there  came  four  chariots  out  from  between  two 
mountains,  and  the  mountains  were  mountains  of, 
brass 

About  his  chariot  numberless  were  pour’d 
Cherub  and  seraph,  potentates  and  thrones, 

And  virtues,  winged  spirits,  and  chariots  wing’d 
From  the  armory  of  God,  where  stand  of  old 
Myriads  between  two  brazen  mountains  lodg’d 
Against  a  solemn  day,  harness’d  at  hand, 

Celestial  equipage!  and  now  came  forth 
Spontaneous,  for  within  them  spirit  liv’d, 

Attendant  on  the  Lord :  Heav’n  open’d  wide 
Her  ever-during  gates,  harmonious  sound ! 

On  golden  hinges  moving - 

I  have  before  taken  notice  of  these  chariots  of 
JocL  and  of  these  gates  of  heaven  ;  and  shall 
uere  only  add,  that  Homer  gives  us  the  same  idea 
of  the  latter,  as  opening  of  themselves;  though' 
he  afterward  takes  off  from  it,  by  telling  us  that 
the  hours  first  of  all  removed  those  prodigious 
heaps  of  clouds  which  lay  as  a  barrier  before  them. 

I  do  not  know  anything  in  the  whole  poem 
more  sublime  than  the  description  which  follows, 
where  the  Messiah  is  represented  at  the  head  of 
his  angels,  as  looking  down  into  the  chaos,  calm- 
ing  its  confusion,  riding  into  the  midst  of  it,  and 
drawing  the  first  outline  of  the  creation  : 

On  hcav’nly  ground  they  stood,  and  from  the  shore 
They  view’d  the  vast  immeasurable  abyss 
Outrageous  as  a  sea,  dark,  wasteful,  wild, 

Up  from  the  bottom  turn’d  by  furious  winds 
And  surging  waves,  as  mountains  to  assault 
Heav’n’s  height,  and  with  the  center  mix  the  pole. 
“Silence,  ye  troubled  waves;  and  thou,  deep,  peaceP ' 
Said  then  th’  omnific  Word,  “  Your  discord  end !” 

Nor  staid,  but  on  the  wings  of  cherubim 

Up-lifted,  in  paternal  glory  rode 

Far  into  Chaos,  and  the  world  unborn ; 

For  Chaos  heard  his  voice.  Him  all  his  train 
Follow’d  in  bright  procession,  to  behold 


420 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Creation,  and  the  wonders  of  his  might. 

Then  stay'd  the  fervid  wheels ;  and  in  his  hand 
He  took  the  golden  compasses,  prepar’d, 

In  God’s  eternal  store  to  circumscribe 
This  universe  and  all  created  things : 

One  foot  he  centered,  and  the  other  turn’d 
Round  through  the  vast  profundity  obscure, 

And  said,  “  Thus  far  extend,  thus  far  thy  bounds, 

This  he  thy  just  circumference,  0  world  I” 

The  thought  of  the  golden  compasses  is  con¬ 
ceived  altogether  in  Homer’s  spirit,  and  is  a  very 
noble  incident  in  this  wonderful  description.  Ho¬ 
mer,  when  he  speaks  of  the  gods,  ascribes  to 
them  several  arms  and  instruments  with  the  same 
greatness  of  imagination.  Let  the  reader  only 
peruse  the  description  of  Minerva’s  aegis  or  buck¬ 
ler,  in  the  fifth  book  of  the  Iliad,  with  her  spear, 
which  would  overturn  whole  squadrons,  and  her 
helmet  that  was  sufficient  to  cover  an  army  drawn 
out  of  a  hundred  cities.  The  golden  compasses, 
in  the  above-mentioned  passage,  appear  a  very 
natifral  instrument  in  the  hand  of  him  whom 
Plato  somewhere  calls  the  Divine  Geometrician. 
As  poetry  delights  in  clothing  abstracted  ideas  in 
allegories  and  sensible  images,  we  find  a  magni¬ 
ficent  description  of  the  creation  formed  after  the 
same  manner  in  one  of  the  prophets,  wherein  he 
describes  the  Almighty  Architect  as  measuring 
the  waters  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  meting  out 
the  heavens  with  his  span,  comprehending  the. 
dust  of  the  earth  in  a  measure,  weighing  the 
mountains  in  scales,  and  the  hills  in  a  balance. 
Another  of  them  describing  the  Supreme  Being  in 
this  great  work  of  creation,  represents  him  as 
laying  the  foundations  of  the  earth,  and  stretch¬ 
ing  a  line  upon  it ;  and,  in  another  place,  as  gar¬ 
nishing  the  heavens,  stretching  out  the  north  over 
the  empty  place,  and  hanging  the  earth  upon 
nothing.  This  last  noble  thought  Milton  has  ex¬ 
pressed  in  the  following  verse  : 

And  earth  self-balanc’d  on  her  center  hung. 

The  beauties  of  description  in  this  book  lie  so 
very  thick,  that  it  is  impossible  to  enumerate 
them  in  this  paper.  The  poet  has  employed  on 
them  the  whole  energy  of  our  tongue.  The  sev¬ 
eral  great  scenes  of  the  creation  rise  up  to  view 
one  after  another,  in  such  a  manner,  that  the 
reader  seems  present  at  this  wonderful  work,  and 
to  assist  among  the  choirs  of  angels  who  are  the 
spectators  of  it.  How  glorious  is  the  conclusion 
of  the  first  day ! 

- Thus  was  the  first  day  ev’n  and  morn: 

Nor  past  uneelebrated,  nor  unsung, 

By  the  celestial  choirs,  when  orient  light 
Exhaling  first  from  darkness  they  beheld ; 

Birth-day  of  heav’n  and  earth !  with  joy  and  shout 
The  hollow  universal  orb  they  fill’d. 

W e  have  the  same  elevation  of  thought  in  the 
third  day,  when  the  mountains  were  brought  forth 
and  the  deep  was  made  : 

Immediately  the  mountains  huge  appear 
Emergent,  and  their  broad  bare  backs  upheave 
Into  the  clouds,  their  tops  ascend  the  sky : 

So  high  as  heav’n  the  tumid  hills,  so  low 
Down  sunk  a  hollow  bottom  broad  and  deep, 

Capacious  bed  of  waters - • 

We  have  also  the  rising  of  the  whole  vegetable 
world  described  in  this  day’s  work,  which  is  filled 
with  all  the  graces  that  other  poets  have  lavished 
on  their  description  of  the  spring,  and  leads  the 
reader’s  imagination  into  a  theater  equally  sur¬ 
prising  and  beautiful. 

The  several  glories  of  the  heavens  make  their 
appearance  on  the  fourth  day : 

Eirst  in  his  east  the  glorious  lamp  was  seen, 

Regent  of  day,  and  all  the  horizon  round 


Invested  with  bright  rays,  jocund  to  run 

His  longitude  through  heaven’s  high  road ;  the  gray 

Dawn,  and  the  Pleiades  before  him  danc’d, 

Shedding  sweet  influence.  Less  bright  the  moon, 

But  opposite  in  level’d  west  was  set 
His  mirror,  with  full  face  borrowing  her  light 
From  him,  for  other  lights  she  needed  none 
In  that  aspect,  and  still  that  distance  keeps 
Till  night;  then  in  the  east  her  turn  she  shines, 
Revolv’d  on  heaven’s  great  axle,  and  her  reign 
With  thousand  lesser  lights  dividual  holds, 

With  thousand  thousand  stars,  that  then  appear’d 
Spangling  the  hemisphere - 

One  would  wonder  how  the  poet  could  be  so 
concise  in  his  description  of  the  six  days’  works, 
as  to  comprehend  them  within  the  bounds  of 
an  episode,  and  at  the  same  time,  so  particular,  as 
to  give  us  a  lively  idea  of  them.  This  is  still 
more  remarkable  in  his  account  of  the  fifth  and 
sixth  days,  in  which  he  has  drawn  out  to  our 
view  the  whole  animal  creation,  from  the  reptile 
to  the  behemoth.  As  the  lion  and  the  leviathan 
are  two  of  the  noblest  productions  in  the  world 
of  living  creatures,  the  reader  will  find  a  most 
exquisite  spirit  of  poetry  in  the  account  which 
our  author  gives  us  of  them.  The  sixth  day 
concludes  with  the  formation  of  man,  upon  which 
the  angel  takes  occasion,  as  he  did  after  the 
battle  in  heaven,  to  remind  Adam  of  his  obe¬ 
dience,  which  was  the  principal  design  of  this 
his  visit. 

The  poet  afterward  represents  the  Messiah  re¬ 
turning  into  heaven,  and  taking  a  survey  of  his 
great  work.  There  is  something  inexpressibly 
sublime  in  this  part  of  the  poem,  where  the 
author  describes  that  great  period  of  time,  filled 
with  so  many  glorious  circumstances  ;  when  the 
heavens  and  earth  were  finished  ;  when  the  Mes¬ 
siah  ascended  up  in  triumph  through  the  ever¬ 
lasting  gates  ;  when  he  looked  down  with  pleasure 
upon  his  new  creation  ;  when  every  part  of  nature 
seemed  to  rejoice  in  its  existence,  when  the  morn¬ 
ing-stars  sang  together,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 
shouted  for  joy. 

So  ev’n  and  morn  accomplish’d  the  sixth  day: 

Yet  not  till  the  Creator  from  his  work 
Desisting,  though  unwearied,  up  return’d. 

Up  to  the  heaven  of  heavens,  his  high  abode ; 

Thence  to  behold  his  new  created  world 
Th’  addition  of  his  empire,  how  it  show’d 
In  prospect  from  his  throne,  how  good,  how  fair, 
Answering  his  great  idea.  Up  he  rode, 

Follow’d  with  acclamation  and  the  sound 
Symphonious  of  ten  thousand  harps,  that  tun’d 
Angelic  harmonies:  the  earth,  the  air 
Resounded  (thou  rememberest,  for  thou  heard’st)  • 
The  heavens  and  all  the  constellations  rung, 

The  planets  in  their  station  list’ning  stood, 

While  the  bright  pomp  ascended  jubilant. 

“Open,  ye  everlasting  gates!”  they  sung, 

“Open,  ye  heavens,  your  living  doors!  let  in 
The  great  Creator  from  his  work  return’d 
Magnificent,  his  six  days’  work — a  world.” 

I  cannot  conclude  this  book  upon  the  creation, 
without  mentioning  a  poem  which  has  lately  ap¬ 
peared  under  that  title.*  The  work  was  under¬ 
taken  with  so  good  an  intention,  and  is  executed 
with  so  great  a  mastery,  that  it  deserves  to  be 
looked  upon  as  one  of  the  most  useful  and  noble 
productions  in  our  English  verse.  The  reader 
cannot  but  be  pleased  to  find  the  depths  of  philo¬ 
sophy  enlivened  with  all  the  charms  of  poetry, 
and  to  see  so  great  a  strength  of  reason  amid  so 
beautiful  a  redundancy  of  the  imagination.  The 
author  has  shown  us  that  design  in  all  the  works 
of  nature  which  necessarily  leads  us  to  the  know¬ 
ledge  of  the  first  cause.  In  short,  he  has  illus- 


*  Creation,  a  philosophical  poem ;  demonstrating  the  exist¬ 
ence  and  providence  of  God.  In  seven  books.  By  Sir  Richard 
Blackmore,  Knt.  M.  D.,  and  fellow  of  the  college  of  physi¬ 
cians  in  London. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


trated,  by  numberless  and  incontestable  instances, 
that  divine  wisdom  which  the  son  of  Sirach  has 
so  nobly  ascribed  to  the  Supreme  Being  in  his 
formation  of  the  world,  when  lie  tells  us,  that 
“  He  created  her,  he  saw  her,  and  numbered  her, 
and  poured  her  out  upon  all  his  works,” _ L. 


No.  340.]  MONDAY,  MARCH  31,  1712. 

Quis  novus  hie  nostris  successit  sedibus  hospes  ? 

Quem  seso  ore  ferens!  quam  forti  pectore  et  armis! 

Virg.,  ^En.  iv,  10. 

What  chief  is  this  that  visits  us  from  far, 

Whose  gallant  mien  bespeaks  him  train’d  to  war? 

I  take  it  to  be  the  highest  instance  of  a  noble 
mind,  to  bear  great  qualities  without  discovering 
in  a  man’s  behavior  any  consciousness  that  he  is 
superior  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  Or,  to  say  it 
otherwise,  it  is  the  duty  of  a  great  person  so  to 
demean  himself,  as  that  whatever  endowments  he 
may  have,  he  may  appear  to  value  himself  upon 
no  qualities  but  such  as  any  man  may  arrive  at. 
Me  ought  to  think  no  man  valuable  but  for  his 
public  spirit,  justice,  and  integrity:  and  all  other 
endowments  to  be  esteemed  only  as  they  contri¬ 
bute  to  the  exerting  those  virtues.  Such  a  man, 
if  he  is  wise  or  valiant,  knows  it  is  of  no  consid¬ 
eration  to  other  men  that  he  is  so,  but  as  he  em¬ 
ploys  those  high  talents  for  their  use  and  service. 
He  who  affects  the  applauses  and  addresses  of  a 
multitude,  or  assumes  to  himself  a  pre-eminence 
upon  any  other  consideration,  must  soon  turn  ad¬ 
miration  into  contempt.  It  is  certain  that  there 
can  be  no  merit  in  any  man  who  is  not  conscious 
of  it  ;  but  the  sense  that  it  is  valuable  only- ac¬ 
cording  to  the  application  of  it,  makes  that  supe¬ 
riority  amiable,  which  would  otherwise  be  in¬ 
vidious.  In  this  light  it  is  considered  as  a  thing 
in  which  every  man  bears  a  share.  It  annexes 
the  ideas  of  dignity,  power,  and  fame,  in  an 
agreeable  and  familiar  manner,  to  him  who  is 
possessor  of  it ;  and  all  men  who  are  strangers 
to  him  are  naturally  incited  to  indulge  a  curiosity 
in  beholding  the  person,  behavior,  feature,  and 
shape  of  him  in  whose  character,  perhaps,  each 
man  had  formed  something  in  common  with  him¬ 
self. 

Whether  such,  or  any  other,  are  the  causes,  all 
men  have  a  yearning  curiosity  to  behold  a  man  of 
heroic  worth  ;  and  I  have  had  many  letters  from 
all  parts  of  this  kingdom,  that  request  I  would 
give  them  an  exact  account  of  the  stature,  the 
mien,  the  aspect  of  the  prince  who  lately  visited 
England,  and  has  done  such  wonders  for  the  lib- 
erty  of  Europe.  It  would  puzzle  the  most  curious 
to  form  to  himself  the  sort  of  man  my  several 
correspondents  expect  to  hear  of  by  the  action 
mentioned,  when  they  desire  a  description  of  him. 
There  is  always  something  that  concerns  them¬ 
selves,  and  growing  out  of  their  own  circum¬ 
stances,  in  all  their  inquiries.  A  friend  of  mine 
in  Y  ales  beseeches  me  to  be  very  exact  in  my  ac¬ 
count  of  that  wonderful  man,  who  had  marched 
an  army  and  all  its  baggage  over  the  Alps;  and 
if  possible,  to  learn  whether  the  peasant  who 
showed  him  the  way,  and  is  drawn  in  the  map,  be 
yet  living.  A  gentleman  from  the  university, 
who  is  deeply  intent  on  the  study  of  humanity’ 
desires  me  to  be  as  particular,  if  I  had  opportu¬ 
nity,  in  observing  the  whole  interview  between 
his  highness  and  our  late  general.  Thus  do  men’s 
fancies  work  according  to  their  several  educations 
and  circumstances  ;  but  all  pay  a  respect,  mixed 
with  admiration,  to  this  illustrious  character.  I 
have  waited  for  his  arrival  in  Holland,  before  1 


421 

would  let  my  correspond lents  know  that  I  have 
not  been  so  incurious  a  Spectator  as  not  to  have 
seen  Prince  Eugene.*  It  would  be  very  difficult, 
as  I  said  just  now,  to  answer  every  expectation 
of  those  who  have  written  to  me  on  that  head ; 
nor  is  it  possible  for  me  to  find  words  to  let  one 
know  what  an  artful  glance  there  is  in  his  coun¬ 
tenance  who  surprised  Cremona ;  how  daring  he 
appears  who  forced  the  trenches  of  Turin  ;  but  in 
general  I  can  say  that  he  who  beholds  him  will 
easily  expect  from  him  anything  that  is  to  be  im¬ 
agined  or  executed,  by  the  wit  or  force  of  man. 
1  he  prince  is  of  that  stature  which  makes  a  man 
most  easily  become  all  parts  of  exercise ;  has 
height  to  be  graceful  on  occasions  of  state  and 
ceremony,  and  no  less  adapted  for  agility  and 
dispatch  :  his  aspect  is  erect  and  composed  :  his 
eye  lively  and  thoughtful,  yet  rather  vigilant  than 
sparkling  ;  his  action  and  address  the  most  easy 
imaginable,  and  his  behavior  in  an  assembly  pe¬ 
culiarly  graceful  in  a  certain  art  of  mixing  insen¬ 
sibly  with  the  rest  and  becoming  one  of  the 
company,  instead  of  receiving  the  courtship  of  it. 
The  shape  of  his  person  and  composure  of  his 
limbs,  are  remarkably  exact  and  beautiful.  There 
is  in  his  looks  something  sublime,  which  does 
not  seem  to  arise  from  his  quality  or  character, 
but  the  innate  disposition  of  his  mind.  It  is  ap- 
parent  that  he  suffers  the  presence  of  much  com- 
pany,  instead  of  taking  delight  in  it ;  and  he  ap¬ 
peared  in  public,  while  with  us,  rather  to  return 
good-will,  or  satisfy  curiosity,  than  to  gratify  any 
taste  he  himself  had  of  being  popular.  As  his 
thoughts  are  never  tumultuous  in  danger,  they 
are  as  little  discomposed  on  occasions  of  pomp 
and  magnificence.  A  great  soul  is  affected,  in 
either  case,  no  farther  than  in  considering  the 
properest  methods  to  extricate  itself  from  them. 
If  this  hero  has  the  strong  incentives  to  uncom- 
mon  enterprises  that  wrere  remarkable  in  Alex¬ 
ander,  he  prosecutes  and  enjoys  the  fame  of  them 
with  the  justness,  propriety,'  and  good  sense  of 
Caesar.  It  is  easy  to  observe  in  him  a  mind 
as  capable  of  being  entertained  with  contem¬ 
plation  as  enterprise  ;  a  mind  ready  for  great  ex¬ 
ploits,  but  not  impatient  for  occasions  to  exert 
itself.  The  prince  has  wisdom,  and  valor  in  as 
high  perfection  as  man  can  enjoy  it ;  which  noble 
faculties,  in  conjunction,  banish  all  vain  glory, 
ostentation,  ambition,  and  all  other  vices  which 
might  intrude  upon  his  mind,  to  make  it  unequal. 
These  habits  and  qualities  of  soul  and  body,  ren¬ 
der  this  personage  so  extraordinary,  that  lie  ap¬ 
pears  to  have  nothing  in  him  but  what  every  man 
should  have  in  him,  the  exertion  of  his  very  self, 
abstracted  from  the  circumstances  in  wrhich  for¬ 
tune  has  placed  him.  Thus,  were  you  to  see 
Prince  Eugene,  and  were  told  he  was  a  private 
gentleman,  you  would  say  he  is  a  man  of  modesty 
and  merit.  Should  you  be  told  that  was  Prince 
Eugene,  he  would  be  diminished  no  otherwise, 
than  that  part  of  your  distant  admiration  would 
turn  into  a  familiar  good-will. 

This  I  thought  fit  to  entertain  my  reader  with, 
concerning  a  hero  who  never  wras  equaled  but  by 
one  man  ;f  over  whom  also  he  has  this  advan¬ 
tage,  that  he  has  had  an  opportunity  to  manifest 
an  esteem  for  him  in  his  adversity. — T. 


*  He  stood  godfather  to  Steele’s  second  son,  who  was  named 
Eugene  after  this  prince. 

f  The  Duke  of  Marlborough,  who  was  at  this  time  turned 
out  of  all  his  public  employments. 


422 


No.  341.] 

- Revocate  animos,  masstumque  timorem 

Mittite -  ViRG.  En.,  i,  206. 

Resume  your  courage  and  dismiss  your  fear. 

Dryden. 

Having,  to  oblige  my  correspondent  Physibu- 
lus,  printed  his  letter  last  Friday,  in  relation  to 
the  new  epilogue,  he  cannot  take  it  amiss  if  I  now 
publish  another,  which  I  have  just  received  from 
a  gentleman  who  does  not  agree  with  him  in  his 
sentiments  upon  that  matter. 

“  Sir, 

“ I  am  amazed  to  find  an  epilogue  attacked  in 
your  last  Friday’s  paper,  which  lias  been  so  gen¬ 
erally  applauded  by  the  town,  and  received  such 
honors  as  were  never  before  given  to  any  in  an 
English  theater. 

“  The  audience  would  not  permit  Mrs.  Oldfield 
to  go  off  the  stage  the  first  night  till  she  had  re¬ 
peated  it  twice  ;  the  secon^  night  the  noise  of 
encores  was  as  loud  as  before,  and  she  was  again 
obliged  to  speak  it  twice  ;  the  third  night  it  was 
still  called  for  a  second  time  ;  and,  in  short,  con¬ 
trary  to  all  other  epilogues,  which  are  dropped 
after  the  third  representation  of  the  play,  this  has 
already  been  repeated  nine  times. 

“I  must  own,  I  am  the  more  surprised  to  find 
this  censure  in  opposition  to  the  whole  town, -in  a 
paper  which  has  been  hitherto  famous  for  the  can¬ 
dor  of  its  criticisms. 

“  I  can  by  no  means  allow  your  melancholy 
correspondent,  that  the  new  epilogue  is  unnatural 
because  it  is  gay.  If  I  had  a  mind  to  be  learned, 
I  could  tell  him  that  the  prologue  and  epilogue 
were  real  parts  of  the  ancient  tragedy ;  but  every 
one  knows,  that,  on  the  British  stage,  they  are 
distinct  performances  by  themselves,  pieces  en¬ 
tirely  detached  from  the  play,  and  no  way  essen¬ 
tial  to  it. 

“  The  moment  the  play  ends,  Mrs.  Oldfield  is  no 
more  Andromache,  but  Mrs.  Oldfield  ;  and  though 
the  poet  had  left  Andromache  stone-dead  upon 
the  stage,  as  your  ingenious  correspondent  phrases 
it,  Mrs.  Oldfield  might  still  have  spoken  a  merry 
epilogue.  We  have  an  instance  of  this  in  a  tra¬ 
gedy  where  there  is  not  only  a  death,  but  a 
martyrdom.  St.  Catharine  was  there  personated 
by  Nell  Gwynne ;  she  lies  stone  dead  upon  the 
stage,  but,  upon  those  gentlemen’s  offering  to 
remove  her  body,  whose  business  it  is  to  carry 
off  the  slain  in  our  English  tragedies,  she  breaks 
out  into  that  abrupt  beginning,  of  what  was  very 
ludicrous,  but  at  the  same  time  thought  a  very 
good  epilogue : 

Hold !  are  you  mad  ?  you  damn’d  confounded  dog 
I  am  to  rise  and  speak  the  epilogue. 

“  This  diverting  manner  was  always  practiced 
by  Mr.  Dryden,  who,  if  he  was  not  the  best 
writer  of  tragedies  in  his  time,  was  allowed  by 
every  one  to  have  the  happiest  turn  for  a  prologue 
or  an  epilogue.  The  epilogues  to  Cleomenes, 
Don  Sebastian,  The  Duke  of  Guise,  Aurengzebe, 
and  Love  Triumphant,  are  all  precedents  of  this 
nature. 

“  I  might  further  justify  this  practice  by  that 
excellent  epilogue  which  was  spoken,  a  few  years 
since,  after  the  tragedy  of  Phaedra  and  Hippoly- 
tus  ;*  with  a  great  many  others,  in  which  the 


*  A  tragedy  by  Mr.  Edmund  Neal,  known  by  the  name  of 
Smith,  8vo.  1707.  Addison  wrote  a  prologue  to  this  play 
when  Italian  operas  were  in  vogue,  to  rally  the  vitated  taste 
of  the  town  in  preferring  sound  to  sense.  Prior  wrote  the 
epilogue  here  mentioned. 


authors  have  endeavored  to  make  the  audience 
merry.  If  they  have  not  all  succeeded  so  well  as 
the  writer  of  this,  they  have  however  shown  that 
it  was  not  for  want  of  good-will. 

“  I  must  further  observe  that  the  gayety  of  it 
may  be  still  the  more  proper,  as  it  is  at  the  end 
of  a  French  play  ;  since  every  one  knows  that  na¬ 
tion,  who  are  generally  esteemed  to  have  as  polite 
a  taste  as  any  in  Europe,  always  close  their  tragic 
entertainments  with  what  they  call  a  petite  piece, 
which  is  purposely  designed  to  raise  mirth,  and 
send  away  the  audience  well  pleased.  The  same 
person  who  has  supported  the  chief  character  in 
the  tragedy  very  often  plays  the  principal  part  in 
the  petite  piece;  so  that  I  have  myself  seen,  at 
Paris,  Orestes  and  Lubin  acted  the  same  night  by 
the  same  man. 

“  Tragi-cornedy,  indeed,  you  have  yourself,  in  a 
former  speculation,  found  fault  with  very  justly, 
because  it  breaks  the  tide  of  the  passions  while 
they  are  yet  flowing ;  but  this  is  nothing  at  all  to 
the  present  case,  where  they  have  had  already 
their  full  course. 

“As  the  new  epilogue  is  written  conformably 
to  the  practice  of  our  best  poets,  so  it  is  not  such 
a  one,  which,  as  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  says  in 
his  Rehearsal,  might  serve  for  any  other  play; 
but  wholly  rises  out  of  the  occurrences  of  the 
piece  it  was  composed  for. 

“  The  only  reason  your  mournful  correspondent 
gives  against  the  facetious  epilogue,  as  lie  calls  it, 
is,  that  he  has  a  mind  to  go  home  melancholy.  I 
wish  the  gentleman  may  not  be  more  grave  than 
wise.  For  my  own  part,  I  must  confess,  I  think 
it  very  sufficient  to  have  the  anguish  of  a  fictitious 
iece  remain  upon  me  while  it  is  representing; 
ut  I  love  to  be  sent  home  to  bed  in  a  good  humor. 
If  Physibulus  is,  however,  resolved  to  be  incon¬ 
solable,  and  not  to  have  his  tears  dried  up,  he 
need  only  continue  his  old  custom,  and,  when  he 
has  had  his  half-crown’s  worth  of  sorrow,  slink 
out  before  the  epilogue  begins. 

“It  is  pleasant  enough  to  hear  this  tragical 
genius  complaining  of  the  great  mischief  Andro¬ 
mache  had  done  him.  What  was  that?  Why,  she 
made  him  laugh.  The  poor  gentleman’s  suffer¬ 
ings  put  me  in  mind  of  Harlequin’s  case,  who 
was  tickled  to  death.  He  tells  us  soon  after, 
through  a  small  mistake  of  sorrow  for  rage,  that 
during  the  whole  action  he  was  so  very  sorry  that 
he  thinks  he  could  have  attacked  half  a  score  of  the 
fiercest  Mohocks  in  the  excess  of  his  grief.  I  can¬ 
not  but  look  upon  it  as  a  happy  accident,  that  a  man 
who  is  so  bloody-minded  in  his  affliction  was  di¬ 
verted  from  this  fit  of  outrageous  melancholy.  The 
valor  of  this  gentleman  in  his  distress  brings  to 
one’s  memory  the  Knight  of  the  Sorrowful  Counte¬ 
nance,  who  lays  about  him  at  such  an  unmerciful 
rate  in  an  old  romance.  I  shall  readily  grant  him 
that  his  soul,  as  he  himself  says,  would  have 
made  a  very  ridiculous  figure,  had  it  quitted  the 
body,  and  descended  to  the  poetical  shades,  in 
such  an  encounter. 

“As  to  his  conceit  of  tacking  a  tragic  head  with 
a  comic  tail,  in  order  to  refresh  the  audience,  it  is 
such  a  piece  of  jargon,  that  I  don’t  know  what  to 
make  of  it. 

“The  elegant  writer  makes  a  very  sudden  tran¬ 
sition  from  the  play-house  to  the  church,  and  from 
thence  to  the  gallows. 

“As  for  what  relates  to  the  church,  he  is  of  opi¬ 
nion  that  the  epilogues  have  given  occasion  to 
those  merry  jigs  from  the  organ-loft,  which  have 
dissipated  those  good  thoughts  and  dispositions 
he  has  found  in  himself,  and  the  rest  of  the  pew, 
upon  the  singing  of  two  staves  culled  out  by  the 
judicious  and  diligent  clerk. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 
TUESDAY,  APRIL  1,  1712. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


423 


"He  fetches  his  next  thought  from  Tyburn;  and 
seems  very  apprehensive  lest  there  should  happen 
any  innovations  in  the  tragedies  of  his  friend  Paul 
Lorrain. 

"In  the  meantime.  Sir,  this  gloomy  writer,  who 
is  so  mightily  scandalized  at  a  gay  epilogue  after 
a  serious  play,  speaking  of  the  fate  of  those  un¬ 
happy  wretches  who  are  condemned  to  suffer  an 
ignominious  death  by  the  justice  of  our  laws,  en¬ 
deavors  to  make  the  reader  merry  on  so  improper 
an  occasion,  by  those  poor  burlesque  expressions 
of  tragical  dramas  and  monthly  performances. 

“I  am,  Sir,  with  great  respect, 

"Your  most  obedient,  most  humble  Servant, 

X.  “  Philomedes.” 


No.  342.]  WEDNESDAY,  APRIL  2,  1712. 

Justiciee  partes  sunt  non  violare  homines;  verecundiae  non 

offendere. — Tull. 

Justice  consists  in  doing  no  injury  to  men;  decency,  in  giving 

them  no  offense. 

As  regard  to  decency  is  a  great  rule  of  life  in 
general,  but  more  especially  to  be  oonsulted  by 
the  female  world,  I  cannot  overlook  the  following 
letter,  which  describes  an  egregious  offender. 

"Mr.  Spectator, 

"I  was  this  day  looking  over  your  papers  ;  and 
reading  in  that  of  December  the  6th,  with  great  de¬ 
light,  the  amiable  grief  of  Asteria  for  the  absence 
of  her  husband,  it  threw  me  into  a  great  deal  of 
reflection.  I  cannot  say  but  this  arose  very  much 
from  the  circumstances  of  my  own  life,  who  am  a 
soldier,  and  expect  every  day  to  receive  orders, 
which  will  oblige  me  to  leave  behind  me  a  wife 
that  is  very  dear  to  me,  and  that  very  deservedly. 
She  is  at  present,  I  am  sure,  no  way  below  your 
Asteria  for  conjugal  affection:  but  I  see  the  be¬ 
havior  of  some  women  so  little  suited  to  the  cir¬ 
cumstance  wherein  my  wife  and  I  shall  soon  be, 
that  it  is  with  a  reluctance,  I  never  knew  before,  I 
am  going  to  my  duty.  What  puts  me  to  present 
pain  is,  the  example  of  a  young  lady,  whose  story 
you  shall  have  as  well  as  I  can  give  it  you.  ‘Hor- 
tensius,  an  officer  of  good  rank  in  her  Majesty’s 
service,  happened,  in  a  certain  part  of  England, 
to  be  brought  to  a  country  gentleman’s  house, 
where  he  was  received  with  that  more  than  ordi¬ 
nary  welcome  with  which  men  of  domestic  lives 
entertain  such  few  soldiers  whom  a  military  life, 
from  the  variety  of  adventures,  has  not  rendered 
overbearing,  but  humane,  easy,  and  agreeable. 
Hortensius  stayed  here  some  time,  and  had  easy 
access  at  all  hours,  as  well  as  unavoidable  conver¬ 
sation  at  some  parts  of  the  day,  with  the  beautiful 
Sylvana,  the  gentleman’s  daughter.  People  who 
live  in  the  cities  are  wonderfully  struck  with  every 
little  country  abode  they  see  when  they  take  the 
air;  and  it  is  natural  to  fancy  they  could  live  in 
every  neat  cottage  (by  which  they  pass)  much 
happier  than  in  their  present  circumstances.  The 
turbulent  way  of  life  which  Hortensius  was  used 
to  made  him  reflect  with  much  satisfaction  on  all 
the  advantages  of  a  sweet  retreat  one  day;  and 
among  the  rest,  you  will  think  it  not  improbable 
it  might  enter  into  his  thought,  that  such  a  woman 
as  Sylvana  would  consummate  the  happiness.  The 
world  is  so  debauched  with  mean  considerations, 
that  Hortensius  knew  it  would  be  received  as  an 
act  of  generosity,  if  he  asked  for  a  woman  of  the 
highest  merit,  without  further  questions,  of  a 
parent  who  had  nothing  to  add  to  her  personal 
qualifications.  The  wedding  was  celebrated  at 
her  father’s  house.  When  that  was  over,  the 
generous  husband  did  not  proportion  his  provision 


for  her  to  the  circumstances  of  her  fortune,  but 
considered  his  wife  as  his  darling,  his  pride, 
and  his  vanity ;  or,  rather,  that  it  was  in  the  wo¬ 
man  lie  had  chosen  that  a  man  of  sense  could 
show  pride  or  vanity  with  an  excuse,  and  there¬ 
fore  adorned  her  with  rich  habits  and  valuable 
jewels.  He  did  not,  however,  omit  to  admonish 
her,  that  he  did  his  very  utmost  in  this ;  that  it 
was  an  ostentation  he  could  not  be  guilty  of  but 
to  a  woman  he  had  so  much  pleasure  in,  desiring 
her  to  consider  it  as  such;  and  begged  of  her  also 
to  take  these  matters  rightly  and  believe  the  gems, 
the  gowns,  the  laces,  would  still  become  her  better, 
if  her  air  and  behavior  was  such,  that  it  might 
appear  she  dressed  thus  rather  in  compliance  to 
his  humor  that  way,  than  out  of  any  value  she 
herself  had  for  the  trifles.  To  this  lesson,  too 
hard  for  a  woman,  Hortensius  added,  that  she 
must  be  sure  to  stay  with  her  friends  in  the 
country  till  his  return.  As  soon  as  Hortensius 
departed,  Sylvana  saw,  in  her  looking-glass,  that 
the  love  he  conceived  for  her  was  wholly  owing 
to  the  accident  of  seeing  her ;  and  she  was  con¬ 
vinced  it  was  only  her  misfortune  the  rest  of  man¬ 
kind  had  not  beheld  her,  or  men  of  much  greater 
quality  and  merit  had  contended  for  one  so  gen¬ 
teel,  though  bred  in  obscurity;  so  very  witty, 
though  never  acquainted  with  court  or  town.  She 
therefore  resolved  not  to  hide  so  much  excellence 
from  the  world ;  but,  without  any  regard  to  the 
absence  of  the  most  generous  man  alive,  she  is 
now  the  gayest  lady  about  this  town,  and  has  shut 
out  the  thoughts  of  her  husband,  by  a  constant 
retinue  of  the  vainest  young  fellows  this  age  has 
produced;  to  entertain  whom  she  squanders  away 
all  Hortensius  is  able  to  support  her  with,  though 
that  supply  is  purchased  with  no  less  difficulty 
than  the  hazard  of  life.” 

“Now,  Mr.  Spectator,  would  it  not  be  a  work 
becoming  your  office,  to  treat  this  criminal  as  she 
deserves?  You  should  give  it  the  severest  reflec¬ 
tions  you  can.  You  should  tell  women  that  they 
are  more  accountable  for  behavior  in  absence,  than 
after  death.  The  dead  are  not  dishonored  by 
their  levities;  the  living  may  return,  and  be  laugh¬ 
ed  at  by  empty  fops,  who  will  not  fail  to  turn 
into  ridicule  the  good  man,  who  is  so  unreason¬ 
able  as  to  be  still  alive,  and  come  and  spoil  good 
company. 

“I  am,  Sir, 

“Your  most  obedient,  humble  Servant.” 

All  strictness  of  behavior  is  so  unmercifully 
laughed  at  in  our  age,  that  the  other  much  worse 
extreme  is  the  more  common  folly.  But  let  any 
woman  consider,  which  of  the  two  offenses  a  hus¬ 
band  would  the  more  easily  forgive,  that  of  being 
less  entertaining  than  she  could  to  please  com¬ 
pany,  or  raising  the  desires  of  the  whole  room  to 
his  disadvantage,  and  she  will  easily  be  able  to 
form  her  conduct.  We  have  indeed  carried  wo¬ 
men’s  characters  too  much  into  public  life,  and 
you  shall  see  them  now-a-days  affect  a  sort  of 
fame:  but  I  cannot  help  venturing  to  disoblige 
them  for  their  service,  by  telling  them,  that  the 
utmost  of  a  woman’s  character  is  contained  in  do¬ 
mestic  life ;  she  is  blamable  or  praiseworthy  ac¬ 
cording  as  her  carriage  affects  the  house  of  her 
father  or  husband.  All  she  has  to  do  in  this  world 
is  contained  within  the  duties  of  a  daughter,  a 
sister,  a  wife,  and  a  mother.  All  these  may  be 
well  performed,  though  a  lady  should  not  be  the 
very  finest  woman  at  an  opera  or  an  assembly. 
They  are  likewise  consistent  with  a  moderate  share 
of  wit,  a  plain  dress,  and  a  modest  air.  But 
when  the  very  brains  of  the  sex  are  turned,  and 
they  place  their  ambition  on  circumstances,  whero- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


424 


in  to  excel  is  no  addition  to  what  is  truly  com¬ 
mendable;  where  can  this  end,  but,  as  it  frequently 
does,  in  their  placing  all  their  industry,  pleasure, 
aud  ambition,  on  things  wich  will  naturally  make 
the  gratifications  of  life  last,  at  best,  no  longer 
than  youth  and  good  fortune?  When  we  consider 
the  least  ill  consequence,  it  can  be  no  less  than 
looking  on  their  own  condition,  as  years  advance, 
with  a  disrelish  of  life,  and  falling  into  contempt 
of  their  own  persons,  or  being  the  derision  of 
others.  But  when  they  considered  themselves  as 
they  ought,  no  other  than  an  additional  part  of 
the  species  (for  their  own  happiness  and  comfort, 
as  well  as  that  of  those  for  whom  they  were  born), 
their  ambition  to  excel  will  be  directed  accord¬ 
ingly;  and  they  will  in  no  part  of  their  lives  want 
opportunities  of  being  shining  ornaments  to  their 
fathers,  husbands,  brothers,  or  children. — T. 


No.  343.]  THURSDAY,  APRIL  3,  1712. 

- Errat,  et  illinc 

Hue  venit,  hinc  illuc,  et  quoslibet  occupat  artus 
Spiritus ;  aeque  feris  humana  in  corpora  transit, 

Inque  feras  noster -  Ovid,  Metam.  xv,  165. 

- All  things  are  but  alter’d ;  nothing  dies ; 

And  here  and  there  th’  unbodied  spirit  flies, 

By  time,  or  force,  or  sickness  dispossess’d, 

And  lodges,  where  it  lights,  in  man  or  beast. 

Dryden. 

Will  Honeycomb,  who  loves  to  show  upon  oc¬ 
casion  all  the  little  learning  he  has  picked  up, 
told  us  yesterday  at  the  club,  that  he  thought  there 
might  be  a  great  deal  said  for  the  transmigration 
of  souls;  and  that  the  eastern  parts  of  the  world 
believed  in  that  doctrine  to  this  day.  “Sir  Paul 
Rycaut,”  says  he,  “gives  us  an  account  of  several 
well-disposed  Mahometans  that  purchase  the  free¬ 
dom  of  any  little  bird  they  see  confined  to  a  cage, 
and  think  they  merit  as  much  by  it  as  we  should 
do  here  by  ransoming  any  of  our  countrymen 
from  their  captivity  at  Algiers.  You  must  know,” 
says  Will,  “  the  reason  is,  because  they  consider 
every  animal  as  a  brother  or  sister  in  disguise; 
and  therefore  think  themselves  obliged  to  extend 
their  charity  to  them  though  under  such  mean 
circumstances.  They’ll  tell  you,”  says  Will, 
“that  the  soul  of  a  man,  when  he  dies,  im¬ 
mediately  passes  into  the  body  of  another  man,  or 
of  some  brute,  which  he  resembled  in  his  humor, 
or  his  fortune,  when  he  was  one  of  us.” 

As  I  was  wondering  what  this  profusion  of 
learning  would  end  in,  Will  told  us,  that  “  Jack 
Freelove,  who  was  a  fellow  of  whim,  made  love 
to  one  of  those  ladies  who  throw  away  all  their 
fondness  on  parrots,  monkeys,  and  lap-dogs. 
Upon  going  to  pay  her  a  visit  one  morning,  he 
wrote  a  very  pretty  epistle  upon  this  hint.  Jack,” 
says  he,  “was  conducted  into  the  parlor,  where 
he  diverted  himself  for  some  time  with  her  favor¬ 
ite  monkey,  which  w'as  chained  in  one  of  the 
windows:  till  at  length  observing  a  pen  and  ink 
lie  by  him,  he  wrote  the  following  letter  to  his 
mistress  in  the  person  of  the  monkey ;  and,  upon 
her  not  coming  down  so  soon  as  he  expected,  left 
it  in  the  wundow,  and  went  about  his  business. 

“  The  lady  soon  after  coming  into  the  parlor, 
and  seeing  her  monkey  look  upon  a  paper  with 
great  earnestness,  took  it  up,  and  to  this  day  is  in 
some  doubt,”  says  Will,  “whether  it  was  written 
by  Jack  or  the  monkey.” 

“  Madam, 

“  Not  having  the  gift  of  speech,  I  have  a  long 
time  waited  in  vain  for  an  opportunity  of  making 
myself  known  to  you:  and  having  at  present  the 


conveniences  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  by  me,  I 
gladly  take  the  occasion  of  giving  you  my  history 
in  writing,  which  I  could  not  do  by  word  of  mouth. 
You  must  know,  Madam,  that  about  a  thousand 
years  ago  I  was  an  Indian  brachman,  and  versed 
m  all  those  mysterious  secrets  which  your  Euro- 

Eean  philosopher,  called  Pythagoras,  is  said  to 
ave  learned  from  our  fraternity.  I  had  so  ingra¬ 
tiated  myself  by  my  great  skill  in  the  occult 
sciences,  with  a  demon  whom  I  conversed  with, 
that  he  promised  to  grant  me  whatever  I  should 
ask  of  him.  I  desired  that  my  soul  might  never 
ass  into  the  body  of  a  brute  creature ;  but  this, 
e  told  me,  was  not  in  his  power  to  grant  me.  I 
then  begged  that,  into  whatever  creature  I  should 
chance  to  transmigrate,  I  might  still  retain  my 
memory,  and  be  conscious  that  I  was  the  sai^e 
person  who  lived  in  different  animals.  This,  he 
told  me,  was  within  his  power,  and  accordingly 
promised,  on  the  word  of  a  demon,  that  he  would 
grant  me  what  I  desired.  From  that  time  forth  I 
lived  so  very  unblamably,  that  I  was  made  presi¬ 
dent  of  a  college  of  brachmans,  an  office  which  I 
discharged  with  great  integrity  till  the  day  of  my 
death. 

“  I  was  then  shuffled  into  another  human  body, 
and  acted  my  part  so  well  in  it,  that  I  became 
first  minister  to  a  prince  who  reigned  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Ganges.  I  here  lived  in  great  honor 
for  several  years,  but  by  degrees  lost  ail  the  inno¬ 
cence  of  the  brachman,  being  obliged  to  rifle  and 
oppress  the  people  to  enrich  my  sovereign  ;  till  at 
length  I  became  so  odious,  that  my  master,  to  re¬ 
cover  his  credit  with  his  subjects,  shot  me  through 
the  heart  with  an  arrow,  as  I  was  one  day  address¬ 
ing  myself  to  him  at  the  head  of  his  army. 

“Upon  my  next  remove,  I  found  myself  in  the 
woods  under  the  shape  of  a  jackal,  and  soon  listed 
myself  in  the  service  of  a  lion.  I  used  to  yelp 
near  his  den  about  midnight,  which  was  his  time 
of  rousing  and  seeking  after  his  prey.  He  always 
followed  me  in  the  rear,  and  when  I  had  run 
down  a  fat  buck,  a  wild  goat,  or  a  hare,  after  he 
had  feasted  very  plentifully  upon  it  himself,  would 
now  and  then  throw  me  a  bone  that  was  but  half- 
icked,  for  my  encouragement ;  but  upon  my 
eing  unsuccessful  in  two  or  three  chases,  he  gave 
me  such  a  confounded  gripe  in  his  anger,  that  I 
died  of  it. 

“In  my  next  transmigration  I  was  again  set 
upon  two  legs,  and  became  an  Indian  tax-gatherer: 
but  having  been  guilty  of  great  extravagances,  and 
being  married  to  an  expensive  jade  of  a  wife,  I  ran 
so  cursedly  into  debt,  that  I  durst  not  show  my 
head.  I  could  no  sooner  step  out  of  my  house 
but  I  was  arrested  by  somebody  or  other  that  lay 
in  wait  for  me.  As  I  ventured  abroad  one  night 
in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  I  was  taken  up  and 
hurried  into  a  dungeon,  where  I  died  a  few  months 
after. 

“  My  soul  then  entered  into  a  flying-fish,  and 
in  that  state  led  a  most  melancholy  life  for  the 
space  of  six  years.  Several  fishes  of  prey  pur¬ 
sued  me  when  I  was  in  the  water ;  and  if  I  be¬ 
took  myself  to  my  wings,  it  was  ten  to  one  but  I 
had  a  flock  of  birds  aiming  at  me.  As  I  was  one 
day  flying  amidst  a  fleet  of  English  ships,  I  ob¬ 
served  a  huge  sea-gull  whetting  his  bill,  and 
hovering  just  over  my  head  :  upon  my  dipping 
into  the  water  to  avoid  him,  I  fell  into  the  mouth 
of  a  monstrous  shark,  that  swallowed  me  down 
in  an  instant. 

“  I  was  some  years  afterward,  to  my  great  sur¬ 
prise,  an  eminent  banker  in  Lombard-street;  and 
remembering  how  I  had  formerly  suffered  for  want 
of  money,  became  so  very  sordid  and  avaricious, 
that  the  whole  town  cried  shame  of  me.  I  was  a 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


miserable  little  old  fellow  to  look  upon;  for  I  had 
in  a  manner  starved  myself,  and  was  nothing  but 
skin  and  bone  when  I  died. 

“I  was  afterward  very  much  troubled  and 
amazed  to  find  myself  dwindled  into  an  emmet. 
I  was  heartily  concerned  to  make  so  insignificant 
a  figure,  and  I  did  not  know  but  some  time  or 
other  I  might  be  reduced  to  a  mite,  if  I  did  not 
mend  my  manners.  I  therefore  applied  myself 
with  great  diligence  to  the  offices  that  were  allot¬ 
ted  to  me,  and  was  generally  looked  upon  as  the 
notablest  ant  in  the  whole  mole-hill.  I  was  at 
last  picked  up,  as  I  was  groaning  under  a  burden, 
by  an  unlucky  cock-sparrow,  that  lived  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  had  before  made  great  depre¬ 
dations  upon  our  commonwealth. 

“  I  then  bettered  my  condition  a  little,  and  lived 
a  whole  summer  in  the  shape  of  a  bee;  but  being 
tired  with  the  painful  and  penurious  life  I  had  un¬ 
dergone  in  my  two  last  transmigrations,  I  fell  into 
the  other  extreme,  and  turned  drone.  As  I  one 
day  headed  a  party  to  plunder  a  hive,  we  were  re¬ 
ceived  so  warmly  by  the  swarm  which  defended 
it,  that  'we  were  most  of  us  left  dead  upon  the 
spot. 

“I  might  tell  you  of  many  other  transmigra¬ 
tions  which  I  went  through;  how  1  was  a  town- 
rake,  and  afterward  did  penance  in  a  bay  geldino- 
for  ten  years;  as  also  how  ]  was  a  tailor,  a  shrimp! 
and  a  tom-tit.  In  the  last  of  these  my  shapes,  I 
was  shot  in  the  Christmas  holidays  by  a  young- 
jackanapes,  who  W'ould  needs  try  his  new  gun 
upon  me. 

“  Put  I  shall  pass  over  these  and  several  other 
stages  of  life,  to  remind  you  of  the  young  beau 
who  made  love  to  you  about  six  years  since.  You 
may  remember.  Madam,  how  he  masked,  and 
danced,  and  sung,  and  played  a  thousand  tricks 
to  gain  you;  and  how  he  was  at  last  carried  off 
by  a  cold  that  he  got  under  your  window  one  night 
in  a  serenade.  I  was  that  unfortunate  young  fellow 
to  whom  you  were  then  so  cruel.  Not  long  after 
my  shifting  that  unlucky  body,  I  found  myself 
upon  a  hill  in  Ethiopia,  where  I  lived  in  my  pre¬ 
sent  grotesque  shape,  till  I  was  caught  by  a  ser¬ 
vant  of  the  English  factory,  and  sent  over  into 
Great  Britain.  I  need  not  inform  you  how  I  came 
into  your  hands.  You  see,  Madam,  this  is  not  the 
first  time  that  you  have  had  me  in  a  chain  :  I  am, 
however,  very  happy  in  this  my  captivity,  as  you 
often  bestow  on  me  those  kisses  and  caresses 
which  I  would  have  given  the  world  for  when  I 
was  a  man.  I  hope  tin's  discovery  of  r uy  person 
will  not  tend  to  my  disadvantage,  but  that  you 
will  still  continue  your  accustomed  favors  to 
“  Tour  most  devoted,  humble  Servant, 

“  Pugg.” 

“P.  S.  I  would  advise  your  little  shock-dog  to 
keep  out  of  my  way;  for,  as  I  look  upon  him  to 
be  the  most  formidable  of  my  rivals,  I  may 
chance  one  time  or  other  to  give  him  such  a  snap 
as  he  won’t  like.” — L. 


• 

No.  344.]  FRIDAY,  APRIL  4,  1712. 

- In  solo  vivendi  causa  palato  est. 

Juv.,  Sat.  xi,  11. 

Such,  whose  sole  bliss  is  eating;  who  can  give 
But  that  one  brutal  reason  why  they  live? 

Congreve. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

I  think  it  lias  not  yet  fallen  into  your  way  to 
discourse  on  little  ambition,  or  the  many  whimsi¬ 
cal  ways  men  fall  into,  to  distinguish  themselves 


425 

among  their  acquaintance.  Such  observations, 
well  pursued,  would  make  a  pretty  history  of  low 
life.  I  myself  am  got  into  a  great  reputation, 
v  men  arose  (as  most  extraordinary  occurrences  in 
a  man  s  life  seem  to  do)  from  a  mere  accident.  I 
was  some  days  ago  unfortunately  engaged  among 
a  set  ol  gentlemen,  who  esteemed  a  man  according 
to  the  quantity  of  food  he  throws  down  at  a  meal. 
Now  I,  who  am  ever  for  distinguishing  myself 
according  to  the  notions  of  superiority  which  the 
rest  of  the  company  entertain,  ate  so  immoderately 
tor  their  applause,  as  had  like  to  have  cost  me  my 
liie.  What  added  to  my  misfortune  was,  that 
having  naturally  a  good  stomach,  and  having 
lived  soberly  for  some  time,  my  body  was  as  well 
prepared  for  this  contention  as  if  it  had  been  by 
appointment.  I  had  quickly  vanquished  every 
glutton  in  the  company  but  one,  who  was  such  a 
piodigy  in  his  way,  and  withal  so  very  merry 
during  the  whole  entertainment,  that  he  insensi- 
Pv  betrayed  me  to  continue  his  competitor,  which 
in  a  little  time  concluded  in  a  complete  victory 
over  my  rival;  after  which,  by  way  of  insult,  I  ate 
a  considerable  proportion  beyond  what  the  spec¬ 
tators  thought  me  obliged  in  honor  to  do.  The 
effect,  however,  of  this  engagement,  has  made  me 
resolve  never  to  eat  more  for  renown;  and  I  have, 
pursuant  to  this  resolution,  compounded  three 
wagers  I  had  depending  on  the  strength  of  my 
stomach;  which  happened  very  luckily,  because 
it  was  stipulated  in  our  articles  either  to  play  or 
pay.  How  a  man  of  common  sense  could  be  thus 
engaged  is  hard  to  determine:  but  the  occasion 
of  this  is,  to  desire  you  to  iijform  several  gluttons 
of  my  acquaintance,  who  look  on  me  with  envy, 
that  they  had  best  moderate  their  ambition  in 
time,  lest  infamy  or  death  attend  their  success. 
I  forgot  to  tell  you.  Sir,  with  what  unspeakable 
pleasure  I  received  the  acclamations  of  the  whole 
board,  W'lien  I  had  almost  eat  my  antagonist  into 
convulsions.  It  was  then  that  I  returned  his 
mirth  upon  him  with  such  success,  as  he  was 
hardly  able  to  swallow,  though  prompted  by  a 
desire  of  fame,  and  a  passionate  fondness  for  dis¬ 
tinction.  I  had  not  endeavored  to  excel  so  far, 
had  not  the  company  been  so  loud  in  their  appro¬ 
bation  of  my  victory.  I  do  not  question  but  the 
same  thirst  after  glory  has  often  caused  a  man  to 
drink  quarts  Avithout  taking  breath,  and  prompted 
men  to  many  other  as  difficult  enterprises  ;  which, 
if  otherwise  pursued,  might  turn  very  much  to  a 
man’s  advantage.  This  ambition  of  mine  was 
indeed  extravagantly  pursued  ;  however,  I  can¬ 
not  help  observing,  that  you  hardly  ever  see  a 
man  commended  for  a  good  stomach,  but  he  im¬ 
mediately  falls  to  eating  more  (though  he  had 
before  dined),  as  well  to  confirm  the  person  that 
commended  him  in  his  good  opinion  of  him,  as 
to  convince  any  other  at  the  table  who  may  have 
been  inattentive  enough  not  to  have  done  justice 
to  his  character. 

“I  am,  Sir, 

“  Your  most  humble  Servant, 

“  Epicure  Mammon.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  have  Avritten  to  you  three  or  four  times,  to 
desire  you  AA  ould  take  notice  of  an  impertinent 
custom  the  women,  the  fine  women,  have  lately 
fallen  into,  of  taking  snuff.  This  silly  trick  is 
attended  Avith  such  a  coquette  air  in  some  ladies, 
such  a.  sedate  masculine  one  in  others,  that  I  can¬ 
not  tell  Avhich  most  to  complain  of;  but  they  are 
to  me  equally  disagreeable.  Mrs.  Saunter  is  so 
impatient  of  being  Avithout  it,  that  she  takes  it  as 
often  as  she  does  salt  at  meals  :  and  as  she  affects 
a  wonderful  ease  and  negligence  in  all  her  man- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


426 

ner,  an  upper  lip  mixed  with  snuff  and  the  sauce 
is  what  is  presented  to  the  observation  of  all  who 
have  the  honor  to  eat  with  her.  The  pretty  crea¬ 
ture  her  niece  does  all  she  can  to  be  as  disagree¬ 
able  as  her  aunt;  and  if  she  is  not  as  offensive  to 
the  eye,  she  is  quite  as  much  to  the  ear,  and 
makes  up  all  she  wants  in  a  confident  air,  by  a 
nauseous  rattle  of  the  nose,  when  the  snuff  is  de¬ 
livered,  and  the  fingers  make  the  stops  and  closes 
on  the  nostrils.  This,  perhaps,  is  not  a  very 
courtly  image  in  speaking  of  ladies;  that  is  very 
true:  but  where  arises  the  offense  ?  Is  it  in  those 
who  commit,  or  those  who  observe  it?  As  for 
my  part,  I  have  been  so  extremely  disgusted  with 
this  filthy  physic  hanging  on  the  lip,  that  the 
most  agreeable  conversation,  or  person,  has  not 
been  able  to  make  up  for  it.  As  to  those  who  take 
it  for  no  other  end  but  to  give  themselves  occasion 
for  pretty  action,  or  to  fill  up  little  intervals  of 
discourse,  I  can  bear  with  them;  but  then  they 
must  not  use  it  when  another  is  speaking,  who 
ought  to  be  heard  with  too  much  respect  to  admit 
of  offering  at  that  time  from  hand  to  hand  the 
snuff-box.  But  Flavilla  is  so  far  taken  with  her 
behavior  in  this  kind,  that  she  pulls  out  her  box 
(which  is  indeed  full  of  good  Brazil)  in  the  mid¬ 
dle  of  the  sermon;  and,  to  show  she  has  the  auda¬ 
city  of  a  well-bred  woman,  she  offers  it  to  the 
men  as  well  as  the  women  who  sit  near  her :  but 
since  by  this  time  all  the  world  knows  she  has  a 
fine  hand,  I  am  in  hopes  she  may  give  herself  no 
further  trouble  in  this  matter.  On  Sunday  was 
seven-night  when  they  came  about  for  the  offer¬ 
ing,  she  gave  her  charity  with  a  very  good  air,  but 
at  the  same  time  asked  the  churchwarden  if  he 
would  take  a  pinch.  Pray,  Sir,  think  on  these 
things  in  time,  and  you  will  oblige, 

“  Sir, 

T.  “Your  most  humble  Servant.” 


No.  345.]  SATURDAY,  APRIL  5,  1712. 

Sanctius  his  animal,  mentisque  capaeius  altae 
Deerat  adhuc,  et  quod  dominari  in  caetera  posset, 

Nat  us  homo  est - .  Ovid,  Metarn.  i,  76. 

A  creature  of  a  more  exalted  kind 

Was  wanting  yet,  and  then  was  man  design’d; 

Conscious  of  thought,  of  more  capacious  breast, 

For  empire  form’d  and  fit  to  rule  the  rest. — Dryden. 

The  accounts  which  Raphael  gives  of  the  battle 
of  angels,  and  the  creation  of  the  world  have  in 
them  those  qualifications  which  the  critics  judge 
requisite  to  an  episode.  They  are  nearly  related 
to  the  principal  action,  and  have  a  just  connection 
with  the  fable. 

The  eighth  book  opens  with  a  beautiful  descrip¬ 
tion  of  the  impression  which  this  discourse  of  the 
archangel  made  on  our  first  parents.  Adam  after¬ 
ward,  by  a  very  natural  curiosity,  inquires  con¬ 
cerning  the  motions  of  those  celestial  bodies 
which  make  the  most  glorious  appearance  among 
the  six  days’  works.  The  poet  here,  with  a  great 
deal  of  art,  represents  Eve,  as  withdrawing  from 
this  part  of  their  conversation,  to  amusements 
more  suitable  to  her  sex.  He  well  knew  that  the 
episode  in  this  book,  which  is  filled  with  Adam’s 
account  of  his  passion  and  esteem  for  Eve,  would 
heve  been  improper  for  her  hearing,  and  has  there¬ 
fore  devised  very  just  and  beautiful  reasons  for 
her  retiring. 

So  spake  our  sire,  and  by  his  countenance  seem’d 
Ent’ring  on  studious  thoughts  abstruse ;  which  Eve 
Perceiving,  where  she  sat  retir'd  in  sight, 

With  lowliness  majestic  from  her  seat, 

And  grace  that  won  who  saw  to  wish  her  stay, 

Rose ;  and  went  forth  among  her  fruits  and  flowers ; 


To  visit  how  they  prosper’d,  bud  and  bloom, 

Her  nursery :  they  at  her  coming  sprung, 

And,  touch’d  by  her  fair  tenance,  gladlier  grew. 

Yet  went  she  not,  as  not  with  such  discourse 

Delighted,  or  not  capable  her  ear 

Of  what  was  high :  such  pleasure  she  reserv’d, 

Adam  relating,  she  sole  auditress: 

Her  husband  the  relater  she  preferr’d 

Before  the  angel,  and  of  him  to  ask 

Chose  rather ;  he,  she  knew,  would  intermix 

Grateful  digressions,  and  solve  high  dispute 

With  conjugal  caresses:  from  his  lip 

Not  words  alone  pleas’d  her.  0  when  meet  now 

Such  pairs,  in  love  and  mutual  honor  join’d! 

The  angel’s  returning  a  doubtful  answer  to 
Adam’s  inquiries  was  not  only  proper  for  the 
moral  reason  which  the  poet  assigns,  but  because 
it  would  have  been  highly  absurd  to  have  given 
the  sanction  of  an  archangel  to  any  particular  sys¬ 
tem  of  philosophy.  The  chief  points  in  the 
Ptolemaic  and  Copernican  hypotheses  are  de¬ 
scribed  with  great  conciseness  and  perspicuity, 
and  at  the  same  time  dressed  in  very  pleasing  and 
poetical  images. 

Adam,  to  detain  the  angel,  enters  afterward  upon 
his  own  history,  and  relates  to  him  the  circum¬ 
stances  in  which  he  found  himself  upon  his  crea¬ 
tion  ;  as  also  his  conversation  with  his  Maker, 
and  his  first  meeting  with  Eve.  There  is  no  part 
of  the  poem  more  apt  to  raise  the  attention  of  the 
reader  than  this  discourse  of  our  great  ancestor; 
as  nothing  can  be  more  surprising  and  delightful 
to  us,  than  to  hear  the  sentiments  that  arose  in 
the  first  man,  while  he  was  yet  new  and  fresh 
from  the  hands  of  his  Creator.  The  poet  has  in¬ 
terwoven  everything  which  is  delivered  upon  this 
subject  in  holy  writ  with  so  many  beautiful  ima¬ 
ginations  of  his  own,  that  nothing  can  be  con¬ 
ceived  more  just  and  natural  than  this  whole 
episode.  As  our  author  knew  this  subject  could 
not  but  be  agreeable  to  his  reader,  he  would  not 
throw  it  into  the  relation  of  his  six  days’  works, 
but  reserved  it  for  a  distinct  episode,  that  he 
might  have  an  opportunity  of  expatiating  upon 
it  more  at  large.  Before  I  enter  on  this  part  of 
the  poem,  I  cannot  but  take  notice  of  two  shining 
passages  in  the  dialogue  between  Adam  ana 
the  angel.  The  first  is  that  wherein  our  ancestor 
gives  an  account  of  the  pleasure  he  took  in  con¬ 
versing  with  him,  which  contains  a  very  noble 
moral : — 

For  while  I  sit  with  thee  I  seem  in  heav’n, 

And  sweeter  thy  discourse  is  to  my  ear 
Than  fruits  of  palm-trees  (pleasantest  to  thirst 
And  hunger  both,  from  labor)  at  the  hour 
Of  sweet  repast;  they  satiate,  and  soon  fill, 

Though  pleasant ;  but  thy  words,  with  grace  divine 
Imbued,  bring  to  their  sweetness  no  satiety. 

The  other  I  shall  mention  is  that  in  which  the 
angel  gives  a  reason  why  he  should  be  glad  to  hear 
the  story  Adam  was  about  to  relate: 

For  I  that  day  was  absent,  as  befell, 

Bound  on  a  voyage  uncouth  and  obscure, 

Far  on  excursion  toward  the  gates  of  hell. 

Squar’d  in  full  legion  (such  command  we  had) 

To  see  that  none  thence  issued  forth  a  spy, 

Or  enemy,  while  God  was  in  his  work, 

Lest  he  incens’d  at  such  eruption  bold, 

Destruction  with  creation  might  have  mix’d. 

There  is  no  question  but  our  poet  drew  the  image 
in  what  follows  from  that  in  Virgil’s  sixth  book, 
where  yEneas  and  the  Sibyl  stand  before  the  ada¬ 
mantine  gates,  which  are  there  described  as  shut 
upon  theplace  of  torments,  and  listen  to  the  groans, 
the  clank  of  chains,  and  the  noise  of  iron  whips, 
that  were  heard  in  those  regions  of  pain  and 
sorrow. 

- Fast,  we  found,  fast  shut, 

The  dismal  gates,  and  barricado’d  strong ; 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Rut  long  ere  our  approaching,  heard  within 
Noise,  other  than  the  sound  of  dance  or  song, 
Torment,  and  loud  lament,  and  furious  rage. 

Adam  then  proceeds  to  give  an  account  of  his 
condition  and  sentiments  immediately  after  his 
creation.  How  agreeably  does  he  represent  the 
posture  in  which  he  found  himself,  the  beautiful 
landscapes  that  surrounded  him,  and  the  gladness 
of  heart  which  grew  up  in  him  on  that  occasion ! 

- As  new  wak’d  from  soundest  sleep, 

Soft  on  the  flow’ry  herb  I  found  me  laid 
In  balmy  sweat,  which  with  his  beams  the  sun 
Soon  dry’d,  and  on  the  reeking  moisture  fed. 

Straight  toward  heaven  my  wond’ring  eyes  I  turn’d, 
And  gaz’d  awhile  the  ample  sky ;  till  rais’d 
By  quick  instinctive  motion,  up  I  sprung, 

As  thitherward  endeavoring,  and  upright 
Stood  on  my  feet.  About  me  round  I  saw 
Hill,  dale,  and  shady  woods,  and  sunny  plains, 

And  liquid  lapse  of  murmuring  streams;  by  these, 
Creatures  that  liv’d  and  mov’d,  and  walk’d,  or  flew, 
Birds  on  the  branches  warbling ;  all  things  smil’d 
With  fragrance,  and  with  joy  my  heart  o’erflow’d. 

Adam  is  afterward  described  as  surprised  at  his 
own  existence,  and  taking  a  survey  of  himself  and 
of  all  the  works  of  nature.  He  likewise  is  repre¬ 
sented  as  discovering,  by  the  light  of  reason,  that 
he,  and  everything  about  him,  must  have  been 
the  effect  of  some  Being  infinitely  good  and  pow¬ 
erful,  and  that  this  Being  had  a  right  to  his  wor¬ 
ship  and  adoration.  His  first  address  to  the  Sun, 
and  to  those  parts  of  the  creation  which  made  the 
most  distinguished  figure,  is  very  natural  and 
amusing  to  the  imagination  : 

“  Thou  Sun,”  said  I,  “  fair  light, 

And  thou  enlighten’d  earth,  so  fresh  and  gay, 

Ye  hills,  and  dales,  ye  rivers,  woods,  and  plains, 

And  ye  that  live  and  move,  fair  creatures,  tell, 

Tell,  if  ye  saw,  how  came  I  thus,  how  here?” 

His  next  sentiment,  when  upon  his  first  going 
to  sleep  he  fancies  himself  losing  his  existence, 
and  falling  away  into  nothing,  can  never  be  suffi¬ 
ciently  admired.  His  dream,  in  which  he  still 
preserves  the  consciousness  of  his  existence, 
together  with  his  removal  into  the  garden  which 
was  prepared  for  his  reception,  are  also  circum¬ 
stances  finely  imagined,  and  grounded  upon  what 
is  delivered  in  sacred  story. 

These  and  the  like  wonderful  incidents  in  this 
part  of  the  work,  have  in  them  all  the  beauties  of 
novelty,  at  the  same  time  that  they  have  all  the 
graces  of  nature. 

They  are  such  as  none  but  a  great  genius  could 
have  thought  of;  though,  upon  the  perusal  of  them, 
they  seem  to  rise  of  themselves  from  the  subject 
of  which  he  treats.  In  a  word,  though  they  are 
natural,  they  are  not  obvious;  which  is  the  true 
character  of  all  fine  writing. 

The  impression  which  the  interdiction  of  the 
tree  of  life  left  in  the  mind  of  our  first  parent  is 
described  with  great  strength  and  judgment ;  as 
the  image  of  the  several  beasts  and  birds  passing 
in  review  before  him  is  very  beautiful  and  lively  : 

- Each  bird  and  beast  behold 

Approaching  two  and  two,  these  cow'ring  low 
ith  blandishment;  each  bird  6toop’d  on  his  wing; 

I  nam’d  them  as  they  pass’d. - 

Adam,  in  the  next  place,  describes  a  conference 
which  he  held  with  his  Maker  upon  the  subject  of 
solitude.  The  poet  here  represents  the  Supreme 
Being  as  making  an  essay  of  his  own  work,  and  put¬ 
ting  to  the  trial  that  reasoning  faculty  with  which 
he  had  indued  his  creature.  Adam  urges,  in  this 
divine  colloquy,  the  impossibility  of  his  being 
happy  though  lie  was  the  inhabitant  of  Paradise, 
and  lord  of  the  whole  creation,  without  the  con¬ 
versation  and  society  of  some  rational  creature  who 


427 

should  partake  those  blessings  with  him.  This 
dialogue,  which  is  supported  chiefly  by  the  beauty 
of  the  thoughts,  without  other  poetical  ornaments, 
is  as  fine  a  part  as  any  in  the  whole  poem.  The 
more  the  reader  examines  the  justness  and  delicacy 
of  its  sentiments,  the  more  he  will  find  himself 
pleased  with  it.  The  poet  has  wonderfully  pre¬ 
served  the  character  of  majesty  and  condescension 
in  the  Creator,  and,  at  the  same  time,  that  of 
humility  and  adoration  in  the  creature,  as  particu¬ 
larly  in  the  following  lines  : 

Thus  I  presumptuous ;  and  the  vision  bright, 

As  with  a  smile  more  brighten’d,  thus  replied,  etc. 

- 1  with  leave  of  speech  implor’d, 

And  humble  deprecation,  thus  replied : 

“  Let  not  my  words  offend  thee,  Heavenly  Power, 

My  Maker,  be  propitious  while  I  speak,”  etc. 

Adam  then  proceeds  to  give  an  account  of 
his  second  sleep,  and  of  the  dream  in  which  he 
beheld  the  formation  of  Eve.  The  new  passion 
that  was  awakened  in  him  at  the  sight  of  her  is 
touched  very  finely : 

Under  his  forming  hands  a  creature  grew, 

Manlike,  but  diff  ’rent  sex :  so  lovely  fair, 

That  what  seem’d  fair  in  all  the  world,  seem’d  no 
Mean,  or  in  her  6umm’d  up,  in  her  contain’d. 

And  in  her  looks,  which  from  that  time  infus’d 
Sweetness  into  my  heart,  unfelt  before ; 

And  into  all  things  from  her  air  inspir’d 
The  spirit  of  love  and  amorous  delight. 

Adam’s  distress  upon  losing  sight  of  this  beau¬ 
tiful  phantom,  with  his  exclamations  of  joy*and 
gratitude  at  the  discovery  of  a  real  creature  who 
resembled  the  apparition  which  had  been  presen¬ 
ted  to  him  in  his  dream  ;  the  approaches  he  makes 
to  her,  and  his  manner  of  courtship,  are  all  laid 
together  in  a  most  exquisite  propriety  of  senti¬ 
ments. 

Though  this  part  of  the  poem  is  worked  up  with 
great  warmth  and  spirit,  the  love  which  is  describ¬ 
ed  in  it  is  every  way  suitable  to  a  state  of  inno¬ 
cence.  If  the  reader  compares  the  description 
which  Adam  here  gives  of  his  leading  Eve  to  the 
nuptial  bower,  with  that  which  Mr.  Dryden  has 
made  on  the  same  occasion  in  a  scene  of  his  Fall 
of  Man,  he  will  be  sensible  of  the  great  care  which 
Milton  took  to  avoid  all  thoughts  on  so  delicate  a 
subject  that  might  be  offensive  to  religion  or  good 
manners.  The  sentiments  are  chaste,  but  not 
cold ;  and  convey  to  the  mind  ideas  of  the  most 
transporting  passion,  and  of  the  greatest  purity. 
What  a  noble  mixture  of  rapture  and  innocence 
has  the  author  joined  together,  in  the  reflection 
which  Adam  makes  on  the  pleasures  of  love,  com¬ 
pared  to  those  of  sense ! 

Thus  have  I  told  thee  all  my  state,  and  brought 
My  story  to  the  sum  of  earthly. bliss 
Which  I  enjoy ;  and  must  confess  to  find 
In  all  things  else  delight  indeed,  but  such 
As  us’d  or  not,  works  in  the  mind  no  change, 

Nor  vehement  desire;  these  delicacies 
I  mean  of  taste,  sight,  smell,  herbs,  fruits,  and  flowers. 
Walks,  and  the  melody  of  birds;  but  here 
Far  otherwise,  transported  I  behold, 

Transported  touch ;  here  passion  first  I  felt, 

Commotion  strange!  in  all  enjoyments  else 
Superior  and  unmov’d,  here  only  weak 
Against  the  charm  of  beauty’s  powerful  glance. 

Or  nature  fail’d  in  me,  and  left  some  part 
Not  proof  enough  such  object  to  sustain  ; 

Or  from  my  side  subducting,  took  perhaps 
More  than  enough ;  at  least  on  her  bestow’d 
Too  much  of  ornament,  in  outward  show 
Elaborate,  of  inward  less  exact. 

- —When  I  approach 

Her  loveliness,  so  absolute  she  seems, 

And  in  herself  complete,  so  well  to  know 
Her  own,  that  what  she  wills  to  do  or  say, 

Seems  wisest,  virtuousest,  discreetest,  best; 

All  higher  knowledge  in  her  presence  falls 
Degraded:  wisdom  in  discourse  with  her 
Loses  discountenanc’d,  and  like  folly  shows : 


428 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Authority  and  reason  on  her  wait, 

As  one  intended  first,  not  after  made 
Occasionally ;  and,  to  consummate  all, 

Greatness  of  mind  and  nobleness  their  seat 
Build  in  her  loveliest,  and  create  an  awe 
About  her,  as  a  guard  angelic  plac'd. 

These  sentiments  of  love  in  our  first  parent 
gave  the  angel  such  an  insight  into  human  nature, 
that  he  seems  apprehensive  of  the  evils  which 
might  befall  the  species  in  general,  as  well  as  Adam 
in  particular,  from  the  excess  of  this  passion.  He 
therefore  fortifies  him  against  it  by  timely  admoni¬ 
tions;  which  very  artfully  prepare  the  mind  of  the 
reader  for  the  occurrences  of  the  next  book,  where 
the  weakness,  of  which  Adam  here  gives  such  dis¬ 
tant  discoveries,  brings  about  that  fatal  event 
which  is  the  subject  of  the  poem.  His  discourse, 
which  follows  the  gentle  rebuke  he  received  from 
the  angel,  shows  that  his  love,  however  violent  it 
might  appear,  was  still  founded  in  reason,  and 
cotisequently  not  improper  for  Paradise: 

Neither  her  outside  form’d  so  fair,  nor  aught 
In  procreation  common  to  all  kinds 
(Though  higher  of  the  genial  bed  by  far, 

And  with  mysterious  reverence  I  deem), 

So  much  delights  me,  as  those  graceful  acts, 

Those  thousand  decencies  that  daily  flow 
From  all  her  words  and  actions,  mixt  with  love 
And  sweet  compliance,  which  declare  unfeign’d 
Union  of  mind,  or  in  us  both  one  soul ; 

Harmony  to  behold  in  .vedded  pair. 

Adam’s  speech,  at  parting  with  the  angel,  has 
in  it  a  deference  and  gratitude  agreeable  to  an 
inferior  nature,  and  at  the  same  time  a  certain  dig¬ 
nity  and  greatness  suitable  to  the  father  of  man¬ 
kind  in  his  state  of  innocence. 

L. 


No.  346.]  MONDAY,  APRIL  7,  1712. 

Consuetudinem  benignitatis  largitioni  munerum  longe  ante- 
peno.  HcCC  est  gravium  hominum  atque  magnorum ;  ilia 
quasi  assentatorum  populi,  multitudinis  levitatem  volup- 
tate  quasi  titillantium. — Tull. 

I  esteem  a  habit  of  benignity  greatly  preferable  to  munifi¬ 
cence.  The  former  is  peculiar  to  great  and  distinguished 
persons ;  the  latter  belongs  to  flatterers  of  the  people,  who 
tickle  the  levity  of  the  multitude  with  a  kind  of  pleasure. 

When  we  consider  the  offices  of  human  life, 
there  is,  methinks,  something  in  what  we  ordi¬ 
narily  call  generosity,  which,  when  carefully  ex¬ 
amined,  seems  to  flow  rather  from  a  loose  and 
unguarded  temper  than  an  honest  and  liberal 
mind.  For  this  reason,  it  is  absolutely  necessary 
that  all  liberality  should  have  for  its  basis  and 
support,  frugality.  By  this  means  the  beneficent 
spirit  works  in  a  man  from  the  convictions  of 
reason,  not  from  the  impulses  of  passion.  The 
generous  man  in  the  ordinary  acceptation,  without 
respect  of  the  demands  of  his  own  family,  will 
soon  find  upon  the  foot  of  his  account,  that  he  has 
sacrificed  to  fools,  knaves,  flatterers,  or  the  de¬ 
servedly  unhappy,  all  the  opportunities  of  afford¬ 
ing  any  future  assistance  where  it  ought  to  be. 
Let  him  therefore  reflect,  that  if  to  bestow  be  in 
itself  laudable,  should  not  a  man  take  care  to 
secure  an  ability  to  do  things  praiseworthy  as  long 
as  he  lives?  Or  could  there  be  a  more  cruel  piece 
of  raillery  upon  a  man  who  should  have  reduced 
his  fortune  below  the  capacity  of  acting  according 
to  his  natural  temper,  than  to  say  of  him,  “  That 
gentleman  was  generous?”  My  beloved  author 
therefore  has,  in  the  sentence  on  the  top  of  my 
paper,  turned  his  eye  with  a  certain  satiety  from 
beholding  the  addresses  to  the  people  by  largesses 
and  other  entertainments,  which  he  asserts  to  be 
in  general  vicious,  and  are  always  to  be  regulated 
according  to  the  circumstances  of  time  and  a  man’s 


own  fortune.  A  constant  benignity  in  commerce 
with  the  rest  of  the  world,  which  ought  to  run 
through  all  a  man’s  actions,  has  effects  more  useful 
to  those  whom  you  oblige,  and  is  less  ostentatious 
in  yourself.  He  turns  his  recommendation  of  this 
virtue  on  commercial  life:  and,  according  to  him, 
a  citizen  who  is  frank  in  his  kindnesses,  and  ab¬ 
hors  severity  in  his  demands;  he  who,  in  buying, 
selling,  lending,  doing  acts  of  good  neighborhood, 
is  just  and  easy;  he  who  appears  naturally  averse 
to  disputes,  and  above  the  sense  of  little  sufferings; 
bears  a  noble  character,  and  does  much  more  good 
to  mankind  than  any  other  man’s  fortune,  without 
commerce,  can  possibly  support.  For  the  citizen, 
above  all  other  men,  has  opportunities  of  arriving 
at  “that  highest  fruit  of  wealth,”  to  be  liberal 
without  the  least  expense  of  a  man’s  own  fortune. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  but  such  a  practice  is  liable 
to  hazard;  but  this  therefore  adds  to  the  obligation, 
that,  among  traders,  he  who  obliges  is  as  much 
concerned  to  keep  the  favor  a  secret  as  he  who  re¬ 
ceives  it.  The  unhappy  distinctions  among  us 
in  England  are  so  great,  that  to  celebrate  the  inter¬ 
course  of  commercial  friendship  (with  which  I  am 
daily  made  acquainted)  would  be  to  raise  the  vir¬ 
tuous  man  so  many  enemies  of  the  contrary  party. 

I  am  obliged  to  conceal  all  I  know  of  “  Tom  the 
Bounteous,”  who  lends  at  the  ordinary  interest, 
to  give  men  of  less  fortune  opportunities  of  making 
greater  advantages.  He  conceals,  under  a  rough 
air  and  distant  behavior,  a  bleeding  compassion 
and  womanish  tenderness.  This  is  governed  by 
the  most  exact  circumspection,  that  there  is  no 
industry  wanting  in  the  person  whom  he  is  to 
serve,  and  that  he  is  guilty  of  no  improper  ex¬ 
penses.  This  I  know  of  Tom  ;  but  who  dare  say 
it  of  so  known  a  tory?  The  same  care  I  was 
forced  to  use  some  time  ago,  in  the  report  of  an¬ 
other’s  virtue,  and  said  fifty  instead  of  a  hundred, 
because  the  man  I  pointed  at  was  a  whig.  Actions 
of  this  kind  are  popular  without  being  invidious: 
for  every  man  of  ordinary  circumstances  looks 
upon  a  man  who  has  this  known  benignity  in 
his  nature  as  a  person  ready  to  be  his  friend  upon  1 
such  terms  as  he  ought  to  expect  it;  and  the 
wealthy,  who  may  envy  such  a  character,  can  do 
no  injury  to  its  interests,  but  by  the  imitation  of 
it,  in  which  the  good  citizens  will  rejoice  to  be 
rivaled.  I  know  not  how  to  form  to  myself  a 
greater  idea  of  human  life,  than  in  what  is  the 
practice  of  some  wealthy  men  whom  I  could 
name,  that  make  no  step  to  the  improvement  of 
their  own  fortunes,  wherein  they  do  not  also  ad¬ 
vance  those  of  other  men,  who  would  languish  in 
poverty  without  that  munificence.  In  a  nation 
where  there  are  so  many  public  funds  to  be  sup¬ 
ported,  I  know  not  whether  he  can  be  called  a 
good  subject  who  does  not  embark  some  part  of 
his  fortune  with  the  state,  to  whose  vigilance  he 
owes  the  security  of  the  whole.  This  certainly  is 
an  immediate  way  of  laying  an  obligation  upon 
many,  and  extending  your  benignity  the  furthest 
a  man  can  possibly  who  is  not  engaged  in  com¬ 
merce.  But  he  who  trades,  beside  giving  the 
state  some  part  of  this  sort  of  credit  he  gives  his 
banker,  may,  in  all  occurrences  of  life,  have  his 
eye  upon  removing  want  from  the  door  of  the 
industrious,  and  defending  the  unhappy  upright 
man  from  bankruptcy.  Without  this  benignity, 
pride  or  vengeance  will  precipitate  a  man  to  choose 
J  the  receipt  of  half  his  demands  from  one  whom 
he  has  undone,  rather  than  the  whole  from  one  to 
whom  he  has  shown  mercy.  This  benignity  is 
essential  to  the  character  of  a  fair  trader,  and  any 
man  who  designs  to  enjoy  his  wealth  with  honor 
and  self-satisfaction :  nay,  it  would  not  be  hard 
I  to  maintain,  that  the  practice  of  supporting  good 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


429 


and  industrious  men  -would  earry  a  man  further 
even  to  his  profit  than  indulging  the  propensity 
of  serving  and  obliging  the  fortunate.  My  author 
argues  on  this  subject,  in  order  to  incline  men’s 
minds  to  those  who  want  them  most,  after  this 
manner:  “We  must  always  consider  the  nature  of 
things,  and  govern  ourselves  accordingly.  The 
wealthy  man,  when  he  has  repaid  you,  is  upon  a 
balance  with  you  ;  but  the  person  whom  you 
favored  with  a  loan,  if  he  be  a  good  man,  will 
think  himself  in  your  debt  after  he  has  paid  you. 
The  wealthy  and  the  conspicuous  are  not  oblig¬ 
ed  by  the  benefits  you  do  them  :  they  think 
they  conferred  a  benefit  when  they  received  one. 
Your  good  offices  are  always  suspected,  and  it  is 
with  them  the  same  thing  to  expect  their  favor  as 
to  receive  it.  But  the  man  below  you,  who  knows, 
in  the  good  you  have  done  him,  you  respected 
himself  more  than  his  circumstances,  does  not  act 
like  an  obliged  man  only  to  him  from  whom  he 
has  received  a  benefit,  but  also  to  all  who  are  capa¬ 
ble  of  doing  him  one.  And  whatever  little  office 
he  can  do  for  you,  he  is  so  far  from  magnifying  it 
that  he  will  labor  to  extenuate  it  in  all  his  actions 
and  expressions.  Moreover,  the  regard  to  what 
you  do  to  a  great  man  at  best  is  taken  notice  of 
no  further  than  by  himself  or  his  family;  but  what 
you  do  to  a  man  of  a  humble  fortune  (provided 
always  that  he  is  a  good  and  a  modest  man)  raises 
the  affections  toward  you  of  all  men  of  that  char¬ 
acter  (of  which  there  are  many)  in  the  whole 
city.” 

There  is  nothing  gains  a  reputation  to  a  preacher 
so  much  as  his  own  practice;  I  am  therefore  cast¬ 
ing  about  what  act  of  benignity  is  in  the  power  of 
a  Spectator.  Alas!  that  lies  but  in  a  very  narrow 
compass  :  and  I  think  the  most  immediately  under 
my  patronage  are  either  players,  or  such  whose 
circumstances  bear  an  affinity  with  theirs.  All, 
therefore,  I  am  able  to  do  at  this  time  of  this  kind! 
is  to  tell  the  town,  that  on  Friday  the  11th  of  this 
instant,  April,  there  will  be  performed,  in  York- 
buildings,  a  concert  of  vocal  and  instrumental 
music,  for  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Edward  Keen,  the 
father  of  twenty  children;  and  that  this  day  the 
haughty  George  Powell  hopes  all  the  good-na¬ 
tured  part  of  the  town  will  favor  him,  whom  they 
applauded  in  Alexander,  Timon,  Lear,  and  Ores¬ 
tes,  with  their  company  this  night,  when  he 
hazards  all  his  heroic  glory  for  their  approba¬ 
tion  in  the  humbler  condition  of  honest  Jack 
Falstaff. 

T. 


No.  347.]  TUESDAY,  APRIL  8,  1712. 

Quia  furor,  0  cives!  quae  tanta  licentia  ferri! 

Lucan.,  lib.  i,  8. 

What  blind,  detested  fury,  could  afford 

Such  horrid  license  to  the  barb'rous  sword! 

I  no  not  question  but  my  country  readers  have 
been  very  much  surprised  at  the  several  accounts 
they  have  met  with  in  our  public  papers,  of  that 
species  of  men  among  us,  lately  known  by  the 
name  of  Mohocks.  1  find  the  opinions  of  the 
learned,  as  to  their  origin  and  designs,  are  alto¬ 
gether  various,  insomuch  that  very  many  begin  to 
doubt  whether  indeed  there  were  ever  any  such  so¬ 
ciety  of  men.  The  terror  which  spread  itself  over 
the  whole  nation  some  years  since  on  account  of 
the  Irish  is  still  fresh  in  most  people’s  memories, 
though  it  afterward  appeared  there  was  not  the 
least  ground  for  that  general  consternation. 

The  late  panic  fear  was,  in  the  opinion  of 
many  deep  and  penetrating  persons,  of  the  same 
nature.  These  will  have  it,  that  the  Mohocks  are 


like  those  specters  and  apparitions  which  frighten 
several  towns  and  villages  in  her  majesty’s  domin¬ 
ions,  though  they  were  never  seen  by  any  of  the 
inhabitants.  Others  are  apt  to  think  that  these 
Mohocks  are  a  kind  of  bull-beggars,  first  invented 
by  prudent  married  men,  and  masters  of  families, 
in  order  to  deter  their  wives  and  daughters  from 
taking  the  air  at  unseasonable  hours;  and  that 
when  Jhey  tell  them  the  “  Mohocks  will  catch 
them,  it  is  a  caution  of  the  same  nature  with  that 
of  our  forefathers,  when  they  bid  their  children 
have  a  care  of  Raw-head  and  Bloody-bones. 

For  my  own  part,  I  am  afraid  there  was  too 
much  reason  for  the  great  alarm  the  whole  citv 
has  been  in  upon  this  occasion;  though  at  the 
same  time  I  must  own,  that  I  am  in  some  doubt 
whether  the  following  pieces  are  genuine  and  au¬ 
thentic;  and  the  more  so,  because  I  am  not  fully 
satisfied  that  the  name,  by  which  the  emperor 
subscribes  himself,  is  altogether  conformable  to 
the  Indian  orthography. 

I  shall  only  further  inform  my  readers,  that  it 
was  some  time  since  I  received  the  following  let¬ 
ter  and  manifesto,  though,  for  particular  reasons, 
I  did  not  think  fit  to  publish  them  till  now. 

“To  the  Spectator. 

“  Sir, 

“Finding  that  our  earnest  endeavors  for  the 
good  of  mankind  have  been  basely  and  malicious¬ 
ly  represented  to  the  world,  we  send  you  inclosed 
our  imperial  manifesto,  which  it  is  our  will  and 
pleasure  that  you  forthwith  communicate  to  the 
public,  by  inserting  it  in  your  next  daily  paper. 
We  do  not  doubt  of  your  ready  compliance  in  this 
particular,  and  therefore  bid  you  heartily  farewell. 

(Signed) 

“  Taw  Waw  Eben  Zan  Kaladar, 

“  Emperor  of  the  Mohocks.” 

The  Manifesto  of  Taw  Waw  Eben  Zan  Kaladar , 
Emperor  of  the  Mohocks. 

“  Whereas  we  have  received  information,  from 
sundry  quarters  of  this  great  and  populous  city, 
of  several  outrages  committed  on  the  legs,  arms, 
noses,  and  other  parts  of  the  good  people  of  Eng- 
,  land,  by  such  as  have  styled  themselves  our  sub¬ 
jects;  in  order  to  vindicate  our  imperial  dignity 
from  those  false  aspersions  which  have  been  cast 
on  it,  as  if  we  ourselves  might  have  encouraged 
or  abetted  any  such  practices,  we  have,  by  these 
presents,  thought  fit  to  signify  our  utmost  abhor¬ 
rence  and  detestation  of  all  such  tumultuous  and 
irregular  proceedings;  and  do  hereby  further  give 
notice,  that  if  any  person  or  persons  has  or  have 
suffered  any  wound,  hurt,  damage,  or  detriment, 
in  his  or  their  limb  or  limbs,  otherwise  than  shall 
be  hereafter  specified,  the  said  person  or  persons, 
upon  applying  themselves  to  such  as  we  shall  ap¬ 
point  for  the  inspection  and  redress  of  the  griev¬ 
ances  aforesaid,  shall  be  forthwith  committed  to 
the  care  of  our  principal  surgeon,  and  be  cured  at 
our  own  expense,  in  some  one  or  other  of  those 
hospitals  which  we  are  now  erecting  for  that  pur¬ 
pose. 

“  And  to  the  end  that  no  one  may,  either  through 
ignorance  or  inadvertency,  incur  those  penalties 
which  we  have  thought  fit  to  inflict  on  persons  of 
loose  and  dissolute  lives,  we  do  hereby  notify  to 
the  public,  that  if  any  man  be  knocked  down  or 
assaulted  while  he  is  employed  in  his  lawful 
business,  at  proper  hours,  that  it  is  not  done  by 
our  order;  and  we  do  hereby  permit  and  allow 
any  such  person,  so  knocked  down  or  assaulted, 
to  rise  again,  and  defend  himself  in  the  best  man¬ 
ner  that  he  is  able. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


430 

“We  do  also  command  all  and  every  our  good 
subjects,  that  they  do  not  presume,  upon  any  pre¬ 
text  whatsoever,  to  issue  and  sally  forth  from  their 
respective  quarters  till  between  the  hours  of  eleven 
ana  twelve.  That  they  never  tip  the  lion  upon 
man,  woman,  or  child,  till  the  clock  at  St.  Dun- 
stan’s  shall  have  struck  one. 

“That  the  sweat  be  never  given  but  between 
the  hours  of  one  and  two;  always  provided,  that 
our  hunters  may  begin  to  hunt  a  little  after  the 
close  of  the  evening,  anything  to  the  contrary 
herein  notwithstanding.  Provided  also,  that  if 
ever  they  are  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  pinking, 
it  shall  always  be  in  the  most  fleshy  parts,  and 
such  as  are  least  exposed  to  view. 

“  It  is  also  our  imperial  will  and  pleasure,  that 
our  good  subjects  the  sweaters  do  establish  their 
huminums  in  such  close  places,  alleys,  nooks,  and 
corners,  that  the  patient  or  patients  may  not  be  in 
danger  of  catching  cold. 

“That  the  tumblers,  to  whose  care  we  chiefly 
commit  the  female  sex,  confine  themselves  to 
Drury-lane,  and  the  purlieus  of  the  Temple;  and 
that  *every  other  party  and  division  of  our  sub¬ 
jects  do  each  of  them  keep  within  the  respective 
quarters  we  have  allotted  to  them.  Provided, 
nevertheless,  that  nothing  herein  contained  shall 
in  anywise  be  construed  to  extend  to  the  hunters, 
who  have  our  full  license  and  permission  to  enter 
into  any  part  of  the  town  wherever  their  game 
shall  lead  them. 

“  And  whereas  we  have  nothing  more  at  our 
imperial  heart  than  the  reformation  of  the  cities 
of  London  and  Westminster,  which  to  our  un¬ 
speakable  satisfaction  we  have  in  some  measure 
already  effected,  we  do  hereby  earnestly  pray  and 
exhort  all  husbands,  fathers,  housekeepers,  and 
masters  of  families,  in  either  of  the  aforesaid 
cities,  not  only  to  repair  themselves  to  their  re¬ 
spective  habitations  at  early  and  seasonable  hours, 
but  also  to  keep  their  wives  and  daughters,  sons, 
servants,  and  apprentices,  from  appearing  in  the 
streets  at  those  times  and  seasons  which  may  ex- 
ose  them  to  military  discipline,  as  it  is  practiced 
y  our  good  subjects  the  Mohocks;  and  we  do 
further  promise  on  our  imperial  word,  that  as  soon 
as  the  reformation  aforesaid  shall  be  brought 
about,  we  will  forthwith  cause  all  hostilities  to 
cease. 

“  Given  from  our  court  at  the  Devil-tavern, 
X.  “  March  15,  1712.” 


No.  348.]  WEDNESDAY,  APRIL  9,  1712. 

Invidiam  placcre  paras,  virtu te  rclicta? 

IIok.  2  Sat.  iii,  13. 

To  shun  detraction,  wouldst  thou  virtue  fly  ? 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  have  not  seen  you  lately  at  any  of  the  places 
where  I  visit,  so  that  I  am  afraid  you  are  wholly 
unacquainted  with  what  passes  among  my  part  of 
the  world,  who  are,  though  1  say  it,  without  con¬ 
troversy,  the  most  accomplished  and  best  bred  of 
the  town.  Give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  that  I  am 
extremely  discomposed  when  I  hear  scandal,  and 
am  an  utter  enemy  to  all  manner  of  detraction, 
and  think  it  the  greatest  meanness  that  people  of 
distinction  can  be  guilty  of.  However,  it  is  hardly 
possible  to  come  into  company  where  you  do  not 
find  them  pulling  one  another  to  pieces,  and  that 
from  no  other  provocation  but  that  of  hearing  any 
one  commended.  Merit,  both  as  to  wit  and  beauty, 
is  become  no  other  than  the  possession  of  a  few 
trifling  people’s  favor,  which  you  cannot  possibly 
arrive  at,  if  you  have  really  anything  in  you  that 


is  deserving.  What  they  would  bring  to  pass  is, 
to  make  all  good  and  evil  consist  in  report,  and 
with  whispers,  calumnies,  and  impertinences,  to 
have  the  conduct  of  those  reports.  by  this  means, 
innocents  are  blasted  upon  their  first  appearance 
in  town;  and  there  is  nothing  more  required  to 
make  a  young  woman  the  object  of  envy  and  ha¬ 
tred,  than  to  deserve  love  and  admiration.  This 
abominable  endeavor  to  suppress  or  lessen  every¬ 
thing  that  is  praiseworthy  is  as  frequent  among 
the  men  as  the  women.  If  I  can  remember  what 
passed  at  a  visit  last  night,  it  will  serve  as  an  in-, 
stance  that  the  sexes  are  equally  inclined  to  defa¬ 
mation,  with  equal  malice  and  impotence.  Jack 
Triplett  came  into  my  Lady  Airy’s  about  eight 
of  the  clock.  You  k#ow  the  manner  we  sit  at  a 
visit,  and  I  need  not  describe  the  circle;  but  Mr. 
Triplett  came  in,  introduced  by  two  tapers  sup¬ 
ported  by  a  spruce  servant,  whose  hair  is  under  a 
cap  till  my  lady’s  candles  are  all  lighted  up,  and 
the  hour  of  ceremony  begins;  I  say  Jack  ’Triplett 
came  in,  and  singing  (for  he  is  really  good  com¬ 
pany)  ‘Every  feature,  charming  creature’ - he 

went  on,  ‘  It  is  a  most  unreasonable  thing,  that 
people  cannot  go  peaceably  to  see  their  friends, 
but  these  murderers  are  let  loose.  Such  a  shape! 
such  an  air  !  what  a  glance  was  that  as  her  chariot 
passed  by  mine!’- — My  lady  herself  interrupted 
him;  ‘  Pray,  who  is  this  fine  thing  ?’ — ‘  I  warrant/ 
says  another,  ‘  ’tis  the  creature  I  was  telling  your 
ladyship  of  just  now.’ — ‘You  were  telling  of?’ 
says  Jack;  ‘I  wish  I  had  been  so  happy  as  to 
have  come  in  and  heard  you;  for  I  have  not  words 
to  say  what  she  is;  but  if  an  agreeable  height,  a 
modest  air,  a  virgin  shame,  and  impatience  of 
being  beheld  amid  ablaze  of  ten  thousand  charms’ 

- The  whole  room  flew  out - ‘  Oh,  Mr. 

Triplett!’ - When  Mrs.  Lofty,  a  known  prude, 

said  she  knew  whom  the  gentleman  meant;  but 
she  was  indeed,  as  he  civilly  represented  her,  im¬ 
patient  of  being  beheld - Then  turning  to  the 

lady  next  to  her - ‘  The  most  unbred  creature 

you  ever  saw!’  Another  pursued  the  discourse: 
‘As  unbred,  madam,  as  you  may  think  her,  she  is 
extremely  belied  if  she  is  the  novice  she  appears; 
she  was  last  week  at  a  ball  till  two  in  the  morn¬ 
ing;  Mr.  Triplett  knows  whether  he  was  the  happy 

man  that  took  care  of  her  home;  but’ - This  was 

followed  by  some  particular  exception  that  each 
woman  in  the  room  made  to  some  peculiar  grace 
or  advantage ;  so  that  Mr.  Triplett  was  beaten 
from  one  limb  and  feature  to  another,  till  he  was 
forced  to  resign  the  whole  woman.  In  the  end,  I 
took  notice  Triplett  recorded  all  this  malice  in  his 
heart;  and  saw  in  his  countenance,  and  a  certain 
waggish  shrug,  that  he  designed  to  repeat  the  con¬ 
versation  :  I  therefore  let  the  discourse  die,  and 
soon  after  took  an  occasion  to  recommend  a  cer¬ 
tain  gentleman  of  my  acquaintance  for  a  person 
of  singular  modesty,  courage,  integrity,  and 
withal  as  a  man  of  an  entertaining  conversation,  to 
which  advantages  he  had  a  shape  and  manner  pe¬ 
culiarly  graceful.  Mr.  Triplett,  who  is  a  woman’s 
man,  seemed  to  hear  me  with  patience  enough 
commend  the  qualities  of  his  mind.  He  never 
heard,  indeed,  but  that  he  was  a  very  honest  man, 
and  no  fool;  but  for  a  finer  gentleman,  he  must 
ask  pardon.  Upon  no  other  foundation  than  this, 
Mr.  Triplett  took  occasion  to  give  the  gentleman’s 
pedigree,  by  what  methods  some  part  of  the  es¬ 
tate  was  acquired,  how  much  it  was  beholden  to  a 
marriage  for  the  present  circumstances  of  it:  after 
all,  he  could  see  nothing  but  a  comman  man  in 
his  person,  his  breeding,  or  understanding. 

“Thus,  Mr.  Spectator,  this  impertinent  humor 
of  diminishing  every  one  who  is  produced  in  con¬ 
versation  to  their  advantage,  runs  through  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


world,  and  T  am,  I  confess,  so  fearful  of  the  force 
of  ill  tongues,  that  I  have  begged  of  all  those 
who  are  ray  well-wishers  never  to  commend 
me,  for  it  will  but  bring  my  frailties  into  exami- 
nation,  and  I  had  rather  be  unobserved,  than  con- 
spicuous  for  disputed  perfections.  I  am  confident 
a  thousand  young  people,  who  would  have  been 
ornaments  to  society,  have,  from  fear  of  scandal, 
never  dared  to  exert  themselves  in  the  polite  arts 
of  life.  1  heir  lives  have  passed  away  in  an  odious 
rusticity,  in  spite  of  great  advantages  of  person, 
genius,  and  fortune.  There  is  a  vicious  terror  of 
benig  blamed  in  some  well-inclined  people,  and  a 
wicked  pleasure  in  suppressing  them  in  others  ; 
both  which  I  recommend  to  your  spectatorial 
wisdom  to  animadvert  upon;  and  if  you  can  be 
successful  in  it,  I  need  not  say  how  much  you  will 
deserve  of  the  town  ;  but  new  toasts  will  owe  to 
you  their  beauty,  and  new  wits  their  fame. 

“I  am.  Sir, 

“Your  most  obedient,  humble  Servant, 

“Mary.” 


431 


Ho.  349.]  THURSDAY,  APRIL  10,  1712. 

- Quos  ille  timorum 

Maximus  baud  urget,  lethi  metus:  inde  ruendi 
In  ferrum  mens  prona  viris,  animffiaue  capaces 
Mortis -  Lucan.,  i,  454. 

Thrice  happy  they  beneath  their  northern  skies, 

Who  that  worst  fear,  the  fear  of  death  despise ! 

Hence  they  no  cares  for  this  frail  being  feel 
But  rush  undaunted  on  the  pointed  steel,  ’ 

Provoke  approaching  fate,  and  bravely  scorn 
To  spare  that  life  which  must  so  soon  return. 

,  Rowe. 

i  AMr  ™uch  Phased  with  a  consolatory 
letter  of  Phalaris,*  to  one  who  had  lost  a  son  that 
was  a  young  man  of  great  merit.  The  thought 
with  which  he  comforts  the  afflicted  father  is,  to 
the  best  of  my  memory,  as  follows  That  he 
should  consider  deatli  had  set  a  kind  of  seal  upon 
his  son’s  character,  and  placed  him  out  of  the 
reach  of  vice  and  infamy:  that,  while  he  lived  he 
was  still  within  the  possibility  of  falling  away 
from  virtue,  and  losing  the  fame  of  which  he  was 
possessed.  Death  only  closes  a  man’s  reputation 
and  determines  it  as  good  or  bad. 

“  This,  among  other  motives,  maybe  one  reason 
why  we  are  naturally  averse  to  the  launching  out 
into  a  man’s  praise  till  his  head  is  laid  in  the  dust. 
While  he  is  capable  of  changing,  we  may  be 
forced  to  retract  our  opinions.  He  may  forfeit  the 
esteem  we  have  conceived  of  him,  and  some  time 
or  other  appear  to  us  under  a  different  light  from 
what  he  does  at  present.  In  short,  as  the  life  of 
any  man  cannot  be  called  happy  or  unhappy,  so 
neither  can  it  be  pronounced  vicious  or  virtuous 
before  the  conclusion  of  it. 

It  was  upon  this  consideration  that  Epaminon- 
das,  being  asked  whether  Chabrias,  Iphicrates,  or 
he  himself,  deserved  most  to  be  esteemed?  “  You 
must  first  see  us  die,”  saith  he,  “before  that 
question  can  be  answered.” 

As  there  is  not  a  rpore  melancholy  considera¬ 
tion  to  a  good  man  than  his  being  obnoxious  to 
such  a  change,  so  there  is  nothing  more  glorious 
than  to  keep  up  a  uniformity  in  his  actions,  and 
preseive  the  beauty  of  his  character  to  the  last. 

i  he  end  of  a  man’s  life  is  often  compared  to 
the  winding  up  of  a  well-written  play,  where  the 
principal  persons  still  act  in  character,  whatever 
the  fate  isjvhich  they  undergo.  There  is  scarce  a 

*Tho  reader  hardly  needs  to  be  told,  that  the  authenticity 
of  the  epistles  of  Plialaris  has  been  suspected,  and  is  susnf- 

wto  wrote  *00d> il  “  of  "»»«» 


great  person  in  the  Grecian  or  Roman  history 
whose  death  has  not  been  remarked  upon  by  some 
writer  or  other,  and  censured  or  applauded  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  genius  or  principles  of  the  person 
who  has  descanted  on  it.  Monsieur  do  St.  Evre- 
mond  is  very  particular  in  setting  forth  the  con¬ 
stancy  and  courage  of  Petronius  Arbiter  during  his 
last  moments,  and  thinks  he  discovers  in  them  a 
greater  firmness  of  mind  and  resolution  than  in  the 
death  of  Seneca,  Cato,  or  Socrates.  There  is  no  q  ues- 
tion  but  this  polite  author’s  affectation  of  appear- 
ing  singular  in  his  remarks,  and  making  discover- 
ies  which  had  escaped  the  observations  of  others, 
threw  him  into  this  course  of  reflection.  It  was  Pe- 
tionius  s  merit  that  he  died  in  the  same  gayety  of 
temper  in  which  he  lived:  but  as  his  life  was  alto- 
getlier  loose  and  dissolute,  the  indifference  which  he 
showed  at  the  close  of  it  is  to  be  looked  upon  as  a 
piece  of  natural  carelessness  and  levity,  rather  than 
loititude.  The  resolution  of  Socrates  proceeded 
from  very  different  motives,  the  consciousness  of  a 
well-spent  life,  and  the  prospectof  ahappy  eternity. 
It  the  ingenious  author  above-mentioned  was  so 
pleased  with  gayety  of  humor  in  a  dying  man,  he 
might  have  found  a  much  nobler  instance  of  it  in 
our  countryman  Sir  Thomas  More. 

This  great  and  learned  man  was  famous  for 
enlivening  his  ordinary  discourses  with  wit  and 
pleasantry ;  and  as  Erasmus  tells  him,  in  an 
epistle  dedicatory,  acted  in  all  parts  of  life  like  a 
second  Democritus. 

He  died  upon  a  point  of  religion,  and  is  re¬ 
spected  as  a  martyr  by  that  side  for  which  he  suf¬ 
fered.  That  innocent  mirth,  which  had  been  so 
conspicuous  in  his  life,  did  not  forsake  him  to  the 
last.  He  maintained  the  same  cheerfulness  of 
neait  upon  the  scaffold  which  he  used  to  show  at 
his  table;  and  upon  laying  his  head  on  the  block, 
gave  instances  of  that  good  humor  with  which  he 
had  always  entertained  his  friends  in  the  most 
ordinary  occurrences.  His  death  was  of  a  piece 
with  his  life.  There  was  nothing  in  it  new,  forced, 
or  affected.  He  did  not  look  upon  the  severing  his 
head  from  his  body  as  a  circumstance  that  ought 
to  produce  any  change  in  the  disposition  of  his 
mind;  and  as  he  died  under  a  fixed  and  settled 
hope  of  immortality,  he  thought  any  unusual  de¬ 
gree  of  sorrow  and  concern  improper  on  such  an 
occasion,  as  he  had  nothing  in  it  which  could 
deject  or  terrify  him. 

There  is  no  great  danger  of  imitation  from  this 
example.  Men  s  natural  fears  will  be  sufficient 
guard  against  it.  I  shall  only  observe,  that 
what  was  philosophy  in  this  extraordinary  man 
would  be  frenzy  in  one  who  does  not  resemble  him 
as  well  in  the  cheerfulness  of  his  temper  as  in  the 
sanctity  of  his  life  and  manners. 

I  shall  conclude  this  paper  with  the  instance  of 
a  person  who  seems  to  me  to  have  shown  more  in¬ 
trepidity  and  greatness  of  soul  in  his  dyino-  mo- 
merits  than  what  we  meet  with  among  any  of  the 
most  celebrated  Greeks  and  Romans.  I  met  with 
this  instance  in  the  History  of  the  Revolutions  in 
Portugal,  written  by  the  Abbot  de  Vertot. 

When  Don  Sebastian,  king  of  Portugal,  had  in¬ 
vaded  the  territories  of  Muli  Moluc,  emperor  of 
Morocco,  in  order  to  dethrone  him,  and  set  the 
crown  upon  the  head  of  his  nephew,  Moluc  was 
wearing  away  with  a  distemper  which  he  himself 
knew  w as  incurable.  However,  he  prepared  for 
the  reception  of  so  formidable  an  enemy.  He  was, 
indeed,  so  far  spent  with  his  sickness,  that  he  did 
not  expect  to  live  out  the  whole  day,  when  the 
last  decisive  battle  was  given  ;  but,  knowing  the 
fatal  consequences  that  would  happen  to  his  child¬ 
ren  and  people,  in  case  lie  should  die  before  ho 
put  an  end  to  that  war,  he  commanded  his  princi 


432 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


pal  officers,  that  if  he  died  during  the  engagement, 
they  should  conceal  his  death  from  the  army,  and 
that  they  should  ride  up  to  the  litter  in  which  liis 
corpse  was  carried,  under  the  pretense  of  receiv¬ 
ing  orders  from  him  as  usual.  Before  the  battle 
began,  he  was  carried  through  all  the  ranks  of  his 
army  in  an  open  litter,  as  they  stood  drawn  up  in 
array,  encouraging  them  to  fight  valiantly  in  de¬ 
fense  of  their  religion  and  country.  Finding  after¬ 
ward  the  battle  to  go  against  him,  though  he  was 
very  near  his  last  agonies,  he  threw  himself  out 
of  his  litter,  rallied  his  army,  and  led  them  on  to 
the  charge;  which  afterward  ended  in  a  complete 
victory  on  the  side  of  the  Moors.  He  had  no 
sooner  brought  his  men  to  the  engagement,  but 
finding  himself  utterly  spent,  he  was  again  re¬ 
placed  in  his  litter,  where,  laying  his  finger  on 
his  mouth,  to  enjoin  secrecy  to  his  officers  who 
stood  about  him,  he  died  a  few  moments  after  in 
that  posture. — L. 


No.  350.]  FRIDAY,  APRIL  11,  1712. 

Ea  animi  elatio  quae  cernitur  in  periculis,  si  justitia  vacal  pug- 
natque  pro  suis  commodis,  in  vitio  est. — Tull. 

That  elevation  of  mind  which  is  displayed  in  dangers,  if  it 
wants  justice,  and  fights  for  its  own  conveniency,  is 
vicious. 

Captain  Sentry  was  last  night  at  the  club,  and 
produced  a  letter  from  Ipswich,  which  liis  corre¬ 
spondent  desired  him  to  communicate  to  his  friend 
the  Spectator.  It  contained  an  account  of  an  en¬ 
gagement  between  a  French  privateer,  commanded 
by  one  Dominick  Pottiere,  and  a  little  vessel  of 
that  place  laden  with  corn,  the  master  wffiereof,  as 
I  remember  was  one  Goodwin.  The  Englishman 
defended  himself  with  incredible  bravery,  and  beat 
off  the  French,  after  having  been  boarded  three  or 
four  times.  The  enemy  still  came  on  with  greater 
fury,  and  hoped  by  his  number  of  men  to  carry 
the  prize;  till  at  last  the  Englishman,  finding  him¬ 
self  sink  apace,  and  ready  to  perish,  struck  ;  but 
the  effect  which  this  singular  gallantry  had  upon 
the  captain  of  the  privateer  was  no  other  than  an 
unmanly  desire  of  vengeance  for  the  loss  he  had 
sustained  in  his  several  attacks.  Fie  told  the  Ips¬ 
wich  man  in  a  speaking-trumpet,  that  he  would 
not  take  him  aboard,  and  that  he  stayed  to  see 
him  sink.  The  Englishman  at  the  same  time  ob¬ 
served  a  disorder  in  the  vessel,  which  he  rightly 
judged  to  proceed  from  the  disdain  which  the 
ship’s  crew  had  of  their  captain’s  inhumanity. 
With  this  hope  he  went  into  his  boat,  and  ap¬ 
proached  the  enemy.  He  was  taken  in  by  the 
sailors  in  spite  of  their  commander:  but,  though 
they  received  him  against  his  command,  they 
treated  him,  when  he  was  in  the  ship,  in  the  manner 
he  directed.  Pottiere  caused  his  men  to  hold 
Goodwin,  while  he  beat  him  with  a  stick,  till  he 
fainted  with  loss  of  blood  and  rage  of  heart;  after 
which  he  ordered  him  into  irons,  without  allow¬ 
ing  him  any  food,  but  such  as  one  or  two  of  the 
men  stole  to  him  under  peril  of  the  like  usage: 
and  having  kept  him  several  days  overwhelmed 
with  the  misery  of  stench,  hunger,  and  soreness, 
he  brought  him  into  Calais.  The  governor  of  the 
place  was  soon  acquainted  with  all  that  had 
passed,  dismissed  Pottiere  from  his  charge  with 
ignominy,  and  gave  Goodwin  all  the  relief  which 
a  man  of  honor  would  bestow  upon  an  enemy 
barbarously  treated,  to  recover  the  imputation  of 
cruelty  upon  his  prince  and  country. 

When  Mr.  Sentry  had  read  his  letter,  full  of 
many  other  circumstances  which  aggravate  the 
barbarity,  he  fell  into  a  sort  of  criticism  upon  mag¬ 
nanimity  and  courage,  and  argued  that  they  were 


inseparable;  and  that  courage,  without  regard  to 
justice  and  humanity,  was  no  other  than  the  fierce¬ 
ness  of  a  wild  beast.  “A  good  and  truly  bold 
spirit,”  continued  he,  “  is  ever  actuated  by  reason, 
and  a  sense  of  honor  and  duty.  The  affectation  of 
such  a  spirit  exerts  itself  in  an  impudent  aspect, 
an  overbearing  confidence,  and  a  certain  negli¬ 
gence  of  giving  offense.  This  is  visible  in  all  the 
cocking  youths  you  see  about  this  town,  who  are 
noisy  in  assemblies,  unawed  by  the  presence  of 
wise  and  virtuous  men  ;  in  a  word,  insensible  of 
all  the  honors  and  decencies  of  human  life.  -  A 
shameless  fellow  takes  advantage  of  merit  clothed 
with  modesty  and  magnanimity,  and,  in  the  eyes 
of  little  people,  appears  sprightly  and  agreeable: 
while  the  man  of  resolution  and  true  gallantry  is 
overlooked  and  disregarded,  if  not  despised. 
There  is  a  propriety  in  all  things;  and  I  believe 
what  you  scholars  call  just  and  sublime,  in  oppo¬ 
sition  to  turgid  and  bombast  expression,  may  give 
you  an  idea  of  what  I  mean,  when  I  say  modesty 
is  the  certain  indication  of  a  great  spirit,  and  im¬ 
pudence  the  affectation  of  it.  He  that  writes  with 
judgment,  and  never  rises  into  improper  warmths, 
manifests  the  true  force  of  genius;  in  like  manner, 
he  who  is  quiet  and  equal  in  all  his  behavior  is 
supported  in  that  deportment  by  what  we  may 
call  true  courage.  Alas!  it  is  not  so  easy  a  thing 
to  be  a  brave  man  as  the  unthinking  part  of  man¬ 
kind  imagine.  To  dare  is  not  all  that  there  is  in 
it.  The  privateer  we  were  just  now  talking  of 
had  boldness  enough  to  attack  his  enemy,  but  not 
greatness  of  mind  enough  to  admire  the  same 
quality  exerted  by  that  enemy  in  defending  him¬ 
self.  Thus  his  base  and  little  mind  was  wholly 
taken  up  in  the  sordid  regard  to  the  prize  of  which 
he  failed,  and  the  damage  done  to  his  own  vessel; 
and  therefore  he  used  an  honest  man,  who  defend¬ 
ed  his  own  from  him,  in  the  manner  as  he  would 
a  thief  that  should  rob  him. 

“He  was  equally  disappointed,  and  had  not 
spirit  enough  to  consider,  that  one  case  would  be 
laudable,  and  the  other  criminal.  Malice,  rancor, 
hatred,  vengeance,  are  what  tear  the  breasts  of 
mean  men  in  fight ;  but  fame,  glory,  conquests,  de¬ 
sires  of  opportunities  to  pardon  and  oblige  their  op- 
posers,  are  what  glow  in  the  minds  of  the  gallant.” 
The  captain  ended  his  discourse  with  a  specimen 
of  his  book-learning ;  and  gave  us  to  understand 
that  he  had  read  a  French  author  on  the  subject 
of  justness  in  point  of  gallantry.  “  I  love,”  said 
Mr.  Sentry,  “  a  critic  who  mixes  the  rules  of  life 
with  annotations  upon  writers.  My  author,” 
added  he,  “  in  his  discourse  upon  epic  poetry, 
takes  occasion  to  speak  of  the  same  quality  of 
courage  drawn  in  the  two  different  characters  of 
Turn  us  and  iEneas.  He  makes  courage  the  chief 
and  greatest  ornament  of  Turnus;  but  in  HUneas 
are  many  others  which  outshine  it ;  among  the 
rest,  that  of  piety.  Turnus  is,  therefore,  all  along 
painted  by  the  poet  full  of  ostentation,  his  lan¬ 
guage  haughty  and  vain-glorious,  as  placing  his 
honor  in  the  manifestation  of  his  valor :  AKneas 
speaks  little,  is  slow  to  action,  and  shows  only  a 
sort  of  defensive  courage.  If  equipage  and  ad¬ 
dress  make  Turnus  appear  more  courageous  than 
HCneas,  conduct  and  success  prove  .dEneas  more 
valiant  than  Turnus.” — T. 


No.  351.]  SATURDAY,  APRIL  12,  1712. 

In  tc  omnis  domus  inclinata  reoumbit. 

Virg.  iEN.,  xii,  59. 

On  tliee  the  fortunes  of  our  house  depond. 

If  we  look  into  the  three  great  heroie  poems 
which  have  appeared  in  the  world,  we  may 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


observe  that  thev  are  built  upon  very  slight  founda¬ 
tions.  Homer  lived  near  300  years  after  the  Tro¬ 
jan  war;  and,  as  the  writing  of  history  Avas  not 
then  in  use  among  the  Greeks,  we  may  very  well 
suppose  that  the  tradition  of  Achilles  and  Ulysses 
had  brought  down  but  very  few  particulars  to  his 
knowledge  ;  though  there  is  no  question  but  he 
has  wrought  into  his  two  poems  such  of  their 
remarkable  adventures  as  were  still  talked  of 
among  his  cotemporaries. 

The  story  of  AEneas,  on  which  Virgil  founded 
his  poem,  was  likewise  very  bare  of  circum¬ 
stances,  and  by  that  means  afforded  him  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  embellishing  it  with  fiction,  and  giving 
a  full  range  to  his  oAvn  invention.  We  find,  how¬ 
ever,  that  he  has  interwoven,  in  the  course  of  his 
fable,  the  principal  particulars,  which  were  gene¬ 
rally  believed  among  the  Romans,  of  HEneas’s 
voyage  and  settlement  in  Italy. 

The  reader  may  find  an  abridgement  of  the 
whole  story,  as  collected  out  of  the  ancient  his¬ 
torians,  and  as  it  was  received  among  the  Romans, 
in  Dionysius  Halicarnassus. 

Since  none  of  the  critics  have  considered  Virgil’s 
fable  with  relation  to  this  history  of  HEneas,  it 
may  not,  perhaps,  be  amiss  to  examine  it  in  this 
light,  so  far  as  regards  my  present  purpose. 
Whoever  looks  into  the  abridgement  above-men¬ 
tioned,  will  find  that  the  character  of  HEneas  is 
filled  with  piety  to  the  gods,  and  a  superstitious 
observation  of  prodigies,  oracles,  and  predictions. 
Virgil  has  not  only  preserved  his  character  in  the 
person  of  HEneas,  but  has  given  a  place  in  his 
poem  to  those  particular  prophesies  which  he 
found  recorded  of  him  in  history  and  tradition. 
The  poet  took  the  matters  of  fact  as  they  came 
down  to  him,  and  circumstanced  them  after  his 
own  manner,  to  make  them  appear  the  more  na¬ 
tural,  agreeable,  or  surprising.  I  believe  very 
many  readers  have  been  shocked  at  that  ludicrous 
prophesy  which  one  of  the  harpies  pronounces  to 


433 


whole  HEneid,  and  has  given  offense  to  several 
critics,  may  be  accounted  for  the  same  way. 
V  irgil  himself,  before  he  begins  that  relation,  pre¬ 
mises,  that  what  he  was  going  to  tell  appeared 
incredible,  but  that  it  was  justified  by  tradition. 
What  fui tlier  confirms  me  that  this  change  of  the 
^ eV.WaS  a  .ce^ebrated  circumstance  in  the  history 
of  HEneas,  is,  that  Ovid  has  given  a  place  to  the 
same  metamorphosis  in  his  account  of  the  hea¬ 
then  mythology. 

None  of  the  critics  I  have  met  with  have  con- 
sideied  the  fable  of  the  HEneid  in  this  light,  and 
taken  notice  how  the  tradition  on  which  it  was 
founded  authorizes  those  parts  in  it  which  appear 
the  most  exceptionable.  I  hope  the  length  of  this 
reflection  will  not  make  it  unacceptable  to  the 
curious  part  of  my  readers. 

The  history  which  was  the  basis  of  Milton’s 
poem  is  still  shorter  than  either  that  of  the  Iliacl 
or  HEneid.  The  poet  has  likewise  taken  care  to 
insert  eveiy  circumstance  of  it  in  the  body  of  his 
fable,  .  I  he  ninth  book,  which  we  are  here  to  con¬ 
sider,  is  raised  upon  that  brief  account  in  Scrip¬ 
ture,  wherein  we  are  told  that  the  serpent  was 
more  subtile  than  any  beast  of  the  field  ;  that  he 
tempted  the  woman  to  eat  of  the  forbidden  fruit; 
that  she  was  overcome  by  this  temptation,  and 
that  Adam  follwed  her  example.  From  these  few 
paiticulars,  Milton  has  formed  one  of  the  most 
entertaining  fables  that  invention  ever  produced. 
He  has  disposed  of  these  several  circumstances 
among  so  many  beautiful  and  natural  fictions  of 
his  own,  that  his  whole  story  looks  like  a  com¬ 
ment  upon  sacred  writ,  or  rather  seems  to  be  a 
full  and  complete  relation  of  what  the  other  is 
only  in  epitome.  I  have  insisted  the  longer  on 
this  consideration,  as  I  look  upon  the  disposition 
and  contrivance  of  the  fable  to  be  the  principal 
beauty  of  the  ninth  book,  which  has  more  story 
it,  and  is  fuller  of  incidents,  than  any  other  in 


in 


fi  -m  •“  .  ,,  .  .  .  ~7'r — - -  the  whole  poem.  Satan’s  traversing  the  globe 

fore  lAjSLWS  ,3thin  of  ">8^ 


fore  they  had  built  their  intended  city  they  should 
be  reduced  by  hunger  to  eat  their  very  tables. 
But,  when  they  hear  that  this  was  one  of  the  cir¬ 
cumstances  that  had  been  transmitted  to'the  Ro¬ 
mans  in  the  history  of  HEneas,  they  will  think  the 
poet  did  very  well  in  taking  notice  of  it.  The 
historian  above-mentioned  acquaints  us,  that  a 
prophetess  had  foretold  ^Eneas,  he  should  take 
his  voyage  westward,  till  his  companions  should 
eat  their  tables ;  and  that  accordingly,  upon  his 
landing  in  Italy,  as  they  were  eating  their  flesh 
upon  cakes  of  bread  for  want  of  other  conve¬ 
niences,  they  afterward  fed  on  the  cakes  them¬ 
selves  ;  upon  which  one  of  the  company  said 
merrily,  “We  are  eating  our  tables,”  They  im¬ 
mediately  took  the  hint,  says  the  historian,  and 
concluded  the  prophesy  to  be  fulfilled.  As  Virgil 
did  not  think  it  proper  to  omit  so  material  a  par¬ 
ticular  in  the  history  of  HEneas,  it  may  be  worth 
ivhile  to  consider  with  how  much  judgment  he  has 
qualified  it,  and  taken  off  everything  that  might 
lave  ap'peared  improper  for  a  passage  in  a  heroic 
coem.  The  prophetess  who  foretells  it  is  a  hungry 
aarpy,  as  the  person  who  discovers  it  is  young 
^.scanius.  ® 

Ileus  etiam  mensas  consumimus !  inquit  lulus. 

■En.,  vii,  116. 

See,  we  devour  the  plates  on  which  we  feed. 

Dryden. 

Such  an  observation,  which  is  beautiful  in  the 
nouth  of  a  boy,  would  have  been  ridiculous  from 
my  other  of  the  company.  I  am  apt  to  think 
hat  the  changing  of  the  Trojan  fleet  into  water- 
lyrnphs,  which  is  the  most  violent  machine  in  the 

28 


as  fearing  to  be  discovered  by  the  angel  of  the 
sun,  who  had  before  detected  him,  is  one  of  those 
beautiful  imaginations  with  which  he  introduces 
this  his  second  series  of  adventures.  Having 
examined  the  nature  of  every  creature,  and  found 
out  one  which  was  the  most  proper  for  his  pur¬ 
pose,  he  again  returns  to  Paradise;  and,  to  avoid 
discovery,  sinks  by  night  with  a  river  that  ran 
under  the  garden,  and  rises  up  again  through  a 
fountain  that  issued  from  it  by  the  tree  of  life. 
The  poet,  who,  as  we  have  before  taken  notice, 
speaks  as  little  as  possible  in  his  own  person, 
and,  after  the  example  of  Homer,  fills  every  part 
of  his  work  with  manners  and  characters,  intro¬ 
duces  a  soliloquy  of  this  infernal  agent,  who  was 
thus  restless  in  the  destruction  of  man.  He  is 
then  described  as  gliding  through  the  garden, 
under  the  resemblance  of  a  mist,  in  order  to  find 
out  that  creature  in  which  he  designed  to  tempt 
our  first  parents.  This  description  has  something 
in  it  very  poetical  and  surprising  : 

So  saying,  through  each  thicket  dank  or  dry, 

Like  a  black  mist  low  creeping,  he  held  on 
His  midnight  search,  where  soonest  he  might  find 
The  serpent :  him  fast  sleeping  soon  he  found 
In  labyrinth  of  many  a  round  self-roll’d, 

His  head  the  midst,  well  stor’d  with  subtile  wiles. 

The  author  afterward  gives  us  a  description  of 
the  morning,  which  is  wonderfully  suitable  to  a 
divine  poem,  and  peculiar  to  that  first  season  of 
nature.  He  represents  the  earth,  before  it  was 
cursed,  as  a  great  altar  breathing  out  its  incense 
from  all  parts,  and  sending  up  a  pleasant  savor 
to  the  nostrils  of  its  Creator;  to  which  he  adds  a 
noble  idea  of  Adam  and  Eve,  as  offering  their 


s 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


434 

morning  worship,  and  filling  up  the  universal  con¬ 
cert  of  praise  and  adoration: 

Now  when  a  sacred  light  began  to  dawn 

In  Eden  on  the  humid  flowers,  that  breath’d 

Their  morning  incense ;  when  all  things  that  breathe 

From  the  earth’s  great  altar  send  up  silent  praise 

To  the  Creator,  and  his  nostrils  fill 

With  grateful  smell ;  forth  came  the  human  pair, 

And  join’d  their  vocal  worship  to  their  choir 
Of  creatures  wanting  voice - 

The  dispute  which  follows  between  our  two  first 
parents  is  represented  with  great  art.  It  proceeds 
from  a  difference  of  judgment,  not  of  passion,  and 
is  managed  with  reason,  not  with  heat.  It  is 
Such  a  dispute  as  we  may  suppose  might  have 
happened  in  Paradise,  had  men  continued  happy 
and  innocent.  There  is  a  great  delicacy  in  the 
moralities  which  are  interspersed  in  Adam’s  dis¬ 
course,  and  which  the  most  ordinary  reader  can¬ 
not  but  take  notice  of.  That  force  of  love  which 
the  father  of  mankind  so  finely  describes  in  the 
eighth  book,  and  which  is  inserted  in  my  last 
Saturday’s  paper,  shows  itself  here  in  many  fine 
instances ;  as  in  those  fond  regards  he  casts  to¬ 
ward  Eve  at  her  parting  from  him; 

Her  loug  with  ardent  look  his  eye  pursu’d 
Delighted,  but  desiring  more  her  stay. 

Oft  he  to  her  his  charge  of  quick  return 
Repeated ;  she  to  him  as  oft  engaged 
To  be  return’d  by  noon  amid  the  bow’r. 

In  his  impatience  and  amusement  during  her 
absence: 

♦ 

— — - Adam  the  while, 

Waiting  desirous  her  return,  had  wove 
Of  choicest  flow’rs  a  garland  to  adorn 
Her  tresses,  and  her  rural  labors  crown, 

As  reapers  oft  are  wont  their  rural  queen. 

Great  joy  he  promis’d  to  his  thoughts,  and  new 
Solace,  in  her  return,  so  long  delay’d. 

But  particularly  in  that  passionate  speech, 
where,  seeing  her  irrecoverably  lost,  he  resolves  to 
perish  with  her,  rather  than  to  live  without  her: 

- - Some  cursed  fraud 

Of  enemy  hath  beguil’d  thee,  yet  unknown, 

And  me  with  thee  hath  ruin’d;  for  with  thee 
Certain  my  resolution  is  to  die : 

How  can  I  live  without  thee  ?  How  forego 
Thy  sweet  converse  and  love  so  dearly  join’d, 

To  live  again  in  these  wild  woods  forlorn? 

Should  God  create  another  Eve,  and  I 
Another  rib  afford,  yet  loss  of  thee 
Would  never  from  my  heart;  no,  no!  I  feel 
The  link  of  nature  draw  me;  flesh  of  flesh, 

Bone  of  my  bone  thou  art,  and  from  thy  state 
Mine  never  shall  be  parted,  bliss  or  woe! 

The  beginning  of  this  speech,  and  the  prepara¬ 
tion  to  it,  are  animated  with  the  same  spirit  as  the 
conclusion,  which  I  have  here  quoted. 

The  several  wiles  which  are  put  in  practice  by 
the  tempter,  when  he  found  Eve  separated  from 
her  husband,  the  many  pleasing  images  of  nature 
which  are  intermixed  in  this  part  of  the  story, 
with  its  gradual  and  regular  progress  to  the  fata 
catastrophe,  are  so  very  remarkable,  that  it  woulc 
be  superfluous  to  point  out  their  respective  beau¬ 
ties. 

I  have  avoided  mentioning  any  particular  simi¬ 
litudes  in  my  remarks  on  this  great  work,  because 
I  have  given  a  general  account  of  them  in  my 
paper  on  the  first  book.  There  is  one,  however, 
in  this  part  of  the  poem,  which  I  shall  here  quote, 
as  it  is  not  only  very  beautiful,  but  the  closest  of 
any  in  the  whole  poem;  I  mean  that  where  the 
serpent  is  described  as  rolling  forward  in  all  his 
pride,  animated  by  the  evil  spirit,  and  conducting 
Eve  to  her  destruction,  while  Adam  was  at  too 
great  a  distance  from  her  to  give  her  his  assist¬ 


ance.  These  several  particulars  are  all  of  them 
wrought  into  the  following  similitude : 

- - Hope  elevates,  and  joy 

Brightens  his  crest;  as  when  a  wandering  fire. 

Compact  of  unctuous  vapor,  which  the  night 
Condenses,  and  the  cold  environs  round, 

Kindled  through  agitation  to  a  flame, 

(Which  oft,  they  say,  some  evil  spirit  attends) 

Hovering  and  blazing  with  delusive  light, 

Misleads  th’  amazed  night  wanderer  from  his  way 
To  bogs  and  mires,  and  oft  through  pond  or  pool, 

There  swallow’d  up  and  lost,  from  succor  far. 

The  secret  intoxication  of  pleasure,  with  all 
those  transient  flushings  of  guilt  and  joy,  which 
die  poet  represents  in  our  first  parents  upon  eat¬ 
ing  the  forbidden  fruit,  to  those  flaggings  of  spirit, 
damps  of  sorrow,  and  mutual  accusations  which 
succeed  it,  are  conceived  with  a  wonderful  ima¬ 
gination,  and  described  in  very  natural  senti¬ 
ments. 

When  Dido,  in  the  fourth  ^Eneid,  yielded  to 
that  fatal  temptation  which  ruined  her,  Virgil  tells 
us  the  earth  trembled,  the  heavens  were  filled  with 
flashes  of  lightning,  and  the  nymphs  howled  upon 
die  mountain  tops.  Milton,  in  the  same  poetical 
spirit,  has  described  all  nature  as  disturbed  upoD 
Eve’s  eating  the  forbidden  fruit : 

So  saying,  her  rash  hand  in  evil  hour, 

Forth  reaching  to  the  fruit,  she  pluck’d,  she  ate : 

Earth  felt  the  wound,  and  Nature,  from  her  seat 
Sighing,  through  all  her  works  gave  signs  of  woe 
That  all  was  lost. - 

Upon  Adam’s  falling  into  the  same  guilt,  the 
whole  creation  appears  a  second  time  in  convul¬ 
sions: 

. - He  scrupled  not  to  eat 

Against  his  better  knowledge;  not  deceiv’d, 

But  fondly  overcome  with  female  charm. 

Earth  trembled  from  her  entrails,  as  again 
In  oangs,  and  nature  gave  a  second  groan; 

Sky  low’r’d,  and  muttering  thunder,  some  sad  drops 
Wept  at  completing  of  the  mortal  sin. 

As  all  nature  suffered  by  the  guilt  of  our  first 
parents,  these  symptoms  of  trouble  and  consterna¬ 
tion  are  wonderfully  imagined,  not  only  as  prodi¬ 
gies,  but  as  marks  of  her  sympathizing  in  the  fall 
of  man. 

Adam’s  converse  with  Eve,  after  having  eaten 
of  the  forbidden  fruit,  is  an  exact  copy  of  that  be¬ 
tween  Jupiter  and  Juno  in  the  fourteenth  Iliad. 
Juno  there  approaches  Jupiter  with  the  girdle 
which  she  had  received  from  Venus;  upon  which 
he  tells  her,  that  she  appeared  more  charming  and 
desirable  than  she  had  ever  done  before,  even 
when  their  loves  were  at  the  highest.  The  poet 
afterward  describes  them  as  reposing  on  a  summit 
of  Mount  Ida,  which  produced  under  them  a  bed 
of  flowers,  the  lotus,  the  crocus,  and  the  hyacinth; 
and  concludes  his  description  with  their  falling 
asleep. 

Let  the  reader  compare  this  with  the  following 
passage  in  Milton,  which  begins  with  Adam’s 
speech  to  Eve: 

For  never  did  thy  beauty  since  the  day 
I  saw  thee  first  and  wedded  thee,  adorn’d 
With  all  perfections,  so  inflame  my  sense 
With  ardor  to  enjoy  thee,  fairer  now 
Than  ever,  bounty  of  this  virtuous  tree. 

So  said  he,  and  forbore  not  glance  or  toy 
Of  amorous  intent,  well  understood 
Of  Eve,  whose  eye  darted  contagious  fire. 

Her  hand  he  seized,  and  to  a  shady  bank, 

Thick  overhead  with  verdant  roof  embower’d, 

He  led  her  nothing  loth ;  flowers  were  the  couch. 
Pansies,  and  violets,  and  asphodel, 

And  hyacinth,  Earth’s  freshest  softest  lap. 

There  they  their  fill  of  love  and  love’s  disport 
Took  largely,  of  their  mutual  guilt  the  seal, 

The  solace  of  their  sin,  till  dewy  sleep 
Oppress’d  them. - - 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


As  no  poet  seems  to  have  ever  studied  Homer 
more,  or  to  have  more  resembled  him  in  the  great¬ 
ness  of  genius,  than  Milton,  I  think  I  shouhfhave 
given  but  a  very  imperfect  account  of  his  beauties, 
it  I  had  not  observed  t  he  most  remarkable  passages 
'which  look  like  parallels  in  these  two  great  au¬ 
thors.  I  might,  in  the  course  of  these  criticisms, 
have  taken  notice  of  many  particular  lines  and 
expressions  which  are  translated  from  the  Greek 
poet;  but  as  I  thought  this  would  have  appeared 
too  minute  and  over  curious,  I  have  purposely 
omitted  them.  The  greater  incidents,  however, 
are  not  only  set  off  by  being  shown  in  the  same 
light  with  several  of  the  same  nature  in  Homer, 
but  by  that  means  may  be  also  guarded  against 


435 


the  cavils  of  the  tasteless  or  ignorant. — L. 


No.  352.]  MONDAY,  APRIL  14,  1712. 

- - - Si  ad  honestatem  nati  sumus,  ea  aut  sola  expetenda 

est,  aut  certe  omni  pondere  gravior  est  habenda  quain  re- 
liqua  omnia. — Tull. 

If  wo  be  made  for  honesty,  either  it  is  solely  to  be  sought,  or 
certainly  to  be  estimated  much  more  highly  than  all  other 
things. 

Will  Honeycomb  was  complaining  to  me  yester¬ 
day  that  the  conversation  of  the  town  is  so  altered 
of  late  years,  that  a  fine  gentleman  is  at  a  loss 
for  matter  to  start  a  discourse,  as  well  as  unable 
to  fall  in  with  the  talk  he  generally  meets  with. 
Will  takes  notice,  that  there  is  now  an  evil  under 
the  sun  which  he  supposes  to  be  entirely  new, 
because  not  mentioned  by  any  satirist,  or  mor¬ 
alist,  in  any  age.  “Men,”  said  he,  “grow  knaves 
sooner  than  they  ever  did  since  the  creation 
of  the  world  before.”  If  you  read  the  tragedies 
of  the  last  age,  you  find  the  artful  men,  and  per¬ 
sons  of  intrigue,  are  advanced  very  far  in  years, 
and  beyond  the  pleasures  and  sallies  of  youth ; 
but  now  Will  observes,  that  the  young  have  taken 
in  the  vices  of  the  aged,  and  you  shall  have  a  man 
of  five-and-twenty,  crafty,  false  and  intriguing, 
not  ashamed  to  overreach,  cozen,  and  be°-ui?e 
My  friend  adds,  that  till  about  the  latter  end  of 
King  Charles’s  reign  there  was  not  a  rascal  of  any 
eminence  under  forty.  In  the  places  of  resort  for 
conversation,  you  now  hear  nothing  but  what  re¬ 
lates  to  the  improving  men’s  fortunes,  without  re¬ 
gard  to  the  methods  toward  it.  This  is  so  fashion¬ 
able,  that  young  men  form  themselves  upon  a 
certain  neglect  of  everything  that  is  candid, 
simple,  and  worthy  of  true  esteem;  and  affect 
being  yet  worse  than  they  are,  by  acknowledging, 
in  their  general  turn  of  mind  and  discourse,  that 
they  have  not  any  remaining  value  for  true  honor 
and  honesty;  preferring  the  capacity  of  being 
artful  to  gain  their  ends,  to  the  merit  of  despising 
those  ends  when  they  come,  in  competiton  with 
their  honesty.  All  this  is  due  to  the  very  silly 
pride  that  generally  prevails,  of  being  valued  for 
the  ability  of  carrying  their  point;  in  a  word,  from 
the  opinion  that  shallow  and  inexperienced  people 
entertain  of  the  short-lived  force  of  cunning.  But 
I  shall,  before  I  enter  upon  the  various  faces  which 
folly,  covered  with  artifice,  puts  on  to  impose  upon 
the  unthinking,  produce  a  great  authority  for  as¬ 
serting,  that  nothing  but  truth  and  ingenuity* 
has  any  lasting  good  effect,  even  upon  a  man’s 
fortune  and  interest. 

“Truth  and  reality  have  all  the  advantages  of 
appearance,  and  many  more.  If  the  show  of  any¬ 
thing  be  good  for  anything,  I  am  sure  sincerity 
is  better;  for  why  does  any  man  dissemble,  or 

*  Ingenuity  seems  to  be  here  used  for  ingenuousness. 


seem  to  be  that  which  he  is  not,  but  because  he 
thinks  it  good  to  have  such  a  quality  as  lie  pre¬ 
tends  to?  for  to  counterfeit  and  dissemble  is  to 
put  on  the  appearance  of  some  real  excellency. 
JNlow  the  best  way  in  the  world  for  a  man  to  seem 
to  be  anything,  is  really  to  be  what  he  would 
seem  to  be.  Beside,  that  it  is  many  times  as 
loublesome  to  make  good  the  pretense  of  a  good 
quality,  as  to  have  it;  and  if  a  man  have  it  not,  it 
is  ten  to  one  but  lie  is  discovered  to  want  it,  and 
then  ail  his  pains  and  labor  to  seem  to  have  it  is 
lost.  1  here  is  something  unnatural  in  painting, 
v  Inch  a  skillful  eye  will  easily  discern  from  native 
beauty  and  complexion. 

“It  is  hard  to  personate  and  act  a  part  long-  for 
where  truth  is  not  at  the  bottom,  nature  will 
always  be  endeavoring  to  return,  and  will  peep 
out  and  betray  herself  one  time  or  other.  There¬ 
fore  if  any  man  think  it  convenient  to  seem  good, 
let  him  be  so  indeed,  and  then  his  goodness  will 
appear  to  everybody’s  satisfaction;  so  that  upon 
all  accounts  sincerity  is  true  wisdom.  Particularly 
as  to  the  affairs  of  this  world,  integrity  has  many 
advantages  over  all  the  fine  and  artificial  ways  of 
dissimulation  and  deceit;  it  is  much  the  plainer 
and  easier,  much  the  safer  and  more  secure  way  of 
dealing  in  the  world :  it  has  less  trouble  and  diffi¬ 
culty,  of  entanglement  and  perplexity,  of  danger 
and  hazard  in  it;  it  is  the  shortest  and  nearest 
way  to  our  end,  carrying  us  thither  in  a  straight 
line,  and  will  hold  out  and  last  longest.  The  arts 
of  deceit  and  cunning  do  continually  grow  weaker 
and  less  effectual  and  serviceable  to  them  that  use 
them;  whereas  integrity  gains  strength  by  use,  and 
the  more  and  longer  any  man  practiceth  it,  the 
greater  service  it  does  him,  by  confirming  his  re¬ 
putation,  and  encouraging  those  with  whom  he 
hath  to  do  to  repose  the  greatest  trust  and  confi¬ 
dence  in  him,  which  is  an  unspeakable  advantage 
in  the  business  and  affairs  of  life. 

“Truth  is  always  consistent  with  itself,  and 
needs  nothing  to  help  it  out;  it  is  always  near  at 
hand,  and  sits  upon  our  lips,  and  is  ready  to  drop 
out  before  we  are  aware ;  whereas  a  lie  is  trouble¬ 
some,  and  sets  a  man’s  invention  upon  the  rack, 
and  one  trick  needs  a  great  many  more  to  make  it 
good.  It  is  like  a  building  upon  a  false  founda¬ 
tion,  which  constantly  stands  in  need  of  props  to 
shore  it  up,  and  proves  at  last  more  chargeable  ' 
than  to  have  raised  a  substantial  building  at  first 
upon  a  true  and  solid  foundation;  for  sincerity  is 
firm  and  substantial,  and  there  is  nothing  hollow 
and  unsound  in  it,  and,  because  it  is  plain  and 
open,  fears  no  discovery;  of  which  the  crafty  man 
is  always  in  danger;  and  when  he  thinks  he  walks 
in  the  dark,  all  his  pretenses  are  so  transparent, 
that  he  that  runs  may  read  them;  he  is  the  last 
man  that  finds  himself  to  be  found  out;  and  while- 
he  takes  it  for  granted  that  he  makes  fools  of 
others,  he  renders  himself  ridiculous. 

“Add  to  all  this,  that  sincerity  is  the  most  com¬ 
pendious  wisdom,  and  an  excellent  instrument  for 
the  speedy  dispatch  of  business  ;  it  creates  confi¬ 
dence  in  those  we  have  to  deal  with,  saves  the 
labor  of  many  inquiries,  and  brings  things  to  an 
issue  in  few  words.  It  is  like  traveling  in  a  plain 
beaten  road,  which  commonly  brings  a  man  sooner 
to  his  journey’s  end  than  byways,  in  which  men 
often  lose  themselves.  In  a  word,  whatsoever 
convenience  may  be  thought  to  be  in  falsehood 
and  dissimulation,  it  is  soon  over;  but  the  incon¬ 
venience  of  it  is  perpetual,  because  it  brings  a 
man  under  an  everlasting  jealousy  and  suspicion, 
so  that  he  is  not  believed  when  he  speaks 
truth,  nor  trusted  when  perhaps  he  means  honest¬ 
ly*  When  a  man  has  once  forfeited  the  reputation 
of  his  integrity,  he  is  set  fast;  and  nothing  will 


136 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


then  serve  his  turn,  neither  truth  nor  false- 

"  And  I  have  often  thought,  that  God  hath,  in 
his  great  wisdom,  hid  from  men  of  false  and  dis¬ 
honest  minds  the  wonderful  advantages  of  truth 
and  integrity  to  the  prosperity  even  of  our  world¬ 
ly  affairs  :  these  men  are  so  blinded  by  their  cov¬ 
etousness  and  ambition,  that  they  cannot  look  be¬ 
yond  a  present  advantage,  nor  forbear  to  seize 
upon  it,  though  by  ways  never  so  indirect;  they 
cannot  see  so  far  as  to  the  remote  consequences  of 
a  steady  integrity,  and  the  vast  benefit  and  advan¬ 
tages  which  it  will  bring  a  man  at  last.  Were  but 
this  sort  of  men  wise  and  clear-sighted  enough  to 
discern  this,  they  would  be  honest  out  of  very 
knavery,  not  out  of  any  love  to  honesty  and  vir¬ 
tue,  but  with  a  crafty  design  to  promote  and  ad¬ 
vance  more  effectually  their  own  interests;  and 
therefore  the  justice  of  the  Divine  Providence  has 
hid  this  truest  point  of  wisdom  from  their  eyes, 
that  bad  men  might  not  be  on  equal  terms  with 
the  just  and  upright,  and  serve  their  own  wicked 
designs  by  honest  and  lawful  means. 

“Indeed,  if  a  man  were  only  to  deal  in  the 
world  for  a  day,  and  should  never  have  occasion 
to  converse  more  with  mankind,  never  more  need 
their  opinion  or  good  word,  it  were  then  no  great 
matter  (speaking  as  to  the  concernments  of  this 
world)  if  a  man  spent  his  reputation  all  at  once, 
and  ventured  it  at  one  throw  :  but  if  he  be  to  con¬ 
tinue  in  the  world,  and  would  have  the  advantage 
of  conversation  while  he  is  in  it,  let  him  make 
use  of  truth  and  sincerity  in  all  his  words  and  ac¬ 
tions;  for  nothing  but  this  will  last  and  hold  out 
to  the  end ;  all  other  arts  will  fail,  but  truth  and 
integrity  will  carry  a  man  through,  and  bear  him 
out  to  the  last.” — T. 


No.  353.]  TUESDAY,  APRIL  15,  1712. 

In  tenui  labor— - -  ViRG.,  Georg,  iv,  6. 

Though  low  the  subject  it  deserves  our  pains. 


The  gentleman  who  obliges  the  world  in  gene¬ 
ral,  and  me  in  particular,  with  his  thoughts  upon 
education,  has  just  sent  me  the  following  letter; — 

“  Sir, 

“  I  take  the  liberty  to  send  you  a  fourth  letter 
upon  the  education  of  youth.  In  my  last  I  gave 
you  my  thoughts  upon  some  particular  tasks, 
which  I  conceived  it  might  not  be  amiss  to  mix 
with  their  usual  exercises,  in  order  to  give  them 
an  early  seasoning  of  virtue;  I  shall  in  this  pro¬ 
pose  some  others,  which  I  fancy  might  contribute 
to  give  them  a  right  turn  for  the  world,  and  enable 
them  to  make  their  way  in  it. 

“  The  design  of  learning  is,  as  I  take  it,  either 
to  render  a  man  an  agreeable  companion  to  himself, 
and  teach  him  to  support  solitude  with  pleasure; 
or,  if  he  is  not  born  to  an  estate,  to  supply  that 
defect,  and  furnish  him  with  the  means  of  acquir¬ 
ing  one.  A  person  who  applies  himself  to  learn¬ 
ing  with  the  first  of  these  views,  may  be  said  to 
study  for  ornament;  as  he  who  proposes  to  him¬ 
self  the  second,  properly  studies  for  use.  The 
one  does  it  to  raise  himself  a  fortune;  the  other, 
to  set  off  that  which  he  is  already  possessed  of. 
But  as  far  the  greater  part  of  mankind  are  included 
in  the  latter  class,  I  shall  only  propose  some 
methods  at  present  for  the  service  of  such  who 
expect  to  advance  themselves  by  their  learning. 
In  order  to  which  I  shall  premise,  that  many  more 
estates  have  been  acquired  by  little  accomplish¬ 
ments  than  by  extraordinary  ones;  those  qualities 
which  make  the  greatest  figure  in  the  eye  of  the 
world,  not  being  always  the  most  useful  in  them¬ 
selves,  or  the  most  advantageous  to  their  owners. 


“  The  posts  which  require  men  of  shining  and 
uncommon  parts  to  discharge  them  are  so  very 
few,  that  many  a  great  genius  goes  out  of  the 
world  without  ever  having  had  an  opportunity  to 
exert  itself;  whereas  persons  of  ordinary  endow¬ 
ments  meet  with  occasions  fitted  to  their  parts  and 
capacities  every  day  in  the  common  occurrences 
of  life. 

“Iam  acquainted  with  two  persons  who  were 
formerly  school-fellows,*  and  nave  been  good 
friends  ever  since.  One  of  them  was  not  only 
thought  an  impenetrable  blockhead  at  school,  but 
still  maintained  his  reputation  at  the  university; 
the  other  was  the  pride  of  his  master,  and  the 
most  celebrated  person  in  the  college  of  which  he 
was  a  member.  The  man  of  genius  is  at  piesent 
buried  in  a  country  parsonage  of  eightscore  pounds 
a-year;  while  the  other,  with  the  bare  abilities  of 
a  common  scrivener,  has  got  an  estate  of  above  a 
hundred  thousand  pounds.  # 

“  I  fancy,  from  what  I  have  said,  it  will  almost 
appear  a  doubtful  case  to  many  a  wealthy  citizen, 
whether  or  no  he  ought  to  wish  his  son  should  be 
a  great  genius;  but  this  I  am  sure  of,  that  nothing 
is  more  absurd  than  to  give  a  lad  the  education  of 
one,  whom  nature  has  not  favored  with  any  par¬ 
ticular  marks  of  distinction. 

“  The  fault,  therefore,  of  our  grammar-schools 
is,  that  every  boy  is  pushed  on  to  works  of 
genius;  whereas  it  would  be  far  more  advanta¬ 
geous  for  the  greatest  part  of  them  to  be  taught 
such  little  practical  arts  and  sciences  as  do  not  re- 
quire  any  great  share  of  parts  to  be  master  of 
them,  and  yet  may  come  often  into  play  during 
the  course  of  a  man’s  life. 

«  Such  are  all  the  parts  of  practical  geometry. 

I  have  known  a  man  contract  a  friendship  with  a 
minister  of  state  upon  cutting  a  dial  in  his  win¬ 
dow;  and  remember  a  clergyman  who  got  one  of 
the  best  benefices  in  the  west  of  England,  by  set¬ 
ting  a  country  gentleman’s  affairs  in  some  method, 
md  giving  him  an  exact  survey  of  his  estate. 

“  While  I  am  upon  this  subject,  I  cannot  for¬ 
bear  mentioning  a  particular  which  is  of  use  in 
every  station  of  life,  and  which,  methinks,  every 
master  should  teach  his  scholars;  I  mean  the  wri- 
ting  of  English  letters.  To  this  end,  instead  of 
perplexing  tliem  with.  Latin  epistles,  themes,  and 
verses,  there  might  be  a  punctual  correspondence 
established  between  two  boys,  who  might  act  in 
any  imaginary  parts  of  business,  or  be  allowed 
sometimes  to  give  a  range  to  their  own  fancies, 
and  communicate  to  each  other  whatever  trifles 
they  thought  fit,  provided  neither  of  them  ever 
failed  at  the  appointed  time  to  answer  Ins  corres¬ 
pondent’s  letter. 

“  I  believe  I  may  venture  to  affirm,  that  the  ge¬ 
nerality  of  boys  would  find  themselves  more  ad¬ 
vantaged  by  this  custom,  when  they  come  to  be 
men,  than  by  all  the  Greek  and  Latin  theii  masters 
can  teach  them  in  seven  or  eight  years. 

“  The  want  of  it  is  very  visible  in  many  learned 
persons,  who,  while  they  are  admiring  the  styles 
of  Demosthenes  or  Cicero,  want  phrases  to  express 
themselves  on  the  most  common  occasions.  1 
have  seen  a  letter  from  one  of  these  Latin  orators 
which  would  have  been  deservedly  laughed  at  by 
a  common  attorney. 

“Under  this  head  of  writing,  I  cannot  omit  ac¬ 
counts  and  short-hand,  which  are  learned  with 
little  pains,  and  very  properly  come  into  the  num- 


*  Swift  and  Mr.  Stratford,  a  merchant. 
a  plum,  and  is  now  lending  the  government  40,00%  yet  we 
were  educated  together  at  the  same  school  and  iim versify. 
Swift’s  Works,  vol.  xxii,  p.  10,  cr.,  8vo.— Stratford  was  after- 
wrard  a  bankrupt. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


437 


bcr  of  such  arts  as  I  have  been  here  recommend.- 


mg. 

“  You  must  doubtless,  Sir,  observe,  that  I  have 
hitherto  chiefly  insisted  upon  these  things  for 
such  boys  as  do  not  appear  to  have  anything  ex¬ 
traordinary  in  their  natural  talents,  and  conse¬ 
quently  are  not  qualified  for  the  finer  parts  of 
learning;  yet  I  believe  I  might  carry  this  matter 
still  further,  and  venture  to  assert,  that  a  lad  of 
genius  has  sometimes  occasion  for  these  little  ac¬ 
quirements,  to  be  as  it  were  the  forerunners  of  his 
parts,  and  to  introduce  him  into  the  world. 

“History  is  full  of  examples  of  persons  who, 
though  they  have  had  the  largest  abilities,  have 
been  obliged  to  insinuate  themselves  into  the  favor 
of  great  men  by  these  trivial  accomplishments;  as 
the  complete  gentleman,  in  some  of  our  modern 
comedies,  makes  his  first  advances  to  his  mistress 
under  the  disguise  of  a  painter  or  a  dancing- 
master. 

“  1  he  difference  is,  that  in  a  lad  of  genius  these 
are  only  so  many  accomplishments,  which  in 
another  are  essentials;  the  one  diverts  himself 
with  them,  the  other  works  at  them.  In  short,  I 
look  upon  a  great  genius  with  these  little  addi¬ 
tions,  in  the  same  light  as  I  regard  the  Grand 
Seignior,  who  is  obliged,  by  an  express  command 
in  the  Alcoran,  to  learn  and  practice  some  handi¬ 
craft  trade ;  though  I  need  not  to  have  gone  for 
my  instance  further  than  Germany,  where  several 
emperors  have  voluntarily  done  the  same  thing. 
Leopold  the  last  worked  in  wood :  and  I  have 
heard  there  are  several  handicraft  works  of  his 
making  to  be  seen  at  Vienna,  so  neatly  turned, 
that  the  best  joiner  in  Europe  might  safely  own 
them  without  any  disgrace  to  his  profession  * 

“  I  would  not  be  thought,  by  anything  I  have 
said,  to  be  against  improving  a  boy’s  genius  to 
the  utmost  pitch  it  can  be  carried.  What  I  would 
endeavor  to  show  in  this  essay  is,  that  there  may 
be  methods  taken  to  make  learning  advantageous 
even  to  the  meanest  capacities. 

X.  “  I  am.  Sir,  yours,”  etc. 


No.  354.]  WEDNESDAY,  APRIL  16,  1712. 

- Cum  magnis  virtutibus  alters 

Grande  supercilium -  Jov.,  Sat.  vi,  168. 

Their  signal  virtues  hardly  can  be  borne, 

Dash’d  as  they  are  with  supercilious  scorn. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  You  have  in  some  of  your  discourses  described 
most  sort  of  women  in  their  distinct  and  proper 
classes,  as  the  ape,  the  coquette,  and  many  others; 
but  I  think  you  have,  never  yet  said  anything  of  a 
devotee.  A  devotee  is  one  of  those  who  disparage 
religion  by  their  indiscreet  and  unseasonable  in¬ 
troduction  of  the  mention  of  virtue  on  all  occa¬ 
sions.  She  professes  she  is  what  nobody  ought 
to  doubt  she  is;  and  betrays  the  labor  she  is  put 
to,  to  be  what  she  ought  to  be  with  cheerfulness 
and  alacrity.  She  lives  in  the  world,  and  denies 
herself  none  of  the  diversions  of  it,  with  a  con¬ 
stant  declaration  how  insipid  all  things  in  it  are 
to  her.  She  is  never  herself  but  at  church;  there 
she  displays  her  virtue,  and  is  so  fervent  in  her 
devotions,  that  I  have  frequently  seen  her  pray 
herself  out  of  breath.  While  other  young  ladies 
in  the  house  are  dancing,  or  playing  at  questions 
and  commands,  she  reads  aloud  in  her  closet.  She 
says,  all  love  is  ridiculous,  except  it  be  celestial; 
but  she  speaks  of  the  passion  of  one  mortal  to 


*  The  instance  of  Czar  Peter  is  still  more  recent,  and  more 

remarkable. 


another  with  too  much  bitterness  for  one  that  had 
no  jealousy  mixed  with  her  contempt  of  it.  If  at 
any  time  she  sees  a  man  warm  in  his  addresses  to 
his  mistress,  she  will  lift  up  her  eyes  to  heaven, 
and  cry,  ‘What  nonsense  is  that  fool  talking! 
Will  the  bell  never  ring  for  prayers?’  We  have 
an  eminent  lady  of  this  stamp  in  our  country, 
who  pietends  to  amusements  very  much  above  the 
rest  of  her  sex.  She  never  carries  a  white  shock- 
dog  with  bells,  under  her  arm,  nor  a  squirrel  or 
dormouse  in  her  pocket,  but  always  an  abridged 
piece  of  morality,  to  steal  out  when  she  is  sure  of 
being  observed.  When  she  went  to  the  famous 
ass-race  (which  I  must  confess  was  but  an  odd  di¬ 
version  to  be  encouraged  by  people  of  rank  and 
figure),  it  was  not,  like  other  ladies,  to  hear  those 
poor  animals  bray,  nor  to  see  fellows  run  naked, 
or  to  hear  country  ’squires  in  bob-wigs  and  white 
girdles  make  love  at  the  side  of  a  coach,  and  cry, 
‘Madam,  this  is  dainty  weather.’  Thus  she  de¬ 
scribes  the  diversion;  for  she  went  only  to  pray 
heartily  that  nobody  might  be  hurt  in  the  crowd, 
and  to  see  if  the  poor  fellow’s  face,  which  was 
distorted  with  grinning,  might  any  way  be  brought 
to  itself  again.  She  never  chats  over  her  tea,  but 
covers  her  face,  and  is  supposed  in  an  ejaculation 
before  she  tastes  a  sup.  This  ostentatious  beha¬ 
vior  is  such  an  offense  to  true  sanctity,  that  it  dis¬ 
parages  it,  and  makes  virtue  not  only  unamiable, 
but  also  ridiculous.  The  sacred  writings  are  full 
of  reflections  which  abhor  this  kind  of  conduct, 
and  a  devotee  is  so  far  from  promoting  goodness, 
that  she  deters  others  by  her  example.  Folly  and 
vanity  in  one  of  these  ladies  is  like  vice  in  a 
clergyman;  it  does  not  only  debase  him,  but 
makes  the  inconsiderate  part  of  the  world  think 
the  worse  of  religion. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

“  Hotspur. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Xenophon,  in  his  short  account  of  the  Spartan 
commonwealth,  speaking  of  the  behavior  of  their 
young  men  in  the  streets,  says,  ‘There  was  so 
much  modesty  in  their  looks,  that  you  might  as 
soon  have  turned  the  eyes  of  a  marble  statue  upon 
you  as  theirs;  and  that  in  all  their  behavior  they 
were  more  modest  than  a  bride  when  put  to  bed 
upon  her  wedding-night.’  This  virtue,  which  is 
always  subjoined  to  magnanimity,  had  such  an 
influence  upon  their  courage,  that  in  battle  an 
enemy  could  not  look  them  in  the  face,  and  they 
durst  not  but  die  for  their  country. 

“Whenever  I  walk  into  the  streets  of  London 
and  Westminster,  the  countenances  of  all  the  young 
fellows  that  pass  by  me  make  me  wish  niyself  in 
Sparta :  I  meet  with  such  blustering  airs,  big 
looks,  and  bold  fronts,  that,  to  a  superficial  ob¬ 
server,  would  bespeak  a  courage  above  those  Gre¬ 
cians.  I  am  arrived  to  that  perfection  in  specula¬ 
tion,  that  I  understand  the  language  of  the  eyes, 
which  would  be  a  great  misfortune  to  me  had  I 
not  corrected  the  testiness  of  old  age  by  philoso¬ 
phy.  There  is  scarce  a  man  in  a  red  coat,  who 
does  not  tell  me,  with  a  full  stare,  he  is  a  bold 
man ;  I  see  several  swear  inwardly  at  me,  without 
any  offense  of  mine,  but  the  oddness  of  my  per¬ 
son  :  I  meet  contempt  in  every  street,  expressed  in 
different  manners,  by  the  scornful  look,  the  eleva¬ 
ted  eyebrow,  and  the  swelling  nostrils  of  the 
proud  and  prosperous.  The  ’prentice  speaks  his 
disrespect  by  an  extended  finger,  and  the  porter 
by  stealing  out  his  tongue.  If  a  country  gentle¬ 
man  appears  a  little  curious  in  observing  the  edi¬ 
fices,  signs,  clocks,  coaches,  and  dials,  it  is  not  to 
be  imagined  how  the  polite  rabble  of  this  town, 
who  are  acquainted  with  these  objects,  ridicule 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


488 

his  rusticity.  I  have  known  a  fellow  with  a 
burden  on  his  head  steal  a  hand  down  from  his 
load,  and  slily  twirl  the  cock  of  a  ’squire’s  hat  be¬ 
hind  him:  while  the  offended  person  is  swearing, 
or  out  of  countenance,  all  the  wag-wits  in  the 
highway  are  grinning  in  applause  of  the  ingeni¬ 
ous  rogue  that  gave  him  the  tip,  and  the  folly  of 
him  who  had  not  eyes  all  round  his  head  to  pre¬ 
vent  receiving  it.  These  things  arise  from  a  ge¬ 
neral  affectation  of  smartness,  wit,  and  courage. 
Wycherley  somewhere  rallies  the  pretensions  this 
way,  bv  making  a  fellow  say,  ‘  Red  breeches  are 
a  certain  sign  of  valor;’  and  Otway  makes  a  man, 
to  boast  his  agility,  trip  up  a  beggar  on  crutches. 
From  such  hints  I  beg  a  speculation  on  this  sub¬ 
ject:  in  the  meantime,  I  shall  do  all  in  the  power 
of  a  weak  old  fellow  in  my  own  defense  ;  for  as 
Diogenes,  being  in  quest  of  an  honest  man, 
sought  for  him  when  it  was  broad  day-light  with 
a  lantern  and  candle,  so  I  intend  for  the  future  to 
walk  the  streets  with  a  dark  lantern,  which  has  a 
convex  crystal  in  it;  and  if  any  man  stares  at  me, 
I  give  fair  warning  that  I  will  direct  the  light  full 
into  his  eyes.  Thus,  despairing  to  find  men  mo¬ 
dest,  1  hope  by  this  means  to  evade  their  impu¬ 
dence. 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 
q\  “  Sophrosunius.” 


No.  355.]  THURSDAY,  APRIL  17,  1712. 

Non  ey;o  mordaci  distrinxi  carmine  quenquam. 

Ovid,  Trist.  ii,  563 

I  ne’er  in  gall  dipp’d  my  envenom’d  pen, 

Nor  branded  the  bold  front  of  shameless  men. 

I  have  been  very  often  tempted  to  write  invec¬ 
tives  upon  those  who  have  detracted  from  my 
works,  or  spoken  in  derogation  of  my  person  :  but 
I  look  upon  it  as  a  particular  happiness,  that  I 
have  always  hindered  my  resentments  from  pro¬ 
ceeding  to  this  extremity.  I  once  had  gone 
through  half  a  satire,  but  found  so  many  motions 
of  humanity  rising  in  me  toward  the  persons 
whom  I  had  severely  treated,  that  I  threw  it  into 
the  fire  without  ever  finishing  it.  I  have  been 
angry  enough  to  make  several  little  epigrams  and 
lampoons;  and,  after  having  admired  them  a  day 
or  two,  have  likewise  committed  them  to  the 
flames.  These  I  look  upon  as  so  many  sacrifices 
to  humanity,  and  have  received  much  greater  sa¬ 
tisfaction  from  the  suppressing  such  performances, 
than  I  could  have  done  from  any  reputation  they 
might  have  procured  me,  or  from  any  mortifica¬ 
tion  they  might  have  given  my  enemies,  in  case  I 
had  made  them  public.  If  a  man  has  any  talent 
in  writing,  it  shows  a  good  mind  to  forbear  an¬ 
swering  calumnies  and  reproaches  in  the  same 
spirit  of  bitterness  in  which  they  are  offered.  But 
when  a  man  has  been  at  some  pains  in  making 
suitable  returns  to  an  enemy,  and  has  the  instru¬ 
ments  of  revenge  in  his  hands,  to  let  drop  his 
wrath,  and  stifle  his  resentments,  seems  to  have 
something  in  it  great  and  heroical.  There  is  a 
particular  merit  in  such  a  way  of  forgiving  an 
enemy;  and  the  more  violent  and  unprovoked  the 
offense  has  been,  the  greater  still  is  the  merit  of 
him  who  thus  forgives  it. 

I  never  met  with  a  consideration  that  is  more 
finely  spun,  and  what  has  better  pleased  me,  than 
one  in  Epictetus,  which  places  an  enemy  in  a  new 
light,  and  gives  us  a  view  of  him  altogether  dif¬ 
ferent  from  that  in  which  we  are  used  to  regard 
him.  The  sense  of  it  is  as  follows :  “  Does  a  man 
reproach  thee  for  being  proud  or  ill-natured,  envi¬ 
ous  or  conceited,  ignorant,  or  detracting?  Consi¬ 
der  with  thyself  whether  his  reproaches  are  true. 


If  they  are  not,  consider  that  thou  art  not  the  per¬ 
son  whom  he  reproaches,  but  that  he  reviles  an 
imaginary  being,  and  perhaps  loves  what  thou 
really  art,  though  he  hates  what  thou  appearest  to 
be.  If  his  reproaches  are  true,  if  thou  art  the  en¬ 
vious,  ill-natured  man  he  takes  thee  for,  give  thy¬ 
self  another  turn,  become  mild,  affable,  and  oblig¬ 
ing,  and  his  reproaches  of  thee  naturally  cease. 
His  reproaches  may  indeed  continue,  but  thou  art 
no  longer  the  person  whom  he  reproaches.”* 

I  often  apply  this  rule  to  myself;  and  when  I 
hear  of  a  satirical  speech  or  writing  that  is  aimed 
at  me,  I  examine  my  own  heart  whether  I  deserve 
it  or  not.  If  I  bring  in  a  verdict  against  myself,  I 
endeavor  to  rectify  my  conduct  for  the  future  in 
those  particulars  which  have  drawn  the  censure 
upon  me;  but  if  the  whole  invective  be  grounded 
upon  a  falsehood,  I  trouble  myself  no  further  about 
it,  and  look  upon  my  name  at  the  head  of  it  to 
signify  no  more  than  one  of  those  fictitious  names 
made  use  of  by  an  author  to  introduce  an  ima¬ 
ginary  character.  Why  should  a  man  be  sensible 
of  the  sting  of  a  reproach,  who  is  a  stranger  to 
the  guilt  that  is  implied  in  it?  or  subject  himself 
to  the  penalty,  when  he  knows  he  has  never  com¬ 
mitted  the  crime?  This  is  a  piece  of  fortitude 
which  every  one  owes  to  his  own  innocence,  and 
without  which  it  is  impossible  for  a  man  of  any 
merit  or  figure  to  live  at  peace  with  himself,  in  a 
country  that  abounds  with  wit  and  liberty. 

The  famous  Monsieur  Balzac,  in  a  letter  to  the 
Chancellor  of  France,  who  had  prevented  the  pub¬ 
lication  of  a  book  against  him,  has  the  following 
words,  which  are  a  lively  picture  of  the  greatness 
of  mind  so  visible  in  the  works  of  that  author : 
“If  it  was  a  new  thing,  it  may  be  I  should  not  be 
displeased  with  the  suppression  of  the  first  libel 
that  should  abuse  me;  but  since  there  are  enough 
of  them  to  make  a  small  library,  I  am  secretly 
pleased  to  see  the  number  increased,  and  take  de¬ 
light  in  raising  a  heap  of  stones  that  envy  has  casl 
at  me  without  doing  me  any  harm.” 

The  author  here  alludes  to  those  monuments! 
of  the  eastern  nations,  which  were  mountains  of 
stones  raised  upon  the  dead  bodies  by  travelers, 
that  used  to  cast  every  one  his  stone  upon  it  as 
they  passed  by.  It  is  certain  that  no  monument 
is  so  glorious  as  one  which  is  thus  raised  by  the 
hands  of  envy.  For  my  part,  I  admire  an  author 
for  such  a  temper  of  mind  as  enables  him  to  bear 
an  undeserved  reproach  without  resentment,  more 
than  for  all  the  wit  of  any  the  finest  satirical 
reply. 

Thus  far  I  thought  necessary  to  explain  myself 
in  relation  to  those  who  have  animadverted  on 
this  paper,  and  to  show  the  reasons  why  I  have 
not  thought  fit  to  return  them  any  formal  answer. 
I  must  further  add,  that  the  work  would  have 
been  of  very  little  use  to  the  public  had  it  been 
filled  with  personal  reflections  and  debates;  for 
which  reason  I  never  once  turned  out  of  my  way 
to  observe  those  little  cavils  which  have  been 
made  against  it  by  envy  or  ignorance.  The  com¬ 
mon  fry  of  scribblers,  who  have  no  other  way  of 
being  taken  notice  of  but  by  attacking  what  has 
gained  some  reputation  in  the  world,  would  have 
furnished  me  with  business  enough,  had  they 
found  me  disposed  to  enter  the  lists  with  them. 

I  shall  conclude  with  the  fable  of  Boccal ini’s 
traveler,  who  was  so  pestered  with  the  noise  of 
grasshoppers  in  his  ears,  that  he  alighted  from  his 
horse  in  great  wrath  to  kill  them  all.  “  This,” 
says  the  author,  “  was  troubling  himself  to  no 


*Epict.  Encli.,  cap.  48  and  64,  ed.  Berk.,  1670,  8vo. 
f  There  are  abundant  monuments  of  the  same  kind  in 
!  North  Britain,  where  they  are  called  “  cairns.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


439 


manner  of  purpose.  Had  he  pursued  his  journey 
\\  ithout  taking  notice  of  them,  the  troublesome 
insects  would  have  died  of  themselves  in  a  very 
few  weeks,  and  he  would  have  suffered  nothing 
from  them.” — L. 


No.  356.]  FRIDAY,  APRIL  18,  1712. 

•Aptfesima  qineque  dabunt  dii, 


Cliarior  est  illis  homo  quam  sibi. 


-The  gods  will  grant 


Jnv.,  Sat.  x,  349. 


\\  hat  their  unerring  wisdom  sees  they  want; 

In  goodness,  as  in  greatness  they  excel; 

Ah!  that  we  lov'd  ourselves  but  half  as  well! 

Dryden. 


It  is  owing  to  pride,  and  a  secret  affectation  of 
a  certain  self-existence,  that  the  noblest  motive 
for  action  that  ever  was  proposed  to  man  is  not 
acknowledged  the  glory  and  happiness  of  their 
being.  The  heart  is  treacherous  to  itself,  and  we 
do  not  let  our  reflections  go  deep  enough  to  receive 
religion  as  the  most  honorable  incentive  to  good 
and  worthy  actions.  It  is  our  natural  weakness 
to  flatter  ourselves  into  a  belief,  that  if  we  search 
into  our  inmost  thoughts,  we  find  ourselves  wholly 
disinterested,  and  divested  of  any  views  arising 
from  self-love  and  vain-glory.  But  however  spirits 
of  a  superficial  greatness  may  disdain  at  first  sight 
to  do  anything,  but  from  a  noble  impulse  in  them¬ 
selves,  without  any  future  regards  in  this  or  any 
other  being;  upon  stricter  inquiry  they  will  find, 
to  act  worthily,  and  expect  to  be  rewarded  only  in 
another  world,  is  as  heroic  a  pitch  of  virtue  as 
human  nature  can  arrive  at.  If  the  tenor  of  our 
actions  have  any  other  motive  than  the  desire  to 
be  pleasing  in  the  eye  of  the  Deity,  it  will  neces¬ 
sarily  follow  that  we  must  be  more  than  men,  if 
we  are  not  too  much  exalted  in  prosperity  and  de¬ 
pressed  in  adversity.  But  the  Christian  world  has 
a  Leader,  the  contemplation  of  whose  life  and  suf¬ 
ferings  must  administer  comfort  in  affliction,  while 
the  sense  of  liis  power  and  omnipotence  must 
give  them  humiliation  in  prosperity. 

It  is  owing  to  the  forbidding  and  unlovely  con¬ 
straint  with  which  men  of  low  conceptions  act 
when  they  think  they  conform  themselves  to  reli¬ 
gion,  as  well  as  to  the  more  odious  conduct  of 
hypocrites,  that  the  word  Christian  does  not  carry 
with  it  at  first  view  all  that  is  great,  worthy, 
friendly,  generous,  and  heroic.  The  man  who  sus¬ 
pends  his  hopes  of  the  reward  of  worthy  actions 
till  after  death,  who  can  bestow  unseen,  who  can 
overlook  hatred,  do  good  to  his  slanderer,  who 
can  never  be  angry  at  his  friend,  never  revengeful 
to  his  enemy,  is  certainly  formed  for  the  benefit  of 
society,  let  these  are  so  far  from  heroic  virtues, 
that  they  are  but  the  ordinary  duties  of  a  Chris¬ 
tian. 

When  a  man  with  a  steady  faith  looks  back  on 
the  great  catastrophe  of  this  day,*  with  what 
bleeding  emotions  of  heart  must  he  contemplate 
the  life  and  sufferings  of  his  Deliverer  !  When 
his  agonies  occur  to  him,  how  will  he  weep  to  re- 
fleet  that  he  has  often  forgot  them  for  the  glance 
of  a  wanton,  for  the  applause  of  a  vain  world,  for 
a  heap  ot  fleeting  past  pleasures,  which  are  at 
present  aching  sorrows! 

How  pleasing  is  the  contemplation  of  the  lowly 
steps  our  Almighty  Leader  took  in  conducting  us 
to  his  heavenly  mansions!  In  plain  and  apt  par¬ 
able,  similitude,  and  allegory,  our  great  Master 
enforced  the  doctrine  of  our  salvation;  but  they 
of  his  acquaintance,  instead  of  receiving  what 
they  could  not  oppose,  were  offended  at  the  pre- 


*  This  paper  was  published  on  Good  Friday,  1712. 


sumption  of  Jbeing  wiser  than  they.  They  could 
not  raise  their  little  ideas  above  the  consideration 
ot  him,  in  those  circumstances  familiar  to  them, 
or  conceive  that  he,  who  appeared  not  more  terri¬ 
ble  or  pompous  should  have  anything  more  exalt¬ 
ed  than  themselves;  he  in  that  place,  therefore, 
would  no  longer  ineffectually  exert  a  power  which 
w  as  incapable  of  conquering  the  prepossession  of 
their  narrow  and  mean  conceptions. 

Multitudes  followed  him,  and  brought  him  the 
dumb,  the  blind,  the  sick,  and  maimed;  whom 
when  their  Creator  had  touched,  with  a  second  life 
they  saw,  spoke,  leaped,  and  ran.  In  affection  to 
him,  and  admiration  of  his  actions,  the  crowd 
could  not  leave  him,  but  waited  near  him  till  they 
were  almost  as  faint  and  helpless  as  others  they 
brought  for  succor.  He  had  compassion  on  them, 
and  by  a  miracle  supplied  their  necessities.  Oh, 
the  ecstatic  entertainment,  when  they  could  be¬ 
hold  their  food  immediately  increase  to  the  distri¬ 
butor’s  hand,  and  see  their  God  in  person  feeding 
and  refreshing  his  creatures  !  Oh  envied  happi¬ 
ness  !  But  wdry  do  I  say  envied  ?  as  if  our  God 
did  not  still  preside  over  our  temperate  meals, 
cheerful  hours,  and  innocent  conversations. 

But  though  the  sacred  story  is  everywhere  full 
of  miracles  not  inferior  to  this,  and  though  in  the 
midst  of  those  acts  of  divinity  he  never  gave  the 
least  hint  of  a  design  to  become  a  secular  prince, 
yet  had  not  hitherto  the  apostles  themselves  any 
other  than  hopes  of  worldly  power,  preferment, 
others,  and  pomp;  for  Peter,  upon  an  accident  of 
ambition  among  the  apostles,  hearing  his  Master 
explain  that  his  kingdom  was  not  of  this  world, 
was  so  scandalized  that  he  whom  he  had  so  long 
followed  should  suffer  the  ignominy,  shame,  and 
death,  which  he  foretold,  that  he  took  him  aside 
and  said,  “Be  it  far  from  thee.  Lord;  this  shall 
not  be  unto  thee  ;”  for  which  he  suffered  a  severe 
reprehension  from  his  Master,  as  having  in  his 
view  the  glory  of  man  rather  than  that  of  God. 

The  great  change  of  things  began  to  draw  near, 
when  the  Lord  of  nature  thought  fit,  as  a  Savior 
and  Deliverer,  to  make  his  public  entry  into  Jeru¬ 
salem  with  more  than  the  power  and  joy,  but  none 
of  the  ostentation  and  pomp,  of  a  triumph :  he 
came  humble,  meek,  and  lowly  :  with  an  unfelt 
new  ecstasy,  multitudes  strewed  his  way  with 
garments  and  olive-branches,  crying  with  loud 
gladness  and  acclamation,  “Hosannah  to  the  Son 
of  David  !  Blessed  is  he  that  cometh  in  the  name 
of  the  Lord!”  At  this  great  King’s  accession  to 
the  throne,  men  were  not  ennobled,  but  saved  ; 
crimes  were  not  remitted,  but  sins  forgiven.  He 
did  not  bestow  medals,  honors,  favors  ;  but  health, 
joy,  sight,  speech.  The  first  object  the  blind  ever 
saw  was  the  Author  of  sight;  while  the  lame  ran 
before,  and  the  dumb  repeated  the  hosannah. 

1  lius  attended,  he  entered  into^iis  own  house,  the 
sacred  temple,  and  by  his  divine  authority  expell¬ 
ed  traders  and  worldlings  that  profaned  it;  and 
thus  did  he  for  a  time,  use  a  great  and  despotic 
power,  to  let  unbelievers  understand  that  it  was 
not  want  of,  but  superiority  to,  all  worldly  do¬ 
minion,  that  made  him  not  exert  it.  But  is  this,  ' 
then,  the  Savior?  Is  this  the  Deliverer?  Shall 
this  obscure  Nazarene  command  Israel,  and  sit  on 
the  throne  of  David?  Their  proud  and  disdain¬ 
ful  hearts,  which  were  petrified  with  the  love  and 
pride  of  this  world,  were  impregnable  to  the  re¬ 
ception  of  so  mean  a  benefactor  ;  and  were  now 
enough  exasperated  with  benefits  to  conspire  his 
death.  Our  Hol'd  was  sensible  of  their  design, 
and  prepared  his  disciples  for  it,  by  recounting  to 
them  now  more  distinctly  what  should  befall  him; 
but  Peter,  with  an  ungrounded  resolution,  and  in 
a  flush  of  temper,  made  sanguine  protestation, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


440 

that  though  all  men  were  offended  in  him,  yet 
would  not  he  be  offended.  It  was  a  great  article 
of  our  Savior’s  business  in  the  world  to  bring  us 
to  a  sense  of  our  inability,  without  God’s  assist¬ 
ance,  to  do  anything  great  or  good;  he  therefore 
told  Peter,  who  thought  so  well  of  his  courage 
and  fidelity,  that  they  would  both  fail  him,  and 
even  he  should  deny  him  thrice  that  very  night. 

“  But  what  heart  can  conceive,  what  tongue  ut¬ 
ter  the  sequel?  Who  is  that  yonder,  buffeted, 
mocked,  and  spurned?  Whom  do  they  drag  like 
a  felon  ?  Whither  do  they  carry  my  Lord,  my 
King,  my  Savior,  and  my  God  ?  And  will  he 
die  to  expiate  those  very  injuries  ?  See  where 
they  have  nailed  the  Lord  and  Giver  of  life  !  How 
his  wounds  blacken,  his  body  writhes,  and  heart 
heaves  with  pity  and  with  agony  !  0  Almighty  suf¬ 
ferer,  look  down,  look  down  from  thy  triumphant 
infamy!  Lo,  he  inclines  his  head  to  his  sacred 
bosom  !  Hark,  he  groans  !  See,  he  expires  !  The 
earth  trembles,  the  temple  rends,  the  rocks  burst, 
the  dead  arise!  Which  are  the  quick?  Which 
are  the  dead  ?  Sure  nature,  all  nature  is  depart¬ 
ing  with  her  Creator?”* — T. 


No.  357.]  SATURDAY,  APRIL,  19,  1712. 

- Quis  talia  fando 

Temperet  a  lack  ry  mis  ? - 

Virg.  iEn.,  ii,  6. 

Who  can  relate  such  woes  without  a  tear?f 

The  tenth  book  of  Paradise  Lost  has  a  greater 
variety  of  persons  in  it  than  any  other  in  the 
whole  poem.  The  author,  upon  the  winding  up 
of  his  action,  introduces  all  those  who  had  any 
concern  in  it,  and  shows  with  great  beauty  the 
influence  which  it  had  upon  each  of  them.  It  is 
like  the  last  act  of  a  well-written  tragedy,  in 
which  all  who  had  part  in  it  are  generally  drawn 
up  before  the  audience,  and  represented  under 
those  circumstances  in  which  the  determination 
of  the  action  places  them. 

I  shall  therefore  consider  this  book  under  four 
heads,  in  relation  to  the  celestial,  the  infernal,  the 
human,  and  the  imaginary  persons,  who  have 
their  respective  parts  allotted  in  it. 

To  begin  with  the  celestial  persons.  The  guar¬ 
dian  angels  of  Paradise  are  described  as  returning 
to  heaven  upon  the  fall  of  man,  in  order  to  ap¬ 
prove  their  vigilance;  their  arrival,  their  manner 
of  reception,  with  the  sorrow  which  appeared  in 
themselves,  and  in  those  spirits  who  are.  said  to 
rejoice,  at  the  conversion  of  a'  sinner,  are  very 
finely  laid  together  in  the  following  lines : 

Up  into  heav’n  from  Paradise  in  haste 
Th’  angelic  guards  ascended,  mute  and  sad 
For  man;  for  of  his  state  by  this  they  knew : 

Much  wond’ring  how  the  subtile  fiend  had  stol’n 
Entrance  unseen.  Soon  as  th’  unwelcome  news 
From  earth  arriv’d  at  heav’n’s  gate,  displeas’d 
All  were  who  heard ;  dim  sadness  did  not  spare 
That  time  celestial  visages ;  yet,  mixt 
With  pity,  violated  not  their  bliss. 

About  the  new-arriv’d,  in  multitudes 
Th’  ethereal  people  ran  to  hear  and  know, 

How  all  befell.  They  tow’rds  the  throne  supreme 
Accountable  made  haste,  to  make  appear, 

With  righteous  plea,  their  utmost  vigilance, 

And  easily  approv’d ;  when  the  Most  High 
Eternal  Father,  from  his  secret  cloud 
Amidst,  in  thunder  utter’d  thus  his  voice. 


*  Transcribed  from  Steele’s  Christian  Hero, 
t  The  motto  to  this  paper,  in  the  original  publication  in  folio, 
is  the  same  with  that  which  is  now  prefixed  to  No.  279. 

Reddere  personae  soit  convenientia  cuique. 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  316. 

To  each  character  he  gives  what  best  befits. 


The  same  Divine  Person,  who  in  the  foregoing 
parts  of  this  poem  interceded  for  our  first  parents 
before  their  fall,  overthrew  the  rebel  angels,  and 
created  the  world,  is  now  represented  as  descend¬ 
ing  to  Paradise,  and  pronouncing  sentence  upon  the 
three  offenders.  The  cool  of  the  evening  being  a 
circumstance  with  which  holy  writ  introduces  this 
great  scene,  it  is  poetically  described  by  our 
author,  who  has  also  kept  religiously  to  the  form 
of  words  in  which  the  three  several  sentences  were 
passed  upon  Adam,  Eve,  and  the  serpent.  He  has 
rather  chosen  to  neglect  the  numerousness  of  his 
verse,  than  to  deviate  from  those  speeches  which 
are  recorded  on  this  great  occasion.  The  guilt 
and  confusion  of  our  first  parents,  standing  naked 
before  their  judge,  is  touched  with  great  beauty. 
Upon  the  arrival  of  Sin  and  Death  into  the  works 
of  the  creation,  the  Almighty  is  again  introduced 
as  speaking  to  his  angels  that  surrounded  him. 

See !  with  what  heat  these  dogs  of  hell  advance, 

To  waste  and  havoc  yonder  world,  which  I 
So  fair  and  good  created,  etc. 

The  following  passage  is  formed  upon  that  glo¬ 
rious  image  in  holy  writ,  which  compares  the 
voice  of  an  innumerable  host  of  angels  uttering 
hallelujahs,  to  the  voice  of  mighty  thunderings, 
or  of  many  waters  : 

He  ended,  and  the  heav’nly  audience  loud 
Sung  hallelujah,  as  the  sound  of  seas, 

Through  multitude  that  sung:  “Just  are  thy  ways, 
Kigkteous  are  thy  decrees  in  all  thy  works : 

Who  can  extenuate  thee? - ” 

Though  the  author,  in  the  whole  course  of  his 
poem,  and  particularly  in  the  book  we  are  now 
examining,  has  infinite  allusions  to  places  of 
Scripture,  I  have  only  taken  notice  in  my  remarks 
of  such  as  are  of  a  poetical  nature,  and  which  are 
wroven  with  great  beauty  into  the  body  of  his  fa¬ 
ble.  Of  this  kind  is  that  passage  in  the  present 
book,  where,  describing  Sin  and  Death  as  march¬ 
ing  through  the  works  of  nature,  he  adds, 

- Behind  her  Death 

Close  following  pace  for  pace,  mounted  yet 
On  his  pale  horse - 

Which  alludes  to  that  passage  in  Scripture  so 
wonderfully  poetical,  and  terrifying  to  the  imagi¬ 
nation  :  “  And  I  looked,  and  behold  a  pale  horse, 
and  his  name  that  sat  on  him  was  Death,  and  Hell 
followed  with  him  :  and  power  was  given  unto 
them  over  the  fourth  part  of  the  earth,  to  kill  with 
sword,  and  with  hunger,  and  with  sickness,  and 
with  the  beasts  of  the  earth.”  Under  this  first 
head  of  celestial  persons  we  must  likewise  take 
notice  of  the  command  which  the  angels  received, 
to  produce  the  several  changes  in  nature,  and 
sully  the  beauty  of  the  creation.  Accordingly 
they  are  represented  as  infecting  the  stars  and 
planets  with  malignant  influences,  weakening  the 
light  of  the  sun,  bringing  down  the  winter  into 
the  milder  regions  of  nature,  planting  winds  and 
storms  in  several  quarters  of  the  sky,  storing  the 
clouds  with  thunder,  and,  in  short,  perverting  the 
whole  frame  of  the  universe  to  the  condition  of 
its  criminal  inhabitants.  As  this  is  a  noble  inci¬ 
dent  in  the  poem,  the  following  lines,  in  which 
vre  see  the  angels  heaving  up  the  earth,  and 
placing  it  in  a  different  posture  to  the  sun  from 
what  it  had  before  the  fall  of  man,  are  conceived 
with  that  sublime  imagination  W’hich  was  so  pe¬ 
culiar  to  the  author: 

Some  say  he  bid  his  angels  turn  askance 
The  poles  of  earth  twice  ten  degrees  and  more 
From  the  sun’s  axle ;  they  with  labor  push’d 
Oblique  the  centric  globe - . 


441 


THE  SPE 

We  are  in  the  second  place  to  consider  the  in¬ 
fernal  agents  under  the  view  which  Milton  has 
given  us  of  them  in  this  book.  It  is  observed,  by 
those  who  would  set  forth  the  greatness  of  Virgil’s 
plan,  that  he  conducts  his  reader  through  all  the 
parts  of  the  earth  which  were  discovered  in  his 
time.  Asia,  Africa,  and  Europe,  are  the  several 
scenes  of  his  fable.  The  plan  of  Milton’s  poem 
is  of  an  infinitely  greater  extent,  and  fills  the 
mind  with  many  more  astonishing  circumstances. 
Satan,  having  surrounded  the  earth  seven  times, 
departs  at  length  from  Paiadise.  We  then  see  him 
steering  his  course  among  the  constellations;  and, 
after  having  traversed  the  whole  creation,  pursu¬ 
ing  his  voyage  through  the  chaos,  and  entering 
into  his  own  infernal  dominions. 

His  first  appearance  in  the  assembly  of  fallen 
angels  is  worked  up  with  circumstances  which 
give  a  delightful  surprise  to  the  reader:  but  there 
is  no  incident  in  the  whole  poem  which  does  this 
more  than  the  transformation  of  the  whole  audi¬ 
ence,  that  follows  the  account  their  leader  gives 
them  of  his  expedition.  The  gradual  change  of 
Satan  himself  is  described  after  Ovid’s  manner, 
and  may  vie  with  any  of  those  celebrated  trans¬ 
formations  which  are  looked  upon  as  the  most 
beautiful  parts  in  that  poet’s  works.  Milton  never 
fails  of  improving  his  own  hints,  and  bestowing 
the  last  finishing  touches  to  every  incident  which 
is  admitted  into  his  poem.  The  unexpected  hiss 
which  arises  in  this  episode,  the  dimensions  and 
bulk  of  Satan,  so  much  superior  to  those  of  the  in¬ 
fernal  spirits  who  lay  under  the  same  transforma¬ 
tion,  with  the  annual  change  which  they  are  sup¬ 
posed  to  suffer,  are  instances  of  this  kind.  The 
beauty  of  the  diction  is  very  remarkable  in  this 
whole  episode,  as  I  have  observed  in  the  sixth 
paper  of  these  my  remarks  the  great  judgment 
with  which  it  was  contrived. 

1  he  parts  of  Adam  and  Eve,  or  the  human  per¬ 
sons,  come  next  under  our  consideration.  Milton’s 
art  is  nowhere  more  shown,  than  in  his  conduct¬ 
ing  the  parts  of  these  our  first  parents.  The  rep¬ 
resentation  he  gives  of  them,  without  falsifying 
the  story,  is  wonderfully  contrived  to  influence 
the  reader  with  pity  and  compassion  toward  them. 
Though  Adam  involves  the  whole  species  in 
misery,  his  crime  proceeds  from  a\  >kness  which 
every  man  is  inclined  to  pardon  an^  commiserate, 
as  it  seems  rather  the  frailty  of  human  nature, 
than  or  the  person  who  offended.  Every  one  is 
apt  to  excuse  a  fault  which  he  himself  might  have 
fallen  into.  It  was  the  excessive  love  for  Eve  that 
ruined  Adam  and  his  posterity.  I  need  not  add, 
that  the  author  is  justified  in  this  particular  by 
many  of  the  fathers  and  the  most  orthodox  writers. 
Milton  has  by  this  means  filled  a  great  part  of  his 
poem  with  that  kind  of  writing  which  the  French 
critics  call  the  tendre,  and  which  is  in  a  particular 
manner  engaging  to  all  sorts  of  readers. 

Adam  and  Eve,  in  the  book  we  are  now  consi¬ 
dering,  are  likewise  drawn  with  such  sentiments 
as  do  not  only  interest  the  reader  in  their  afflic¬ 
tions,  but  raise  in  him  the  most  melting  passions 
of  humanity  and  commiseration.  When  Adam 
sees  the  several  changes  of  nature  produced  about 
him,  he  appears  in  a  disorder  of  mind  suitable  to 
one  who  had  forfeited  both  his  innocence  and  his 
happiness;  he  is  filled  with  horror,  remorse,  de¬ 
spair;  in  the  anguish  of  his  heart,  he  expostulates 
with  his  Creator  for  having  given  him  an  unasked 
existence: 

Did  I  request  thee,  Maker,  from  my  clay 
To  mould  me  man  ?  Did  I  solicit  thee 
From  darkness  to  promote  me?  or  here  place 
In  this  delicious  garden  ?  As  my  will 
Concurr’d  not  to  my  being,  ’twere  but  right 


CTATOR. 

And  equal  to  reduce  me  to  my  dust, 

Desirous  to  resign,  and  render  back 
All  1  receiv’d - — 

He  immediately  after  recovers  from  his  pre¬ 
sumption,  owns  his  doom  to  be  just  and  begs 
that  the  death  which  is  threatened  him  may  be 
inflicted  on  him  : 

— ; - Why  delays 

Ills  hand  to  execute  what  his  decree 
Fix’d  on  this  day  ?  Why  do  I  over-live  ? 

Why  am  I  mock’d  with  death,  and  lengthen’d  out 
To  deathless  pain  ?  IIow  gladly  would  1  meet 
Mortality  my  sentence,  and  be  eai  th 
Insensible  1  how  glad  would  lay  me  down. 

As  in  my  mother’s  lap  1  There  1  should  rest 
And  sleep  secure;  his  dreadful  voice  no  more 
Would  thunder  in  my  ears:  no  tear  of  worse 
To  me,  and  to  my  offspring,  would  torment  me 
With  cruel  expectation - — . 

This  whole  speech  is  full  of  the  like  emotion, 
and  varied  with  all  those  sentiments  which  we 
may  suppose  natural  to  a  mind  so  broken  and 
disturbed.  I  must  not  omit  that  generous  concern 
which  our  first  father  shows  in  it' for  his  posterity, 
and  which  is  so  proper  to  affect  the  reader : 

- Hide  me  from  the  face 

Of  God,  whom  to  behold  was  then  my  height 
Of  happiness!  yet  well,  if  here  would  end 
The  misery:  I  deserved  it  and  would  bear 
My  own  deservings:  but  this  will  not  serve: 

All  that  I  eat,  or  drink,  or  shall  beget, 

Is  propagated  curse.  0  voice  once  heard 
Delightfully,  “  Increase  and  multiply 

Now  death  to  hear!- - - 

- - - In  me  all 

Posterity  stands  curst!  Fair  patrimony, 

That  I  must  leave  ye,  sons !  0  were  I  able 

To  waste  it  all  myself,  and  leave  ye  none  1 

So  disinherited,  how  would  ye  bless 

Me,  now  your  curse!  Ah,  whv  should  all  mankind 

For  one  man’s  fault,  thus  guiltless  be  condemn’d, 

If  guiltless  ?  But  from  me  what  can  proceed 
But  all  corrupt? - 

Who  can  afterward  behold  the  father  of  man¬ 
kind  extended  upon  the  earth,  uttering  his  mid¬ 
night,  complaints,  bewailing  his  existence,  and 
wishing  for  death,  without  sympathizing  with 
him  in  his  distress  ! 

Thus  Adam  to  himself  lamented  loud 
Through  the  still  night;  not  now  (as  ere  man  fell) 
Wholesome  and  cool,  and  mild,  but  with  black  air, 
Accompanied  with  damps  and  dreadful  gloom, 

Which  to  his  evil  conscience  repi  esented 
All  things  with  double  terror.  On  the  ground 
Outstretch’d  he  lay;  on  the  cold  ground!  and  oft 
Curs’d  his  creation;  death  as  oft  accus’d 
Of  tardy  execution - 

The  part  of  Eve  in  this  book  is  no  less  passion¬ 
ate  and  apt  to  sway  the  reader  in  her  favor.  She 
is  represented  with  great  tenderness  as  approach¬ 
ing  Adam,  but  is  spurned  from  him  with  a  spirit 
of  upbraiding  and  indignation,  conformable  to 
the  nature  of  man,  whose  passions  had  now  gained 
the  dominion  over  him.  The  following  passage, 
wherein  she  is  described  as  renewing  her  ad¬ 
dresses  to  him,  with  the  whole  speech  that  follows 
it,  have  something  in  them  exquisitely  moving 
and  pathetic  : 

He  added  not,  and  from  her  turn’d :  but  Eve 
Not  so  repuls’d,  with  tears  that  ceas’d  not  flowing, 

And  tresses  all  disorder’d,  at  his  feet 
Fell  humble;  and  embracing  them  besought 
His  peace,  and  thus  proceeded  in  her  plaint: 

“  Forsake  me  not  thus,  Adam !  Witness,  Heav’n, 

What  love  sincere,  and  rev’rence  in  my  heart 
I  bear  thee,  and  unweeting  have  offended, 

Unhappily  deceiv’d!  Thy  suppliant 
I  beg,  and  clasp  thy  knees.  Bereave  me  not 
(Whereon  I  live),  thy  gentle  looks,  thy  aid, 

Thy  counsel  in  this  uttermost  distress, 

My  only  strength  and  stay !  Forlorn  of  thee, 

Whither  shall  I  betake  me?  where  subsist? 

While  yet  we  live  (scarce  one  short  hour,  perhaps) 
Between  us  two  let  there  be  peace,”  etc. 


THE  SPECT  ATO  R. 


442 

Adam’s  reconcilement  to  her  is  worked  up  in 
the  same  spirit  of  tenderness.  Eve  afterward  pro¬ 
poses  to  her  husband,  in  the  blindness  of  her 
despair,  that,  to  prevent  their  guilt  from  descend¬ 
ing  upon  posterity,  they  should  resolve  to  live 
childless  ;  or,  if  that  could  not  be  done,  they 
should  seek  their  own  deaths  by  violent  methods. 
As  those  .sentiments  naturally  engage  the  reader 
to  regard  the  mother  of  mankind  with  more  than 
ordinary  commiseration,  they  likewise  contain  a 
very  fine  moral.  The  resolution  of  dying  to  end 
our  miseries  does  not  show  such  a  degree  of  mag¬ 
nanimity  as  a  resolution  to  bear  them,  and  submit 
to  the  dispensations  of  Providence.  Our  author, 
has,  therefore,  with  great  delicacy,  represented 
Eve  as  entertaining  this  thought,  and  Adam  as 
disapproving  it. 

We  are,  in  the  next  place,  to  consider  the  ima¬ 
ginary  persons,  or  Death  and  Sin,  Avho  act  a  large 

{>art  in  this  book.  Such  beautiful  extended  al- 
egories  are  certainly  some  of  the  finest  composi¬ 
tions  of  genius  ;  but,  as  I  have  below  observed, 
are  not  agreeable  to  the  nature  of  an  heroic  poem. 
This  of  Sin  and  Death  is  very  exquisite  in  its 
kind,  if  not  considered  as  a  part  of  such  a  work. 
The  truths  contained  in  it  are  so  clear  and  open, 
that  I  shall  not  lose  time  in  explaining  them  ; 
but  shall  only  observe,  that  a  reader,  who  knows 
the  strength  of  the  English  tongue,  will  be  amazed 
to  think  how  the  poet  could  find  such  apt  words 
and  phrases  to  describe  the  actions  of  those  two 
imaginary  persons,  and  particularly  in  that  part 
where  death  is  exhibited  as  forming  a  bridge 
over  the  chaos  ;  a  work  suitable  to  the  genius  of 
Milton. 

.  Since  the  subject  I  am  upon  gives  me  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  speaking  more  at  large  of  such  shadowy 
and  imaginary  persons  as  may  be  introduced  into 
heroic  poems,  I  shall  beg  leave  to  explain  myself 
in  a  matter  which  is  curious  in  its  kind,  and 
which  none  of  the  critics  have  treated  of.  It  is 
certain  Homer  and  Virgil  are  full  of  imaginary 
persons,  who  are  very  beautiful  in  poetry,  when 
they  are  just  shown  without  being  engaged  in  any 
senes  of  action.  Homer,  indeed,  represents  Sleep 
as  a  person,  and  ascribes  a  short  part  to  him  in 
his  Iliad  ;  but  we  must  consider,  that  though  we 
now  regard  such  a  person  as  entirely  shadowy 
and  unsubstantial,  the  heathens  made  statues  of 
him,  placed  him  in  their  temples,  and  looked 
upon  him  as  a  real  deity.  When  Homer  makes 
use  of  other  allegorical  persons,  it  is  only  in  short 
expressions,  which  convey  an  ordinary  thought 
to  the  mind  in  the  most  pleasing  manner;  and 
may  rather  be  looked  upon  as  poetical  phrases, 
than  allegorical  descriptions.  Instead  of  telling 
us  that  men  fiaturally  fly  when  they  are  terrified, 
he  introduces  the  persons  of  Flight  and  Fear,  who, 
he  tells  us,  are  inseparable  companions.  Instead 
of  saying  that  the  time  was  come  when  Apollo 
ought  to  have  received  his  recompense,  he  tells 
us,  that  the  Hours  brought  him  his  reward.  In¬ 
stead  of  describing  the  effects  which  Minerva’s 
aegis  produced  in  battle,  he  tells  us  that  the  brims 
of  it  were  encompassed  by  Terror,  Rout,  Discoi  d, 
Fury,  Pursuit,  Massacre,  and  Death.  In  the  same 
figure  of  speaking,  lie  represents  Victory  as  fol¬ 
lowing  Diomedes;  Discord  as  the  mother  of  fune¬ 
rals  and  mourning;  Venus  as  dressed  by  the 
Graces;  Bellona  as  wearing  Terror  and  Consterna¬ 
tion  like  a  garment.  I  might  give  several  other 
instances  out  of  Homer,  as  well  as  a  great  many 
out  of  Virgil.  Milton  has  likewise  very  often 
made  use  of  the  same  way  of  speaking,  as  where 
he  tells  us  that  Victory  sat  on  the  right  hand  of 
the  Messiah,  when  he  marched  forth  against  the 
rebel  angels;  that,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun,  the 


Hours  unbarred  the  gates  of  light;  that  Discord 
was  the  daughter  of  Sin.  Of  the  same  nature  are 
those  expressions,  where,  describing  the  singing 
of  the  nightingale,  he  adds,  “  Silence  was  pleased;” 
and  upon  the  Messiah’s  bidding  peace  to  the  chaos, 
“  Confusion  heard  his  voice.”  1  might  add  innu¬ 
merable  instances  of  our  poet’s  writing  in  this 
beautiful  figure.  It  is  plain  that  these  I  have 
mentioned,  in  which  persons  of  an  imaginary  na¬ 
ture  are  introduced,  are  such  short  allegories  as 
are  not  designed  to  be  taken  in  the  literal  sense, 
but  only  to  convey  particular  circumstances  to  the 
reader,  after  an  unusual  and  entertaining  manner. 
But  when  such  persons  are  introduced  as  princi¬ 
pal  actors,  and  engaged  in  a  series  of  adventures, 
they  take  too  much  upon  them,  and  are  by  no 
means  proper  for  an  heroic  poem,  which  ougjit  to 
appear  credible  in  its  principal  parts,  I  cannot 
forbear,  therefore,  thinking,  that  Sin  and  Death 
are  as  improper  agents  in  a  work  of  this  nature, 
as  Strength  and  Necessity  in  one  of  the  tragedies 
of  iEschylus,  who  represented  those  two  persons 
nailing  down  Prometheus  to  a  rock;  for  which  he 
has  been  justly  censured  by  the  greatest  critics.  I 
do  not  know  any  imaginary  person  made  use  of 
in  a  more  sublime  manner  of  thinking  than  that 
in  one  of  the  prophets,  who,  describing  God  as 
descending  from  heaven,  and  visiting  the  sins  of 
mankind,  adds  that  dreadful  circumstance,  “  Be¬ 
fore  him  went  the  Pestilence.”  It  is  certain  that 
this  imaginary  person  might  have  been  described 
in  all  her  purple  spots.  The  Fever  might  have 
marched  before  her,  Pain  might  have  stood  at  her 
right  hand,  Frenzy  on  her  left,  and  Death  in  her 
rear.  She  might  have  been  introduced  as  gliding 
down  from  the  tail  of  a  comet,  or  darted  upon  the 
earth  in  a  flash  of  lightning.  She  might  have 
tainted  the  atmosphere  with  her  breath.  The  very 
glaring  of  her  eyes  might  have  scattered  infection. 
But  I  believe  every  reader  will  think,  that  in  such 
sublime  writings  the  mentioning  of  her,  as  it  is 
done  in  Scripture,  has  something  in  it  more  just,  as 
well  as  great,  than  all  that  the  most  fanciful  poet 
could  have  bestowed  upon  her  in  the  richness  of 
his  imagination. — L. 


No.  358.]  MONDAY,  APRIL  21,  1712. 

- Desipere  in  loco. 

IIor.  4  Od.  xii,  1.  ult. 

’Tis  joyous  folly  that  unbends  the  mind. — Francis. 

Charles  Lillie  attended  me  the  other  day,  and 
made  me  a  present  of  a  large  sheet  of  paper,  on 
which  is  delineated  a  pavement  in  Mosaic  work, 
lately  discovered  at  Stunsfield  near  Woodstock.* 
A  person  who  has  so  much  the  gift  of  speech  as 
Mr.  Lillie,  and  can  carry  on  a  discourse  without  a 
reply,  had  great  opportunity  on  that  occasion  to 
expatiate  upon  so  fine  a  piece  of  antiquity.  Among 
other  things,  I  remember  he  gave  me  his  opinion, 
which  he  drew  from  the  ornaments  of  the  work, 
that  this  was  the  floor  of  a  room  dedicated  to 
Mirth  and  Concord.  Viewing  this  work,  made 
my  fancy  run  over  the  many  gay  expressions  I 
had  read  in  ancient  authors,  which  contained  in¬ 
vitations  to  lay  aside  care  and  anxiety,  and  give 
a  loose  to  that  pleasing  forgetfulness  wherein  men 
put  off  their  characters  of  business,  and  enjoy 
their  very  selves.  These  hours  were  usually 
passed  in  rooms  adorned  for  that  purpose,  and  set 
out  in  such  a  manner,  as  the  objects  all  around 
the  company  gladdened  their  hearts;  which,  joined 
to  the  cheerful  looks  of  well-chosen  and  agreeable 


*  Engraved  by  Vertue  iu  1712.  See  an  account  of  it  in 
Gough’s  British  Topography,  vol.  ii,  p.  88. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


friends,  gave  new  vigor  to  the  airy,  produced  the 
latent  fire  of  the  modest,  and  gave  grace  to  the 
slow  humor  of  the  reserved.  A  judicious  mixture 
of  such  company,  crowned  with  chaplets  of  flowers, 
and  the  whole  apartment  glittering  with  gay  lights, 
cheered  with  a  profusion  of  roses,  artificial  falls 
ot  water,  and  intervals  of  soft  notes  to  songs  of 
love  and  wine,  suspended  the  cares  of  human 
life,  and  made  a  festival  of  mutual  kindness. 
Such  parties  of  pleasure  as  these,  and  the  reports 
of  the  agreeable  passages  in  their  jollities,  have  in 
all  ages  awakened  the  dull  part  of  mankind  to 
pretend  to  mirth  and  good  humor,  without  capa¬ 
city  for  such  entertainments;  for,  if  I  may  be  al¬ 
lowed  to  say  so,  there  are  a  hundred  men  fit 
for  any  employment,  to  one  who  is  capable  of 
passing  a  night  in  company  of  the  first  taste, 
without  shocking  any  member  of  the  society,  over¬ 
rating  his  own  part  of  the  conversation,  but 
equally  receiving  and  contributing  to  the  pleasure 
of  the  whole  company.  When  one  considers  such 
collections  of  companies  in  past  times,  and  such 
as  one  might  name  in  the  present  age,  with  how 
much  spleen  must  a  man  needs  reflect  upon  the 
awkward  gayety  of  those  who  affect  the  frolic  with 
an  ill  grace !  I  have  a  letter  from  a  correspondent 
of  mine,  who  desires  me  to  admonish  all  loud, 
mischievous,  airy,  dull  companions,  that  they  are 
mistaken  in  what  they  call  a  frolic.  Irregularity, 
in  itself,  is  not  what  creates  pleasure  and  mirth; 
but  to  see  a  man,  who  knows  what  rule  and  de¬ 
cency  are,  descend  from  them  agreeably  in  our 
company,  is  what  denominates  him  a  "pleasant 
companion.  Instead  of  that,  you  find  many  whose 
mirth  consists  only  in  doing  things  which  do  not 
become  them,  with  a  secret  consciousness  that  all 
the  world  knows  they  know  better:  to  this  is 
always  added  something  mischievous  to  them¬ 
selves  or  others.  I  have  heard  of  some  very  merry 
fellows  among  whom  the  frolic  was  started,  and 
passed  by  a  great  majority,  that  every  man  should 
immediately  draw  a  tooth  ;  after  which  they  have 
gone  in  a  body  and  smoked  a  cobbler.  The  same 
company,  at  another  night,  has  each  man  burned 
his  cravat:  and  one  perhaps,  whose  estate  would 
bear  it,  has  thrown  a  long  wig  and  laced  hat  into 
the  same  fire:  Thus  they  have  jested  themselves 
stark-naked,  and  run  into  the  streets  and  fright¬ 
ened  women  very  successfully.  There  is  no  in¬ 
habitant  of  any  standing  in  Covent-garden,  but 
can  tell  you  a  hundred  good  humors,  where  people 
have  come  off  with  a  little  bloodshed,  and  yet 
scoured  all  the  witty  hours  of  the  night.  I  know 
a  gentleman  that  has  several  wounds  in  the  head 
by  watch-poles,  and  has  been  thrice  run  through 
the  body  to  carry  on  a  good  jest.  He  is  very  old 
for  a  man  of  so  much  good  humor;  but  to  this  day 
he  is  seldom  merry  but  he  has  occasion  to  be 
valiant  at  the  same  time.  But,  by  the  favor  of 
these  gentlemen,  I  am  humbly  of  opinion,  that  a 
man  may  be  a  very  witty  man,  and  never  offend 
one  statute  of  this  kingdom,  not  excepting  even 
that  of  stabbihg. 

The  writers  of  plays  have  what  they  call  unity 
of  time  a,nd  place,  to  give  a  justness  to  their  re¬ 
presentation;  and  it  would  not  be  amiss  if  all  who 
pretend  to  be  companions  would  confine  their 
actions  to  the  place  of  meeting;  for  a  frolic  carried 
further  may  be  better  performed  by  other  animals 
than  men.  It  is  not  to  rid  much  ground,  or  do 
much  mischief,  that  should  denominate  a  pleasant 
fellow,  but  that  is  truly  frolic  which  is  the  plav 
of  the  mind,  and  consists  of  various  and  un¬ 
forced  sallies  of  imagination.  Festivity  of  spirit 
is  a  very  uncommon  talent,  and  must  proceed 
from  an  assemblage  of  agreeable  qualities  in  the 
same  person.  There  are  some  few  whom  1  think 


443 

peculiarly  happy  in  it;  but  it  is  a  talent  one  cannot 
name  in  a  man,  especially  when  one  considers, 
that  it  is  never  very  graceful  but  where  it  is  re¬ 
garded  by  him  who  possesses  it  in  the  second  place. 
1  he  best  man  that  1  know  of  for  heightening  the 
revel  gayety  of  a  company  is  Estcourt,  whose 
jovial  humor  diffuses  itself  from  the  highest 
person  at  an  entertainment  to  the  meanest  waiter. 
Merry  tales,  accompanied  with  apt  gestures  and 
lively  representations  of  circumstances  and  persons, 
beguile  the  gravest  mind  into  a  consent  to  be  as 
humorous  as  himself.  Add  to  this,  that  when  a 
inan  is  in  his  good  graces,  he  has  a  mimicry  that 
does  not  debase  the  person  he  represents ;  but 
v  hi cli,  taking  from  the  gravity  of  the  character, 
adds  to  the  agreeableness  of  it.  This  pleasant 
fellow  gives  one  some  idea  of  the  ancient  panto¬ 
mime,  who  is  said  to  have  given  the  audience  in 
dumb-show,  an  exact  idea  of  any  character  or 
passion,  or  an  intelligible  relation  of  any  public 
occurrence,  with  no  other  expression  than  that  of 
his  looks  and  gestures.  If  all  who  have  been 
obliged  to  these  talents  in  Estcourt  will  be  at  Love 
for  Love  to-morrow  night,  they  will  but  pay  him 
what  they  owe  him,  at  so  easy  a  rate  as  being  pre¬ 
sent  at  a  play  which  nobody  would  omit  seeing, 
that  had,  or  had  not,  ever  seen  it  before. — T. 


No.  359.]  TUESDAY,  APRIL  22,  1712. 

Torva  leama  lupum  sequitur,  lupus  ipse  capellam: 

Florentem  cytisum  sequitur  lasciva  capella. 

Virg.,  Eel.  ii,  63. 

Lions  the  wolves,  and  wolves  the  kids  pursue, 

The  kids  sweet  thyme,— and  still  I  follow  you. 

Warton. 

As  we  were  at  the  club  last  night,  I  observed 
that  my  old  friend  Sir  Roger,  contrary  to  his 
usual  custom,  sat  very  silent,  and  instead  of  mind¬ 
ing  what  was  said  by  the  company,  was  whistling 
to  himself  in  a  very  thoughtful  mood,  and  play¬ 
ing  with  a  cork.  I  jogged  Sir  Andrew  Freeport, 
who  sat  between  us;  and,  as  we  were  both  observ¬ 
ing  him,  we  saw  the  knight  shake  his  head,  and 
heard  him  say  to  himself,  “  A  foolish  woman  ;  I 
can’t  believe  it.”  Sir  Andrew  gave  him  a  gentle 
pat  upon  the  shoulder,  and  offered  to  lay  him  a 
bottle  of  wine  that  he  was  thinking  of  the  widow. 
My  old  friend  started,  and  recovering  out  of  his 
brown  study,  told  Sir  Andrew,  that  once  in  his 
life  he  had  been  in  the  right.  In  short,  after  some 
little  hesitation,  Sir  Roger  told  us,  in  the  fullness 
of  his  heart,  that  he  had  just  received  a  letter 
from  his  steward,  which  acquainted  him  that  his 
old  rival  and  antagonist  in  the  country,  Sir  David 
Dundrura,  had  been  making  a  visit  to  the  widow. 
“  However,”  says  Sir  Roger,  “  I  can  never  think 
that  she’ll  have  a  man  that’s  half  a  year  older 
than  I  am,  and  a  noted  republican  into  the  bar¬ 
gain.” 

Will  Honeycomb,  who  looks  upon  love  as  his 
particular  province,  interrupting  our  friend  with  a 
janty  laugh,  “  I  thought,  knight,”  said  he,  “  thou 
hadst  lived  long  enough  in  the  world  not  to  pin 
I  thy  happiness  upon  one  that  is  a  woman,  and  a 
i  widow.  I  think  that,  without  vanity,  I  may  pre¬ 
tend  to  know  as  much  of  the  female  world  as  any 
man  in  Great  Britain  ;  though  the  chief  of  my 
knowledge  consists  in  this,  that  they  are  not  to  be 
known.”  Will  immediately,  with  his  usual  flu- 
i  ency,  rambled  into  an  account  of  his  own  amours. 
“  I  am  now,”  says  he,  “  upon  the  verge  of  fifty” 

|  (though,  by  the  way,  we  all  knew  he  was  turned 
I  of  threescore).  “You  may  easily  guess,”  con¬ 
tinued  Will,  “  that  I  have  not  lived  so  long  in  the 
world  without  having  had  some  thoughts  of 


444 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


settling  in  it,  as  the  phrase  is.  ,To  tell  you  truly, 

1  have  several  times  tried  my  fortune  that  way, 
though  I  cannot  much  boast  of  my  success. 

“  1  made  my  first  addresses  to  a  young  lady  in 
the  country  ;  but,  when  I  thought  things  were 
pretty  well  drawing  to  a  conclusion,  her  father 
happening  to  hear  that  I  had  formerly  boarded 
with  a  surgeon,  the  old  put  forbade  me  his  house, 
and  within  a  fortnight  after  married  his  daughter 
to  a  fox-hunter  in  the  neighborhood. 

“  I  made  my  next  application  to  a  widow,  and 
attacked  her  so  briskly,  that  I  thought  myself 
within  a  fortnight  of  her.  As  I  waited  upon  her 
one  morning,  she  told  me,  that  she  intended  to 
keep  her  ready  money  and  jointure  in  her  own 
hand,  and  desired  me  to  call  upon  her  attorney  in 
Lyon’s  Inn,  who  would  adjust  with  me  what  it 
was  proper  for  me  to  add  to  it.  I  was  so  rebuffed 
by  this  overture,  that  I  never  inquired  either  for 
her  or  her  attorney  afterward. 

“  A  few  months  after,  I  addressed  myself  to  a 
young  lady  who  was  an  only  daughter,  and  of  a 
good  family.  I  danced  with  her  at  several  balls, 
squeezed  her  by  the  hand,  said  soft  things  to  her, 
and  in  short  made  no  doubt  of  her  heart ;  and 
though  my  fortune  wras  no  wTay  equal  to  hers,  I 
was  in  hopes  that  her  fond  father  would  not  deny 
her  the  man  she  had  fixed  her  affections  upon.  But 
as  I  went  one  day  to  the  house,  in  order  to  break 
the  matter  to  him,  I  found  the  whole  family  in 
confusion,  and  heard,  to  my  unspeakable  surprise, 
that  Miss  Jenny  w7as  that  very  morning  run  away 
with  the  butler. 

“  I  then  courted  a  second  widow,  and  am  at  a 
loss  to  this  day  how  I  came  to  miss  her,  for  she  had 
often  commended  my  person  and  behavior.  Her 
maid  indeed  told  me  one  day,  that  her  mistress 
had  said  she  never  saw  a  gentleman  with  such  a 
spindle  pair  of  legs  as  Mr.  Honeycomb. 

“  After  this  I  laid  siege  to  four  heiresses  succes¬ 
sively,  and,  being  a  handsome  young  dog  in  those 
days,  quickly  made  a  breach  in  their  hearts;  but  I 
don’t  know  how  it  came  to  pass,  though  I  seldom 
failed  of  getting  the  daughter’s  consent,  I  could 
never  in  my  life  get  the  old  people  on  my  side. 

“  I  could  give  you  an  account  of  a  thousand 
other  unsuccessful  attempts,  particularly  of  one 
which  I  made  some  years  since  upon  an  old  wo¬ 
man,  whom  I  had  certainly  borne  away  with  flying 
colors,  if  her  relations  had  not  come  pouring  in  to 
her  assistance  from  all  parts  of  England ;  nay  I 
believe  I  should  have  got  her  at  last,  had  she  not 
been  carried  off  by  a  hard  frost.” 

As  Will’s  transitions  are  extremely  quick,  he 
turned  from  Sir  Roger,  and  applying  himself  to 
me,  told  me  there  was  a  passage  in  the  book  I  had 
considered  last  Saturday,  which  deserved  to  be 
written  in  letters  of  gold:  and  taking  out  a  pocket 
Milton,  read  the  following  lines,  which  are  part  of 
one  of  Adam’s  speeches  to  Eve  after  the  fall : — 

- Oh !  why  did  God 

Creator  wise !  that  peopled  highest  heaven 
With  spirits  masculine,  create  at  last 
This  novelty  on  earth,  this  fair  defect 
Of  nature,  and  not  fill  the  world  at  once 
With  men,  as  angels,  without  feminine? 

Or  find  some  other  way  to  generate 

Mankind  ?  This  mischief  had  not  then  befall’n, 

And  more  that  shall  befall,  innumerable 
Disturbances  on  earth,  through  female  snares, 

And  straight  conjunction  with  this  sex:  for  either 
He  shall  never  find  out  fit  mate;  but  such 
As  some  misfortune  brings  him,  or  mistake ; 

Or  whom  he  wishes  most  shall  seldom  gain, 

Through  her  perverseness;  but  shall  see  her  gain’d 
By  a  far  worse ;  or,  if  she  love,  withheld 
By  parents ;  or  his  happiest  choice  too  late 
Shall  meet  already  link’d,  and  wedlock-bound 
To  a  fell  adversary,  his  hate  or  shame ; 

Which  infinite  calamity  shall  cause 
To  human  life,  and  household  peace  confound. 


Sir  Roger  listened  to  this  passage  with  great 
attention:  and,  desiring  Mr.  Honeycomb  to  fold 
down  a  leaf  at  the  place,  and  lend  him  his  book, 
the  knight  put  it  up  in  his  pocket,  and  told  us 
that  lie  would  read  over  these  verses  again  before 
he  went  to  bed. — X. 


No.  360.]  WEDNESDAY,  APRIL  23,  1712. 

- De  paupertate  tacentes, 

Plus  poscente  ferent. — Hor.  1  Ep.  xvii,  43. 

The  man  who  all  his  wants  conceals, 

Gains  more  than  he  who  all  his  wants  reveals. 

Dumcombe. 

I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  business  of  this 
day  any  further  than  affixing  the  piece  of  Latin 
on  the  head  of  my  paper  ;  which  I  think  a  motto 
not  unsuitable;  since,  if  silence  of  our  poverty  is 
a  recommendation,  still  more  commendable  is  his 
modesty  who  conceals  it  by  decent  dress. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“There  is  an  evil  under  the  sun,  which  has  not 
yet  come  within  your  speculation,  and  is  the  cen¬ 
sure,  disesteem,  and  contempt,  which  some  young 
fellows  meet  with  from  particular  persons,  for  the 
reasonable  methpds  they  take  to  avoid  them  in 
general.  This  is  by  appearing  in  a  better  dress 
than  may  seem  to  a  relation  regularly  consistent 
with  a  small  fortune;  and  therefore  may  occasion 
a  judgment  of  a  suitable  extravagance  in  other 
particulars:  but  the  disadvantage  with  which  the 
man  of  narrow  circumstances  acts  and  speaks,  is 
so  feelingly  set  forth  in  a  little  book  called  The 
Christian  Hero,  that  the  appearing  to  be  otherwise 
is  not  only  pardonable  but  necessary.  Every  one 
knows  the  hurry  of  conclusions  that  are  made  in 
contempt  of  a  person  that  appears  to  be  calamitous; 
which  makes  it  very  excusable  to  prepare  one’s- 
self  for  the  company  of  those  that  are  of  a  superior 
quality  and  fortune,  by  appearing  to  be  in  a  better 
condition  than  one  is,  so  far  as  such  appearance 
shall  not  make  us  really  worse. 

“  It  is  a  justice  due  to  the  character  of  one  who 
suffers  hard  reflections  from  any  particular  per¬ 
son  upon  this  account,  that  such  persons  would 
inquire  into  his  manner  of  spending  his  time; 
of  which,  though  no  further  information  can 
be  had  than  that  he  remains  so  many  hours 
in  his  chamber,  yet,  if  this  is  cleared,  to  ima¬ 
gine  that  a  reasonable  creature,  wrung  with  a 
narrow  fortune,  does  not  make  the  best  use  of  this 
retirement,  would  be  conclusion  extremely  un¬ 
charitable.  From  what  has,  or  will  be  said,  I 
hope  no  consequence  can  be  extorted,  implying, 
that  I  would  have  any  young  fellow  spend  more 
time  than  the  common  leisure  which  his  studies 
require,  or  more  money  than  his  fortune  or  allow¬ 
ance  may  admit  of;  in  the  pursuit  of  an  acquaint¬ 
ance  with  his  betters:  for,  as  to  his  time,  the  gross 
of  that  ought  to  be  sacred  to  more  substantial  ac¬ 
quisitions;  for  each  irrecoverable  moment  of  which 
he  ought  to  believe  he  stands  religiously  account¬ 
able.  And  as  to  his  dress,  I  shall  engage  myself 
no  further  than  in  the  modest  defense  of  two  plain 
suits  a  year;  for  being  perfectly  satisfied  in  Eutra- 

Eelus’s  contrivance  of  making  a  Mohock  of  a  man, 
y  presenting  him  with  laced  and  embroidered 
suits,  I  would  by  no  means  be  thought  to  contro¬ 
vert  that  conceit,  by  insinuating  the  advantages 
of  foppery.  It  is  an  assertion  which  admits  of 
much  proof,  that  a  stranger  of  tolerable  sense, 
dressed  like  a  gentleman,  wTill  be  better  re¬ 
ceived  by  those  of  quality  above  him,  than  one  of 
much  better  parts,  whose  dress  is  regulated  by 
the  rigid  notions  of  frugality.  A  man’s  appear¬ 
ance  falls  wihtin  the  censure  of  every  one  that  sees 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


him;  his  parts  and  learning  very  few  are  judges 
of;  and  even  upon  these  few  they  cannot  at  first  be 
well  intruded;  for  policy  and  good  breeding  will 
counsel  him  to  be  reserved  among  strangers,  and  to 
support  himself  only  by  the  common  spirit  of 
conversation.  Indeed  among  the  injudicious,  the 
words,  ‘delicacy,  idiom,  fine  images,  structures  of 
periods,  genius,  fire,’  and  the  rest,  made  use  of 
with  a  frugal  and  comely  gravity,  will  maintain 
the  figure  of  immense  reading,  and  the  depth  of 
criticism. 

“All  gentlemen  of  fortune,  at  least  the  young 
and  middle-aged,  are  apt  to  pride  themselves  a 
little  too  much  upon  their  dress,  and  consequently 
to  value  others  in  some  measure  upon  the  same 
consideration.  With  what  confusion  is  a  man  of 
figure  obliged  to  return  the  civilities  of  the  hat  to  a 
person  whose  air  and  attire  hardly  entitle  him  to 
it!  for  whom  nevertheless  the  other  has  a  particular 
esteem,  though  he  is  ashamed  to  have  it  chal¬ 
lenged  in  so  public  a  manner.  It  must  be  allowed, 
that  an}"  young  fellow  that  affects  to  dress  and  ap¬ 
pear  genteelly,  might,  with  artificial  management, 
save  ten  pounds  a  year;  as  instead  of  fine  holland 
he  might  mourn  in  sackcloth,  and  in  other  par¬ 
ticulars  be  proportionably  shabby;  but  of  what 
great  service  would  this  sum  be  to  avert  any 
misfortune,  while  it  would  leave  him  deserted  by 
the  little  good  acquaintance  he  has,  and  prevent 
his  gaining  any  other?  As  the  appearance  of  an 
easy  fortune  is  necessary  toward  making  one,  I 
don’t  know  but  it  might  be  of  advantage  some¬ 
times  to  throw  into  one’s  discourse  certain  excla¬ 
mations  about  bank  stock,  and  to  show  a  marvel¬ 
ous  surprise  upon  its  fall,  as  well  as  the  most  af¬ 
fected  triumph  upon  its  rise.  The  veneration  and 
respect  which  the  practice  of  all  ages  has  pre¬ 
served  to  appearances,  without  doubt  suggested 
to  our  tradesmen  that  wise  and  politic  custom,  to 
apply  and  recommend  themselves  to  the  public  by 
all  those  decorations  upon  their  sign-posts  and 
houses  which  the  most  eminent  hands  in  the 
neighborhood  can  furnish  them  with.  What  can 
be  more  attractive  to  a  man  of  letters,  than  that 
immense  erudition  of  all  ages  and  languages, 
which  a  skillful  bookseller,  in  conjunction  with  a 
painter,  shall  image  upon  his  column,  and  the  ex¬ 
tremities  of  his  shop?  The  same  spirit  of  main¬ 
taining  a  handsome  appearance  reigns  among  the 
grave  and  solid  apprentices  of  the  law  (here  I 
could  be  particularly  dull  in  proving  the  word  ap¬ 
prentice  to  be  significant  of  a  barrister);  and  you 
may  easily  distinguish  who  has  most  lately  made 
his  pretensions  to  business,  by  the  whitest  and 
most  ornamental  frame  of  his  window;  if  indeed 
the  chamber  is  aground-room,  and  has  rails  before 
it,  the  finery  is  of  necessity  more  extended,  and 
the  pomp  of  business  better  maintained.  And 
what  can  be  a  greater  indication  of  the  dignity  of 
dress,  than  that  burdensome  finery  which  is  the 
regular  habit  of  our  judges,  nobles,  and  bishops, 
with  which  upon  certain  days  we  see  them  incum¬ 
bered?  And  though  it  maybe  said,  this  is  awful, 
and  necessary  for  the  dignity  of  the  state,  yet  the 
wisest  of  them  have  been  remarkable,  before  they 
arrived  at  their  present  stations,  for  being  very 
well  dressed  persons.  As  to  my  own  part,  I  am 
near  thirty;  and  since  I  left  school  have  not  been 
idle,  which  is  a  modern  phrase  for  having  studied 
hard.  I  brought  off  a  clean  system  of  moral 
philosophy,  and  a  tolerable  jargon  of  metaphy¬ 
sics,  from  the  university;  since  that,  I  have  been 
engaged  in  the  clearing  part  of  the  perplexed  style 
and  matter  of  the  law,  which  so  hereditarily  de¬ 
scends  to  all  its  professors.  To  all  which  severe 
studies  I  have  thrown  in,  at  proper  interims,  the 
pretty  learning  of  the  classics.  Notwithstanding 


445 

which,  I  am  what  Shakspeare  calls  a  fellow  of  no 
mark  or  likelihood,  which  makes  me  understand 
the  more  fully,  that  since  the  regular  method  of 
making  friends  and  a  fortune  by  the  mere  force  of 
a  profession  is  so  very  slow  and  uncertain,  a  man 
should  take  all  reasonable  opportunities,  by  en¬ 
larging  a  good  acquaintance,  to  court  that  time 
and  chance  which  is  said  to  happen  to  every 
man.” — T. 


No.  361.]  THURSDAY,  APRIL  24,  1712. 

Tartaream  intendit  vocem,  qua  protinus  omnis 

Contremuit  domus - 

Virg.  iEn.  vii,  514. 

The  blast  Tartarean  spreads  its  notes  around ; 

The  house  astonished  trembles  at  the  sound. 

I  have  lately  received  the  following  letter  from 
a  country  gentleman: — 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  night  before  I  left  London  I  went  to  see  a 
play  called  The  Humorous  Lieutenant.  Upon  the 
rising  of  the  curtain  I  was  very  much  surprised 
with  the  great  concert  of  cat-calls  which  was  ex¬ 
hibited  that  evening,  and  began  to  think  with 
myself  that  I  had  made  a  mistake,  and  gone  to  a 
music-meeting  instead  of  the  playhouse.  It  ap¬ 
peared  indeed  a  little  odd  to  me,  to  see  so  many 
-persons  of  quality,  of  both  sexes,  assembled  to¬ 
gether  at  a  kind  of  caterwauling,  for  1  cannot  look 
upon  that  performance  to  have  been  anything 
better,  whatever  the  musicians  themselves  might 
think  of  it.  As  I  had  no  acquaintance  in  the 
house  to  ask  questions  of,  and  was  forced  to  go 
out  of  town  early  the  next  morning,  I  could  not 
learn  the  secret  of  this  matter.  What  1  would 
therefore  desire  of  you  is,  to  give  me  some  account 
of  this  strange  instrument,  which  I  found  the  com¬ 
pany  called  a  cat-call;  and  particularly  to  let  me 
know  whether  it  be  a  piece  of  music  lately  come 
from  Italy.  For  my  own  part,  to  be  free  with  you,  I 
would  rather  hear  an  English  fiddle:  though  I 
durst  not  show  my  dislike  while  I  was  in  the 
playhouse,  it  being  my  chance  to  sit  the  very  next 
man  to  one  of  the  performers. 

“  I  am.  Sir, 

“Your  most  affectionate  Friend,  and  Servant, 

“John  Shallow,  Esq.” 

In  compliance  with  Squire  Shallow’s  request,  I 
design  this  paper  as  a  dissertation  upon  the  cat¬ 
call.  In  order  to  make  myself  a  master  of  the 
subject,  I  purchased  one  the  beginning  of  last 
week,  though  not  without  great  difficulty,  being 
informed  at  two  or  three  toy-shops  that  the  players 
had  lately  bought  them  all  up.  I  have  since  con¬ 
sulted  many  learned  antiquaries  in  relation  to  its 
origin,  and  find  them  very  much  divided  among 
themselves  upon  that  particular.  A  fellow  of  the 
Royal  Society,  who  is  my  good  friend,  and  a  great 
proficient  in  the  mathematical  part  of  music,  con¬ 
cludes,  from  the  simplicity  of  its  make,  and  the 
uniformity  of  its  sound,  that  the  cat-call  is  older 
than  any  of  the  inventions  of  Jubal.  He  observes 
very  well,  that  musical  instruments  took  their  first 
rise  from  the  notes  of  birds,  and  other  melodious 
animals  ;  and  “  what,”  says  he,  “was  more  natural 
than  for  the  first  ages  of  mankind  to  imitate  the 
voice  of  a  cat,  that  lived  under  the  same  roof  with 
them?”  He  added,  that  the  cat  had  contributed  more 
to  harmony  than  any  other  animal;  as  we  are  not 
only  beholden  to  her  for  this  wind  instrument, 
but  for  our  string-music  in  general. 

Another  virtuoso  of  my  acquaintance  will  not 
allow  the  cat  call  to  be  older  than  Thespis,  and  is 
apt  to  think  it  appeared  in  the  world  soon  after  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


446 

ancient  comedy;  for  which  reason  it  has  still  a 
place  in  our  dramatic  entertainments.  Nor  must 
I  here  omit  what  a  very  curious  gentleman,  who 
is  lately  returned  from  his  travels,  has  more  than 
once  assured  me,  namely,  that  there  wa.s  lately  dug 
up  at  Rome  the  statue  of  a  Mounts,  who  holds  an 
instrument  in  his  right  hand  very  much  re¬ 
sembling  our  modern  cat-call. 

There  are  others  who  ascribe  this  invention  to 
Orpheus,  and  look  upon  the  cat-call  to  be  one  of 
those  instruments  which  that  famous  musician 
made  use  of  to  draw  the  beasts  about  him.  It  is 
certain  that  the  roasting  of  a  cat  does  not  call  to¬ 
gether  a  greater  audience  of  that  species  than  this 
instrument,  if  dextrously  played  upon  in  proper 
time  and  place. 

But,  notwithstanding  these  various  and  learned 
conjectures,  I  cannot  forbear  thinking  that  the 
cat-call  is  originally  a  piece  of  English  music. 
Its  resemblance  to  the  voice  of  some  of  our  British 
songsters,  as  well  as  the  use  of  it,  which  is  pecu¬ 
liar  to  our  nation,  confirms  me  in  this  opinion. 
It  has  at  least  received  great  improvements  among 
us,  whether  we  consider  the  instrument  itself,  or 
those  several  quavers  and  graces  which  are  thrown 
into  the  playing  of  it.  Every  one  might  be  sen¬ 
sible  of  this  who  heard  that  remarkable  overgrown 
cat-call  which  was  placed  at  the  center  of  the  pit, 
and  presided  over  all  the  rest,  at  the  celebrated 
performances  lately  exhibited  at  Drury-lane. 

Having  said  thus  much  concerning  the  origin 
of  the  cat-call,  we  are  in  the  next  place  to  consider 
the  use  of  it.  The  cat-call  exerts  itself  to  most 
advantage  in  the  British  theater.  It  very  much 
improves  the  sound  of  nonsense,  and  often  goes 
along  with  the  voice  of  the  actor  wTho  pronounces 
it,  as  the  violin  or  harpsichord  accompanies  the 
Italian  recitativo. 

It  has  often  supplied  the  place  of  the  ancient 
chorus,  in  the  wrords  of  Mr.  ***.  In  short,  a  bad 
poet  has  as  great  an  antipathy  to  a  cat-call  as 
many  people  have  to  a  real  cat. 

Mr.  Collier,  in  his  ingenious  essay  upon  music, 
has  the  following  passage  : 

“  I  believe  it  is  possible  to  invent  an  instrument 
that  shall  have  a  quite  contrary  effect  to  those 
martial  ones  now  in  use;  an  instrument  that  shall 
sink  the  spirits,  and  shake  the  nerves  and  curdle 
the  blood,  and  inspire  despair  and  cowardice  and 
consternation,  at  a  surprising  rate.  ’Tis  probable 
the  roaring  of  lions,  the  warbling  of  cats  and 
screech-owls,  together  with  a  mixture  of  the  howl¬ 
ing  of  dogs,  judiciously  imitated  and*compounded, 
might  go  a  great  way  in  this  invention.  Whether 
such  anti-music  as  this  might  not  be  of  service  in 
a  camp,  I  shall  leave  to  the  military  men  to  con¬ 
sider.” 

What  this  learned  gentleman  supposes  in  specu¬ 
lation,  I  have  known  actually  verified  in  practice. 
The  cat-call  has  struck  a  damp  into  generals,  and 
frightened  heroes  off  the  stage.  At  the  first  sound 
of  it  I  have  seen  a  crowned  head  tremble,  and  a 
princess  fall  into  fits.  The  humorous  lieutenant 
himself  could  not  stand  it;  nay,  I  am  told  that 
even  Almanzor  looked  like  a  mouse,  and  trembled 
at  the  voice  of  this  terrifying  instrument. 

As  it  is  of  a  dramatic  nature,  and  peculiarly  ap¬ 
propriated  to  the  stage,  I  can  by  no  means  ap¬ 
prove  the  thought  of  that  angry  lover,  who,  after 
an  unsuccessful  pursuit  of  some  years,  took  leave 
of  his  mistress  in  a  serenade  of  cat-calls. 

I  must  conclude  this  paper  with  the  account  I 
have  lately  received  of  an  ingenious  artist,  who 
has  long  studied  this  instrumemt,  and  is  very  well 
versed  in  all  the  rules  of  the  drama.  He  teaches 
to  play  on  it  by  book,  and  to  express  by  it  the 
whole  art  of  criticism.  He  has  his  bass  and  his 


treble  cat-call :  the  former  for  tragedy,  the  latter 
for  comedy;  only  in  tragi-comedies  they  may  both 
play  together  in  concert.  He  has  a  particular 
squeak,  to  denote  the  violation  of  each  of  the  uni¬ 
ties,  and  has  different  sounds  to  show  whether  he 
aims  at  the  poet  or  the  player.  In  short,  he 
teaches  the  smut-note,  the  fustian-note,  the  stupid- 
note,  and  has  composed  a  kind  of  air  that  may 
serve  as  an  act-tune  to  an  incorrigible  play,  and 
which  takes  in  the  whole  compass  of  the  cat  call. 
L. 


No.  362.]  FRIDAY,  APRIL  25,  1712. 

Laudibus  arguitur  vini  vinosus. - 

Hor.  1  Ep.  xix,  6. 

He  praises  wine;  and  we  conclude  from  thence 

He  lik’d  his  glass  on  his  own  evidence. 

“  Mr.  Spectator,  Temple,  April  24. 

“Several  of  my  friends  were  this  morning  got 
together  over  a  dish  of  tea  in  very  good  health, 
though  we  had  celebrated  yesterday  with  more 
glasses  than  we  could  have  dispensed  with,  had  we 
not  been  beholden  to  Brooke  and  Hellier.  In  gra¬ 
titude  therefore  to  those  good  citizens,  I  am,  in 
the  name  of  the  company,  to  accuse  you  of  great 
negligence  in  overlooking  their  merit  who  have 
imported  true  and  generous  wine,  and  taken  care 
that  it  should  not  be  adulterated  by  the  retailers 
before  it  comes  to  the  tables  of  private  families,  or 
the  clubs  of  honest  fellows.  I  cannot  imagine 
how  a  Spectator  can  be  supposed  to  do  his  duty, 
without  frequent  resumption  of  such  subjects  as 
concern  our  health,  the  first  thing  to  be  regarded, 
if  we  have  a  mind  to  relish  anything  else.  It 
would  therefore  very  well  become  your  spectato- 
rial  vigilance,  to  give  it  in  orders  to  your  officer 
for  inspecting  signs,  that  in  his  march  he  would 
look  into  the  itinerants  who  deal  in  provisions, 
and  inquire  where  they  buy  their  several  wares. 
Ever  since  the  decease  of  Colly-Molly-Puff,  of 
agreeable  and  noisy  memory,  I  cannot  say  I  have 
observed  anything  sold  in  carts,  or  carried  by 
horse  or  ass,  or,  in  fine,  in  any  moving  market, 
which  is  not  perished  or  putrefied;  witness  the 
wheelbarrows  of  rotten  raisins,  almonds,  figs,  and 
currants,  which  you  see  vended  by  a  merchant 
dressed  in  a  second  hand  suit  of  a  foot-soldier. 
You  should  consider  that  a  child  may  be  poi¬ 
soned  for  the  worth  of  a  farthing;  but  except  his 
poor  parents  send  to  one  certain  doctor  in  town, 
they  can  have  no  advice  for  him  under  a  guinea. 
When  poisons  are  thus  cheap,  and  medicines  thus 
dear,  how  can  you  be  negligent  in  inspecting  what 
we  eat  and  drink,  or  take  no  notice  of  such  as  the 
above-mentioned  citizens  who  have  been  so  service¬ 
able  to  us  of  late  in  that  particular?  It  was  a 
custom  among  the  old  Romans,  to  do  him  particu¬ 
lar  honors  who  had  saved  the  life  of  a  citizen. 
How  much  more  does  the  world  owe  to  those  who 
prevent  the  death  of  multitudes !  As  these  men 
deserve  well  of  your  officers,  so  such  as  act  to  the 
detriment  of  our  health  you  ought  to  represent  to 
themselves  and  their  fellow  subjects  in  the  colors 
which  they  deserve  to  wear.  I  think  it  would  be 
for  the  public  good,  that  all  who  vend  wines  should 
be  under  oath  in  that  behalf.  The  chairman  at 
the  quarter-sessions  should  inform  the  country, 
that  the  vintner  who  mixes  wine  to  his  customers 
shall  (upon  proof  that  the  drinker  thereof  died 
within  a  year  and  a  day  after  taking  it)  be  deemed 
guilty  of  willful  murder,  and  the  jury  shall  be  in¬ 
structed  to  inquire  and  present  such  delinquents 
accordingly.  It  is  no  mitigation  of  the  crime,  nor 
will  it  be  conceived  that  it  can  be  brought  in 
chance-medley  or  manslaughter,  upon  proof  that 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


it,  shall  appear  wine  joined  to  wine,  or  right 
Herefordshire  poured  into  Port  0  Port:  but  his 
selling  it  for  one  thing,  knowing  it  to  be  another, 
must  justly  bear  the  aforesaid  guilt  of  willful  mur¬ 
der:  for  that  he,  the  said  vintner,  did  an  unlawful 
act  willingly  in  the  false  mixture,  and  is  therefore 
with  equity  liable  to  all  the  pains  to  which  a  man 
would  be,  if  it  were  proved  that  he  designed  only 
to  run  a  man  through  the  arm  whom  he  whipped 
through  the  lungs.  This  is  ray  third  year  at  the 
Temple,  and  this  is,  or  should  be,  law.  An  ill 
intention,  well  proved,  should  meet  with  no  allevia¬ 
tion  because  it  outran  itself.  There  cannot  be  too 
great  severity  used  against  the  injustice  as  well  as 
cruelty  of  those  who  play  with  men’s  lives,  by 
preparing  liquors  whose  nature,  for  aught  they 
know,  may  be  noxious  when  mixed,  though  inno¬ 
cent  when  apart  :  and  Brooke  and  Hellier,  who 
have  insured  our  safety  at  our  meals,  and  driven 
jealousy  from  our  cups  in  conversation,  deserve 
the  custom  and  thanks  of  the  whole  town:  and  it 
is  your  duty  to  remind  them  of  the  obligation. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

“Tom  Pottle.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  a  person  who  was  long  immured  in  a  col¬ 
lege,  read  much,  saw  little;  so  that  I  knew  no 
more  ot  the  world  than  what  a  lecture  or  a  view 
of  the  map  taught  me.  By  this  means  I  improved 
in  my  study,  but  became  unpleasant  in  conversa¬ 
tion.  By  conversing  generally  with  the  dead,  I 
grew  almost  unfit  for  the  society  of  the  living;  so 
by  a  long  confinement  I  contracted  an  ungainly 
aversion  to  conversation,  and  ever  discoursed  with 
pain  to  myself,  and  little  entertainment  to  others. 
At  last  I  was  in  some  measure  made  sensible  of 
my  failing,  and  the  mortification  of  never  being 
spoke*  to,  or  speaking,  unless  the  discourse  ran 
upon  books,  put  me  upon  forcing  myself  among 
men.  I  immediately  affected  the  politest  compa 
ny,  by  the  frequent  use  of  which  1  hoped  to  wear 
off  the  rust  I  had  contracted  :  but,  by  an  uncouth 
imitation  of  men  used  to  act  in  public,  I  got  no 
further  than  to  discover  I  had  a  mind  to  appear  a 
finer  thing  than  I  really  was 

“  Such  1  was,  and  such  was  my  condition,  when 
I  became  an  ardent  lover,  and  passionate  admirer 
of  the  beauteous  Belinda.  Then  it  was  that  I 
really  began  to  improve.  This  passion  changed 
all  my  fears  and  diffidences  in  my  general  beha¬ 
vior  to  the  sole  concern  of  pleasing  her.  I  had 
not  now  to  study  the  action  of  a  gentleman  ;  but 
love  possessing  all  my  thoughts,  made  me  truly  be 
the  thing  I  had  a  mind  to  appear.  My  thoughts 
grew  free  and  generous,  and  the  ambition  to  be 
agreeable  to  her  1  admired  produced  in  my  carriage 
a  taint  similitude  of  that  disengaged  manner  of  my 
Belinda.  The  way  we  are  in  at  present  is,  that  she 
sees  my  passion,  and  sees  I  at  present  forbear 
speaking  of  it  through  prudential  regards.  This 
respect  to  her  she  returns  with  much  civility,  and 
makes  my  value  for  her  as  little  a  misfortune  to 
me  as  is  consistent  with  discretion.  She  sings 
very  charmingly,  and  is  readier  to  do  so  at  my  re¬ 
quest,  because  she  knows  I  love  her.  She  will 
dance  with  me  rather  than  another  for  the  same 
reason.  My  fortune  must  alter  from  what  it  is 
before  I  can  speak  my  heart  to  her;  and  her  cir¬ 
cumstances  are  not  considerable  enough  to  make 
up  for  the  narrowness  of  mine.  But  I  write  to 
you  now,  only  to  give  you  the  character  of  Belin¬ 
da,  as  a  woman  that  has  address  enough  to  de¬ 
monstrate  a  gratitude  to  her  lover,  without  giving 
him.,  hopes  of  success  in  his  passion.  Belinda 


*  The  preterite  for  the  participle. 


447 

lias,  from  a  great  wit,  governed  by  as  great  pru¬ 
dence,  and  both  adorned  with  innocence,  the  hap¬ 
piness  ot  always  being  ready  to  discover  her  real 
thoughts.  She  has  many  of  us  who  now  are  her 
admirers;  but  her  treatment  of  us  is  so  just  and 
proportioned  to  our  merit  toward  her,  and  what  we 
are  in  ourselves,  that  I  protest  to  you  I  have 
neither  jealousy  nor  hatred  toward  my  rivals. 
Sucli  is  her  goodness,  and  the  acknowledghient  of 
every  man  who  admires  her,  that  he  thinks  he 
ought  to  believe  she  will  take  him  who  best  de- 
seives  her.  I  will  not  say  that  this  peace  among 
us  is  not  owing  to  self-love,  which  prompts  each 
to  think  himself  the  best  deserver.  I  think  there 
is  something  uncommon  and  worthy  of  imitation 
in  this  lady’s  character.  If  you  will  please  to 
print  my  letter,  you  will  oblige  the  little  fraternity 
ol  happy  rivals,  and  in  a  more  particular  manner, 
“  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

“Will  Cymon.” 


Xo.  363.]  SATURDAY,  APRIL  26,  1712. 

■ - Crudelis  ubique 

Luc-tus  ubique  pavor,  et  plurima  mortis  imago. 

ViRG.,  A2n.  ii,  368. 

All  parts  resound  with  tumults,  plaints,  and  fears, 

And  grisly  Death  in  sundry  shapes  appears. 

Dryden. 

Milton  lias  shown  a  wonderful  art  in  describ¬ 
ing  that  variety  of  passions  which  arose  in  our 
first  parents  upon  the  breach  of  the  commandment 
that  had  been  given  them.  We  see  them  gradu¬ 
ally  passing  from  the  triumph  of  their  guilt, 
through  remorse,  shame,  despair,  contrition, 
prayer,  and  hope,  to  a  perfect  and  complete  repent¬ 
ance.  At  the  end  ot  the  tenth  book  they  are  re¬ 
presented  as  prostrating  themselves  upon  the 
ground,  and  watering  the  earth  with  their  tears  : 
to  which  the  poet  joins'  this  beautiful  circum¬ 
stance,  that  they  offered  up  their  penitential 
prayers  on  the  very  place  where  their  judge  ap¬ 
peared  to  them  when  he  pronounced  their  sen¬ 
tence  : — 

- - They  forthwith  to  the  place 

Repairing  where  he  judg’d  them,  prostrate  fell 
Before  him  rey’rent,  and  both  confess’d 
Humbly  their  faults,  and  pardon  begg’d,  with  tears 
Watering  the  ground - . 

There*  is  a  beauty  of  the  same  kind  in  a  tragedy 
of  Sophocles,  where  CEdipus,  after  having  put 
out  his  own  eyes,  instead  of  breaking  his  neck 
from  the  palace  battlements  (which  furnishes  so 
elegant  an  entertainment  for  our  English  audience), 
desires  that  he  may  be  conducted  to  Mount  Cithaj- 
ron,  in  order  to  end  his  life  in  that  very  place 
where  he  was  exposed  in  his  infancy,  and  where 
he  should  then  have  died,  had  the  will  of  his  pa¬ 
rents  been  executed. 

As  the  author  never  fails  to  give  a  poetical  turn 
to  his  sentiments,  he  describes  in  the  beginning 
of  this  book  of  acceptance  which  these  their 
prayers  met  with  a  short  allegory  formed  upon 
that  beautiful  passage  in  holy  writ,  “And  another 
angel  came  and  stood  at  the  altar,  having  a  golden 
censer;  and  there  was  given  unto  him  much  in¬ 
cense,  that  he  should  offer  it  with  the  prayers  of 
all  saints  upon  thd  golden  altar,  which  was  before 
the  throne  :  and  the  smoke  of  the  incense,  which 


*  This  paragraph  was  not  in  the  original  paper  in  folio;  it 
was  added  on  the  republication  of  the  papers  in  volumes, 
when  the  eighteen  numbers,  of  which  Addison’s  critique  on 
Paradise  Lost  consists,  seem  to  have  been  carefully  revised 
by  their  author,  and  to  have  undergone  various  and  conside¬ 
rable  alterations  in  consequence  of  his  revisal. 


THE  SPECTATOR 


448 

came  with  the  prayers  of  the  saints,  ascended  np 
before  God.”* 

- To  heaven  their  prayers 

Flew  up,  nor  miss’d  the  way,  by  envious  winds 
Blown  vagabond  or  frustrate;  in  they  pass'd 
Dimensionless  through  heavenly  doors,  then  clad 
With  incense,  where  the  golden  altar  fum’d 
By  their  great  Intercessor,  came  in  sight 
Before  the  Father’s  throne - . 

We  have  the  same  thought  expressed  a  second 
time  in  the  intercession  of  the  Messiah,  which  is 
conceived  in  very  empliatical  sentiments  and  ex¬ 
pressions. 

Among  the  poetical  parts  of  Scripture,  which 
Milton  has  so  finely  wrought  into  this  part  of  his 
narration,  I  must  not  omit  that  wherein  Ezekiel, 
speaking  of  the  angels  who  appeared  to  him  in  a 
vision,  adds,  that  every  one  had  four  faces,  and 
that  their  whole  bodies,  and  their  backs,  and  their 
hands,  and  their  wings,  were  full  of  eyes  round 
about : 

- The  cohort  bright 

Of  watchful  cherubim,  four  faces  each 
Had,  like  a  double  Janus,  all  their  shape 
Spangled  with  eyes - . 

The  assembling  of  all  the  angels  of  heaven,  to 
hear  the  solemn  decree  passed  upon  man,  is  re- 
resented  in  very  lively  ideas.  The  Almighty  is 
ere  described  as  remembering  mercy  in  the  midst 
of  judgment,  and  commanding  Michael  to  deliver 
his  message  in  the  mildest  terms,  lest  the  spirit  of 
man,  which  wTas  already  broken  with  the  sense  of 
his  guilt  and  misery,  should  fail  before  him : 

- Yet  lest  they  faint 

And  the  sad  sentence  rigorously  urg’d, 

For  I  behold  them  soften’d,  and  with  tears 
Bewailing  their  excess,  all  terror  hide. 

The  conference  of  Adam  and  Eve  is  full  of  mov¬ 
ing  sentiments.  Upon  their  going  abroad,  after 
the  melancholy  night  which  they  had  passed  to¬ 
gether,  they  discover  the  lion  and  the  eagle,  each 
of  them  pursuing  their  prey  toward  the  eastern 
gates  of  Paradise.  There  is  a  double  beauty  in 
this  incident,  not  only  as  it  presents  great  and 
just  omens,  which  are  always  agreeable  in  poetry, 
but  as  it  expresses  that  enmity  which  was  now 
produced  in  the  animal  creation.  The  poet,  to 
show  the  like  changes  in  nature,  as  well  as  to 
grace  his  fable  with  a  noble  prodigy,  represents 
the  sun  in  an  eclipse.  This  particular  incident 
has  likewise  a  fine  effect  upon  the  imagination  of 
the  reader,  in  regard  to  what  follows;  for  at  the 
same  time  that  the  sun  is  under  an  eclipse,  a 
bright  cloud  descends  in  the  western  quarter  of 
the  heavens  filled  with  a  host  of  angels,  and  more 
luminous  than  the  sun  itself.  The  whole  theater 
of  nature  is  darkened,  that  this  glorious  machine 
may  appear  with  all  its  luster  and  magnificence  : 

- Why  in  the  east 

Darkness  ere  day’s  mid-course?  and  morning  light 
More  orient  in  yon  western  cloud  that  draws 
O’er  the  blue  firmament  a  radiant  white, 

And  slow  descends  with  something  heavenly  fraught  ? 
He  err’d  not  for  by  this  the  heavenly  bands 
Down  from  a  sky  of  jasper  lighted  now 
In  Paradise,  and  on  a  hill  made  halt; 

A  glorious  apparition - . 

I  need  not  observe  how  properly  this  author, 
who  always  suits  his  parts  to  the  actors  whom  he 
introduces,  has  employed  Michael  in  the  expulsion 
of  our  first  parents  from  Paradise.  The  archangel 
on  this  occasion  neither  appears  in  his  proper 
shape,  nor  in  the  familiar  manner  with  which  Ra¬ 


phael.  the  sociable  spirit,  entertained  the  father  of 
mankind  before  the  fall.  His  person,  his  port,  and 
behavior,  are  suitable  to  a  spirit  of  the  highest 
rank,  and  exquisitely  described  in  the  following 
passage ; 

- Th’  archangel  soon  drew  nigh, 

Not  in  his  shape  celestial;  but  as  man 
Clad  to  meet  man:  over  his  lucid  arms 
A  military  vest  of  purple  flow’d, 

Livelier  than  Meliboean,  or  the  grain 
Of  Sarra,  worn  by  kings  and  heroes  old, 

In  time  of  truce:  Iris  had  dipp’d  the  woof: 

His  starry  helm,  unbuckl’d,  show’d  him  prime 
In  manhood  where  youth  ended;  by  his  side, 

As  in  a  glist’ring  zodiac,  hung  the  sword, 

Satan’s  dire  dread,  and  in  his  hand  a  spear. 

Adam  bow’d  low;  he  kindly  from  his  state 
Inclin’d  not,  but  his  coming  thus  declared. 

Eve’s  complaint,  upon  hearing  that  she  was  to 
be  removed  from  the  garden  of  Paradise,  is  won¬ 
derfully  beautiful.  The  sentiments  are  not  only 
proper  to  the  subject,  but  have  something  in  them 
particularly  soft  and  womanish  : 

Must  I  thus  leave  thee,  Paradise?  Thus  leave 
Thee,  native  soil,  these  happy  walks  and  shades, 

Fit  haunt  of  gods,  where  I  had  hope  to  spend 
Quiet,  though  sad,  the  respite  of  that  day 
That  must  be  mortal  to  us  both  ?  0  flowers, 

That  never  will  in  other  climate  grow, 

My  early  visitation,  and  my  last 

At  even,  which  I  bred  up  with  tender  hand 

From  the  first  opening  bud,  and  gave  ye  names! 

Who  now  shall  rear  you  to  the  sun,  or  rank 

Your  tribes,  and  water  from  the  ambrosial  fount? 

Thee,  lastly,  nuptial  bower,  by  me  adorn’d 

With  what  to  sight  or  smell  was  sweet:  from  thee 

How  shall  I  part?  and  whither  wander  down 

Into  a  lower  world,  to  this,  obscure 

And  wild?  How  shall  we  breathe  in  other  air 

Less  pure,  accustomed  to  immortal  fruits? 

Adam’s  speech  abounds  with  thoughts  which 
are  equally  moving,  but  of  a  more  masculine  and 
elevated  turn.  Nothing  can  be  conceived  more 
sublime  and  poetical  than  the  following  passage 
in  it : 

This  most  afflicts  me,  that  departing  hence 
As  from  his  face  1  shall  be  hid,  depriv’d 
His  blessed  count’nance;  here  I  could  frequent, 

With  worship,  place  by  place  where  he  vouchsaf’d 
Presence  divine;  and  to  my  sons  relate, 

On  this  mount  he  appeared,  under  this  tree 
Stood  visible,  among  these  pines  his  voice 
I  heard ;  here  with  him  at  this  fountain  talk’d : 

So  many  grateful  altars  I  would  rear 
Of  grassy  turf,  and  pile  up  every  stone 
Of  luster  from  the  brook,  in  memory 
Or  monuments  to  ages,  and  thereon 
Offer  sweet-smelling  gums  and  fruits  and  flow’rs. 

In  yonder  nether  world,  where  shall  I  seek 
His  bright  appearances,  or  footsteps  trace? 

For  though  I  fled  him  angry,  yet  recalled 
To  life  prolong’d  and  promis’d  race,  I  now 
Gladly  behold  though  but  his  utmost  skirts 
Of  glory,  and  far  off  his  steps  adore. 

The  angel  afterward  leads  Adam  to  the  highest 
mount  of  Paradise,  and  lays  before  him  a  whole 
hemisphere,  as  a  proper  stage  for  those  visions 
which  were  to  be  represented  on  it.  I  have  before  ob¬ 
served  how  the  plan  of  Milton’s  poem  is,  in  many 
particulars,  greater  than  that  of  the  Iliad  or 
HEneid.  Virgil’s  hero,  in  the  last  of  these  poems, 
is  entertained  with  a  sight  of  all  those  who  are  to 
descend  from  him;  but  though  that  episode  is 
justly  admired  as  one  of  the  noblest  designs  in 
the  whole  HEneid,  every  one  must  allow  that  this 
of  Milton  is  of  a  much  higher  nature.  Adam’s 
vision  is  not  confined  to  any  particular  tribe  of 
mankind,  but  extends  to  the  whole  species. 

In  this  great  review  which  Adam  frakes  of  all 
his  sons  and  daughters,  the  first  objects  he  is  pre¬ 
sented  with  exhibit  to  him  the  story  of  Cain  and 
Abel,  which  is  drawn  together  with  much  close- 
I  ness  and  propriety  of  expression.  The  curiosity 


*  Rev.,  viii,  3,  4. 


THE  SPE  OT  ATOR. 


and  natural  horror  which  arises  in  Adam  at  the 
sight  of  the  first  dying  man  is  touched  with  great 
beauty: 

But  have  I  now  seen  death?  Is  this  the  way 
I  must  return  to  native  dust?  O  sight 
Of  terror  foul,  and  ugly  to  behold! 

Horrid  to  think,  how  horrible  to  feel! 

The  second  vision  sets  before  him  the  image  of 
death,  in  a  great  variety  of  appearances.  The 
angel,  to  give  him  a  general  idea  of  those  effects 
which  his  guilt  had  brought  upon  his  posterity, 
places  before  him  a  large  hospital,  or  lazar-house, 
filled  with  persons  lying  under  all  kinds  of  mortal 
diseases.  How  finely  has  the  poet  told  us  that  the 
sick  persons  languished  under  lingering  and  incu¬ 
rable  distempers,  by  an  apt  and  judicious  use  of 
such  imaginary  beings  as  those  I  mentioned  in  my 
last  Saturday’s  paper ! 

Hire  was  the  tossing,  deep  the  groans  ;  Despair 
Tended  the  sick,  busiest  from  couch  to  couch; 

And  over  them  triumphant  Death  his  dart 
Shook,  but  delay’d  to  strike,  tho’  oft  invok’d 
With  vows,  as  their  chief  good  and  final  hope. 

The  passion  which  likewise  rises  in  Adam  on 
this  occasion  is  very  natural : 

Sight  so  deform  what  heart  of  rock  could  long 
Dry-ey’d  behold?  Adam  could  not,  but  wept 
Tho’  not  of  woman  born;  compassion  quell’d 
His  best  of  man,  and  gave  him  up  to  tears. 

The  discourse  between  the  angel  and  Adam 
which  follows,  abounds  with  noble  morals. 

As  there  is  nothing  more  delightful  in  poetry 
than  a  contrast  and  opposition  of  incidents,  the 
author,  after  this  melancholy  prospect  of  death 
and  sickness,  raises  up  a  scene  of  mirth,  love,  and 
jollity.  The  secret  pleasure  that  steals  into 
Adam  s  heart,  as  he  is  intent  upon  this  vision,  is 
imagined  with  great  delicacy.  I  must  not  omit 
the  description  of  the  loose  female  troop,  who  se¬ 
duced  the  sons  of  God,  as  they  are  called  in  Scrip¬ 
ture. 

For  that  fair  female  troop  thou  saw’st,  that  seem’d 
Of  goddesses,  so  blythe,  so  smooth,  so  gay, 

Yet  empty  of  all  good,  wherein  consists 
Woman’s  domestic  honor,  and  chief  praise; 

Bred  only  and  completed  to  the  taste 
Of  lustful  appetence,  to  sing,  to  dance, 

To  dress,  and  troll  the  tongue,  and  roll  the  eye. 

To  these  that  sober  race  of  men,  whose  lives 
Religious  titled  them  the  sons  of  God, 

Shall  yield  up  all  their  virtue,  all  their  fame, 

Ignobly,  to  the  trains  and  to  the  smiles 
Of  these  fair  atheists - . 

The  next  vision  is  of  a  quite  contrary  nature, 
and  filled  with  the  horrors  of  war.  Adam  at  the 
sight  of  it  melts  into  tears,  and  breaks  out  into 
that  passionate  speech, 

-0  what  are  these! 


449 


wanton  imaginations  which  Seneca  found  fault 
with,  as  unbecoming  this  great  catastrophe  of  na- 
Uire.  If  our  poet  has  imitated  that  verse  in  which 
Ovid  tells  us  that  there  was  nothing  but  sea,  and 
that  this  sea  had  no  shore  to  it,  he  has  not  set  the 
ought  m  such  a  light  as  to  incur  the  censure 
ich  critics  have  passed  upon  it.  The  latter 
part  of  that  verse  in  Ovid  is  idle  and  superfluous, 
but  just  and  beautiful  in  Milton. 

Jamque  mare  et  tellus  nullum  discrimen  habebant; 
r<il  nisi  pontus  erat;  deerant  quoque  littora  ponto 

Ovid,  Metam.  i,  291 

Now  seas  and  earth  were  in  confusion  lost; 

A  world  of  waters,  and  without  a  coast. — Dkyden 


Sea  without  shore 


•Sea  cover’d  sea, 


-Milton. 


In  Milton,  the  former  part  of  the  description 
does  not  forestall  the  latter.  How  much  more 
great  and  solemn  on  this  occasion  is  that  which 
follows  in  our  English  poet. 


— - And  in  their  palaces, 

Where  luxury  late  reign’d,  sea-monsters  whelp’d 
And  stabled - - 

than  that  in  Ovid,  where  we  are  told  that  the  sea- 
calf  lay  in  those  places  where  the  goats  were  used 
to  browse!  The  reader  may  find  several  other 
parallel  passages  in  the  Latin  and  English  descrip¬ 
tion  of  the  deluge,  wherein  our  poet  has  visibly 
the  advantage.  The  sky’s  being  overcharged 
with  clouds,  the  descending  of  the  rains,  the  ris¬ 
ing  of  the  seas,  and  the  appearance  of  the  rain¬ 
bow,  are  such  descriptions  as  every  one  must  take 
notice  of.  The  circumstance  relating  to  Paradise 
is  so  finely  imagined,  and  suitable  to  the  opinions 
of  many  learned  authors,  that  I  cannot  forbear 
giving  it  a  place  in  this  paper. 

-Then  shall  this  mount 


Death’s  ministers,  not  men,  who  thus  deal  death 
Inhumanly  to  men,  and  multiply 
Ten  thousandfold  the  sin  of  him  who  slew 
His  brother:  for  of  whom  such  massacre 
Make  they,  but  of  their  brethren,  men  of  men  ? 

Milton,  to  keep  up  an  agreeable  variety  in  his 
visions,  after  having  raised  in  the  mind  of  his 
reader  the  several  ideas  of  terror  which  are  con¬ 
formable  to  the  description  of  war,  passes  on  to 
those  softer  images  of  triumphs  and  festivals,  in 
that  vision  of  lewdness  and  luxury  which  ushers 
in  the  flood. 

As^  it  is  visible  that  the  poet  had  his  eye  upon 
Ovid’s  account  of  the  universal  deluge,  the  reader 
may  observe  with  how  much  judgment  he  has 
avoided  everything  that  is  redundant  or  puerile  in 
the  Latin  poet.  We  do  not  here  see  the  wolf 
swimming  among  the  sheep,  nor  any  of  those 
29 


Of  Paradise,  by  might  of  waves,  he  mov’d 
Out  of  his  place,  push’d  by  the  horned  flood ; 

With  all  his  verdure  spoil’d,  and  trees  adrift 
Down  the  great  river  to  th’  opening  gulf. 

And  there  take  root;  an  island  salt  and  bare, 

The  haunt  of  seals  and  ores  and  sea-mews’  clang. 

The  transition  which  the  poet  makes  from  the 
vision  of  the  deluge,  to  the  concern  it  occasioned 
in  Adam,  is  exquisitely  graceful,  and  copied  after 
Virgil,  though  the  first  thought  it  introduces  is 
rather  in  the  spirit  of  Ovid : 

How  didst  thou  grieve  then,  Adam,  to  behold 
The  end  of  all  thy  offspring,  end  so  sad, 
Depopulation!  Thee  another  flood, 

Of  tears  and  sorrow,  a  flood,  thee  also  drown’d, 

And  sunk  thee  as  thy  sons:  till  gently  rear’d 
By  th’  angel,  on  thy  feet  thou  stood’st  at  last, 

Tho’  comfortless,  as  when  a  father  mourns 
His  children  all  in  view  destroy’d  at  once. 

I  have  been  the  more  particular  in  my  quota¬ 
tions  out  of  the  eleventh  book  of  Paradise  Lost, 
because  it  is  not  generally  reckoned  among  the 
most  shining  books  of  this  poem;  for  which  rea¬ 
son  the  reader  might  be  apt  to  overlook  those 
many  passages  in  it  which  deserve  our  admira¬ 
tion.  The  eleventh  and  twelfth  are  indeed  built 
upon  that  single  circumstance  of  the  removal  of 
our  first  parents  from  Paradise;  but  though  this  is 
not  in  itself  so  great  a  subject  as  that  in  most  of 
the  foregoing  books,  it  is  extended  and  diversified 
with  so  many  surprising  incidents  and  pleasing 
episodes,  that  these  two  last  books  can  by  no 
means  be  looked  upon  as  unequal  parts  of  this  di¬ 
vine  poem.  I  must  further  add,  that  had  not  Mil- 
ton  represented  our  first  parents  as  driven  out  of 
Paradise,  his  fall  of  man  would  not  have  been 
complete,  and  consequently  his  action  would  have 
been  imperfect. — L. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


450 

No.  364.]  MONDAY,  APRIL  28,  1712. 

- Nayibus  atque 

Quadrigis  petimus  bene  vivere. 

Hor.  1  Ep.  xi,  29. 

Anxious  through  seas  and  land  to  search  for  rest, 

Is  but  laborious  idleness  at  best. — Francis. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  A  lady  of  my  acquaintance,  for  whom  I  have 
too  much  respect  to  be  easy  while  she  is  doing  an 
indiscreet  action,  has  given  occasion  to  this  trou¬ 
ble.  She  is  a  widow  to  whom  the  indulgence  of 
a  tender  husband  has  intrusted  the  management 
of  a  very  great  fortune,  and  a  son  about  sixteen, 
both  which  she  is  extremely  fond  of.  The  boy 
has  parts  of  the  middle  size,  neither  shining  nor 
despicable,  and  has  passed  the  common  exercises 
of  nis  years  with  tolerable  advantage,  but  is 
withal  what  you  would  call  a  forward  youth :  by 
the  help  of  this  last  qualification,  which  serves  as 
a  varnish  to  all  the  rest,  he  is  enabled  to  make  the 
best  use  of  his  learning,  and  display  it  at  full 
length  upon  all  occasions.  Last  summer  he  dis¬ 
tinguished  himself  two  or  three  times  very  re¬ 
markably,  by  puzzling  the  vicar  before  an  assem¬ 
bly  of  most  of  the  ladies  in  the  neighborhood; 
and  from  such  weighty  considerations  as  these,  as 
it  too  often  unfortunately  falls  out,  the  mother  is 
become  invincibly  persuaded  that  her  son  is  a 
great  scholar;  and  that  to  chain  him  down  to  the 
ordinary  methods  of  education,  with  others  of  his 
age,  would  be  to  cramp  his  faculties,  and  do  an 
irreparable  injury  to  his  wonderful  capacity. 

“  I  happened  to  visit  at  the  house  last  week, 
and  missing  the  young  gentleman  at  the  tea-table, 
where  he  seldom  fails  to  officiate,  could  not  upon 
so  extraordinary  a  circumstance  avoid  inquiring 
after  him.  My  lady  told  me  he  was  gone  out  with 
her  woman,  in  order  to  make  some  preparation  for 
their  equipage;  for  that  she  intended  very  speed¬ 
ily  to  carry  him  to  ( travel.'  The  oddness  of  the 
expression  shocked  me  a  little;  however,  I  soon 
recovered  myself  enough  to  let  her  know,  that  all 
I  was  willing  to  understand  by  it  was,  that  she 
designed  this  summer  to  show  her  son  his  estate 
in  a  distant  county,  in  which  he  had  never  yet 
been.  But  she  soon  took  care  to  rob  me  of  that 
agreeable  mistake,  and  let  me  into  the  whole  af¬ 
fair.  She  enlarged  upon  young  master’s  prodi¬ 
gious  improvements,  ana  his  comprehensive 
knowledge  of  all  book-learning;  concluding,  that 
it  was  now  high  time  he  should  be  made  ac¬ 
quainted  with  men  and  things  :  that  she  had  re¬ 
solved  he  should  make  the  tour  of  France  and 
Italy,  but  could  not  bear  to  have  him  out  of  her 
sight,  and  therefore  intended  to  go  along  with  him. 

“  I  was  going  to  rally  her  for  so  extravagant  a 
resolution,  but  found  myself  not  in  a  fit  humor  to 
meddle  with  a  subject  that  demanded  the  most 
soft  and  delicate  touch  imaginable.  I  was  afraid 
of  dropping  something  that  might  seem  to  bear 
hard  either  upon  the  son’s  abilities,  or  the  mo¬ 
ther’s  discretion,  being  sensible  that  in  both  these 
cases,  though  supported  with  all  the  powers  of 
reason,  I  should,  instead  of  gaining  her  ladyship 
over  to  my  opinion,  only  expose  myself  to  her 
disesteem  :  I  therefore  immediately  determined  to 
refer  the  whole  matter  to  the  Spectator. 

“  When  I  came  to  reflect  at  night,  as  my  custom 
is,  upon  the  occurrences  of  the  day,  I  could  not 
but  believe  that  this  humor  of  carrying  a  boy  to 
travel  in  his  mother’s  lap,  and  that  upon  a  pre¬ 
tense  of  learning  men  and  things,  is  a  case  of  an 
extraordinary  nature,  and  carries  on  it  a  peculiar 
stamp  of  folly.  I  did  not  remember  to  have  met  with 
its  parallel  within  the  compass  of  my  observation, 
though  I  could  call  to  mind  some  not  extremely 


unlike  it.  From  hence  my  thoughts  took  occa¬ 
sion  to  ramble  into  the  general  notion  of  travel¬ 
ing,  as  it  is  now  made  a  part  of  education 
Nothing  is  more  frequent  than  to  take  a  lad  from 
grammar  and  taw,  and,  under  the  tuition  of  some 
poor  scholar,  who  is  willing  to  be  banished  for 
thirty  pounds  a  year  and  a  little  victuals,  send 
him  crying  and  sniveling  into  foreign  countries. 
Thus  he  spends  his  time  as  children  do  at  puppet- 
shows,  and  with  much  the  same  advantage,  in 
staring  and  gaping  at  an  amazing  variety  of 
strange  things;  strange  indeed  to  one  who  is  not 
prepared  to  comprehend  the  reasons  and  mean¬ 
ing  of  them,  while  he  should  be  laying  the 
solid  foundations  of  knowledge  in  his  mind,  and 
furnishing  it  with  just  rules  to  direct  his  future 
progress  in  life  under  some  skillful  master  of  the 
art  of  instruction. 

“  Can  there  be  a  more  astonishing  thought  in 
nature,  than  to  consider  how  men  should  fall  into 
so  palpable  a  mistake?  It  is  a  large  field,  and 
may  very  well  exercise  a  sprightly  genius  ;  but 
I  do  not  remember  you  have  yet  taken  a  turn  in  it. 
I  wish,  Sir,  you  would  make  people  understand, 
that  ‘  travel  ’  is  really  the  last  step  to  be  taken  in 
the  institution  of  youth  ;  and  that  to  set  out  with 
it,  is  to  begin  where  they  should  end. 

“  Certainly  the  true  end  of  visiting  foreign  parts 
is  to  look  into  their  customs  and  policies,  ana  ob¬ 
serve  in  what  particulars  they  excel  or  come  short 
of  our  own  ;  to  unlearn  some  old  peculiarities  in 
our  manners,  and  wear  off  such  awkward  stiffnesses 
and  affectations  in  our  behavior,  as  may  possibly 
have  been  contracted  from  constantly  associating 
with  one  nation  of  men,  by  a  more  free,  general, 
and  mixed  conversation.  But  how  can  any  of 
these  advantages  be  attained  by  one  who  is  a  mere 
stranger  to  the  customs  and  policies  of  his  native 
country,  and  has  not  yet  fixed  in  his  mind  the 
first  principles  of  manners  and  behavior?  To 
endeavor  it,  is  to  build  a  gaudy  structure  without 
any  foundation  ;  or,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  ex¬ 
pression,  to  work  a  rich  embroidery  upon  a  cobweb. 

“  Another  end  of  traveling,  which  deserves  to 
be  considered,  is  the  improving  our  taste  of  the 
best  authors  of  antiquity,  by  seeing  the  places 
where  they  lived,  and  of  which  they  wrote ;  to 
compare  the  natural  face  of  the  country  with  the 
descriptions  they  have  given  us,  and  observe  how 
well  the  picture  agrees  with  the  original.  This 
must  certainly  be  a  most  charming  exercise  to  the 
mind  that  is  rightly  turned  for  it;  beside  that  it 
may  in  a  good  measure  be  made  subservient  to 
morality,  if  the  person  is  capable  of  drawing  just 
conclusions  concerning  the  uncertainty  of  human 
things,  from  the  ruinous  alterations  time  and  bar¬ 
barity  have  brought  upon  so  many  places,  cities, 
and  whole  countries,  which  make  the  most  illus¬ 
trious  figures  in  history.  And  this  hint  may  be 
not  a  little  improved  by  examining  every  spot  of 
ground  that  we  find  celebrated  as  the  scene  of 
some  famous  action,  or  retaining  any  footsteps  of 
a  Cato,  Cicero,  or  Brutus,  or  some  such  great 
virtuous  man.  A  nearer  view  of  any  such  parti¬ 
cular,  though  really  little  and  trifling  in  itself, 
may  serve  the  more  powerfully  to  warm  a  gene¬ 
rous  mind  to  an  emulation  of  their  virtues,  and 
a  greater  ardency  of  ambition  to  imitate  their 
bright  examples,  if  it  comes  duly  tempered  and 
prepared  for  the  impression.  But  this  1  believe 
you  will  hardly  think  those  to  be,  who  are  so 
far  from  entering  into  the  sense  and  spirit  of  the 
ancients,  that  they  do  not  yet  understand  their 
language  with  any  exactness.* 


*The  following  paragraph,  in  the  first  edition  of  this  paper 
in  folio,  whether  written  originally  by  the  Earl  of  Il&rdwicke, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


“  But  I  have  wandered  from  my  purpose,  which 
was  only  to  desire  you  to  save,  if  possible,  a  fond 
English  mother,  and  mother’s  own  son,  from 
being  shown  a  ridiculous  spectacle  through  the 
most  polite  part  of  Europe.  Pray  tell  them,  that 
though  to  be  sea-sick,  or  jumbled  in  an  outlandish 
stage-coach,  may  perhaps  be  healthful  for  the 
constitution  of  the  body,  yet  it  is  apt  to  cause 
such  a  dizziness  in  young  empty  heads  as  too 
often  lasts  their  lifetime. 

“  I  am>  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

“  Philip  Homebred.” 

**  ®IR>  Birchin-lane. 

“  I  was  married  on  Sunday  last,  and  went 
peaceably  to  bed ;  but,  to  my  surprise,  was 
awakened  the  next  morning  by  the  thunder  of  a 
set  of  drums.  These  warlike  sounds  (methinks) 
are  very  improper,  in  a  marriage-concert,  and 
give  great  offense;  they  seem  to  insinuate,  that 
joys  of  this  state  are  short,  and  that  jars  and 
discord  soon  ensue.  I  fear  they  have  been  omin¬ 
ous  to  many  matches,  and  sometimes  proved  a 
prelude  to  a  battle  in  the  honeymoon.  A  nod 
from  you  may  hush  them;  therefore,  pray.  Sir,  let 
them  be  silenced,  that  for  the  future  none  but 
soft  airs  may  usher  in  the  morning  of  a  bridal 
night;  which  Will  be  a  favor  not  only  to  those 
who  come  after,  but  to  me,  who  can  still  sub¬ 
scribe  myself,  “  Y our  most  hu  mble, 

“  and  most  obedient  Servant, 

“  Robin  Bridegroom.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  one  of  that  sort  of  women  whom  the 
gayer  part  of  our  sex  are  apt  to  call  a  prude.  But 
to  show  them  that  I  have  a  very  little  regard  to 
their  raillery,  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  them  all  at 
the  Amorous  Widow,  or  the  Wanton  Wife,  which 
is  to  be  acted  for  the  benefit  of  Mrs.  Porter,  on 
Monday  the  28th  instant.  I  assure  you  I  can 
laugh  at  an  amorous  widow,  or  wanton  wife, 
with  as  little  temptation  to  imitate  them,  as  I 
could  at  any  other  vicious  character.  Mrs.  Porter 
obliged  me  so  very  much  in  the  exquisite  sense 
she  seemed  to  have  of  the  honorable  sentiments 
and  noble  passions  in  the  character  of  Hermione, 
that  I  shall  appear  in  her  behalf  at  a  comedy’ 
though  I  have  no  great  relish  for  any  entertain¬ 
ments  where  the  mirth  is  not  seasoned  with  a 
certain  severity,  which  ought  to  recommend  it  to 
people  who  pretend  to  keep  reason  and  authority 
over  all  their  actions.  I  am,  Sir, 

“  Your  frequent  Reader, 

“  Altamira.” 


451 


or  inserted  afterward  by  Sir  R.  Steele,  was  probably  suppress¬ 
ed  on  the  first  republication,  at  the  request  of  Addison.  It 
is  reprinted  here  from  the  Spect.  in  folio.  No.  364. 

1  cannot  quit  this  head  without  paying  my  acknowledg¬ 
ments  to  one  of  the  most  entertaining  pieces  this  age  has  pro¬ 
duced.  for  the  pleasure  it  gave  me.  You  will  easily  guess 
that  the  book  I  have  in  my  head  is  Mr.  Addison’s  Remarks 
upon  Italy.  That  ingenious  gentleman  has  with  so  much  art 
and  judgment  applied  his  exact  knowledge  of  all  the  parts 
of  classical  learning,  to  illustrate  the  several  occurrences  of 
his  travels,  that  his  work  alone  is  a  pregnant  proof  of  what 
1  have  said.  Nobody  that  has  a  taste  this  way.  can  read 
him  going  from  Rome  to  Naples,  and  making  Horace  and 
feiims  Italicus  his  chart,  but  he  must  feel  some  uneasiness  in 
himselt  to  reflect  that  he  was  not  in  his  retinue.  I  am  sure 
I  wished  it  ten  times  in  every  page,  and  that  not  without  a 
secret  vanity  to  think  in  what  state  I  should  have  traveled 
the  Appum  road,  with  Horace  for  a  guide,  and  in  company 
with  a  countryman  of  my  own,  who,  of  all  men  living,  knows 
best  how  to  follow  his  steps.” 


No.  365.]  TUESDAY,  APRIL  29,  1712 

\erc  magis,  quia  vere  calor  redit  ossibus - . 

Yirg.,  Georg,  iii,  272. 

But  most  in  spring:  the  kindly  spring  inspires 
Reviving  heat,  and  kindles  genial  fires. 

adapted. 

Flush’d  by  the  spirit  of  the  genial  year, 

Be  greatly  cautious  of  your  sliding  hearts. 

Thomson’s  Spring,  160,  etc. 

The  author  of  the  Menagiana  acquaints  us, 
that  discoursing  one  day  with  several  ladies  of 
quality  about  the  effects  of  the  month  of  May, 
which  infuses  a  kindly  warmth  into  the  earth’ 

and  all  its  inhabitants,  the  Marchioness  of  S _ ’ 

who  was  one  of  the  company,  told  him,  that  though 
she  would  promise  to  be  chaste  in  every  month 
beside,  she  could  not  engage  for  herself  in  May. 
As  the  beginning  therefore  of  this  month  is  now 
very  near,  i  design  this  paper  for  a  caveat  to  the 
fair  sex,  and  publish  it  before  April  is  quite  out, 
that  if  any  of  them  should  be  caught  tripping’ 
they  may  not  pretend  they  had  not  timely  notice 
I  am  induced  to  this,  being  persuaded  the 
above-mentioned  observation  is  as  well  calculated 
for  our  climate  as  for  that  of  France,  and  that 
some  of  our  British  ladies  are  of  the  same  con¬ 
stitution  with  the  French  marchioness. 

I  shall  leave  it  among  physicians  to  determine 
what  may  be  the  cause  of  such  an  anniversary  in¬ 
clination;  whether  or  no  it  is  that  the  spirits,  after 
having  been  as  it  were  frozen  or  congealed  by- 
winter,  are  now  turned  loose,  and  set  a  rambling; 
or  that  the  gay  prospects  of  fields  and  meadows’ 
with  the  courtship  of  the  birds  in  every  bush,  na¬ 
turally  unbend  the  mind,  and  soften  it  to  pleasure: 
or  that,  as  some  have  imagined,  a  woman  is 
prompted  by  a  kind  of  instinct  to  throw  herself 
on  a  bed  of  flowers,  and  not  to  let  those  beautiful 
couches,  which  nature  has  provided,  lie  useless. 
However  it  be,  the  effects  of  this  month  on  the 
lower  part  of  the  sex,  who  act  without  disguise, 
are  very  visible.  It  is  at  this  time  that  we  see  the 
young  wenches  in  a  country  parish  dancing  round 
a  Maypole,  which  one  of  our  learned  antiquaries 
supposes  to  be  a  relic  of  a  certain  pagan  worship 
that  I  do  not  think  fit  to  mention. 

It  is  likewise  on  the  first  day  of  this  month  that 
we  see  the  ruddy  milkmaid  exerting  herself  in  a 
most  sprightly  manner  under  a  pyramid  of  silver 
tankards,  and  like  the  virgin  Tarpeia,*  oppressed 
by  the  costly  ornaments  which  her  benefactors  lay 
upon  her.  J 

I  need  not  mention  the  ceremony  of  the  green 
gown,  which  is  also  peculiar  to  this  gay  season. 

The  same  periodical  love-fit  spreads  through 
the  whole  sex,  as  Mr.  Dryden  well  observes  in  liis 
description  of  this  merry  month. 

For  thee,  sweet  month,  the  groves  green  liv’ries  wear, 
If  not  the  first,  the  fairest  of  the  year ; 

For  thee  the  Graces  lead  the  dancing  hours, 

And  nature’s  ready  pencil  paints  the  flowers. 

The  sprightly  May  commands  our  youth  to  keep 
The  vigils  of  her  night,  and  breaks  their  sleep; 

Each  gentle  breast  with  kindly  warmth  she  moves, 
Inspires  new  flames,  revives  extinguish’d  loves. 

Accordingly,  among  the  works  of  the  great 
masters  in  painting,  who  have  drawn  this  genial 
season  of  the  year,  we  often  observe  Cupids  con¬ 
fused  with  Zephyrs,  flying  up  and  down  promis¬ 
cuously  in  several  parts  of  the  picture’.  I  cannot 
but  adji  from  my  own  experience,  that  about  this 
time  of  the  year  love-letters  come  up  to  me  in 
great  numbers,  from  all  quarters  of  the  nation. 

I  received  an  epistle  in  particular  by  the  last 
post  from  a  Yorkshire  gentleman,  who  makes- 


*  T.  Livii  Hist.  Dec.  i,  lib.  i,  cap.  xi. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


452 

heavy  complaints  of  one  Zelinda,  whom  it  seems 
he  has  courted  unsuccessfully  these  three  years 

£ast.  He  tells  me  that  he  designs  to  try  her  this 
[ay;  and  if  he  does  not  carry  his  point,  he  will 
never  think  of  her  more. 

Having  thus  fairly  admonished  the  female  sex, 
and  laid  before  them  the  dangers  they  are  exposed 
to  in  this  critical  month,  I  shall  in  the  next  place 
lay  down  some  rules  and  directions  for  their  bet¬ 
ter  avoiding  those  calentures  which  are  so  very 
frequent  in  this  season. 

In  the  first  place,  I  would  advise  them  never  to 
venture  abroad  in  the  fields,  but  in  the  company 
of  a  parent;  a  guardian,  or  some  other  sober  dis¬ 
creet  person.  I  have  before  shown  how  apt  they 
are  to  trip  in  the  flowery  meadow;  and  shall 
further  observe  to  them,  that  Proserpine  was  out 
a-maying  when  she  met  with  that  fatal  adventure 
to  which  Milton  alludes  when  he  mentions — 

- That  fair  field 

Of  Erma,  where  Proserpine  gath’ring  flowers, 

Herself  a  fairer  flower,  by  gloomy  Dis 
Was  gather’d - 

Since  I  am  got  into  quotations,  I  shall  conclude 
this  head  with  Virgil’s  advice  to  young  people, 
while  they  are  gathering  wild  strawberries  and 
nosegays,  that  they  should  have  a  care  of  the 
snake  in  the  grass. 

In  the  second  place,  I  cannot  but  approve  those 
prescriptions  which  our  astrological  physicians 
give  in  their  almanacs  for  this  month:  such  as  are 
“  a  spare  and  simple  diet,  with  a  moderate  use  of 
phlebotomy.” 

Under  this  head  of  abstinence  I  shall  also  ad¬ 
vise  my  fair  readers  to  be  in  a  particular  manner 
careful  how  they  meddle  with  romances,  chocolate, 
novels,  and  the  like  inflamers,  which  I  look  upon 
as  very  dangerous  to  be  made  use  of  during  this 
great  carnival  of  nature. 

As  I  have  often  declared  that  I  have  nothing 
more  at  heart  than  the  honor  of  my  dear  country¬ 
women,  I  would  beg  them  to  consider,  whenever 
their  resolutions  begin  to  fail  them,  that  there  are 
but  one-and-thirty  days  of  this  soft  season,  and 
that  if  they  can  but  weather  out  this  one  month, 
the  rest  of  the  year  will  be  easy  to  them.  As  for 
that  part  of  the  fair  sex  who  stay  in  town,  I  would 
advise  them  to  be  particularly  cautious  how  they 
give  themselves  up  to  their  most  innocent  enter¬ 
tainments.  If  they  cannot  forbear  the  playhouse, 
I  would  recommend  tragedy  to  them  rather  than 
comedy;  and  should  think  the  puppet-show  much 
safer  for  them  than  the  opera,  all  the  while  the 
sun  is  in  Gemini. 

The  reader  will  observe,  that  this  paper  is  writ¬ 
ten  for  the  use  of  those  ladies  who  think  it  worth 
while  to  war  against  nature  in  the  cause  of  honor. 
As  for  that  abandoned  crew,  who  do  not  think  vir¬ 
tue  worth  contending  for,  but  give  up  their  repu¬ 
tation  at  the  first  summons,  such  warnings  and 
premonitions  are  thrown  away  upon  them.  A  pros¬ 
titute  is  the  same  easy  creature  in  all  months  of 
the  year,  and  makes  no  difference  between  May 
and  December. — X. 


.No.  366.]  WEDNESDAY,  APRIL  30,  1712. 

Pone  me  pigris  ubi  nulla  campis 
Arbor  a^stiva  recreatur  aura, 

Dulce  ridentem  Lalagen  amabo, 

Dulce  loquentem. 

Hor.  1  Od.  xxii,  17. 

Set  me  whereon  some  pathless  plain 
The  swarthy  Africans  complain, 

To  see  the  chariot  of  the  sun 
-So  near  the  scorching  country  run; 


The  burning  zone,  the  frozen  isles, 

Shall  hear  me  sing  of  Celia’s  smiles; 

All  cold,  but  in  her  breast,  1  will  despise, 

And  dare  all  heat,  but  that  of  Celia’s  eyes. 

Roscommon. 

There  are  such  wild  inconsistencies  in  the 
thoughts  of  a  man  in  love,  that  I  have  often  re-" 
fleeted  there  can  be  no  reason  for  allowing  him 
more  liberty  than  others  possessed  with  frenzy, 
but  that  his  distemper  has  no  malevolence  in  it  to 
any  mortal.  That  devotion  to  his  mistress  kin¬ 
dles  in  his  mind  a  general  tenderness,  which  ex¬ 
erts  itself  toward  every  object  as  well  as  his  fair 
one.  When  this  passion  is  represented  by  writers, 
it  is  common  with  them  to  endeavor  at  certain 
quaintnesses  and  turns  of  imagination,  which  are 
apparently  the  work  of  a  mind  at  ease;  but  the 
men  of  true  taste  can  easily  distinguish  the  exer¬ 
tion  of  a  mind  which  overflows  with  tender  senti¬ 
ments,  and  the  labor  of  one  which  is  only  describ¬ 
ing  distress.  In  performances  of  this  kind,  the 
most  absurd  of  all  things  is  to  be  witty;  every 
sentiment  must  grow  out  of  the  occasion,  and  be 
suitable  to  the  circumstances  of  the  character. 
Where  this  rule  is  transgressed,  the  humble  ser¬ 
vant  in  all  the  fine  things  he  says,  is  but  showing 
his  mistress  how  well  he  can  dress,  instead  of 
saying  how  well  he  loves.  Lace  and  drapery  is 
as  much  a  man,  as  wit  and  turn  is  passion. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  following  verses  are  a  translation  of  a 
Lapland  love-song,  which  I  met  with  in  Scheffer’s 
history  of  that  country.*  I  was  agreeably  sur¬ 
prised  to  find  a  spirit  of  tenderness  and  poetry  in 
a  region  which  I  never  suspected  for  delicacy.  In 
hotter  climates,  though  altogether  uncivilized,  I 
had  not  wondered  if  1  had  found  some  sweet  wild 
notes  among  the  natives,  where  they  live  in  groves 
of  oranges,  and  hear  the  melody  of  birds  about 
them.  But  a  Lapland  lyric,  breathing  sentiments 
of  love  and  poetry,  not  unworthy  old  Greece  or 
Rome;  a  regular  ode  from  a  climate  pinched  with 
frost,  and  cursed  with  darkness  so  great  a  part  of 
the  year:  where  it  is  amazing  that  the  poor  na¬ 
tives  should  get  food,  or  be  tempted  to  propagate 
their  species — this,  I  confess,  seemed  a  greater 
miracle  to  me  than  the  famous  stories  of  their 
drums,  their  winds,  and  enchantments. 

“  I  am  the  bolder  in  commending  this  northern 
song,  because  I  have  faithfully  kept  to  the  senti¬ 
ments,  without  adding  or  diminishing:  and  pre¬ 
tend  to  no  greater  praise  from  my  translation, 
than  they  who  smooth  and  clean  the  furs  of  that 
country  which  have  suffered  by  carriage.  The 
numbers  in  the  original  are  as  loose  and  unequal 
as  those  in  which  the  British  ladies  sport  their 
Pindarics;  and  perhaps  the  fairest  of  them  might 
not  think  it  a  disagreeable  present  from  a  lover. 
But  I  have  ventured  to  bind  it  in  stricter  measures, 
as  being  more  proper  for  our  tongue,  though  per¬ 
haps  wilder  graces  may  better  suit  the  genius  of 
the  Laponian  language. 

“It  will  be  necessary  to  imagine  that  the  author 
of  this  song,  not  having  the  liberty  of  visiting  his 
mistress  at  her  father’s  house,  was  in  hopes  of 
spying  her  at  a  distance  in  the  fields : 

Thou  rising  sun,  whose  gladsome  ray 
Invites  my  fair  to  rural  play, 

Dispel  the  mist,  and  clear  the  skies, 

And  bring  my  Orra  to  my  eyes. 

Oh!  were  I  sure  my  dear  to  view, 

I’d  climb  that  pine-tree’s  topmost  bough 
Aloft  in  air  that  quiv’ring  plays, 

And  round  and  round  forever  gaze. 


*  This  Lapland  love-song  is  ascribed  to  Mr.  Ambrose  Phil¬ 
lips. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


My  Orra  Moor,  where  art  thou  laid? 

What  wood  conceals  my  sleeping  maid? 

Fast  by  the  roots  enraged  I’ll  tear 
The  trees  that  hide  my  promis’d  fair. 

Oh !  I  could  ride  the  clouds  and  skies, 

Or  on  the  raven’s  pinions  rise! 

Ye  storks,  ye  swans,  a  moment  stay, 

And  waft  a  lover  on  his  way! 

My  bliss  too  long  my  bride  denies, 

Apace  the  wasting  summer  flies: 

Nor  yet  the  wintry  blasts  I  fear, 

Not  storms  or  night  shall  keep  me  here. 

What  may  for  strength  with  steel  compare? 

Oh!  love  has  fetters  stronger  far? 

By  bolts  of  steel  are  limbs  confin’d 
But  cruel  love  enchains  the  mind. 

No  longer  then  perplex  thy  breast: 

When  thoughts  torment,  the  first  are  best; 

’Tis  mad  to  go,  ’tis  death  to  «tay; 

Away  to  Orra!  haste  away! 

“Mr.  Spectator,  April  the  10th. 

“  I  am  one  pf  those  despicable  creatures  called 
a  chambermaid,  and  have  lived  with  a  mistress 
for  some  time,  whom  I  love  as  my  life,  which  has 
made  my  duty  and  pleasure  inseparable.  My 

greatest  delight  has  been  in  being  employed  about 
ei  person;  and  indeed  she  is  very  seldom  out  of 
humor  for  a  woman  of  her  quality.  But  here  lies 
my  complaint,  Sir.  To  bear  with  me  is  all  the 
encouragement  she  is  pleased  to  bestow  upon  me- 
for  she  gives  her  cast-off  clothes  from  me  to 
others;  some  she  is  pleased  to  bestow  in  the  house 
to  those  that  neither  want  nor  wear  them,  and 
some  to  hangers  on  that  frequent  the  house  daily, 
who  come  dressed  out  in  them.  This,  Sir,  is  a 
very  mortifying  sight  to  me,  who  am  a  little  ne¬ 
cessitous  for  clothes,  and  love  to  appear  what  I 
am;  and  causes  an  uneasiness,  so  that  I  cannot 
serve  with  that  cheerfulness  as  formerly ;  which 
my  mistress  takes  notice  of,  and  calls  envy  and 
ill-temper  at  seeing  others  preferred  before  me. 
My  mistress  has  a  younger  sister  lives  in  the 
house  with  her,  that  is  some  thousands  below  her 
in  estate,  who  is  continually  heaping  her  favors 
on  her  maid;  so  that  she  can  appear  every  Sun¬ 
day,  for  the  first  quarter;  in  a  fresh  suit  of  clothes 
of  her  mistress’s  giving,  with  all  other  things 
suitable.  All  this  I  see  without  envying,  but  not 
without  wishing  my  mistress  would  a  little  consi¬ 
der  what  a  discouragement  it  is  to  me  to  have  my 
perquisites  divided  between  fawners  and  jobbers, 
which  others  enjoy  entire  to  themselves.  I  have 
spoken  to  my  mistress,  but  to  little  purpose;  I 
have  desired  to  be  discharged  (for  indeed  I  fret 
myself  to  nothing),  but  that  she  answers  with  si¬ 
lence.  I  beg,  Sir,  your  direction  what  to  do,  for  I 
am  fully  resolved  to  follow  your  counsel;  who  am 
“  Your  admirer  and  humble  Servant, 

“  CONSTANTIA  COMB-BRUSH.” 

“  *  beg  that  you  will  put  it  in  a  better  dress, 
and  let  it  come  abroad,  that  my  mistress  who  is 
an  admirer  of  your  speculations,  may  see  it.” _ T. 


Ho.  367.  j  THURSDAY,  MAY  1,  1712. 

- Peritur®  parcite  chart*. — Juv„  Sat.  i,  18. 

In  mercy  spare  us,  when  we  do  our  best 

To  make  as  much  waste  paper  as  the  rest. 

I  have  often  pleased  myself  with  considering 
the  two  kinds  of  benefits  which  accrue  to  the  pub¬ 
lic  from  these  my  speculations,  and  which,  were  I 
to  speak  after  the  manner  of  logicians,  I  would 
distinguish  into  the  material  and  the  formal.  By 


453 

the  latter  I  understand  those  advantages  which 
my  readers  receive,  as  their  minds  are  either  im¬ 
proved  or  delighted  by  these  my  daily  labors;  but 
having  already  several  times  descanted  on  my  en¬ 
deavors  in  this  light.  I  shall  at  present  wholly 
confine  myself  to  the  consideration  of  the  former. 
By  the  word  material,  I  mean  those  benefits  which 
arise  to  the  public  from  these  my  speculations,  as 
they  consume  a  considerable  quantity  of  our  pa- 
per- manufacture,  employ  our  artisans  in  printing, 
and  find  business  for  great  numbers  of  indigent 
persons.  ° 

Our  paper-manufacture  takes  into  it  several 
mean  mateiials,  which  could  be  put  to  no  other 
use,  and  affords  work  for  several  hands  in  the  col¬ 
lecting  of  them  which  are  incapable  of  any  other 
employment.  1  hese  poor  retailers,  whom  we  see 
so  busy  in  every  street,  deliver  in  their  respective 
gleanings  to  the  merchant.  The  merchant  carries 
them  in  loads  to  the  paper-mill,  where  they  pass 
through  a  fresh  set  of  hands,  and  give  life  to 
another  trade.  Those  who  have  mills  on  their  es¬ 
tates,  by  this  means  considerably  raise  their  rents; 
and  the  whole  nation  is  in  a  great  measure  sup¬ 
plied  with  a  manufacture  for  which  formerly  she 
was  obliged  to  her  neighbors. 

The  materials  are  no  sooner  wrought  into  paper, 
but  they  are  distributed  among  the  presses,  where 
they  again  set  innumerable  artists  at  work,  and 
furnish  business  to  another  mystery.  From  hence, 
accordingly  as  they  are  stained  with  news  or  poli¬ 
tics  they  fly  through  the  town  in  Post-men,  Post¬ 
boys,  Daily  Courants,  Reviews,  Medleys,  and  Ex¬ 
aminers.  Men,  women,  and  children,  contend 
who  shall  be  the  first  bearers  of  them,-' and  get 
their  daily  sustenance  by  spreading  them.  In 
short,  when  I  trace  in  my  mind  a  bundle  of  raf)-s 
to  a  quire  of  Spectators,  I  find  so  many  han3s 
employed  in  every  step  they  take  through  their 
whole  progress,  that  while  I  am  writing  a  Specta¬ 
tor,  I  fancy  myself  providing  bread  for  a  multi¬ 
tude. 

If  I  do  not  take  care  to  obviate  some  of  my 
witty  readers,  they  will  be  apt  to  tell  me,  that  my 
paper,  after  it  is  thus  printed  and  published,  is 
still  beneficial  to  the  public  on  several  occasions. 

I  must  confess  I  have  lighted  my  pipe  with  my 
own  works  for  this  twelvemonth  past.  My  land¬ 
lady  often  sends  up  her  little  daughter  to  desire 
some  of  my  old  Spectators,  and  has  frequently 
told  me  that  the  paper  they  are  printed  on  is  the 
best  in  the  world  to  wrap  spice  in.  They  like¬ 
wise  make  a  good  foundation  for  a  mutton -pie,  as 
I  have  more  than  once  experienced,  and  were  very 
much  sought  for  last  Christmas  by  the  whole 
neighborhood. 

It  is  pleasant  enough  to  consider  the  changes 
that  a  linen  fragment  undergoes,  by  passing 
through  the  several  hands  above-mentioned.  The 
finest  pieces  of  holland,  when  worn  to  tatters, 
assume  a  new  whiteness  more  beautiful  than  the 
first,  and  often  return  in  the  shape  of  letters  to 
their  native  country.  A  lady’s  shift  may  be  met¬ 
amorphosed  into  billets-doux,  and  come  into  her 
possession  a  second  time.  A  beau  may  peruse  his 
cravat  after  it  is  worn  out,  with  greater  pleasure 
and  advantage  than  ever  he  did  in  a  glass.  In  a 
word,  a  piece  of  cloth,  after  having  officiated  for 
some  years  as  a  towel  or  a  napkin,  may  by  this 
means  be  raised  from  a  dunghill,  and  become  the 
most  valuable  piece  of  furniture  in  a  prince’s 
cabinet. 

The  politest  nations  of  Europe  have  endeavored 
to  vie  with  one  another  for  the  reputation  of  the 
finest  printing.  Absolute  governments,  as  well 
as  republics,  have  encouraged  an  art  which  seems 
to  be  the  noblest  and  most  beneficial  that  was  ever 

4 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


454 

invented  among  the  sons  of  men.  The  present 
King  of  France,  in  his  pursuits  after  glory,  has 
particularly  distinguished  himself  by  the  promot¬ 
ing  of  this  useful  art,  insomuch  that  several  books 
have  been  printed  in  the  Louvre  at  his  own  ex- 
ense,  upon  which  he  sets  so  great  a  value,  that 
e  considers  them  as  the  noblest  presents  he  can 
make  to  foreign  princes  and  ambassadors.  If  we 
look  into  the  commonwealths  of  Holland  and 
Venice,  we  shall  tind  that  in  this  particular  they 
have  made  themselves  the  envy  of  the  greatest 
monarchies.  Elzevir  and  Aldus  are  more  fre¬ 
quently  mentioned  than  any  pensioner  of  the  one, 
or  doge  of  the  other. 

The  several  presses  which  are  now  in  England, 
and  the  great  encouragement  which  has  been  given 
to  learning  for  some  years  last  past,  has  made  our 
own  nation  as  glorious  upon  this  account,  as  for 
its  late  triumphs  and  conquests.  The  new  edi¬ 
tion  which  is  given  us  of  Caesar’s  Commentaries* 
has  already  been  taken  notice  of  in  foreign  ga¬ 
zettes,  and  is  a  work  that  does  honor  to  the  Eng¬ 
lish  press.  It  is  no  wonder  that  an  edition  should 
be  very  correct  which  has  passed  through  the 
hands  of  one  of  the  most  accurate,  learned,  and 
judicious  writers  this  age  has  produced.  The 
beauty  of  the  paper,  of  the  character,  and  of  the 
several  cuts  with  which  this  noble  work  is  illus¬ 
trated,  makes  it  the  finest  book  that  I  have  ever 
seen;  and  is  a  true  instance  of  the  English  genius, 
which,  though  it  does  not  come  the  first  into  any 
art,  generally  carries  it  to  greater  heights  than 
any  other  country  in  the  world.  I  am  particularly 
glad  that  this  author  comes  from  a  British  print¬ 
ing-house  in  so  great  a  magnificence,  as  he  is  the 
first  who  has  given  us  any  tolerable  account  of 
our  country. 

My  illiterate  readers,  if  any  such  there  are,  will 
be  surprised  to  hear  me  talk  of  learning  as  the 
glory  of  a  nation,  and  of  printing  as  an  art  that 
gains  a  reputation  to  a  people  among  whom  it 
flourishes.  When  men’s  thoughts  are  taken  up 
with  avarice  and  ambition,  they  cannot  look  upon 
anything  as  great  or  valuable  which  does  not 
bring  with  it  an  extraordinary  power  or  interest 
to  the  person  who  is  concerned  in  it.  But  as  I 
shall  never  sink  this  paper  so  far  as  to  engage 
with  Goths  and  Vandals,  I  shall  only  regard  such 
kind  of  reasoners  with  that  pity  which  is  due  to 
so  deplorable  a  degree  of  stupidity  and  ignorance. 


No.  368.]  FRIDAY,  MAY  2,  1712. 

- Nos  decebat 

Lugere  ubi  esset  aliquis  in  lucem  editus, 

Humanae  vitae  varia  reputantes  mala: 

At  qui  labores  morte  finisset  graves, 

Omnes  amicos  laude  et  laetitia  exequi. 

Eurip.  apud  TcLii. 

When  first  an  infant  draws  the  vital  air, 

Officious  grief  should  welcome  him  to  care: 

But  joy  should  life’s  concluding  scene  attend, 

And  mirth  be  kept  to  grace  a  dying  friend. 

As  the  Spectator  is  in  a  kind  a  paper  of  news 
from  the  natural  world,  as  others  are  from  the 
busy  and  politic  part  of  mankind,  I  shall  trans¬ 
late  the  following  letter,  written  to  an  eminent 
French  gentleman  in  this  town  from  Paris,  which 
gives  us  the  exit  of  a  heroine  who  is  a  pattern  of 
patience  and  generosity. 

“  Sir,  Paris,  April  18,  1712. 

“  It  is  so  many  years  since  you  left  your  native 
country,  that  I  am  to  tell  you  the  characters  of 


*A  most  beautiful  edition  of  Caesar’s  Memoirs,  published 
about  this  time  in  folio,  by  Dr.  Samuel  Clarke. 


your  nearest  relations  as  much  as  if  you  were  an 
utter  stranger  to  them.  The  occasion  of  this  is  to 
give  you  an  account  of  the  death  of  Madame  de 
Villacerfe,  whose  departure  out  of  this  life  I  know 
not  whether  a  man  of  your  philosophy  will  call 
unfortunate  or  not,  since  it  was  attended  with 
some  circumstances  as  much  to  be  desired  as  to  be 
lamented.  She  was  her  whole  life  happy  in  an 
uninterrupted  health,  and  was  always  honored  for 
an  evenness  of  temper  and  greatness  of  mind.  On 
the  10th  instant  that  lady  was  taken  with  an  in¬ 
disposition  which  confined  her  to  her  chamber, 
but  was  such  as  was  too  slight  to  make  her  take 
a  sick-bed,  and  yet  too  grievous  to  admit  of  any 
satisfaction  in  being  out  of  it.  It  is  notoriously 
known  that  some  years  ago  Monsieur  Festeau,  one 
of  the  most  considerable  surgeons  in  Paris,  was 
desperately  in  love  with  this  lady.  Her  quality 
flaced  her  above  any  application  to  her  on  the  ac¬ 
count  of  his  passion ;  but  as  a  woman  always  has 
some  regard  to  the  person  whom  she  believes  to 
be  her  real  admirer,  she  now  took  it  in  her  head 
(upon  advice  of  her  physicians,  to  lose  some  of  her 
blood)  to  send  for  Monsieur  Festeau  on  that  occa¬ 
sion.  I  happened  to  be  there  at  that  time,  and 
my  near  relation  gave  me  the  privilege  to  be  pre¬ 
sent.  As  soon  as  her  arm  was  stripped  bare,  and 
he  began  to  press  it  in  order  to  raise  the  vein,  his 
color  changed,  and  I  observed  him  seized  with  a 
sudden  tremor,  which  made  me  take  the  liberty  to 
speak  of  it  to  my  cousin  with  some  apprehension. 
She  smiled  and  said,  she  knew  M.  Festeau  had  no 
inclination  to  do  her  injury.  He  seemed  to  recover 
himself,  and  smiling  also,  proceeded  in  his  work. 
Immediately  after  the  operation,  he  cried  out  that 
he  was  the  most  unfortunate  of  all  men,  for  that 
he  had  opened  an  artery  instead  of  a  vein.  It  is 
as  impossible  to  express  the  artist’s  distraction  as 
the  patient’s  composure.  I  will  not  dwell  on  little 
circumstances,  but  go  on  to  inform  you,  that  within 
three  days’  time  it  was  thought  necessary  to  take 
off  her  arm.  She  was  so  far  from  using  Festeau 
as  it  would  be  natural  to  one  of  a  lower  spirit  to 
treat  him,  that  she  would  not  let  him  be  absent 
from  any  consultation  about  her  present  condition, 
and  on  every  occasion  asked  if  he  was  satisfied  in 
the  measures  that  were  taken  about  her.  Before 
this  last  operation  she  ordered  her  will  to  be 
drawn,  and,  after  having  been  about  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  alone,  she  bid  the  surgeons,  of  whom  poor 
Festeau  wras  one,  go  on  in  their  work.  I  know 
not  how  to  give  you  the  terms  of  art,  but  there 
appeared  such  symptoms  after  the  amputation  of 
her  arm,  that  it  was  visible  she  could  not  live 
four-and-twenty  hours.  Her  behavior  -was  so  mag¬ 
nanimous  throughout  this  whole  affair,  that  I  was 
particularly  curious  in  taking  notice  of  what 
passed  as  her  fate  approached  nearer  and  nearer, 
and  took  notice  of  what  she  said  to  all  about  her, 
particularly  word  for  word  what  she  spoke  to  M. 
Festeau,  which  was  as  follows  : — 

“  ‘Sir,  you  give  me  inexpressible  sorrow  for  the 
anguish  with  which  I  see  you  overwhelmed.  I 
am  removed  to  all  intents  and  purposed  from  the 
interests  of  human  life,  therefore  I  am  to  begin  to 
think  like  one  wholly  unconcerned  in  it.  I  do  not 
consider  you  as  one  by  whose  error  I  have  lost  my 
life  ;  no,  you  are  my  benefactor,  as  you  have  has¬ 
tened  my  entrance  into  a  happy  immortality.  This 
is  my  sense  of  this  accident:  but  the  world  in 
which  you  live  may  have  thoughts  of  it  to  your 
disadvantage :  I  have  therefore  taken  care  to  pro¬ 
vide  for  you  in  my  will,  and  have  placed  you 
above  what  you  have  to  fear  from  their  ill-nature.’ 

“  While  this  excellent  woman  spoke  these  words, 
Festeau  looked  as  if  he  received  a  condemnation 
to  die,  instead  of  a  pension  for  his  life.  Madame 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


de  Villacerfe  lived  till  eight  of  the  clock  the  next 
night;  and  though  she  must  have  labored  under 
the  most  exquisite  torments,  she  possessed  her 
mind  with  so  wonderful  a  patience,  that  one  may 
rather  say  she  ceased  to  breathe,  than  she  died  at 
that  hour.  You,  who  had  not  the  happiness  to  be 
personally  known  to  this  lady,  have  nothing  but 
to  rejoice  in  the  honor  you  had  of  being  related  to 
bo  great  merit ;  but  we,  who  have  lost  her  conver¬ 
sation,  cannot  so  easily  resign  our  own  happiness 
by  reflection  upon  hers. 

“I  am,  Sir,  vour  affectionate  kinsman, 

“  ana  most  obedient,  humble  Servant, 
“  Paul  Regnaud.” 

There  hardly  can  be  a  greater  instance  of  an 
heroic  mind  than  the  unprejudiced  manner  in 
which  this  lady  weighed  this  misfortune.  The 
regard  of  life  itself  could  not  make  her  overlook 
the  contrition  of  the  unhappy  man,  whose  more 
than  ordinary  concern  for  her  w'as  all  his  guilt. 
It  would  certainly  be  of  singular  use  to  human 
society  to  have  an  exact  account  of  this  lady’s 
ordinary  conduct,  which  was  crowned  by  so  un¬ 
common  magnanimity.  Such  greatness  was  not 
to  be  acquired  in  the  last  article ;  nor  is  it  to  be 
doubted  but  it  was  a  constant  practice  of  all  that 
is  praiseworthy,  which  made  her  capable  of  be¬ 
holding  death,  not  as  the  dissolution,  but  consum¬ 
mation  of  her  life. — T. 


No.  369.]  SATURDAY,  MAY  3,  1712. 

Segnius  irritant  animos  demissa  per  aures, 

Quam  quas  sunt  oculis  subjecta  fidelibus — . 

Hor.,  Ars.  Poet.,  180. 

What  we  hear  moves  less  than  what  we  see. 

Roscommon. 

Milton,  after  having  represented  in  vision  the 
history  of  mankind  to  the  first  great  period  of  na¬ 
ture,  dispatches  the  remaining  part  of  it  in  narra¬ 
tion.  He  has  devised  a  very  handsome  reason  for 
the  angel’s  proceeding  with  Adam  after  this  man¬ 
ner;  though  doubtless  the  true  reason  was  the 
difficulty  which  the  poet  would  have  found  to 
have  shadowed  out  so  mixed  and  complicated  a 
story  in  visible  objects.  I  could  wish,  however, 
that  the  author  had  done  it,  whatever  pains  it 
might  have  cost  him.  To  give  my  opinion  freely, 
I  think  that  the  exhibiting  part  of  the  history  of 
mankind  in  vision,  and  part  in  narrative,  is  as  if 
a  hi  story- painter  should  put  in  colors  one-half  of 
his  subject,  and  write  down  the  remaining  part  of 
it.  If  Milton’s  poem  flags  anywhere,  it  is  in  this 
narration,  where  in  some  places  the  author  has 
been  so  attentive  to  his  divinity  that  he  has  ne¬ 
glected  his  poetry.  The  narration,  however,  rises 
very  happily  on  several  occasions,  where  the  sub¬ 
ject  is  capable  of  poetical  ornaments,  as  particu¬ 
larly  in  the  confusion  which  he  describes  among 
the  builders  of  Babel,  and  in  his  short  sketch  of 
the  plagues  of  Egypt.  The  storm  of  hail  and  fire, 
with  the  darkness  that  overspread  the  land  for 
three  days,  are  described  with  great  strength. 
The  beautiful  passage  which  follows  is  raised 
upon  noble  hints  in  Scripture: 

- Thus  with  ten  wounds, 

The  river  dragon,  tam'd,  at  length  submits 
To  let  his  sojourners  depart:  and  oft 
Humbles  his  stubborn  heart;  but  still,  as  ice, 

More  harden’d  after  thaw :  till  in  his  rage 
Pursuing  whom  he  late  dismiss'd,  the  sea 
Swallows  him  with  his  host;  but  them  lets  pass 
As  on  dry  land  between  two  crystal  walls, 

Aw’d  by  the  rod  of  Moses  so  to  stand 
Divided - . 


455 

The  river-dragon  is  an  allusion  to  the  crocodile, 
which  inhabits  the  Nile,  from  which  Egypt  derives 
her  plenty.  This  allusion  is  taken  from  that  sub¬ 
lime  passage  in  Ezekiel:  “Thus  saith  the  Lord 
God,  Behold  I  am  against  thee,  Pharaoh,  king  of 
k.gypk’  the  great  dragon  that  lieth  in  the  midst  of 
his  rivers,  which  hath  said,  My  river  is  mine  own, 
and  I  have  made  it  for  myself.”  Milton  has  given, 
us  another  very  noble  and  poetical  image  in  the 
same  description,  which  is  copied  almost  word  for 
word  out  of  the  history  of  Moses : 

All  night  he  will  pursue,  but  his  approach 
Darkness  defends  between  till  morning  watch : 

Then  through  the  fiery  pillar  and  the  cloud 
God  looking  forth  will  trouble  all  his  host, 

And  craze  their  chariot  wheels :  when,  by  command, 
Moses  once  more  his  potent  rod  extends 
Over  the  sea :  the  sea  his  rod  obeys ; 

On  their  embattl’d  ranks  the  waves  return, 

And  overwhelm  their  war - . 

As  the  principal  design  of  this  episode  was  to 
give  Adam  an  idea  of  the  holy  person  who  was  to 
reinstate  human  nature  in  that  happiness,  and  per¬ 
fection  from  which  it  had  fallen,  the  poet  confines 
himself  to  the  line  of  Abraham,  from  whence  the 
Messiah  was  to  descend.  The  angel  is  described 
as  seeing  the  patriarch  actually  traveling  toward 
the  land  of  promise,  which  gives  a  particular  live¬ 
liness  to  this  part  of  the  narration : 

I  see  him,  but  thou  canst  not,  with  what  faith 
He  leaves  his  gods,  his  friends,  and  native  soil, 

Ur  of  Chaldea,  passing  now  the  ford 
To  Haran ;  after  him  a  cumbrous  train 
Of  herds,  and  flocks,  and  num’rous  servitude; 

Not  wand’ring  poor,  but  trusting  all  his  wealth 
With  God,  who  call’d  him  in  a  land  unknown. 

Canaan  he  now  attains ;  I  see  his  tents 
Pitch’d  about  Shechem,  and  the  neighboring  plain 
Of  Moreh ;  there  by  promise  he  receives 
Gift  to  his  progeny  of  all  that  land ; 

From  Hamath  northward  to  the  desert  south : 

(Things  by  their  names  I  call,  though  yet  unnam’d). 

As  Virgil's  vision  in  the  sixth  JEneid  probably 
gave  Milton  the  hint  of  this  episode,  the  last  line 
is  a  translation  of  that  verse  where  Anchises  men¬ 
tions  the  names  of  places,  which  they  were  to  bear 
hereafter : 

nsec  turn  nomina  erunt,  nunc  sunt  sine  nomine  terrse. 

The  poet  has  very  finely  represented  the  joy 
and  gladness  of  heart  which  rises  in  Adam  upon 
his  discovery  of  the  Messiah.  As  he  sees  his  day 
at  a  distance  through  types  and  shadows,  he  re¬ 
joices  in  it:  but  when  he  finds  the  redemption  of 
man  completed,  and  Paradise  again  renewed,  he 
breaks  forth  in  rapture  and  transport : 

0  goodness  infinite,  goodness  immense! 

That  all  this  good  of  evil  shall  produce,  etc. 

I  have  hinted  in  my  sixth  paper  on  Milton,  that 
an  heroic  poem,  according  to  the  opinion  of  the 
best  critics,  ought  to  end  happily,  and  leave  the 
mind  of  the  reader,  after  having  conducted  it 
through  many  doubts  and  fears,  sorrows  and  dis¬ 
quietudes,  in  a  state  of  tranquillity  and  satisfac¬ 
tion.  Milton’s  fable,  which  had  so  many  other 
qualifications  to  recommend  it,  was  deficient  in 
this  particular.  It  is  here  therefore  that  the  poet 
has  shown  a  most  exquisite  judgment,  as  well  as 
the  finest  invention,  by  finding  out  a  method  to 
supply  this  natural  defect  in  his  subject.  Accord¬ 
ingly  he  leaves  the  adversary  of  mankind,  in  the 
last  view  which  he  gives  us  of  him,  under  the 
lowest  state  of  mortification  and  disappointment. 
We  see  him  chewing  ashes,  groveling  in  the  dust, 
and  loaded  with  supernumerary  pains  and  tor¬ 
ments.  On  the  contrary,  our  two  first  parents  are 
comforted  by  dreams  and  visions,  cheered  with 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


456 

promises  of  salvation,  and  in  a  manner  raised  to 
a  greater  happiness  than  that  which  they  had  for¬ 
feited.  In  short,  Satan  is  represented  miserable 
in  the  height  of  his  triumphs,  and  Adam  trium¬ 
phant  in  the  height  of  misery. 

Milton’s  poem  ends  very  nobly.  The  last 
speeches  of  Adam  and  the  archangel  are  full  of 
moral  and  instructive  sentiments.  The  sleep  that 
fell  upon  Eve,  and  the  effects  it  had  in  quieting 
the  disorders  of  her  mind,  produces  the  same  kind 
of  consolation  in  the  reader,  who  cannot  peruse 
the  last  beautiful  speech,  which  is  ascribed  to  the 
mother  of  mankind,  without  a  secret  pleasure  and 
satisfaction : 

Whence  thou  return’st,  and  whither  went’st,  I  know ; 
For  God  is  also  in  sleep,  and  dreams  advise, 

Which  he  hath  sent  propitious,  some  great  good 
Presaging,  since,  with  sorrow  and  heart’s  distress 
Wearied,  I  fell  asleep;  but  now  led  on; 

In  me  is  no  delay :  with  thee  to  go, 

Is  to  stay  here ;  without  thee  here  to  stay, 

Is  to  go  hence  unwilling :  thou  to  me 
Art  all  things  under  heav’n,  all  places  thou, 

Who  for  my  willful  crime  art  banish’d  hence ; 

This  farther  consolation  yet  secure 
I  carry  hence ;  though  all  by  me  is  lost, 

Such  favor  I  unworthy  am  vouchsaf’d, 

By  me  the  promis’d  seed  shall  all  restore. 

The  following  lines,  which  conclude  the  poem, 
rise  in  a  most  glorious  blaze  of  poetical  images  and 
expressions. 

Heliodorus  in  his  iEthiopics  acquaints  us,  that 
the  motion  of  the  gods  differs  from  that  of  mor¬ 
tals,  as  the  former  do  not  stir  their  feet,  nor  pro¬ 
ceed  step  by  step,  but  slide  over  the  surface  of  the 
earth  by  a  uniform  swimming  of  the  whole  body. 
The  reader  may  observe  with  how  poetical  a  de¬ 
scription  Milton  has  attributed  the  same  kind  of 
motion  to  the  angels  who  were  to  take  possession 
of  Paradise: 

So  spake  our  mother  Eve ;  and  Adam  heard 
Well  pleas’d,  but  answer’d  not ;  for  now  too  nigh 
Th’  archangel  stood ;  and  from  the  other  hill 
To  their  fix’d  station,  all  in  bright  array 
The  cherubim  descended ;  on  the  ground 
Gliding  meteorous,  as  evening  mist 
Ris’n  from  a  river,  o’er  the  marish  glides, 

And  gathers  ground  fast  at  the  lab’rers  heel 
Homeward  returning.  High  in  front  advanc’d, 

The  brandish’d  sword  of  God  before  them  blaz’d 
Fierce  as  a  comet - . 

The  author  helped  his  invention  in  the  follow¬ 
ing  passage,  by  reflecting  on  the  behavior  of  the 
angel  who  in  holy  writ  has  the  conduct  of  Lot 
and  his  family.  The  circumstances  drawn  from 
that  relation  are  very  gracefully  made  use  of  on 
this  occasion : 

In  either  hand  the  hast’ning  angel  caught 
Our  ling’ring  parents,  and  to  th’  eastern  gate 
Led  them  direct ;  and  down  the  cliff  as  fast 
To  the  subjected  plain ;  then  disappear’d, 

They  looking  back,  etc. 

The  scene  which  our  first  parents  are  surprised 
with,  upon  their  looking  back  on  Paradise,  won¬ 
derfully  strikes  the  reader’s  imagination,  as  no¬ 
thing  can  be  more  natural  than  the  tears  they  shed 
on  that  occasion : 

They,  looking  back,  all  th’  eastern  side  beheld, 

Of  Paradise,  so  late  their  happy  seat, 

Wav’d  over  by  that  flaming  brand,  the  gate 
With  dreadful  faces  throng’d  and  fiery  arms : 

Some  natural  tears  they  dropp’d,  but  wip’d  them  soon; 
The  world  was  all  before  them,  where  to  choose 
Their  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  their  guide. 

If  I  might  presume  to  offer  at  the  smallest  altera¬ 
tion  in  this  divine  work,  I  should  think  the  poem 
would  end  better  with  the  passage  here  quoted, 
than  the  two  verses  which  follow : 

They  hand  in  hand,  with  wand’ring  steps  and  slow, 
Through  Eden  took  their  solitary  way. 


These  two  verses,  though  they  have  their  beauty, 
fall  very  much  below  the  foregoing  passage,  and 
renew  in  the  mind  of  the  reader  that  anguish 
which  was  pretty  well  laid  by  that  consideration : 

The  world  was  all  before  them,  where  to  choose 

Their  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  their  guide. 

The  number  of  books  in  Paradise  Lost  is  equal 
to  those  of  the  ^Eneid.  Our  author  in  his  first  edi¬ 
tion  had  divided  his  poem  into  ten  books,  but  after¬ 
ward  broke  the  seventh  and  the  eleventh  each  of 
them  into  two  different  books,  by  the  help  of  some 
small  additions.  This  second  division  was  made 
with  great  judgment,  as  any  one  may  see  who  will 
be  at  the  pains  of  examining  it.  It  was  not  done 
for  the  sake  of  such  a  chimerical  beauty  as  that  of 
resembling  Virgil  in  this  particular,  out  for  the 
more  just  and  regular  disposition  of  this  great 
work. 

Those  who  have  read  Bossu,  and  many  of  the 
critics  who  have  written  since  his  time,  will  not 
pardon  me  if  I  do  not  find  out  the  particular  moral 
which  is  inculcated  in  Paradise  Lost.  Though  I 
can  by  no  means  think,  with  the  last-mentioned 
French  author,  that  an  epic  writer  first  of  all 
pitches  upon  a  certain  moral,  as  the  ground-work 
and  foundation  of  his  poem,  and  afterward  finds 
out  a  story  to  it ;  I  am  however  of  opinion,  that 
no  just  heroic  poem  ever  was  or  can  be  made, 
from  whence  one  great  moral  may  not  be  deduced. 
That  which  reigns  in  Milton  is  the  most  universal 
and  most  useful  that  can  be  imagined.  It  is  in 
short  this,  that  obedience  to  the  will  of  God  makes 
men  happy,  and  that  disobedience  makes  them 
miserable.  This  is  visibly  the  moral  of  the  prin¬ 
cipal  fable,  which  turns  upon  Adam  and  Eve, 
who  continued  in  Paradise  while  they  kept  the 
command  that  was  given  them,  and  were  driven 
out  of  it  as  soon  as  they  had  transgressed.  This 
is  likewise  the  moral  of  the  principal  episode, 
which  shows  us  how  an  innumerable  multitude 
of  angels  fell  from  their  state  of  bliss,  and  were 
cast  into  hell  upon  their  disobedience.  Beside 
this  great  moral,  which  may  be  looked  upon  as 
the  soul  of  the  fable,  there  are  an  affinity  of  under 
morals  which  are  to  be  drawn  from  the  several 
parts  of  the  poem,  and  which  make  this  work 
more  useful  and  instructive  than  any  other  poem 
in  any  language. 

Those  who  have  criticised  on  the  Odyssey,  the 
Iliad,  and  A2neid,  have  taken  a  great  deal  of  pains 
to  fix  the  number  of  months  or  days  contained  in 
the  action  of  each  of  those  poems.  If  any  one 
thinks  it  worth  his  while  to  examine  this  particu¬ 
lar  in  Milton,  he  will  find,  that  from  Adam’s  first 
appearance  in  the  fourth  book,  to  his  expulsion 
from  Paradise  in  the  twelfth,  the  author  reckons 
ten  days.  As  for  that  part  of  the  action  which  is 
described  in  the  three  first  books,  as  it  does  not 
pass  within  the  regions  of  nature,  I  have  before 
observed  that  it  is  not  subject  to  any  calculations 
of  time. 

I  have  now  finished  my  observations  on  a  work 
which  does  an  honor  to  the  English  nation.  I 
have  taken  a  general  view  of  it  under  these  four 
heads — the  fable,  the  characters,  the  sentiments, 
and  the  language,  and  made  each  of  them  the 
subject  of  a  particular  paper.  I  have  in  the  next 
place  spoken  of  the  censures  which  our  author 
may  incur  under  each  of  these  heads,  which  I 
have  confined  to  two  papers,  though  I  might  have 
enlarged  the  number  if  I  had  been  disposed  to 
dwell  on  so  ungrateful  a  subject :  I  believe,  how¬ 
ever,  that  the  severest  reader  will  not  find  any 
little  fault  in  heroic  poetry,  which  this  author  has 
fallen  into,  that  does  not  come  under  one  of  those 
heads  among  which  I  have  distributed  his  several 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


blemishes.  After  having  thus  treated  at  large  of 
Paradise  Lost,  I  could  not  think  it  sufficient  to 
have  celebrated  this  poem  in  the  whole  without 
descending  to  particulars.  I  have  therefore  be¬ 
stowed  a  paper  upon  each  book,  and  endeavored 
not  only  to  prove  that  the  poem  is  beautiful  in 
general,  but  to  point  out  its  particular  beauties: 
and,  to  determine  wherein  they  consist.  I  have 
endeavored  to  show  how  some  passages  are  beau¬ 
tiful  by  being  sublime,  others  by  being  soft,  others 
by  being  natural ;  which  of  them  are  recommended 
by  the  passion,  which  by  the  moral,  which  by  the 
sentiment,  and  which  by  the  expression.  I  'have 
likewise  endeavored  to  show  how  the  genius  of 
the  poet  shines  by  a  happy  invention,  a  distant 
allusion,  or  a  judicious  imitation ;  how  he  has 
copied  or  improved  Homer  or  Virgil,  and  raised 
his  own  imaginations  by  the  use  which  he  has 
made  of  several  poetical  passages  in  Scripture. 
I  might  have  inserted  also  several  passages  in 
Tasso,  which  our  author  has  imitated:  but,  as  I 
do  not  look  upon  Tasso  to  be  a  sufficient  voucher, 
I  would  not  perplex  my  reader  with  such  quota¬ 
tions  as  might  do  more  honor  to  the  Italian  than 
to  the  English  poet.  In  short,  I  have  endeavored 
to  particularize  those  innumerable  kinds  of  beauty 
which  it  would  be  tedious  to  recapitulate,  but 
which  are  essential  to  poetry,  and  which  mav  be 
met  with  in  the  works  of  this  great  author.  Had 
I  thought,  at  my  first  engaging  in  this  design,  that 
it  would  have  led  me  to  so  great  a  length,  I  be¬ 
lieve  I  should  never  have  entered  upon  it ;  but 
the  kind  reception  which  it  has  met  with  among 
those  whose  judgment  I  have  a  value  for,  as  well 
as  the  uncommon  demands  which  my  bookseller 
tells  me  have  been  made  for  these  particular  dis¬ 
courses,  give  me  no  reason  to  repent  of  the  pains 
I  have  been  at  in  composing  them. — L. 


Ho.  370.]  MONDAY,  MAY  5,  1712. 

Totus  Mundus  agit  histrionem. 

- All  the  world’s  a  stage, 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players. 

SUAKSPEAUE. 

Many  of  my  fair  readers,  as  well  as  very  gay 
and  well-received  persons  of  the  other  sex,  are  ex¬ 
tremely  perplexed  at  the  Latin  sentences  at  the 
head  of  my  speculations.  I  do  not  know  whether 
I  ought  not  to  indulge  them  with  translations  of 
each  of  them  :  however,  I  have  to-day  taken  down 
from  the  top  of  the  stage  in  Drury-lane  a  bit  of 
Latin  which  often  stands  in  their  view,  and  sig¬ 
nifies,  that  “  The  whole  world  acts  the  player.” 
It  is  certain  that  if  we  look  all  round  us,  and  be¬ 
hold  the  different  employments  of  mankind,  you 
hardly  see  one  who  is  not,  as  the  player  is,  in  an 
assumed  character.  The  lawyer  who  "is  vehement 
and  loud  in  the  cause  wherein  he  knows  he  has 
not  the  truth  of  the  question  on  his  side,  is  a 
player  as  to  the  personated  part,  but  incomparably 
meaner  than  he  as  to  the  prostitution  of  himself 
for  hire:  because  the  pleader’s  falsehood  intro¬ 
duces  injustice  ;  the  player  feigns  for  no  other  end 
but  to  divert  or  instruct  you.  The  divine,  whose 
passions  transport  him  to  say  anything  with  any 
view  but  promoting  the  interests  of  true  piety  and 
religion,  is  a  player  with  a  still  greater  imputa¬ 
tion  of  guilt,  in  proportion  to  his  depreciating  a 
character  more  sacred.  Consider  all  the  different 
pursuits  and  employments  of  men,  and  you  will 
find  half  their  actions  tend  to  nothing  else  but 
disguise  and  imposture;  and  all  that  is  done 
■which  proceeds  not  from  a  man’s  very  self,  is  the 
action  of  a  player.  For  this  reason  it  is  that 


457 

make  so  frequent  mention  of  the  stage.  It  is  with 
me  a  matter  of  the  highest  consideration,  what 
parts  are  well  or  ill  performed,  what  passions  or 
sentiments  are  indulged  or  cultivated,  and  conse¬ 
quently  what  manners  and  customs  are  transfused 
from  the  stage  to  the  world,  which  reciprocally 
imitate  each  other.  As  the  writers  of  epic  poems 
introduce  shadowy  persons,  and  represent  vices 
and  virtues  under  the  characters  of  men  and 
women;  so  I,  who  am  a  Spectator  in  the  world, 
may  perhaps  sometimes  make  use  of  the  names  of 
the  actors  on  the  stage,  to  represent  or  admonish 
those  who  transact  affairs  in  the  world.  When  I 
am  commending  Wilks  for  representing  the  ten¬ 
derness  of  a  husband  and  a  father  in  Macbeth,  the 
contrition  of  a  reformed  prodigal  in  Harry  the 
Fourth,  the  winning  emptiness  of  a  youno-  man  of 
good  nature  and  wealth  in  The  Trip  to  the  Jubilee, 
the  officiousness  of  an  artful  servant  in  the  Fox  ; 
when  thus  I  celebrate  Wilks,  I  talk  to  all  the 
world  who  are  engaged  in  any  of  those  circum¬ 
stances.  If  I  were  to  speak  of  merit  neglected, 
misapplied,  or  misunderstood,  might  I  not  say 
Estcourt  has  a  great  capacity?  But  it  is  not  the 
interest  of  others  who  bear  a  figure  on  the  sta°re, 
that  his  talents  were  understood  ;  it  is  their  busi¬ 
ness  to  impose  upon  him,  what  cannot  become 
him,  or  keep  out  of  his  hands  anything  in  which 
he  avou Id  shine.  Were  one  to  raise  a  suspicion 
of  himself  in  a  man  who  passes  upon  the  Avorld 
for  a  fine  thing,  in  order  to  alarm  him,  one  might 
say,  If  Lord  Foppington  Avas  not  on  the  stage 
(Cibber  acts  the  false  pretensions  to  a  genteel  be¬ 
havior  so  very  justly),  he  would  have  in  the 
generality  of  mankind  more  that  would  admire 
than  deride  him.  When  Ave  come  to  characters 
directly  comical,  it  is  not  to  be  imagined  what 
effect  a  well-regulated  stage  would  have  upon 
men’s  manners.  The  craft  of  a  usurer,  the  absur¬ 
dity  of  a  rich  fool,  the  aAvkward  roughness  of  a  fel¬ 
low  of  half  courage,  the  ungraceful  mirth  of  a 
creature  of  half  Avit,  might  forever  be  put  out  of 
countenance  by  proper  parts  for  Dogget.  John¬ 
son,  by  acting  Corbacchio  the  other  night,  must 
have  given  all  who  saw  him,  a  thorough  detesta¬ 
tion  of  aged  avarice.  The  petulancy  of  a  peevish 
old  felloAV ,  who  loves  and  hates  he  knoAvs  not 
why,  is  very  excellently  performed  by  the  inge¬ 
nious  Mr.  William  Penkethman  in  the  Fop’s  For¬ 
tune  ;  Avhere,  in  the  character  of  Don  Choleric 
Snap  Shorto  de  Testy,  he  ansAvers  no  questions 
but  to  those  whom  he  likes,  and  Avants  no  account 
of  anything  from  those  he  approves.  Mr.  Pen¬ 
kethman  is  also  master  of  as  many  faces  in  the 
dumb  scene  as  can  be  expected  from  a  man  in  the 
circumstances  of  being  ready  to  perish  out  of  fear 
and  hunger.  He  wonders  throughout  the  whole 
scene  very  masterly,  Avithout  neglecting  his  vic¬ 
tuals.  If  it  be,  as  I  have  heard  it  sometimes  men¬ 
tioned,  a  great  qualification  for  the  world  to  follow 
business  and  pleasure  too,  what  is  it  in  the  in¬ 
genious  Mr.  Penkethman  to  represent  a  sense  of 
pleasure  and  pain  at  the  same  time — as  you  may 
see  him  do  this  evening? 

As  it  is  certain  that  a  stage  ought  to  be  wholly 
suppressed,  or  judiciously  encouraged,  Avhile  there 
is  one  in  the  nation,  men  turned  for  regular  plea¬ 
sure  cannot  employ  their  thoughts  more  usefully, 
for  the  diversion  of  mankind,  than  by  convincing 
them  that  it  is  in  themselves  to  raise  this  enter¬ 
tainment  to  the  greatest  height.  It  Avould  be  a 
great  improvement,  as  Avell  as  embellishment  to 
the  theater,  if  dancing  Avere  more  regarded,  and 
taught  to  all  the  actors.  One  who  has  the  advan¬ 
tage  of  such  an  agreeable  girlish  person  as  Mrs. 
Bicknell,  joined  with  her  capacity  of  imitation, 
could  in  proper  gesture  and  motion  represent  all 


I 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


458 

the  decent  characters  of  female  life.  An  amiable 
modesty  in  one  aspect  of  a  dancer,  and  assumed 
confidence  in  another,  a  sudden  joy  in  another,  a 
falling-off  with  an  impatience  of  being  beheld,  a 
return  toward  the  audience  with  an  unsteady  re¬ 
solution  to  approach  them,  and  a  well-acted  soli¬ 
citude  to  please,  would  revive  in  the  company  all 
the  fine  touches  of  mind  raised  in  observing  all 
the  objects  of  affection  or  passion  they  had  before 
beheld.  Such  elegant  entertainments  as  these 
would  polish  the  town  into  judgment  in  their 
gratifications  ;  and  delicacy  in  pleasure  is  the  first 
step  people  of  condition  take  in  reformation  from 
vice.  Mrs.  Bicknell  has  the  only  capacity  for  this 
sort  of  dancing  of  any  on  the  stage ;  and  I  dare 
say  all  who  see  her  performance  to  morrow-night, 
when  sure  the  romp  will  do  her  best  for  her  own 
benefit,  will  be  of  my  mind. — T. 


Ho.  371.]  TUESDAY,  MAY  6,  1712. 

Jamne  igitur  laudas  quod  de  sapientibus  unus. 

Ride  bat  ?  Jcv.,  Sat.  x,  28. 

And  shall  the  sage*  your  approbation  win, 

Whose  laughing  features  wore  a  constant  grin  ? 

I  shall  communicate  to  my  readers  the  follow¬ 
ing  letter  for  the  entertainment  of  this  day : — 

“  Sir, 

“You  know  very  well  that  our  nation  is  more 
famous  for  that  sort  of  men  who  are  called  ‘  whims’ 
and  *  humorists,’  than  any  other  country  in  the 
world:  for  which  reason  it  is  observed,  that  our 
English  comedy  excels  that  of  all  other  nations 
in  the  novelty  and  variety  of  its  characters. 

“  Among  those  innumerable  sets  of  whims 
which  our  country  produces,  there  are  none  whom 
I  have  regarded  with  more  curiosity  than  those 
who  have  invented  any  particular  kind  of  diver¬ 
sion  for  the  entertainment  of  themselves  and  their 
friends.  My  letter  shall  single  out  those  who 
take  delight  in  sorting  a  company  that  has  some¬ 
thing  of  burlesque  and  ridicule  in  its  appearance. 
I  shall  make  myself  understood  by  the  following 
example.  One  of  the  wits  of  the  last  age,  who 
was  a  man  of  a  good  estate,!  thought  he  never 
laid  out  his  money  better  than  in  a  jest.  As  he 
was  one  year  at  the  Bath,  observing  that,  in  the 
great  confluence  of  fine  people,  there  were  several 
among  them  with  long  chins,  a  part  of  the  visage 
by  which  he  himself  was  very  much  distin¬ 
guished,  he  invited  to  dinner  half  a  score  of 
these  remarkable  persons,  who  had  their  mouths 
in  the  middle  of  their  faces.  They  had  no  sooner 
placed  themselves  about  the  table  but  they  began 
to  stare  upon  one  another,  not  being  able  to  ima¬ 
gine  what  had  brought  them  together.  Our  Eng¬ 
lish  proverb  says, 

’Tis  merry  in  the  hall, 

When  beards  wag  all. 

It  proved  so  in  the  assembly  I  am  now  speaking 
of,  who  seeing  so  many  peaks  of  faces  agitated 
with  eating,  drinking,  and  discourse,  and  observ¬ 
ing  all  the  chins  that  were  present  meeting  toge¬ 
ther  very  often  over  the  center  of  the  table,  every¬ 
one  grew  sensible  of  the  jest,  and  came  into  it 
with  so  much  good  humor,  that  they  lived  in 
strict  friendship  and  alliance  from  that  day  for¬ 
ward. 

“  The  same  gentleman,  some  time  after,  packed 


*  Democritus. 

f  Yillars,  the  last  Duke  of  Buckingham,  and  father  of  the 
late  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague. 


together  a  set  of  oglers  as  he  called  them,  consist¬ 
ing  of  such  as  had  an  unlucky  cast  in  their  eyes. 
His  diversion  on  this  occasion  was  to  see  the  cross 
bows,  mistaken  signs,  and  wrong  connivances, 
that  passed  amid  so  many  broken  and  refracted 
rays  of  sight. 

“  The  third  feast  which  this  merry  gentleman 
exhibited  was  to  the  stammerers,  whom  he  got 
together  in  a  sufficient  body  to  fill  his  table.  He 
had  ordered  one  of  his  servants,  who  was  placed 
behind  a  screen,  to  write  down  their  table-talk, 
which  was  very  easy  to  be  done  without  the  help 
of  short  hand.  It  appears  by  the  notes  which 
were  taken,  that  though  their  conversation  never 
fell,  there  were  not  above  twenty  words  spoken 
during  the  first  course;  that  upon  serving  up  the 
second,  one  of  the  company  was  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  in  telling  them  that  the  ducklings  and  aspa¬ 
ragus  were  very  good ;  and  that  another  took  up 
the  same  time  in  declaring  himself  of  the  same 
opinion.  The  jest  did  not,  however,  go  off  so 
well  as  either  of  the  former;  for  one  of  the  guests 
being  a  brave  man,  and  fuller  of  resentment  than 
he  knew  how  to  express,  went  out  of  the  room, 
and  sent  the  facetious  in viter  a  challenge  in  writ¬ 
ing,  which,  though  it  was  afterward  dropped  by 
the  interposition  of  friends,  put  a  stop  to  these 
ludicrous  entertainments. 

“  Now,  sir,  I  dare  say  you  will  agree  with  me,  that 
as  there  is  no  moral  in  these  jests,  they  ought  to  be 
discouraged,  and  looked  upon  rather  as  pieces  of  un¬ 
luckiness  than  wit.  However,  as  it  is  natural  for 
one  man  to  refine  upon  the  thought  of  another ;  and 
impossible  for  any  single  person,  how  great  soever 
his  parts  may  be,  to  invent  an  art,  and  bring  it  to 
its  utmost  perfection  ;  I  shall  here  give  you  an 
account  of  an  honest  gentleman  of  my  acquaint¬ 
ance,  who,  upon  hearing  the  character  of  the  wit 
above-mentioned,  has  himself  assumed  it  and  en¬ 
deavored  to  convert  it  to  the  benefit  of  mankind. 
He  invited  half-a-dozen  of  his  friends  one  day  to 
dinner,  who  w7ere  each  of  them  famous  for  insert¬ 
ing  several  redundant  phrases  in  their  discourse, 
as  ‘D’ye  hear  me? — D’ye  see? — That  is, — And 
so.  Sir.’  Each  of  his  guests  making  frequent 
use  of  his  particular  elegance,  appeared  so  ridi¬ 
culous  to  his  neighbor,  that  he  could  not  but  re¬ 
flect  upon  himself  as  appearing  equally  ridiculous 
to  the  rest  of  the  company.  By  this  means,  before 
they  had  sat  long  together,  every  one  talking 
with  the  greatest  circumspection,  and  carefully 
avoiding  his  favorite  expletive,  the  conversation 
was  cleared  of  its  redundancies,  and  had  a  greater 
quantity  of  sense  though  less  of  sound  in  it. 

“The  same  well-meaning  gentleman  took  occa¬ 
sion,  at  another  time,  to  bring  together  such  of 
his  friends  as  were  addicted  to  a  foolish  habitual 
custom  of  swearing.  In  order  to  show  them  the 
absurdity  of  the  practice,  he  had  recourse  to  the 
invention  above-mentioned,  having  placed  an 
amanuensis  in  a  private  part  of  the  room.  After 
the  second  bottle,  when  men  open  their  minds 
without  reserve,  my  honest  friend  began  to  take 
notice  of  the  many  sonorous  but  unnecessary 
words  that  had  passed  in  his  house  since  their 
sitting  down  at  table,  and  how  much  good  conver¬ 
sation  they  had  lost  by  giving  way  to  such  super¬ 
fluous  phrases.  ‘What  a  tax,’  says  he,  ‘would 
they  have  raised  for  the  poor,  had  we  put  the 
laws  in  execution  upon  one  another!’  Every  one 
of  them  took  this  gentle  reproof  in  good  part; 
upon  which  he  told  them,  that,  knowing  their 
conversation  would  have  no  secrets  in  it,  he  had 
ordered  it  to  be  taken  down  in  writing,  and  for 
the  humor-sake,  would  lead  it  to  them,  if  they 
pleased.  There  were  ten  sheets  of  it,  which 
might  have  been  reduced  to  two,  had  there  not 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


been  those  abominable  interpolations  I  have  be¬ 
fore  mentioned.  Unon  the  reading  of  it  in  cold 
blood,  it  looked  rattier  like  a  conference  of  fiends 
than  of  men.  In  short,  every  one  trembled  at 
himself  upon  hearing  calmly  what  he  had  pro¬ 
nounced  amidst  the  heat  and  inadvertency  of 
discourse. 

“  I  shall  only  mention  another  occasion  wherein 
he  made  use  of  the  same  invention  to  cure  a  dif¬ 
ferent  kind  of  men,  who  are  the  pests  of  all  polite 
conversation,  and  murder  time  as  much  as  either 
of  the  two  former,  though  they  do  it  more  inno¬ 
cently — I  mean,  that  dull  generation  of  story-tel¬ 
lers.  My  friend  got  together  about  half-a-dozen 
of  his  acquaintance,  who  were  infected  with  this 
strange  malady.  The  first  day  one  of  them,  sit¬ 
ing  down,  entered  upon  the  siege  of  Namur, 
which  lasted  till  four  o’clock,  their  time  of  part¬ 
ing.  The  second  day  a  North  Briton  took  posses¬ 
sion  of  the  discourse,  which  it  was  impossible  to 
get  out  of  his  hands  so  long  as  the  company 
stayed  together.  The  third  day  was  engrossed 
after  the  same  manner  by  a  story  of  the  same 
length.  They  at  last  began  to  reflect  upon  this 
barbarous  way  of  treating  one  another,  and  by 
this  means  awakened  out  of  that  lethargy  with 
which  each  of  them  had  been  seized  for  several 
years. 

“  As  you  have  somewhere  declared,  that  extra¬ 
ordinary  and  uncommon  characters  of  mankind 
are  the  game  which  you  delight  in,  and  as  I  look 
upon  you  to  be  the  greatest  sportsman,  or,  if  you 

f lease,  the  Nimrod  among  this  species  of  writers, 
thought  this  discovery  would  not  be  unaccept¬ 
able  to  you. 

I.  “  I  am,  sir,”  etc. 


No.  372.]  WEDNESDAY,  MAY  7,  1712. 

- Pudet  haec  opprobria  nobis 

Et  diei  potuisse,  et  non  potuisse  refelli. 

Ovid,  Met.  i,  759. 

To  hear  an  open  slander  is  a  curse ; 

But  not  to  find  an  answer  is  a  worse.* — Dryden. 

“Mr.  Spectator,  May  6,  1712. 

“I  am  sexton  of  the  parish  of  Covent-garden, 
and  complained  to  you  some  time  ago,  that  as  I 
was  tolling  into  prayers  at  eleven  in  the  morn¬ 
ing,  crowds  of  people  of  quality  hastened  to  as¬ 
semble  at  a  puppet  show  on  the  other  side  of  the 
garden.  I  had  at  the  same  time  a  very  great  dises- 
teem  for  Mr.  Powell,  and  his  little  thoughtless 
commonwealth,  as  if  they  had  enticed  the  gentry 
into  those  wanderings  :  but  let  that  be  as  it  will, 
I  now  am  convinced  of  the  honest  intentions  of 
the  said  Mr.  Powell  and  company  and  send  this 
to  acquaint  you,  that  he  has  given  all  the  profits 
which  shall  arise  to-morrow  night  by  his  play  to 
the  use  of  the  poor  charity-children  of  this  parish. 
I  have  been  informed,  sir,  that  in  Holland  all  per¬ 
sons  who  set  up  any  show,  or  act  any  stage-play, 
be  the  actors  either  of  wood  andAvire,  or  flesh  and 
blood,  are  obliged  to  pay  out  of  their  gains  such 
a  proportion  to  the  honest  and  industrious  poor 
in  the  neighborhood  ;  by  this  means  they  make 
diversion  and  pleasure  pay  a  tax  to  labor  and 
industry.  I  have  been  told  also,  that  all  the  time 
of  Lent,  in  Roman  Catholic  countries,  the  persons 
of  condition  administer  to  the  necessities  of  the 
poor,  and  attend  the  beds  of  lazars  and  diseased 
persons.  Our  protestant  ladies  and  gentlemen 
are  so  much  to  seek  for  proper  ways  of  passing 
time,  that  they  are  obliged  to  punchinello  for 
knowing  what  to  do  with  themselves.  Since  the 


459 

case  is  so,  I  desire  only  you  would  entreat  our 
people  of  quality,  who  are  not  to  be  interrupted 
in  their  pleasure,  to  think  of  the  practice  of  any 
moral  duty,  that  they  would  at  least  fine  for  their 
sins,  and  give  something  to  these  poor  children: 
a  little  out  of  their  luxury  and  superfluity  would 
atone,  in  some  measure,  for  the  wanton  use  of  the 
rest  of  their  fortunes.  It  would  not,  methinks,  be 
amiss,  if  the  ladies  who  hunt  the  cloisters  and 
passages  of  the  playhouses,  were,  upon  every 
offense,  obliged  to  pay  to  this  excellent  institution 
of  schools  of  charity.  This  method  would  make 
offenders  themselves  do  service  to  the  public. 
But  in  the  meantime  I  desire  you  would  publish 
this  voluntary  reparation  which  Mr.  Powell  does 
our  parish,  for  the  noise  he  has  made  in  it  by  the 
constant  rattling  of  coaches,  drums,  trumpets, 
triurpphs,  and  battles.  The  destruction  of  Troy, 
adorned  with  Highland  dances,  are  to  make  up 
the  entertainment  of  all  who  are  so  well  disposed 
as  not  to  forbear  a  light  entertainment,  for  no 
other  reason  but  that  it  is  to  do  a  good  action. 

“I  am,  sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

“  Ralph  Bellfry,” 

“I  am  credibly  informed,  that  all  the  insinua¬ 
tions  which  a  certain  writer  made  against  Mr. 
Powell  at  the  Bath,  are  false  and  groundless.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  My  employment,  which  is  that  of  a  broker, 
leading  me  often  into  taverns  about  the  Exchange, 
has  given  me  occasion  to  observe  a  certain  enor¬ 
mity,  which  I  shall  here  submit  to  your  animad¬ 
version.  In  three  or  four  of  these  taverns,  I  have, 
at  different  times,  taken  notice  of  a  precise  set  of 
people,  with  grave  countenances,  short  wigs,  black 
clothes,  or  dark  camlet  trimmed  with  black,  and 
mourning  gloves  and  hat-bands,  who  meet  on 
certain  days  at  each  tavern  successively,  and  keep 
a  sort  of  moving  club.  Having  often  met  with 
their  faces,  and  observed  a  certain  slinking  way 
in  their  dropping  in  one  after  another,  I  had  the 
curiosity  to  inquire  into  their  characters,  being 
the  rather  moved  to  it  by  their  agreeing  in  the 
singularity  of  their  dress;  and  I  find,  upon  due 
examination,  they  are  a  knot  of  parish  clerks, 
who  have  taken  a  fancy  to  one  another,  and  per¬ 
haps  settle  the  bills  of  mortality  over  their  half¬ 
pints.  I  have  so  great  a  value  and  veneration  for 
any  who  have  but  even  an  assenting  Amen  in 
the  service  of  religion,  that  I  am  afraid  lest  these 
persons  should  incur  some  scandal  by  this  prac¬ 
tice;  and  would  therefore  have  them,  without 
raillery,  advised  to  send  the  Florence  and  pullets 
home  to  their  own  houses,  and  not  pretend  to  live 
as  well  as  the  overseers  of  the  poor. 

“  I  am,  sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

“  Humphry  Transfer.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator,  May  6th. 

“I  was  last  Wednesday  night  at  a  tavern  in 
the  city,  among  a  set  of  men  who  call  themselves 
‘the  lawyers’  club.’  You  must  know,  sir,  this 
club  consists  only  of  attorneys  ;  and  at  this  meet¬ 
ing  every  one  proposes  the  cause  he  has  then  in 
hand  to  the  board,  upon  which  each  member 
gives  his  judgment  according  to  the  experience 
he  lias  met  with.  If  it  happens  that  any  one  puts 
a  case  of  which  they  have  had  no  precedent,  it  is 
noted  down  by  their  clerk,  Will  Goosequill  (who 
registers  all  their  proceedings),  that  one  of  them 
may  go  the  next  day  with  it  to  a  counsel.  This 
indeed  is  commendable,  and  ought  to  be  the  prin¬ 
cipal  end  of  their  meeting;  but  had  you  been 
there,  to  have  heard  them  relate  their  methods  of 
managing  a  cause,  their  manner  of  drawing  out 


*  In  the  original  publication  in  folio,  the  motto  is  wanting. 


THE  SPECT  ATO  R. 


460 

their  bills,  and,  in  short,  their  arguments  upon 
the  several  ways  of  abusing  their  clients,  with  the 
applause  that  is  given  to  him  who  has  done  it 
most  artfully,  you  would  before  now  have  given 
your  remarks  on  them.  They  are  so  conscious 
that  their  discourse  ought  to  be  kept  a  secret,  that 
they  are  very  cautious  of  admitting  any  person 
who  is  not  of  their  profession.  When  any  who 
are  not  of  the  law  are  let  in,  the  person  who  intro¬ 
duces  him  says  he  is  a  very  honest  gentleman, 
and  he  is  taken  in,  as  their  cant  is,  to  pay  costs. 
I  am  admitted  upon  the  recommendation  of  one 
of  their  principals,  as  a  very  honest,  good-natured 
fellow,  that  will  never  be  in  a  plot,  and  only  de¬ 
sires  to  drink  his  bottle  and  smoke  his  pipe.  You 
have  formerly  remarked  upon  several  sorts  of 
clubs  ;  and  as  the  tendency  of  this  is  only  to  in¬ 
crease  fraud  and  deceit,  I  hope  you  will  please 
to  take  notice  of  it. 

“  I  am,  with  respect,  your  humble  Servant. 

T.  “  H.  R.” 


Ho.  373.]  THURSDAY,  MAY  8,  1712. 

Fallit  enim  vitium  specie  virtutis  et  umbra. 

Juv.,  Sat.  xiv,  109. 

Vice  oft  is  hid  in  Virtue’s  fair  disguise, 

And  in  her  borrow’d  form  escapes  inquiring  eyes. 

Mr.  Locke,  in  his  treatise  of  the  Human  Un¬ 
derstanding,  has  spent  two  chapters  upon  the 
abuse  of  words.  The  first  and  palpable  abuse  of 
words,  he  says,  is  when  they  are  used  without 
clear  and  distinct  ideas;  the  second,  when  we  are 
so  inconstant  and  unsteady  in  the  application  of 
them,  that  we  sometimes  use  them  to  signify  one 
idea,  sometimes  another.  He  adds,  that  the  result 
of  our  contemplations  and  reasonings,  while  we 
have  no  precise  ideas  fixed  to  our  words,  must 
needs  be  very  confused  and  absurd.  To  avoid 
this  inconvenience,  more  especially  in  moral-dis¬ 
courses,  where  the  same  word  should  be  constantly 
used  in  the  same  sense,  he  earnestly  recommends 
the  use  of  definitions.  “  A  definition,”  says  he, 
“  is  the  only  way  whereby  the  precise  meaning  of 
moral  words  can  be  known.”  He  therefore  accuses 
those  of  great  negligence  who  discourse  of  moral 
things  with  the  least  obscurity  in  the  terms  they 
make  use  of ;  since,  upon  the  fore-mentioned 
ground,  he  does  not  scruple  to  say  that  he  thinks 
“  morality  is  capable  of  demonstration,  as  well  as 
the  mathematics.” 

I  know  no  two  words  that  have  been  more 
abused  by  the  different  and  wrong  interpretations 
which  are  put  upon  them,  than  these  two,  modesty 
and  assurance.  To  say  such  a  one  is  a  modest 
man,  sometimes  indeed  passes  for  a  good  charac¬ 
ter;  but  at  present  is  very  often  used  to  signify  a 
sheepish,  awkward  fellow,  who  has  neither  good 
breeding,  politeness,  nor  any  knowledge  of  the 
world. 

Again,  a  man  of  assurance,  though  at  first  it 
only  denoted  a  person  of  a  free  and  open  carriage, 
is  now  very  usually  applied  to  a  profligate  wretch, 
who  can  break  through  all  the  rules  of  decency 
and  morality  without  a  blush. 

I  shall  endeavor,  therefore,  in  this  essay,  to  re¬ 
store  these  words  to  their  true  meaning,  to  prevent 
the  idea  of  modesty  from  being  confounded  with 
that  of  sheepishness,  and  to  hinder  impudence 
from  passing  for  assurance. 

If  I  was  put  to  define  modesty,  I  would  call  it 
“  the  reflection  of  an  ingenious*  mind,  either 
when  a  man  has  committed  an  action  for  which  he 
censures  himself,  or  fancies  that  he  is  exposed  to 
the  censure  of  others.” 


*  “  Ingenious  ”  seems  to  be  here  used  for  “  ingenuous.” 


For  this  reason  a  man  truly  modest  is  as  much 
so  when  he  is  alone  as  in  company,  and  as  subject 
to  a  blush  in  his  closet  as  when  the  eyes  of  multi¬ 
tudes  are  upon  him. 

I  do  not  remember  to  have  met  with  any  in¬ 
stance  of  modesty  with  which  I  am  so  well 
pleased  as  that  celebrated  one  of  the  young  prince, 
whose  father  being  a  tributary  king  to  the  Ro¬ 
mans,  had  several  complaints  laid  against  him  be¬ 
fore  the  senate,  as  a  tyrant  and  oppressor  of  his 
subjects.  The  prince  went  to  Rome  to  defend  his 
father;  but  coming  into  the  senate,  and  hearing  a 
multitude  of  crimes  proved  upon  him,  was  so  op¬ 
pressed  when  it  came  to  his  turn  to  speak,  that  he 
was  unable  to  utter  a  word.  The  story  tells  us, 
that  the  fathers  were  more  moved  at  this  instance 
of  modesty  and  ingenuity*  than  they  could  have 
been  by  the  most  pathetic  oration,  and,  in  short, 
pardoned  the  guilty  father  for  this  early  promise 
of  virtue  in  the  son. 

I  take  “  assurance  to  be  the  faculty  of  possess¬ 
ing  a  man’s  self,  or  of  saying  and  doing  indifferent 
things  without  any  uneasiness  or  emotion  in  the 
mind.”  That  which  generally  gives  a  man  assu¬ 
rance  is  a  moderate  knowledge  of  the  world,  but, 
above  all,  a  mind  fixed  and  determined  in  itself 
to  do  nothing  against  the  rules  of  honor  and  de¬ 
cency.  An  open  and  assured  behavior  is  the  na¬ 
tural  consequence  of  such  a  resolution.  A  man 
thus  armed,  if  his  words  or  actions  are  at  any 
time  misrepresented,  retires  within  himself,  and 
from  a  consciousness  of  his  own  integrity,  assumes 
force  enough  to  despise  the  little  censures  of  igno¬ 
rance  and  malice. 

Every  one  ought  to  cherish  and  encourage  in 
himself  the  modesty  and  assurance  I  have  here 
mentioned. 

A  man  without  assurance  is  liable  to  be  made 
uneasy  by  the  folly  or  ill-nature  of  every  one  he 
converses  with.  A  man  without  modesty  is  lost 
to  all  sense  of  honor  and  virtue. 

It  is  more  than  probable  that  the  prince  above- 
mentioned  possessed  both  these  qualifications  in  a 
very  eminent  degree.  Without  assurance,  he 
would  never  have  undertaken  to  speak  before  the 
most  august  assembly  in  the  world  :  without  mo¬ 
desty,  he  would  have  pleaded  the  cause  he  had 
taken  upon  him,  though  it  had  appeared  ever  so 
scandalous. 

From  what  has  been  said,  it  is  plain  that  mo¬ 
desty  and  assurance  are  both  amiable,  and  may 
very  well  meet  in  the  same  person.  When  they 
are  thus  mixed  and  blended  together,  they  com¬ 
pose  what  we  endeavor  to  express  when  we  say 
“  a  modest  assurance;”  by  which  we  understand 
the  just  mean  between  bashfulness  and  impu¬ 
dence. 

I  shall  conclude  with  observing,  that  as  the 
same  man  may  be  modest  and  assured,  so  it  is 
also  possible  for  the  same  to  be  both  impudent 
and  bashful. 

We  have  frequent  instances  of  this  odd  kind  of 
mixture  in  people  of  depraved  minds  and  mean 
education,  who,  though  they  are  not  able  to  meet 
a  man’s  eyes,  or  pronounce  a  sentence  without 
confusion,  can  voluntarily  commit  the  greatest 
villanies  or  most  indecent  actions. 

Such  a  person  seems  to  have  made  a  resolution 
to  do  ill  even  in  spite  of  himself,  and  in  defiance 
of  all  those  checks  and  restraints  his  temper  and 
complexion  seem  to  have  laid  in  his  way. 

Upon  the  whole,  I  would  endeavor  to  establish 
this  maxim,  that  the  practice  of  virtue  is  the 
most  proper  method  to  give  a  man  a  becoming 


*  “  Ingenuity  ”  seems  hero  to  be  used  in  the  sense  of  “  in¬ 
genuousness.” 


THE  SPECTATOR, 


assurance  in  his  words  and  actions.  Guilt  always 
seeks  to  shelter  itself  in  one  of  the  extremes  and 
is  sometimes  attended  with  both. — X. 


461 


•  Ho.  374.]  FRIDAY,  MAY  9,  1712. 

J»il  actum  reputans  si  quid  superesset  agendum. 

Lucan,  ii,  57. 

He  reckon’d  not  the  past,  while  aught  remain’d 

Great  to  be  done,  or  mighty  to  be  gain'd.— Rowe. 

There  is  a  fault,  which,  though  common,  wants 
a  name.  It  is  the  very  contrary  to  procrastina- 
nation.  As  we  lose  the  present  hour  by  delaying 
from  day  to  day  to  execute  what  we  ought  to  do 
immediately,  so  most  of  us  take  occasion  to  sit 
still  and  throw  away  the  time  in  our  possession 
by  retrospect  on  what  is  past,  imagining  we  have 
already  acquitted  ourselves,  and  established  our 
characters  in  the  sight  of  mankind.  But  when 
we  thus  put  a  value  upon  ourselves  for  what  we 
have  already  done,  any  further  than  to  explain 
ourselves  in  order  to  assist  our  future  conduct, 
that  will  give  us  an  overweening  opinion  of  our 
merit,  to  the  prejudice  of  our  present  industry. 
The  great  rule,  methinks,  should  be,  to  manage 
the  instant  in  which  we  stand,  with  fortitude, 
equanimity,  and  moderation,  according  to  men’s 
respective  circumstances.  If  our  past  actions  re¬ 
proach  us,  they  cannot  be  atoned  for  by  our  own 
severe  reflections  so  effectually  as  by  a  contrary 
behavior.  If  they  are  praiseworthy,  the  memory 
of  them  is  of  no  use  but  to  act  suitably  to  them. 
Thus  a  good  present  behavior  is  an  implicit  re¬ 
pentance  for  any  miscarriage  in  what  is  past;  but 
present  slackness  will  not  make  up  for  past  acti¬ 
vity.  Time  has  swallowed  up  all  that  we  cotem¬ 
poraries  did  yesterday  as  irrevocably  as  it  has 
the  _  actions  of  the  antediluvians.  But  we  are 
again  awake,  and  what  shall  we  do  to-day — to¬ 
day,  which  passes  while  we  are  yet  speaking? 
Shall  we  remember  the  folly  of  last  night,  or  re¬ 
solve  upon  the  exercise  of  virtue  to-morrow?  Last 
night  is  certainly  gone,  and  to-morrow  may  never 
arrive.  This  instant  make  use  of.  Can  you 
oblige  any  man  of  honor  and  virtue?  Do  it  imme¬ 
diately.  Can  you  visit  a  sick  friend  ?  Will  it  re¬ 
vive  him  to  see  you  enter,  and  suspend  your  own 
ease  and  pleasure  to  comfort  his  weakness,  and 
hear  the  impertinences  of  a  wretch  in  pain?  Do 
not  stay  to  take  coach,  but  be  gone.  Your  mis¬ 
tress  will  bring  sorrow,  and  your  bottle  madness. 
Go  to  neither — Such  virtues  and  diversions  as 
these  are  mentioned  because  they  occur  to  all  men. 
But  every  man  is  sufficiently  convinced,  that  to 
suspend  the  use  of  the  present  moment,  and  re¬ 
solve  better  for  the  future  only,  is  an  unpardon¬ 
able  folly.  What  I  attempted  to  consider,  was  the 
mischief  of  setting  such  a  value  upon  what  is 
past,  as  to  think  we  have  done  enough.  Let  a  man 
have  filled  all  the  offices  of  life  with  the  highest 
dignity  till  yesterday,  and  begin  to  live  only  to 
himself  to-day,  he  must  expect  he  will,  in  the  ef¬ 
fects  upon  his  reputation,  be  considered  as  the 
man  who  died  yesterday.  The  man  who  distin¬ 
guishes  himself  from  the  rest,  stands  in  a  press  of 
people  :  those  before  him  intercept  his  progress; 
and  those  behind  him,  if  he  does  not  urge  on* 
will  tread  him  down.  Caesar,  of  whom  it  was 
said  that  lie  thought  nothing  done  while  there  was 
left  anything  for  him  to  do,  went  on  in  perform¬ 
ing  the  greatest  exploits,  without  assuming  to 
himself  a  privilege  of  taking  rest  upon  the  foun¬ 
dation  of  the  merit  of  his  former  actions.  It  was 
the  manner  of  that  glorious  captain  to  write  down 
what  soenes  he  had  passed  through;  but  it  was 


rather  to  keep  his  affairs  in  method,  and  capable 
of  a  clear  review  in  case  they  should  be  examined 
by  others,  than  that  he  built  a  renown  upon  any¬ 
thing  that  was  past.  I  shall  produce  two  frag- 
ments  of  his,  to  demonstrate  that  it  was  his  rule 
of  life  to  support  himself  rather  by  what  he  should 
peilorm,  than  what  he  had  done  already.  In  the 
tablet  which  he  wore  about  him  the  same  year  in 
which  he  obtained  the  battle  of  Pharsalia,  there 
were  found  these  loose  notes  of  his  own  conduct. 
It  is  supposed,  by  the  circumstances  they  alluded 
to,  that  they  might  be  set  down  the  evening  of  the 
same  night. 

“  My  part  is  now  but  begun,  and  my  glory  must 
be  sustained  by  the  use  I  make  of  this  victory, 
otherwise  my  loss  will  be  greater  than  that  of 
Pompey.  Our  personal  reputation  will  rise  or  fall 
as  we  bear  our  respective  fortunes.  All  my  pri¬ 
vate  enemies  among  the  prisoners  shall  be  spared. 
I  will  forget  this,  in  order  to  obtain  such  another 
day.  Trebutius  is  ashamed  to  see  me;  I  will  go 
to  his  tent,  and  be  reconciled  in  private.  Give  all 
the  men  of  honor,  who  take  part  with  me,  the 
terms  I  offered  before  the  battle.  Let  them  owe 
this  to  their  friends  who  have  been  long  in  my  in¬ 
terests.  Power  is  weakened  by  the  full  use  of  it, 
but  extended  by  moderation.  Galbinius  is  proud, 
and  will  be  servile  in  his  present  fortune :  let  him 
wait.  Send  for  Stertinius :  he  is  modest,  and  his 
virtue  is  worth  gaining.  I  have  cooled  my  heart 
with  reflection,  and  am  fit  to  rejoice  with  the  army 
to-morrow.  He  is  a  popular  general,  who  can  ex¬ 
pose  himself  like  a  private  man  during  a  battle; 
but  he  is  more  popular  who  can  rejoice  but  like  a 
private  man  after  a  victory.” 

What  is  particularly  proper  for  the  example  of 
all  who  pretend  to  industry  in  the  pursuit  of  ho¬ 
nor  and  virtue,  is,  that  this  hero  was  more  than 
ordinarily  solicitous  about  his  reputation,  when  a 
common  mind  would  have  thought  itself  in  secu¬ 
rity,  and  given  itself  a  loose  to  joy  and  triumph. 
But  though  this  is  a  very  great  instance  of  his 
temper,  I  must  confess  I  am  more  taken  with  his 
reflections  when  he  retired  to  his  closet  in  some 
disturbance  upon  the  repeated  ill  omens  of  Cal- 
phurnia’s  dream,  the  night  before  his  death.  The 
literal  translation  of  that  fragment  shall  conclude 
this  paper. 

“  Be  it  so  then.  If  I  am  to  die  to-morrow,  that 
is  what  I  am  to  do  to-morrow.  It  will  not  be 
then,  because  I  am  willing  it  should  be  then;  nor 
shall  I  escape  it,  because  I  am  unwilling.  It  is 
in  the  gods  when,  but  in  myself  how,  I  shall  die. 
If  Calphurnia’s  dreams  are  fumes  of  indigestion, 
how  shall  I  behold  the  day  after  to-morrow!  If 
they  are  from  the  gods,  their  admonition  is  not  to 
prepare  me  to  escape  from  their  decree,  but  to  meet 
it.  I  have  lived  a  fullness  of  days  and  of  glory : 
what  is  there  that  Caesar  has  not  done  with  as 
much  honor  as  ancient  heroes  ? — Caesar  has  not 
yet  died !  Caesar  is  prepared  to  die.” — T. 


No.  375.]  SATURDAY,  MAY  10,  1712. 

Non  possidentem  multa  vocaveris 
Recte  beatum :  rectius  occupat 
Nomen  beati,  qui  deorum 
Muneribus  sapientur  uti, 

Duramque  callet  pauperiem  pati, 

Pej  usque  letho  fiagitium  timet. 

Hor.  4  Od.  ix,  45. 

We  barbarously  call  them  blest 
Who  are  of  largest  tenements  possest, 

While  swelling  coffers  break  their  owner’s  rest. 
More  truly  happy  those  who  can 
Govern  that  little  empire,  man ; 

Who  spend  their  treasure  freely,  as ’t  was  giv’n 
By  the  large  bounty  of  indulgent  Heav’n ; 


462 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Who,  in  a  fix’d  unalterable  state, 

Smile  at  the  doubtful  tide  of  Fate, 

And  scorn  alike  her  friendship  and  her  hate 
Who  poison  less  than  falsehood  fear, 

Loth  to  purchase  life  so  dear. — Stepney. 

I  have  more  than  once  had  occasion  to  mention 
a  noble  saying  of  Seneca  the  philosopher,  that  a 
virtuous  person  struggling  with  misfortunes,  and 
rising  above  them,  is  an  object  on  which  the  gods 
themselves  mav  look  down  with  delight.  I  shall 
therefore  set  before  my  reader  a  scene  of  this  kind 
of  distress  in  private  life,  for  the  speculation  of 
this  day. 

An  eminent  citizen,  who  had  lived  in  good 
fashion  and  credit,  was,  by  a  train  of  accidents, 
and  by  an  unavoidable  perplexity  in  his  affairs, 
reduced  to  a  low  condition.  There  is  a  modesty 
usually  attending  faultless  poverty,  which  made 
him  rather  choose  to  reduce  his  manner  of  living 
to  his  present  circumstances,  than  solicit  his 
friends  in  order  to  support  the  show  of  an  estate 
when  the  substance  was  gone.  His  wife,  who  was 
a  woman  of  sense  and  virtue,  behaved  herself  on 
this  occasion  with  uncommon  decency,  and  never 
appeared  so  amiable  in  his  eyes  as  now.  Instead 
of  upbraiding  him  with  the  ample  fortune  she  had 
brought,  or  the  many  great  offers  she  had  refused 
for  his  sake,  she  redoubled  all  the  instances  of 
her  affection,  while  her  husband  was  continually 
ouring  out  his  heart  to  her  in  complaints  that  he 
ad  ruined  the  best  woman  in  the  world.  He 
sometimes  came  home  at  a  time  when  she  did  not 
expect  him,  and  surprised  her  in  tears,  which  she 
endeavored  to  conceal,  and  always  put  on  an  air 
of  cheerfulness  to  receive  him.  To  lessen  their 
expense,  their  eldest  daughter  (whom  I  shall  call 
Amanda)  was  sent  into  the  country,  to  the  house 
of  an  honest  farmer,  who  had  married  a  servant 
of  the  family.  This  young  woman  was  appre¬ 
hensive  of  the  ruin  which  was  approaching,  and 
had  privately  engaged  a  friend  in  the  neighbor¬ 
hood  to  give  her  an  account  of  what  passed  from 
time  to  time  in  her  father’s  affairs.  Amanda  was 
in  the  bloom  of  her  youth  and  beauty;  when  the 
lord  of  the  manor,  who  often  called  in  at  the  farm¬ 
er’s  house,  as  he  followed  his  country  sports,  fell 
passionately  in  love  with  her.  He  was  a  man  of 
great  generosity,  but,  from  a  loose  education,  had 
contracted  a  hearty  aversion  to-  marriage.  He 
therefore  entertained  a  design  upon  Amanda’s  vir¬ 
tue,  which  at  present  he  thought  fit  to  keep  private. 
The  innocent  creature,  who  never  suspected  his 
intentions,  was  pleased  with  his  person;  and, 
having  observed  his  growing  passion  for  her, 
hoped  by  so  advantageous  a  match  she  might 
quickly  be  in  a  capacity  of  supporting  her  impo¬ 
verished  relations.  One  day,  as  he  called  to  see 
her,  he  found  her  in  tears,  over  a  letter  she  had 
just  received  from  her  friend,  which  gave  an  ac¬ 
count  that  her  father  had  lately  been  stripped  of 
everything  by  an  execution.  The  lover,  who  with 
some  difficulty  found  out  the  cause  of  her  grief, 
took  this  occasion  to  make  her  a  proposal.  It  is 
impossible  to  express  Amanda’s  confusion  when 
she  found  his  pretensions  were  not  honorable.  She 
was  now  deserted  of  all  her  hopes,  and  had  no 
power  to  speak,  but,  rushing  from  him  in  the  ut¬ 
most  disturbance,  locked  herself  up  in  her  cham¬ 
ber.  He  immediately  dispatched  a  messenger  to 
her  father  with  the  following  letter : 

“  Sir, 

“I  have  heard  of  your  misfortunes,  and  have 
offered  your  daughter,  if  she  will  live  with  me,  to 
settle  on  her  four  hundred  pounds  a-year,  and  to 
lay  down  the  sum  for  which  you  are  now  dis¬ 
tressed.  I  will  be  so  ingenuous  as  to  tell  you  that 


I  do  not  intend  marriage,  but  if  you  are  wise,  you 
will  use  your  authority  with  her  not  to  be  too  nice, 
when  she  has  an  opportunity  of  saving  you  and 
your  family,  and  of  making  lierself  happy. 

“  I  am,”  etc. 

This  letter  came  to  the  hands  of  Amanda’s 
mother.  She  opened  and  read  it  with  great  sur¬ 
prise  and  concern.  She  did  not  think  it  proper  to 
explain  herself  to  the  messenger,  but,  desiring 
him  to  call  again  the  next  morning,  she  wrote  to 
her  daughter  as  follows  : — 

“  Dearest  Child, 

“Your  father  and  I  have  just  received  a  letter 
from  a  gentleman  who  pretends  love  to  you,  with 
a  proposal  that  insults  our  misfortunes,  and  would 
throw  us  to  a  lower  degree  of  misery  than  any¬ 
thing  which  is  come  upon  us.  How  could  this 
barbarous  man  think  that  the  tenderest  of  parents 
would  be  tempted  to  supply  their  wants  by  giving 
up  the  best  of  children  to  infamy  and  ruin  ?  It  is 
a  mean  and  cruel  artifice  to  make  this  proposal  at 
a  time  when  he  thinks  our  necessities  must  com¬ 
pel  us  to  anything;  but  we  will  not  eat  the  bread 
of  shame;  and  therefore  we  charge  thee  not  to 
think  of  us,  but  to  avoid  the  snare  which  is  laid 
for  thy  virtue.  Beware  of  pitying  us:  it  is  not  so 
bad  as  you  perhaps  have  been  told.  All  things 
will  yet  be  well,  and  I  shall  write  my  child  better 
news. 

“I  have  been  interrupted;  I  know  not  how  I 
was  moved  to  say  things  would  mend.  As  I  was 
going  on,  I  was  startled  by  the  noise  of  one  that 
knocked  at  the  door,  and  hath  brought  us  an  un¬ 
expected  supply  of  a  debt  which  has  long  been 
owing.  Oh!  I  will  now  tell  thee  all.  It  is  some 
days  I  have  lived  almost  without  support,  having 
conveyed  what  little  money  I  could  raise  to  your 
poor  father.  Thou  wilt  weep  to  think  where  he 
is,  yet  be  assured  he  will  be  soon  at  liberty.  That 
cruel  letter  would  have  broke  his  heart,  but  I  have 
concealed  it  from  him.  I  have  no  companion  at 
present  beside  little  Fanny,  who  stands  watching 
my  looks  as  I  write,  and  is  crying  for  her  sister. 
She  says  she  is  sure  you  are  not  well,  having  dis¬ 
covered  that  my  present  trouble  is  about  you.  But 
do  not  think  I  would  thus  repeat  my  sorrows  to 
grieve  thee.  No;  it  is  to  entreat  thee  not  to  mako 
them  insupportable,  by  adding  what  would  be 
worse  than  all.  Let  us  bear  cheerfully  an  afflic¬ 
tion  which  we  have  not  brought  on  ourselves,  and 
remember  there  is  a  Power  who  can  better  deliver 
us  out  of  it  than  by  the  loss  of  thy  innocence. 
Heaven  preserve  my  dear  child  ! 

“  Thy  affectionate  Mother, 

u _ » 

The  messenger,  notwithstanding  he  promised  to 
deliver  this  letter  to  Amanda,  carried  it  first  to  his 
master,  who  he  imagined  would  be  glad  to  have 
an  opportunity  of  giving  it  into  her  hands  him¬ 
self.  His  master  was  impatient  to  know  the  success 
of  his  proposal,  and  therefore  broke  open  the  let¬ 
ter  privately  to  see  the  contents.  He  was  not  a 
little  moved  at  so  true  a  picture  of  virtue  in  dis¬ 
tress;  but  at  the  same  time  was  infinitely  surprised 
to  find  his  offers  rejected.  However,  he  resolved 
not  to  suppress  the  letter,  but  carefully  sealed  it 
up  again,  and  carried  it  to  Amanda.  All  his  en¬ 
deavors  to  see  her  were  in  vain  till  she  was  assured 
he  brought  a  letter  from  her  mother.  He  would 
not  part  with  it  but  upon  condition  that  she  would 
read  it  without  leaving  the  room.  While  she  was 
perusing  it,  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  her  face  with  the 
deepest  attention.  Her  concern  gave  a  new  soft¬ 
ness  to  her  beauty,  and,  when  she  Durst  into  tears, 
he  could  no  longer  refrain  from  bearing  a  part  in 


THE  SPE  CTATOR. 


her  sorrow,  and  telling  her,  that  he  too  had  read 
the  letter,  and  was  resolved  to  make  reparation 
for  having  been  the  occasion  of  it.  My  reader 
will  not  be  displeased  to  see  the  second  epistle 
which  he  now  wrote  to  Amanda’s  mother. 

“  Madam, 

I  am  full  of  shame,  and  will  never  forgive 
m  jself  if  I  have  not  your  pardon  for  what  I  lately 
wrote.  It  was  far  from  my  intention  to  add  trou¬ 
ble  to  the  afflicted;  nor  could  .anything  but  my 
being  a  stranger  to  you  have  betrayed  me  into  a 
fault,  tor  which,  if  I  live,  I  shall  endeavor  to  make 
you  amends  as  a  son.  You  cannot  be  unhappy 
while  Amanda  is  your  daughter;  nor  shall  be,  if 
anything  can  prevent  it  which  is  in  the  power  of, 

“  Madam, 

“  \  our  most  obedient,  humble  Servant, 

<<  >> 

This  letter  he  sent  by  his  steward,  and  soon 
after  went  up  to  town  himself  to  complete  the  ge¬ 
nerous  act  he  had  now  resolved  on.  By  his  friend¬ 
ship  and  assistance  Amanda’s  father  was  quickly 
in  a  condition  of  retrieving  his  perplexed  affairs. 
To  conclude,  lie  married  Amanda,  and  enjoyed 
the  double  satisfaction  of  having  restored  a  worthy 
family  to  their  former  prosperity,  and  of  making 
himself  happy  by  an  alliance  to  their  virtues.  & 


No.  376.]  MONDAY,  MAY,  16,  1712. 

- Pavone  ex  Pythagorao. 

Pzrs.,  Sat.  vi,  11. 

From  the  Pythagorean  peacock. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  have  observed  that  the  officer  you  some  time 
ago  appointed  as  inspector  of  signs,  has  not  done 
his  duty  so  well  as  to  give  you  an  account  of  very 
many  strange  occurrences  in  the  public  streets, 
which  are  w7orthy  of,  but  have  escaped,  your  no¬ 
tice.  Among  all  the  oddnesses  which  I  have  ever 
met  with,  that  which  I  am  now  telling  you  gave 
me  most  delight.  You  must  have  observed  that 
all  the  cries  in  the  street  attract  the  attention  of 
the  passengers,  and  of  the  inhabitants  in  the 
several  parts,  by  something  very  particular  in 
their  tone  itself,  in  the  dwelling  upon  a  note,  or 
else  making  themselves  wholly  unintelligible  by  a 
scream.  The  person  I  am  so  delighted  with  has 
nothing  to  sell,  but  very  gravely  receives  the 
bounty  of  the  people,  for  no  other  merit  but  the 
homage  they  pay  to  his  manner  of  signifying  to 
them  that  he  wants  a  subsidy.  You  must  sure 
have  heard  speak  of  an  old  man  who  walks  about 
the  city,  and  that  part  of  the  suburbs  which  lies 
beyond  the  Tower,  performing  the  office  of  a  day- 
w  at  chin  an,  followed  by  a  goose,  which  bears  the 
bob  of  his  ditty,  and  confirms  what  he  says  with 
a  Quack,  quack.  I  gave  little  heed  to  the  men¬ 
tion  of  this  known  circumstance  till,  being  the 
other  day  in  those  quarters,  I  passed  by  a  decre- 
pnl  old  fellow,  with  a  pole  in  his  hand,"  who  just, 
then  wras  bawling  out,  '  Half  an  hour  after  one 
o’clock!’  and  immediately  a  dirty  goose  behind 
made  her  response,  ‘  Quack,  quack.’  I  could  not 
forbear  attending  this  grave  procession  for  the 
length  of  half  a  street,  with  no  small  amazement 
to  find  the  whole  place  so  familiarly  acquainted 
with  a  melancholy  midnight  voice  at  noon-day, 
giving  them  the  hour,  and  exhorting  them  of  the 
departure  of  time,  with  a  bounce  at  their  doors. 
While  I  was  full  of  this  novelty,  I  went  into  a 
friend’s  house,  and  told  him  how  I  was  diverted 
with  their  whimsical  monitor  and  his  equipage. 


463 

My  friend  gave  me  the  history;  and  interrupted 
my  commendation  of  the  man,  by  telling  me  the 
livelihood  ot  these  two  animals  is  purchased 
rather  by  the  good  parts  of  the  goose  than  of  the 
leader;  for  it  seems  the  peripatetic  who  walked 
before  her  was  a  watchman  in  that  neighborhood; 
and  the  goose  of  herself,  by  frequently  hearing 
this  tone,  out  of  her  natural  vigilance,  not  only 
observed,  but  answered  it  very  regularly  from 
time  to  time.  The  watchman  was  so  affected  with 
it,  that  he  bought  her,  and  has  taken  her  in  part¬ 
ner  only  altering  their  hours  of  duty  from  night 
to  day.  The  town  lias  come  into  it,  and  they  live 
very  comfortably.  This  is  the  matter  of  fact. 
Now  I  desire  you,  who  are  a  profound  philoso¬ 
pher,  to  consider  this  alliance  of  instinct  and  rea¬ 
son.  Your  speculation  may  turn  very  naturally 
iipon  the  force  the  superior  part  of  mankind  may 
have  upon  the  spirits  of  such  as,  like  this  watch¬ 
man,  may  be  very  near  the  standard  of  geese. 
And  you  may  add  to  this  practical  observation, 
how,  in  all  ages  and  times,  the  world  has  been 
carried  away  by  odd  unaccountable  things,  which 
one  would  think  wrould  pass  upon  no  creature 
which  had  reason;  and  under  the  symbol  of  this 
goose,  you  may  enter  into  the  manner  and  method 
of  leading  creatures  with  their  eyes  open  through 
thick  and  thin,  for  they  know  not  what,  they 
know  not  why. 

“  All  which  is  humbly  submitted  to  your  spec- 
tatorial  wisdom  by,  “  Sir, 

Your  most  humble  Servant, 

“  Michael  Gander.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  have  for  several  years  had  under  my  care  the 
government  and  education  of  young  ladies,  which 
trust  I  have  endeavored  to  discharge  with  due  re¬ 
gard  to  their  several  capacities  and  fortunes.  I 
have  left  nothing  undone  to  imprint  in  every  one 
of  them  a  humble  courteous  mind,  accompanied 
with  a  graceful  becoming  mien,  and  have  made 
them  pretty  much  acquainted  with  the  household 
part  of  family  affairs;  but  still  I  find  there  is 
something  very  much  wanting  in  the  air  of  my  la¬ 
dies,  different  from  wrhat  I  have  observed  in  those 
who  are  esteemed  your  fine-bred  women.  Now, 
Sir,  I  must  own  to  you,  I  never  suffered  my  girls 
to  learn  to  dance:  but  since  I  have  read  your  dis¬ 
course  of  dancing,  where  you  have  described  the 
beauty  and  spirit  there  is  in  regular  motion,  I  own 
myself  your  convert,  and  resolve  for  the  future  to 
give  my  young  ladies  that  accomplishment.  But 
upon  imparting  my  design  to  their  parents,  1  have 
been  made  very  uneasy  for  some  time,  because 
several  of  them  have  declared,  that  if  I  did  not 
make  use  of  the  master  they  recommended,  they 
would  take  away  their  children.  There  was 
Colonel  thumper’s  lady,  a  colonel  of  the  train- 
bands,  that  has  a  great  interest  in  her  parish;  she 
recommends  Mr.  Trot  for  the  prettiest  master  in 
town;  that  no  man  teaches  a  jig  like  him,  that 
she  has  seen  him  rise  six  or  seven  capers  together 
with  the  greatest  ease  imaginable;  and  that  his 
scholars  twist  themselves  more  ways  than  the 
scholars  of  any  master  in  town;  beside,  there  is 
Madam  Prim,  an  alderman’s  lady,  recommends  a 
master  of  their  own  name,  but  she  declares  he  is 
not  of  their  family,  yet  a  very  extraordinary  man 
in  his  way;  for,  beside  a  very  soft  air  he  has  in 
dancing,  he  gives  them  a  particular  behavior  at 
a  tea-table,  and  in  presenting  their  snuff-box; 
teaches  to  twirl,  slip,  or  flirt  a  fan,  and  how  to 
place  patches  to  the  best  advantage,  either  for  fat 
or  lean,  long  or  oval  faces;  for  my  lady  says  there 
is  more  in  these  things  than  the  world  imagines. 
But  I  must  confess,  the  major  part  of  those  I  am 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


464 

concerned  with  leave  it  to  me.  I  desire,  therefore,  | 
according  to  the  inclosed  direction,  you  would 
send  your  correspondent  who  has  written  to  you  j 
on  that  subject  to  my  house.  If  proper  applica-  j 
tion  this  way  can  give  innocence  new  charms,  and  j 
make  virtue  legible  in  the  countenance,  I  shall  j 
spare  no  charge  to  make  my  scholars,  in  their  very  I 
features  and  limbs,  bear  witness  how  careful  I  j 
have  been  in  the  other  parts  of  their  education,  i 

“I  am,  Sir, 

“  Your  most  humble  Servant, 

T.  “  Rachael  Watchful.” 


No.  377.]  TUESDAY,  MAY  13,  1712. 

Quid  quisque  vitet,  nunquam  homini  satis 

Cautum  est  in  floras. - 

IIor.  2  Od.,  xiii,  13. 

What  each  should  fly,  is  seldom  known ; 

We  unprovided,  are  undone. — Creech. 

Love  was  the  mother  of  poetry,  and  still  pro¬ 
duces,  among  the  most  ignorant  and  barbarous,  a 
thousand  imaginary  distresses  and  poetical  com¬ 
plaints.  It  makes  a  footman  talk  like  Oroondates, 
and  converts  a  brutal  rustic  into  a  gentle  swain. 
The  most  ordinary  plebeian  or  mechanic  in  love 
bleeds  and  pines  away  with  a  certain  elegance  and 
tenderness  of  sentiments  which  this  passion  na¬ 
turally  inspires. 

These  inward  languisliings  of  a  mind  infected 
with  this  softness  have  given  birth  to.  a  phrase 
which  is  made  use  of  by  all  the  melting  tribe, 
from  the  highest  to  the  lowest — I  mean  that  of 
“  dying  for  love.” 

Romances,  which  owe  their  very  being  to  this 
passion,  are  full  of  these  metaphorical  deaths. 
Heroes  and  heroines,  knights,  ’squires,  and  dam¬ 
sels,  are  all  of  them  in  a  dying  condition.  There 
is  the  same  kind  of  mortality  in  our  modern  tra¬ 
gedies,  where  every  one  gasps,  faints,  bleeds,  and 
dies.  Many  of  the  poets,  to  describe  the  execu¬ 
tion  which  is  done  by  this  passion,  represent  the 
fair  sex  as  basilisks,  that  destroy  with  their  eyes; 
but  I  think  Mr.  Gowley  has,  with  great  justness 
of  thought,  compared  a  beautiful  woman  to  a  por¬ 
cupine,  that  sends  an  arrow  from  every  part. 

I  have  often  thought  that  there  is  no  way  so  ef¬ 
fectual  for  the  cure  of  this  general  infirmity,  as  a 
man’s  reflecting  upon  the  motives  that  produce  it. 
When  the  passion  proceeds  from  the  sense  of  any 
virtue  or  perfection  in  the  person  beloved,  1  would 
by  no  means  discourage  it;  but  if  a  man  considers 
that  all  his  heavy  complaints  of  wounds  and 
deaths  rise  from  some  little  affectations  of  coquet¬ 
ry,  which  are  improved  into  charms  by  his  own 
fond  imagination,  the  very  laying  before  himself 
the  cause  of  his  distemper  may  be  sufficient  to  ef¬ 
fect  the  cure  of  it. 

It  is  in  this  view  that  I  have  looked  over  the 
several  bundles  of  letters  which  I  have  received 
from  dying  people,  and  composed  out  of  them  the 
following  bill  of  mortality,  which  I  shall  lay  be¬ 
fore  my  reader  without  any  further  preface,  as 
hoping  that  it  may  be  useful  to  him  in  discovering 
those  several  places  where  there  is  most  danger, 
and  those  fatal  arts  which  are  made  use  of  to  de¬ 
stroy  the  heedless  and  unwary: — 

Lysander,  slain  at  a  puppet-show  on  the  third 
of  September. 

Thyrsi s,  shot  from  a  casement  in  Piccadilly. 

T.  S.  wounded  by  Zelinda’s  scarlet  stocking,  as 
she  was  stepping  out  of  a  coach. 

Will  Simple,  smitten  at  the  opera  by  the  glance 
of  an  eye  that  was  aimed  at  one  who  stood  by 
him. 


Tho.  Vainlove,  lost  his  life  at  a  ball. 

Tim.  Tattle,  kindled  by  the  tap  of  a  fan  on  his 
left  shoulder  by  Coquetilla,  as  he  was  talking 
carelessly  with  her  in  a  bow-window. 

Sir  Simon  Softly,  murdered  at  the  playhouse  in 
Drury-lane  by  a  frown. 

Philander,  mortally  wounded  by  Cleora,  as  she 
was  adjusting  her  tucker. 

Ralph  Gapley,  Esq.,  hit  by  a  random-shot  at 
the  ring. 

F.  R.  caught  his  death  upon  the  water,  April 
the  1st. 

W.  W.  killed  by  an  unknown  hand,  that  was 
playing  with  the  glove  off  upon  the  side  of  the 
front  box  in  Drury-lane. 

Sir  Christopher  Crazy,  Bart.,  hurt  by  the  brush 
of  a  whalebone  petticoat. 

Sylvius,  shot  through  the  sticks  of  a  fan  at  St. 
James’s  church. 

Damon,  struck  through  the  heart  by  a  diamond 
necklace. 

Thomas  Trusty,  Francis  Goosequill,  William 
Meanwell,  Edward  Callow,  Esqrs.,  standing  in  a 
row,  fell  all  four  at  the  same  time,  by  an  ogle  of 
the  Widow  Trapland. 

Tom  Rattle,  chancing  to  tread  upon  a  lady’s 
tail  as  he  came  out  of  the  playhouse,  she  turned 
full  upon  him,  and  laid  him  dead  upon  the  spot. 

Dick  Tastewell,  slain  by  a  blush  from  the 
queen’s  box  in  the  third  act  of  the  Trip  to  the  Ju¬ 
bilee. 

Samuel  Felt,  haberdasher,  wounded  in  his  walks 
to  Islington,  by  Mrs.  Susannah  Cross-stitch,  as 
she  was  clambering  over  a  stile. 

R.  F.  T.  W.  S.  I.  M.  P.,  etc.,  put  to  death  in  the 
last  birthday  massacre. 

Roger  Blinko,  cut  off  in  the  twenty-first  year 
of  his  age  by  a  white-wash. 

Musidorus,  slain  by  an  arrow  that  flew  out  of  a 
dimple,  in  Belinda’s  left  cheek. 

Ned  Courtly,  presenting  Flavia  with  her  glove 
(which  she  had  dropped  on  purpose),  she  received 
it,  and  took  away  his  life  with  a  courtsey. 

John  Gosselin,  having  received  a  slight  hurt 
from  a  pair  of  blue  eyes,  as  he  was  making  his  es¬ 
cape,  was  dispatched  by  a  smile. 

Strephon,  killed  by  Clarinda  as  she  looked 
down  into  the  pit. 

Charles  Careless,  shot  flying  by  a  girl  of  fifteen, 
who  unexpectedly  popped  her  head  upon  him  out 
of  a  coach. 

Josiali  Wither,  aged  threescore  and  three,  sent 
to  his  long  home  by  Elizabeth  Jetwell,  spinster. 

Jack  Freelove,  murdered  by  Melissa  in  her  hair. 

William  Wiseacre,  Gent.,  drowned  in  a  flood  of 
tears  by  Moll  Common. 

John  Pleadwell,  Esq.,  of  the  middle  Temple, 
barrister-at-law,  assassinated  in  his  chambers  the 
sixth  inst.  by  Kitty  Sly,  who  pretended  to  come 
to  him  for  his  advice. — I. 


No.  378.]  WEDNESDAY,  MAY  14,  1712. 

Aggredere,  0  magnos!  aderit  jam  tempus,  honores. 

Virq.,  Eel.  ix,  48. 

Mature  in  years,  to  ready  honors  move. — Dryden. 

I  will  make  no  apology  for  entertaining  the 
reader  with  the  following  poem,  which  is  written 
by  a  great  genius,  a  friend  of  mine*  in  the  coun¬ 
try,  who  is  not  ashamed  to  employ  his  wit  in  the 
praise  of  his  Maker. 


*  Pope.  See  No.  534. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


MESSIAH 


465 


A  SACRED  ECLOGUE, 

Composed  of  several  passages  of  Isaiah  the  prophet. 

Written  in  Imitation  of  Virgil's  PoUio. 


nymphs  of  Solyma!  begin  the  song: 

To  heavenly  themes  sublimer  strains  belong, 

The  mossy  fountains,  and  the  sylvan  shades, 

The  dreams  of  Pindus,  and  th’  Aonian  maids, 
Delight  no  more — 0  Thou  my  voice  inspire, 

»ho  touched  Isaiah’s  hallow’d  lips  with  fire  I 
Rapt  into  future  times,  the  bard  begun: 
r  •  4  A  virgin  shall  conceive,  a  virgin  bear  a  eon! 

Isa.  xi.  4.  From  Jesse’s  root  behold  a  branch  arise, 

VV  hose  sacred  flower  with  fragrance  fills  the  skies  ; 
lh  ethereal  Spirit  o’er  its  leaves  shall  move, 

,  _  And  on  its  top  descends  the  mystic  Dove. 

Ye  heavens ! .  from  high  the  dewy  nectar  pour, 
a  ~Pd  8cdb  sbence  shed  the  kindly  shower! 

1  *•  dbe  sick  and  weak  the  healing  plant  shall  aid, 

I  rom  storms  a  shelter,  and  from  heat  a  shade, 
i  *t  All  crimes  6hall  cease,  and  ancient  fraud  shall  fail, 

U.  7.  Returning  Justice  lift  aloft  her  scale : 

Peace  o’er  the  world  her  olive  wand  extend, 

And  white-rob’d  Innocence  from  heaven  descend. 
Swift  fly  the  years,  and  rise  the  expected  morn ! 

Oh  spring  to  light,  auspicious  Babe,  be  born ! 

See  Nature  hastes  her  earliest  wreaths  to  bring, 
i  y  ab  ^he  mcense  of  the  breathing  spring: 

C  XEXV.  2.  See  lofty  Lebahon  his  head  advance, 

See  nodding  forests  on  the  mountains  dance. 

See  spicy  clouds  from  lowly  Sharon  rise, 
i  -»  a  Carmel’s  flow’ry  top  perfumes  the  skies! 

XL  d,  4.  Hark!  a  glad  voice  the  lonely  desert  cheers; 
Prepare  the  way!  a  God,  a  God  appears: 

A  God!  a  God!  the  vocal  hills  reply, 

The  rocks  proclaim  th’  approaching  Deity. 

Lo  earth  receives  him  from  the  bending  skies! 
4r"1^i.C^0Wn’  fountains :  and  ye  valleys,  rise! 
With  heads  declin’d,  ye  cedars,  homage  pay ; 

Be  smooth,  ye  rocks;  ye  rapid  floods,  give  way! 

...  TVle  Savior  comes!  by  ancient  bards  fore  told! 

xrn.18.  Hear  him,  ye  deaf:  and  all  ye  blind,  behold! 

'XXXV.  “e  from  thick  films  shall  purge  the  visual  ray, 

^J}d  °n  the  sightless  eye-ball  pour  the  day. 

Tis  He  th’  obstructed  paths  of  sound  shall  clear, 
And  bid  new  music  charm  th’  unfolding  ear: 

The  dumb  shall  sing,  the  lame  his  crutch  forego, 
And  leap  exulting  like  the  bounding  roe: 

No  sigh,  no  murmur,  the  wide  world  shall  hear, 
xxv.  o.  *  rom  every  face  he  wipes  off  every  tear ; 

In  adamantine  chains  shall  death  be  bound, 

.  ..  And  hell’s  grim  tyrant  feel  th’  eternal  wound. 

XI.  11.  As  the  good  shepherd  tends  his  fleecy  care, 

Seeks  treshest  pastures  and  the  purest  air, 

Explores  the  lost,  the  wandering  sheep  directs, 

By  day  o  ersees  them,  and  by  night  protects, 

I  lie  tencier  Lamb  he  raises  in  his  arms, 

Feeds  from  his  hand,  and  in  his  bosom  warms : 
a  Mankind  shall  thus  his  guardian  care  engage, 
lx.  6.  The  promised  Father  of  the  future  age. 
u.  4.  No  more  shall  nation  against  nation  rise, 

Nor  ardent  warriors  meet  with  hateful  eyes, 

^or  fields  with  gleaming  steel  be  cover’d  o’er, 
ihe  brazen  trumpets  kindle  rage  no  more : 

But  useless  lances  into  scythes  shall  bend, 

01  00  ™]d  the  broad  falchion  in  a  plow-share  end. 
ixv.  2t,  ZZ.  I  hen  palaces  shall  rise :  the  joyful  son 

Shall  finish  what  his  short-liv’d  sire  begun; 

Their  vines  a  shadow  to  their  race  shall  yield 

i  ™  the  8ame  hand  that  sow’d  shall  reap  the  field. 

.  l.  7.  ihe  swain  in  barren  deserts,  with  surprise 
Sees  lilies  spring,  and  sudden  verdure  rise, 

And  starts  amidst  the  thirsty  wilds  to  hear 
Eew  falls  of  water  murmuring  in  his  ear: 

On  rifted  rocks,  the  dragon’s  late  abodes, 

rli  ,Q  w  ?reen  reed  trembles>  and  the  bulrush  nods. 
di.19.  and  Waste  sandy  valleys,  once  perplex’d  with  thorn, 

IV.  1.3.  The  spiry  fir  and  shapely  box  adorn ; 

To  leafless  shrubs  the  flowering  palms  succeed 
..  .  od’rous  myrtle  to  the  noisome  weed. 

X  b,  7,  8.  The  lambs  with  woods  shall  grace  the  verdant 
mead, 

And  boys  in  flowery  bands  the  tiger  lead: 

*  6i  ^eer  and  bon  at  one  crib  shall  meet, 

And  harmless  serpents  lick  the  pilgrim’s  feet: 

The  smiling  infant  in  his  hand  shall  take 
The  crested  basilisk  and  speckled  snake— 

Pleas  d  the  green  luster  of  the  scales  survey, 

shsdl^play611  ^kec*  tongue  and  pointless  sting 

s.  1.  Rise  crown’d  with  light,  imperial  Salem,  rise! 

Exalt  thy  towery  head,  and  lift  thy  eyes! 

*•  4.  See  a  long  race  thy  spacious  courts  adorn! 

See  future  sons  and  daughters  yet  unborn 

30 


In  crowding  ranks  on  every  side  arise. 

Demanding  life,  impatient  for  the  skies! 

^n.”b  rous  nations  at  thy  gates  attend,  Isa.  lx.  3. 

vValk  m  thy  light,  and  in  thy  temple  bend! 

\ce,  bright  altars  throng’d  with  prostrate  kings, 

And  heap  d  with  products  of  Saharan  springs.  lx  6 

\ °r  thee  Idume’s  spicy  forests  blow, 

And  seeds  of  gold  in  Ophir’s  mountains  glow, 
bee  heav  n  its  sparkling  portals  wide  display. 

And  break  upon  thee  in  a  flood  of  day! 

No  more  the  rising  sun  shall  gild  the  mom,  lx  19  20 

Nor  evening  Cynthia  fill  her  silver  horn,  '  ’ 

But  lost>  dissolv'd  in  thy  superior  rays, 

One  tide  of  glory,  one  unclouded  blaze 

°im  thy,,C°^r^ :  the  Light  Himself  shall  shine 
Reveal  d,  and  God  s  eternal  day  be  thine ! 

the  8kies  in  smoke  decay,  li.  6.  and 

Rocks  fall  to  dust,  and  mountains  melt  away;  nv  io 

But  fix  d  His  word,  His  saving  power  remains; 

Ihy^realm  forever  lasts,  thy  own  Messiah  reigns. 


Xo.  379.]  THURSDAY,  MAY  15,  1712. 


Scire  tuum  nihil  est,  nisi  te  scire  hoc  sciat  alter. 

Pers.  Sat.  i,  27. 

- Science  is  not  science  till  reveal’d.— Dryden. 


txxv. 


I  HAVE  often  wondered  at  that  ill-natured  posi¬ 
tion  which  has  sometimes  been  maintained  in  the 
schools,  and  is  comprised  in  an  old  Latin  verso 
namely,  that  “  A  man’s  knowledge  is  worth 
nothing  if  he  communicates  what  he  knows  to 
any  one  beside.  There  is  certainly  no  more  sen¬ 
sible  pleasure  to  a  good-natured  man,  than  if  he 
can  by  any  means  gratify  or  inform  the  mind  of 
another,  I  might  add,  that  this  virtue  naturally 
carries  its  own  reward  along  with  it,  since  it  is 
almost  impossible  it  should  be  exercised  without 
the  improvement  of  the  person  who  practices  it. 
•y1®  leading  of  books,  and  the  daily  occurrences 
of  life,  aie  continually  furnishing  us  with  matter 
for  thought  and  reflection.  It  is  extremely  na¬ 
tural  for  us  to  desire  to  see  such  of  our  thoughts 
put  in  the  dress  of  words,  without  which,  indeed, 
we  can  scarce  have  a  clear  and  distinct  idea  of 
them  ourselves.  When  they  are  thus  clothed  in 
expressions,  nothing  so  truly  shows  us  whether 
they  are  just  or  false,  as  those  effects  which  they 
produce  in  the  minds  of  others. 

I  am  apt  to  flatter  myself,  that,  in  the  course  of 
these  my  speculations,  I  have  treated  of  several 
subjects,  and  laid  down  many  such  rules  for  the 
conduct  of  a  man  s  life,  which  my  readers  were 
either  wholly  ignorant  of  before,  or  which  at  least 
those  few  who  were  acquainted  with  them,  looked 
upon  as  so  many  secrets  they  have  found  out  for 
the  conduct  of  themselves,  but  were  resolved  never 
to  have  made  public. 

I  am  the  more  confirmed  in  this  opinion  from 
my  having  received  several  letters,  wherein  I  am 
censured  for  having  prostituted  Learning  to  the 
embraces  of  the  vulgar,  and  made  her,  as  one  of 
my  correspondents  phrases  it,  a  common  strumpet. 

I  am  charged  by  another  with  laying  open  the  ar¬ 
cana  or  secrets  of  prudence  to  the  eyes  of  every 
reader.  J 

The  narrow  spirit  which  appears  in  the  letters 
of  these  my  correspondents  is  the  less  surprising, 
as  it  has  shown  itself  in  all  ages  :  there  is  still  ex¬ 
tant  an  epistle  written  by  Alexander  the  Great  to 
his  tutor  Aristotle,  upon  that  philosopher’s  pub¬ 
lishing  some  part  of  his  writings;  in  which  the 
prince  complains  of  his  having  made  known  to 
all  the  world  those  secrets  in  learning  which  he 
had  before  communicated  to  him  in  private  lec¬ 
tures  :  concluding,  that  he  had  rather  excel  the 
rest  of  mankind  in  knowledge  than  in  power. 

Louisa  de  Padilla,  a  lady  of  great  learning,  and 
countess  of  Aranda,  was  in  like  manner  angry 
with  the  famous  Gratian,  upon  his  publishing  his 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


466 

treatise  of  the  Discreto,  wherein  she  fancied  that 
he  had  laid  open  those  maxims  to  common  readers 
which  ought  only  to  have  been  reserved  for  the 
knowledge  of  the*’  great. 

These  objections  are  thought  by  many  of  so 
much  weight,  that  they  often  defend  the  above- 
mentioned  authors  by  affirming  they  have  affected 
such  au  obscurity  in  their  style  and  manner  of 
writing,  that,  though  every  one  may  read  their 
works,  there  will  be  but  very  few  who  can  com¬ 
prehend  their  meaning. 

Persius,  the  Latin  satirist,  affected  obscurity 
for  another  reason  ;  with  which,  however,  Mr. 
Cowley  is  so  offended,  that,  writing  to  one  of  his 
friends,  “You,”  says  he,  “tell  me,  that  you  do 
not  know  whether  Persius  be  a  good  poet  or  no, 
because  you  cannot  understand  him  ;  for  which 
very  reason  I  affirm  that  he  is  not  so.” 

However,  this  art  of  writing  unintelligibly  has 
been  very  much  improved,  and  followed  by  sev¬ 
eral  of  the  moderns,  who,  observing  the  general 
inclination  of  mankind  to  dive  into  a  secret,  and 
the  reputation  many  have  acquired  by  concealing 
their  meaning  under  obscure  terms  and  phrases, 
resolve,  that  they  may  be  still  more  abstruse, 
to  write  without  any  meaning  at  all.  This  art, 
as  it  is  at  present  practiced  by  many  eminent 
authors,  consists  in  throwing  so  many  words  at  a 
venture  into  different  periods,  and  leaving  the 
curious  reader  to  find  out  the  meaning  of  them. 

The  Egyptians,  who  made  use  of  hieroglyphics 
to  signify  several  things,  expressed  a  man  who 
confined  his  knowledge  and  discoveries  altogether 
within  himself  by  the  figure  of  a  dark  lantern 
closed  on  all  sides  ;  which,  though  it  was  illu¬ 
minated  within,  afforded  no  manner  of  light  or 
advantage  to  such  as  stood  by  it.  For  my  own 
part,  as  I  shall  from  time  to  time  communicate  to 
the  public  whatever  discoveries  I  happen  to  make, 
I  should  much  rather  be  compared  to  an  ordinary 
lamp,  which  consumes  and  wastes  itself  for  the 
benefit  of  every  passenger. 

I  shall  conclude  this  paper  with  the  story  of 
Rosicrusius’s  sepulcher.  1  suppose  I  need  not  in¬ 
form  my  readers,  that  this  man  was  the  founder 
of  the  Rosicrucian  sect,  and  that  his  disciples 
still  pretend  to  new  discoveries,  which  they  are 
never  to  communicate  to  the  rest  of  mankind.* 

“  A  certain  person  having  occasion  to  dig  some¬ 
what  deep  in  the  ground,  where  this  philosopher 
lay  interred,  met  with  a  small  door,  having  a  wall 
on  each  side  of  it.  His  curiosity,  and  the  hopes 
of  finding  some  hidden  treasure,  soon  prompted 
him  to  force  open  the  door.  He  was  immediately 
surprised  by  a  sudden  blaze  of  light,  and  discov¬ 
ered  a  very  fair  vault.  At  the  upper  end  of  it  was 
a  statue  of  a  man  in  armor,  sitting  by  a  table,  and 
leaning  on  his  left  arm.  He  held  a  truncheon  in 
his  right  hand,  and  had  a  lamp  burning  before 
him.  The  man  had  no  sooner  set  one  foot  within 
the  vault  than  the  statue  erected  itself  from  its 
leaning  posture,  stood  bolt  upright,  and  upon  the 
fellow’s  advancing  another  step,  lifted  up  the 
truncheon  in  his  right  hand.  The  man  still  ven¬ 
tured  a  third  step,  when  the  statue,  with  a  furious 
blow,  broke  the  lamp  into  a  thousand  pieces,  and 
left  his  guest  in  a  sudden  darkness. 

“  Upon  the  report  of  this  adventure,  the  country 
people  soon  came  with  lights  to  the  sepulcher, 
and  discovered  that  the  statue,  which  was  made 
of  brass,  was  nothing  more  than  a  piece  of  clock¬ 
work  ;  that  the  floor  of  the  vault  was  all  loose, 
and  underlaid  with  several  springs,  which  upon 


*See  Compte  de  Ctabalis,  par  l’Abbe  Villars,  1742,  2  vol.°.,  in 
12mo.,  and  Pope’s  Works,  ed.  of  Warb.,  vol.  i,  v.  109, 12mo. 
1770,  6  vola. 


any  man’s  entering,  naturally  produced  that  which 
had  happened.” 

Rosicrusius,  say  his  disciples,  made  use  of  this 
method  to  show  tne  world  that  he  had  re-invented 
the  ever-burning  lamps  of  the  ancients,  though 
he  was  resolved  no  one  should  reap  any  advan¬ 
tage  from  the  discovery. — X. 


No.  380.J  FRIDAY,  MAY  16,  1712. 

Rivalem  patientur  babe. 

Ovid,  Ars.  Am.,  ii,  538. 

With  patience  bear  a  rival  in  thy  love. 

“  Sir,  Thursday,  May  8,  1712. 

“  The  character  you  have  in  the  world  of  be¬ 
ing  the  ladies’  philosopher,  and  the  pretty  ad¬ 
vice  I  have  seen  you  give  to  others  in  your  pa¬ 
pers,  make  me  address  myself  to  you  in  this  ab¬ 
rupt  manner,  and  to  desire  your  opinion  of  what 
in  this  age  a  woman  may  call  a  lover.  I  have 
lately  had  a  gentleman  that  I  thought  made 
pretensions  to  me,  insomuch  that  most  of  my 
friends  took  notice  of  it,  and  thought  we  were 
really  married.  I  did  not  take  much  pains  to 
undeceive  them,  and  especially  a  young  gentle¬ 
woman  of  my  particular  acquaintance,  who  was 
then  in  the  country.  She  coming  to  town,  and 
seeing  our  intimacy  so  great,  gave  herself  the 
liberty  of  taking  me  to  task  concerning  it.  I  in¬ 
genuously  told  her  we  were  not  married,  but  I 
did  not  know  what  might  be  the  event.  She 
soon  got  acquainted  with  the  gentleman,  and  was 
pleased  to  take  upon  her  to  examine  him  about  it. 
Now,  whether  a  new  face  had  made  a  greater  con¬ 
quest  than  the  old  I  will  leave  you  to  judge.  I 
am  informed  that  he  utterly  denied  all  pretensions 
to  courtship,  but  withal  professed  a  sincere  friend¬ 
ship  for  me  ;  but,  whether  marriages  are  proposed 
by  way  of  friendship  or  not,  is  what  I  desire  to 
know,  and  what  I  may  really  call  a  lover  ?  There 
are  so  many  who  talk  in  a  language  fit  only  for  that 
character,  and  yet  guard  themselves  against  speak¬ 
ing  in  direct  terms  to  the  point,  that  it  is  impos¬ 
sible  to  distinguish  between  courtship  and  con¬ 
versation.  I  hope  you  will  do  me  justice  both 
upon  my  lover  and  my  friend,  if  they  provoke  me 
further.  In  the  meantime,  I  carry  it  with  so 
equal  a  behavior,  that  the  nymph  and  the  swain 
too  are  mightily  at  a  loss  :  each  believes  I,  who 
know  them  both  well,  think  myself  revenged  in 
their  love  to  one  another,  which  creates  an  irre¬ 
concilable  jealousy.  If  all  comes  right  again, 
you  shall  hear  further  from, 

“  Sir,  your  most  obedient  Servant, 

“  Myrtilla.” 

“Mr.  Spectator,  April  28,  1712. 

“Your  observations  on  persons  that  have  be¬ 
haved  themselves  irreverently  at  church,  1  doubt 
not,  have  had  a  good  effect  on  some  that  have 
read  them  :  but  there  is  another  fault  which  has 
hitherto  escaped  your  notice,  I  mean  of  such  per¬ 
sons  as  are  there  very  zealous  and  punctual  to 
perform  an  ejaculation  that  is  only  preparatory  to 
the  service  of  the  church,  and  yet  neglect  to  join 
in  the  service  itself.  There  is  an  instance  of  this 
in  a  friend  of  Will  Honeycomb’s,  who  sits  oppo¬ 
site  to  me.  He  seldom  comes  in  till  the  prayers 
are  about  half  over  ;  and  when  he  has  entered 
his  seat  (instead  of  joining  with  the  congrega¬ 
tion)  he  devoutly  holds  his  hat  before  his  face  for 
three  or  four  moments,  then  bows  to  all  his  ac¬ 
quaintance,  sits  down,  takes  a  pinch  of  snuff  (if 
it  be  the  evening  service  perhaps  takes  a  nap) 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


and  spends  the  remaining  time  in  surveying  the 
congregation.  Now,  Sir,  what  I  would  desire  is 
that  you  would  animadvert  a  little  on  this  gentle¬ 
man  s  practice.  In  my  opinion,  this  gentleman’s 
devotion,  cap  m  hand,  is  only  a  compliance  to  the 
custom  of  the  place,  and  goes  no  further  than  a 
little  ecclesiastical  good  breeding.  If  you  will 
not  pretend  to  tell  us  the  motives  that  bring  such 
triflers  to  solemn  assemblies,  yet  let  me  desire 
that  you  will  g,ve  this  letter  a  place  in  your  pa¬ 
per,  and  shall  remain,  Jr 

“  Sir,  your  obliged,  humble  Servant, 

“  J.  S”* 

"  Mr;  Spectator,  May  the  5th 

“  ri'he  conversation  at  a  club,  of  which  I  am  a 
member  last  night,  falling  upon  vanity  and  the 
desire  of  being  admired,  put  me  in  mind  of 
relating  how  agreeably  I  was  entertained  at  my 
own  door  last  Thursday,  by  a  clean  fresh-colored 
girl,  under  the  most  elegant  and  the  best  furnished 
milk  pail  I  had  ever  observed.  I  was  glad  of 
such  an  opportunity  of  seeing  the  behavior  of  a 
coquette  in  low  life,  and  how  she  received  the 
extraordinary  notice  that  was  taken  of  her  • 
which  I  found  had  affected  every  muscle  of  her 
tace  in  the  same  manner  as  it  does  the  features  of 

mi,-  u™!'6  rt0a^  at  a  P*a7  or  *n  an  assembly, 
inis  hint  of  mine  made  the  discourse  turn  upon 

the  sense  of  pleasure  ;  which  ended  in  a  general 
resolution,  that  the  milkmaid  enjoys  her  vanity 
as  exquisitely  as  the  woman  of  quality.  I  think 
it  would  not  be  an  improper  subject  for  you  to  ex¬ 
amine  this  frailty,  and  trace  it  to  all  conditions  of 

t  \  v  •  1S  recommended  to  you  as  an  occasion 
of  obliging  many  of  your  readers  ;  among  the 
rest,  “  Your  most  humble  Servant, 


4137 


Spectator  for  Sunday  next,  when  they  are  to  ap- 
P^W™r  hV,u')le  airs  at  the  parish  church 
,  Y ^ru  e  ?•  ®ir,  the  mention  of  this  may  pos¬ 
sibly  be  serviceable  to  the  children  ;  and  sure  no 
one  will  onnt  a  good  action  attended  with  no  ex- 
Pense>  “  I  am,  Sir, 

“  Your  very  humble  Servant, 
rp*  “  The  Sexton.” 

No.  381. J  SATURDAY,  MAY  17,  1712. 

iEquam  memento  rebus  in  arduis 
Servare  mentem,  non  secus  in  bonis, 

Ab  insolenti  temperatam 
Laetitia,  moriture  Delli. 

Hor.  2  Od.  iii,  1. 

Be  calm,  my  Dellius,  and  serene, 

However  fortune  change  the  scene, 

In  thy  most  dejected  state, 

Sink  not  underneath  the  weight ; 

Nor  yet,  when  happy  days  begin,’ 

And  the  full  tide  comes  rolling  in 
Let  a  fierce,  unruly  joy, 

The  settled  quiet  of  thy  mind  destroy. 

Anon. 


“  T.  B.” 

“SlR)  May  12,  1712. 

“  Coming  last  week  into  a  coffee-house  not  far 
from  the  Exchange,  with  my  basket  under  noy 
arm,  a  Jew  of  considerable  note,  as  I  am  informed, 
takes  half  a  dozen  oranges  of  me,  and  at  the 
same  time  slides  a  guinea  into  my  hand  ;  I  made 
him  a  courtsey,  and  went  my  way.  He  followed 
me,  and  finding  I  was  going  about  my  business, 
he  came  up  with  me,  and  told  me  plainly  that  he 
gave  me  the  guinea  with  no  other  intent  but  to 
purchase  my  person  for  an  hour.  ‘  Did  you  so 
bir,  says  I :  ‘  you  gave  it  me  then  to  make  me 
wicked  ;  I  will  keep  it  to  make  me  honest.  How¬ 
ever  not  to  be  in  the  least  ungrateful,  I  promise 
you  I  will  lay  it  out  in  a  couple  of  rings,  and 
wear  them  for  your  sake.’  I  am  so  just,  Sir,  be¬ 
side,  as  to  give  everybody  that  asks  how  I  came 
by  my  ring  this  account  of  my  benefactor :  but  to 
save  me  the  trouble  of  telling  my  tale  over  and 
over  again,  I  humbly  beg  the  favor  of  you  to  tell 
it  once  for  all,  and  you  will  extremely  oblige, 

“Your  humble  Servant, 

“  Betty  Lemon.” 

"®IR>  St.  Bride’s,  May  15,  1712. 

"  T1®  f  Sreaf  deal  of  pleasure  to  me,  and  I  dare 
say  will  be  no  less  satisfactory  to  you,  that  I  have 
an  opportunity  of  informing  you,  that  the  gentle¬ 
men  and  others  of  the  parish  of  St.  Bride’s  have 
raised  a  charity-school  of  fifty  girls,  as  before  of 
hlty  boys  You  were  so  kind  to  recommend  the 
boys  to  the  charitable  world  ;  and  the  other  sex 
hope  you  will  do  them  the  same  favor  in  Friday’s 

is  a™'"1"  *■“" 


I  HAVE  always  preferred  cheerfulness  to  mirth. 
1  he  latter  I  consider  as  an  act,  the  former  as  a 
habit  of  the  mind.  Mirth  is  short  and  transient 
cheerfulness  fixed  and  permanent.  Those  are 
often  raised  into  the  greatest  transports  of  mirth 
who  are  subject  to  the  greatest  depressions  of 
melancholy.  On  the  contrary,  cheerfulness,  though 
it  does  not  give  the  mind  such  an  exquisite  glad¬ 
ness,  prevents  us  from  falling  into  any  depths  of 
sorrow.  Mirth  is  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  that 
bleaks  through  a  gloom  of  clouds  and  glitters  for 
a  moment ;  cheerfulness  keeps  up  a  kind  of  day- 
lght  m  the  mind,  and  fills  it  with  a  steady  and 
perpetual  serenity. 

Men  of  austere  principles  look  upon  mirth  as 
too  wanton  and  dissolute  for  a  state  of  probation, 
and  as  filled  with  a  certain  triumph  and  insolence 
ot  heart  that  is  inconsistent  with  a  life  which  is 
every  moment  obnoxious  to  the  greatest  dangers. 
Writers  of  this  complexion  have  observed,  that  the 
bacred  Person  who  was  the  great  pattern  of  per¬ 
fection  was  never  seen  to  laugh.  r 

Cheerfulness  of  mind  is  not  liable  to  any  of 
these  exceptions  ;  it  is  of  a  serious  and  composed 
nature  ;  it  does  not  throw  the  mind  into  a  condi¬ 
tion  improper  for  the  present  state  of  humanity 
andis  very  conspicuous  in  the  characters  of  those 
who  are  looked  upon  as  the  greatest  philosophers 
among  the  heathens,  as  well  as  among  those  who 
have  been  deservedly  esteemed  as  saints  and  holy 
men  among  Christians.  J 

If  we  consider  cheerfulness  in  three  lights 
with  regard  to  ourselves,  to  those  we  converse 
with,  and  to  the  great  Author  of  our  being  it 
will  not  a  little  recommend  itself  on  each” of 
these  accounts.  The  man  who  is  possessed  of 
this  excellent  frame  of  mind,  is  not  only  easy  in 
his  thoughts,  but  a  perfect  master  of  all  the 
powers  and  faculties  of  his  soul.  His  imagination 
is  always  clear,  and  his  judgment  undisturbed  • 
his  temper  is  even  and  unruffled,  whether  in  ac¬ 
tion  or  in  solitude.  He  comes  with  relish  to  all 
those  goods  which  nature  has  provided  for  him 
tastes  all  the  pleasures  of  the  creation  which, 
are  poured  about  him,  and  does  not  feel  the  full 

weight  of  those  accidental  evils  which  may  befall 
him.  J 

If  we  consider  him  in  relation  to  the  persons 
whom  he  converses  with,  it  naturally  produces 
love  and  good-will  toward  him.  A  cheerful  mind 
is  not  only  disposed  to  be  affable  and  obliging ; 
but  raises  the  same  good  humor  in  those  whf 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


168 

come  within  its  influence.  A  man  finds  him¬ 
self  pleased,  he  does  not  know  why,  with  the 
cheerfulness  of  his  companion.  It  is  like  a  sud¬ 
den  sunshine  that  awakens  a  secret  delight  in  the 
mind,  without  her  attending  to  it.  The  heart  re¬ 
joices  of  its  own  accord,  and  naturally  flows  out 
into  friendship  and  benevolence  toward  the  person 
who  has  so  kindly  an  effect  upon  it. 

When  I  consider  this  cheerful  state  of  mind  in 
its  third  relation,  I  cannot  but  look  upon  it  as  a 
constant  habitual  gratitude  to  the  great  Author 
of  nature.  An  inward  cheerfulness  is  an  implicit 
praise  and  thanksgiving  to  Providence  under  all 
its  dispensations.  It  is  a  kind  of  acquiescence  in 
the  state  wherein  we  are  placed,  and  a  secret  appro¬ 
bation  of  the  Divine  Will  in  his  conduct  toward 
man. 

There  are  but  two  things  which,  in  my  opinion, 
can  reasonably  deprive  us  of  this  cheerfulness  of 
heart.  The  first  of  these  is  the  sense  of  guilt.  A 
man  who  lives  in  a  state  of  vice  and  impenitence, 
can  have  no  title  to  that  evenness  and  tranquillity 
of  mind  which  is  the  health  of  the  soul,  and  the 
natural  effect  of  virtue  and  innocence.  Cheerful¬ 
ness  in  an  ill  man  deserves  a  harder  name  than 
language  can  furnish  us  with,  and  is  many  de¬ 
grees  beyond  what  we  commonly  call  folly  or 
madness. 

Atheism,  by  which  I  mean  a  disbelief  of  a 
Supreme  Being,  and  consequently  of  a  future  state, 
under  whatsoever  titles  it  shelter  itself,  may  like¬ 
wise  very  reasonably  deprive  a  man  of  this  cheer¬ 
fulness  of  temper.  There  is  something  so  partic¬ 
ularly  gloomy  and  offensive  to  human  nature  in 
the  prospect  of  non-existence,  that  I  cannot  but 
wonder,  with  many  excellent  writers,  how  it  is 
ossible  for  a  man  to  outlive  the  expectation  of  it. 
or  my  own  part,  I  think  the  being  of  a  God  is  so 
little  to  be  doubted,  that  it  is  almost  the  only  truth 
we  are  sure  of ;  and  such  a  truth  as  we  meet  with 
in  every  object,  in  every  occurrence,  and  in  every 
thought.  If  we  look  into  the  characters  of  this  tribe 
of  infidels,  we  generally  find  they  are  made  up  of 
pride,  spleen,  and  cavil.  It  is  indeed  no  wonder, 
that  men  who  are  uneasy  to  themselves  should  be 
80  to  the  rest  of  the  world  ;  and  how  is  it  possible 
for  a  man  to  be  otherwise  than  uneasy  in  himself, 
who  is  in  danger  every  moment  of  losing  his  entire 
existence,  and  dropping  into  nothing? 

The  vicious  man  and  Atheist  have  therefore  no 
pretense  to  cheerfulness,  and  would  act  very  un¬ 
reasonably  should  they  endeavor  after  it.  It  is 
impossible  for  anyone  to  live  in  good-humor,  and 
enjoy  his  present  existence,  who  is  apprehensive 
either  of  torment  or  of  annihilation;  of  being  mi¬ 
serable,  or  of  not  being  at  all. 

After  having  mentioned  these  two  great  prin¬ 
ciples,  which  are  destructive  of  cheerfulness  in 
their  own  nature,  as  well  as  in  right  reason,  I 
.cannot  think  of  any  other  that  ought  to  banish 
this  happy  temper  from  a  virtuous  mind.  Pain 
and  sickness,  shame  and  reproach,  poverty  and 
old  age,  nay  death  itself,  considering  the  short¬ 
ness  of  their  duration,  and  the  advantage  we  may 
reap  from  them,  do  not  deserve  the  name  of  evils. 
A  good  mind  may  bear  up  under  them  with  for¬ 
titude,  with  indolence,  and  with  cheerfulness  of 
heart.  The  tossing  of  a  tempest  does  not  dis¬ 
compose  him,  which  he  is  sure  will  bring  him  to 
a  joyful  harbor. 

A  man  who  uses  his  best  endeavors  to  live  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  dictates  of  virtue  and  right  reason, 
has  two  perpetual  sources  of  cheerfulness,  in  the 
consideration  of  his  own  nature,  and  of  that  Being 
on  whom  he  has  a  dependence.  If  he  looks  into 
himself,  he"cannot  but  rejoice  in  that  existence 
’NWhich  is  so  lately  bestowed  upon  him,  and  which 


after  millions  of  ages  will  be  still  new  and  still 
in  its  beginning.  How  many  self  congratulations 
naturally  arise  in  the  mind,  when  it  reflects  on 
this  its  entrance  into  eternity,  when  it  takes  a 
view  of  those  improvable  faculties,  which  in  a 
few  years,  and  even  at  its  first  setting  out,  have 
made  so  considerable  a  progress,  and  which  will 
still  be  receiving  an  increase  of  perfection,  and  con¬ 
sequently  an  increase  of  happiness  !  The  con¬ 
sciousness  of  such  a  being  spreads  a  perpetual  dif¬ 
fusion  of  joy  through  the  soul  of  a  virtuous  man, 
and  makes  him  look  upon  himself  every  moment 
as  more  happy  than  he  knows  how  to  conceive. 

The  second  source  of  cheerfulness  to  a  good 
mind  is  the  consideration  of  that  Being  on  whom 
we  have  our  dependence,  and  in  whom,  though 
we  behold  him  as  yet  but  in  the  first  faint  dis¬ 
coveries  of  his  perfections,  we  see  everything  that 
we  can  imagine,  as  great,  glorious,  or  amiable. 
We  find  ourselves  everywhere  upheld  by  his 
goodness,  and  surrounded  with  an  .immensity  of 
love  and  mercy.  In  short,  we  depend  upon  a 
Being,  whose  power  qualifies  him  to  make  us 
happy  by  an  infinity  of  means,  whose  goodness 
and  truth  engage  him  to  make  those  happy  who 
desire  it  of  him,  and  whose  unchangeableness 
will  secure  us  in  this  happiness  to  all  eternity. 

Such  considerations,  which  every  one  should 
perpetually  cherish  in  his  thoughts,  will  banish 
from  us  all  that  secret  heaviness  of  heart  which 
unthinking  men  are  subject  to  when  they  lie 
under  no  real  affliction;  all  that  anguish  which 
we  may  feel  from  any  evil  that  actually  oppresses 
us,  to  which  I  may  likewise  add  those  little  crack¬ 
lings  of  mirth  and  folly  that  are  apter  to  betray 
virtue  than  support  it ;  and  establish  in  us 
such  an  even  and  cheerful  temper,  as  makes  us 
pleasing  to  ourselves,  to  those  with  whom  we 
converse,  and  to  Him  whom  we  were  made  to 
please. — I. 


No.  382.]  MONDAY,  MAY  19,  1712. 

Habes  eonfitentem  reum. — Tull. 

The  accused  confesses  his  guilt. 

I  ought  not  to  have  neglected  a  request  of  one 
of  my  correspondents  so  long  as  I  have,  but  I 
dare  say  I  have  given  him  time  to  add  practice  to 
profession.  He  sent  me  some  time  ago  a  bottle  or 
two  of  excellent  wine  to  drink  the  health  of  a 
gentleman  who  had  by  the  jjenny-post  advertised 
him  of  an  egregious  error  in.  his  conduct.  My 
correspondent  received  the  obligation  from  an  un¬ 
known  hand  with  the  candor  which  is  natural  to 
an  ingenuous  mind;  and  promises  a  contrary  be¬ 
havior  in  that  point  for  the  future.  He  will  offend 
his  monitor  with  no  more  errors  of  that  kind,  but 
thanks  him  for  his  benevolence.  This  frank  car¬ 
riage  makes  me  reflect  upon  the  amiable  atone¬ 
ment  a  man  makes  in  the  ingenuous  acknowledg¬ 
ment  of  a  fault.  All  such  miscarriages  as  flow 
from  inadvertency  are  more  than  repaid  by  it;  for 
reason,  though  not  concerned  in  the  injury,  em¬ 
ploys  all  its  force  in  the  atonement.  He  that 
says,  he  did  not  design  to  disoblige  you  in  such 
an  action,  does  as  much  as  if  he  should  tell  you, 
that  though  the  circumstances  which  displeased 
was  never  in  his  thoughts,  he  has  that  respect  for 
you  that  he  is  unsatisfied,  till  it  is  wholly  out  of 
yours.  It  must  be  confessed,  that  when  an  acknow¬ 
ledgment  of  an  offense  is  made  out  of  poorness 
of  spirit,  and  not  conviction  of  heart,  the  circum¬ 
stance  is  quite  different.  But  in  the  case  of  my 
correspondent,  where  both  the  notice  is  taken, 
I  and  the  return  made  in  private,  the  affair  begins 


469 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


and  ends  with  the  highest  grace  on  each  side 
To  make  the  acknowledgment  of  a  fault  in  the 
highest  manner  graceful,  it  is  lucky  when  the  cir¬ 
cumstances  of  the  offender  place  nim  above  any 
ill  consequences  from  the  resentment  of  the  per¬ 
son  offended.  A  dauphin  of  France  upon  a  re¬ 
view  of  the  army,  and  a  command  of  the  king  to 
alter  the  posture  of  it  by  a  march  of  one  of  the 
wings,  gave  an  improper  order  to  an  officer  at  the 
head  of  a  brigade,  who  told  his  highness,  he  pre¬ 
sumed  he  had  not  received  the  last  orders,  which 
were  to  move  a  contrary  way.  The  prince,  in¬ 
stead  of  taking  the  admonition,  which  was  deli¬ 
vered  in  a  manner  that  accounted ’for  his  error 
With  safety  to  his  understanding,  shook  a  cane  at 
the  officer,  and,  with  the  return  of  opprobrious 
language,  persisted  in  his  own  orders.  The 
whole  matter  came  necessarily  before  the  king, 

'  commanded  his  son,  on  foot,  to  lay  his  right 
hand  on  the  gentleman’s  stirrup  as  he  sat  on 
horseback  in  sight  of  the  whole  army,  and  ask  his 
pardon.  When  the  prince  touched  his  stirrup 
and  was  going  to  speak,  the  officer  with  an  incre¬ 
dible  agility,  threw  himself  on  the  earth,  and 
kissed  his  feet. 

The  body  is  very  little  concerned  in  the  pleasure 
or  sufferings  of  souls  truly  great;  and  the  repara¬ 
tion,  when  an  honor  was  designed  this  soldier 
appeared  as  much  too  great  to  be  borne  by  his 
gratitude,  as  the  injury  was  intolerable  to  his 
resentment. 

When  we  turn  our  thoughts  from  these  extra¬ 
ordinary  occurrences  into  common  life,  we  see  an 
ingenuous  kind  of  behavior  not  only  make  up  for 
faults  committed,  but  in  a  manner  expiate  them  in 
the  very  commission.  Thus  many  things  wherein 
a  man  has  pressed  too  far,  lie  implicitly  excuses, 
by  owning,  “  This  is  a  trespass:  you’ll  pardon 
iny  confidence  :  I  am  sensible  1  have  no  preten¬ 
sions  to  this  favor;”  and  the  like.  But  com¬ 
mend  me  to  those  gay  fellows  about  town  who 
are  directly  impudent,  and  make  up  for  it  no 
otherwise  than  by  calling  themselves  such,  and 
exulting  in  it.  But  this  sort  of  carriage  which 
prompts  a  man  against  rules  to  urge  what  he 
has  a  mind  to,  is  pardonable  only  when  you  sue 
for  another.  When  you  are  confident  in  prefer¬ 
ence  of  yourself  to  others  of  equal  merit,  every 
man  that  loves  virtue  and  modesty  ought,  in  de¬ 
fense  of  those  qualities,  to  oppose  you.  But, 
without  considering  the  morality  of  the  thino-,  let 
us  at  this  time  behold  only  the  natural  conse¬ 
quence  of  candor  when  we  speak  of  ourselves. 

.  The  Spectator  writes  often  in  an  elegant,  often 
in  an  ai gumentative,  and  often  in  a  sublime  style 
with  equal  success;  but  how  would  it  hurt  the 
reputed  author  of  that  paper  to  own,  that  of  the 
most  beautiful  pieces  under  his  title,  he  is  barely 
the  publisher  ?  There  is  nothing  but  what  a 
man  really  performs  can  be  an  honor  to  him;  what 
he  takes  more  than  he  ought  in  the  eye  of  the 
world,  he  loses  in  the  conviction  of  his  own  heart- 
and  a  man  must  lose  his  consciousness,  that  is,* 
his  very  self,  before  he  can  rejoice  in  any  false¬ 
hood  without  inward  mortification. 

Who  lias  not  seen  a  very  criminal  at  the  bar 
when  his  counsel  and  friends  have  done  all  that 
they  could  for  him  in  vain,  prevail  on  the  whole 
assembly  to  pity  him,  and  his  judge  to  recom¬ 
mend  his  case  to  the  mercy  of  the  throne,  with¬ 
out  offering  anything  new  in  his  defense,  but  that 
he,  whom  before  we  wished  convicted,  became  so 
out  of  his  own  mouth,  and  took  upon  himself  all 
the  shame  and  sorrow  we  were  just  before  prepar¬ 
ing  for  him  ?  The  great  opposition  to  this  kind 
of  candor  arises  from  the  unjust  idea  people  ordi¬ 
narily  have  of  what  we  call  a  high  spirit.  It  is 


far  from  greatness  of  spirit  to  persist  in  the  wrong 
in  anything  ;  nor  is  it  a  diminution  of  greatness 
of  spirit  to  have  been  in  the  wrong  Perfection  is 
not  the  attribute  of  man,  therefore  he  is  not  de¬ 
graded  by  the  acknowledgment  of  an  imper- 
ection;  but  it  is  the  work  of  little  minds  to  imi¬ 
tate  the  fortitude  of  great  spirits  on  worthy  occa¬ 
sions,  by  obstinacy  in  the  wrong.  This  obstinacy 
prevails  so  far  upon  them,  that  they  make  it  ex¬ 
tend  to  the  defense  of  faults  in  their  very  servants. 
It  would  swell  this  paper  to  too  great  a  length 
should  I  insert  all  the  quarrels  and  debates  which 
are  now  on  foot  in  this  town;  where  one  party, 
and  in  some  cases  both,  is  sensible  of  being  on 
the  faulty  side,  and  have  not  spirit  enough  to  ac¬ 
knowledge  it.  Among  the  ladies  the  case  is  very 
common;  for  there  are  very  few  of  them  who 
know  that  it  is  to  maintain  a  true  and  high  spirit, 
to  throw  away  from  it  all  which  itself  disap- 
proves,  and  to  scorn  so  pitiful  a  shame,  as  that 
which  disables  the  heart  from  acquiring  a  liberal¬ 
ity  of  affections  and  sentiments.  The  candid 
mind,  by  acknowledging  and  discarding  its  faults, 
has  reason  and  truth  for  the  foundation  of  all  its 
passions  and  desires,  and  consequently  is  happy 
and  simple:  the  disingenuous  spirit,  by  indul¬ 
gence  of  one  unacknowledged  error,  is  entan¬ 
gled  with  an  after-life  of  guilt,  sorrow,  and  per¬ 
plexity.— T.  ^ 


No.  383.]  TUESDAY,  MAY  20,  1712. 

Criminibus  debent  hortos. - Juv.  Sat.  i,  75. 

A  beauteous  garden,  but  by  vice  maintain’d. 

As  I  was  sitting  in  my  chamber,  and  thinking 
on  a  subject  for  my  next  Spectator,  I  heard  two 
or  three  irregular  bounces  at  my  landlady’s  door 
and  upon  the  opening  of  it,  a  loud  cheerful  voice 
inquiring  whether  the  philosopher  was  at  home. 
The  child  who  went  to  the  door  answered  very 
innocently,  that  he  did  not  lodge  there.  I  imme¬ 
diately  recollected  that  it  was  my  good  friend  Sir 
Roger’s  voice:  and  that  I  had  promised  to  go 
with  him  on  the  water  to  Spring-garden,*  in  case 
it  proved  a  good  evening.  The  knight  put  me 
in  mind  of  my  promise  from  the  bottom  of  the 
staircase,  but  told  me,  that  if  I  was  speculating 
lie  would  stay  below  until  I  had  done.  Upoli 
my  coming  down,  I  found  all  the  children  of  the 
amily  got  about  my  old  friend;  and  my  landlady 
lerself,  who  is  a  notable  prating  gossip,  engaged 
in  a  conference  with  him:  being  mightily  pleased 
with  his  stroking  her  little  boy  on  the  head,  and 
bidding  him  to  be  a  good  child  and  mind  his 
book. 

We  were  no  sooner  come  to  the  Temple-stairs, 
butwe  were  surrounded  with  a  crowd  of  watermen] 
offering  us  their  respective  services.  Sir  Roger] 
after  having  looked  about  him  very  attentively] 
spied  one  with  a  wooden  leg,  and  immediately 
gave  him  orders  to  get  his  boat  ready.  As  we 
were  walking  toward  it,  “  You  must  know,”  says 
Sir  Roger,  “  I  never  make  use  of  anybody  to  row 
me,  that  has  not  lost  either  a  leg  or  an  arm.  I 
would  rather  bate  him  a  few  strokes  of  his  oar 
than  not  employ  an  honest  man  that  has  been 
wounded  in  the  queen’s  service.  If  I  was  a  lord 
or  a  bishop,  and  kept  a  barge,  I  would  not  put 
a  fellow  in  my  livery  that  had  not  a  wooden  leg.” 

.My  old  friend,  after  having  seated  himself,  and 
trimmed  the  boat  with  his  coachman,  who,  being 
a  very  sober  man,  always  serves  for  ballast  on 
these  occasions,  we  made  the  best  of  our  way  for 


*  Now  known  by  the  name  of  Vauxhall. 


470 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Vauxhall*  Sir  Roger  obliged  the  waterman  to 
give  us  the  history  of  his  right  leg:  and  hearing 
that  he  had  left  it  at  La  Hogue,  with  many  parti¬ 
culars  which  passed  in  that  glorious  action,  the 
knight,  in  the  triumph  of  his  heart,  made  several 
reflections  on  the  greatness  of  the  British  nation; 
as,  that  one  Englishman  could  beat  three  French¬ 
men;  that  we  could  never  be  in  danger  of  popery 
so  long  as  we  took  care  of  our  fleet;  that  the 
Thames  was  the  noblest  river  in  Europe;  that 
London-bridge  was  a  greater  piece  of  work  than 
any  of  the  seven  wonders  of  the  world:  with 
many  other  honest  prejudices  which  naturally 
cleave  to  the  heart  of  a  true  Englishman. 

After  some  short  pause,  the  old  knight,  turning 
about  his  head  twice  or  thrice  to  take  a  survey  of 
this  threat  metropolis,  bid  me  observe  how  thick 
the  city  was  set  with  churches,  and  that  there  was 
scarce  a  single  steeple  on  this  side  1  emple-bar. 
“A  most  heathenish  sight!”  says  Sir  Roger: 
“there  is  no  religion  at  this  end  of  the  town.  The 
fifty  new  churches  will  very  much  mend  the  pros¬ 
pect;  but  church- work  is  slow,  church-work  is 
slow.” 

I  do  not  remember  I  have  anywhere  mentioned 
in  Sir  Roger’s  character,  his  custom  of  saluting 
everybody  that  passes  by  him  with  a  good-mor¬ 
row  or  a  good-night.  This  the  old  man  does  out 
of  the  overflowings  of  his  humanity;  though  at 
the  same  time,  it  renders  him  so  popular  among 
all  his  country  neighbors,  that  it  is  thought  to 
have  gone  a  good  way  in  making  him  once  or 
twice  knight  of  the  shire.  He  cannot  forbear  this 
exercise  of  benevolence  even  in  town,  when  he 
meets  with  any  one  in  his  morning  or  evening 
walk.  It  broke  from  him  to  several  boats  that 
passed  by  us  upon  the  water;  but,  to  the  knight’s 
great  surprise,  as  he  gave  the  good-night  to  two 
or  three  young  fellows  a  little  before  our  landing, 
one  of  them,  instead  of  returning  the  civility, 
asked  us  what  queer  old  put  we  had  in  the  boat, 
and  whether  he  was  not  ashamed  to  go  a-wencli- 
ing  at  his  years?  with  a  great  deal  of  the  like 
Thames-ribaldry.  Sir  Roger  seemed  a  little 
shocked  at  first,  but  at  length,  assuming  a  face  of 
magistracy,  told  us,  that  if  he  were  a  Middlesex 
justice,  he  would  make  such  vagrants  know  tha, 
ter  majesty’s  subjects  were  no  more  to  be  abused 
by  water  than  by  land. 

We  were  now  arrived  at  Spring-garden,  which  is 
excellently  pleasant  at  this  time  of  the  year. 
When  I  considered  the  fragrancy  of  the  walks 
and  bowers,  with  the  choirs  of  birds  that  sung 
upon  the  trees,  and  the  loose  tribe  of  people  that 
walked  under  their  shades,  I  could  not  but  look 
upon  the  place  as  a  kind  of  Mahometan  paradise. 
Sir  Roger  told  me  it  put  him  in  mind  of  a  little 
coppice  by  his  house  in  the  country,  which  his 
chaplain  used  to  call  an  aviary  of  nightingales. 
“  You  must  understand,”  says  the  knight,  “  there 
is  nothing  in  the  world  that  pleases  a  man  in  love 
so  much  as  your  nightingale.  Ah,  Mr.  Spectator, 
the  many  moonlight  nights  that  I  have  walked  by 
myself,  and  thought  on  the  widow  by  the  music 
of  the  nightingale !  ”  He  here  fetched  a  deep 
sigh,  and  was  falling  into  a  fit  of  musing,  when  a 
mask,  who  came  behind  him,  gave  him  a  gentle 
tap  upon  the  shoulder,  and  asked  him  if  he  would 
drink  a  bottle  of  mead  with  her  ?  But  the  knight 
being  so  startled  at  so  unexpected  a  familiarity, 
and  displeased  to  be  interrupted  in  his  thoughts 
of  the  widow,  told  her  “  she  was  a  wanton  bag¬ 
gage;  ”  and  bid  her  go  about  her  business. 

We  concluded  our  walk  with  a  glass  of  Burton 
ale,  and  a  slice  of  hung  beef.  When  we  had  done 

*  In  the  original  publication  in  folio,  it  is  printed  Fox-hall. 


eating  ourselves,  the  knight  called  a  waiter  to 
him,  and  bid  him  carry  the  remainder  to  the  wa¬ 
terman  that  had  but  one  leg.  I  perceived  the  fel¬ 
low  stared  upon  him  at  the  oddness  of  the  mes¬ 
sage,  and  was  going  to  be  saucy;  upon  which  I 
ratified  the  knight’s  commands  with  a  peremptory 

look.  i 

As  we  were  going  out  of  the  garden,  my  old 
friend  thinking  himself  obliged,  as  a  member  of 
he  quorum,  to  animadvert  upon  the  morals  of  the 
dace,  told  the  mistress  of  the  house,  who  sat  at 
he  bar,  that  he  should  be  a  better  customer  to  her 
garden  if  there  were  more  nightingales,  and  fewer 
strumpets. — I. 


No.  384.]  WEDNESDAY,  MAY  21,  1712. 

“Hague  May  24,  N.  S.  The  same  republican  hands,  -who 
have  so  often  since  the  Chevalier  de  St.  George’s  recovery 
killed  him  in  our  public  prints,  have  now  reduced  the  young 
Dauphin  of  France  to  that  desperate  condition  of  weakness, 
and  death  itself,  that  it  is  hard  to  conjecture  what  method 
they  will  take  to  bring  him  to  life  again.  Meantime  we  are 
assured  by  a  very  good  hand  from  Paris,  that  on  the  20th 
instant  this  young  prince  was  as  well  as  ever  he  waa 
known  to  be  since  the  day  of  his  birth.  As  for  the  other, 
they  are  now  sending  his  ghost,  we  suppose  (for  they  never 
had  the  modesty  to  contradict  the  assertions  of  his  death), 
to  Commerci  in  Lorrain,  attended  only  by  four  gentlemen, 
and  a  few  domestics  of  little  consideration.  The  Baron  de 
Bothmar*  having  delivered  in  his  credentials  to  qualify 
him  as  an  ambassador  to  this  state  (an  office  to  which  his 
greatest  enemies  will  acknowledge  him  to  be  equal) ,  is  gone 
to  Utrecht,  whence  he  will  proceed  to  Hanover,  but  not  stay 
long  at  that  court,  for  fear  the  peace  should  be  made  during 
his  lamentable  absence.” — Post-Boy,  May  20. 

I  should  be  thought  not  able  to  read,  should  I 
overlook  some  excellent  pieces  lately  come  out. 
My  lord  bishop  of  St.  Asaphf  has  just  now  pub¬ 
lished  some  sermons,  the  preface  to  which  seems 
to  me  to  determine  a  great  point.  He  has,  like  a 
good  man,  and  a  good  Christian,  in  opposition  to 
all  the  flattery  and  base  submission  of  false  friends 
to  princes,  asserted,  that  Christianity  left  us  where 
it  found  us  as  to  our  civil  rights.  The  present  en¬ 
tertainment  shall  consist  only  of  a  sentence  out 
of  the  Post-Boy,  and  the  said  preface  of  the  lord 
of  St.  Asaph.  I  should  think  it  a  little  odd  if  the 
author  of  the  Post-Boy  should  with  impunity  call 
men  republicans  for  a  gladness  on  the  report  of 
the  death  of  the  pretender;  and  treat  Baron  Both¬ 
mar,  the  minister  of  Hanover,  in  such  a  manner  as 
you  see  in  my  motto.  I  must  own,  I  think  every 
man  in  England  concerned  to  support  the  succes¬ 
sion  of  that  family. 

“  The  publishing  a  few  sermons,  while  I  live, 
the  latest  of  which  was  preached  about  eight  years 
since,  and  the  first  above  seventeen,  will  make  it 
very  natural  for  people  to  inquire  into  the  occa¬ 
sion  of  doing  so;  and  to  such  I  do  very  willingly 
assign  these  following  reasons  : 

First,  from  the  observations  I  have  been  able 
to  make  for  these  many  years  last  past  upon  our 
public  affairs,  and  from  the  natural  tendency  of 
several  principles  and  practices,  that  have  of  late 
been  studiously  revived,  and  from  what  has  fol¬ 
lowed  thereupon,  I  could  not  help  both  fearing 
and  presaging,  that  these  nations  should  some 
time  or  other,  if  ever  we  should  have  an  enter¬ 
prising  prince  upon  the  throne,  of  more  ambition 
than  virtue,  justice,  and  true  honor,  fall  into  the 
way  of  all  other  nations,  and  lose  their  liberty. 

“  Nor  could  I  help  foreseeing  to  whose  charge  a 
great  deal  of  this  dreadful  mischief,  whenever  it 
should  happen,  would  be  laid;  whether  justly  or 
unjustly,  was  not  my  business  to  determine  :  but 

*  Ambassador  from  Hanover,  and  afterward  agent  here  for 
the  Hanoverian  family. 

fDr.  William  Fleetwood. 


THE  STE 

I  resolved,  for  my  own  particular  part,  to  deliver 
myself,  as  well  as  I  could,  from  the  reproaches  and 
the  curses  of  posterity,  by  publicly  declaring  to  all 
the  world,  that  although,  in  the  constant  course 
of  nay  ministry,  I  have  never  failed,  on  proper  oc¬ 
casions,  to  recommend,  urge,  and  insist  upon  the 
loving,  honoring,  and  reverencing  the  prince’s 
person,  and  holding  it,  according  to  the  laws,  in¬ 
violable  and  sacred;  and  paying  all  obedience  and 
submission  to  the  laws,  though  never  so  hard  and 
inconvenient  to  private  people:  yet  did  I  never 
think  myself  at  liberty,  or  authorized  to  tell  the 
people  that  either  Christ,  St.  Peter,  or  St.  Paul,  or 
airy  other  holy  writer,  had,  by  any  doctrine  deliv- 
ered  by  them,  subverted  the  laws  and  constitutions 
of  the  country  in  which  they  lived,  or  put  them 
in  a  worse  condition,  with  respect  to  their  civil 
liberties,  than  they  would  have  been  had  they  not 
been  Christians.  I  ever  thought  it  a  most  impious 
blasphemy  against  that  holy  religion,  to  father 
anything  upon  it  that  might  encourage  tyranny, 
oppression,  or  injustice,  in  a  prince,  or  that  easily 
tended  to  make  a  free  and  happy  people  slaves 
and  miserable.  No.  People  may  make  themselves 
as  wretched  as  they  will,  but  let  not  God  be  called 
into  that  wicked  party.  When  force  and  violence, 
and  hard  necessity,  have  brought  the  yoke  of  ser¬ 
vitude  upon  a  people’s  neck,  religion  will  supply 
them  with  a  patient  and  submissive  spirit  under 
it  till  they  can  innocently  shake  it  off:  but  cer¬ 
tainly  religion  never  puts  it  on.  This  always 
was,  and  this  at  present  is,  my  judgment  of  these 
matters:  and  I  would  be  transmitted  to  posterity 
(for  the  little  share  of  time  such  names  as  mine 
can  live),  under  the  character  of  one  who  loved 
his  countiy,  and  would  be  thought  a  good  Eng¬ 
lishman,  as  well  as  a  good  clergyma,n. 

“  This  character  I  thought  would  be  transmitted 
by  the  following  sermons,  which  were  made  for, 
and  preached  in,  a  private  audience,  when  I  could 
think  of  nothing  else  but  doing  my  duty  on  the 
occasions  that  were  then  offered  by  God’s  provi¬ 
dence,  without  any  manner  of  design  of  making 
them  public:  and  for  that  reason  I  give  them  now 
as  the}  were  then  delivered;  by  which  I  hope  to 
satisfy  those  people  who  have  objected  a  change 
of  piinciples  to  me,  as  if  I  were  not  now  the  same 
man  I  formerly  was.  I  never  had  but  one  opin¬ 
ion  of  these  matters;  and  that,  I  think,  is  so  rea¬ 
sonable  and  well-grounded,  that  I  believe  I  can 
never  have  any  other. 

Another  reason  of  my  publishing  these  ser¬ 
mons  at  this  time  is,  that  I  have  a  mind  to  do  my¬ 
self  some  honor  by  doing  what  honor  I  could  to 
the  memory  ot  two  most  excellent  princes,  and 
who  have  very  highly  deserved  at  the  hands  of  all 
the  people  of  these  dominions,  who  have  any  true 
value  for  the  Protestant  religion,  and  the  consti¬ 
tution  of  the  English  government,  of  which  they 
were  the  great  deliverers  and  defenders.  I  have 
lived  to  see  their  illustrious  names  very  rudely 
handled,  and  the  great  benefits  they  did  this  na¬ 
tion  treated  slightly  and  contemptuously.  I  have 
lived  to  see  our  deliverance  from  arbitrary  power 
and  popery  traduced  and  vilified  by  some  who 
formerly  thought  it  was  their  greatest  merit,  and 
made  it  part  ot  their  boast  and  glory,  to  have  had 
a  little  hand  and  share  in  bringing  it  about;  and 
others  who,  without  it,  must  have  lived  in  exile, 
poverty,  and  misery,  meanly  disclaiming  it,  and 
using  ill  the  glorious  instruments  thereof.  Who 
could  expect  such  a  requital  of  such  merit?  I 
have,  1  own  it,  an  ambition  of  exempting  myself 
from  the  number  of  unthankful  people:  and  as  I 
loved  and  honored  those  great  princes  living,  and 
lamented  over  them  when  dead,  so  I  would  gladly 
raise  them  up  a  monument  of  praise  as  lasting  as 


OTATOll.  471 

anything  of  mine  can  be  :  and  I  choose  to  do  it  at 
this  time,  when  it  is  so  unfashionable  a  thing  to 
speak  honorably  of  them. 

“The  sermon  that  was  preached  upon  the  Duke 
oi  Gloucester  s  death  was  printed  quickly  after, 
and  is  now,  because  the  subject  was  so  suitable, 
joined  to  the  others.  The  loss  of  that  most  pro¬ 
mising  and  hopeful  prince  was  at  that  time,  I  saw, 
unspeakably  great;  and  many  accidents  since 
lave  convinced  us  that  it  could  not  have  been 
overvalued.  That  precious  life,  had  it  pleased 
God  to  have  prolonged  it  the  usual  space,  had 
saved  us  many  fears  and  jealousies,  and  dark  dis¬ 
trusts,  and  prevented  many  alarms  that  have  long 
kept  us,  and  will  keep  us  still,  waking  and  un- 
easy.  Nothing  remained  to  comfort  and  support 
us  under  this  heavy  stroke,  but  the  necessity  it 
brought  the  king  and  nation  under  of  settlino  the 
succession  in  the  house  of  Hanover,  and  giving  it 
a  hei  editary  right  by  act  of  parliament,  as  long  as 
it  continues  Protestant.  So  much  good  did  God, 
in  his  merciful  providence,  produce  from  a  mis 
fortune,  which  we  could  never  otherwise  have  suf¬ 
ficiently  deplored ! 

“  The  fourth  sermon  was  preached  upon  the 
queen’s  accession  to  the  throne,  and  the  first  year 
in  which  that  day  was  solemnly  observed  (for  by 
some  accident  or  other  it  had  been  overlooked  the 
year  before);  and  every  one  will  see,  without  the 
date  of  it,  that  it  was  preached  very  early  in  this 
reign,  since  I  was  able  only  to  promise  and  pre¬ 
sage  its  future  glories  and  successes,  from  the  good 
appearances  of  things,  and  the  happy  turn  our  af¬ 
fairs  began  to  take;  and  could  not  then  count  up 
the  victories  and  triumphs  that,  for  seven  years 
after,  made  it,  in  the  prophet’s  language,  a  name 
and  a  praise  among  all  the  people  of  the  earth. 
Never  did  seven  such  years  together  pass  over  the 
head  of  any  English  monarch,  nor  cover  it  with 
so  much  honor.  The  crown  and  scepter  seemed 
to  be  the  queen’s  least  ornaments;  those,  other 
princes  wore  in  common  with  her,  and  her  great 
personal  virtues  were  the  same  before  and  since; 
but  such  was  the  fame  of  her  administration  of  af- 
fairs  at  home,  such  was  the  reputation  of  her  wis- 
dom  and  felicity  in  choosing  ministers,  and  such 
was  then  esteemed  their  faithfulness  and  zeal, 
their  diligence  and  great  abilities,  in  executing 
her  commands;  to  such  a  height  of  military  glory 
did  her  great  general  and  her  armies  carry  the 
British  name  abroad;  such  was  the  harmony  and 
concord  betwixt  her  and  her  allies;  and  such  was 
the  blessing  of  God  upon  all  her  counsels  and  un¬ 
dertakings,  that  I  am  as  sure  as  history  can  make 
me,  no  prince  of  ours  ever  was  so  prosperous  and 
successful,  so  beloved,  esteemed,  and  honored  by 
their  subjects  and  their  friends,  nor  near  so  formi¬ 
dable  to  their  enemies.  We  were,  as  all  the  world 
imagined  then,  just  entering  on  the  ways  that  pro¬ 
mised  to  such  a  peace  as  would  have  answered  all 
the  prayers  of  our  religious  queen,  the  care  and 
vigilance  of  a  most  able  ministry,  the  payment  of 
a  willing  and  most  obedient  people,  as  well  as  all 
the  glorious  toils  and  hazards  of  the  soldiery; 
when  God,  for  our  sins,  permitted  the  spirit  of  dis¬ 
cord  to  go  forth,  and  by  troubling  sore  the  camp, 
the  city,  and  the  country,  (and  oh  that  it  had  al¬ 
together  spared  the  places  sacred  to  his  worship  ! ) 
to  spoil,  for  a  time,  this  beautiful  and  pleasing 
prospect,  and  give  us,  in  its  stead,  I  know  not 
what — Our  enemies  will  tell  the  rest  wit  h  pleasure. 

It  will  become  me  better  to  pray  to  God  to  restore 
us  to  the  power  of  obtaining  such  a  peace  as  will 
be  to  his  glory,  the  safety,  honor,  and  welfare  of 
the  queen  and  her  dominions,  and  the  general  sa¬ 
tisfaction  of  all  her  high  and  mighty  allies. — T. 

“  May  2,  1712.” 


472 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


No.  385.]  THURSDAY,  MAY  22,  1712. 

_ Tkesea  pectora  juncta  fide. — Ovid,  1  Trist.  iii.  66. 

Breasts  that  with  sympathizing  ardor  glow’d, 

And  holy  friendship,  such  as  Theseus  vow’d. 

I  intend  the  paper  for  this  day  as  a  loose  essay 
upon  friendship,  in  which  I  shall  throw  ray  obser¬ 
vations  together  without  any  set  form,  that  I  may 
avoid  repeating  what  has  been  often  said  on  this 
subject. 

Friendship  is  a  strong  and  habitual  inclination 
in  two  persons  to  promote  the  good  and  happiness 
of  one  another.  Though  the  pleasures  and  ad¬ 
vantages  of  friendship  have  been  largely  celebra¬ 
ted  by  the  best  moral  writers,  and  are  considered 
by  all  as  great  ingredients  of  human  happiness, 
we  very  rarely  meet  with  the  practice  of  this  vir¬ 
tue  in  the  world. 

Every  man  is  ready  to  give  in  a  long  catalogue 
of  those  virtues  and  good  qualities  he  expects  to 
find  in  the  person  of  a  friend,  but  very  few  of  us 
are  careful  to  cultivate  them  in  ourselves. 

Love  and  esteem  are  the  first  principles  of 
friendship,  which  always  is  imperfect  where  either 
of  these  two  is  wanting. 

As,  on  the  one  hand,  we  are  soon  ashamed  of 
loving  a  man  whom  we  cannot  esteem;  so,  on  the 
other,  though  we  are  truly  sensible  of  a  man’s 
abilities,  we  can  never  raise  ourselves  to  the 
warmths  of  friendship,  without  an  affectionate 
good-will  toward  his  person. 

Friendship  immediately  banishes  envy  under 
all  its  disguises.  A  man  who  can  once  doubt 
whether  he  should  rejoice  in  his  friend’s  being 
happier  than  himself,  may  depend  upon  it  that  he 
is  an  utter  stranger  to  this  virtue. 

There  is  something  in  friendship  so  very  great 
and  noble,  that  in  those  fictitious  stories  which 
are  invented  to  the  honor  of  any  particular  person, 
the  authors  have  thought  it  as  necessary  to  make 
their  hero  a  friend  as  a  lover.  Achilles  has  his 
Patroclus,  and  ^Eneas  his  Achates.  In  the  first 
of  these  instances  we  may  observe,  for  the  repu¬ 
tation  of  the  subject  I  am  treating  of,  that  Greece 
was  almost  ruined  by  the  hero’s  love,  but  was  pre¬ 
served  by  his  friendship. 

The  character  of  Achates  suggests  to  us  an  ob¬ 
servation  we  may  often  make  on  the  intimacies  of 
great  men,  who  frequently  choose  their  compan¬ 
ions  rather  for  the  qualities  of  the  heart  than  those 
of  the  head,  and  prefer  fidelity  in  an  easy,  inoffen¬ 
sive,  complying  temper,  to  those  endowments 
which  make  a  much  greater  figure  among  man¬ 
kind.  I  do  not  remember  that  Achates,  who  is 
represented  as  the  first  favorite,  either  gives  his 
advice,  or  strikes  a  blow,  through  the  whole 
iEneid. 

A  friendship  which  makes  the  least  noise  is 
very  often  most  useful;  for  which  reason  I  should 
prefer  a  prudent  friend  to  a  zealous  one. 

Atticus,  one  of  the  best  men  of  ancient  Rome, 
was  a  very  remarkable  instance  of  what  I  am  here 
speaking.  This  extraordinary  person,  amid  the 
civil  wars  of  his  country,  when  he  saw  the  designs 
of  all  parties  equally  tended  to  the  subversion  of 
liberty,  by  constantly  preserving  the  esteem  and 
affection  of  both  the  competitors,  found  means  to 
serve  his  friends  on  either  side:  and,  while  he 
sent  money  to  young  Marius,  whose  father  was  de¬ 
clared  an  enemy  to  the  commonwealth,  he  was 
himself  one  of  Sylla’s  chief  favorites,  and  always 
near  that  general. 

During  the  war  between  Caesar  and  Pompey,  he 
still  maintained  the  same  conduct.  After  the 
death  of  Caesar,  he  sent  money  to  Brutus  in  his 
troubles,  and  did  a  thousand  good  offices  to  Anto¬ 
ny’s  wife  and  friends  when  that  party  seemed 


ruined.  Lastly,  even  in  that  bloody  war  between 
Antony  and  Augustus,  Atticus  still  kept  his  place 
in  both  their  friendships:  insomuch  that  the  first, 
says  Cornelius  Nepos,  whenever  he  was  absent 
from  Rome  in  any  part  of  the  empire,  wrote  punc¬ 
tually  to  him  what  he  was  doing,  what  he  read, 
and  whither  he  intended  to  go;  and  the  latter  gave 
him  constantly  an  exact  account  of  all  his  affairs. 

A  likeness  of  inclinations  in  every  particular  is 
so  far  from  being  requisite  to  form  a  benevolence 
in  two  minds  toward  each  other,  as  it  is  generally 
imagined,  that  I  believe  we  shall  find  some  of  the 
firmest  friendships  to  have  been  contracted  be¬ 
tween  persons  of  different  humors;  the  mind  being 
often  pleased  with  those  perfections  which  are  new 
to  it,  and  which  it  does  not  find  among  its  own 
accomplishments.  Beside  that  a  man  in  some 
measure  supplies  his  own  defects,  and  fancies 
himself  at  second-hand  possessed  of  those  good 
qualities  and  endowments  which  are  in  the  pos¬ 
session  of  him  who  in  the  eye  of  the  world  is 
looked  on  as  his  other  self. 

The  most  difficult  province  in  friendship  is  the 
letting  a  man  see  his  faults  and  errors,  which 
should,  if  possible,  be  so  contrived,  that  he  may 
perceive  our  advice  is  given  him  not  so  much  to 
please  ourselves  as  for  his  own  advantage.  The 
reproaches  therefore  of  a  friend  should  always  be 
strictly  just,  and  not  too  frequent. 

The  violent  desire  of  pleasing  in  the  person  re¬ 
proved,  may  otherwise  change  into  a  despair  of 
doing  it,  while  he  finds  himself  censured  for 
faults  he  is  not  conscious  of.  A  mind  that  is 
softened  and  humanized  by  friendship  cannot  bear 
frequent  reproaches ;  either  it  must  quite  sink 
under  the  oppression,  or  abate  considerably  of  the 
value  and  esteem  it  had  for  him  who  bestows 
them. 

The  proper  business  of  friendship  is  to  inspire 
life  ana  courage;  and  a  soul  thus  supported  out¬ 
does  itself ;  whereas,  if  it  be  unexpectedly  de¬ 
prived  of  these  succors,  it  droops  and  languishes. 

We  are  in  some  measure  more  inexcusable  if  we 
violate  our  duties  to  a  friend  than  to  a  relation; 
since  the  former  arises  from  a  voluntary  choice, 
the  latter  from  a  necessity  to  which  we  could  not 
give  our  own  consent. 

As  it  has  been  said  on  one  side,  that  a  man 
ought  not  to  break  with  a  faulty  friend,  that  he 
may  not  expose  the  weakness  of  his  choice;  it 
will  doubtless  hold  much  stronger  with  respect  to 
a  worthy  one,  that  he  may  never  be  upbraided  for 
having  lost  so  valuable  a  treasure  which  was  once 
in  his  possession. — X. 


No.  386.]  FRIDAY,  MAY  23,  1712. 

Cum  tristibus  severe,  cum  remissis  jucunde,  cum  senibus 

graviter,  cum  juventute  comiter  vivere. — Tull. 

The  piece  of  Latin  on  the  head  of  this  paper  is 
part  of  a  character  extremely  vicious,  but  1  have 
set  down  no  more  than  may  fall  in  with  the  rules 
of  justice  and  honor.  Cicero  spoke  it  of  Catiline, 
who,  he  said,  “  lived  with  the  sad  severely,  with 
the  cheerful  agreeably,  with  the  old  gravely,  with 
the  young  pleasantly;  ”  he  added,  “  with  the  wick¬ 
ed  boldly,  with  the  wanton  lasciviously.”  The 
two  last  instances  of  his  complaisance  I  for¬ 
bear  to  consider,  having  it  in  my  thoughts  at  pre¬ 
sent  only  to  speak  of  obsequious  behavior  as  it 
sits  upon  a  companion  in  pleasure,  not  a  man  of 
design  and  intrigue.  To  vary  with  every  humor 
in  this  manner  cannot  be  agreeable,  except  it  comes 
from  a  man’s  own  temper  and  natural  complexion; 
to  do  it  out  of  an  ambition  to  excel  that  way,  is 
the  most  fruitless  and  unbecoming  prostitution 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


imaginable.  To  put  on  an  artful  part  to  obtain  no 
other  end  but  an  unjust  praise  from  the  undis¬ 
cerning,  is  of  all  endeavors  the  most  despicable. 
A  man  must  be  sincerely  pleased  to  become  plea¬ 
sure,  or  not  to  interrupt  that  of  others;  for  this 
reason  it  is  a  most  calamitous  circumstance,  that 
many  people  who  want  to  be  alone,  or  should  be 
so,  will  come  into  conversation.  It  is  certain  that 
all  men,  who  are  the  least  given  to  reflection,  are 
seized  with  an  inclination  that  way:  when,  per¬ 
haps,  they  had  rather  be  inclined  to  company;  but 
indeed  they  had  better  go  home  and  be  tired  with 
themselves,  than  force  themselves  upon  others  to 
recover  their  good  humor.  In  all  tins,  the  cased 
communicating  to  a  friend  a  sad  thought  or  difA- 
culty,  in  order  to  relieve  a  heavy  heart,  stands  ex¬ 
cepted;  but  what  is  here  meant  is,  that  a  man 
should  always  go  with  inclination  to  the  turn  of 
the  company  he  is  going  into,  or  not  pretend  to  be 
of  the  party.  It  is  certainly  a  very  happy  temper 
to  be  able  to  live  with  all  kinds  of  dispositions, 
because  it  argues  a  mind  that  lies  open  to  receive 
what  is  pleasing  to  others,  and  not  obstinately 
bent  on  any  particularity  of  his  own. 

This  is  it  which  makes  me  pleased  with  the 
character  of  my  good  acquaintance  Acasto.  You 
meet  him  at  the  tables  and  conversations  of  the 
wise,  the  impertinent,  the  grave,  the  frolic,  and 
the  witty;  and  yet  his  own  character  has  nothing 
m  it  that  can  make  him  particularly  agreeable  to 
any  one  sect  of  men;  but  Acasto  has  natural  good 
sense,  good  nature,  and  discretion,  so  that  every 
man  enjoys  himself  in  his  company;  and  though 
Acasto  contributes  nothing  to  the  entertainment, 
he  never  was  at  a  place  where  he  was  not  welcome 
a  second  time.  Without  the  subordinate  good 
qualities  of  Acasto,  a  man  of  wit  and  learning 
would  be  painful  to  the  generality  of  mankind, 
instead  of  being  pleasing.  Witty  men  are  apt  to 
imagine  they  are  agreeable  as  such,  and  by  that 
means  grow  the  worst  companions  imaginable; 
they  deride  the  absent  or  rally  the  present  in  a 
wrong  manner,  not  knowing  that  if  you  pinch  or 
tickle  a  man  till  he  is  uneasy  in  his  seat,  or  un¬ 
gracefully  distinguished  from  the  rest  of  the  com¬ 
pany,  you  equally  hurt  him. 

I  was  going  to  say,  the  true  art  of  being  agree¬ 
able  in  company  (but  there  can  be  no  such  thing 
as  art  in  it)  is  to  appear  well  pleased  with  those 
you  are  engaged  with,  and  rather  to  seem  well  en¬ 
tertained,  than  to  bring  entertainment  to  others. 
A  man  thus  disposed  is  not  indeed  what  we  ordi¬ 
narily  call  a  good  companion,  but  essentially  is 
such,  and  in  all  the  parts  of  his  conversation  has 
something  friendly  in  his  behavior,  which  concil¬ 
iates  men  s  minds  more  than  the  highest  sallies  of 
wit  or  starts  of  humor  can  possibly  do.  The  fee¬ 
bleness  of  age  in  a  man  of  this  turn  has  some¬ 
thing  which  should  be  treated  with  respect  even  in 
a  man  no  otherwise  venerable.  The  forwardness 
of  youth,  when  it  proceeds  from  alacrity  and  not 
insolence,  has  also  its  allowances.  The  compan- 
ion  who  is  formed  for  such  by  nature,  gives  to 
every  character  of  life  its  due  regards,  and  is 
ready  to  account  for  their  imperfections,  and  re¬ 
ceive  their  accomplishments  as  if  they  were  his 
own.  It  must  appear  that  you  receive  law  from, 
and  not  give  it,  to  your  company,  to  make  you 
agreeable. 

I  remember  Tully,  speaking,  I  think,  of  Anto¬ 
ny-  says,  that,  In  eo  facetia  erant,  qua  nulla  arte 
tradi  possunt:  “He  had  a  witty  mirth,  which  could 
be  acquired  by  no  art.”  This  quality  must  be  of  the 
kind  of  which  I  am  now  speaking;  for  all  sorts 
of  behavior  which  depend  upon  observation  and 
knowledge  of  life  are  to  be  acquired;  but  that 
Which  no  one  can  describe,  and  is  apparently  the 


473 

act  of  nature,  must  be  everywhere  prevalent,  be¬ 
cause  everything  it  meets  is  a  fit  occasion  to  exert 
it:  for  he  who  follows  nature  can  never  be  impro¬ 
per  or  unseasonable. 

How  unaccountable  then  must  their  behavior  be, 
who,  without  any  manner  of  consideration  of 
what  the  company  they  have  just  now  entered  are 
upon,  give  themselves  the  air  of  a  messenger,  and 
make  as  distinct  relations  of  the  occurrences  they 
last  met  with,  as  if  they  had  been  dispatched  from 
those  they  talk  to,  to  be  punctually  exact  in  a  re¬ 
port  of  those  circumstances!  It  is  unpardonable 
to  those  who  are  met  to  enjoy  one  another  that  a 
fresh  man  shall  pop  in,  and  give  us  only  the  last 
part  of  his  own  life,  and  put  a  stop  to  ours  during 
the  history.  If  such  a  man  comes  from  ’Change, 
whether  you  will  or  not,  you  must  hear  how  the 
stocks  go:  and,  though  you  are  never  so  intently 
employed  on  a  graver  subject,  a  young  fellow  of 
the  other  end  of  the  town  will  take  his  place  and 
tell  you,  Mrs.  Such-a-one  is  charmingly  hand¬ 
some,  because  he  just  now  saw  her.  But  I  think 
I  need  not  dwell  on  this  subject,  since  I  have  ac- 
knoAvl edged  there  can  be  no  rules  made  for  excel¬ 
ling  this  way;  and  precepts  of  this  kind  fare  like 
rules  for  writing  poetry,  which,  it  is  said,  may 
have  prevented  ill  poets,  but  never  made  good 
ones. — T. 


No.  387.]  SATURDAY,  MAY  24,  1712. 

Quid  pure  tranquillet - Hor.  1  Ep.  xviii,  102. 

What  calms  the  breast,  and  makes  the  mind  serene? 

In  my  last  Saturday’s  paper  I  spoke  of  cheer¬ 
fulness  as  it  is  a  moral  habit  of  the  mind,  and  ac¬ 
cordingly  mentioned  such  moral  motives  as  are 
apt  to  cherish  and  keep  alive  this  happy  temper 
in  the  soul  of  man  :  I  shall  now  consider  cheer¬ 
fulness  in  its  natural  state,  and  reflect  on  those 
motives  to  it,  which  are  indifferent  either  as  to  vir¬ 
tue  or  vice. 

Cheerfulness  is,  in  the  first  place,  the  best  pro¬ 
moter  of  health.  Repinings,  and  secret  murmurs 
of  heart,  give  imperceptible  strokes  to  those  deli¬ 
cate  fibers  of  which  the  vital  parts  are  composed, 
and  wear  out  the  machine  insensibly:  not  to  men¬ 
tion  those  violent  ferments  which  they  stir  up  in 
the  blood,  and  those  irregular  disturbed  motions 
which  they  raise  in  the  animal  spirits.  I  scarce 
remember,  in  my  own  observation,  to  have  met 
with -many  old  men,  or  with  such,  who  (to  use  our 
English  phrase)  wear  well,  that  had  not  at  least  a 
certain  indolence  in  their  humor,  if  not  a  more 
than  ordinary  gayety  and  cheerfulness  of  heart. 
The  truth  of  it  is,  health  and  cheerfulness  mutu- 
ally  beget  each  other;  with  this  difference,  that  we 
seldom  meet  with  a  great  degree  of  health  which 
is  not  attended  with  a  certain  cheerfulness,  but 
very  often  see  cheerfulness  where  there  is  no  grea 
degree  of  health. 

Cheerfulness  bears  the  same  friendly  regard  to 
the  mind  as  to  the  body.  It  bSnishes  all  anxious 
care  and  discontent,  soothes  and  composes  the 
passions,  and  keeps  the  soul  in  a  perpetual  calm. 
But  having  already  touched  on  this  last  consider¬ 
ation,  I  shall  here  take  notice,  that  the  world  in 
which  we  are  placed  is  filled  with  innumerable 
objects  that  are  proper  to  raise  and  keep  alive 
this  happy  temper  of  mind. 

If  we  consider  the  world  in  its  subserviency  to 
man,  one  would  think  it  was  made  for  our  use; 
but  if  we  consider  it  in  its  natural  beauty  and 
harmony,  one  would  be  apt  to  conclude  it  was 
made  for  our  pleasure.  The  sun,  which  is  as  the 
great  soul  of  the  universe,  and  produces  all  the 
necessaries  of  life,  has  a  particular  influence  in 
• 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


474 

cheering  the  mind  of  man,  and  making  the  heart 
glad. 

Those  several  living  creatures  which  are  made 
for  our  service  or  sustenance,  at  the  same  time 
either  fill  the  woods  with  their  music,  furnish  us 
with  game,  or  raise  pleasing  ideas  in  us  by  the 
delightfulness  of  their  appearance.  Fountains, 
lakes,  and  rivers,  are  as  refreshing  to  the  imagi¬ 
nation,  as  to  the  soil  through  which  they  pass. 

There  are  writers  of  great  distinction,  who  have 
made  it  an  argument  for  Providence,  that  the 
whole  earth  is  ’covered  with  green  rather  than 
with  any  other  color,  as  being  such  a  right  mix¬ 
ture  of  light  and  shade,  that  it  comforts  and 
strengthens  the  eye,  instead  of  weakening  or 
grieving  it.  For  this  reason  several  painters  have 
a  green  cloth  hanging  near  them,  to  ease  the  eye 
upon,  after  too  great  an  application  to  their  color¬ 
ing.  A  famous  modern  philosopher*  accounts 
for  it  in  the  following  manner.  All  colors  that 
are  more  luminous,  overpower  and  dissipate  the 
animal  spirits  which  are  employed  in  sight ; 
on  the  contrary,  those  that  are  more  obscure  do 
not  give  the  animal  spirits  a  sufficient  exercise; 
whereas  the  rays  that  produce  in  us  the  idea  of 
green,  fall  upon  the  eye  in  such  a  due  proportion, 
that  they  give  the  animal  spirits  their  proper 
play,  and,  by  keeping  up  the  struggle  in  a  just 
Dalance,  excite  a  very  pleasing  and  agreeable  sen¬ 
sation.  Let  the  cause  be  what  it  will,  the  effect 
is  certain;  for  which  reason,  the  poets  ascribe  to 
this  particular  color  the  epithet  of  cheerful. 

To  consider  further  this  double  end  in  the  works 
of  nature,  and  how  they  are  at  the  same  time  both 
useful  and  entertaining,  we  find  that  the  most 
important  parts  in  the  vegetable  world  are  those 
which  are  the  most  beautiful.  These  are  the 
seeds  by  which  the  several  races  of  plants  are  pro¬ 
pagated  and  continued,  and  which  are  always 
odged  in  flowers  or  blossoms.  Nature  seems  to 
lide  her  principal  design,  and  to  be  industrious 
in  making  the  earth  gay  and  delightful,  while  she 
is  carrying  on  her  great  wTork,  and  intent  upon 
her  own  preservation.  The  husbandman,  after 
the  same  manner,  is  employed  in  laying  out  the 
whole  country  into  a  kind  of  garden  or  landscape, 
and  making  everything  smile  about  him,  while  in 
reality  he  thinks  of  nothing  but  of  the  harvest, 
and  the  increase  which  is  to  arise  from  it. 

We  may  further  observe  how  Providence  has 
taken  care  to  keep  up  this  cheerfulness  in  the 
mind  of  man,  by  having  formed  it  after  such  a 
manner,  as  to  make  it  capable  of  conceiving  de¬ 
light  from  several  objects  which  seem  to  have 
very  little  use  in  them;  as  from  the  wildness  of 
rocks  and  deserts,  and  the  like  grotesque  parts  of 
nature.  Those  wrho  are  versed  in  philosophy 
may  still  carry  this  consideration  higher,  by  ob¬ 
serving,  that  if  matter  had  appeared  to  us  en¬ 
dowed  only  with  those  real  qualities  which  it 
actually  possesses,  it  would  have  made  but  a  very 
jfyless  and  uncomfortable  figure:  and  why  has 
Providence  given  *it  a  power  of  producing  in  us 
such  imaginary  qualities,  as  tastes  and  colors, 
sounds  and  smells,  heat  and  cold,  but  that  man, 
while  he  is  conversant  in  the  lower  stations  of 
nature,  might  have  his  mind  cheered  and  de¬ 
lighted  with  agreeable  sensations  ?  In  short,  the 
whole  universe  is  a  kind  of  theater,  filled  with 
objects  that  either  raise  in  us  pleasure,  amuse¬ 
ment,  or  admiration. 

The  reader’s  own  thoughts  will  suggest  to  him 
the  vicissitude  of  day  and  night,  th£  change  of 
seasons,  with  all  that  variety  of  scenes  which 
diversify  the  face  of  nature,  and  fill  the  mind 


with  a  perpetual  succession  of  beautiful  and 
pleasing  images. 

I  shall  not  here  mention  the  several  entertain¬ 
ments  of  art,  with  the  pleasures  of  friendship, 
books,  conversation,  and  other  accidental  diver¬ 
sions  of  life,  because  I  would  only  take  notice  of 
such  incitements  to  a  cheerful  temper  as  offer 
themselves  to  persons  of  all  ranks  and  conditions, 
and  which  may  sufficiently  show  us  that  Provi¬ 
dence  did  not  design  this  world  should  be  filled 
with  murmurs  and  repinings,  or  that  the  heart  of 
man  should  be  involved  in  gloom  and  melan¬ 
choly. 

I  the  more  inculcate  this  cheerfulness  of  tem¬ 
per,  as  it  is  a  virtue  in  which  our  countrymen  are 
observed  to  be  more  deficient  than  any  other  nation. 
Melancholy  is  a  kind  of  demon  that  haunts  our 
island,  and  often  conveys  herself  to  us  in  an 
easterly  wind.  A  celebrated  French  novelist,  in 
opposition  to  those  who  begin  their  romances 
with  the  flowery  season  of  the  year,  enters  on 
his  story  thus:  “  In  the  gloomy  month  of  Novem¬ 
ber,  when  the  people  of  England  hang  and  drown 
themselves,  a  disconsolate  lover  walked  out  into 
the  fields/’  etc. 

Every  one  ought  to  fence  against  the  temper  of 
his  climate  or  constitution,  and  frequently  to  in¬ 
dulge  in  himself  those  considerations  which  may 
give  him  a  serenity  of  mind,  and  enable  him  to 
bear  up  cheerfully  against  those  little  evils  and 
misfortunes  which  are  common  to  human  nature, 
and  which,  by  a  right  improvement  of  them,  will 
roduce  a  satiety  of  joy,  and  an  uninterrupted 
appiness. 

At  the  same  time  that  I  would  engage  my  reader 
to  consider  the  world  in  its  most  agreeable  lights, 
I  must  own  there  are  many  evils  which  naturally 
spring  up  amidst  the  entertainments  that  are  pro¬ 
vided  for  us;  but  these,  if  rightly  considered, 
should  be  far  from  overcasting  the  mind  with 
sorrow,  or  destroying  that  cheerfulness  of  temper 
which  I  have  been  recommending.  This  inter- 
spersion  of  evil  with  good,  and  pain  with  plea¬ 
sure,  in  the  works  of  nature,  is  very  truly  as¬ 
cribed  by  Mr.  Locke,  in  his  Essay  on  Human 
understanding  to  a  moral  reason,  in  the  following 
words: — 

“  Beyond  all  this  we  may  find  another  reason 
why  God  hath  scattered  up  and  down  several  de¬ 
grees  of  pleasure  and  pain,  in  all  the  tilings  that 
environ  and  affect  us,  and  blended  them  together, 
in  almost  all  that  our  thoughts  and  senses  have  to 
do  with;  that  we,  finding  imperfection,  dissatis¬ 
faction,  and  want  of  complete  happiness,  in  all 
the  enjoyments  which  the  creature  can  afford  us, 
might  be  led  to  seek  it  in  the  enjoyment  of  Him 
‘  with  whom  there  is  fullness  of  joy,  and  at  whose 
right-hand  are  pleasures  for  evermore.’” — L. 


No.  388.]  MONDAY,  MAY  26,  1712. 

- Tibi  res  autiquae  laudis  et  artis 

Iugredior,  sanctos  ausus  recludere  fontes. 

Virg.  Georg,  ii,  174. 

For  thee  I  dare  unlock  the  sacred  spring, 

And  arts  disclos’d  by  ancient  sages  sing. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  It  is  my  custom,  when  I  read  your  papers,  to 
read  over  the  quotations  in  the  authors  from 
whence  you  take  them.  As  you  mentioned  a 
passage  lately  out  of  the  second  chapter  of  Solo¬ 
mon’s  song.it  occasioned  my  looking  into  it;  and, 
upon  reading  it,  I  thought  the  ideas  so  exqui¬ 
sitely  soft  and  tender,  that  I  could  not  help  mak¬ 
ing  this  paraphrase  of  it;  which,  now  it  is  done. 


*■  Sir  Isaac  Newton. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


475 


I  can  as  little  forbear  sending  to  you.  Some 
marks  of  your  approbation  which  I  have  already 
received,  have  given  me  so  sensible  a  taste  of 
them,  that  I  cannot  forbear  endeavoring  after 
them  as  often  as  I  can  with  any  appearance  of 
success.  “  I  am,  Sir, 

“Your  most  obedient,  humble  Servant.  ” 

I 

TUE  SECOND  CHAPTER  OF  SOLOMON’S  SONG. 

I. 

As  when  in  Sharon’s  field  the  blushing  rose 
Does  its  chaste  bosom  to  the  morn  disclose, 

Whilst  all  around  the  Zephyrs  bear 
The  fragrant  odors  through  the  air; 

Or  as  the  lily  in  the  shady  vale 
Does  o’er  each  flower  with  beauteous  pride  prevail, 

And  stands  with  dews  and  kindest  sunshine  bl^;, 

In  fair  pre-eminence,  superior  to  the  rest: 

So  if  my  Love,  with  happy  influence,  shed 
His  eyes’  bright  sunshine  on  his  lover’s  head, 

Then  shall  the  rose  of  Sharon’s  field, 

And  whitest  lilies,  to  my  beauties  yield. 

Then  fairest  flow’rs  with  studious  art  combine, 

The  roses  with  the  lilies  join, 

And  their  united  charms  are  less  than  mine. 

n. 

As  much  as  fairest  lilies  can  surpass 
A  thorn  in  beauty,  or  in  height  the  grass ; 

So  does  my  love  among  the  virgins,  shine, 

Adorn’d  with  graces  more  than  half  divine; 

Or  as  a  tree,  that,  glorious  to  behold, 

Is  hung  with  apples  all  of  ruddy  gold, 

Hesperian  fruit,  and,  beautifully  high, 

Extends  its  branches  to  the  sky ; 

So  does  my  Love  the  virgins’  eyes  invite : 

’Tis  he  alone  can  fix  their  wand’ring  sight, 

Among  ten  thousand  eminently  bright. 

HI. 

Beneath  his  pleasing  shade 
My  wearied  limbs  at  ease  I  laid, 

And  on  his  fragrant  boughs  reclin’d  my  head. 

I  pull’d  the  golden  fruit  with  eager  haste ; 

Sweet  was  the  fruit,  and  pleasing  to  the  taste : 

With  sparkling  wine  he  crown’d  the  bowl, 

W  ith  gentle  extasies  he  filled  my  soul ; 

Joyous  we  sat  beneath  the  shady  grove, 

And  o’er  my  head  he  hung  the  banners  of  his  love. 

IV. 

I  faint!  I  die!  my  lab’ring breast 
Is  with  the  mighty  weight  of  love  opprest; 

I  feel  the  fire  possess  my  heart, 

And  pain  convey’d  to  every  part. 

Through  all  my  veins  the  passion  flies, 

My  feeble  soul  forsakes  its  place, 

A  trembling  faintness  seals  my  eyes, 

And  paleness  dwells  upon  my  face: 

Oh !  let  my  love  with  pow’rful  odors  stay 
My  fainting  love-sick  soul,  that  dies  away ; 

One  hand  beneath  me  let  him  place, 

With  t’other  press  me  in  a  chaste  embrace. 

V. 

I  charge  you,  nymphs  of  Sion,  as  you  go 
Arm'd  with  the  sounding  quiver  and  the  bow, 

Whilst  thro’  the  lonesome  woods  you  rove, 

You  ne’er  disturb  my  sleeping  Love. 

Be  only  gentle  Zephyrs  there, 

With  downy  wings  to  fan  the  air; 

Let  sacred  silence  dwell  around, 

To  keep  off  each  intruding  sound, 

And  when  the  balmy  slumber  leaves  his  eyes, 

May  he  to  joys,  unknown  till  then,  arise ! 

VI. 

But  see!  he  comes!  with  what  majestic  gait 
He  onward  bears  his  lovely  state ! 

Now  through  the  lattice  he  appears, 

With  softest  words  dispels  my  fears, 

Arise,  my  fair  one,  and  receive 
All  the  pleasures  love  can  give! 

For,  now  the  sullen  winter’s  past, 

No  more  we  fear  the  northern  blast: 

No  storms  nor  threatening  clouds  appear, 

No  falling  rains  deform  the  year : 

My  love  admits  of  no  delay ; 

Arise,  my  fair,  and  come  away! 


VII. 

Already,  see!  the  teeming  earth 
Brings  forth  the  flow’rs,  her  beauteous  birth, 

The  dews,  and  soft-descending  show’rs, 

Nurse  the  new-born  tender  flow’rs. 

Hark!  the  birds  melodious  sing, 

And  sweetly  usher  in  the  spi'ing. 

Close  by  his  fellow  sits  the  dove, 

And  billing  whispers  her  his  love. 

The  spreading  vines  with  blossoms  swell, 

Diffusing  round  a  grateful  smell. 

Arise,  my  fair  one,  and  receive 
All  the  blessings  love  can  give: 

For  love  admits  of  no  delay; 

Arise,  my  fair,  and  come  away! 

VIII. 

As  to  its  mate  the  constant  dove 
Flies  through  the  covert  of  the  spicy  grove, 

So  let  us  hasten  to  some  lonesome  shade; 

There  let  me  safe  in  thy  lov’d  arms  be  laid, 

Where  no  intruding,  hateful  noise 
Shall  damp  the  sound  of  thy  melodious  voice; 
Where  I  may  gaze,  and  mark  each  beauteous  grace; 
For  sweet  thy  voice,  and  lovely  is  thy  face. 

IX. 

As  all  of  me,  my  Love,  is  thine, 

Let  all  of  thee  be  ever  mine, 

Among  the  lilies  we  will  play; 

Fairer,  my  Love,  thou  art  than  they: 

Till  the  purple  morn  arise, 

And  balmy  sleep  forsake  thine  eyes; 

Till  the  gladsome  beams  of  day 
Remove  the  shades  of  night  away! 

Then,  when  soft  sleep  shall  from  thy  eyes  depart, 

Rise  like  the  bounding  roe,  or  lusty  hart, 

Glad  to  behold  the  light  again 
From  Bethers  mountains  darting  o’er  the  plain. 


No.  389.]  TUESDAY,  MAY  27,  1712. 

- Meliora  pii  docuere  parentes. — Hoe. 

Their  pious  sires  a  better  lesson  taught. 

Nothing  has  more  surprised  the  learned  in 
England,  than  the  price  which  a  small  book,  en¬ 
titled  Spaccio  della  Bestia  triomfante,  bore  in  a 
late  auction.*  This  book  was  sold  for  thirty- 
pounds.  As  it  was  written  by  one  Jordanus 
Brunus,  a  professed  Atheist,  with  a  design  to 
depreciate  religion,  every  one  was  apt  to  fancy, 
from  the  extravagant  price  it  bore,  that  there  must 
be  something  in  it  very  formidable. 

I  must  confess,  that  happening  to  get  a  sight  of 
one  of  them  myself,  I  could  not  forbear  perusing 
it  with  this  apprehension  ;  but  found  there  was  so 
very  little  danger  in  it,  that  I  shall  venture  to 
give  my  readers  a  fair  account  of  the  whole  plan 
upon  which  this  wonderful  treatise  is  built. 

The  author  pretends  that  Jupiter,  once  upon  a 
time,  resolved  on  a  reformation  of  the  constella¬ 
tions  :  for  which  purpose,  having  summoned  the 


*  The  book  here  mentioned  was  bought  by  Walter  Clavel 
Esq.,  at  the  auction  of  the  library  of  Charles  Barnard,  Esq  ’ 
in  1711,  for  twenty-eight  pounds.  The  same  copy  became 
successively  the  property  of  Mr.  John  Nichols,  of  Mr.  Joseph 
Ames,  of  Sir  Peter  Thomson,  and  of  M.  C.  Tutet,  Esq.,  among 
whose  books  it  was  lately  sold  by  auction,  at  Mr.  Gerrard’s 
in  Litchfield-street.  The  author  of  this  book,  Giordano  Bruno, 
was  a  native  of  Nola  in  the  kingdom  of  Naples,  and  burnt  at 
Rome  by  the  order  of  the  Inquisition  in  1600.  Morhoff, 
speaking  of  Atheists,  says,  “  Jordanum  tamen  Brunum  huic 

classi  non  annumerarem, - manifesta  in  illo  atheism! 

vestigia  non  deprehendo.”  Polyhist.  i.  1.  8.  22.  Bruno  pub¬ 
lished  many  other  writings  said  to  be  atheistical.  The  book 
spoken  of  here  was  printed,  not  at  Paris,  as  is  said  in  the 
title-page,  nor  in  1544,  but  at  London,  and  in  1584, 12mo., 
dedicated  to  .Sir  Philip  Sidney.  It  was  for  some  time  so  little 
regarded,  that  it  was  sold  with  five  other  books  of  the  same 
a.uthor,  for  twenty-five  pence  French,  at  the  sale  of  Mr.  Rigor’s 
library  in  1706,  but  it  is  now  very  scarce,  and  has  been  sold 
at  the  exorbitant  price  of  £50.  Niceron.  Hommes  illust., 
tom.  xvii,  p.  221.  There  was  an  edition  of  it  in  English 
in  1713.  6 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


476 

stars  together,  lie  complains  to  them  of  the  great 
decay  of  the  worship  of  the  gods,  which  he 
thought  so  much  the  harder,  having  called  several 
of  those  celestial  bodies  by  the  names  of  the 
heathen  deities,  and  by  that  means  made  the 
heavens  as  it  were  a  book  of  the  pagan  theology. 
Momus  tells  him  that  this  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at  since  there  were  so  many  scandalous  stories  of 
the  deities.  Upon  which  the  author  takes  occa¬ 
sion  to  cast  reflections  upon  all  other  religions, 
concluding  that  Jupiter,  after  a  full  hearing,  dis¬ 
carded  the  deities  out  of  heaven,  and  called  the 
stars  by  the  names  of  the  moral  virtues. 

This  short  fable,  which  has  no  pretense  in  it  to 
reason  or  argument,  and  but  a  very  small  share 
of  wit,  has  however  recommended  itself,  wholly 
by  its  impiety,  to  those  weak  men  who  would 
distinguish  themselves  by  the  singularity  of  their 
opinions. 

There  are  two  considerations  which  have  been 
often  urged  against  Atheists,  and  which  they 
never  yet  could  get  over.  The  first  is,  that  the 
greatest  and  most  eminent  persons  of  all  ages 
have  been  against  them,  and  always  complied 
with  the  public  forms  of  worship  established  in 
their  respective  countries,  when  there  was  nothing 
in  them  either  derogatory  to  the  honor  of  the 
Supreme  Being  or  prejudicial  to  the  good  of  man¬ 
kind. 

The  Platos  and  Ciceros  among  the  ancients  ; 
the  Bacons,  the  Boyles,  and  the  Lockes  among 
our  own  countrymen  ;  are  all  instances  of  what  I 
have  been  saying  ;  not  to  mention  any  of  the  di¬ 
vines,  however  celebrated,  since  our  adversaries 
challenge  all  those,  as  men  who  have  too  much 
interest  in  this  case  to  be  impartial  evidences. 

But  what  has  been  often  urged  as  a  considera¬ 
tion  of  much  more  weight,  is  not  only  the  opinion 
of  the  better  sort,  but  the  general  consent  of  man¬ 
kind  to  this  great  truth  ;  which  I  think  could  not 
possibly  have  come  to  pass,  but  from  one  of  the 
three  following  reasons  :  either  that  the  idea  of  a 
God  is  innate  and  co-existent  with  the  mind  itself; 
or  that  this  truth  is  so  very  obvious,  that  it  is 
discovered  by  the  first  exertion  of  reason  in  per¬ 
sons  of  the  most  ordinary  capacities;  or,  lastly, 
that  it  has  been  delivered  down  to  us  through  all 
ages  by  a  tradition  from  the  first  man. 

The  Atheists  are  equally  confounded,  to  which¬ 
ever  of  these  three  causes  we  assign  it ;  they 
have  been  so  pressed  by  this  last  argument  from 
the  general  consent  of  mankind,  that  after  great 
search  and  pains  they  pretend  to  have  found  out 
a  nation  of  Atheists,  I  mean  that  polite  people 
the  Hottentots., 

I  dare  not  shock  my  readers  with  a  description 
of  the  customs  and  manners  of  these  barbarians, 
who  are  in  every  respect  scarce  one  degree  above 
brutes,  having  no  language  among  them  but  a 
confused  gabble,  which  is  neither  well  understood 
by  themselves  nor  others. 

It  is  not,  however,  to  be  imagined,  how  much 
the  Atheists  have  gloried  in  these  their  good 
friends  and  allies. 

If  we  boast  of  a  Socrates  or  a  Seneca,  they  may 
now  confront  them  with  these  great  philosophers 
the  Hottentots. 

Though  even  this  point  has,  not  without  rea¬ 
son,  been  several  times  controverted,  I  see  no  man¬ 
ner  of  harm  it  could  do  to  religion,  if  we  should 
entirely  give  them  up  this  elegant  part  of  mankind. 

Methinks  nothing  more  shows  the  weakness  of 
their  cause,  than  that  no  division  of  their  fellow- 
creatures  join  with  them,  but  those  among  whom 
they  themselves  own  reason  is  almost  defaced, 
and  who  have  little  else  but  their  shape  which 
can  entitle  them  to  any  place  in  the  species. 


Beside  these  poor  creatures,  there  have  now 
and  then  been  instances  of  a  few  crazy  people  in 
several  nations,  who  have  denied  the  existence  of 
a  Deity. 

The  catalogue  of  these  is,  however,  very  short; 
even  Vanini,  the  most  celebrated  champion  for 
the  cause,  professed  before  his  judges  that  he  be¬ 
lieved  the  existence  of  a  God  ;  and,  taking  up  a 
straw  which  lay  before  him  on  the  ground,  as¬ 
sured  them,  that  alone  was  sufficient  to  convince 
him  of  it ;  alleging  several  arguments  to  prove 
that  it  was  impossible  nature  alone  could  create 
anything. 

I  was  the  other  day  reading  an  account  of  Casi- 
mir  Liszynski,  a  gentleman  of  Poland,  who  was 
convicted  and  executed  for  this  crime.  The  man¬ 
ner  of  his  punishment  was  very  particular.  As 
soon  as  his  body  was  burnt,  his  ashes  were  put 
into  a  cannon,  and  shot  into  the  air  toward  Tar- 
tary. 

I  am  apt  to  believe,  that  if  something  like  this 
method  of  punishment  should  prevail  in  England 
(such  is  the  natural  good  sense  of  the  British 
nation),  that  whether  we  rammed  an  Atheist 
whole  into  a  great  gun,  or  pulverized  our  infidels, 
as  they  do  in  Poland,  we  should  not  have  many 
charges. 

I  should  however  propose,  while  our  ammu¬ 
nition  lasted,  that  instead  of  Tartary,  we  should 
always  keep  two  or  three  cannons  ready  pointed 
toward  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  in  order  to  shoot 
our  unbelievers  into  the  country  of  the  Hotten- 
tots. 

In  my  opinion,  a  solemn,  judicial  death  is  too 
great  an  honor  for  an  Atheist ;  though  I  must 
allow  the  method  of  exploding  him,  as  it  is  prac¬ 
ticed  in  this  ludicrous  kind  of  martyrdom,  has 
something  in  it  proper  enough  to  the  nature  of 
his  offense. 

There  is  indeed  a  great  objection  against  this 
manner  of  treating  them.  Zeal  for  religion  is  of 
so  active  a  nature,  that  it  seldom  knows  where  to 
rest ;  for  which  reason  I  am  afraid,  after  having 
discharged  our  Atheists,  we  might  possibly  think 
of  shooting  off  our  sectaries:  and  as  one  does  not 
foresee  the  vicissitude  of  human  affairs,  it  might 
one  time  or  other  come  to  a  man’s  own  turn  to  fly 
out  of  the  mouth  of  a  demiculverin. 

If  any  of  my  readers  imagine  that  I  have  treated 
these  gentlemen  in  too  ludicrous  a  manner,  I  must 
confess,  for  my  own  part,  I  think  reasoning  against 
such  unbelievers,  upon  a  point  that  shocks  the 
common  sense  of  mankind,  is  doing  them  too 
great  an  honor,  giving  them  a  figure  in  the  eye  of 
the  world,  and  making  people  fancy  that  they 
have  more  in  them  than  they  really  have. 

As  for  those  persons  who  have  any  scheme  of 
religious  worship,  I  am  for  treating  such  with  the 
utmost  tenderness,  and  should  endeavor  to  show 
them  their  errors  with  the  greatest  temper  and  hu¬ 
manity;  but  as  these  miscreants  are  for  throwing 
down  religion  in  general,  for  stripping  mankind 
of  what  themselves  own  is  of  excellent  use  in  all 
great  societies,  without  once  offering  to  establish 
anything  in  the  room  of  it,  I  think  the  best  way 
of  dealing  with  them,  is  to  retort  their  own  wea¬ 
pons  upon  them,  which  are  those  of  scorn  and 
mockery. — X. 


No.  390.]  WEDNESDAY,  MAY  28,  1712. 

Non  pudendo,  sed  non  faciendo  id  quod  non  decet,  impu- 
dentiae  nomen  effugere  debemus. — Tull. 

It  is  not  by  blushing,  but  by  not  doing  what  is  unbecom¬ 
ing,  that  we  ought  to  guard  against  the  imputation  of 
impudence. 

Many  are  the  epistles  I  receive  from  ladies  ex¬ 
tremely  afflicted  that  they  lie  under  the  observa- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


tion  of  scandalous  people,  who  love  to  defame 
their  neighbors,  and  make  the  unjustest  interpre¬ 
tation  of  innocent  and  indifferent  actions.  They 
describe  their  own  behavior  so  unhappily,  that 
there  indeed  lies  some  cause  of  suspicion  upon 
them.  It  is  certain,  that  there  is  no  authority  for 
ersons  who  have  nothing  else  to  do,  to  pass  away 
ours  of  conversation  upon  the  miscarriages  of 
other  people;  but  since  they  will  do  so,  they  who 
value  their  reputation  should  be  cautious  of  ap¬ 
pearances  to  their  disadvantage;  but  very  often 
our  young  women,  as  well  as  the  middle-aged, 
and  the  gay  part  of  those  growing  old,  without 
entering  into  a  formal  league  for  that  purpose,  to 
a  woman  agree  upon  a  short  way  to  preserve  their 
characters,  and  go  on  in  a  way  that  at  best  is  only 
not  vicious.  The  method  is,  when  an  ill-natured 
or  talkative  girl  has  said  anything  that  bears  hard 
upon  some  part  of  another’s  carriage,  this  crea¬ 
ture,  if  not  in  any  of  their  little  cabals,  is  run 
down  for  the  most  censorious,  dangerous  body  in 
the  world.  Thus  they  guard  their  reputation 
rather  than  their  modesty;  as  if  guilt  lay  in  being 
under  the  imputation  of  a  fault,  and  not  in  the 
commission  of  it.  Orbicilla  is  the  kindest  poor 
thing  in  town,  but  the  most  blushing  creature 
living.  It  is  true,  she  has  not  lost  the  sense  of 
shame,  but  she  has  lost  the  sense  of  innocence. 
If  she  had  more  confidence,  and  never  did  any¬ 
thing  which  ought  to  stain  her  cheeks,  would  she 
not  be  much  more  modest,  without  that  ambiguous 
suffusion  which  is  the  livery  both  of  guilt  and 
innocence?  Modesty  consists  in  being  conscious 
of  no  ill,  and  not  in  being  ashamed  of  having 
done  it.  When  people  go  upon  any  other  founda¬ 
tion  than  the  truth  of  their  own  hearts  for  the  con¬ 
duct  of  their  actions,  it  lies  in  the  power  of  scan¬ 
dalous  tongues  to  carry  the  world  before  them,  and 
make  the  rest  of  mankind  fall  in  with  the  ill  for 
fear  of  reproach.  On  the  other  hand,  to  do  what 
you  ought,  is  the  ready  way  to  make  calumny 
either  silent,  or  ineffectually  malicious.  Spenser, 
in  his  Fairy  Queen,  says  admirably  to  young  la¬ 
dies  under  the  distress  of  being  defamed  : 

“The  best,”  said  he;  “that  I  can  you  advise, 

Is  to  avoid  tli’ occasion  of  the  ill; 

For  when  the  cause,  whence  evil  doth  arise, 

Removed  is,  th’  effect  surceaseth  still. 

Abstain  from  pleasure,  and  restrain  your  will, 

Subdue  desire,  and  bridle  loose  delight: 

Use  scanty  diet,  and  forbear  your  fill; 

Shun  secrecy,  and  talk  in  open  sight: 

So  shall  you  soon  repair  your  present  evil  plight.” 

Instead  of  this  care  over  their  words  and  actions, 
recommended  by  a  poet  in  Old  Queen  Bess’s  days, 
the  modern  way  is  to  do  and  say  what  you  please, 
and  yet  be  the  prettiest  sort  of  woman  in  the 
world.  If  fathers  and  brothers  will  defend  a  la¬ 
dy’s  honor,  she  is  quite  as^afe  as  in  her  own  inno¬ 
cence.  Many  of  the  distressed,  who  suffer  under 
the  malice  of  evil  tongues,  are  so  harmless,  that 
they  are  every  day  they  live  asleep  till  twelve  at 
noon;  concern  themselves  with  nothing  but  their 
own  persons  till  two;  take  their  necessary  food 
between  that  time  and  four;  visit,  go  to  the  play, 
and  sit  up  at  cards  till  toward  the  ensuing  morn; 
and  the  malicious  world  shall  draw  conclusions 
from  innocent  glances,  short  whispers,  or  pretty 
familiar  railleries  with  fashionable  men,  that  these 
fair  ones  are  not  as  rigid  as  vestals.  It  is  certain, 
say  these  “  goodest”  creatures  very  well,  that  vir¬ 
tue  does  not  consist  in  constrained  behavior  and 
wry  faces  :  that  must  be  allowed  :  but  there  is  a 
decency  in  the  aspect  and  manner  of  ladies,  con¬ 
tracted  from  a  habit  of  virtue,  and  from  general 
reflections  that  regard  a  modest  conduct, — all 
which  may  be  understood,  though  they  cannot  be 
described.  A  young  woman  of  this  sort  claims 


477 

an  esteem  mixed  with  affection  and  honor,  and 
meets  with  no  defamation;  or,  if  she  does,  the  wild 
malice  is  overcome  with  an  undisturbed  persever¬ 
ance  in  her  innocence.  To  speak  freely,  there  are 
such  coveys  of  coquettes  about  this  town,  that  if 
the  peace  were  not  kept  by  some  impertinent 
tongues  of  their  own  sex,  which  keep  them  under 
some  restraint,  we  should  have  no  manner  of  en¬ 
gagement  upon  them  to  keep  them  in  any  toler¬ 
able  order. 

As  I  am  a  Spectator,  and  behold  how  plainly 
one  part  of  woman-kind  balance  the  behavior  of 
the  other,  whatever  I  may  think  of  tale-bearers  or 
slanderers,  I  cannot  wholly  suppress  them,  no 
more  than  a  general  would  discourage  spies.  The 
enemy  would  easily  surprise  him  who  they  knew 
had  no  intelligence  of  their  motions.  It  is  so  far 
otherwise  with  me,  that  I  acknowledge  I  permit  a 
she-slanderer  or  two  in  every  quarter  of  the  town, 
to  live  in  the  characters  of  coquettes,  and  take  all 
the  innocent  freedoms  of  the  rest,  in  order  to  send 
me  information  of  the  behavior  of  their  respective 
sisterhoods. 

But  as  the  matter  of  respect  to  the  world  which 
looks  on,  is  carried  on,  methinks  it  is  so  very  easy 
to  be  what  is  in  the  general  called  virtuous,  that 
it  need  not  cost  one  hour’s  reflection  in  a  month  to 
preserve  that  appellation.  It  is  pleasant  to  hear 
the  pretty  rogues  talk  of  virtue  and  vice  among 
each  other.  “  She  is  the  laziest  creature  in  the 
world,  but,  I  must  confess,  strictly  virtuous;  the 
peevishest  hussy  breathing,  but  as  to  her  virtue, 
she  is  without  blemish.  She  has  not  the  least 
charity  for  any  of  her  acquaintance,  but  I  must 
allow  her  rigidly  virtuous.”  As  the  unthinking 
parts  of  the  male  world  call  every  man  a  man  of 
honor,  who  is  not  a  coward;  so  the  crowd  of  the 
other  sex  terms  every  woman  who  will  not  be  a 
wench,  virtuous. — T. 


No.  391.]  THURSDAY,  MAY  29,  1712. 

- Non  tu  prece  poscis  emaci, 

Quae  nisi  seductis  nequeas  committere  divis. 

At  bona  pars  procerum  tacita  libabit  acerra, 

Hayd  cuivis  promptum  est,  murmurque  humilesque  su- 
surro : 

Tollere  de  templis:  et  aperto  vivere  voto. 

Mens  bona,  fama,  fides ;  haec  clare,  et  ut  audiat  hospea. 
Ilia  sibi  introrsum,  et  sub  lingua  immurmurat.  0  si 
Ebullit  patrui  prasclarum  funus?  Et,  0  si, 

Sub  rastro  crepet  argenti  mibi  seria  dextro. 

Hercule!  pupillumve  utinam,  quem  proximus  haeres 
Impello,  expungam! — Pers.  Sat.  ii,  v.  3. 

Thou  know’st  to  join 
No  bribe  unhallow’d  to  a  prayer  of  thine; 

Thine,  which  can  ev’ry  ear’s  full  test  abide, 

Nor  need  be  mutter’d  to  the  gods  aside! 

No,  thou  aloud  may’st  thy  petitions  trust! 

Thou  need’st  not  whisper;  other  great  ones  must; 

For  few,  my  friend,  few  dare  like  thee  be  plain, 

And  pray’r’s  low  artifice  at  shrines  disdain. 

Few  from  their  pious  mumblings  dare  depart, 

And  make  profession  of  their  inmost  heart, 

Keep  me,  indulgent  Heaven,  through  life  sincere. 

Keep  my  mind  sound,  my  reputation  clear. 

These  wishes  they  can  speak,  and  we  can  hear. 

Thus  far  their  wants  are  audibly  exprest; 

Then  sinks  the  voice,  and  muttering  groans  the  rest 
“Hear,  hear  at  length,  good  Hercules,  my  vow! 

0  chink  some  pot  of  gold  beneath  my  plow! 

Could  I,  0  could  I,  to  my  ravished  eyes 
See  my  rich  uncle’s  pompous  funeral  rise ; 

Or  could  I  once  my  ward’s  cold  corpse  attend, 

Then  all  were  mine !  ” 

Where  Homer  represents  Phoenix,  the  tutor  of 
Achilles,  as  persuading  his  pupil  to  lay  aside  his 
resentments,  and  give  himself  up  to  the  entreaties 
of  his  countrymen,  the  poet,  in  order  to  make  him 
speak  in  character,  ascribes  to  him  a  speech  full 
of  those  fables  and  allegories,  which  okl  men  take 
delight  in  relating,  and  which  are  very  proper  for 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


478 

instruction.  “  The  gods,”  says  he,  “  suffer  them¬ 
selves  to  be  prevailed  upon  by  entreaties.  When 
mortals  have  offended  them  by  their  transgressions, 
they  appease  them  by  vows  and  sacrifices.  You 
must  know,  Achilles,  that  prayers  are  the  daugh¬ 
ters  of  Jupiter.  They  are  crippled  by  frequent 
kneeling,  have  their  faces  full  of  cares  and 
wrinkles,  and  their  eyes  always  cast  toward  hea¬ 
ven.  They  are  constant  attendants  on  the  goddess 
Ate,  and  march  behind  her.  This  goddess  walks 
forward  with  a  bold  and  haughty  air;  and,  being 
very  light  of  foot,  runs  through  the  whole  earth 
grieving  and  afflicting  the  sons  of  men.  She  gets 
the  start  of  Prayers,  who  always  follow  her,  in 
order  to  heal  those  persons  whom  she  wounds. 
He  who  honors  these  daughters  of  Jupiter,  when 
they  draw  near  to  him,  receives  great  benefit 
from  them:  but  as  for  him  who  rejects  them,  they 
entreat  their  father  to  give  his  orders  to  the  god¬ 
dess  Ate,  to  punisli  him  for  his  hardness  of  heart.” 
This  noble  allegory  needs  but  little  explanation; 
for,  whether  the  goddess  Ate  signifies  injury,  as 
some  have  explained  it;  or  guilt  in  general,  as 
others  ;  or  divine  justice,  as  I  am  more  apt  to 
think;  the  interpretation  is  obvious  enough. 

I  shall  produce  another  heathen  fable,  relating 
to  prayers,  which  is  of  a  more  diverting  kind. 
One  would  think,  by  some  passages  in  it,  that  it 
was  composed  by  Lucian,  or  at  least  by  some  au¬ 
thor  who  has  endeavored  to  imitate  his  way  of 
writing;  but  as  dissertations  of  this  nature  are 
more  curious  than  useful,  I  shall  give  my  reader  the 
fable,  without  any  further  inquiries  after  the  author. 

“  Menippus,  the  philosopher,  was  a  second  time 
taken  up  into  heaven  by  Jupiter,  when,  for  his 
entertainment,  he  lifted  up  a  trap-door  that  was 
placed  by  his  footstool.  At  its  rising,  there  issued 
through  it  such  a  din  of  cries  as  astonished  the 
philosopher.  Upon  his  asking  what  they  meant, 
Jupiter  told  him  they  were  the  prayers  that  were 
sent  up  to  him  from  the  earth.  Menippus,  amid 
the  confusion  of  voices,  which  was  so  great  that 
nothing  less  than  the  ear  of  Jove  could  distinguish 
them,  heard  the  words,  ‘riches,  honor,’  and  ‘long 
life,’  repeated  in  several  different  tones  and  lan¬ 
guages.  When  the  first  hubbub  of  sounds  was 
over,  the  trap-door  being  left  open,  the  voices 
came  up  more  separate  and  distinct.  The  first 
prayer  was  a  very  odd  one;  it  came  from  Athens, 
and  desired  J upiter  to  increase  the  wisdom  and 
the  beard  of  his  humble  supplicant.  Menippus 
knew  it  by  the  voice  to  be  the  prayer  of  his  friend 
Licander,  the  philosopher.  This  was  succeeded 
by  the  petition  of  one  who  had  just  laden  a  ship, 
and  promised  Jupiter,  if  he  took  care  of  it,  and 
returned  it  home  again  full  of  riches,  he  would 
make  him  an  offering  of  a  silver  cup.  Jupiter 
thanked  him  for  nothing;  and,  bending  down  his 
ear  more  attentively  than  ordinary,  heard  a  voice 
complaining  to  him  of  the  cruelty  of  an  Ephesian 
widow,  and  begged  him  to  breed  compassion  in 
her  heart.  ‘  This,’  says  Jupiter,  ‘  is  a  very  honest 
fellow.  I  have  received  a  great  deal  of  incense 
from  him :  I  will  not  be  so  cruel  to  him  as  to  hear 
his  prayers.’  He  was  then  interrupted  with  a 
whole  volley  of  vows  which  were  made  for  the 
health  of  a  tyrannical  prince  by  his  subjects  who 
prayed  for  him  in  his  presence.  Menippus  was 
surprised,  after  having  listened  to  prayers  offered 
up  with  so  much  ardor  and  devotion,  to  hear  low 
whispers  from  the  same  assembly,  expostulating 
with  Jove  for  suffering  such  a  tyrant  to  live,  and 
asking  him  how  his  thunder  could  lie  idle?  Ju¬ 
piter  was  so  offended  with  these  prevaricating 
rascals,  that  he  took  down  the  first  vows,  and 
puffed  away  the  last.  The  philosopher  seeing  a 
great  cloud  mounting  upward,  and  making  its 


way  directly  to  the  trap-door,  inquired  of  Jupiter 
what  it  meant.  ‘This,’  says  Jupiter,  ‘is  the 
smoke  of  a  whole  hecatomb  that  is  offered  me  by 
the  general  of  an  army,  who  is  very  importunate 
with  me  to  let  him  cut  off  a  hundred  thousand 
men  that  are  drawn  up  in  array  against  him. 
What  does  the  impudent  wretch  think  I  see  in  him, 
to  believe  that  I  will  make  a  sacrifice  of  so  many 
mortals  as  good  as  himself,  and  all  this  to  his 
glory  forsooth?  But  hark!’  says  Jupiter,  ‘there 
is  a  voice  I  never  hear  but  in  time  of  danger:  ’tis 
a  rogue  that  is  shipwrecked  in  the  Ionian  sea.  I 
saved  him  on  a  plank  but  three  days  ago,  upon 
his  promise  to  mend  his  manners;  the  scoundrel  is 
not  worth  a  groat,  and  yet  has  the  impudence  to 
offer  me  a  temple,  if  1  will  keep  him  from  sink¬ 
ing. — But  yonder,’  says  he,  ‘  is  a  special  youth  for 
you;  he  desires  me  to  take  his  father,  who  keeps  a 
great  estate  from  him,  out  of  the  miseries  of  hu¬ 
man  life.  The  old  fellow  shall  live  till  he  makes 
his  heart  ache,  I  can  tell  him  that  for  his  pains.’ 
This  was  followed  by  the  soft  voice  of  a  pious 
lady,  desiring  Jupiter  that  she  might  appear  ami¬ 
able  and  charming  in  the  sight  of  her  emperor. 
As  the  philosopher  was  reflecting  on  this  extraor¬ 
dinary  petition,  there  blew  a  gentle  wind  through 
the  trap-door,  which  he  at  first  mistook  for  a  gale 
of  Zephyrs,  but  afterward  found  it  to  be  a  breeze 
of  sighs.  They  smelt  strong  of  flowers  and  in¬ 
cense,  and  were  succeeded  by  most  passionate 
complaints  of  wounds  and  torments,  fires  and  ar¬ 
rows,  cruelty,  despair,  and  death.  Menippus  fan¬ 
cied  that  such  lamentable  cries  arose  from  some 
general  execution,  or  from  wretches  lying  under 
the  torture;  but  Jupiter  told  him  that  they  came 
up  to  him  from  the  isle  of  Paphos,  and  that  he 
every  day  received  complaints  of  the  same  nature 
from  that  whimsical  tribe  of  mortals  who  are 
called  lovers.  ‘  I  am  so  trifled  with,’  says  he,  ‘by 
this  generation  of  both  sexes,  and  find  it  so  im¬ 
possible  to  please  them,  whether  I  grant  or  refuse 
their  petitions,  that  I  shall  order  a  western  wind 
for  the  future  to  intercept  them  in  their  passage, 
and  blow  them  at  random  upon  the  earth.’  The 
last  petition  I  heard  was  from  a  very  aged  man,  of 
near  a  hundred  years  old,  begging  but  for  one  year 
more  life,  and  then  promising  to  die  contented, 
i  ‘  This  is  the  rarest  old  fellow  !’  says  Jupiter;  ‘he 
has  made  this  prayer  to  me  for  above  twenty  years 
together.  When  he  was  but  fifty  years  old,  he  de¬ 
sired  only  that  he  might  live  to  see  his  son  settled 
in  the  world.  I  granted  it.  He  then  begged  the 
same  favor  for  his  daughter,  and  afterward  that  he 
might  see  the  education  of  a  grandson.  When  all 
this  was  brought  about,  he  puts  up  a  petition, 
that  he  might  live  to  finish  a  house  he  was  build¬ 
ing.  In  short,  he  is  an  unreasonable  old  cur,  and 
never  wants  an  excuse;  I  will  hear  no  more  of 
him.’  Upon  which  he  flung  down  the  trap  door 
in  a  passion,  and  was  resolved  to  give  no  more 
audiences  that  day.” 

Notwithstanding  the  levity  of  this  fable,  the 
moral  of  it  very  well  deserves  our  attention,  and 
is  the  same  with  that  which  has  been  inculcated 
by  Socrates  and  Plato,  not  to  mention  Juvenal  and 
Persius,  who  have  each  of  them  made  the  finest 
satire  in  their  whole  works  upon  this  subject.  The 
vanity  of  men’s  wishes,  which  are  the  natural 
prayers  of  the  mind,  as  well  as  many  of  those  se¬ 
cret  devotions  which  they  offer  to  the  Supreme 
Being,  are  sufficiently  exposed  by  it.  Among 
other  reasons  for  set  forms  of  prayer,  I  have  often 
thought  it  a  very  good  one,  that  by  this  means  the 
folly  and  extravagance  of  men’s  desires  may  be 
kept  within  due  bounds,  and  not  break  out  in  ab¬ 
surd  and  ridiculous  petitions  on  so  great  and  sol¬ 
emn  an  occasion. — I. 


THE  SPE  CTATOR. 


No.  392.]  FRIDAY,  MAY  30,  1712. 

Per  ambages  et  ministeria  deorum 

Pra?cipitandus  est  liber  spiritus. — Petron. 

By  fable's  aid  ungorem’d  fancy  soars, 

And  claims  the  ministry  of  heavenly  powers. 

The  Transformation  of  Fidelio  into  a  Looking-glass. 
“Mr.  Spectator, 

I  was  lately  at  a  tea-table,  where  some  youn0, 
ladies  entertained  the  company  with  a  relation  of 
a  coquette  in  the  neighborhood,  who  had  been 
discovered  practicing  before  her  glass.  To  turn 
the  discourse,  which  from  being  witty  grew  to  be 
malicious,  the  matron  of  the  family  took  occasion 
from  the  subject  to  wish  that  there  were  to  be  found 
among  men  such  faithful  monitors  to  dress  the 
mind  by,  as  we  consult  to  adorn  the  body.  She 
added  that,  if  a  sincere  friend  were  miraculously 
changed  into  a  looking-glass,  she  should  not  be 
ashamed  to  ask  its  advice  very  often.  This  whim¬ 
sical  thought  worked  so  much  upon  my  fancy  the 
whole  evening,  that  it  produced  a  very  odd  dream. 

Met  bought  that,  as  I  stood  before  my  glass, 
the  image  of  a  youth  of  an  open  ingenuous  aspect 
appeared  in  it,  who  with  a  shrill  voice  spoke  in 
the  following  manner : — 

“The  looking-glass  you  see  was  heretofore  a 
man,  even  I  the  unfortunate  Fidelio.  I  had  two 
brothers,  whose  deformity  in  shape  was  made  up 
by  the  clearness  of  their  understandings.  It  must 
be  owned,  however,  that  (as  it  generally  happens) 
they  had  each  a  perverseness  of  humor  suitable  to 
their  distortion  of  body.  The  eldest,  whose  belly 
sunk  in  monstrously,  was  a  great  coward:  and 
though  his  splenetic  contracted'  temper  made  him 
take  fire  immediately,  he  made  objects  that  beset 
him  appear  greater  than  they  were.  The  second, 
whose  breast  swelled  into  a  bold  relievo,  on  the 
contrary,  took  great  pleasure  in  lessening  every¬ 
thing,  and  was  perfectly  the  reverse  of  his  brother. 
These  oddnesses  pleased  company  once  or  twice, 
but  disgusted  when  often  seen;  for  which  reason! 
the  young  gentlemen  were  sent  from  court  to  study 
mathematics  at  the  university. 

I  need  not  acquaint  you,  that  I  was  verv  well 
made,  and  reckoned  a  bright  polite  gentleman.  I 
was  the  confidant  and  darling  of  all  the  fair;  and 
if  the  old  and  ugly  spoke  ill  of  me,  all  the  world 
knew  it  was  because  I  scorned  to  flatter  them. 
No  ball,  no  assembly  was  attended  until  I  had 
been  consulted.  Flavia  colored  her  hair  before 
me,  Celia  showed  me  her  teeth,  Panthea  heaved 
her  bosom.  Cleora  brandished  her  diamond;  I 
have  seen  Chloe’s  foot,  and  tied  artificially  the 
garters  of  Rhodope. 

“It  is  a  general  maxim,  that  those  who  doat 
upon  themselves  can  have  no  violent  affection  for 
another:  but,  on  the  contrary,  I  found  that  the* 
women’s  passion  rose  for  me  in  proportion  to  the  j 
love  they  bore  to  themselves.  This  was  verified  I 
in  my  amour  with  Narcissa,  who  was  so  constant 
to  me,  that  it  was  pleasantly  said,  had  I  been  little 
enough,  she  would  have  hung  me  at  her  girdle. 
The  most  dangerous  rival  I  had  was  a  gay  empty 
fellow,  who  by  the  strength  of  a  long  intercourse 
with  Narcissa,  joined  to  his  natural  endowments, 
had  formed  himself  into  a  perfect  resemblance 
with  her.  I  had  been  discarded,  had  she  not  ob- 
served  that  he  frequently  asked  my  opinion  about 
matters  of  the  last  consequence.  This  made  me 
6till  more  considerable  in  her  eye. 

“  Though  I  was  eternally  caressed  by  the  ladies, 
such  was  their  opinion  of  my  honor,  that  I  was 
never  envied  by  the  men.  A  jealous  lover  of  Nar¬ 
cissa  one  day  thought  he  had  caught  her  in  an 
amorous  conversation :  for,  though  he  was  at  such 


479 

a  distance  that  he  could  hear  nothing,  he  imagined 
strange  things  from  her  airs  and  gestures.  Some¬ 
times  with  a  serene  look  she  stepped  back  in  a 
listening  posture,  and  brightened  into  an  innocent 
smile.  Quickly  after  she  swelled  into  an  air  of 
majesty  and  disdain,  then  kept  her  eyes  half  shut 
after  a  languishing  manner,  then  covered  her 
blushes  with  her  hand,  breathed  a  sigh,  and 
seemed  ready  to  sink  down.  In  rushed  the  furi¬ 
ous  lover:  but  how  great  was  his  surprise  to  see 
no  one  there  but  the  innocent  Fidelio,  with  his 
back  against  the  wall  betwixt  two  windows. 

“  It  were  endless  to  recount  all  my  adventures. 
Let  me  hasten  to  that  which  cost  me  my  life,  and 
Narcissa  her  happiness. 

“  She  had  the  misfortune  to  have  the  small-pox, 
upon  which  I  was  expressly  forbid  her  sight,  it 
being  apprehended  that  it  would  increase  her  dis¬ 
temper,  and  that  I  should  infallibly  catch  it  at  the 
first  look.  As  soon  as  she  was  suffered  to  leave 
her  bed,  she  stole  out  of  her  chamber,  and  found 
me  all  alone  in  an  adjoining  apartment.  She  ran 
with  transport  to  her  darling,  and  without  mix¬ 
ture  of  fear  lest  I  should  dislike  her.  But  oh  me! 
what  was  her  fury  when  she  heard  me  say,  I  was 
afraid  and  shocked  at  so  loathsome  a  spectacle ! 
She  stepped  back,  swollen  with  rage,  to  see  if  I 
had  the  insolence  to  repeat  it.  I  did,  with  this 
addition,  that  her  ill-timed  passion  had  increased 
her  ugliness.  Enraged,  inflamed,  distracted,  she 
snatched  a  bodkin  and  with  all  her  force  stabbed 
me  to  the  heart.  Dying,  I  preserved  my  sincerity, 
and  expressed  the  truth,  though  in  broken  words; 
and  by  reproachful  grimaces  to  the  last  I  mimicked 
the  deformity  of  my  murderess. 

“  Cupid,  who  always  attends  the  fair,  and  pitied 
the  fate  of  so  useful  a  favorite  as  1  was,  obtained 
of  the  destinies,  that  my  body  should  remain  in¬ 
corruptible,  and  retain  the  qualities  my  mind  had 
possessed.  I  immediately  lost  the  figure  of  man, 
and  became  smooth,  polished,  and  bright,  and  to 
this  day  am  the  first  favorite  wdth  the  ladies.” — T, 


No.  393.]  SATURDAY,  MAY  31,  1712. 

Nescio  qua  praeter  solitum  dulcedine  laeti. 

Yirg.  Georg,  i.  412. 

Unusual  sweetness  purer  joys  inspires. 

Looking  over  the  letters  that  have  been  sent  me, 
I  chanced  to  find  the  following  one,  which  I  re¬ 
ceived  about  two  years  ago  from  an  ingenious 
friend  who  was  then  in  Denmark  : — 

“Dear  Sir,  Copenhagen,  May  1,  1710. 

“  The  spring  with  you  has  already  taken  pos¬ 
session  of  the  fields  and  woods.  Now  is  the  sea¬ 
son  of  solitude,  and  of  moving  complaints  upon 
trivial  sufferings.  Now  the  griefs  of  lovers  begin 
to  flow,  and  their  wounds  to  bleed  afresh.  I,  too, 
at  this  distance  from  the  softer  climates,  am  not 
without  my  discontents  at  present.  You  perhaps 
may  laugh  at  me  for  a  most  romantic  wretch,  when 
I  have  disclosed  to  you  the  occasion  of  my  unea¬ 
siness;  and  yet  I  cannot  help  thinking  my  unhap¬ 
piness  real,  in  being  confined  to  a  region  which  is 
the  very  reverse  of  Paradise.  The  seasons  here 
are  all  of  them  unpleasant,  and  the  country  quite 
destitute  of  rural  charms.  I  have  not  heard  a  bird 
sing,  nor  a  brook  murmur,  nor  a  breeze  whisper, 
neither  have  I  been  blest  with  the  sight  of  a  flow¬ 
ery  meadow,  these  two  years.  Every  wind  here  is 
a  tempest,  and  every  water  a  turbulent  ocean.  I 
hqye,  when  you  reflect  a  little,  you  will  not  think 
the  grounds  of  my  complaint  in  the  least  frivo¬ 
lous  and  unbecoming  a  man  of  serious  thought; 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


480 

since  the  love  of  woods,  of  fields  and  flowers,  of 
rivers  and  fountains,  seems  to  be  a  passion  im- 
lanted  in  our  natures  the  most  early  of  any,  even 
efore  the  fair  sex  had  a  being. 

“  I  am,  Sir,”  etc. 

Could  I  transport  myself  with  a  wish  from  one 
country  to  another,  I  should  choose  to  pass  my 
winter  in  Spain,  my  spring  in  Italy,  my  summer 
in  England,  and  my  autumn  in  France.  Of  all 
these  seasons  there  is  none  that  can  vie  with  the 
spring  for  beauty  and  delightfulness.  It  bears  the 
same  figure  among  the  seasons  of  the  year,  that 
the  morning  does  among  the  divisions  of  the  day, 
or  youth  among  the  stages  of  life.  The  English 
summer  is  pleasanter  than  that  of  any  other  coun¬ 
try  in  Europe,  on  no  other  account  but  because  it 
has  a  greater  mixture  of  spring  in  it.  The  mild¬ 
ness  of  our  climate,  with  those  frequent  refresh¬ 
ments  of  dews  and  rains  that  fall  among  us,  keep 
up  a  perpetual  cheerfulness  in  our  fields,  and  fill 
the  hottest  months  of  the  year  with  a  lively  ver¬ 
dure. 

In  the  opening  of  the  spring,  when  all  nature 
begins  to  recover  herself,  the  same  animal  plea¬ 
sure  which  makes  the  birds  sing,  and  the  whole 
brute  creation  rejoice,  rises  very  sensibly  in  the 
heart  of  man.  I  know  none  of  the  poets  who 
have  observed  so  wefl  as  Milton  these  secret  over¬ 
flowings  of  gladness  which  diffuse  themselves 
through  the  mind  of  the  beholder,  upon  surveying 
the  gay  scenes  of  nature :  he  has  touched  upon  it 
twice  or  thrice  in  his  Paradise  Lost,  and  describes 
it  very  beautifully  under  the  name  of  “  vernal  de¬ 
light,”  in  that  passage  where  he  represents  the 
devil  himself  as  almost  sensible  of  it : 

Blossoms  and  fruits  at  once  of  golden  hue 
Appear’d,  with  gay  enamel’d  colors  mix’d: 

On  which  the  sun  more  glad  impress’d  his  beams 
Than  in  fair  evening  cloud,  or  humid  bow, 

When  God  had  shower’d  the  earth;  so  lovely  seem’d 
That  landscape:  and  of  pure  now  purer  air 
Meets  his  approach,  and  to  the  heart  inspires 
Vernal  delight,  and  joy  able  to  drive 
All  sadness,  but  despair,  etc. 

Many  authors  have  written  on  the  vanity  of  the 
creature,  and  represented  the  barrenness  of  every¬ 
thing  in  this  world,  and  its  incapacity  of  produc¬ 
ing  any  solid  or  substantial  happiness.  As  dis¬ 
courses  of  this  nature  are  very  useful  to  the  sensual 
and  voluptuous,  those  speculations  which  show 
the  bright  side  of  things,  and  lay  forth  those  inno¬ 
cent  entertainments  which  are  to  be  met  with 
among  the  several  objects  that  encompass  us,  are 
no  less  beneficial  to  men  of  dark  and  melancholy 
tempers.  It  was  for  this  reason  that  I  endeavored 
to  recommend  a  cheerfulness  of  mind  in  my  two 
last  Saturday’s  papers,  and  which  I  would  still  in¬ 
culcate,  not  only  from  the  consideration  of  our¬ 
selves,  and  of  that  Being  on  whom  we  depend, 
nor  from  the  general  survey  of  that  universe  in 
which  we  are  placed  at  present,  but  from  reflec¬ 
tions  on  the  particular  season  in  which  this  paper 
is  written.  The  creation  is  a  perpetual  feast  to 
the  mind  of  a  good  man ;  everything  he  sees  cheers 
and  delights  him.  Providence  has  imprinted  so 
many  smiles  on  nature,  that  it  is  impossible  for  a 
mind  which  is  not  sunk  in  more  gross  and  sensual 
delights,  to  take  a  survey  of  them  without  several 
secret  sensations  of  pleasure.  The  Psalmist  has, 
in  several  of  his  divine  poems,  celebrated  those 
beautiful  and  agreeable  scenes  which  make  the 
heart  glad,  and  produce  in  it  that  vernal  delight 
which  I  have  before  taken  notice  of. 

Natural  philosophy  quickens  this  taste  of  the 
creation,  and  renders  it  not  only  pleasing  to  the 
imagination,  but  to  the  understanding.  It  does 
not  rest  in  the  murmur  of  brooks  and  the  melody 


of  birds,  in  the  shade  of  groves  and  woods,  or  in 
the  embroidery  of  fields  and  meadows;  but  consi¬ 
ders  the  several  ends  of  Providence  which  are 
served  by  them,  and  the  wonders  of  divine  wis¬ 
dom  which  appear  in  them.  It  heightens  the 
pleasures  of  the  eye,  and  raises  such  a  rational 
admiration  in  the  soul,  as  is  little  inferior  to  devo¬ 
tion. 

It  is  not  in  the  power  of  every  one  to  offer  up 
this  kind  of  worship  to  the  great  Author  of  na¬ 
ture,  and  to  indulge  these  more  refined  meditations 
of  heart,  which  are  doubtless  highly  acceptable  in 
his  sight;  I  shall  therefore  conclude  this  short  es¬ 
say  on  that  pleasure  which  the  mind  naturally 
conceives  from  the  present  season  of  the  year,  by 
the  recommending  of  a  practice  for  which  every 
one  lias  sufficient  abilities. 

I  would  have  my  readers  endeavor  to  moralize 
this  natural  pleasure  of  the  soul,  and  to  improve 
this  vernal  delight,  as  Milton  calls  it,  into  a  Chris¬ 
tian  virtue.  When  we  find  ourselves  inspired 
with  this  pleasing  instinct,  this  secret  satisfac¬ 
tion  and  complacency,  arising  from  the  beauties 
of  the  creation,  let  us  consider  to  whom  we  stand 
indebted  for  all  these  entertainments  of  sense,  and 
who  it  is  that  thus  opens  his  hand,  and  fills  the 
world  with  good.  The  Apostle  instructs  us  to 
take  advantage  of  our  present  temper  of  mind,  to 
graft  upon  it  such  a  religious  exercise  as  is  partic¬ 
ularly  conformable  to  it,  by  that  precept  which  ad¬ 
vises  those  who  are  sad  to  pray,  and  those  who 
are  merry  to  sing  psalms.  The  cheerfulness  of 
heart  which  springs  up  in  us  from  the  survey  of 
nature’s  works,  is  an  admirable  preparation  for 
gratitude.  The  mind  has  gone  a  great  way  to¬ 
ward  praise  and  thanksgiving,  that  is  filled  with 
such  a  secret  gladness — a  grateful  reflection  on  the 
Supreme  Cause  who  produces  it,  sanctifies  it  in 
the  soul,  and  gives  it  its  proper  value.  Such  an 
habitual  disposition  of  mind  consecrates  every 
field  and  wood,  turns  an  ordinary  walk  into  a 
morning  or  evening  sacrifice,  and  will  improve 
those  transient  gleams  of  joy  which  naturally 
brighten  up  and  refresh  the  soul  on  such  occa¬ 
sions,  into  an  inviolable  and  perpetual  state  of 
bliss  and  happiness. — I. 


No.  394.]  MONDAY,  JUNE  2,  1712. 

Bene  colligitur  haec  pueris  et  mulierculis  et  servis  et  se*- 
vorum  simillimis  liberis  esse  grata :  gravi  vero  homini  et 
ea,  qum  fiunt,  indicio  certo  ponderanti,  probari  posse 
nullo  modo. — Tull. 

It  is  obvious  to  see,  that  these  things  are  very  acceptable  to 
children,  young  women,  and  servants,  and  to  such  as  most 
resemble  servants ;  but  they  can  by  no  means  meet  with 
the  approbation  of  people  of  thought  and  consideration. 

I  have  been  considering  the  little  and  frivolous 
things  which  give  men  access  to  one  another,  and 
power  with  each  other,  not  only  in  the  common 
and  indifferent  accidents  of  life,  but  also  in  mat¬ 
ters  of  greater  importance.  You  see  in  elections 
for  members  of  parliament,  how  far  saluting  rows 
of  old  women,  drinking  with  clowns,  and  being 
upon  a  level  with  the  lowest  part  of  mankind,  ir 
that  wherein  they  themselves  are  lowest,  their  di 
versions,  will  carry  a  candidate.  A  capacity  fo? 
prostituting  a  man’s  self  in  his  behavior,  and  de* 
scending  to  the  present  humor  of  the  vulgar,  it 
perhaps  as  good  an  ingredient  as  any  other  foi 
making  a  considerable  figure  in  the  world;  and  if 
a  man  has  nothing  else  or  better  to  think  of,  ha 
could  not  make  his  way  to  wealth  and  distinction 
by  properer  methods,  than  studying  the  particular 
bent  or  inclination  of  people  with  whom  he  con¬ 
verses,  and  working  from  the  observation  of  such 
their  bias  in  all  matters  wherein  he  has  any  inter 


481 


THE  SPE 

course  with  them  :  for  his  ease  and  comfort  he 
may  assure  himself,  lie  need  not  be  at  the  expense 
of  any  great  talent  or  virtue  to  please  even  those 
who  are  possessed  of  the  highest  qualifications. 
Pride,  in  some  particular  disguise  or  other  (often 
a  secret  to  the  proud  man  himself),  is  the  most  or¬ 
dinary  spring  of  action  among  men.  You  need 
no  more  than  to  discover  what  a  man  values  him¬ 
self  for:  then  of  all  things  admire  that  quality, 
but  be  sure  to  be  failing  in  it  yourself  in  compari¬ 
son  of  the  man  whom  you  court.  I  have  heard  or 
read  of  a  secretary  of  state  in  Spain,  who  served 
a  prince  who  was  happy  in  an  elegant  use  of  the 
Latiu  tongue,  and  often  wrote  dispatches  in  it  with 
his  own  hand.  The  king  showed  his  secretary  a 
letter  he  had  written  to  a  foreign  prince,  and  under 
the  color  of  asking  his  advice,  laid  a  trap  for  his 
applause.  The  honest  man  read  it  as  a  faithful 
counselor,  and  not  only  excepted  against  his  tying 
himself  down  too  much  by  some  expressions,  but 
mended  the  phrase  in  others.  You  may  guess  the 
dispatches  that  evening  did  not  take  much  longer 
time.  Mr.  Secretary,  as  soon  as  he  came  to  his 
own  house,  sent  for  his  eldest  son,  and  communi¬ 
cated  to  him  that  the  family  must  retire  out  of 
Spain  as  soon  as  possible;  “for,”  said  he,  “the 
king  knows  I  understand  Latin  better  than  he 
does.” 

This  egregious  fault  in  a  man  of  the  world, 
should  be  a  lesson  to  all  who  would  make  their 
fortunes :  but  a  regard  must  be  carefully  had  to 
the  person  with  whom  you  have  to  do ;  for  it  is 
not  to  be  doubted  but  a  great  man  of  common  sense 
must  look  with  secret  indignation,  or  bridled 
laughter,  on  all  the  slaves  who  stand  round  him 
with  ready  faces  to  approve  and  smile  at  all  he 
says  in  the  gross.  It  is  good  comedy  enough  to 
observe  a  superior  talking  half  sentences,  and 
playing  a  humble  admirer’s  countenance  from  one 
thing  to  another,  with  such  perplexity,  that  he 
knows  not  what  to  sneer  in  approbation  of.  But 
this  kind  of  complaisance  is  peculiarly  the  manner 
of  courts;  in  all  other  places  you  must  constantly 
o  further  in  compliance  with  the  persons  you 
ave  to  do  with,  than  a  mere  conformity  of  looks 
and  gestures.  If  you  are  in  a  country  life,  and 
would  be  a  leading  man,  a  good  stomach,  a  loud 
voice,  and  a  rustic  cheerfulness,  will  go  a  great 
way,  provided  you  are  able  to  drink,  and  drink 
anything.  But  I  was  just  now  going  to  draw  the 
manner  of  behavior  I  would  advise  people  to 
practice  under  some  maxim;  and  intimated,  that 
every  one  almost  was  governed  by  his  pride. 
There  was  an  old  fellow  about  forty  years  ago  so 
peevish  and  fretful,  though  a  man  of  business,  that 
no  one  could  come  at  him :  but  he  frequented  a 
particular  little  coffee-house,  where  he  triumphed 
over  everybody  at  trick-track  and  backgammon. 
The  way  to  pass  his  office  well,  was  first  to  be  in¬ 
sulted  by  him  at  one  of  those  games  in  his  leisure 
hours;  for  his  vanity  was  to  show  that  he  was  a 
man  of  pleasure  as  well  as  business.  Next  to  this 
sort  of  insinuation,  which  is  called  in  all  places 
(from  its  taking  its  birth  in  the  households  of 
princes)  making  one’s  court,  the  most  prevailing 
way  is,  by  what  better-bred  people  call  a  present, 
the  vulgar  a  bribe.  I  humbly  conceive  that  such 
a  thing  is  conveyed  with  more  gallantry  in  a  bil¬ 
let-doux  that  should  be  understood  at  the  Bank, 
than  in  gross  money,  but  as  to  stubborn  people, 
who  are  so  surly  as  to  accept  of  neither  note  nor 
cash,  having  formerly  dabbled  in  chemistry,  I  can 
only  say,  that  one  part  of  matter  asks  one  thing, 
and  another  another,  to  make  it  fluent;  but  there 
is  nothing  but  may  be  dissolved  by  a  proper  mean. 
Thus,  the  virtue  which  is  too  obdurate  for  gold  or 
paper,  shall  melt  away  very  kindly  in  a  liquid. 


STATOR. 

The  island  of  Barbadoes  (a  shrewd  people)  ma¬ 
nage  all  their  appeals  to  Great  Britain  by  a  skillful 
distribution  of  citron  water*  among  the  whisper¬ 
ers  about  men  in  power.  Generous  wines  do  every 
day  prevail,  and  that  in  great  points,  where  ten 
thousand  times  their  value  would  have  been  re¬ 
jected  with  indignation. 

But,  to  wave  the  enumeration  of  the  sundry 
ways  of  applying  by  presents,  bribes,  management 
of  people’s  passions  and  affections,  in  such  a  man¬ 
ner  as  it  shall  appear  that  the  virtue  of  the  best 
man  is  by  one  method  or  other  corruptible,  let  us 
look  out  for  some  expedient  to  turn  those  passions 
and  affections  on  the  side  of  truth  and  honor. 
When  a  man  has  laid  it  down  for  a  position,  that 
parting  with  his  integrity,  in  the  minutest  circum¬ 
stance,  is  losing  so  much  of  his  very  self,  self-love 
will  become  a  virtue.  By  this  means,  good  and 
evil  will  be  the  only  objects  of  dislike  and  appro¬ 
bation;  and  he  that  injures  any  man,  has  effectu¬ 
ally  wounded  the  man  of  this  turn  as  much  as  if 
the  harm  had  been  to  himself.  This  seems  to  be 
the  only  expedient  to  arrive  at  an  impartiality: 
and  a  man  who  follows  the  dictates  of  truth  and 
right  reason,  may  by  artifice  be  led  into  error,  but 
never  can  into  guilt. — T. 


No.  395.]  TUESDAY,  JUNE  3,  1712. 

Quod  nunc  ratio  est,  impetus  ante  fuit. 

Ovid.  Rem.  Amor.  10. 
’Tis  reason  now,  ’twas  appetite  before. 

“Beware  of  the  ides  of  March,”  said  the  Ro¬ 
man  augur  to  Julius  Caesar:  “Beware  of  the 
month  of  May,”  says  the  British  Spectator  to  his 
fair  countrywomen.  The  caution  of  the  first  was 
unhappily  neglected,  and  Caesar’s  confidence  cost 
him  his  life.  I  am  apt  to  flatter  myself  that  my 
pretty  readers  had  much  more  regard  to  the  advice 
I  gave  them,  since  I  have  yet  received  very  few 
accounts  of  any  notorious  trips  made  in  the  last 
month. 

But  though  I  hope  for  the  best,  I  shall  not  pro¬ 
nounce  too  positively  on  this  point,  till  I  have 
seen  forty  weeks  well  over ;  at  which  period  of 
time,  as  my  good  friend  Sir  Roger  has  often  told 
me,  he  has  more  business  as  a  justice  of  peace, 
among  the  dissolute  young  people  in  the  country, 
"  an  at  any  other  season  of  the  year. 

Neither  must  I  forget  a  letter  which  I  received 
near  a  fortnight  since  from  a  lady,  who,  it  seems, 
could  hold  out  no  longer,  telling  me  she  looked 
upon  the  month  as  then  out,  for  that  she  had  all 
along  reckoned  by  the  new  style. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  have  great  reason  to  bo 
ieve,  from  several  angry  letters  which  have  been 
sent  to  me  by  disappointed  lovers,  that  my  ad¬ 
vice  lias  been  of  very  signal  service  to  the  fair  sex, 
who,  according  to  the  old  proverb,  were  “fore¬ 
warned,  forearmed.  ” 

One  of  these  gentlemen  tells  me,  that  he  would 
have  given  me  a  hundred  pounds,  rather  than  I 
should  have  published  that  paper ;  for  that  his 
mistress,  who  had  promised  to  explain  herself  to 
him  about  the  beginning  of  May,  upon  reading 
that  discourse  told  him,  that  she  would  give  him 
her  answer  in  June, 

Thyrsis  acquaints  me,  that  when  he  desired 
Sylvia  to  take  a  walk  in  the  fields,  she  told  him, 
the  Spectator  had  forbidden  her. 

Another  of  my  correspondents,  who  writes  him¬ 
self  Mat  Meager,  complains  that,  whereas  he  con¬ 
stantly  used  to  breakfast  with  his  mistress  upon 


*  Then  commonly  called  Barbadoe-s  water. 


482  THE  SPECTATOR. 


chocolate,  going  to  wait  upon  her  the  first  of  May, 
he  found  his  usual  treat  very  much  changed  for 
the  worse,  and  has  been  forced  to  feed  ever  since 
upon  green  tea. 

As  I  began  this  critical  season  with  a  caveat  to 
the  ladies,  I  shall  conclude  it  with  a  congratula¬ 
tion,  and  do  most  heartily  wish  them  joy  of  their 
happy  deliverance. 

They  may  now  reflect  with  pleasure  on  the  dan¬ 
gers  they  have  escaped,  and  look  back  with  as 
much  satisfaction  on  the  perils  that  threatened 
them,  as  their  great-grandmothers  did  formerly 
on  the  burning  plowshares,  after  having  passed 
through  the  ordeal  trial.  The  instigations  of  the 
spring  are  now  abated.  The  nightingale  gives 
over  her  “  lovelabor’d  song,”  as  Milton  phrases 
it ;  the  blossoms  are  fallen,  and  the  beds  of  flow¬ 
ers  swept  away  by  the  scythe  of  the  mower. 

I  shall  now  allow  my  fair  readers  to  return  to 
their  romances  and  chocolate,  provided  they  make 
use  of  them  with  moderation,  till  about  the  mid¬ 
dle  of  the  month,  when  the  sun  shall  have  made 
some  progress  in  the  Crab.  Nothing  is  more 
dangerous  than  too  much  confidence  and  security. 
The  Trojans,  who  stood  upon  their  guard  all  the 
while  the  Grecians  lay  before  their  city,  when 
they  fancied  the  siege  was  raised,  and  the  danger 
ast,  were  the  very  next  night  burnt  in  their  beds, 
must  also  observe,  that  as  in  some  climates 
there  is  a  perpetual  spring,  so  in  some  female  con¬ 
stitutions  there  is  a  perpetual  May.  These  are  a 
kind  of  valetudinarians  in  chastity  whom  I  would 
continue  in  a  constant  diet.  I  cannot  think  these 
wholly  out  of  danger,  till  they  have  looked  upon 
the  other  sex  at  least  five  years  through  a  pair  of 
spectacles.  Will  Honeycomb  has  often  assured 
me  that  it  is  easier  to  steal  one  of  this  species, 
when  she  is  passed  her  grand  climateric,  than 
to  carry  off  an  icy  girl  on  this  side  five-and- 
twenty;  and  that  a  rake  of  his  acquaintance, 
who  had  in  vain  endeavored  to  gain  the  affections 
of  a  young  lady  of  fifteen,  had  at  last  made  his 
fortune  by  running  away  with  her  grandmother. 

But  as  I  do  not  design  this  speculation  for  the 
evergreens  of  the  sex,  I  shall  again  apply  myself 
to  those  who  would  willingly  listen  to  the  dic¬ 
tates  of  reason  and  virtue,  and  can  now  hear  me 
in  cold  blood.  If  there  are  any  who  have  forfeited 
their  innocence,  they  must  now  consider  them¬ 
selves  under  that  melancholy  view  in  which 
Chamont  regards  his  sister,  in  those  beautiful 
lines : 

- Long  she  flourish’d, 

Grew  sweet  to  sense,  and  lovely  to  the  eye, 

Till  at  the  last  a  cruel  spoiler  came, 

Cropt  this  fair  rose,  and  rifled  all  its  sweetness, 

Then  cast  it,  like  a  loathsome  weed,  away. 

On  the  contrary  she  who  has  observed  the  timely 
cautions  I  gave  her,  and  lived  up  to  the  rules  of 
modesty,  will  now  flourish  like  “  a  rose  in  June,” 
with  all  her  virgin  blushes  and  sweetness  about 
her.  I  must,  however,  desire  these  last  to  consi¬ 
der,  how  shameful  it  would  be  for  a  general,  who 
has  made  a  successful  campaign,  to  be  surprised 
in  his  winter  quarters.  It  would  be  no  less  dis¬ 
honorable  for  a  lady  to  lose,  in  any  other  month 
of  the  year,  what  she  has  been  at  the  pains  to  pre¬ 
serve  in  May. 

There  is  no  charm  in  the  female  sex  that  can 
supply  the  place  of  virtue.  Without  innocence 
beauty  is  unlovely,  and  quality  contemptible ; 
good  breeding  degenerates  into  wantonness,  and 
wit  into  impudence.  It  is  observed,  that  all 
the  virtues  are  represented  by  both  painters  and 
statuaries  under  female  shapes ;  but  if  any  one  of 
them  has  a  more  particular  title  to  that  sex,  it  is 
modesty.  I  shall  leave  it  to  the  divines  to  guard 


them  against  the  opposite  vice,  as  they  may  be 
overpowered  by  temptations.  It  is  sufficient  for 
me  to  have  warned  them  against  it,  as  they  may 
be  led  astray  by  instinct. 

I  desire  this  paper  may  be  read  with  more  than 
ordinary  attention,  at  all  tea-tables  within  the 
cities  of  London  and  Westminster. — X. 


No.  396.]  WEDNESDAY,  JUNE  4,  1712. 

Barbara,  Celarent,  Darii,  Ferio,  Baralipton. 

Having  a  great  deal  of  business  upon  my  hands 
at  present,  I  shall  beg  the  reader’s  leave  to  present 
him  with  a  letter  that  I  received  about  half  a  year 
ago  from  a  gentleman  at  Cambridge,  who  styles 
himself  Peter  de  Quir.  I  have  kept  it  by  me  some 
months  ;  and  though  I  did  not  know  at  first  what 
to  make  of  it,  upon  my  reading  it  over  very  fre¬ 
quently  I  have  at  last  discovered  several  conceits 
in  it:  I  would  not  therefore  have  my  reader  dis¬ 
couraged  if  he  does  not  take  them  at  the  first 
perusal. 

To  Mr.  Spectator 

“ From  St.  John’s  College,  Cambridge,  Feb.  3,  1712. 

“  The  monopoly  of  puns  in  this  university  has 
been  an  immemorial  privilege  of  the  Johnians;* 
and  we  cannot  help  resenting  the  late  invasion  of 
our  ancient  right  as  to  that  particular,  by  a  little 
pretender  to  clenching  in  a  neighboring  college, 
who  in  application  to  you  by  way  of  letter,  a  while 
ago,  styled  himself  Philobrune.  Dear  Sir,  as  you 
are  by  character  a  professed  well-wisher  to  specu¬ 
lation  you  will  excuse  a  remark  which  this  gentle¬ 
man’s  passion  for  the  brunette  has  suggested  to 
a  brother  theorist :  it  is  an  offer  toward  a  mecha¬ 
nical  account  of  his  lapse  to  punning,  for  he  be¬ 
longs  to  a  set  of  mortals  who  value  themselves 
upon  an  uncommon  mystery  in  the  more  humane 
and  polite  parts  of  letters. 

“  A  conquest  by  one  of  this  species  of  females 
gives  a  very  odd  turn  to  the  intellectuals  of  the 
captivated  person,  and  very  different  from  that 
way  of  thinking  which  a  triumph  from  the  eyes 
of  another,  more  emphatically  of  the  fair  sex,  does 
generally  occasion.  It  fills  the  imagination  with 
an  assemblage  of  such  ideas  and  pictures  as  are 
hardly  anything  but  shade,  such  as  night,  the 
devil,  etc.  These  portraitures  very  near  over¬ 
power  the  light  of  the  understanding,  almost  be¬ 
night  the  faculties,  and  give  that  melancholy  tinc¬ 
ture  to  the  most  sanguine  complexion,  which  this 
gentleman  calls  an  inclination  to  be  in  a  brown- 
study,  and  is  usually  attended  with  worse  conse¬ 
quences,  in  case  of  a  repulse.  During  this  twi¬ 
light  of  intellects,  the  patient  is  extremely  apt,  as 
love  is  the  most  witty  passion  in  nature,  to  offer 
at  some  pert  sallies  now  and  then,  by  way  of 
flourish,  upon  the  amiable  enchantress,  and  un¬ 
fortunately  stumbles  upon  that  mongrel  mis¬ 
created  (to  speak  in  Miltonic)  kind  of  wit,  vul¬ 
garly  termed  the  pun.  It  would  not  be  much 

amiss  to  consult  Dr.  T -  W - (who  is 

certainly  a  very  able  projector,  and  whose  system 
of  divinity  and  spiritual  mechanics  obtains  very 
much  among  the  better  part  of  our  under  gradu¬ 
ates)  whether  a  general  intermarriage,  enjoined 
by  parliament,  between  this  sisterhood  of  the 
olive-beauties  and  the  fraternity  of  the  people 
called  Quakers,  would  not  be  a  very  serviceable 
expedient,  and  abate  the  overflow  of  light  which 
shines  with  them  so  powerfully,  that  it  dazzles 


*  The  students  of  St.  John’s  College. 


the  spectator. 


their  eyes,  and  dances  them  into  a  thousand  va-  ' 
garies  of  error  and  enthusiasm.  These  reflections  j 
may  impart  some  light  toward  a  discovery  of  the  ! 
origin  of  punning  among  us,  and  the  foundation 
of  its  prevailing  so  long  in  this  famous  body. 
It  is  notorious,  from  the  instance  under  consider¬ 
ation,  that  it  must  be  owing  chiefly  to  the  use  of 
brown  jugs,  muddy  belch,  and  the  fumes  of  a  cer¬ 
tain  memorable  place  of  rendezvous  with  us  at 
meals,  known  by  the  name  of  Staincoat  Hole :  for 
the  atmosphere  of  the  kitchen,  like  the  tail  of  a 
comet,  predominates  least  about  the  fire,  but  re¬ 
sides  behind,  and  fills  the  fragrant  receptacle 

Reside,  it  is  further  observ¬ 
able,  that  the  delicate  spirits  among  us,  who  de¬ 
clare  against  these  nauseous  proceedings,  sip  tea, 
and  put  up  for  critic  and  amour,  profess  likewise 
an  equal  abhorrence  for  punning,  the  ancient  in¬ 
nocent  diversion  of  this  society.  After  all,  Sir, 
though  it  may  appear  something  absurd  that  I 
seem  to  approach  you  with  the  air  of  an  advocate 
for  punning  (you  who  have  justified  your  censures 
of  the  practice  in  a  set  dissertation  upon  that  sub¬ 
ject*)  yet  I  am  confident  you  will  think  it  abun¬ 
dantly  atoned  for  by  observing,  that  this  humbler 
exercise  may  be  as  instrumental  in  diverting  us 
from  any  innovating  schemes  and  hypotheses  in 
wit,  as  dwelling  upon  honest  orthodox  logic 
would  be  in  securing  us  from  heresy  in  religion. 

Had  Mr.  W - n’s  f  researches  been  confined 

within  the  bouuds  of  Ramus  or  Crackenthorp, 
that  learned  newsmonger  might  have  acquiesced 
in  what  the  holy  oracles  pronounced  upon  the  de- 
luge,  like  other  Christians  ;  and  had  the  surprising* 

^r-  B - y  been  content  with  the  employment  of 

refining  upon  Shakspeare’s  points  and  quibbles 
(for  which  he  must  De  allowed  to  possess  a  su¬ 
perlative  genius),  and  now  and  then  penning 
a  catch  or  a  ditty,  instead  of  inditing  odes  and 
sonnets,  the  gentlemen  of  the  bon  gout  in  the  pit 
would  never  have  been  put  to  all  that  grimace  in 
damning  the  frippery  of  state,  the  poverty  and 
languor  of  thought,  the  unnatural  wit,  and  inar¬ 
tificial  structure  of  his  dramas. 

“I  am,  Sir, 

“  Your  very  humble  Servant, 

“  Peter  de  Quir.” 


483 

able  than  what  can  be  met  with  in  such  an  indo¬ 
lent  happiness,  such  an  indifference  to  mankind, 
as  that  in  which  the  Stoics  place  their  wisdom. 
As  love  is  the  most  delightful  passion,  pity  is 
nothing  else  but  love  softened  by  a  degree  of  sor- 
iow.  In  short,  it  is  a  kind  of  pleasing  anguish, 
as  well  as  generous  sympathy,  that  knits  man¬ 
kind  together,  and  blends  them  in  the  same  com¬ 
mon  lot. 

hose  who  have  laid  down  rules  for  rhetoric 
or  poetry  advise  the  writer  to  work  himself  up,  if 
possible  to  the  pitch  of  sorrow  which  he  endea- 
vots  to  produce  in  others.  There  arc  none  there- 
fqie  who  stir  up  pity  so  much  as  those  who  in¬ 
dite  their  own  sufferings.  Grief  has  a  natural 
eloquence  belonging  to  it,  and  breaks  out  in  more 
moving  sentiments  than  can  be  supplied  by  the 
finest  imagination.  Nature  on  this  occasion  dic¬ 
tates  a  thousand  passionate  things  which  cannot 
be  supplied  by  art. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  short  speeches  or 
sentences  which  we  often  meet  with  in  histories 
make  a  deeper  impression  on  the  mind  of  the 
reader  than  the  most  labored  strokes  in  a  well- 
written  tragedy.  Truth  and  matter  of  fact  sets 
the  person  actually  before  us  in  the  one,  whom 
fiction  places  at  a  greater  distance  from  us  in  the 
other.  I  do  not  remember  to.  have  seen  any 
ancient  or  modern  story  more  affecting  than  a 
letter  of  Ann  of  Boulogne,  wife  to  King  Henry 
the  Eighth,  and  mother  to  Queen  Elizabeth, 
which  is  still  extant  in  the  Cotton  library,  as 
written  by  her  own  hand. 

Shakspeare  himself  could  not  have  made  her 
talk  in  a  strain  so  suitable  to  her  condition  and 
character.  One  sees  in  it  the  expostulations  of  a 
slighted  lover,  the  resentments  of  an  injured 
woman,  and  the  sorrows  of  an  imprisoned  queen. 

I  need  not  acquaint  my  reader  that  this  princess 
was  then  under  prosecution  for  disloyalty  to  the 
king’s  bed,  and  that  she  was  afterward  publicly 
beheaded  upon  the  same  account ;  though  this 
prosecution  was  believed  by  many  to  proceed,  as 
she  herself  intimates,  rather  from  the  king’s  love 
to  Jane  Seymour,  than  from  any  actual  crime  in 
Ann  of  Boulogne. 

Queen  Ann  Boleyn’s  last  Letter  to  King  Henry. 

“  Sir,  Cotton  Lib.  Otho.  C.  10. 


No.  397.]  THURSDAY,  JUNE  5,  1712. 

— - Dolor  ipse  disertam 

Fecerat - - Ovid,  Metam.  xiii,  228. 

Her  grief  inspired  her  then  with  eloquence. 

As  the  Stoic  philosophers  discard  all  passions 
in  general,  they  will  not  allow  a  wise  man  so 
much  as  to  pity  the  afflictions  of  another.  “  If 
thou  seest  thy  friend  in  trouble,”  says  Epictetus, 
“  thou  mayest  put  on  a  look  of  sorrow,  and  con- 
dole  with  him,  but  take  care  that  thy  sorrow  be 
not  real.”  The  more  rigid  of  this  sect  would  not 
comply  so  far  as  to  show  even  such  outward 
appearance  of  grief ;  but,  when  one  told  them  of 
any  calamity  that  had  befallen  even  the  nearest 
of  their  acquaintance,  would  immediately  reply, 
“  What  is  that  to  me?”  If  you  aggravated  the 
circumstances  of  the  affliction,  and  showed  how 
one  misfortune  was  followed  by  another,  the  an¬ 
swer  was  still,  “  all  this  may  be  true,  but  what  is 
it  to  me?” 

For  my  own  part,  I  am  of  opinion  compassion 
does  not  only  refine  and  civilize  human  nature, 
but  has  something  in  it  more  pleasing  and  agree- 


*  See  Spect.  No.  61. 


“Your  grace’s  displeasure  and  my  imprison¬ 
ment,  are  things  so  strange  unto  me,  as  what  to 
write,  or  what  to  excuse,  I  am  altogether  ignorant. 
Whereas  you  send  unto  me  (willing  me  to  confess 
a  truth,  and  so  obtain  your  favor),  by  such  a  one, 
whom  you  know  to  be  mine  ancient  professed  ene¬ 
my,  I  no  sooner  received  this  message  by  him, 
than  I  rightly  conceived  your  meaning;  and  if,  as 
you  say,  confessing  a  truth  indeed  may  procure 
my  safety,  I  shall  with  all  willingness  and  duty 
perform  your  command. 

“  But  let  not  your  grace  ever  imagine,  that  your 
poor  wife  will  ever  be  brought  to  acknowledge  a 
fault  where  not  so  much  as  a  thought  thereof 'pre¬ 
ceded.  And  to  speak  a  truth,  never  prince  had 
wife  more  loyal  in  all  duty,  and  in  all  true  affec: 
tion,  than  you  have  ever  found  in  Ann  Boleyn  : 
with  which  name  and  place  I  could  willingly  have 
contented  myself,  if  God  and  your  grace’s  plea¬ 
sure  had  been  so  pleased.  Neither  did  I  at  any 
time  so  far  forget  myself  in  my  exaltation  or  re¬ 
ceived  queenship,  but  that  I  always  looked  for 
such  an  alteration  as  now  I  find;  for  the  ground' 
of  my  preferment  being  on  no  surer  foundation, 
than  your  grace’s  fancy,  the  least  alteration  I  knew 
was  fit  and  sufficient  to  draw  that  fancy  to  some 
other  subject.  You  have  chosen  me  from  a  low 


f  Mr.  Whiston. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


484 

estate  to  be  your  queen  and  companion,  far  beyond 
my  desert  or  desire.  If,  then,  you  found  me  worthy 
of  such  honor,  good  your  grace,  let  not  any  light 
fancy,  or  bad  counsel  of  mine  enemies,  withdraw 
youv  princelv  favor  from  me;  neither  let  that  stain, 
that  unwortny  stain,  of  a  disloyal  heart  toward 
your  good  grace,  ever  cast  so  foul  a  blot  on  your 
most  dutiful  wife,  and  the  infant  princess  your 
daughter.  Try  me,  good  king,  but  let  me  have  a 
lawful  trial,  and  let  not  my  sworn  enemies  sit  as 
my  accusers  and  judges  ;  yea,  let  me  receive  an 
open  trial,  for  my  truth  shall  fear  no  open  shame; 
then  shall  you  see  either  mine  innocency  cleared, 
your  suspicion  and  conscience  satisfied,  the  igno¬ 
miny  and  slander  of  the  world  stopped,  or  my 
guilt  openly  declared.  So  that,  whatsoever  God 
or  you  may  determine  of  me,  your  grace  may  be 
freed  from  an  open  censure ;  and  mine  offense 
being  so  lawfully  proved,  your  grace  is  at  liberty 
both  before  Goa  and  man,  not  only  to  execute 
worthy  punishment  on  me  as  an  unlawful  wife, 
but  to  follow  your  affection  already  settled  on  that 
party,  for  whose  sake  I  am  now  as  I  am,  whose 
name  I  could  some  good  while  since  have  pointed 
unto,  your  grace  being  not  ignorant  of  my  suspi¬ 
cion  therein. 

“  But  if  you  have  already  determined  of  me, 
and  that  not  only  my  death,  but  an  infamous  slan¬ 
der,  must  bring  you  the  enjoying  of  your  desired 
happiness;  then  I  desire  of  God,  that  he  will  par¬ 
don  your  great  sin  therein,  and  likewise  mine  ene¬ 
mies,  the  instruments  thereof;  and  that  he  will 
not  call  you  to  a  strict  account  for  your  unprincely 
and  cruel  usage  of  me,  at  his  general  juugment- 
seat,  where  both  you  and  myself  must  shortly  ap¬ 
pear,  and  in  whose  judgment  I  doubt  not  (whatso¬ 
ever  the  world  may  think  of  me)  mine  innocence 
shall  be  openly  known,  and  sufficiently  cleared. 

“  My  last  and  only  request  shall  be,  that  myself 
may  only  bear  the  burden  of  your  grace’s  displea¬ 
sure,  and  that  it  may  not  touch  the  innocent  souls 
of  those  poor  gentlemen,  who  (as  I  understand) 
are  likewise  in  strait  imprisonment  for  my  sake. 
If  ever  I  have  found  favor  in  your  sight,  if  ever 
the  name  of  Ann  Boleyn  hath  been  pleasing  in 
your  ears,  then  let  me  obtain  this  request,  and  I 
will  so  leave  to  trouble  your  grace  any  further, 
with  mine  earnest  prayers  to  the  Trinity,  to  have 
your  grace  in  his  good  keeping,  and  to  direct  you 
in  all  your  actions.  From  my  doleful  prison  in 
the  Tower,  this  sixth  of  May  ; 

“  Your  most  loyal,  and  ever  faithful  wife, 

L.  “  Ann  Boleyn.” 


No.  398.]  FRIDAY,  JUNE  6,  1712. 

lnsanire  pares  certa  ratione  modoque. 

Hor.  2  Sat.  iii,  271. 

You’d  be  a  fool 

With  art  and  wisdom,  and  be  mad  by  rule. — Creech. 

Oynthio  and  Flavia  are  persons  of  distinction 
in  this  town,  who  have  been  lovers  these  ten 
months  last  past,  and  wrote  to  each  other  for  gal¬ 
lantry-sake  under  those  feigned  names  ;  Mr.  Such- 
a-one  and  Mrs.  Such-a-one  not  being  capable  of 
raising  the  soul  out  of  the  ordinary  tracts  and 
passages  of  life,  up  to  that  elevation  which  makes 
the  life  of  the  enamored  so  much  superior  to  that 
of  the  rest  of  the  world.  But  ever  since  the  beau¬ 
teous  Cecilia  has  made  such  a  figure  as  she  now 
does  in  the  circle  of  charming  women,  Cynthio 
has  been  secretly  one  of  her  adorers.  Lsetitia  has 
been  the  finest  woman  in  town  these  three  months, 
and  so  long  Cynthio  has  acted  the  part  of  a  lover 
very  awkwardly  in  the  presence  of  Flavia.  Fla¬ 
via  has  been  too  blind  toward  him,  and  has  too 


sincere  a  heart  of  her  own  to  observe  a  thousand 
things  which  would  have  discovered  this  change 
of  mind  to  any  one  less  engaged  than  she  was. 
Cynthio  was  musing  yesterday  in  the  piazza  in 
Covent-garden,  and  was  saying  to  himself  that  he 
was  a  very  ill  man  to  go  on  in  visiting  and  pro¬ 
fessing  love  to  Flavia,  when  his  heart  was  en¬ 
thralled  to  another.  “  It  is  an  infirmity  that  I  am 
not  constant  to  Flavia;  but  it  would  be  still  a 
greater  crime,  since  I  cannot  continue  to  love  her, 
to  profess  that  I  do.  To  marry  a  woman  with  the 
coldness  that  usually  indeed  comes  on  after  mar¬ 
riage,  is  ruining  one’s  self  with  one’s  eyes  open; 
beside,  it  is  really  doing  her  an  injury.”  This 
last  consideration  forsooth,  of  injuring  her  in  per¬ 
sisting,  made  him  resolve  to  break  off  upon  the 
first  favorable  opportunity  of  making  her  angry. 
When  he  was  in  this  thought,  he  saw  Robin  the 
porter,  who  waits  at  Will’s  coffee-house,  passing 
by.  Robin,  you  must  know,  is  the  best  man  in 
town  for  carrying  a  billet;  the  fellow  has  a  thin 
body,  swift  step,  demure  looks,  sufficient  sense, 
and  knows  the  town.  This  man  carried  Cynthio’s 
first  letter  to  Flavia,  and,  by  frequent  visits  ever 
since,  is  well  known  to  her.  The  fellow  covers 
his  knowledge  of  the  nature  of  his  messages  with 
the  most  exquisite  low  humor  imaginable.  The 
first  he  obliged  Flavia  to  take,  was  by  complain¬ 
ing  to  her  that  he  had  a  wife  and  three  children; 
and  if  she  did  not  take  that  letter,  which  he  was 
sure  there  was  no  harm  in,  but  rather  love,  his  fa¬ 
mily  must  go  supperless  to  bed,  for  the  gentleman 
would  pay  him  according  as  he  did  his  business. 
Robin,  therefore,  Cynthio  now  thought  fit  to  make 
use  of,  and  gave  him  orders  to  wait  before  Flavia’s 
door,  and  if  she  called  him  to  her,  and  asked 
whether  it  was  Cynthio  who  passed  by,  he  should 
at  first  be  loth  to  own  it  was,  but  upon  importu 
nity  confess  it.  There  needed  not  much  search 
into  that  part  of  the  town,  to  find  a  well-dressed 
hussy  fit  for  the  purpose  Cynthio  designed  her. 
As  soon  as  he  believed  Robin  was  posted,  he  drove 
by  Flavia’s  lodgings  in  a  hackney-coach  and  a 
woman  in  it.  Robin  was  at  the  door  talking  with 
Flavia’s  maid,  and  Cynthio  pulled  up  the  glass  as 
surprised,  and  hid  his  associate.  The  report  of 
this  circumstance  soon  flew  up  stairs,  and  Robin 
could  not  deny  but  the  gentleman  favored*  his 
master;  yet  if  it  was  he,  he  was  sure  the  lady  was 
but  his  cousin  whom  he  had  seen  ask  for  him,  ad¬ 
ding  that  he  believed  she  was  a  poor  relation,  be¬ 
cause  they  made  her  wait  one  morning  till  he  was 
awake.  Flavia  imraediatly  wrote  the  following 
epistle,  which  Robin  brought  to  Will’s  : — 

‘‘Sir,  June  4,  1712. 

“  It  is  in  vain  to  deny  it,  basest,  falsest  of  man¬ 
kind;  my  maid  as  well  as  the  bearer  saw  you. 

“  The  injured  Flavia.” 

After  Cynthio  had  read  the  letter,  he  asked 
Robin  how  she  looked,  and  what  she  said  at  the 
delivery  of  it.  Robin  said  she  spoke  short  to  him, 
and  called  him  back  again,  and  had  nothing  to  say 
to  him,  and  bid  him  and  all  the  men  in  the  world 
go  out  of  her  sight :  but  the  maid  followed,  and 
bid  him  bring  an  answer. 

Cynthio  returned  as  follows  : — 

“June  4,  Three  afternoon,  1712. 

“  Madam, 

“  That  your  maid  and  the  bearer  have  seen  me 
very  often  is  very  certain;  but  I  desire  to  know, 
being  engaged  at  piquet,  what  your  letter  means 


•Resembled. 


by"  tis  in  vain  to  deny  it.’ 
the  evening. 

u  Your  amazed  Cynthio.” 

As  soon  as  Robin  arrived  with  this,  Flavia  an¬ 
swered  : 

"Dear  Cynthio, 

"  I  have  walked  a  turn  or  two  in  my  antecham¬ 
ber  since  I  wrote  to  you,  and  have  recovered  my¬ 
self  from  an  impertinent  fit  which  you  ought  to 
forgive  me,  and  desire  you  would  come  to  me  im¬ 
mediately  to  laugh  off  a  jealousy  that  you  and  a 
creature  of  the  town  went  by  in  a  hackney-coach 
an  hour  ago. 

“  I  am  your  most  humble  Servant, 

"  Flavia.” 

“  I  will  not  open  the  letter  which  my  Cynthio 
wrote  upon  the  misapprehension  you  must  have 
been  under,  when  you  wrote,  for  want  of  hearing 
the  whole  circumstance:” 

Robin  came  back  in  an  instant,  and  Cynthio 
answered : 

“  Half-an-hour  six  minutes  after  three, 
"Madam,  June  4,  Will’s  Coffee-house. 

"  It  is  certain  I  went  by  your  lodging  with  a 

fentlewoman  to  whom  I  have  the  honor  to  be 
nown;  she  is  indeed  my  relation,  and  a  pretty 
sort  ot  woman.  But  your  startling  manner  of 
writing,  and  owning  you  have  not  done  me  the 
honor  so  much  as  to  open  my  letter,  has  in  it 
something  very  unaccountable,  and  alarms  one 
that  has  had  thoughts  of  passing  his  days  with 
you.  But  I  am  born  to  admire  you  with  all  your 
imperfections.  '  J 

"  Cynthio.” 

Robin  ran  back  and  brought  for  answer: 

"Exact  Sir,  there  are  at  Will’s  Coffee-house  six 
minutes  after  three,  June  4;  one  that  has  had 
thoughts,  and  all  my  little  imperfections.  Sir, 
come  to  me  immediately,  or  I  shall  determine 
what  may  perhaps  not  be  very  pleasing  to  you. 

"  Flavia.” 

.  Robin  gave  an  account  that  she  looked  exces¬ 
sive  an^ry  when  she  gave  him  the  letter;  and  that 
he  told  her,  for  she  asked,  that  Cynthio  only 
looked  at  the  clock,  taking  snuff,  and  wrote  two 
or  three  words  on  the  top  of  the  letter  when  he 
gave  him  his. 

Now  the  plot  thickened  so  well,  as  that  Cynthio 
saw  he  had  not  much  more  to  do,  to  accomplish 
being  irreconcilably  banished;  he  wrote, 

"Madam, 

"I  have  that  prejudice  in  favor  of  all  you  do, 
that  it  is  not  possible  for  you  to  determine  upon 
what  will  not  be  very  pleasing  to 

"  Y our  obedient  Servant, 

"  Cynthio.” 

This  was  delivered,  and  the  answer  returned,  in 
a  little  more  than  two  seconds: 

"Sir, 

"Is  it  come  to  this?  You  never  loved  me,  and 
the  creature  you  were  with  is  the  properest  person 
for  your  associate.  I  despise  you,  and  hope  I 
shall  soon  hate  you  as  a  villain  to 

“  The  credulous  Flavia.” 
Robin  ran  back  with: 

"Madam, 

"Your  credulity  when  you  are  to  gain  your 
point,  and  suspicion  when  you  fear  to  lose  it, 


485 

make  it  a  very  hard  part  to  behave  as  becomes 
your  humble  slave,  «  Cynthio.” 

Robin  whipt  away  and  returned  with, 

"  Mr.  Wellford, 

"Flavia  and  Cynthio  are  no  more.  I  relieve 
you  from  the  hard  part  of  which  you  complain, 
and  banish  you  from  my  sight  forever. 

“  Ann  Heart.” 

Robin  had  a  crown  for  his  afternoon’s  work; 
and  this  is  published  to  admonish  Cecilia  to 
avenge  the  injury  done  to  Flavia. — T. 


No.  399.]  SATURDAY,  JUNE  7,  1712. 

Ut  nemo  in  sese  ten  tat  descendere! — Pers.  Sat.  iv,  23. 

None,  none  descends  into  himself  to  find 

The  secret  imperfections  of  his  mind. — Dryden. 

Hypocrisy  at  the  fashionable  end  of  the  town  is 
very  different  from  hypocrisy  in  the  city.  The 
modish  hypocrite  endeavors  to  appear  more  vi¬ 
cious  than  he  really  is,  the  other  kind  of  hypo¬ 
crite  more  virtuous.  The  former  is  afraid  of  every¬ 
thing  that  has  the  show  of  religion  in  it,  and 
would  be  thought  engaged  in  many  criminal  gal¬ 
lantries  and  amours  which  he  is  not  guilty  of.  The 
latter  assumes  a  face  of  sanctity,  and  covers  a 
multitude  of  vices  under  a  seeming  religious  de¬ 
portment. 

But  there  is  another  kind  of  hypocrisy,  which 
differs  from  both  these,  and  -which  I  intend  to 
make  the  subject  of  this  paper,  I  mean  that  hypo¬ 
crisy >  by  which  a  man  does  not  only  deceive  the 
world,  but  very  often  imposes  on  himself;  that 
hypocrisy  which  conceals  liis  own  heart  from  him, 
and  makes  him  believe  he  is  more  virtuous  than 
he  really  is,  and  either  not  attend  to  his  vices,  or 
mistake  even  his  vices  for  virtues.  It  is  this  fatal 
hypocrisy,  and  self-deceit,  which  is  taken  notice 
of  in  those  words,  "  Who  can  understand  his  er¬ 
rors?  cleanse  thou  me  from  secret  faults.” 

If  the  open  professors  of  impiety  deserve  the 
utmost  application  and  endeavors  of  moral  wri¬ 
ters  to  recover  them  from  vice  and  folly,  how 
much  more  may  those  lay  a  claim  to  their  care  and 
compassion,  who  are  walking  in  the  paths  of  death, 
while  they  fancy  themselves  engaged  in  a  course 
of  virtue !  I  shall  endeavor,  therefore,  to  lay 
down  some  rules  for  the  discovery  of  those  vices 
that  lurk  in  the  secret  corners  of  the  soul,  and  to 
show  my  reader  those  methods  by  which  he  may 
arrive  at  a  true  and  impartial  knowledge  of  him¬ 
self.  The  usual  means  prescribed  for  this  pur¬ 
pose  are,  to  examine  ourselves  by  the  rules  which 
are  laid  down  for  our  direction  in  sacred  writ,  and 
to  compare  our  lives  with  the  life  of  that  person 
who  acted  up  to  the  perfection  of  human  nature, 
and  is  the  standing  example,  as  well  as  the  great 
guide  and  instructor,  of  those  who  receive  his  doc¬ 
trines.  Though  these  two  heads  cannot  be  too 
much  insisted  upon,  I  shall  but  just  mention  them, 
since  they  have  been  handled  by  many  great  and 
eminent  writers. 

I  would  therefore  propose  the  following  meth¬ 
ods  to  the  consideration  of  such  as  would  find  out 
their  secret  faults,  and  make  a  true  estimate  of 
themselves  : — 

In  the  first  place,  let  them  consider  well  what 
are  the  characters  which  they  bear  among  their 
enemies.  Our  friends  very  often  flatter  us,  as 
much  as  our  own  hearts.  They  either  do  not  see  our 
faults,  or  conceal  them  from  us,  or  soften  them  by 
their  representations,  after  such  a  manner  that  we 
think  them  too  trivial  to  be  taken  notice  of.  An 


THE  SPECTATOR. 
I  shall  stay  here  all 


THE  SFECTATOR. 


486 

adversary,  on  the  contrary,  makes  a  stricter  search 
into  us,  discovers  every  flaw  and  imperfection  in 
our  tempers;  and  though  his  malice  may  set  them 
in  too  strong  a  light,  it  has  generally  some  ground 
for  what  it  advances.  A  friend  exaggerates  a 
man’s  virtues,  an  enemy  inflames  his  crimes.  A 
wise  man  should  give  a  just  attention  to  both  of 
them,  so  far  as  they  may  tend  to  the  improvement 
of  the  one,  and  diminution  of  the  other.  Plutarch 
has  written  an  essay  on  the  benefits  which  a  man 
may  receive  from  his  enemies,  and  among  the  good 
fruits  of  enmity,  mentions  this  in  particular,  that 
by  the  reproaches  which  it  casts  upon  us  we  see 
the  worst  side  of  ourselves,  and  open  our  eyes  to 
several  blemishes  and  defects  in  our  lives  and  con¬ 
versations,  which  we  should  not  have  observed 
without  the  help  of  such  ill-natured  monitors. 

In  order  likewise  to  come  at  a  true  knowledge 
of  ourselves,  we  should  consider  on  the  other  hand 
how  far  we  may  deserve  the  praises  and  approba¬ 
tions  which  the  world  bestow  upon  us;  whether 
the  actions  they  celebrate  proceed  from  laudable 
and  worthy  motives;  and  how  far  we  are  really 
possessed  of  the  virtues  which  gain  us  applause 
among  those  with  whom  we  converse.  Such  a 
reflection  is  absolutely  necessary,  if  we  consider 
how  apt  we  are  either  to  value  or  condemn  our¬ 
selves  by  the  opinions  of  others,  and  to  sacrifice 
the  report  of  our  own  hearts  to  the  judgment  of 
the  world. 

In  the  next  place,  that  we  may  not  deceive  our¬ 
selves  in  a  point  of  so  much  importance,  we  should 
not  lay  too  great  a  stress  on  any  supposed  virtues 
we  possess  that  are  of  a  doubtful  nature :  and  such 
we  may  esteem  all  those  in  which  multitudes  of 
men  dissent  from  us,  who  are  as  good  and  wise  as 
ourselves.  We  should  always  act  with  great  cau¬ 
tiousness  and  circumspection  in  points  where  it  is 
not  impossible  that  we  may  be  deceived.  Intem¬ 
perate  zeal,  bigotry,  and  persecution  for  any  party 
or  opinion,  how  praiseAvorthy  soever  they  may  ap¬ 
pear  to  weak  men  of  our  oAvn  principles,  produce 
infinite  calamities  among  mankind,  and  are  highly 
criminal  in  their  own  nature;  and  yet  how  many 
persons  eminent  for  piety  suffer  such  monstrous 
and  absurd  principles  of  action  to  take  root  in 
their  minds  under  the  color  of  virtues!  For  my 
own  part,  I  must  own  I  never  yet  knew  any  party 
so  just  and  reasonable,  that  a  man  could  follow  it 
in  its  height  and  violence,  and  at  the  same  time 
be  innocent. 

We  should  likewise  be  very  apprehensive  of 
those  actions  which  proceed  from  natural  constitu¬ 
tion,  favorite  passions,  particular  education,  or 
whatever  promotes  our  worldly  interest  and  ad¬ 
vantage.  In  these  and  the  like  cases,  a  man’s 
judgment  is  easily  perverted,  and  a  wrong  bias 
hung  upon  his  mind.  These  are  the  inlets  of 
prejudice,  the  unguarded  avenues  of  the  mind,  by 
which  a  thousand  errors  and  secret  faults  find  aa- 
mission,  Avitliout  being  observed  or  taken  notice 
of.  A  Avise  man  will  suspect  those  actions  to 
which  he  is  directed  by  something  beside  reason, 
and  always  apprehend  some  concealed  evil  in  every 
resolution  that  is  of  a  disputable  nature,  Avhen  it 
is  conformable  to  his  particular  temper,  his  age, 
or  way  of  life,  or  Avhen  it  favors  his  pleasure  or 
his  profit. 

There  is  nothing  of  greater  importance  to  us 
than  thus  diligently  to  sift  our  thoughts,  and  ex¬ 
amine  all  these  dark  recesses  of  the  mind,  if  we 
should  establish  our  souls  in  such  a  solid  and  sub¬ 
stantial  virtue,  as  will  turn  to  account  in  that 
great  day  when  it  must  stand  the  test  of  infinite 
wisdom  and  justice. 

1  shall  conclude  this  essay  with  observing  that 
the  two  kinds  of  hypocrisy  I  have  here  spoken 


of,  namely,  that  of  deceiving  the  world,  and  that 
of  imposing  on  ourselves,  are  touched  with  won¬ 
derful  beauty  in  the  hundred  and  thirty-ninth 
psalm.  The  folly  of  the  first  kind  of  hypocrisy 
is  there  set  forth  by  reflections  on  God’s  omni¬ 
science  and  omnipresence,  Avhich  are  celebrated  in 
as  noble  strains  of  poetry  as  any  other  I  ever  met 
Avith,  either  sacred  or  profane.  The  other  kind  of 
hypocrisy,  Avhereby  a  man  deceives  himself,  is  in¬ 
timated  in  the  tAvo  last  verses,  where  the  Psalmist 
addresses  himself  to  the  great  Searcher  of  hearts 
in  that  emphatical  petition,  “  Try  me,  0  God  !  and 
seek  the  ground  of  my  heart :  prove  me,  and  exa¬ 
mine  my  thoughts.  Look  well  if  there  be  any 
way  of  wickedness  in  me,  and  lead  me  in  the  way 
everlasting.” — L. 


Ho.  400.]  MONDAY,  JUNE  9, 1712. 

- Latet  anguis  in  herba. — Virg.  Eel.  iii,  93. 

There’s  a  snake  in  the  grass. — English  Proverbs. 

It  should,  methinks,  preserve  modesty  and  its 
interests  in  the  world,  that  the  transgression  of 
it  always  creates  offense;  and  the  very  purposes 
of  wantonness  are  defeated  by  a  carriage  which 
has  in  it  so  much  boldness,  as  to  intimate  that  fear 
and  reluctance  are  quite  extinguished  in  an  ob¬ 
ject  which  Avould  be  otherwise  desirable.  It  was 
said  of  a  wit  of  the  last  age, 

Sedley*  has  that  prevailing  gentle  art 
Which  can  with  a  resistless  charm  impart 
The  loosest  wishes  to  the  chastest  heart; 

Raise  such  a  conflict,  kindle  such  a  fire, 

Between  declining  virtue  and  desire, 

That  the  poor  vanquish’d  maid  dissolves  away 
In  dreams  all  night,  in  sighs  and  tears  all  day. 

This  prevailing  gentle  art  was  made  up  of  com¬ 
plaisance,  courtship,  and  artful  conformity  to  the 
modesty  of  a  woman’s  manners.  Rusticity,  broad 
expression,  and  fonvard  obtrusion,  offend  those  of 
education,  and  make  the  transgressors  odious  to 
all  Avho  have  merit  enough  to  attract  regard.  It  is 
in  this  taste  that  the  scenery  is  so  beautifully  ord¬ 
ered  in  the  description  which  Antony  makes,  in 
the  dialogue  between  him  and  Dolabeila,  of  Cleo¬ 
patra  in  her  barge. 

Her  galley  down  the  silver  Cidnos  row’d ; 

The  tackling  silk,  the  streamers  wav’d  with  gold 
The  gentle  winds  were  lodg’d  in  purple  sails; 

Her  nymphs,  like  Nereids,  round  her  couch  were  plac’d, 
Where  she,  another  sea-born  Venus,  lay ; 

She  lay,  and  lean’d  her  cheek  upon  her  hand, 

And  cast  a  look  so  languishingly  sweet, 

As  if,  secure  of  all  beholders’  hearts, 

Neglecting  she  could  take  them.  Boys,  like  Cupids, 
Stood  fanning  with  their  painted  wings  the  wind 
That  play'd  about  her  face ;  but  if  she  smil’d, 

A  darting  glory  seem’d  to  blaze  abroad, 

That  men’s  desiring  eyes  were  never  wearied, 

But  hung  upon  the  object.  To  soft  flutes 

The  silver  oars  kept  time :  and  while  they  play’d, 

The  hearing  gave  new  pleasure  to  the  sight ; 

And  both  to  thought - f 

Here  the  imagination  is  warmed  with  all  the  ob¬ 
jects  presented,  and  yet  is  there  nothing  that  is 
luscious,  or  what  raises  any  idea  more  loose  than 
that  of  a  beautiful  woman  set  off  to  advantage. 
The  like,  or  a  more  delicate  and  careful  spirit  of 
modesty,  appears  in  the  following  passage  in  ono 
of  Mr.  rhilhps’  pastorals  : 

Breathe  soft;  ye  winds!  ye  waters,  gently  flow! 

Shield  her,  ye  trees !  ye  flowers,  around  her  grow  1 
Ye  swains,  I  beg  you,  pass  in  silence  by! 

My  love  in  yonder  vale  asleep  does  lie. 


*  Sedley  (Sir  Cha.),  a  writer  of  verses  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  IT,  with  whom  he  was  a  great  favorite.  The  noble¬ 
man’s  verses  quoted  here  allude,  it  has  been  said,  not  to  Sir 
Charles  Sedley’s  writings,  but  to  his  personal  address;. for 
we  are  told  that,  by  studying  human  nature,  he  had  acquired 
to  an  eminent  degree  the  art  of  making  himself  agreeable, 
particularly  to  the  ladies, 
f  Dryden’s  “  All  for  Love,”  act  iii. 


THE  SPE 

Desire  is  corrected  when  there  is  a  tenderness  or 
admiration  expressed  which  partakes  the  passion. 
Licentious  language  has  something  brutal  in  it, 
which  disgraces  humanity,  and  leaves  us  in  the 
condition  of  the  savages  in  the  field.  But  it  may 
be  asked,  To  what  good  use  can  tend  a  discourse 
of  this  kind  at  all?  It  is  to  alarm  chaste  ears 
against  such  as  have,  what  is  above  called,  the 
“prevailing  gentle  art.”  Masters  of  that  talent 
are  capable  of  clothing  their  thoughts  in  so  soft  a 
dress,  and  something  so  distant  from  the  secret 
purpose  of  their  heart,  that  the  imagination  of  the 
unguarded  is  touched  with  a  fondness,  which 
grows  too  insensibly  to  be  resisted.  Much  care 
and  concern  for  the  lady’s  welfare,  to  seem  afraid 
lest  she  should  be  annoyed  by  the  very  air  which 
surrounds  her,  and  this  uttered  rather  with  kind 
looks,  and  expressed  by  an  interjection,  an  “  ah,” 
or  an  “  oh,”  at  some  little  hazard  in  moving  or 
making  a  step,  than  in  any  direct  profession  of 
love,  are  the  methods  of  skillful  admirers.  They 
are  honest  arts  when  their  purpose  is  such,  but  in¬ 
famous  when  misapplied.  It  is  certain  that  many 
a  young  woman  in  this  town  lias  had  her  heart 
irrecoverably  won,  by  men  who  have  not  made 
one  advance  which  ties  their  admirers,  though  the 
females  languish  with  the  utmost  anxiety.  1  have 
often,  by  way  of  admonition  to  my  female  readers, 
given  them  warning  against  agreeable  company 
of  the  other  sex,  except  they  are  well  acquainted 
with  their  characters.  Women  may  disguise  it  if 
they  think  fit;  and  the  more  to  do  it,  they  may  be 
angry  at  me  for  saying  it ;  but  I  say  it  is  natural 
to  them,  that  they  have  no  manner  of  approbation 
of  men,  without  some  degree  of  love.  For  this 
reason  he  is  dangerous  to  be  entertained  as  a  friend 
or  a  visitant,  who  is  capable  of  gaining  any  emi¬ 
nent  esteem  or  observation,  though  it  be  never  so 
remote  from  pretensions  as  a  lover.  If  a  man’s 
heart  has  not  the  abhorrence  of  any  treacherous 
design,  he  may  easily  improve  approbation  into 
kindness,  and  kindness  into  passion.  There  may 
possibly  be  no  manner  of  love  between  them  in 
the  eyes  of  all  their  acquaintance;  no,  it  is  all 
friendship;  and  yet  they  may  be  as  fond  as  shep¬ 
herd  and  shepherdess  in  a  pastoral,  but  still  the 
nymph  and  tne  swain  may  bo  to  each  other,  no 
other,  I  warrant  you,  than  Pylades  and  Orestes. 

When  Lucy  decks  with  flowers  her  swelling  breast, 

And  on  her  elbow  leans,  dissembling  rest; 

Unable  to  refrain  my  madding  mind, 

Nor  sheep  nor  pasture  worth  my  care  I  find. 

Once  Delia  slept,  on  easy  moss  reclin’d, 

Her  lovely  limbs  half  bare,  and  rude  the  wind ; 

I  smooth’d  her  coats,  and  stole  a  silent  kiss ; 

Condemn  me,  shepherds,  if  I  did  amiss. 

Such  good  offices  as  these,  and  such  friendly 
thoughts  and  concerns  for  one  another,  are  what 
make  up  the  amity,  as  they  call  it,  between  man 
and  woman. 

It  is  the  permission  of  such  intercourse  that 
makes  a  young  woman  come  to  the  arms  of  her 
husband,  after  the  disappointment  of  four  or  five 
passions  which  she  has  successively  had  for  dif¬ 
ferent  men,  before  she  is  prudeutially  given  to 
him  for  whom  she  has  neither  love  nor  friendship. 
For  what  should  a  poor  creature  do  that  has  lost 
all  her  friends?  There’s  Mari  net  the  agreeable, 
has,  to  my  knowledge,  had  a  friendship  for  Lord 
Welford,  which  had  like  to  break  her  heart :  then 
she  had  so  great  a  friendship  for  Colonel  Hardy, 
that  she  could  not  endure  any  woman  else  should 
do  anything  but  rail  at  him.  Many  and  fatal 
have  been  the  disasters  between  friends  who  have 
fallen  out,  and  their  resentments  are  more  keen 
than  ever  those  of  other  men  can  possibly  be  :  but 


C  T  A  T  0  R .  487 

in  this  it  happens,  unfortunately,  that  as  there 
ought  to  be  nothing  concealed  from  one  friend  to 
another,  the  friends  of  different  sexes  very  often 
find  fatal  effects  from  their  unanimity. 

For  my  part,  who  study  to  pass  life  in  as  much 
innocence  and  tranquillity  as  I  can,  I  shun  the 
company  of  agreeable  women  as  much  as  possible; 
and  must  confess  that  I  have,  though  a  tolerable 
good  philosopher,  but  a  low  opinion  of  Platonic 
love  :  for  which  reason  I  thought  it  necessary  to 
give  my  fair  readers  a  caution  against  it,  having, 
to  my  great  concern,  observed  the  waist  of  a  Pla- 
tonist  lately  swell  to  a  roundness  which  is  incon¬ 
sistent  with  that  philosophy. — T. 


No.  401.]  TUESDAY,  JUNE  10,  1712. 

In  amore  haec  omnia  insunt  vitia:  injurise, 

Suspiciones,  inimicitias,  induciae, 

Bell  am,  pax  rursum. —  Ter.  Eun.  act  i,  sc.  1. 

It  is  the  capricious  state  of  love,  to  be  attended  with  inju¬ 
ries,  suspicions,  enmities,  truces,  quarreling,  and  recon¬ 
cilement. 

I  shall  publish  for  the  entertainment  of  this 
day,  an  odd  sort  of  a  packet,  which  I  have  just 
received  from  one  of  my  female  correspondents. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Since  you  have  often  confessed  that  you  are 
not  displeased  vour  papers  should  sometimes 
convey  the  complaints  of  distressed  lovers  to  each 
other,  I  am  in  hopes  you  will  favor  one  who  gives 
you  an  undoubted  instance  of  her  reformation, 
and  at  the  same  time  a  convincing  proof  of  the 
happy  influence  your  labors  have  had  over  the 
most  incorrigible  part  of  the  most  incorrigible 
sex.  You  must  know,  Sir,  I  am  one  of  that  spe¬ 
cies  of  women,  whom  you  have  often  character¬ 
ized  under  the  name  of  ‘Jilts,’  and  that  I  send 
ou  these  lines  as  well  to  do  public  penance  for 
aving  so  long  continued  in  a  known  error,  as  to 
beg  pardon  of  the  party  offended.  I  the  rather 
choose  this  way,  because  it  in  some  measure  an¬ 
swers  the  terms  on  which  he  intimated  the  breach 
between  us  might  possibly  be  made  up,  as  you 
will  see  by  the  letter  he  sent  me  the  next  day  after 
I  had  discarded  him;  which  I  thought  fit  to  send 
you  a  copy  of,  that  you  might  the  better  know  the 
whole  case. 

“  I  must  further  acquaint  you,  that  before  I 
jilted  him,  there  had  been  the  greatest  intimacy 
between  us  for  a  year  and  a  half  together,  during 
all  which  time  I  cherished  his  hopes,  and  in¬ 
dulged  his  flame.  I  leave  you  to  guess,  after  this, 
what  must  be  his  surprise,  when  upon  his  press¬ 
ing  for  my  full  consent  one  day,  I  told  him  I 
wondered  what  could  make  him  fancy  he  had 
ever  any  place  in  my  affections.  His  own  sex 
allow  him  sense,  and  all  ours  good  breeding.  His 
person  is  such  as  might,  without  vanity,  make 
him  believe  himself  not  incapable  of  being  be¬ 
loved.  Our  fortunes,  indeed,  weighed  in  the  nice 
scale  of  interest,  are  not  exactly  equal,  which  by 
the  way  was  the  true  cause  of  my  jilting  him; 
and  I  had  the  assurance  to  acquaint  him  with  the 
following  maxim,  that  I  should  always  believe 
that  man’s  passion  to  be  the  most  violent  who 
could  offer  me  the  largest  settlement.  I  have 
since  changed  my  opinion^  and  have  endeavoved 
to  let  him  know  so  much  by  several  letters,  but 
the  barbarous  man  has  refused  them  all ;  so  that  I 
have  no  way  left  of  writing  to  him  but  by  your 
assistance.  If  we  can  bring  him  about  once  more, 
I  promise  to  send  you  all  gloves  and  favors,  and 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


488 

shall  desire  the  favor  of  Sir  Roger  and  yourself 
to  stand  as  godfathers,  to  my  first  boy. 

“  I  am,  Sir, 

“  Your  most  obedient,  humble  Servant, 

“  Amoret.” 

“Philander  to  Amoret. 

“  Madam, 

“  I  am  so  surprised  at  the  question  you  were 
pleased  to  ask  me  yesterday,  that  I  am  still  at  a 
loss  what  to  say  to  it.  At  least  my  answer 
would  be  too  long  to  trouble  you  with,  as  it 
would  come  from  a  person,  who  it  seems  is  so 
very  indifferent  to  you.  Instead  of  it,  I  shall 
only  recommend  to  your  consideration,  the  opin¬ 
ion  of  one  whose  sentiments  on  these  matters  I 
have  often  heard  you  say  are  extremely  just.  *  A 
generous  and  constant  passion,’  says  your  favorite 
author,  ‘  in  an  agreeable  lover,  where  there  is  not 
too  great  a  disparity  in  their  circumstances,  is  the 
greatest  blessing  that  can  befall  a  person  beloved ; 
and,  if  overlooked  in  one,  may  perhaps  never 
be  found  in  another.’ 

“  I  do  not,  however,  at  all  despair  of  being  very 
shortly  much  better  beloved  by  you  than  Antenor 
is  at  present ;  since,  whenever  my  fortune  shall 
exceed  his,  you  were  pleased  to  intimate  your 
passion  would  increase  accordingly. 

“  The  world  has  seen  me  shamefully  lose  that 
time  to  please  a  fickle  woman,  which  might  have 
been  employed  much  more  to  my  credit  and  ad¬ 
vantage  in  other  pursuits.  I  shall  therefore  take 
the  liberty  to  acquaint  you,  however  harsh  it  may 
sound  in  a  lady’s  ears,  that  though  your  love-fit 
should  happen  to  return,  unless  you  could  con¬ 
trive  a  way  to  make  your  recantation  as  well 
known  to  the  public,  as  they  are  already  apprised 
of  the  manner  with  which  you  have  treated  me,- 
you  shall  never  more  see 

“  Philander.” 

“  Amoret  to  Philander, 

“  Sir, 

“  Upon  reflection,  T  find  the  injury  I  have  done 
both  to  you  and  myself  to  be  so  great,  that, 
though  the  part  I  now  act  may  appear  contrary 
to  that  decorum  usually  observed  by  our  sex,  yet 
I  purposely  break  through  all  rules,  that  my 
repentance  may  in  some  measure  equal  my  crime. 
I  assure  you,  that  in  my  present  hopes  of  recover¬ 
ing  you,  I  look  upon  Antenor’s  estate  with  con¬ 
tempt.  The  fop  was  here  yesterday  in  a  gilt 
chariot  and  new  liveries,  but  I  refused  to  see  him. 
Though  I  dread  to  meet  your  eyes  after  what  has 
passed,  I  flatter  myself,  that,  amidst  all  their  con¬ 
fusion,  you  will  discover  such  a  tenderness  in 
mine,  as  none  can  imitate  but  those  who  love.  I 

shall  be  all  this  month  at  Lady  D - ’s  in  the 

country  ;  but  the  woods,  the  fields,  and  gardens, 
without  Philander,  afford  no  pleasures  to  the  un¬ 
happy  “  Amoret.” 

“  I  must  desire  you,  dear  Mr.  Spectator,  to  pub¬ 
lish  this  my  letter  to  Philander  as  soon  as  pos¬ 
sible,  and  to  assure  him  that  I  know  nothing  at 
all  of  the  death  of  his  rich  uncle  in  Glouces¬ 
tershire.” — X. 


No.  402.]  WEDNESDAY,  JUNE  11,  1712. 


Ipse  sibi  tradit  Spectator- 


•  et  quae 


Hor.  Ars  Poet.  181. 


Sent  by  the  Spectator  to  himself. 

Were  I  to  publish  all  the  advertisements  I  re¬ 
ceive  from  different  hands,  and  persons  of  dif¬ 
ferent  circumstances  and  quality,  the  very  men¬ 
tion  of  them,  without  reflections  on  the  several 


subjects,  would  raise  all  the  passions  which  can 
be  felt  by  human  minds.  As  instances  of  this,  I 
shall  give  you  two  or  three  letters  ;  the  writers  of 
which  can  have  no  recourse  to  any  legal  power  for 
redress,  and  seem  to  have  written  rather  to  vent 
their  sorrow  than  to  receive  consolation. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  a  young  woman  of  beauty  and  quality, 
and  suitably  married  to  a  gentleman  who  dotes 
on  me.  But  this  person  of  mine  is  the  object  of 
an  unjust  passion  in  a  nobleman  who  is  very  in¬ 
timate  with  my  husband.  This  friendship  gives 
him  very  easy  access,  and  frequent  opportunities 
of  entertaining  me  apart.  My  heart  is  in  the 
utmost  anguish,  and  my  face  is  covered  over 
with  confusion,  when  I  impart  to  you  another  cir¬ 
cumstance,  which  is,  that  my  mother,  the  most 
mercenary  of  all  women,  is  gained  by  this  false 
friend  of  my  husband  to  solicit  me  for  him.  I 
am  frequently  chid  by  the  poor  believing  man 
my  husband,  for  showing  an  impatience  of  his 
friend’s  company;  and  I  am  never  alone  with  my 
mother  but  she  tells  me  stories  of  the  discretion¬ 
ary  part  of  the  world,  and  such-a-one,  and  such-a- 
one,  who  are  guilty  of  as  much  as  she  advises  me 
to.  She  laughs  at  my  astonishment;  and  seems 
to  hint  to  me,  that,  as  virtuous  as  she  always  ap- 

F eared,  I  am  not  the  daughter  of  her  husband, 
t  is  possible  that  printing  this  letter  may  relieve 
me  from  the  unnatural  importunity  of  my  mother, 
and  the  perfidious  courtship  oi  my  husband’s 
friend.  I  have  an  unfeigned  love  of  virtue,  and 
am  resolved  to  preserve  my  innocence.  The  only 
way  I  can  think  of  to  avoid  the  fatal  consequences 
of  the  discovery  of  this  matter  is  to  fly  away  for¬ 
ever,  which  I  must  do  to  avoid  my  husband’s 
fatal  resentment  against  the  man  who  attempts  to 
abuse  him,  and  the  shame  of  exposing  a  parent  to 
infamy.  The  persons  concerned  will  know  these 
circumstances  relate  to  them;  and  though  the  re¬ 
gard  to  virtue  is  dead  in  them,  I  have  some  hopes 
from  their  fear  of  shame  upon  reading  this  in 
your  paper;  which  I  conjure  you  to  publish,  if  you 
have  any  compassion  for  injured  virtue. 

“  Sylvia.” 

“  Mr  Spectator, 

“  I  am  the  husband  of  a  woman  of  merit,  but 
am  fallen  in  love,  as  they  call  it,  with  a  lady  of 
her  acquaintance,  who  is  going  to  be  married  to  a 
gentleman  who  deserves  her.  I  am  in  a  trust  re¬ 
lating  to  this  lady’s  fortune,  which  makes  my 
concurrence  in  this  matter  necessary;  but  I  have 
so  irresistible  a  rage  and  envy  rise  m  me  when  I 
consider  his  future  happiness,  that  against  all 
reason,  equity,  and  common  justice,  I  am  ever 
playing  mean  tricks  to  suspend  the  nuptials.  I 
have  no  manner  of  hopes  for  myself:  Emilia  (for 
so  I  will  call  her,)  is  a  woman  of  the  most  strict 
virtue;  her  lover  is  a  gentleman,  whom  of  all 
others  I  could  wish  my  friend:  but  envy  and 
jealousy,  though  placed  so  unjustly,  waste  my 
very  being;  and  with  the  torment  and  sense  of  a 
demon,  I  am  ever  cursing  what  I  cannot  but  ap¬ 
prove.  I  wish  it  were  the  beginning  of  repen¬ 
tance,  that  I  sit  down  and  describe  my  present 
disposition  with  so  hellish  an  aspect;  but  at  pre¬ 
sent  the  destruction  of  these  two  excellent  persons 
would  be  more  welcome  to  me  than  their  happi¬ 
ness.  Mr.  Spectator,  pray  let  me  have  a  paper 
on  these  terrible,  groundless  sufferings,  and  do  all 
you  can  to  exorcise  crowds  who  are  in  some  de¬ 
gree  possessed  as  I  am.  “  Cannibal.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  have  no  other  means  but  this  to  express  my 
thanks  to  one  man,  and  my  resentment  against 
another.  My  circumstances  are  as  follow:  I  have 


THE  SPECTATOR 


been  for  five  years  last  past  courted  by  a  gentle¬ 
man  of  greater  fortune  than  I  ought  to  expect,  as 
the  market  for  women  goes.  You  must,  to  be 
sure,  have  observed  people  who  live  in  that  sort 
of  way,  as  all  their  friends  reckon  it  will  be  a 
match,  and  are  marked  out  by  all  the  world  for 
each  other.  In  this  view  we  have  been  regarded 
for  some  time,  and  I  have  above  these  three  years 
loved  him  tenderly.  As  he  is  very  careful  of  his 
fortune,  I  have  always  thought  he  lived  in  a  near 
manner,  to  lay  up  what  he  thought  was  wanting 
in  my  fortune  to  make  up  what  he  might  expect 
in  another.  Within  these  few  months  I  have  ob¬ 
served  his  carriage  very  much  altered,  and  he 

j  a^e?ted  *  certain  art  of  getting  me  alone, 
and  talking  with  a  mighty  profusion  of  passion¬ 
ate  words,  how  I  am  not  to  be  resisted  longer, 
how  irresistible  his  wishes  are,  and  the  like.  As 
long  as  I  have  been  acquainted  with  him,  I  could 
not  on  such  occasions  say  downright  to  him  ‘you 
know  you  may  make  me  yours  when  you  please.’ 
Jout  the  other  night,  he  with  frankness  and  imrrn- 
dence  explained  to  me,  that  he  thought  of  me  only 
as  a  mistress.  I  answered  this  declaration  as  it 
deserved  ;  upon  which  he  only  doubled  the  terms 
on  which  he  proposed  my  yielding.  When  my 
anger  heightened  upon  him,  he  told  me  he  was 
sorry  he  had  made  so  little  use  of  the  unguarded 
hours  we  had  been  together  so  remote  from  com 
pany,  ‘as  indeed,’ continued  he,  ‘so  we  are  at 
present.'  I  flew  from  him  to  a  neighboring  gen¬ 
tlewoman’s  house,  and  though  her  husband  was 
in  the  room,  threw  myself  on  a  couch,  and  burst 
into  a  passion  of  tears.  My  friend  desired  her 
husband  to  leave  the  room.  ‘But,’  said  he, 
'there  is  something  so  extraordinary  in  this,  that 
I  will  partake  in  the  affliction;  and  be  it  what  it 
will,  she  is  so  much  your  friend,  that  she  knows 
she  may  command  what  services  I  can  do  her. 
The  man  sat  down  by  me,  and  spoke  so  like  a 
brother,  that  I  told  him  my  whole  affliction.  He 
spoke  of  the  injury  done  me  with  so  much  indig¬ 
nation,  and  animated  me  against  the  love  he  said 
he  saw  I  had  for  the  wretch  who  would  have  be¬ 
trayed  me,  with  so  much  reason  and  humanity  to 
my  weakness,  that  I  doubt  not  of  my  perse¬ 
verance.  His  wife  and  he  are  my  comforters,  and 
I  am  under  no  more  restraint  in  their  company 
than  if  I  were  alone;  and  I  doubt  not  but  in  a 
small  time  contempt  and  hatred  will  take  place 
of  the  remains  of  affection  to  a  rascal. 

“  I  am.  Sir,  your  affectionate  Reader, 

“  Mr.  Spectator,  “  DoEInDa.- 

I  had  the  misfortune  to  be  an  uncle  before  I 
knew  my  nephews  from  my  nieces;  and  now  we 
are  grown  up  to  better  acquaintance,  they  deny 
me  the  respect  they  owe.  One  upbraids  me  with 
being  their  familiar,  another  will  hardly  be  per¬ 
suaded  that  I  am  an  uncle,  a  third  calls  me  little 
uncle,  and  a  fourth  tells  me  there  is  no  duty  at  all 
due  to  an  uncle.  I  have  a  brother-in-law  whose 
son  will  win  all  my  affection,  unless  you  shall 
think  this  worthy  of  your  cognizance,  and  will  be 
pleased  to  prescribe  some  rules  for  our  future  re¬ 
ciprocal  behavior.  It  will  be  worthy  the  parti¬ 
cularity  of  your  genius  to  lay  down  rules  for 
his  conduct,  who  was,  as  it  were,  born  an  old 
man;  in  which  you  will  much  oblige, 

“  Sir,  your  most  obedient  Servant, 

“  Cornelius  Nepos.” 


489 


No.  403.]  THURSDAY,  JUNE  12,  1712. 

Qui  mores  hominum  multorum  vidit _ 


Of  ma  ny  men  he  saw  the  manners 


Hor.  Ars  Poet.  r.  142. 


When  I  consider  this  great  city  in  its  several 
quarters  and  divisions,  I  look  upon  it  as  an  aggre¬ 
gate  of  various  nations  distinguished  from  each 
other  by  their  respective  customs,  manners,  and 
interests  The  courts  of  two  countries  do  not  so 
much  differ  from  one  another,  as  the  court  and 
city,  in  their  peculiar  ways  of  life  and  conversa¬ 
tion.  In  short,  the  inhabitants  of  St.  James’s, 
notwithstanding  they  live  under  the  same  laws, 
and  speak  the  same  language,  are  a  distinct  peo¬ 
ple  from  those  of  Cheapside,  who  are  likewise 
removed  from  those  of  the  Temple  on  one  side 
and  those  of  Smithfield  on  the  other,  by  several 
climates  and  degrees  in  their  ways  of  thinking  and 
conversing  together. 

For  this  reason,  when  any  public  affair  is  upon 
the  anvil,  I  love  to  hear  the  reflections  that  rise 
upon  it  in  the  several  districts  and  parishes  of 
London  and  Westminster,  and  to  ramble  up  and 
down  a  whole  day  together,  in  order  to  make 
myself  acquainted  with  the  opinions  of  my  inge¬ 
nious  countrymen.  By  this  means  I  know  the 
faces  of  all  the  principal  politicians  within  the 
bills  of  mortality;  and  as  every  coffee-house  has 
some  particular  statesman  belonging  to  it,  who  is 
the  mouth  of  the  street  where  he  lives,  I  always 
take  care  to  place  myself  near  him,  in  order  to 
know  his  judgment  on  the  present  posture  of 
affairs.  The  last  progress  that  I  made  with  this 
intention,  was  about  three  months  ago,  when  we 
had  a  current  report  of  the  king  of  France’s  death. 
As  I  foresaw  this  would  produce  a  new  face  of 
things  in  Europe,  and  many  curious  speculations 
in  our  British  coffee-houses,  I  was  very  desirous 
to  learn  the  thoughts  of  our  most  eminent  poli¬ 
ticians  on  that  occasion. 

That  I  might  begin  as  near  the  fountain  head 
as  possible,  I  first  of  all  called  in  at  St.  James’s 
where  I  found  the  whole  outward  room  in  a  buzz’ 
of  politics.  The  speculations  were  but  very  in¬ 
different  toward  the  door,  but  grew  finer  as  you 
advanced  to  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  and  were 
so  very  much  improved  by  a  knot  of  theorists, 
who  sat  in  the  inner  room,  within  the  steams  of 
the  coffee-pot,  that  I  there  heard  the  whole  Spa¬ 
nish  monarchy  disposed  of,  and  all  the  line  of 
Bourbon  provided  for  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour. 

I  aftei  ward  called  in  at  Giles’s,  where  I  saw  a 
board  of  French  gentlemen  sitting  upon  the  life 
and  death  of  their  grand  monarque.  Those 
among  them  who  had  espoused  the  whig  interest, 
very  positively  affirmed  that  he  departed  this  life 
about  a  week  since,  and  therefore  proceeded  with¬ 
out  any  further  delay  to  the  release  of  their 
friends  in  the  galleys,  and  to  their  own  re-estab- 
lishment,  but  finding  they  could  not  agree  among 
themselves,  I  proceeded  on  my  intended  progress 
Upon  my  arrival  at  Jenny  Man’s  I  saw  an  alerte 
young  fellow  that  cocked  his  hat  upon  a  friend  of 
his  who  entered  just  at  the  same  time  with  myself, 
and  accosted  him  after  the  following  manner: 

Well,  Jack,  the  old  prig  is  dead  at  last.  Sharp’s 
the  word.  Now  or  never,  boy.  Up  to  the  walls 
of  Paris  directly.”  With  several  other  deep  re 
flections  of  the  same  nature. 

I  met  with  very  little  variation  in  the  politics 
between  Charing-cross  and  Covent-garden.  And 
upon  my  going  into  Will’s,  I  found  their  dis  ¬ 
course  was  gone  off  from  the  death  of  the  French 
king  to  that  of  Monsieur  Boileau,  Racine,  Cor¬ 
neille,  and  several  other  poets,  whom  they  regrelled 


THE  SPECTATOR. 

No.  404.]  FRIDAY,  JUNE  13,  1712. 


490 

on  this  occasion,  as  persons  who  would  have 
obliged  the  world  with  very  noble  elegies  on  the 
death  of  so  great  a  prince,  and  so  eminent  a  pa¬ 
tron  of  learning. 

At  a  coffee-house  near  the  Temple,  I  found  a 
couple  of  young  gentlemen  engaged  very  smartly 
in  a  dispute  on  the  succession  to  the  Spanish 
monarchy.  One  of  them  seemed  to  have  been 
retained  as  advocate  for  the  Duke  of  Anjou,  the 
other  for  his  imperial  majesty.  They  were  both 
for  regulating  the  title  to  that  kingdom  by  the  sta¬ 
tute  laws  of  England;  but  finding  them  going 
out  of  my  depth,  I  passed'  forward  to  St.  Paul’s 
churchyard,  where  I  listened  with  great  attention 
to  a  learned  man,  who  gave  the  company  an  ac¬ 
count  of  the  deplorable  state  of  France  during  the 
minority  of  the  deceased  king. 

I  then  turned  on  my  right  hand  into  Fish-street, 
where  the  chief  politician  of  that  quarter,  upon 
hearing  the  news  (after  having  taken  a  pipe  of 
tobacco,  and  ruminated  for  some  time),  “  If,”  says 
he,  “  the  king  of  France  is  certainly  dead,  we 
shall  have  plenty  of  mackarel  this  season  :  our 
fishery  •will  not  be  disturbed  by  privateers,  as  it 
has  been  for  these  ten  years  past.”  He  afterward 
considered  how  the  death  of  this  great  man  would 
affect  our  pilchards,,  and  by  several  other  remarks 
infused  a  general  joy  into  his  whole  audience. 

I  afterward  entered  a  by-coffee-house  that  stood 
at  the  upper  end  of  a  narrow  lane,  where  I  met 
with  a  non-juror,  engaged  very  warmly  with  a 
lace-man  who  was  the  great  support  of  a  neigh¬ 
boring  conventicle.  The  matter  in  debate  was, 
whether  the  late  French  king  was  most  like  Au¬ 
gustus  Caesar  or  Nero.  The  controversy  was 
carried  on  with  great  heat  on  both  sides;  and  as 
each  of  them  looked  upon  me  very  frequently 
during  the  course  of  their  debate,  I  was  under 
some  apprehension  that  they  would  appeal  to  me, 
and  therefore  laid  down  my  penny  at  the  bar,  and 
made  the  best  of  my  way  to  Cheapside. 

I  here  gazed  upon  the  signs  for  some  time,  be¬ 
fore  I  found  one  to  my  purpose.  The  first  object 
I  met  in  the  coffee-room  was  a  person  who  ex¬ 
pressed  great  grief  for  the  death  of  the  French 
ling;  but,  upon  his  explaining  himself,  I  found 
lis  sorrow  did  not  arise  from  the  loss  of  the 
monarch,  but  for  his  having  sold  out  of  the  bank 
about  three  days  before  he  heard  the  news  of  it. 
Upon  which,  a  haberdasher,  who  was  the  oracle 
of  the  coffee-house,  and  had  his  circle  of  admirers 
about  him,  called  several  to  witness  that  he  had 
declared  his  opinion  above  a  week  before,  that  the 
French  king  was  certainly  dead  ;  to  which  he 
added,  that,  considering  the  late  advices  we  had  re¬ 
ceived  from  France,  it  was  impossible  that  it  could 
be  otherwise.  As  he  was  laying  these  together, 
and  dictating  to  his  hearers  with  great  authority, 
there  came  in  a  gentleman  from  Garraway’s  who 
told  us  that  there  were  several  letters  from  France 
just  come  in,  with  advice  that  the  king  was  gone 
out  a-hunting  the  very  morning  the  post  came 
away:  upon  which  the  haberdasher  stole  off  his 
hat  that  hung  upon  a  wooden  peg  by  him,  and 
retired  to  his  shop  with  great  confusion.  This 
intelligence  put  a  stop  to  my  travels,  which  I  had 

f>rosecuted  with  much  satisfaction,  not  being  a 
ittle  pleased  to  hear  so  many  different  opinions 
upon  so  great  an  event,  and  to  observe  how  natu¬ 
rally  upon  such  a  piece  of  news  every  one  is  apt 
to  consider  it  with  regard  to  his  own  particular 
interest  and  advantage. — L. 


- Non  omnia  possumus  omnes. — Virg.  Eel.  viii,  63. 

With  different  talents  form’d,  we  variously  excel. 

Nature  does  nothing  in  vain:  the  Creator  of  the 
universe  has  appointed  everything  to  a  certain 
use  and  purpose,  and  determined  it  to  a  settled 
course  and  sphere  of  action,  from  which  if  it  in 
the  least  deviates,  it  becomes  unfit  to  answer 
those  ends  for  which  it  was  designed.  In  like 
manner,  it  is  in  the  dispositions  of  society,  the 
civil  economy  is  formed  in  a  chain,  as  well  as  the 
natural:  and  in  either  case  the  breach  but  of  one 
link  puts  the  whole  in  some  disorder.  It  is,  I 
think,  pretty  plain,  that  most  of  the  absurdity 
and  ridicule  we  meet  with  in  the  world  is  gene¬ 
rally  owing  to  the  impertinent  affectation  of  ex¬ 
celling  in  characters  men  are  not  fit  for,  and  for 
which  nature  never  designed  them. 

Every  man  has  one  or  more  qualities  which 
may  make  him  useful  both  to  himself  and  others. 
Nature  never  fails  of  pointing  them  out;  and 
while  the  infant  continues  under  her  guardian¬ 
ship,  she  brings  him  on  in  his  way,  and  then 
offers  herself  for  a  guide  in  what  remains  of  the 
journey:  if  he  proceeds  in  that  course,  he  can 
hardly  miscarry.  Nature  makes  good  her  engage¬ 
ments;  for,  as  she  never  promises  what  she  is 
not  able  to  perform,  so  she  never  fails  of  perform¬ 
ing  what  she  promises.  But  the  misfortune  is, 
men  despise  what  they  may  be  masters  of,  and 
affect  what  they  are  not  fit  for;  they  reckon  them¬ 
selves  already  possessed  of  what  tneir  genius  in¬ 
clined  them  to,  and  so  bend  all  their  ambition  to 
excel  in  what  is  out  of  their  reach.  Thus  they 
destroy  the  use  of  their  natural  talents,  in  the 
same  manner  as  covetous  men  do  their  quiet  and 
repose:  they  can  enjoy  no  satisfaction  in  what 
they  have,  because  of  the  absurd  inclination  they 
are  possessed  with  for  what  they  have  not. 

Cleanthes  had  good  sense,  a  great  memory,  and 
a  constitution  capable  of  the  closest  application. 
In  a  word,  there  was  no  profession  in  which 
Cleanthes  might  not  have  made  a  very  good 
figure;  but  this  will  not  satisfy  him;  he  takes  up 
an  unaccountable  fondness  for  the  character  of  a 
gentleman:  all  his  thoughts  are  bent  upon  this. 
Instead  of  attending  a  dissection,  frequenting  the 
courts  of  justice,  or  studying  the  fathers,  Cleanthes 
reads  plays,  dances,  dresses,  and  spends  his  time 
in  drawing-rooms.  Instead  of  being  a  good  law¬ 
yer,  divine  or  physician,  Cleanthes  is  a  down¬ 
right  coxcomb,  and  will  remain  to  all  that  know 
him  a  contemptible  example  of  talents  misapplied. 
It  is  to  this  affectation  the  world  owes  its  whole 
race  of  coxcombs.  Nature  in  her  whole  drama 
never  drew  such  a  part;  she  lias  sometimes  made 
a  fool,  but  a  coxcomb  is  always  of  a  man’s  own 
making,  by  applying  his  talents  otherwise  than 
Nature  designed,  who  ever  bears  a  high  resent¬ 
ment  for  being  put  cut  of  her  course,  and  never 
fails  of  taking  her  revenge  on  those  that  do  so. 
Opposing  her  tendency  in  the  application  of  a 
man’s  parts,  has  the  same  success  as  declining 
from  her  course  in  the  production  of  vegetables. 
By  the  assistance  of  art  and  a  hot-bed,  we  may 
.  possibly  extort  an  unwilling  plant,  or  an  untimely 
salad;  but  how  weak,  how  tasteless  and  insipid! 
Just  as  insipid  as  the  poetry  of  Valerio.  Valerio 
had  a  universal  character,  was  genteel,  had  learn¬ 
ing,  thought  justly,  spoke  correctly;  it  wras  be¬ 
lieved  there  was  nothing  in  which  Valerio  did 
not  excel:  and  it  was  so  far  true,  that  there  was 
but  one:  Valerio  had  no  genius  for  poetry,  yet 
he  is  resolved  to  be  a  poet;  he  writes  verses,  and 
I  takes  great  pains  to  convince  the  town  that 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Valerio  is  not  that  extraordinary  person  he  was 
taken  for. 

If  men  would  be  content  to  graft  upon  Nature, 
and  assist  her  operations,  what  mighty  effects 
might  we  expect  !  1  ully  would  not  stand  so  much 

alone  in  oratory,  Virgil  in  poetry,  or  Caesar  in  war. 
To  build  upon  nature  is  laying  a  foundation  upon 
a  rock;  everything  disposes  itself  into  order  as 
it  were  of  course,  and  the  whole  work  is  half  done 
as  soon  as  undertaken.  Cicero’s  genius  inclined 
him  to  oratory,  Virgil’s,  to  follow  the  train  of  the 
Muses;  they  piously  obeyed  the  admonition,  and 
were  rewarded.  Had  Virgil  attended  the  bar, 
his  modest  and  ingenuous  virtue  would  surely 
have  made  but  a  very  indifferent  figure;  and 
Tully’s  declamatory  inclination  would  have  been 
as  useless  in  poetry.  Nature,  if  left  to  herself, 
leads  us  on  in  the  best  course,  but  will  do  nothing 
by  compulsion  and  constraint:  and  if  we  are  not 
satisfied  to  go  her  way,  we  are  always  the  great¬ 
est  sufferers  by  it. 

Wherever  Nature  designs  a  production,  she 
always  disposes  seeds  proper  for  it,  which  are  as 
absolutely  necessary  to  the  formation  of  any  moral 
or  intellectual  excellence,  as  they  are  to  the  being 
and  growth  of  plants;  and  I  know  not  by  what 
fate  and  folly  it  is,  that  men  are  taught  not  to 
reckon  him  equally  absurd  that  will  write  verses 
in  spite  of  Nature,  with  that  gardener  that  should 
undertake  to  raise  a  jonquil  or  tulip  without  the 
help  of  their  respective  seeds. 

As  there  is  no  good  or  bad  quality  that  does 
not  affect  both  sexes,  so  it  is  not  to  be  imagined 
but  the  fair  sex  must  have  suffered  by  an  affecta¬ 
tion  of  this  nature,  at  least  as  much  as  the  other. 
The  ill  effect  of  it  is  in  none  so  conspicuous  as 
in  the  twro  opposite  characters  of  Caelia  and  Iras: 
Caelia  has  all  the  charms  of  person,  together  with 
an  abundant  sweetness  of  nature,  but  wants  wit, 
and  has  a  very  ill  voice;  Iras  is  ugly  and  ungen- 
teel,  but  has  wit  and  good  sense.  •  If  Caelia  would 
be  silent,  her  beholders  would  adore  her:  if  Iras 
would  talk,  her  hearers  would  admire  her :  but 
Cselia’s  tongue,  runs  incessantly,  while  Iras  gives 
herself  silent  airs  and  soft  languors,  so  that  it  is 
difficult  to  persuade  one’s  self  that  Caelia  has 
beauty,  and  Iras  wit:  each  neglects  her  own  ex¬ 
cellence,  and  is  ambitious  of  the  other’s  character; 
Iras  would  be  thought  to  have  as  much  beauty  as 
Caelia,  and  Caelia  as  much  wit  as  Iras. 

The  great  misfortune  of  this  affectation  is,  that 
men  not  only  lose  a  good  quality,  but  also  con¬ 
tract  a  bad  one.  They  not  only  are  unfit  for  what 
they  were  designed,  but  they  assign  themselves  to 
what  they  are  not  fit  for;  and  instead  of  making  a 
very  good  figure  one  wav,  make  a  very  ridiculous 
one  another.  If  Semantne  would  have  been  satis¬ 
fied  with  her  natural  complexion,  she  might  still 
have  been  celebrated  by  the  name  of  the  olive 
beauty;  but  Semanthe  has  taken  up  an  affectation 
to  wdiite  and  red,  and  is  now  distinguished  by  the 
character  of  the  lady  that  paints  so  well.  In  a 
word,  could  the  world  be  reformed  to  the  obe¬ 
dience  of  that  famed  dictate,  “  Follow  Nature,” 
which  the  oracle  of  Delphos  pronounced  to  Cicero, 
when  he  consulted  what  course  of  studies  he 
should  pursue,  we  should  see  almost  every  man 
as  eminent  in  his  proper  sphere  as  Tully  was  in 
his,  and  should  in  a  very  short  time  find  imperti¬ 
nence  and  affectation  banished  from  among  the 
women,  and  coxcombs,  and  false  characters ^from 
among  the  men.  For  my  part,  I  could  never  con¬ 
sider  this  preposterous  repugnancy  to  Nature  any 
otherwise,  than  not  only  as  the  greatest  folly,  but 
also  one  of  the  most  heinous  crimes,  since  it  is 
a  direct  opposition  to  the  disposition  of  Provi- 


401 

dence,  and  (as  Tully  expresses  it)  like  the  sin  of 
the  giants,  an  actual  rebellion  against  Heaven. — Z. 


No.  405. J  SATURDAY,  JUNE  14,  1712. 

With  hymns  divine  the  joyous  banquet  ends: 

The  paeans  lengthened  till  the  sun  descends ! 

The  Ureeks  restored,  the  grateful  notes  prolong: 

Apollo  listens,  and  approves  the  song. — Pope. 

I  am  very  sorry  to  find  by  the  opera  bills  for 
this  day,  that  we  are  likely  to  lose  the  greatest 
performer  in  dramatic  music  that  is  now  living 
or  that  perhaps  ever  appeared  upon  a  stage.  I 
n®e“.  no.t  acquaint  my  readers  that  1  am  speaking 
of  Sigmor  Nicolini.  The  town  is  highly  obliged 
to  that  excellent  artist,  for  having  shown  us  the 
Italian  music  in  its  perfection,  as  well  as  for  that 
generous  approbation,  he  lately  gave  to  an  opera 
of  our  own  country,  in  which  the  composer  en¬ 
deavored  to  do  justice  to  the  beauty  of  the  words 
by  following  that  noble  example  which  has  been 
set  him  by  the  greatest  foreign  masters  in  that 
art. 

I  could  heartily  wish  there  were  the  same  appli¬ 
cation  and  endeavors  to  cultivate  and  improve  our 
church  music  as  have  been  lately  bestowed  on  that 
of  the  stage.  Our  composers  have  one  very  great 
incitement  to  it.  They  are  sure  to  meet  with  ex¬ 
cellent  words,  and  at  the  same  time  a  wonder¬ 
ful  variety  of  them.  There  is  no  passion  that 
is  not  finely  expressed  in  those  parts  of  the  in¬ 
spired  writings,  which  are  proper  for  divine  songs 
and  anthems.  ° 

Theie  is  a  certain  coldness  and  indifference  in 
the  phrases  of  our  European  languages,  when  they 
are  compared  with  the  oriental  forms  of  speech  • 
and  it  happens  very  luckily,  that  the  Hebrew 
idioms  run  into  the  English  tongue  with  a  particu- 
lar  giace  and  beauty.  Our  language  has  received 
innumerable  elegancies,  and  improvements,  from 
that  infusion  of  Hebraisms,  which  are  derived  to 
it  out  of  the  poetical  passages  in  holy  writ.  They 
give  a  force  and  energy  to  our  expressions,  warm 
and  animate  our  language,  and  convey  our 
thoughts  in  more  ardent  and  intense  phrases,  than 
any  that  are  to  be  met  with  in  our  own  tongue. 
There  is  something  so  pathetic  in  this  kind  of 
diction,  that  it  often  sets  the  mind  in  a  flame, 
and  makes  our  hearts  burn  within  us.  How  cold 
and  dead  does  a  prayer  appear,  that  is  composed 
m  the  most  elegant  and  polite  forms  of  speech, 
which  are  natural  to  our  tongue,  when  it  is  not 
heightened  by  that  solemnity  of  phrase  which  may 
be  drawn  from  the  sacred  writings.  It  has  been 
said  by  some  of  the  ancients,  that  if  the  gods 
\veie  to  talk  with  men,  they  would  certainly  speak 
in  Plato’s  style;  but  I  think  we  may  say  with  jus¬ 
tice,  that  when  mortals  converse  with  their  Crea¬ 
tor,  they  cannot  do  it  in  so  proper  a  style  as  in 
that  of  the  Holy  Scriptures. 

If  any  one  would  judge  of  the  beauties  of  poe¬ 
try  that  are  to  be  met  with  in  the  divine  writings, 
and  examine  Iioav  kindly  the  Hebrew  manners  of 
speech  mix  and  incorporate  with  the  English  lan¬ 
guage;  after  having  perused  the  Book  of  Psalms, 
let  him  read  a  literal  translation  of  Horace  or  Pin¬ 
dar.  He  will  find  in  these  two  last  such  an  ab¬ 
surdity  and  confusion  of  style,  with  such  a  com¬ 
parative  poverty  of  imagination,  as  will  make  him 
very  sensible  of  what  I  have  been  here  advancing. 

Since  we  have,  therefore,  such  a  treasury  of 
words,  so  beautiful  in  themselves,  and  so  proper 
for  the  airs  of  music,  I  cannot  but  wonder  that 
persons  of  distinction  should  give  so  little  atten- 


492 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


tion  and  encouragement  to  that  kind  of  music 
which  would  have  its  foundation  in  reason,  and 
which  would  improve  our  virtue  in  proportion  as 
it  raised  our  delight.  The  passions  that  are  exci¬ 
ted  by  ordinary  compositions  generally  flow  from 
such  silly  and  absurd  occasions,  that  a  man  is 
ashamed  to  reflect  upon  them  seriously;  but  the 
fear,  the  love,  the  sorrow,  the  indignation,  that 
are  awakened  in  the  mind  by  hymns  and  anthems, 
make  the  heart  better,  and  proceed  from  such 
causes  as  are  altogether  reasonable  and  praise¬ 
worthy.  Pleasure  and  duty  go  hand  in  hand;  and 
the  greater  our  satisfaction  is,  the  greater  is  our 
religion. 

Music,  among  those  who  were  styled  the  chosen 
people,  was  a  religious  art.  The  songs  of  Sion, 
which  we  have  reason  to  believe  were  in  high  re¬ 
pute  among  the  courts  of  the  eastern  monarchs, 
were  nothing  else  but  psalms  and  pieces  of  poetry 
that  adored  or  celebrated  the  Supreme  Being. 
The  greatest  conqueror  in  this  holy  nation,  after 
the  manner  of  the  old  Grecian  lyrics,  did  not  only 
compose  the  words  of  his  divine  odes,  but  gener¬ 
ally  set  them  to  music  himself;  after  which,  his 
works,  though  they  were  consecrated  to  the  taber¬ 
nacle,  became  the  national  entertainment  as  well 
as  the  devotion  of  his  people. 

The  first  original  of  the  drama  was  a  religious 
worship,  consisting  only  of  a  chorus,  which  was 
nothing  else  but  a  hymn  to  a  deity.  As  luxury 
and  voluptuousness  prevailed  over  innocence  and 
religion,  this  form  of  worship  degenerated  into 
tragedies;  in  which,  however,  the  chorus  so  far 
remembered  its  first  office,  as  to  brand  everything 
that  was  vicious,  and  recommend  everything  that 
was  laudable,  to  intercede  with  Heaven  for  the  in¬ 
nocent,  and  to  implore  its  vengeance  on  the  crim¬ 
inal. 

Homer  and  Hesiod  intimate  to  us  how  this  art 
should  be  applied,  when  they  represent  the  Muses 
as  surrounding  Jupiter  and  warbling  their  hymns 
about  his  throne.  I  might  show,  from  innumer¬ 
able  passages  in  ancient  writers,  not  only  that  vo¬ 
cal  and  instrumental  music  were  made  use  of  in 
their  religious  worship,  but  that  their  most  favor¬ 
ite  diversions  were  filled  with  songs  and  hymns 
to  their  respective  deities.  Had  we  frequent  en¬ 
tertainments  of  this  nature  among  us,  they  would 
not  a  little  purify  and  exalt  our  passions,  give  our 
thoughts  a  proper  turn,  and  cherish  those  divine 
impulses  in  the  soul,  which  every  one  feels  that 
has  not  stifled  them  by  sensual  and  immoderate 
pleasures. 

Music,  when  thus  applied,  raises  noble  hints  in 
the  mind  of  the  hearer,  and  fills  it  with  great  con¬ 
ceptions.  It  strengthens  devotion,  and  advances 
praise  into  rapture;  it  lengthens  out  every  act  of 
worship,  and  produces  more  lasting  and  perma¬ 
nent  impressions  in  the  mind  than  those  which 
accompany  any  transient  form  of  words  that  aro 
uttered  in  the  ordinary  method  of  religious  wor¬ 
ship. — 0. 


No.  406.]  MONDAY,  JUNE  16,  1712. 

Haec  studia  adolescentiam  alunt,  senectutem  oblectant,  se- 
cundas  res  ornant,  adversis  solatium  et  perfugium  praebent; 
delectant  domi,  non  impediuntforis;  pernoctant  nobiscum, 
peregrinantur,  rusticantur.  Tull. 

These  studies  nourish  youth ;  delight  old  age ;  are  the  orna¬ 
ment  of  prosperity,  the  solacement  and  the  refuge  of  ad¬ 
versity  ;  they  are  delectable  at  home,  and  not  burdensome 
abroad,  they  gladden  us  at  nights,  and  on  our  journeys, 
and  in  the  country. 

The  following  letters  bear  a  pleasing  image  of 
the  joys  and  satisfactions  of  private  life.  The  first 
is  from  a  gentleman  to  a  friend,  for  whom  he  has 


a  very  great  respect,  and  to  whom  he  communi¬ 
cates  the  satisfaction  he  takes  in  retirement;  the 
other  is  a  letter  to  me,  occasioned  by  an  ode  writ¬ 
ten  by  my  Lapland  lover :  this  correspondent  is 
so  kind  as  to  translate  another  of  Scheffer’s  songs 
in  a  very  agreeable  manner.  I  publish  them  to¬ 
gether,  that  the  young  and  old  may  find  some¬ 
thing  in  the  same  paper  w»hich  may  be  suitable  to 
their  respective  tastes  in  solitude;  for  I  know  no 
fault  in  the  description  of  ardent  desires,  provided 
they  are  honorable. 

“  Dear  Sir, 

“  You  have  obliged  me  with  a  very  kind  letter; 
by  which  I  find  you  shift  the  scene  of  your  life 
from  the  town  to  the  country,  and  enjoy  that  mixed 
state  which  wise  men  both  delight  in  and  are  qua¬ 
lified  for.  Methinks  most  of  the  philosophers  and 
moralists  have  run  too  much  into  extremes,  in 
praising  entirely  either  solitude  or  public  life;  in 
the  former,  men  generally  grow  useless  by  too 
much  rest;  and,  in  the  latter,  are  destroyed  by  too 
much  precipitation;  as  waters  lying  still,  putrefy 
and  are  good  for  nothing;  and  running  violently 
on,  do  but  the  more  mischief  in  their  passage  to 
others,  and  are  swallowed  up  and  lost  the  sooner 
themselves.  These  who,  like  you,  can  make 
themselves  useful  to  all  states,  should  be  like 
gentle  streams,  that  not  only  glide  through  lonely 
vales  and  forests,  amid  the  flocks  and  shepherds, 
but  visit  populous  towns  in  their  course,  and  are 
at  once  of  ornament  and  service  to  them.  But 
there  is  another  sort  of  people  who  seem  designed 
for  solitude,  those  I  mean  who  have  more  to  hide 
than  to  show.  As  for  my  own  part,  I  am  one  of 
those  of  whom  Seneca  says,  ‘  Tam  umbratiles^ 
sunt,  ut  putent,  in  turbido  esse  quicquid  in  luce  est.’ 
Some  men,  like  pictures,  are  fitter  for  a  corner 
than  a  full  light;  and  I  believe  such  as  have  a  na¬ 
tural  bent  to  solitude  are  like  waters,  which  may 
be  forced  into  fountains,  and  exalted  to  a  great 
height,  may  make  a  much  nobler  figure,  and  a 
much  louder  noise,  but  after  all,  run  more  smooth¬ 
ly,  equally,  and  plentifully,  in  their  own  natural 
course  upon  the  ground.  The  consideration  of 
this  would  make  me  very  well  contented  with  the 
possession  only  of  that  quiet  which  Cowley  calls 
the  companion  of  obscurity;  but  whoever  has  the 
Muses  too  for  his  companions  can  never  be  idle 
enough  to  be  uneasy.  Thus,  Sir,  you  see  I  would 
flatter  myself  into  a  good  opinion  of  my  own  wav 
of  living  :  Plutarch  just  now  told  me,  that  it  is  in 
human  life  as  in  a  game  at  tables ;  one  may  wish 
he  had  the  highest  cast;  but,  if  his  chance  be  oth¬ 
erwise,  lie  is  even  to  play  it  as  well  as  he  can,  and 
make  the  best  of  it. 

“  I  am,  Sir, 

“  Your  most  obliged,  and  most  humble  Servant. 
“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  town  being  so  well  pleased  with  the  fine 

Eicture  of  artless  love,  which  nature  inspired  the 
aplander  to  paint  in  the  ode  you  lately  printed, 
we  were  in  hopes  that  the  ingenious  translator 
would  have  obliged  it  with  the  other  also  which 
Scheffer  has  given  us;  but  since  he  has  not,  a 
much  inferior  hand  has  ventured  to  send  you  this. 

“  It  is  a  custom  with  the  northern  lovers  to  di¬ 
vert  themselves  with  a  song,  while  they  journey 
through  the  fenny  moors  to  pay  a  visit  to  their 
mistresses.  This  is  addressed  by  the  lover  to  his 
rein-deer,  which  is  the  creature  that  in  that  coun¬ 
try  supplies  the  want  of  horses.  The  circum¬ 
stances  which  successively  present  themselves  to 
him  in  his  way,  are,  I  believe  you  will  think,  na¬ 
turally  interwoven.  The  anxiety  of  absence,  the 
gloominess  of  the  roads,  and  his  resolution  of 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


frequenting  only  those,  since  those  only  can  carry 
him  to  the  object  of  his  desires;  the  dissatisfac¬ 
tion  he  expresses  even  at  the  greatest  swiftness 
with  which  he  is  carried,  and  his  joyful  surprise 
at  an  unexpected  sight  of  his  mistress  as  she  is 
bathing,  seem  beautifully  described  in  the  origi¬ 
nal. 

“  If  all  those  pretty  images  of  rural  nature  are 
lost  in  the  imitation,  yet  possibly  you  may  think 
fit  to  let  this  supply  the  place  of  a  long  letter, 
when  want  of  leisure,  or  indisposition  for  writing, 
will  not  permit  our  being  entertained  by  your  own 
hand.  1  propose  such  a  time,  because,  though  it 
is  natural  to  have  a  fondness  for  what  one  does 
one’s  self,  yet  I  assure  you,  I  would  not  have  anv- 
thing  of  mine  displace  a  single  line  of  yours.” 

I. 

Haste,  my  rein-deer,  and  let  us  nimbly  go 

Our  am’rous  journey  through  this  dreary  waste! 

Haste,  my  rein-deer !  still,  still  thou  art  too  slow, 
Impetuous  love  demands  the  lightning’s  haste. 

n. 

Around  us  far  the  rushy  moors  are  spread : 

Soon  will  the  sun  withdraw  his  cheerful  ray : 

Darkling  and  tir’d  we  shall  the  marshes  tread, 

No  lay  unsung  to  cheat  the  tet^us  way. 

III. 

The  wat'ry  length  of  these  unjoyous  moors 
Does  all  the  fiow’ry  meadows’  pride  excel : 

Through  these  I  fly  to  her  my  soul  adores; 

Ye  flow’ry  meadows,  empty  pride,  farewell. 

IV. 

Each  moment  from  the  charmer  I’m  confined, 

My  breast  is  tortur’d  with  impatient  fires ; 

Fly,  my  rein-deer,  fly  swifter  than  the  wind, 

Thy  tardy  feet  wing  with  my  fierce  desires. 

V. 

Our  pleasing  toil  will  then  be  soon  o’erpaid, 

And  thou,  in  wonder  lost,  shalt  view  my  fair, 

Admire  each  feature  of  the  lovely  maid, 

Her  artless  charms,  her  bloom,  her  sprightly  air. 

VI. 

But,  lo !  with  graceful  motion  there  she  swims, 

Gently  removing  each  ambitious  wave : 

The  crowding  waves,  transported,  clasp  her  limbs : 

When,  when,  oh  when  shall  I  such  freedoms  have  ? 

VII. 

In  vain,  ye  envious  streams,  so  fast  ye  flow, 

To  hide  her  from  her  lover’s  ardent  gaze : 

From  every  touch  you  more  transparent  grow, 

And  all  reveal’d  the  beauteous  wanton  plays. 


No.  407.]  TUESDAY,  JUNE  17,  1712. 

- abest  facundis  gratia  dictis. 

Ovid,  Met.  xiii,  127. 

Eloquent  words  a  graceful  manner  want. 

Most  foreign  writers,  who  have  given  any  cha¬ 
racter  of  the  English  nation,  whatever  vices  they 
ascribe  to  it,  allow,  in  general,  that  the  people  are 
naturally  modest.  5lt  proceeds,  perhaps,  from  this 
oui  national  virtue,  that  our  orators  are  observed 
to  make  less  gesture  or  action  than  those  of  other 
countries.  Our  preachers  stand  stock-still  in  the 
pulpit,  and  will  not  so  much  as  move  a  finger  to 
set  off  the  best  sermons  in  the  world.  Y^e  meet 
with  the  same  speaking  statues  at  our  bars,  and 
m  all  public  places  of  debate.  Our  words  flow 
from  us  in  a  smooth  continued  stream,  without 
those  strainings  of  the  voice,  motions  of  the  body, 
and  majesty  ot  the  hand,  which  are  so  much  cele¬ 
brated  in  the  orators  of  Greece  and  Rome.  We 
can  talk  of  life  and  death  in  cold  blood,  and  keep 
our  temper  in  a  discourse  which  turns  upon  every¬ 
thing  that  is  dear  td  us.  Though  our  zeal  breaks 
out  in  the  finest  tropes  and  figures,  it  is  not  able 
to  stir  a  limb  abouEus.  I  have  heard  it  observed 


493 

more  than  once,  by  those  who  have  seen  Italy, 
that  an  untraveled  Englishman  cannot  relish  all 
the  beauties  of  Italian  pictures,  because  the  pos¬ 
tures  which  are  expressed  in  them  are  often  such 
as  are  peculiar  to  that  country.)  One  who  has  not 
seen  an  Italian  in  the  pulpit,  will  not  know  what 
to  make  of  that  noble  gesture  in  Raphael’s  pic¬ 
ture  of  St.  Paul  preaching  at  Athens,  where  the 
apostle  is  represented  as  lifting  up  both  his  arms, 
and  pouring  out  the  thunder  of  his  rhetoric  amid 
an  audience  of  pagan  philosophers. 

It  is  certain  that  proper  gestures  and  vehement” 
exertions  of  the  voice  cannot  be  too  much  studied 
by  a  public  orator.  They  are  a  kind  of  comment 
to  what  he  utters,  and  enforce  everything  he  says 
with  weak  hearers,  better  than  the  strongest  argu¬ 
ment  he  can  make  use  of.  They  keep  the  audience 
awake,  and  fix  their  attention  to  what  is  delivered 
to  them,  at  the  same  time  that  they  show  the 
speaker  is  in  earnest,  and  affected  himself  with 
what  he  so  passionately  recommends  to  others. 
Violent  gestures  and  vociferation  naturally  shake 
the  hearts  of  the  ignorant,  and  fill  them  with  a 
kind  of  religious  horror.  Nothing  is  more  frequent 
than  to  see  women  stand  and  tremble  at  the  sight 
of  a  moving  preacher,  though  he  is  placed  quite 
out  of  their  hearing ;  as  in  England  we  verv  fre¬ 
quently  see  people  lulled  asleep  with  solief  and 
elaborate  discourses  of  piety,  who  would  be 
warmed  and  transported  out  of  themselves  by  the 
bellowing  and  distortions  of  enthusiasm. 

If  nonsense,  when  accompanied  with  such  an 
emotion  of  voice  and  body,  has  such  an  influence 
on  men’s  minds,  what  might  we  not  expect  from 
many  of  those  admirable  discourses  which  are 
printed  in  our  tongue,  were  they  delivered  with  a 
becoming  fervor,  and  with  the  most  agreeable 
graces  of  voice  and  gesture! 

We  are  told  that  the  great  Latin  orator  very 
much  impaired  his  health  by  the  laterum  contentio, 
the  vehemence  of  action,  with  which  he  used  to 
deliver  himself.  The  Greek  orator  was  likewise  so 
very  famous  for  this  particular  in  rhetoric,  that 
one  of  his  antagonists,  whom  he  had  banished 
rom  Athens,  reading  over  the  oration  which  had 
procured  his  banishment,  and  seeing  his  friends 
admire  it,  could  not  forbear  asking  them,  if  they 
were  so  much  affected  by  the  bare  reading  of  it, 
how  much  more  they  would  have  been  alarmed, 
had  they  heard  him  actually  throwing  out  such  a 
storm  of  eloquence  ? 

How  cold  and  dead  a  figure,  in  comparison  of 
these  two  great  men,  does  an  orator  often  make  at 
the  British  bar,  holding  up  his  head  with  the  most 
insipid  serenity,  and  stroking  the  sides  of  a  long 
wig  that  reaches  down  to  his  middle!  The  truth 
of  it  is,  there  is  often  nothing  more  ridiculous  than 
the  gestures  of  an  English  speaker  :  you  see  some 
of  them  running  their  hands  into  their  pockets  as 
far  as  ever  they  can  thrust  them,  and  others  looking’  f  • 
with  great  attention  on  a  piece  of  paper  that  has 
nothing  written  on  it;  you  may  see  many  a  smart 
rhetorician  turning  his  hat  in  his  hands,  moulding 
it  into  several  different  cocks,  examining  some¬ 
times  the  lining  of  it,  and  sometimes  the  button! 
during  the  whole  course  of  his  harangue.  A  deaf 
man  would  think  he  was  cheapening  a  beaver, 
when  perhaps  he  is  talking  of  the  fate  of  the  Bri¬ 
tish  nation.  I  remember  when  I  was  a  young 
man,  and  used  to  frequent  Westminster-hall,  there 
was  a  counselor  \gho  never  pleaded  without  a 
piece  of  packthread  in  his  hand,  which  he  used  to 
twist  about  a  thumb  or  finger  all  the  while  he  was 
speaking :  the  wags  of  those  days  used  to  call  it 
V  the  thread  of  his  discourse,”  for  he  was  not  able 
to  utter  a  word  without  it.  One  of  his  clients, 
who  was  more  merry  than  wise,  stole  it  from  him 


494 


♦ 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


one  day  in  the  midst  of  his  pleading:  but  he  had 
better  have  let  it  alone,  for  he  lost  his  cause  by  his 
jest. 

I  have  all  along  acknowledged  myself  to  be  a 
dumb  man,  and  therefore  may  be  thought  a  very 
improper  person  to  give  rules  for  oratory :  but  I 
will  believe  every  one  will  agree  with  me  in  this, 
that  we  ought  either  to  lay  aside  all  kinds  of  ges¬ 
ture  (which  seems  to  be  very  suitable  to  the  ge¬ 
nius  of  our  nation),  or  at  least  to  make  use  of  such 
only  as  are  graceful  and  expressive. — 0. 


No.  408.]  WEDNESDAY,  JUNE  18,  1712. 

Decet  affectus  animi  neque  •se  nimium  erigerc,  nec  subjacere 
serviliter. — Tull,  de  Finite  us. 

The  affections  of  the  heart  ought  not  to  be  too  much  indulged, 
nor  servilely  depressed. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  have  always  been  a  very  great  lover  of  your 
speculations,  as  well  in  regard  to  the  subject  as 
to  your  manner  of  treating  it.  Human  nature  I 
always  thought  the  most  useful  object  of  human 
reason,  and  to  make  the  consideration  of  it  plea¬ 
sant  and  entertaining,  I  always  thought  the  best 
employment  of  human  wit:  other  parts  of  philo¬ 
sophy  may  perhaps  make  us  wiser,  but  this  not 
only  answers  that  end,  but  makes  us  better  too. 
Hence  it  was  that  the  oracle  pronounced  Socrates 
the  wisest  of  all  men  living,  because  he  judicious¬ 
ly  made  choice  of  human  nature  for  the  object  of 
his  thoughts;  an  inquiry  into  which  as  much  ex¬ 
ceeds  all  other  learning,  as  it  is  of  more  conse¬ 
quence  to  adjust  the  true  nature  and  measures  of 
right  and  wrong,  than  to  settle  the  distances  of 
the  planets,  and  compute  the  times  of  their  cir¬ 
cumvolutions. 

“  One  good  effect  that  will  immediately  arise 
from  a  near  observation  of  human  nature  is,  that 
we  shall  cease  to  wonder  at  those  actions  which 
men  are  used  to  reckon  wholly  unaccountable;  for, 
as  nothing  is  produced  without  a  cause,  so,  by  ob¬ 
serving  the  nature  and  course  of  the  passions,  we 
shall  be  able  to  trace  every  action  from  its  first 
conception  to  its  death.  We  shall  no  more  admire 
at  the  proceedings  of  Catiline  or  Tiberius,  when 
we  know  the  one  was  actuated  by  a  cruel  jealousy, 
the  other  by  a  furious  ambition :  for  the  actions  of 
men  follow  their  passions  as  naturally  as  light 
does  heat,  or  as  any  other  effect  flows  from  its 
cause;  reason  must  be  employed  in  adjusting  the 
passions,  but  they  must  ever  remain  the  principles 
of  action. 

“  The  strange  and  absurd  variety  that  is  so  ap¬ 
parent  in  men’s  actions,  shows  plainly  they  can 
never  proceed  immediately  from  reason;  so  pure  a 
fountain  emits  no  such  troubled  waters.  They 
must  necessarily  arise  from  the  passions,  which 
are  to  the  mind  as  the  winds  to  a  ship;  they  only 
can  move  it,  and  they  too  often  destroy  it;  if  fair 
and  gentle,  they  guide  it  into  the  harbor  :  if  con¬ 
trary  and  furious,  they  overset  it  in  the  waves.  In 
the  same  manner  is  the  mind  assisted  or  endan¬ 
gered  by  the  passions;  reason  must  then  take  the 
place  of  pilot,  and  can  never  fail  of  securing  her 
charge  if  she  be  not  wanting  to  herself.  The 
strength  of  the  passions  will  never  be  accepted  as 
an  excuse  for  complying  with  them;  they  were  de¬ 
signed  for  subjection;  and  if  £  man  suffers  them 
to  get  the  upper  hand,  he  then  betrays  the  liberty 
of  his  own  soul. 

“As  nature  has  framed  the  several  species  of 
beings  as  it  were  in  a  chain,  so  man  seems  to  be 
laced  as  the  middle  link  between  angels  and 
rutes.  Hence  he  participates  both  of  flesh  and 


spirit  by  an  admirable  tie,  which  in  him  occasions 
a  perpetual  war  of  passions;  and  as  a  man  inclines 
to  the  angelic  or  brute  part  of  his  constitution,  he 
is  then  denominated  good  or  bad,  virtuous  or 
wicked;  if  love,  mercy,  and  good- nature  prevail, 
thev  speak  him  of  the  angel:  if  hatred,  cruelty, 
ana  envy  predominate,  they  declare  his  kindred 
to  the  brute.  Hence  it  was,  that  some  of  the  an¬ 
cients  imagined,  that  as  men  in  this  life  inclined 
more  to  the  angel  or  the  brute,  so  after  their  death 
they  should  transmigrate  into  the  one  or  the  other; 
and  it  would  be  no  unpleasant  notion  to  consider 
the  several  species  of  brutes,  into  which  we  may 
imagine  that  tyrants;  misers,  the  proud,  malicious, 
and  ill-natured,  might  be  changed. 

“  As  a  consequence  of  this  original,  all  passions 
are  in  all  men,  but  all  appear  not  in  all;  constitu¬ 
tion,  education,  custom  of  the  country,  reason, 
and  the  like  causes,  may  improve  or  abate  the 
strength  of  them;  but  still  the  seeds  remain, 
which  are  ever  ready  to  sprout  forth  upon  the  least 
encouragement.  I  have  heard  a  story  of  a  good 
religious  man,  who,  having  been  bred  with  the 
milk  of  a  goat,  was  very  modest  in  public  by  a 
careful  reflection  he  made  on  his  actions :  but  he 
frequently  had  an  hour  in  secret,  wherein  he  had 
his  frisks  and  capers  :  and  if  we  had  an  opportu¬ 
nity  of  examining  the  retirement  of  the  strictest 
philosophers,  no  doubt,  but  we  should  find  perpet¬ 
ual  returns  of  those  passions  they  so  artfully  con¬ 
ceal  from  the  public.  I  remember  Machiavel  ob¬ 
serves,  that  every  state  should  entertain  a  perpetual 
jealousy  of  its  neighbors,  that  so  it  should  never 
be  unprovided  when  an  emergency  happens;  in 
like  manner,  should  the  reason  be  perpetually  on 
its  guard  against  the  passions,  and  never  suffer 
them  to  carry  on  any  design  that  may  be  destruc¬ 
tive  of  its  security:  yet  at  the  same  time  it  must 
be  careful  that  it  do  not  so  far  break  their  strength 
as  to  render  them  contemptible,  and  consequently 
itself  unguarded. 

“  The  understanding  being  of  itself  too  slow 
and  lazy  to  exert  itself  into  action,  it  is  necessary 
it  should  be  put  in  motion  by  the  gentle  gales  of 
the  passions,  which  may  preserve  it  from  stagna¬ 
ting  and  corruption;  for  they  are  as  necessary  to 
the  health  of  the  mind,  as  the  circulation  of  the 
animal  spirits  is  to  the  health  of  the  body:  they 
keep  it  in  life,  and  strength,  and  vigor;  nor  is  it 
possible  for  the  mind  to  perform  its  offices  with¬ 
out  their  assistance.  These  motions  are  given  U3 
with  our  being;  they  are  little  spirits  that  are  born 
and  die  with  us;  to  some  they  are  mild,  easy,  and 
gentle;  to  others  wayward  and  unruly,  yet  never 
too  strong  for  the  reins  of  reason  and  the  guid¬ 
ance  of  judgment. 

“  We  may  generally  observe  a  pretty  nice  pro¬ 
portion  between  the  strength  of  reason  and  pas¬ 
sion  ;  the  greatest  geniuses  have  commonly  the 
strongest  affections,  as,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
|  weaker  understandings  have  generally  the  weaker 
passions;  and  it  is  fit  the  fury  of  the  coursers 
should  not  be  too  great  for  the  strength  of  the  cha¬ 
rioteer.  Young  men,  whose  passions  are  not  a 
little  unruly,  give  small  hopes  of  their  ever  being 
considerable ;  the  fire  of  youth  will  of  course 
abate,  and  is  a  fault,  if  it  be  a  fault,  that  mends 
every  day;  but  surely,  unless  a  man  has  fire  in 
youth,  he  can  hardly  have  warmth  in  old  age.  We 
must  therefore  be  very  cautious,  lest,  while  we 
think  to  regulate  the  passions,  we  should  quite 
extinguish  them,  which  is  putting  out  the  light  of 
the  soul;  for  to  be  without  passion,  or  to  be  hur¬ 
ried  away  with  it,  makes  a  man  equally  blind. 
The  extraordinary  severity  used  in  most  of  our 
schools  has  this  fatal  effect,  it  breaks  the  spring 
of  the  mind,  and  most  certainly  destroys  more 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


good  geniuses  than  it  can  possibly  improve.  And  i 
surdy  it  is  a  mighty  mistake  that  the  passions 
should  be  so  entirely  subdued  :  for  little  irregula¬ 
rities  are  sometimes  not  only  to  be  borne  with, 
but  to  be  cultivated  too,  since  they  are  frequently 
attended  with  the  greatest  perfections.  All  great 
geniuses  have  faults  mixed  with  their  virtues,  and 
lfghts  6  the  flamin£  busb  which  has  thorns  among 

Since,  therefore,  the  passions  are  the  princi¬ 
ples  of  human  actions,  we  must  endeavor  to  ma¬ 
nage  them  so  as  to  retain  their  vigor,  yet  keep 
them  under  strict  command;  we  must  govern  them 
rather  like  free  subjects  than  slaves,  lest,  while 
we  intend  to  make  them  obedient,  they  become 
abject,  and  unfit  for  those  great  purposes  to  which 
they  were  designed.  For  my  part,  I  must  confess, 

1  could  never  have  any  regard  to  that  sect  of  phi- 
losophers  who  so  much  insisted  upon  an  absolute 
indifference  and  vacancy  from  all  passion  :  for  it 
seems  to  me  a  thing  very  inconsistent,  for  a  man 
to  divest  himself  of  humanity  in  order  to  acquire 
tranquillity  of  mind;  and  to  eradicate  the  very 
principles  of  action,  because  it  is  possible  they 
may  produce  ill  effects.  J 

I  am,  Sir,  your  affectionate  Admirer, 

Z.  «  T_ 


495 


Ho.  409. J  THURSDAY,  JUNE  19,  1712. 

Musao  contingere  cuncta  lepore. — Luce,  i,  933. 

To  grace  each  subject  with  enliv’ning  wit. 

Gratian  very  often  recommends  fine  taste  as 
the  utmost  perfection  of  an  accomplished  man. 

t  ^ii  8  ,W°rd  arises  very  often  in  conversation, 
1  shall  endeavor  to  give  some  account  of  it,  and 
to  ray  down  rules  how  we  may  know  whether  we 
are  possessed  of  it,  and  how  we  may  acquire  that 
fine  taste  of  Avriting  wrhich  is  so  much  talked  of 
•among  the  polite  world. 

Most  languages  make  use  of  this  metaphor,  to 
express  that  faculty  of  the  mind  which  distin¬ 
guishes  all  the  most  concealed  faults  and  nicest 
perfections  in  writing.  We  may  be  sure  this  me¬ 
taphor  would  not  have  been  so  general  in  all 
tongues,  had  there  not  been  a  very  great  conformity 
between  that  mental  taste,  which  is  the  subject  of 
this  paper,  and  that  sensitive  taste,  which  gives 
us  a  relish  of  every  different  flavor  that  affects  the 
palate.  Accordingly  we  find  there  are  as  many 
degrees  ol  refinement  in  the  intellectual  faculty  as 
in  the  sense  which  is  marked  out  by  this  common 
denomination. 

I  knew  a  person  who  possessed  the  one  in  so 
great  a  perfection,  that,  after  having  tasted  ten 
different  kinds  of  tea,  he  would  distinguish,  with¬ 
out  seeing  the  color  of  it,  the  particular  sort  which 
was  offered  him ;  and  not  only  so,  but  any  two 
sorts  oi  them  that  were  mixed  together  in  an  equal 
proportion;  nay,  he  has  carried  the  experiment  so 
tar,  as,  upon  tasting  the  composition  of  three  dif¬ 
ferent  sorts,  to  name  the  parcels  from  whence  the 
three  several  ingredients  were  taken.  A  man  of  a 
fane  taste  in  writing  will  discern,  after  the  same 
manner,  not  only  the  general  beauties  and  imper- 
fections  of  an  author,  but  discover  the  several  ways 
ot  thinking  and  expressing  himself,  which  diver¬ 
sify  him  from  all  other  authors,  with  the  several 
foreign  infusions  of  thought  and  language,  and 
the  particular  authors  from  whom  they  were  bor¬ 
rowed.  •  J 

After  having  thus  far  explained  what  is  gener¬ 
ally  meant  by  a  fine  taste  in  writing,  and  shown 
the  propriety  of  the  metaphor  which  is  used  on 
this  occasion,  I  think  I  may  define  it  to  be  “  that 
faculty  of  the  soul,  which  discerns  the  beauties  of 


witlwrTi  W!,th  Pleasure'  and  the  imperfections 
?  ltb  dlsIlk<y  It  a  man  would  know  Avhether  he 
is  possessed  of  this  faculty,  I  would  have  him 
( at  ov er  the  celebrated  works  of  antiquity,  which 
ave  s  ood  the  test  of  so  many  different  ages  and 

wW  T’  °,ri  t  lOSe  Works  araon£  the  moderns 
which  have  the  sanction  of  the  politer  part  of  our 

?nit  £°TleS‘  lfA  Tm  the  perusal  of  such  writ¬ 
ings,  he  does  not  find  himself  delighted  in  an  ex¬ 
traordinary  manner,  or  if,  upon  reading  the  ad- 
™'red  Pass.a?es  m  such  authors,  he  fimfs  a  cold- 

tn  ^rf'idilndlffer,enCe  in  his  thoughts,  he  ought 
conclude,  not  (as  is  too  usual  among  tasteless 

w?dTV  hau  th<3  author  wants  those  perfections 
adm,red  in  him,  but  that  he  him- 
self  Avants  the  faculty  of  discovering  them. 

He  should,  in  the  second  place,  be  very  careful 
o  o  serve,  Avhether  he  tastes  the  distinguishing 
perfections,  or,  if  J  may  be  allowed  to  call  them 
so,  the  specific  qualities  of  the  author  whom  he 
peruses  ;  Avhether  he  is  particularly  pleased  with 
Invy  for  Ins  manner  of  telling  a  story,  with  Sal¬ 
lust  lor  his  entering  into  those  internal  principles 
of  action  which  arise  from  the  characters  and 
manners  of  the  persons  he  describes,  or  Avith 
lacitus  for  displaying  those  outAvard  motives  of 
saiety  and  interest  which  gave  birth  to  the  whole 
series  of  transactions  Avhich  he  relates. 

He  may  likewise  consider  hoAV  differently  he  is 
affected  by  the  same  thought  which  presents  itself 
in  a  great  writer,  from  what  he  is  Avhen  he  finds 
it  delivered  by  a  person  of  an  ordinary  genius  • 
ioi  there  is  as  much  difference  in  apprehending  a 
thought  clothed  in  Cicero’s  language,  and  that  of 
a  common  author,  as  in  seeing  an  object  by  the 
light  of  a  taper,  or  by  the  light  of  the  sun. 

It  is  very  difficult  to  lay  down  rules  for  the 
acquirement  of  such  a  taste  as  that  I  am  here 
speaking  of.  The  faculty  must,  in  some  degree, 
be  born  with  us  :  and  it  very  often  happens,  that 
those  who  have  other  qualities  in  perfection,  are 
wholly  void  of  this.  One  of  the  most  eminent 
mathematicians  of  the  age  has  assured  me,  that 
the  greatest  pleasure  he  took  in  reading  Virgil 
was  in  examining  ^Eneas’s  voyage  by  the  map  ; 
as  I  question  not  but  many  a  modern  compiler  of 
history  would  be  delighted  with  little  more  in 
that  divine  author  than  the  bare  matter  of  fact. 

But,  notAvithstanding  this  faculty  must  in  some 
measure  be  born  with  us,  there  are  several  methods 
for  cultivating  and  improving  it,  and  Avithout 
which  it  will  be  very  uncertain,  and  of  little  use 
to  the  person  that  possesses  it.  The  most  natural 
method  for  this  purpose  is  to  be  conversant  amono- 
the  writings  of  the  most  polite  authors.  A  man 
Avho  has  any  relish  for  fine  Avriting,  either  discov¬ 
ers  neAv  beauties,  or  recei\Tes  stronger  impressions, 
from  the  masterly  strokes  of  a  great  author,  every 
time  he  peruses  him  ;  beside  that  he  naturallv 
wears  himself  into  the  same  manner  of  speaking 
and  thinking.  ° 

Conversation  with  men  of  a  polite  genius  is 
another  method  for  improving  our  natural  taste. 

It  is  impossible  for  a  man  of  the  greatest  parts  to 
consider  anything  in  its  whole  extent,  and  in  all 
its  variety  ol  lights.  Every  man,  beside  those 
general  obsenrations  which  are  to  be  made  upon 
an  author,  forms  several  reflections  that  are  pecu¬ 
liar  to  his  oAvn  manner  of  thinking  ;  so  that  con¬ 
versation  Avill  naturally  furnish  us  with  hints 
which  we  did  not  attend  to,  and  make  us  enjoy 
other  men’s  parts  and  reflections  as  Avell  as  our 
own.  This  is  the  best  reason  I  can  give  for  the 
observation  which  several  have  made,  that  men 
of  great  genius  in  the  same  way  of  writing  sel¬ 
dom  rise  up  singly,  but  at  certain  periods  of  time 
appear  together,  and  in  a  body;  as  they  did  at 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


496 

Rome  in  the  reign  of  Augustus,  and  in  Greece 
about  the  age  of  Socrates.  I  cannot  think  that 
Corneille,  Racine,  Moliere,  Boileau,  La  Fontaine, 
Bruyere,  Bossu,  or  the  Daciers,  would  have  writ¬ 
ten  so  well  as  they  have  done,  had  they  not  been 
friends  and  cotemporaries. 

It  is  likewise  necessary  for  a  man  who  would 
form  to  himself  a  finished  taste  of  good  writing, 
to  be  well  versed  in  the  works  of  the  best  critics, 
both  ancient  and  modern.  I  must  confess  that  I 
could  wish  there  were  authors  of  this  kind,  who, 
beside  the  mechanical  rules,  which  a  man  of  very 
little  taste  may  discourse  upon,  would  enter  into 
the  very  spirit  and  soul  of  fine  writing,  and  show 
us  the  several  sources  of  that  pleasure  which  rises 
in  the  mind  upon  the  perusal  of  a  noble  work. 
Thus,  although  in  poetry  it  be  absolutely  neces¬ 
sary  that  the  unities  of  time,  place,  and  action, 
with  other  points  of  the  same  nature,  should  be 
thoroughly  explained  and  understood,  there  is 
still  something  more  essential  to  the  art,  some¬ 
thing  that  elevates  and  astonishes  the  fancy,  and 
gives  a  greatness  of  mind  to  the  reader,  which 
few  of  the  critics  beside  Longinus  have  consi¬ 
dered. 

Our  general  taste  in  England  is  for  epigram, 
turns  of  wit,  and  forced  conceits,  which  have  no 
manner  of  influence  either  for  the  bettering  or  en¬ 
larging  the  mind  of  him  who  reads  them,  and 
have  been  carefully  avoided  by  the  greatest  wri¬ 
ters  both  among  the  ancients  and  moderns.  I 
have  endeavored,  in  several  of  my  speculations, 
to  banish  this  Gothic  taste  which  has  taken  pos¬ 
session  among  us.  I  entertained  the  town  for  a 
week  together  with  an  essay  upon  wit,  in  which 
I  endeavored  to  detect  several  of  those  false  kinds 
which  have  been  admired  in  the  different  ages  of 
the  world,  and  at  the  same  time  to  show  wherein 
the  nature  of  true  wit  consists.  I  afterward  gave  an 
instance  of  the  great  force  which  lies,  in  a  natural 
simplicity  of  thought  to  affect  the  mind  of  the 
reader,  from  such  vulgar  pieces  as  have  little  else 
beside  this  single  qualification  to  recommend  them. 
I  have  likewise  examined  the  works  of  the  great¬ 
est  poet  which  our  nation,  or  perhaps  any  other, 
has  produced,  and  particularized  most  of  those 
rational  and  manly  beauties  which  give  a  value  to 
that  divine  work.  I  shall  next  Saturday  enter 
upon  an  essay  on  “  The  Pleasures  of  the  Imagin¬ 
ation,”  which,  though  it  shall  consider  that  subject 
at  large,  will  perhaps  suggest  to  the  reader  what 
it  is  that  gives  a  beauty  to  many  passages  of  the 
finest  writers  both  in  prose  and  verse.  As  an 
undertaking  of  this  nature  is  entirely  new,  I 
question  not  but  it  will  be  received  with  candor. 


No.  410.]  FRIDAY,  JUNE  20,  1712. 

- Dum  foris  sunt,  nihil  vkletur  mundius, 

Nec  magis  compositum  quidquam,  nec  mag  is  elegans: 
Quae,  cum  amatore  suo  cum  coenant,  liguriunt. 

Ilarum  videre  ingluviem  sordes,  inopiam : 

Quam  inhonestae  solae  sint  domi,  atque  avidae  cibi : 

Quo  pacto  ex  jure  hesterno  panem  atrum  vorent : 

Nosse  omnia  hacc,  salus  est  adolescentulis. 

Ter.  Eun.  act  v,  sc.  4. 

When  they  are  abroad,  nothing  so  clean  and  nicely  dressed, 
and  when  at  supper  with  a  gallant,  they  do  but  piddle,  and 
pick  the  choicest  bits :  but  to  see  their  nastiness  and  pov¬ 
erty  at  home,  their  gluttony,  and  how  they  devour  black 
crusts  dipped  in  yesterday’s  broth,  is  a  perfect  antidote 
against  wenching. 

Will  Honeycomb,  who  disguises  his  present 
decay  by  visiting  the  wenches  of  the  town  only  by 
way  of  humor,  told  us,  that  the  last  rainy  night, 
he  with  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  was  driven  into 


the  Temple  cloister,  whither  had  escaped  also  a 
lady  most  exactly  dressed  from  head  to  foot. 
Will  made  no  scruple  to  acquaint  us,  that  she 
saluted  him  very  familiarly  by  his  name,  and 
turning  immediately  to  the  knight,  she  said  she 
supposed  that  was  liis  good  friend  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley :  upon  which  nothing  less  could  follow 
than  Sir  Roger’s  approach  to  salutation,  with 
“  Madam,  the  same,  at  your  service.”  She  was 
dressed  in  a  black  tabby  mantua  and  petticoat, 
without  ribbons  ;  her  linen  striped  muslin,  and 
in  the  whole  in  an  agreeable  second  mourning  ; 
decent  dresses  being  often  affected  by  the  creatures 
of  the  town,  at  once  consulting  cheapness  and  the 
pretension  to  modesty.  She  went  on  with  a  fa¬ 
miliar,  easy  air,  “  Your  friend,  Mr.  Honeycomb,  is 
a  little  surprised  to  see  a  woman  here  alone  and 
unattended  ;  but  I  dismissed  my  coach  at  the 
gate,  and  tripped  it  down  to  my  counsel’s  cham¬ 
bers  ;  for  lawyers’  fees  take  up  too  much  of  a 
small  disputed  jointure  to  admit  any  other  ex- 

Eenses  but  mere  necessaries.”  Mr.  Honeycomb 
egged  they  might  have  the  honor  of  setting  her 
down,  for  Sir  Roger’s  servant  was  gone  to  call  a 
coach.  In  the  interim  the  footman  returned  with 
“  no  coach  to  be  had  and  there  appeared  nothing 
to  be  done  but  trusting  herself  with  Mr.  Honey¬ 
comb  and  his  friend,  to  wait  at  the  tavern  at  the 
gate  for  a  coach,  or  be  subjected  to  all  the  imper¬ 
tinence  she  must  meet  with  in  that  public  place. 
Mr.  Honeycomb,  being  a  man  of  honor,  deter¬ 
mined  the  choice  of  the  first,  and  Sir  Roger,  as 
the  better  man,  took  the  lady  by  the  hand,  leading 
her  through  all  the  shower,  covering  her  with  his 
hat,  and  gallanting  a  familiar  acquaintance  through 
rows  of  young  fellows  who  winked  at  Sukey  in 
the  state  she  marched  off,  Will  Honeycomb  bring¬ 
ing  up  the  rear. 

Much  importunity  prevailed  upon  the  fair  one 
to  admit  of  a  collation,  where,  after  declaring  she 
had  no  stomach,  and  having  eaten  a  couple  of 
chickens,  devoured  a  truss  of  salad,  and  drank  a 
full  bottle  to  her  share,  she  sung  the  Old  Man’s 
Wish  to  Sir  Roger.  The  knight  left  the  room  for 
some  time  after  supper,  and  wrote  the  following 
billet,  which  he  conveyed  to  Sukey,  and  Sukey  to 
her  friend  Will  Honeycomb.  Will  has  given  it  to 
Sir  Andrew  Freeport,  who  read  it  last  night  to  the 
club : — 

“  Madam, 

“  I  am  not  so  mere  a  country  gentleman,  but  I 
can  guess  at  the  law  business  you  had  at  the 
Temple.  If  you  would  go  down  to  the  country, 
and  leave  off  all  your  vanities  but  your  singing, 
let  me  know  at  my  lodgings  in  Bow-street,  Cov¬ 
ent-garden,  and  you  shall  be  encouraged  by  your 
humble  servant,  “  Roger  De  Coverley.” 

My  good  friend  could  not  well  stand  the  rail¬ 
lery  which  was  rising  upon  him  ;  but  to  put  a 
stop  to  it,  I  delivered  Will  Honeycomb  the  fol¬ 
lowing  letter,  and  desired  him  to  read  it  to  the 
board  : — 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Having  seen  a  translation  of  one  of  the  chap¬ 
ters  in  the  Canticles  into  English  verse  inserted 
among  your  late  papers,  I  have  ventured  to  send 
you  the  seventh  chapter  of  the  Proverbs  in  a 
poetical  dress.  If  you  think  it  worthy  appearing 
among  your  speculations,  it  will  be  a  sufficient 
reward  for  the  trouble  of 

“Your  constant  Reader, 

“A.  B.” 


THE  SPECTATOR 


^ly  son,  tli  instruction  tlizit  my  words  impart 
Grave  on  the  living  tablet  of  thy  heart: 

And  all  the  wholesome  precepts  that  1  give. 
Observe  with  strictest  reverence,  and  live.  ? 

Let  all  thy  homage  be  to  Wisdom  paid, 

Seek  her  protection,  and  implore  her  aid ; 

That  she  may  keep  thy  soul  from  harm  secure, 
And  turn  thy  footsteps  from  the  harlot’s  door 
\\  ho  with  curs  d  charms  lures  the  unwary  in 
And  soothes  with  flattery  their  souls  to  sin.  ’ 
Once  from  my  window,  as  I  cast  mine  eye 
On  those  that  passed  in  giddy  numbers  by, 

A  youth  among  the  foolish  youths  I  spied, 

"  l10  took  not  sacred  wisdom  for  his  guide. 

Just  as  the  sun  withdrew  his  cooler  light, 

And  evening  soft  led  on  the  shades  of  night. 

He  stole  in  covert  twilight  to  his  fate, 

And  passed  the  corner  near  the  harlot’s  gate, 

When  lol  a  woman  comes! - - -  ’ 

Loose  her  attire,  and  such  her  glaring  dress 
So  aptly  did  the  harlot’s  miud  express : 

Subtile  she  is,  and  practic’d  in  the  arts 
By  which  the  wanton  conquers  heedless  hearts : 
Stubborn  and  loud  she  is;  she  hates  her  home; 
Varying  her  place  and  form,  she  loves  to  roam: 
Aow  she’s  within,  now  in  the  street  doth  stray 
bow  at  each  corner  stands  and  waits  her  prey. 

The  youth  she  seiz’d ;  and  laying  now  aside 
All  modesty,  the  female’s  justest  pride 
She  said,  with  an  embrace,  “Here  at  my  house 
Poace-ofTerings  are,  this  day  I  paid  my  vows. 

I  therefore  came  abroad  to  meet  my  dear 
And,  lo!  in  happy  hour,  I  find  thee  here.’ 

My  chamber  I’ve  adorn’d,  and  o’er  my  bed 
Are  coy ’rings  of  the  richest  tap’stry  spread-- 
With  linen  it  is  deck’d  from  Egypt  brought' 

And  carvings  by  the  curious  artist  wrought- 
It  wants  no  perfume  Arabia  yields 
In  all  her  citron  groves  and  spicy  fields  • 

Here  all  her  store  of  richest  odors  meets, 

I  ll  lay  thee  in  a  wilderness  of  sweets; 

Whatever  to  the  sense  can  grateful  be 

I  have  collected  there - -I  want  but  thee. 

My  husband’s  gone  a  journey  far  away. 

Much  gold  he  took  abroad,  and  long  will  stay 
He  named  for  his  return  a  distant  day.”  ’ 

Upon  her  tongue  did  such  smooth  mischief  dwell. 
And  from  her  lips  such  welcome  flatt’ry  fell 
Th  unguarded  youth,  in  silken  fetters  tied, 

Itesign  d  his  reason,  and  with  ease  complied, 
thus  does  the  ox  to  his  own  slaughter  go. 

And  thus  is  senseless  of  th’  impending  blow  • 

Thus  flies  the  simple  bird  into  the  snare,  ’ 

That  skillful  fowlers  for  his  life  prepare. 

But  let  my  sons  attend.  Attend  may  they 
Whom  youthful  vigor  may  to  sin  betray; 

Let  them  false  charmers  fly,  and  guard  their  hearts 
Against  the  wily  wanton’s  pleasing  arts; 

With  care  direct  their  steps,  nor  turn  astray 
To  tread  the  paths  of  her  deceitful  way 
Lest  they  too  late  of  hei-  fell  pow’r  complain, 

And  fall,  where  many  mightier  have  been  slain. 


497 


No.  411.]  SATURDAY,  JUUE  21,  1712. 

.  PAPER  I. 

ON  THE  PLEASURES  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

CONTENTS. 

Thc  perfection  of  our  sight  above  our  other  senses.  The 
pleasures  ot  the  imagination  arise  originally  from  sisht 
ihe  pleasures  of  the  imagination  divided  under  two  heads.’ 

lie  pleasures  of  the  imagination  in  some  respects  equal  to 
those  of  the  understanding.  The  extent  of  the  pleasures 
of  the  imagination.  The  advantages  a  man  receives  fSS 
a  relish  of  these  pleasures.  In  what  respect  they  are  nre- 
ferable  to  those  of  the  understanding.  ^ 

Avia  Pieridum  peragro  loca,  nullius  ante 
Irita  solo:  juvat  integros  accedere  fontes, 

Atque  haunre - Lucr.  i.  925. 

In  wild  unclear’d,  to  Muses  a  retreat, 

0  er  ground  untrod  before.  I  devious  roam. 

And  deep  enamor  d  into  latent  springs 
Presume  to  peep  at  coy  virgin  Naiads. 

Our  sight  is  the  most  perfect  and  most  delight¬ 
ful  of  all  our  senses.  It  fills  the  mind  with  the 
largest  variety  of  ideas,  converses  with  its  objects 
at  the  greatest  distance,  and  continues  the  longest 
m  action  without  being  tired  or  satiated  with  its 
proper  enjoyments.  The  sense  of  feeling  can 


lnaeed  give  us  a  notion  of  extension,  shape,  and 

f  K  eas  ent®r  at  the  eye,  except  colors: 

but  at  the  same  time  it  is  very  much  straitened, 
and  confined  in  its  operations  to  the  number, 
bulk,  and  distance  of  its  particular  objects.  Our 
sight  seems  designed  to  supply  all  these  defects, 
and  may  be  considered  as  a  more  delicate  and 
d^usive  kind  of  touch,  that  spreads  itself  over 
an  infinite  multitude  of  bodies,  comprehends  the 
laigest  figures,  and  brings  into  our  reach  some  of 
the  most  remote  parts  of  the  universe. 

sense  which  furnishes  the  imagina- 
t  on  with  Hs  ideas;  so  that  by  “the  pleasures  of 
the  mag, na  ‘on,’-  or  “fancy”  (which  I  shall  use 
promiscuously),  I  here  mean  such  as  arise  from 
visible  objects,  either  when  we  have  them  actually 
in  our  view  or  when  we  call  up  their  ideas  into 
oui  minds  by  painting,  statues,  descriptions,  or 
ny  the  like  occasion.  We  cannot  indeed  have  a 
single  image  in  the  fancy  that  did  not  make  its 
first  entrance  through  the  sight;  but  we  have  the 
powei  of  retaining,  altering,  and  compounding: 
t  iose  images  which  we  have  once  received,  into 
an  the  varieties  of  picture  and  vision  that  are  most 
agreeable  to  the  imagination  :  for  by  this  faculty, 
a  man  in  a  dungeon  is  capable  of  entertaining 
himself  with  scenes  and  landscapes  more  beautn 
u  than  any  that  can  be  found  in  the  whole  com¬ 
pass  of  nature. 

There  are  few  words  in  the  English  language 
hicli  are  employed  in  a  more  loose  and  uncir- 
cumscribed  sense  than  those  of  the  fancy  and  the 
imagination.  I  therefore  thought  it  necessary  to 
fix  and  determine  the  notion  of  these  two  words 
as  I  intend  to  make  use  of  them  in  the  thread  of 
my  following  speculations,  that  the  reader  may 
conceive  rightly  what  is  the  subject  which  I  pro¬ 
ceed  upon.  I  must  therefore  desire  him  to  re¬ 
member  that  by  “  the  pleasures  of  the  imagina- 
1(?n!  .-f  B}ean  only  such  pleasures  as  arise 

originally  from  sight,  and  that  I  divide  these 
pleasures  into  two  kinds;  my  design  being  first 
of  all  to  discourse  of  those  primary  pleasures  of 
the  imagination,  which  entirely  proceed  from 
such  objects  as  are  before  our  eyes;  and  in  the 
next  place  to  speak  of  those  secondary  pleasures 
of  the  imagination  which  flow  from  the  ideas  of 
visible  objects,  when  the  objects  are  not  actually 
e  oi e  the  eye,  but  are  called  up  into  our  memo¬ 
ries,  or  formed  into  agreeable  visions  of  things 
that  are  either  absent  or  fictitious. 

The  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  taken  in  their 
u  extent,  are  not  so  gross  as  those  of  sense,  nor 
so  leflned  as  those  ol  the  understanding.  The 
last  are  indeed  more  preferable,  because  they  are 
founded  on  some  new  knowledge  or  improvement, 
in  the  mind  of  man;  yet  it  must  be  confessed,  that 
those  of  the  imagination  are  as  great  and  as  trans¬ 
porting  as  the  other.  A  beautiful  prospect  de¬ 
fights  the  soul  as  much  as  a  demonstration;  and  a 
description  in  Homer  has  charmed  more  readers 
than  a  chapter  in  Aristotle.  Beside,  the  pleasures 
of  the  imagination  have  this  advantage  above 
those  of  the  understanding,  that  they  are  more 
obvious  and  more  easy  to  be  acquired.  It  is  but 
opening  the  eye,  and  the  scene  enters.  The  colors 
paint  themselves  on  the  fancy,  with  very  little  at¬ 
tention  of  thought  or  application  of  mind  in  the 
beholder.  We  are  struck,  we  know  not  how,  with 
the  symmetry  of  anything  we  see,  and  immedi¬ 
ately  assent  to  the  beauty  of  an  object,  without 
inquiring  into  the  particular  causes  and  occasions 
of  it. 

A  man  of  a  polite  imagination  is  let  into  a  great 
many  pleasures  that  the  vulgar  are  not  capable  of 
receiving.  He  can  converse  with  a  picture,  and 
find  an  agreeable  companion  in  a  statue.  He  meets 


THE  SPECT ATO  R. 


496 

with  a  secret  refreshment  in  a  description,  and 
often  feels  a  greater  satisfaction  in  the  prospect  of 
fields  and  meadows,  than  another  does  in  the  pos¬ 
session.  It  gives  him,  indeed,  a  kind  of  property 
in  everything  he  sees,  and  makes  the  most  rude 
uncultivated  parts  of  nature  administer  to  his 
pleasures;  so  that  he  looks  upon  the  world  as  it 
were  in  another  light,  and  discovers  in  it  a  multi¬ 
tude  of  charms,  that  conceal  themselves  from  the 
generality  of  mankind. 

There  are  indeed  but  very  few  who  know  how 
to  be  idle  and  innocent,  or  have  a  relish  of  any 
pleasures  that  are  not  criminal;  every  diversion 
they  take  is  at  the  expense  of  some  one  virtue  or 
another,  and  their  very  first  step  out  of  business 
is  into  vice  or  folly.  A  man  should  endeavor, 
therefore,  to  make  the  sphere  of  his  innocent  plea¬ 
sures  as  wide  as  possible,  that  he  may  retire  into 
them  with  safety,  and  find  in  them  such  a  satis¬ 
faction  as  a  wise  man  would  not  blush  to  take. 
Of  this  nature  are  those  of  the  imagination,  which 
do  not  require  such  a  bent  of  thought  as  is  neces¬ 
sary  to  our  more  serious  employments,  nor,  at  the 
same  time,  suffer  the  mind  to  sink  into  that  negli¬ 
gence  and  remissness,  which  are  apt  to  accompany 
our  more  sensual  delights,  but,  like  a  gentle  exer¬ 
cise  to  the  faculties,  awaken  them  from  sloth  and 
idleness,  without  putting  them  upon  any  labor  or 
difficulty. 

We  might  here  add,  that,  the  pleasures  of  the 
fancy  are  more  conducive  to  health  than  those  of 
the  understanding,  which  are  worked  out  by  dint 
of  thinking,  and  attended  with  too  violent  a  labor 
of  the  brain.  Delightful  scenes,  whether  in  na¬ 
ture,  painting,  or  poetry,  have  a  kindly  influence 
on  the  body  as  well  as  the  mind  :  and  not  only 
serve  to  clear  and  brighten  the  imagination,  but 
are  able  to  disperse  grief  and  melancholy,  and  to 
set  the  animal  spirits  in  pleasing  and  agreeable 
motions.  For  this  reason,  Sir  Francis  Bacon,  in 
his  Essay  upon  Health,  lias  not  thought  it  impro¬ 
per  to  prescribe  to  his  reader  a  poem  or  a  prospect, 
where  he  particularly  dissuades  him  from  knotty 
and  subtile  disquisitions,  and  advises  him  to  pur¬ 
sue  studies  that  fill  the  mind  with  splendid  and 
illustrious  objects,  as  histories,  fables,  and  contem¬ 
plations  of  nature. 

I  have  in  this  paper,  by  way  of  introduction, 
settled  the  notion  of  those  pleasures  of  the  imagi¬ 
nation  which  are  the  subject  of  my  present  under¬ 
taking,  and  endeavored,  by  several  considerations, 
to  recommend  to  my  reader  the  pursuit  of  those 
pleasures.  I  shall  in  my  next  paper  examine  the 
several  sources  from  whence  these  pleasures  are 
derived. — O. 


No.  412. J  MONDAY,  JUNE  23,  1712. 

PAPER  II. 

ON  THE  PLEASURES  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

CONTENTS. 

Three  sources  of  all  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  in  our 
survey  of  outward  objects.  How  what  is  great  pleases  the 
imagination.  How  what  is  new  pleases  the  imagination. 
How  what  is  beautiful  in  our  species  pleases  the  imagina¬ 
tion.  How  what  is  beautiful  in  general  pleases  the  imagi¬ 
nation.  What  other  accidental  causes  may  contribute  to 
the  heightening  of  those  pleasures. 

- Divisum  sic  breve  fiet  opus. — Mart.  Ep.  iv,  83. 

The  work,  divided  aptly,  shorter  grows. 

I  shall  first  consider  those  pleasures  of  the 
imagination  which  arise  from  the  actual  view  and 
survey  of  outward  objects  :  and  these,  I  think,  all 
proceed  from  the  sight  of  what  is  great,  uncommon, 


or  beautiful.  There  may,  indeed,  be  something 
terrible  or  offensive,  that  the  horror  or  loathsunifc- 
ness  of  an  object  may  overbear  the  pleasure  which 
results  from  its  greatness,  novelty,  or  beauty  ;  but 
still  there  will  be  such  a  mixture  of  delight  in  the 
very  disgust  it  gives  us,  aS  any  of  these  three 
qualifications  are  most  conspicuous  and  prevail¬ 
ing. 

By  greatness,  I  do  not  only  mean  the  bulk  of 
any  single  object,  but  the  largeness  of  a  whole 
view,  considered  as  one  entire  piece.  Such  are 
the  prospects  of  an  open  champaign  country,  a 
vast  uncultivated  desert,  of  huge  heaps  of  moun¬ 
tains,  high  rocks  and  precipices,  or  a  wide  expanse 
of  waters,  where  we  are  not  struck  with  the  no¬ 
velty  or  beauty  of  the  sight,  but  with  that  rude, 
kind  of  magnificence  which  appears  in  many  of 
these  stupendous  works  of  nature.  Our  imagina¬ 
tion  loves  to  be  filled  with  an  object,  or  to  grasp 
at  anything  that  is  too  big  for  its  capacity.  We 
are  flung  into  a  pleasing  astonishment  at  such  un¬ 
bounded  views,  and  feel  a  delightful  stillness  and 
amazement  in  the  soul  at  the  apprehension  of 
them.  The  mind  of  man  naturally  hates  every¬ 
thing  that  looks  like  a  restraint  upon  it,  and  is 
apt  to  fancy  itself  under  a  sort  of  confinement, 
when  the  sight  is  pent  up  in  a  narrow  compass, 
and  shortened  on  every  side  by  the  neighborhood 
of  walls  or  mountains.  On  the  contrary,  a  spa¬ 
cious  horizon  is  an  image  of  liberty,  where  the 
eye  has  room  to  range  abroad,  to  expatiate  at  large 
on  the  immensity  of  its  views,  and  to  lose  itself 
amid  the  variety  of  objects  that  offer  themselves 
to  its  observation.  Such  wide  and  undetermined 
prospects  are  as  pleasing  to  the  fancy  as  the  spe¬ 
culations  of  eternity  or  infinitude  are  to  the  under¬ 
standing.  But  if  there  be  a  beauty  or  uncommon¬ 
ness  joined  with  this  grandeur,  as  in  a  troubled 
ocean,  a  heaven  adorned  with  stars  and  meteors, 
or  a  spacious  landscape  cut  out  into  rivers,  woods, 
rocks,  and  meadows,  the  pleasure  still  grows  upon 
us,  as  it  arises  from  more  than  a  single  principle. 

Everything  that  is  new  or  uncommon  raises  a 
pleasure  in  the  imagination,  because  it  fills  the 
soul  with  an  agreeable  surprise,  gratifies  its  curi 
osity,  and  gives  it  an  idea  of  which  it  was  not  be¬ 
fore  possessed.  We  are  indeed  so  often  conver¬ 
sant  with  one  set  of  objects,  and  tired  out  with  so 
many  repeated  shows  of  the  same  things,  that 
whatever  is  new  or  uncommon  contributes  a  little 
to  vary  human  life,  and  to  divert  our  minds  for  a 
while  with  the  strangeness  of  its  appearance.  It 
serves  us  for  a  kind  of  refreshment,  and  takes  off 
from  that  satiety  we  are  apt  to  complain  of,  in  our 
usual  and  ordinary  entertainments.  It  is  this  that 
bestows  charms  on  a  monster,  and  makes  even  the 
imperfections  of  nature  please  us.  It  is  this  that 
recommends  variety,  where  the  mind  is  every  in¬ 
stant  called  off  to  something  new,  and  the  atten¬ 
tion  not  suffered  to  dwell  too  long,  and  waste 
itself  on  any  particular  object.  It  is  this,  like¬ 
wise,  that  improves  what  is  great  or  beautiful,  and 
makes  it  afford  the  mind  a  double  entertainment. 
Groves,  fields,  and  meadows,  are  at  any  season  of 
the  year  pleasant  to  look  upon,  but  never  so  much 
as  in  the  opening  of  the  spring,  when  they  are  all 
new  and  fresh,  with  their  first  gloss  upon  them, 
and  not  yet  too  much  accustomed  and  familiar  to 
the  eye.  For  this  reason  there  is  nothing  that 
more  enlivens  a  prospect  than  rivers,  jetteaus,  or 
falls  of  water,  where  the  scene  is  perpetually 
shifting,  and  entertaining  the  sight  every  moment 
with  something  that  is  new.  We  are  quickly  tired 
with  looking  upon  hills  and  valleys,  where  every¬ 
thing  continues  fixed  and  settled  in  the  same  place 
and  posture,  but  find  our  thoughts  a  little  agita¬ 
ted  and  relieved  at  the  sight  of  such  objects  as  are 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


ever  in  motion,  and  sliding  away  from  beneath  the 
eye  of  the  beholder. 

But  there  is  nothing  that  makes  its  way  more 
directly  to  the  soul  than  beauty,  which  immedi- 
ately  diffuses  a  secret  satisfaction  and  compla¬ 
cency  through  the  imagination,  and  gives  a  finish¬ 
ing  to  anything  that  is  great  or  uncommon.  The 
very  first  discovery  of  it  strikes  the  mind  with  an 
inward  joy,  and  spreads  a  cheerfulness  and  de¬ 
light  through  all  its  faculties.  There  is  not  per¬ 
haps  any  real  beauty  or  deformity  more  in  one 
piece  of  matter  than  another,  because  we  might 
have  been  so  made,  that  whatsoever  now  appears 
loathsome  to  us  might  have  shown  itself  agree¬ 
able;  but  we  find  by  experience  that  there  are  se¬ 
veral  modifications  of  matter,  which  the  mind, 
without  any  previous  consideration,  pronounces  at 
first  sight  beautiful  or  deformed.  Thus  we  see 
that  every  different  species  of  sensible  creatures 
has  its  different  notions  of  beauty,  and  that  each 
of  them  is  most  affected  with  the  beauties  of  its 
own  kind.  This  is  nowhere  more  remarkable 
than  in  birds  of  the  same  shape  and  proportion, 
where  we  often  see  the  male  determined  in  his 
courtship  by  the  single  grain  or  tincture  of  a 
leather,  and  never  discovering  any  charms  but  in 
the  color  of  its  species. 


499 


and  setting  of  the  sun,  which  is  wholly  made  up 
of  those  different  stains  of  light  that  show  them¬ 
selves  m  the  clouds  of  a  different  situation.  For 
I  this  reason  we  find  the  poets,  who  are  always 
addressing  themselves  to  the  imagination,  bor¬ 
rowing  more  of  their  epithets  from  colors,  than 
!  horn  any  other  topic. 

As  the  fancy  delights  in  everything  that  is  great, 

:  strange,  or  beautiful,  and  is  still  more  pleased 
:  the  more  it  finds  of  these  perfections  in  the  same 
i  ®bJect>  S0  lt  IS  capable  of  receiving  a  new  satisfac¬ 
tion  by  the  assistance  of  another  sense.  Thus  any 
continued  sound,  as  the  music  of  birds,  or  a  fall 
of  water,  awakens  every  moment  the  mind  of  the 
several  beauties  of  the  place  that  lie  before  him. 
beholder,  and  makes  him  more  attentive  to  the 
thus,  if  there  arises  a  fragrancy  of  smells  or  per¬ 
fumes,  they  heighten  the  pleasures  of  the  imagina¬ 
tion  and  make  even  the  colors  and  verdure  of  the 
landscape  appear  more  agreeable  ;  for  the  ideas  of 
both  senses  recommend  each  other,  and  are  pleas¬ 
anter  together  than  when  they  enter  the  mind  sep¬ 
arately  ;  as  the  different  colors  of  a  picture,  when 
they  are  well  disposed,  set  off  one  another,  and 
receive  an  additional  beauty  from  the  advantage  of 
their  situation. — 0. 


Scit  thalamo  servare  fidem,  sanctasque  veretur 
Connubii  leges;  non  ilium  in  pectore  candor 
Sohcitat  niveus;  neque  pravurn  accendit  amorem 
fcplendida  lanugo,  yel  honesta  in  vertice  crista, 
Purpureusve  nitor  pennarum ;  ast  agmina  late 
Foeminea  explorat  cautus,  maculasque  requirit 
Cognatas,  paribusque  iuterlita  corpora  guttis; 

faceret,  pictis  sylvam  circum  undique  monstris 
Lonfusam  aspiceres  vulgo  partusque  biformes, 

Et  genus  ambiguum,  et  veneris  monumenta  nefandee. 

rone  merula  in  nigro  se  oblectat  nigra  marito; 

Hmc  soeium  lasciva  petit  Philomela  canorum, 
Agnoscitque  pares  sonitus ;  hinc  noctua  tetram 
Lamtiem  alarum,  et  glaucos  miratur  ocellos 
Nempe  sibi  semper  constat,  crescitque  quotannis 
Lucida  progenies,  castos  confessa  parentes; 

Dum  virides  inter  saltus  lucosque  sonoros 
Vere  novo  exultat,  plumasque  decora  juventus 
fix  pi  ica  t  ad  solem  patriisque  coloribus  ardet.* 

The  feather’d  husband,  to  his  partner  true, 

Preserves  connubial  rites  inviolate. 

W  ith  cold  indifference  every  charm  he  sees, 

The  milky  whiteness  of  the  stately  neck, 

The  shining  down,  proud  crest,  and  purple  wings : 

But  cautious,  with  a  searching  eye  explores 
The  female  tribes,  his  proper  mate  to  find, 

With  kindred  colors  mark’d;  did  he  not  so, 

The  grove  with  painted  monsters  would  abound  • 

Th’  ambiguous  product  of  unnatural  love. 

The  blackbird  hence  selects  her  sooty  spouse  • 

The  nightingale  her  musical  compeer, 

Lur'd  by  the  well-kno  wn  voice,  the  bird  of  night 
Smit  with  his  dusky  wings  and  greenish  eyes?  ’ 

Wooes  his  dun  paramour.  The  beauteous  race 
»_peak  the  chaste  loves  of  their  progenitors; 

When,  by  the  Spring  invited,  they  exult 
In  woods  and  fields,  and  to  the  sun  unfold 
Their  plumes,  that  with  paternal  colors  glow. 

.  There  is  a  second  kind  of  beauty  that  we  find 
in  the  several -prod acts  of  art  and  nature,  which 
does  not  work  in  the  imagination  with  that  warmth 
and  violence  as  the  beauty  that  appears  in  our 
pioper  species,  but  is  apt,  however,  to  raise  in  us 
a  secret  delight,  and  a  kind  of  fondness  for  the 
places  or  objects  in  which  we  discover  it.  This 
consists  either  in  the  gayety  or  variety  of'  colors, 
in  the  symmetry  and  proportion  of  parts  in  the 
arrangement  and  disposition  of  bodies,  oV  in  a 
just  mixture  and  concurrence  of  all  together 
Among  these  several  kinds  of  beauty  the  eye 
takes  most  delight  in  colors.  We  nowhere  meet 
with  a  more  glorious  or  pleasing  show  in  nature 
than  what  appears  in  the  heavens  at  the  rising 


tWMW0AU,!?-  Seem’  frx°.m  his  manner  of  introducing  them 
that  Mr.  Addison  was  himself  the  author  of  these  fine  verses 


No.  413. J  TUESDAY,  JUNE  24,  1712. 

PAPER  nr. 


ON  THE  PLEASURES  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 
CONTENTS. 

Why  the  necessary  cause  of  our  being  pleased  with  what  is 
great,  new,  or  beautiful,  unknown.  Why  the  final  cause 
more  known  and  more  useful.  The  final  cause  of  our  being 
p  eased  with  what  is  great.  The  final  cause  of  our  beinf 
p  eased  with  what  is  new.  The  final  cause  of  our'fceini 
pleased  with  what  is  beautiful  in  our  own  species.  The 
final  cause  of  our  being  pleased  with  what  is  beautiful  in 

^cjiGrSii, 


Causa  latet,  vis  est  notissima -  Ovid,  Met.  ix  207. 

The  cause  is  secret,  but  the  effect  is  known.— Addison. 

Though  in  yesterday’s  paper  we  considered  how 
everything  that  is  great,  new  or  beautiful,  is  apt 
to  affect  the  imagination  with  pleasure,  we  must 
own  that  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  assign  the  ne- 
cessaiy  cause  of  this  pleasure,  because  we  know 
neither  the  nature  of  an  idea,  nor  the  substance  of 
a  human  soul,  which  might  help  us  to  discover  the 
conformity  or  disagreeableness  of  the  one  to  the 
otfier  ;  and  therefore,  for  want  of  such  a  light 
all  that  we  can  do  in  speculations  of  this  kind,  is 
to  reflect  on  those  operations  of  the  soul  that  are 
most  agreeable,  and  to  range,  under  their  proper 
heads,  what  is  pleasing  or  displeasing  to  the  mind 
without  being  able  to  trace  out  the  several  neces¬ 
sary  and  efficient  causes  from  whence  the  pleasure 
or  displeasure  arises. 

Final  causes  lie  more  bare  and  open  to  our  obser¬ 
vation,  as  there  are  often  a  greater  variety  that  be¬ 
long  to  the  same  effect ;  and  these,  though  they  are 
not  altogether  so  satisfactory,  are  generally  more 
useful  than  the  other,  as  they  give  us  greater  oc¬ 
casion  of  admiring  the  goodness  and  wisdom  of 
die  first  Contriver. 

One  of  the  final  causes  of  our  delight  in  any¬ 
thing  that  is  great  may  be  this.  The  Supreme 
Author  of  our  being  has  so  formed  the  soul  of  man 
that  nothing  but  Himself  can  be  its  last,  adequate, 
and  proper  happiness.  Because,  therefore,  a  great 
part  of  our  happiness  must  arise  from  the  contem¬ 
plation  of  his  being,  that  he  might  give  our  souls 
a  just  relish  for  such  a  contemplation,  he  has  made 
them  naturally  delight  in  the  apprehension  of  what 
is  great  or  unlimited.  Our  admiration,  which  is 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


500 

aver\'  pleasing  motion  of  the  mind,  immediately 
rises  at  the  consideration  of  any  object  that  takes 
up  a  great  deal  of  room  in  the  faney,  and,  by  con¬ 
sequence,  will  improve  into  the  highest  pitch  of 
astonishment  and  devotion  when  we  contemplate 
his  nature,  that  is  neither  circumscribed  by  time 
nor  place,  nor  to  be  comprehended  by  the  largest 
capacity  of  a  created  being. 

He  has  annexed  a  secret  pleasure  to  the  idea  of 
anything  that  is  new  or  uncommon,  that  he  might 
encourage  us  in  the  pursuit  after  knowledge,  and 
engage  us  to  search  into  the  wonders  of  his  crea¬ 
tion  ;  for  every  new  idea  brings  such  a  pleasure 
with  it,  as  rewards  any  pains  we  have  taken  in  its 
acquisition,  and  consequently  serves  as  a  motive 
to  put  us  upon  fresh  discoveries. 

He  has  made  everything  that  is  beautiful  in  our 
own  species  pleasant,  that  all  creatures  might  be 
tempted  to  multiply  their  kind,  and  fill  the  world 
with  inhabitants  ;  for  it  is  very  remarkable  that 
wherever  nature  is  crossed  in  the  production  of  a 
monster  (the  result  of  any  unnatural  mixture),  the 
breed  is  incapable  of  propagating  its  likeness,  and 
of  founding  a  new  order  of  creatures  ;  so  that,  un¬ 
less  all  animals  were  allured  by  the  beauty  of  their 
own  species,  generation  would  be  at  an  end,  and 
the  earth  unpeopled. 

In  the  last  place,  he  has  made  everything  that 
is  beautiful  in  all  other  objects  pleasant,  or  rather 
has  made  so  many  objects  appear  beautiful,  that 
he  might  render  the  whole  creation  more  gay  and 
delightful.  He  has  given  almost  everything  about 
us  the  power  of  raising  an  agreeable  idea  in  the 
imagination  :  so  that  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  be¬ 
hold  his  works  with  coldness  or  indifference,  and 
to  survey  so  many  beauties  without  a  secret  satis¬ 
faction  and  complacency.  Things  would  make 
but  a  poor  appearance  to  the  eye,  if  we  saw  them 
only  in  their  proper  figures  and  motions  ;  and  what 
reason  can  we  assign  for  their  exciting  in  us  many 
of  those  ideas  which  are  different  from  anything 
that  exists  in  the  objects  themselves  (for  such  are 
light  and  colors),  were  it  not  to  add  supernume¬ 
rary  ornaments  to  the  universe,  and  make  it  more 
agreeable  to  the  imagination  ?  We  are  everywhere 
entertained  with  pleasing  shows  and  apparitions  : 
we  discover  imaginary  glories  in  the  heavens  and 
in  the  earth,  and  see  some  of  this  visionary  beauty 
poured  out  upon  the  whole  creation  :  but  what  a 
rough,  unsightly  sketch  of  nature  should  we  be  en¬ 
tertained  with,  did  all  her  coloring  disappear,  and 
the  several  distinctions  of  light  and  shade  vanish? 
In  short,  our  souls  are  at  present  delightfully  lost 
andbewildered  in  a  pleasing  delusion,  and  we  walk 
about  like  the  enchanted  hero  of  a  romance,  who 
sees  beautiful  castles,  woods  and  meadows;  and, 
at  the  same  time,  hears  the  warbling  of  birds,  and 
the  purling  of  streams  :  but  upon  the  finishing  of 
some  secret  spell  the  fantastic  scene  breaks  up, 
and  the  disconsolate  knight  finds  him  on  a  barren 
heath,  or  in  a  solitary  desert.  It  is  not  improbable 
that  something  like  this  may  be  the  state  of  the 
soul  after  its  first  separation,  in  respect  of  the  im¬ 
ages  it  will  receive  from  matter  ;  though  indeed, 
the  ideas  of  colors  are  so  pleasing  arid  beautiful 
in  the  imagination,  that  it  is  possible  the  soul 
will  not  be  deprived  of  them,  but  perhaps  find 
them  excited  by  some  other  occasional  cause, 
as  they  are  at  present  by  the  different  impres¬ 
sions  of  the  subtile  matter  on  the  organ  of  sight. 

I  have  here  supposed  that  my  reader  is  ac¬ 
quainted  with  that  great  modern  discovery,  which 
is  at  present  universally  acknowledged  by  all  the 
inquirers  into  natural  philosophy;  namely,  that 
light  and  colors,  as  apprehended  by  the  imagina¬ 
tion,  are  only  ideas  in  the  mind,  and  not  quali¬ 
ties  that  have  any  existence  in  matter.  As  this 


J  is  a  truth  which  has  been  proved  incontestably  by 
many  modern  philosophers,  and  is  indeed  one  of 
;  the  finest  speculations  in  that  science,  if  the  Eng¬ 
lish  reader  would  see  the  notion  explained  at  large, 
he  may  find  it  in  the  eighth  chapter  of  the  second 
book  of  Mr.  Locke’s  Essay  on  Human  Under¬ 
standing. — 0. 

The  following  letter  of  Steele  io^Addison  is  reprinted 
here  from  the  original  edition  of  the  Spectator  in 
folio. 

“Mr.  Spectator,  June  24, 1712. 

“I  would  not  divert  the  course  of  your  dis¬ 
courses,  when  you  seem  bent  upon  obliging  the 
world  with  a  train  of  thinking,  which,  rightly 
attended  to,  may  render  the  life  of  every  one  that 
reads  it  more  easy  and  happy  for  the  future.  The 
pleasures  of  the  imagination  are  what  bewilder 
life,  when  reason  and  judgment  do  not  interpose  ; 
it  is  therefore,  a  worthy  action  in  you,  to  look 
carefully  into  the  powers  of  fancy,  that  other  men, 
from  the  knowledge  of  them,  may  improve  their 
joys,  and  allay  their  griefs,  by  a  just  use  of  that 
faculty.  I  say,  Sir,  I  would  not  interrupt  you 
in  the  progress  of  this  discourse  ;  but  if  you  will  do 
me  the  favor  of  inserting  this  letter  in  your  next 
paper,  you  will  do  some  service  to  the  public, 
though  not  in  so  noble  a  way  of  obliging,  as  that 
of  improving  their  minds.  Allow  me.  Sir,  to  ac¬ 
quaint  you  with  a  design  (of  which  I  am  partly 
author),  though  it  tends  to  no  greater  a  good  than 
that  of  getting  money.  I  should  not  hope  for  the 
favor  of  a  philosopher  in  this  matter  if  it  were  not 
attempted  under  the  restrictions  which  you  sages 
put  upon  private  acquisitions.  The  first  purpose 
which  every  good  man  is  to  propose  to  himself,  is 
the  service  of  his  prince  and  country  :  after  that 
is  done,  he  cannot  add  to  himself,  but  he  must 
also  be  beneficial  to  them.  This  scheme  of  gain 
is  not  only  consistent  with  that  end,  but  has  its 
very  being  in  subordination  to  it ;  for  no  man  can 
be  a  gainer  here  but  at  the  same  time  he^  himself, 
or  some  other,  must  succeed  in  their  dealings  with 
the  government.  It  is  called  *  The  Multiplication 
Table,’  and  is  so  far  calculated  for  the  immediate 
service  of  her  majesty,  that  the  same  person  who 
is  fortunate  in  the  lottery  of  the  state,  may  receive 
yet  further  advantage  in  this  table.  And  I  am 
sure  nothing  can  be  more  pleasing  to  her  gracious 
temper  than  to  find  out  additional  methods  of  in¬ 
creasing  their  good  fortune  who  adventure  any¬ 
thing  in  her  service,  or  laying  occasions  for  others 
to  become  capable  of  serving  their  country  who 
are  at  present  in  too  low  circumstances  to  exert 
themselves.  The  manner  of  executing  the  design 
is  by  giving  out  receipts  for  half  guineas  re¬ 
ceived,  which  shall  entitle  the  fortunate  bearer  to 
certain  sums  in  the  table,  as  is  set  forth  at  large 
in  the  proposals  printed  on  the  23d  instant.  There 
is  another  circumstance  in  this  design  which  gives 
me  hopes  of  your  favor  to  it,  and  that  is  what 
Tully  advises,  to  wit,  that  the  benefit  be  made  as 
diffusive  as  possible.  Every  one  that  has  half  a 
guinea,  is  put  into  the  possibility,  from  that  small 
sum,  to  raise  himself  an  easy  fortune:  when  these 
little  parcels  of  wealth  are,  as  it  were,  thus  thrown 
back  into  the  redonation  of  Providence,  we  are  to 
expect  that  some  who  live  under  hardships  or  ob¬ 
scurity  may  be  produced  to  the  world  in  the  figure 
they  deserve  by  this  means.  I  doubt  not  but  this 
last  argument  will  have  force  with  you  ;  and  I 
cannot  add  another  to  it,  but  what  your  severity 
will,  I  fear,  very  little  regard,  which  is,  that  I 
am,  “Sir,  your  greatest  Admirer, 

“  Richard  Steele.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


501 


No.  414.]  WEDNESDAY,  JUNE  25, 1712. 

PAPER  IV. 

OX  THE  PLEASURES  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

CONTENTS. 

The  works  of  nature  more  pleasant  to  the  imagination  than 
those  of  art.  The  works  of  nature  still  more  pleasant,  the 
more  they  resemble  those  of  art.  The  works  of  art  more 
pleasant,  the  more  they  resemble  those  of  nature.  Our  En¬ 
glish  plantations  and  gardens  considered  in  the  foreiroimr 
light.  °  & 

- • - Alterius  sic 

Altera  poscit  opem  res,  et  conjurat  amice. 

Hor.  Ars  Poet.  v.  410. 

But  mutually  they  need  each  other’s  help. — Roscommon. 

If  we  consider  the  works  of  nature  and  art  as 
they  are  qualified  to  entertain  the  imagination,  we 
shall  find  the  last  very  defective  in  comparison 
of  the  former  ;  for  though  they  may  sometimes  ap¬ 
pear  as  beautiful  or  strange,  they  can  have  nothing 
m  them  of  that  vastness  and  immensity,  which  af¬ 
ford  so  great  an  entertainment  to  the  mind  of  the 
beholder.  The  one  may  be  as  polite  and  delicate 
as  the  other,  but  can  never  show  herself  so  august 
and  magnificent  in  the  design.  There  is  something 
more  bold  and  masterly  in  the  rough,  careless  strokes 
of  nature,  than  in  the  nice  touches  and  embellish¬ 
ments  of  art.  The  beauties  of  the  most  stately 
garden  or  palace  lie  in  a  narrow  compass  ;  the  im¬ 
agination  immediately  runs  them  over  and  requires 
something  else  to  gratify  her ;  but  in  the  wide  fields 
of  nature,  the  sight  wanders  up  and  down  with¬ 
out  confinement,  and  is  fed  with  an  infinite  variety 
of  images,  without  any  certain  stint  or  number. 
For  this  reason  we  always  find  the  poet  in  love 
with  the  country  life,  where  nature  appears  in  the 
greatest  perfection,  and  furnishes  out  all  those 
scenes  that  are  most  apt  to  delight  the  imagina- 

Scriptorum  chorus  omnis  amat  nemus,  et  fugit  urbes. 

Hor.  2  Ep.  ii.  77. 

- To  grottoes  and  to  groves  we  run, 

To  ease  and  silence,  every  Muse’s  son. — Pope. 

Hie  secura  quies,  et  nescia  fallere  vita, 

Speluncie.  vivique  lacus;  hie  frigida  Tempe, 

Dives  opum  variarum:  hio  latis  otia  fundis, 

Hugitusque  bourn,  mollesque  sub  arbore  somni. 

Virg.  Georg,  ii.467. 

Here  easy  quiet,  a  secure  retreat, 

A  harmless  life  that  knows  not  how  to  cheat, 

With  home  bred  plenty  the  rich  owner  bless, 

And  rural  pleasures  crown  his  happiness. 

Unvex'd  with  quarrels,  undisturb’d  with  noise, 

The  country  king  his  peaceful  realm  enjoys  : 

Cool  grots  and  living  lakes,  the  fiow’ry  pride 
Of  meads,  and  streams  that  through  the  valley  glide  ; 

-  And  shady  groves,  that  easy  sleep  invite, 

And,  after  toilsome  days,  a  sweet  repose  at  night. 

Dryden. 

But  though  there  are  several  of  those  wild 
scenes  that  are  more  delightful  than  any  artifi¬ 
cial  shows,  yet  we  find  the  works  of  nature  still 
more  pleasant,  the  more  they  resemble  those  of 
art:  for  in  this  case  our  pleasure  rises  from  a 
double  principle;  from  the  agreeabloness  of  the 
objects  to  the  eye,  and  from  their  similitude  to 
other  objects.  We  are  pleased  as  well  with  com¬ 
paring  their  beauties,  as  with  surveying  them  and 
can  represent  them  toour  minds,  either  as  copies 
or  originals.  Hence  it  is  that  we  take  delight  in 

a  P[°TT,twhich  we^  ou^>  and  diversified 
with  fields  and  meadows,  woods  and  rivers-  in 
those  accidental  landscapes  of  trees,  clouds,  and 
cities,  that  are  sometimes  found  in  the  veins  of 
marble;  in  the  curious  fretwork  of  rocks  and  mot¬ 
toes;  and,  in  a  word,  in  anything  that  hath  such  a' 
variety  or  regularity  as  may  seem  the  effect  of  de¬ 
sign  in  what  we  call  the  works  of  chance. 

If  the  products  of  nature  rise  in  value  according 


as  they  more  or  less  resemble  those  of  art,  we 
may  be  sure  that  artificial  works  receive  a  greater 
advantage  from  their  resemblance  of  such  as  are 
natural;  because  here  the  similitude  is  not  only 
pleasant,  but  the  pattern  more  perfect.  The  pret¬ 
tiest  landscape  I  ever  saw,  was  one  drawn  on  the 
walls  of  a  dark  room,  which  stood  opposite  on 
one  side  to  a  navigable  river,  and  on  the  other 
to  a  park.  The  experiment  is  very  common  in 
optics.  Here  you  might  discover  the  waves  and 
fluctuations  of  the  water  in  strong  and  proper 
colors,  with  the  picture  of  a  ship  entering  at  one 
end,  and  sailing  by  degrees  through  the  whole 
piece.  On  another  there  appeared  the  green  sha- 
dows  of  trees,  waving  to  and  fro  with  the  wind, 
and  herds  of  deer  among  them  in  miniature,  leap¬ 
ing  about  upon  the  wall.  I  must  confess  the  no¬ 
velty  of  such  a  sight  may  be  one  occasion  of  its 
pleasantness  to  the  imagination;  but  certainly  its 
chief  leason  is  its  nearest  resemblance  to  nature, 
as  it  does  not  only,  like  other  pictures,  give  the 
color  and  figure,  but  the  motion  of  the  things  it 
represents. 

We  have  before  observed,  that  there  is  generally 
in  nature  something  more  grand  and  august  than 
what  we  meet  with  in  the  curiosities  of  art. 
When,  therefore,  we  see  this  imitated  in  any 
measure,  it  gives  us  a  nobler  and  more  exalted 
kind  of  pleasure  than  what  we  received  from  the 
nicer  and  more  accurate  productions  of  art.  On 
this  account  our  English  gardens  are  not  so  en¬ 
tertaining  to  the  fancy  as  those  in  France  and 
Italy,  where  we  see  a  large  extent  of  ground 
covered  over  with  an  agreeable  mixture  of  garden 
and  forest,  which  represent  everywhere  an  arti¬ 
ficial  rudeness,  much  more  charming  than  that 
neatness  and  elegancy  which  we  meet  with  in  those 
of  our  own  country.  It  might  indeed  be  of  ill  con¬ 
sequence  to  the  public,  as  well  as  unprofitable  to 
private  persons,  to  alienate  so  much  ground  from 
pasturage  and  the  plow,  in  many  parts  of  a 
country  that  is  so  well  peopled,  and  cultivated  to 
a  fai  greater  advantage.  But  why  may  not  a 
whole  estate  be  thrown  into  a  kind  of  garden  by 
frequent  plantations,  that  may  turn  as  much  to 
the  profit  as  the  pleasure  of  the  owner  ?  A  marsh 
overgrown  with  willows,  or  a  mountain  shaded 
with  oaks,  are  not  only  more  beautiful,  but  more 
beneficial,  than  when  they  lie  bare  and  unadorned. 
Fields  of  corn  make  a  pleasant  prospect;  and  if 
the  walks  were  a  little  taken  care  of  that  lie  be¬ 
tween  them,  if  the  natural  embroidery  of  the 
meadows  were  helped  and  improved  by  some 
small  additions  of  art,  and  the  several  rows  of 
hedges  set  off  by  trees  and  flowers  that  the  soil 
was  capable  of  receiving,  a  man  might  make  a 
pretty  landscape  of  his  own  possessions. 

Writers  who  have  given  us  an  account  of  China, 
tell  us  the  inhabitants  of  that  country  laugh  at  the 
plantations  of  our  Europeans,  which  are  laid  out 
by  the  rule  and  line;  because,  they  say,  any  per¬ 
son  may  place  trees  in  equal  rows  and  uniform 
figuies.  1  hey  choose  rather  to  show  a  genius  in 
works  of  this  nature,  and  therefore  always  con¬ 
ceal  the  art  by  which  they  direct  themselves. 

I  hey  have  a  word,  it  seems,  in  their  language,  by 
which  they  express  the  particular  beauty  of  a 
plantation  that  thus  strikes  the  imagination  at 
first  sight,  without  discovering  what  it  is  that 
has  so  agreeable  an  effect.  Our  British  gardeners, 
on  the  contrary,  instead  of  humoring  nature,  love 
to  deviate  from  it  as  much  as  possible.  Our 
trees  rise  in  cones,  globes,  and  pyramids.  We 
Aee  the  marks  of  the  scissors  upon  every  plant 
and  bush.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  singular 
in  my  opinion,  but  for  my  own  part,  I  would  ra¬ 
ther  look  upon  a  tree  in  all  its  luxuriancy  and 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


502 

diffusion  of  boughs  and  branches,  than  when  it  is 
thus  cut  and  trimmed  into  a  mathematical  figure; 
and  cannot  but  fancy  that  an  orchard  in  flower 
looks  infinitely  more  delightful  thdh  all  the  little 
labyrinths  of  the  most  finished  parterre.  But,  as 
our  great  modelers  of  gardens  have  their  magazines 
of  plants  to  dispose  of,  it  is  very  natural  for  them 
to  tear  up  all  the  beautiful  plantations  of  fruit- 
trees,  and  contrive  a  plan  that  may  most  turn  to 
their  own  profit,  in  taking  off  their  evergreens, 
and  the  like  movable  plants,  with  which  their 
shops  are  plentifully  stocked. — 0. 


Ho.  415.]  THURSDAY,  JUNE  26,  1712. 

PAPER  V. 

ON  THE  PLEASURES  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

CONTENTS. 

Of  architecture,  as  it  affects  the  imagination.  Greatness  in 
architecture  relates  either  to  the  bulk  or  to  the  manner. 
Greatness  of  hulk  in  the  ancient  oriental  buildings.  The 
ancient  accounts  of  these  buildings  confirmed.  1.  From  the 
advantages  for  raising  such  works,  in  the  first  ages  of  the 
world,  and  in  eastern  climates ;  2.  From  several  of  them 
which  are  still  extant.  Instances  how  greatness  of  manner 
affects  the  imagination.  A  French  author’s  observations 
on  this  subject.  Why  concave  and  convex  figures  give  a 
greatness  of  manner  to  works  of  architecture.  Everything 
that  pleases  the  imagination  in  architecture,  is  either  great, 
beautiful,  or  new. 

Adde  tot  egregias  urbes,  operumque  laborem. 

Yirg.  Georg,  ii,  155. 

Witness  our  cities  of  illustrious  name, 

Their  costly  labor,  and  stupendous  frame. — Dryden. 

Having  already  shown  how  the  fancy  is  affected 
by  the  works  of  nature,  and  afterward  considered 
in  general  both  the  works  of  nature  and  of  art, 
how  they  mutually  assist  and  complete  each  other 
in  forming  such  scenes  and  prospects  as  are  most 
apt  to  delight  the  mind  of  the  beholder,  I  shall 
in  this  paper  throw  together  some  reflections  on 
that  particular  art,  which  has  more  immediate  ten¬ 
dency,  than  any  other,  to  produce  those  primary 
leasures  of  the  imagination  which  have  hitherto 
een  the  subject  of  this  discourse.  The  art  I  mean 
is  that  of  architecture,  which  I  shall  consider 
only  with  regard  to  the  light  in  which  the  fore¬ 
going  speculations  have  placed  it,  without  enter¬ 
ing  into  those  rules  and  maxims  which  the  great 
masters  of  architecture  have  laid  down,  and  ex¬ 
plained  at  large  in  numberless  treatises  upon  that 
subject. 

Greatness  in  the  works  of  architecture  may  be 
considered  as  relating  to  the  bulk  and  body  of 
structure,  or  to  the  manner  in  which  it  is  built. 
As  for  the  first,  we  find  the  ancients,  especially 
among  the  eastern  nations  of  the  world,  infinitely 
superior  to  the  moderns. 

Not  to  mention  the  tower  of  Babel,  of  which  an 
old  author  says,  there  were  the  foundations  to  be 
seen  in  his  time,  which  looked  like  a  spacious 
mountain;  what  could  be  more  noble  than  the 
walls  of  Babylon,  its  hanging  gardens,  and  its 
temple  to  Jupiter  Belus,  that  rose  a  mile  high 
by  eight  several  stories,  each  story  a  furlong  in 
height,  and  on  the  top  of  which  was  the  Babylon¬ 
ian  observatory?  I  might  here,  likewise,  take 
notice  of  the  huge  rock  that  was  cut  into  the 
figure  of  Semiramis,  with  the  smaller  rocks  that 
lay  by  it  in  the  shape  of  tributary  kings;  the  pro¬ 
digious  basin,  or  artificial  lake,  wnich  took  in 
the  whole  Euphrates,  till  such  time  as  a  new 
canal  was  formed  for  its  reception,  with  the  seve¬ 
ral  trenches  through  which  that  river  was  con¬ 
veyed.  I  know  there  are  persons  who  look  upon 
some  of  these  wonders  of  art  as  fabulous;  but  I 


cannot  find  any  grounds  for  such  a  suspicion;  un¬ 
less  it  be  that  we  have  no  such  works  among  us 
at  present.  There  were  indeed,  many  greater 
advantages  for  building  in  those  times,  albd  in 
that  part  of  the  world,  than  have  been  met  with 
ever  since.  The  earth  was  extremely  fruitful; 
men  lived  generally  on  pasturage,  which  requires 
a  much  smaller  number  of  hands  than  agricidture. 
There  were  few  trades  to  employ  the  busy  part  of 
mankind,  and  fewer  arts  and  sciences  to  give 
work  to  men  of  speculative  tempers;  and  what  is 
more  than  all  the  rest,  the  prince  was  absolute;  so 
that,  when  he  went  to  war,  he  put  himself  at  the 
head  of  the  whole  people;  as  we  find  Semiramis 
leading  her  three  millions  to  the  field,  and  yet 
overpowered  by  the  number  of  her  enemies.  It 
is  no  wonder  therefore  when  she  was  at  peace, 
and  turned  her  thoughts  on  building,  that  she 
could  accomplish  such  great  works,  with  such  a 
prodigious  multitude  of  laborers:  beside  that  ill 
her  climate  there  was  small  interruption  of  frosts 
and  winters,  which  make  the  northern  workmen  lie 
half  a  year  idle.  I  might  mention,  too,  among  the 
benefits  of  the  climate,  what  historians  say  of  the 
earth,  that  it  sweated  out  a  bitumen,  or  natural 
kind  of  mortar,  which  is  doubtless  the  same  with 
that  mentioned  in  the  holy  writ,  as  contributing 
to  the  structure  of  Babel;  “  Slime  they  used  in¬ 
stead  of  mortar.” 

In  Egypt  we  still  see  their  pyramids,  which 
answer  to  the  descriptions  that  have  been  made 
of  them;  and  I  question  not  but  a  traveler  might 
find  out  some  remains  of  the  labyrinth  that 
covered  a  whole  province,  and  had  a  hundred 
temples  disposed  among  its  several  quarters  and 
divisions. 

The  wall  of  China  is  one  of  these  eastern  pieces 
of  magnificence,  which  makes  a  figure  even  in  the 
map  of  the  world,  although  an  account  of  it  would 
have  been  thought  fabulous,  were  not  the  wall 
itself  still  extant. 

We  are  obliged  to  devotion  for  the  noblest 
buildings  that  have  adorned  the  several  countries 
of  the  world.  It  is  this  which  has  set  men  at 
work  on  temples  and  public  places  of  worship, 
not  only  that  they  might,  by  the  magnificence  of 
the  building  invite  the  Deity  to  reside  within  it, 
but  that  such  stupendous  works  might,  at  the 
same  time,  open  the  mind  to  vast  conceptions, 
and  fit  it  to  converse  with  the  divinity  of  the 
place.  For  everything  that  is  majestic  imprints 
an  awfulness  and  reverence  on  the  mind  of  the 
beholder,  and  strikes  in  with  the  natural  greatness 
of  the  soul. 

In  the  second  place  we  are  to  consider  greatness 
of  manner  in  architecture,  which  has  such  force 
upon  the  imagination,  that  a  small  building, 
where  it  appears,  shall  give  the  mind  nobler  ideas 
than  one  of  twenty  times  the  bulk,  where  the 
manner  is  ordinary  or  little.  Thus,  perhaps,  a 
man  would  have  been  more  astonished  with  the 
majestic  air  that  appeared  in  one  of  Lysippus’s 
statues  of  Alexander,  though  no  bigger  than  life, 
than  he  might  have  been  with  mount  Atlios,  had 
it  been  cut  into  the  figure  of  the  hero,  according 
to  the  proposal  of  Phidias,*  with  a  river  in  one 
hand,  and  a  city  in  the  other. 

Let  any  one  reflect  on  the  disposition  of  mind 
he  finds  in  himself  at  his  first  entrance  into  the 
Pantheon  at  Rome,  and  how  his  imagination  is 
filled  with  something  great  and  amazing;  and,  at 
the  same  time,  consider  how  little,  in  proportion, 
he  is  affected  with  the  inside  of  a  Gothic  cathe¬ 
dral,  though  it  be  five  times  larger  than  the  other; 
which  can  arise  from  nothing  else  but  the  great- 


*  Dinocrates. 


TIIE  SPE 

ness  of  the  manner  in  the  one,  and  the  meanness 
in  the  other. 

I  have  seen  an  observation  upon  this  subject  in 
a  French  author,  which  very  much  pleased  me. 
It  is  in  Monsieur  Freart’s  Parallel  of  the  ancient 
and  modern  Architecture.  I  shall  give  it  the  reader 
with  the  same  terms  of  art  which  he  has  made  use 
of.  “I  am  observing,”  says  he,  “a  thing  which, 
in  my  opinion,  is  very  curious,  whence  it  proceeds 
that  in  the  same  quantity  of  superficies,  the  one 
manner  seems  great  and  magnificent,  and  the  other 
poor  and  trifling;  the  reason  is  fine  and  uncom¬ 
mon.  I  sav,  then,  that  to  introduce  into  architecture 
this  grandeur  of  manner,  we  ought  so  to  proceed 
that  the  division  of  the  principal  members  of  the 
order  may  consist  but  of  few  parts,  that  they  be  all 
great,  and  of  a  bold  and  ample  relievo,  and  swell- 
ing  ;  and  that  the  eye,  beholding  nothing  little 
and  mean,  the  imagination  may  be  more  vigor¬ 
ously  touched  and  affected  with  the  work  that 
stands  before  it.  For  example :  in  a  cornice,  if 
the  gola,  or  cymatium  of  the  corona,  the  coping, 
the  modill ions  or  dentilli,  make  a  noble  show  by 
their  graceful  projections,  if  we  see  none  of  that 
ordinary  confusion  which  is  the  result  of  those  lit¬ 
tle  cavities,  quarter  rounds  of  the  astragal,  and  I 
know  not  how  many  other  intermingled  particu¬ 
lars,  which  produce  no  effect  in  great  and  massy 
works,  and  which  very  unprofitably  take  up  place 
to  the  prejudice  of  the  principal  member,  it  is  most 
certain  that  this  manner  will  appear  solemn  and 
great ;  as,  on  the  contrary,  that  it  will  have  but  a 
poor  and  mean  effect,  where  there  is  a  redundancy 
of  those  smaller  ornaments,  which  divide  and  scat¬ 
ter  the  angles  of  the  sight  into  such  a  multitude 
of  rays,  so  pressed  together  that  the  whole  will 
appear  but  a  confusion.” 

Among  all  the  figures  in  architecture,  there  are 
none  that  have  a  greater  air  than  the  concave  and 
the  convex  ;  and  we  find  in  the  ancient  and  mod¬ 
ern  architecture,  as  well  in  the  remote  parts  of 
China,  as  in  countries  nearer  home,  that  round 
pillars  and  vaulted  roofs  make  a  great  part  of 
those  buildings  which  are  designed  for  pomp  and 
magnificence.  The  reason  I  take  to  be,  because 
in  these  figures  we  generally  see  more  of  the  body 
than  in  those  of  other  kinds.  There  are,  indeed, 
figures  of  bodies,  where  the  eye  may  take  in  two- 
thirds  of  the  surface  ;  but,  as  in  such  bodies,  the 
sight  must  split  upon  several  angles,  it  does  not 
take  in  one  uniform  idea,  but  several  ideas  of  the 
same  kind.  Look  upon  the  outside  of  a  dome, 
your  eye  half  surrounds  it ;  look  upon  the  inside, 
and  at  one  glance  you  have  all  the  prospect  of  it; 
the  entire  concavity  falls  into  your  eye  at  once, 
the  sight  being  at  the  center  that  collects  and 
gathers  into  it  the  lines  of  the  whole  circumfer¬ 
ence  :  in  a  square  pillar,  the  sight  often  takes  in 
but  a  fourth  part  of  the  surface  ;  and  in  a  square 
concave  must  move  up  and  down  to  the  different 
sides,  before  it  is  master  of  all  the  inward  surface. 
For  this  reason,  the  fancy  is  infinitely  more  struck 
with  the  view  of  the  open  air  and  skies,  that 
passes  through  an  arch,  than  what  comes  through 
a  square,  or  any  other  figure.  The  figure  of  die 
rainbow  does  not  contribute  less  to  its  magnifi¬ 
cence  than  the  colors  to  its  beauty,  as  it  is  very 
poetically  described  by  the  son  of  Siracli :  “Look 
upon  the  rainbow,  and  praise  Him  that  made  it ; 
very  beautiful  is  it  in  its  brightness;  it  encom¬ 
passes  the  heavens  with  a  glorious  circle,  and  the 
hands  of  the  Most  High  have  bended  it.” 

Having  thus  spoken  of  that  greatness  which  af¬ 
fects  the  mind  in  architecture,  I  might  next  show 
the  pleasure  that  arises  in  the  imagination  from 
what,  appears  new  and  beautiful  in  this  art;  but 
as  every  beholder  has  naturally  a  greater  taste  of  ' 


CTATOR.  503 

these  two  perfections  in  every  building  which  of¬ 
fers  itself  to  his  view,  than  of  that  which  I  have 
hitherto  considered,  I  shall  not  trouble  my  read¬ 
ers  with  any  reflections  upon  it.  It  is  sufficient 
for  my  present  purpose  to  observe,  that  there  is 
nothing  in  this  whole  art  which  pleases  the  ima¬ 
gination,  but  as  it  is  great,  uncommon,  or  beauti¬ 
ful. — 0. 


No.  416.]  FRIDAY,  JUNE  27,  1712. 

PAPER  VI. 

ON  THE  PLEASURES  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

CONTENTS. 

The  secondary  pleasures  of  the  imagination.  The  several 
sources  of  these  pleasures  (statuary,  painting,  description, 
and  music)  compared  together.  The  final  cause  of  our  re¬ 
ceiving  pleasure  from  these  several  sources.  Of  descrip¬ 
tions  in  particular.  The  power  of  words  over  the  ima¬ 
gination.  Why  one  reader  is  more  pleased  with  descrip¬ 
tions  than  another. 

Quatenu  hoc  simile  est  oculis,  quod  mente  videmus. 

Lucr.  ix.  754. 

So  far  as  what  we  see  with  our  minds,  bears  similitude  to 
what  we  see  with  our  eyes. 

I  at  first  divided  the  pleasures  of  the  imagina¬ 
tion  into  such  as  arise  from  objects  that  are 
actually  before  our  eyes,  or  that  once  entered  into 
our  eyes,  and  are  afterward  called  up  into  the 
mind  either  barely  by  its  own  operations,  or  on 
occasion  of  something  without  us,  as  statues  or 
descriptions.  We  have  already  considered  the 
first  division,  and  shall  therefore  enter  on  the 
other,  which,  for  distinction  sake,  I  have  called 
“  The  Secondary  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination.” 
When  I  say  the  ideas  we  receive  from  statues, 
descriptions,  or  such-like  occasions,  are  the  same 
that  were  once  actually  in  our  view,  it  must  not 
be  understood  that  we  had  once  seen  the  very 
place,  action,  or  person,  that  are  carved  or  de¬ 
scribed.  It  is  sufficient  that  we  have  seen  places, 
persons,  or  actions  in  general,  which  bear  a  re¬ 
semblance,  or  at  least  some  remote  analogy,  with 
what  we  find  represented  ;  since  it  is  in  the  power 
of  the  imagination,  when  it  is  once  stocked  with 
particular  ideas,  to  enlarge,  compound,  and  vary 
them  at  her  own  pleasure. 

Among  the  different  kinds  of  representation, 
statuary  is  the  most  natural,  and  shows  us  some¬ 
thing  likest  the  object  that  is  represented.  To 
make  use  of  a  common  instance  :  let  one  who  is 
born  blind  take  an  image  in  his  hands,  and  trace 
out  with  Ids  fingers  the  different  furrows  and  im¬ 
pressions  of  the  chisel,  and  he  will  easily  con¬ 
ceive  how  the  shape  of  a  man,  or  beast  may  be 
represented  by  it  ;  but  should  he  draw  his  hand 
over  a  picture,  where  all  is  smooth  and  uniform, 
he  would  never  be  able  to  imagine  how  the  several 
prominences  and  depressions  of  a  human  body 
should  be  shown  on  a  plain  piece  of  canvas,  that 
has  in  it  no  unevenness  or  irregularity.  Descrip¬ 
tion  runs  yet  farther  from  the  things  it  represents 
than  painting;  for  a  picture  bears  a  real  resem¬ 
blance  to  the  original,  which  letters  and  syllables 
are  wholly  void  of.  Colors  speak  all  languages, 
but  words  are  understood  only  by  such  a  people 
or  nation.  For  this  reason,  though  men’s  neces¬ 
sities  quickly  put  them  on  finding  out  speech, 
writing  is  probably  of  a  later  invention  than 
painting  ;  particularly  we  are  told  that  in  Ameri¬ 
ca,  when  the  Spaniards  first  arrived  there,  ex¬ 
presses  were  sent  to  the  Emperor  of  Mexico  in 
paint,  and  the  news  of  his  country  delineated  by 
the  strokes  of  a  pencil,  which  was  a  more  natural 
way  than  that  of  writing,  though  at  the  same 
time  much  more  imperfect,  because  it  is  impossi¬ 
ble  to  draw  the  little  connections  of  speech,  or  to 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


504 

give  the  picture  of  a  conjunction  or  an  adverb. 
It  would  yet  be  more  strange  to  represent  visible 
objects  by  sounds  that  have  no  ideas  annexed  to 
them,  and  to  make  something  like  description  in 
music.  Yet  it  is  certain,  there  may  be  confused, 
imperfect  notions  of  this  nature  raised  in  the  im¬ 
agination  by  an  artificial  composition  of  notes 
and  we  find  that  great  masters  in  the  art  are 
able,  sometimes  to  set  their  hearers  in  the  heat 
and  hurry  of  a  battle,  tOv  overcast  their  minds 
with  melancholy  scenes  and  apprehensions  of 
deaths  and  funerals,  or  to  lull  them  into  pleasing 
dreams  of  groves  and  elysiums. 

In  all  these  instances,  this  secondary  pleasure 
of  the  imagination  proceeds  from  that  action  of 
the  mind  which  compares  the  ideas  arising  from 
the  original  objects  with  the  ideas  we  receive 
from  the  statue,  picture,  description  or  sound, 
that  represents  them.  It  is  impossible  for  us  to 
give  the  necessary  reason  why  this  operation  of 
the  mind  is  attended  with  so  much  pleasure,  as  I 
have  before  observed  on  the  same  occasion  ;  but 
we  find  a  great  variety  of  entertainments  derived 
from  this  single  principle  ;  for  it  is  this  that  not 
only  gives  us  a  relish  of  statuary,  painting,  and 
description,  but  makes  us  delight  in  all  the  ac¬ 
tions  and  arts  of  mimicry.  It  is  this  that  makes 
the  several  kinds  of  wit  pleasant,  which  consists, 
as  I  have  formerly  shown,  in  the  affinity  of  ideas: 
and  we  may  add,  it  is  this  also  that  raises  the  lit¬ 
tle  satisfaction  we  sometimes  find  in  the  different 
sorts  of  false  wit ;  whether  it  consists  in  the 
affinity  of  letters,  as  an  anagram,  acrostic  ;  or  of 
syllables,  as  in  doggerel  rhymes,  echoes  ;  or  of 
words,  as  in  puns,  quibbles  ;  or  of  a  whole  sen¬ 
tence  or  poem,  as  wings  and  altars.  The  final 
cause,  probably  of  annexing  pleasure  to  this  opera¬ 
tion  of  the  mind,  was  to  quicken  and  encourage  us 
in  our  searches  after  truth,  since  the  distinguishing 
one  thing  from  another,  and  the  right  discerning 
betwixt  our  ideas,  depend  wholly  upon  our  compa¬ 
ring  them  together,  and  observing  the  congruity  or 
disagreement  that  appears  among  the  several  works 
of  nature. 

But  I  shall  here  confine  myself  to  those  pleas¬ 
ures  of  the  imagination  which  proceed  from  ideas 
raised  by  words,  because  most  of  the  observations 
that  agree  with  descriptions  are  equally  applica¬ 
ble  to  painting  and  statuary. 

Words,  when  well  chosen,  have  so  great  a  force 
in  them,  that  a  description  often  gives  us  more 
lively  ideas  than  the  sight  of  things  themselves. 
The  reader  finds  a  scene  drawn  in  stronger  colors, 
and  painted  more  to  the  life  in  his  imagination, 
by  the  help  of  words,  than  by  an  actual  survey 
of  the  scenes  which  they  describe.  In  this  case, 
the  poet  seems  to  get  the  better  of  nature  :  he 
takes,  indeed,  the  landscape  after  her,  but  gives  it 
more  vigorous  touches,  heightens  its  beauty,  and 
so  enlivens  the  whole  piece,  that  the  images  which 
flow  from  the  objects  themselves  appear  weak  and 
faint,  in  comparison  of  those  that  come  from  the 
expressions.  The  reason,  probably,  may  be,  be¬ 
cause  in  the  survey  of  any  object,  we  have  only 
so  much  of  it  painted  on  the  imagination  as 
comes  in  at  the  eye  ;  but  in  its  description,  the 
poet  gives  us  as  free  a  view  of  it  as  he  pleases, 
and  discovers  to  us  several  parts,  that  either  we 
did  not  attend  to,  or  that  lay  out  of  our  sight 
when  we  first  beheld  it.  As  we  look  on  any 
object,  our  idea  of  it  is,  perhaps,  made  up  of  two 
or  three  simple  ideas  ;  but  when  the  poet  repre¬ 
sents  it,  he  may  either  give  us  a  more  complex 
idea  of  it,  or  only  raise  in  us  such  ideas  as  are 
most  apt  to  affect  the  imagination. 

It  may  be  here  worth  our  while  to  examine  how 
it  comes  to  pass  that  several  readers,  who  are  all 


acquainted  with  the  same  language,  and  know 
the  meaning  of  the  words  they  read,  should  nev¬ 
ertheless  have  a  different  relish  of  the  same  de¬ 
scriptions.  We  find  one  transported  with  a  pas¬ 
sage,  which  another  runs  over  with  coldness  and 
indifference ;  or  finding  the  representation  ex¬ 
tremely  natural,  where  another  can  perceive  noth¬ 
ing  of  likeness  and  conformity.  This  different 
taste  must  proceed  either  from  the  perfection 
of  imagination  in  one  more  than  in  another,  or 
from  the  different  ideas  that  several  readers  affix 
to  the  same  words.  For,  to  have  a  true  relish  and 
form  a  right  judgment  of  a  description,  a  man 
should  be  born  with  a  good  imagination,  and 
must  have  well  weighed  the  force  and  energy  that 
lie  in  the  several  words  of  a  language,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  distinguish  which  are  most  significant 
and  expressive  of  their  proper  ideas,  and  what 
additional  strength  and  beauty  they  are  capable 
of  receiving  from  conjunction  with  others.  The 
fancy  must  be  warm,  to  retain  the  print  of  those 
images  it  hath  received  from  outward  objects,  and 
the  judgment  discerning,  to  know  what  express-, 
ions  are  most  proper  to  clothe  and  adorn  them  to 
the  best  advantage.  A  man  who  is  deficient  in 
either  of  these  respects,  though  he  may  receive 
the  general  notion  of  a  description,  can  never  see 
distinctly  all  its  particular  beauties  ;  as  a  person 
with  a  weak  sight  may  have  the  confused  prospect 
of  a  place  that  lies  before  him,  without  entering 
into  its  several  parts,  or  discerning  the  variety  of 
its  colors  in  their  full  glory  and  perfection. — 0. 


No.  417.]  SATURDAY,  JUNE  28,  1712. 

PAPER  VII. 

ON  THE  PLEASURES  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

CONTENTS. 

How  a  whole  set  of  ideas  hang  together,  etc.  A  natural  cause 
assigned  for  it.  How  to  perfect  the  imagination  of  a  writer. 
Who  among  the  ancient  poets  had  this  faculty  in  its  great¬ 
est  perfection.  Homer  excelled  in  imagining  what  is  great ; 
Virgil  in  imagining  what  is  beautiful ;  Ovid  in  imagining 
what  is  new.  Our  countryman,  Milton,  very  perfect  in  all 
these  three  respects. 

Quem  tu,  Melpomene,  semel 
Nascentem  placido  lumine  videris, 

Non  ilium  labor  Istlimius 
Clarabit  pugilem,  non  equus  impiger,  etc. 

Sed  quas  Tibur  aquae  fertile  perfluunt, 

Et  spissse  nemorum  comae, 

Fingent  iEolio  carmine  nobilem. — IIOR.  4  Od.iii,  1 

He  on  whose  birth  the  lyric  queen 
Of  numbers  smil’d,  shall  never  grace 
The  Isthmian  gauntlet,  or  be  seen 
First  in  the  fam’d  Olympic  race. 

But  him  the  streams  that  warbling  flow 
Rich  Tibur's  fertile  meads  along, 

And  shady  groves,  his  haunts  shall  know, 

The  master  of  th’  iEolian  song. — Atterbury. 

We  may  observe,  that  any  single  circumstance 
of  what  we  have  formerly  seen  often  raises  up  a 
whole  scene  of  imagery,  and  awakens  numberless 
ideas  that  before  slept  in  the  imaginat  ion  ;  such  a 
particular  smell  or  color  is  able  to  fill  the  mind, 
on  a  sudden,  with  the  picture  of  the  fields  or  gar¬ 
dens  where  we  first  met  with  it,  and  to  bring  up  into 
view  all  the  variety  of  images  that  once  attended 
it.  Our  imagination  takes  the  hint,  and  leads  us 
unexpectedly  into  cities  or  theaters,  plains  or 
meadows.  We  may  further  observe,  when  the 
fancy  thus  reflects  on  the  scenes  that  have  passed 
in  it  formerly,  those  which  were  at  first  pleasant 
to  behold,  appear  more  so  upon  reflection,  and 
that  the  memory  heightens  the  delightfulness  of 
the  original.  A  Cartesian  would  account  for  both 
these  instances  in  the  following  manner  : 

The  set  of  ideas  which  we  receive  from  such  a 
prospect  or  garden,  having  entered  the  mind  at  the 
same  time,  have  a  set  of  traces,  belongingto  them 


THE  SPE 

in  the  brain,  bordering  very  near  upon  one  an¬ 
other;  when,  therefore,  any  one  of  these  ideas 
arises  in  the  imagination,  and  consequently  dis¬ 
patches  a  flow  of  animal  spirits  to  its  proper 
trace,  these  spirits,  in  the  violence  of  their  motion, 
run  not  only  into  the  trace  to  which  they  were 
more  particularly  directed,  but  into  several  of 
those  that  lie  about  it.  By  this  means,  they 
awaken  other  ideas  of  the  same  set,  which  imme¬ 
diately  determine  a  new  dispatch  of  spirits,  that 
in  the  same  manner  open  other  neighboring  traces, 
till  at  last  the  whole  set  of  them  is  blown  up,  and 
the  whole  prospect  or  garden  flourishes  in  the  ima¬ 
gination.  But  because  the  pleasure  we  receive 
from  these  places  far  surmounted,  and  overcame 
the  little  disagreeable  ness  we  found  in  them,  for 
this  reason  there  was  at  first  a  wider  passage  worn 
in  the  pleasure  traces,  and  on  the  contrary,  so 
narrow  a  one  in  those  which  belonged  to  the  dis¬ 
agreeable  ideas,  that  they  were  quickly  stopped 
up,  and  rendered  incapable  of  receiving  any  ani¬ 
mal  spirits,  and  consequently  of  exciting  any 
unpleasant  ideas  in  the  memory. 

It  would  be  in  vain  to  inquire  whether  the 
power  of  imagining  things  strongly  proceeds  from 
any  greater  perfection  in  the  soul,  or  from  any 
nicer  texture  in  the  brain  of  one  man  than  of 
another.  But  this  is  certain,  that  a  noble  writer 
should  be  born  with  this  faculty  in  its  full  strength 
and  vigor,  so  as  to  be  able  to  receive  lively  ideas 
from  outward  objects,  to  retain  them  long,  and  to 
range  them  together  upon  occasion,  in  such  figures 
and  representations,  as  are  most  likely  to  hit  the 
fancy  of  the  reader.  A  poet  should  take  as  much 
pains  in  forming  his  imagination,  as  a  philosopher 
in  cultivating  his  understanding.  He  must  gain 
a  due  relish^of  the  works  of  nature,  and  be  thor¬ 
oughly  conversant  in  the  various  scenery  of  a 
country  life. 

When  he  is  stored  with  country  images,  if  he 
would  go  beyond  pastoral,  and  the  lower  kinds  of 
poetry,  he  ought  to  acquaint  himself  with  the 
pomp  and  magnificence  of  courts.  He  should  be 
very  well  versed  in  everything  that  is  noble  and 
stately  in  the  productions  of  art,  whether  it  ap¬ 
pear  in  painting  or  statuary;  in  the  great  works 
of  architecture  which  are  in  their  present  glory, 
or  in  the  ruins  of  those  which  flourished  in  for¬ 
mer  ages. 

Such  advantages  as  these  help  to  open  a  man’s 
thoughts,  and  to  enlarge  his  imagination,  and  will 
therefore  have  their  influence  on  all  kinds  of 
writing,  if  the  author  knows  how  to  make  right 
use  of  them.  And  among  those  of  the  learned 
languages  who  excel  in  this  talent,  the  most  per¬ 
fect  in  their  several  kinds  are  perhaps  Homer, 
Virgil,  and  Ovid.  The  first  strikes  the  imagina¬ 
tion  wonderfully  with  what  is  great,  the  second 
with  what  is  beautiful,  and  the  last,  with  what  is 
strange.  Reading  the  Iliad  is  like  traveling  through 
a  country  uninhabited,  where  the  fancy  is  enter¬ 
tained  with  a  thousand  savage  prospects  of  vast 
deserts,  wide,  uncultivated  marshes,  huge  forests, 
misshapen  rocks  and  precipices.  On  the  contrary, 
the  HEneid  is  like  a  well-ordered  garden,  where  it 
is  impossible  to  find  out  any  part  "unadorned,  or  to 
cast  our  eyes  upon  a  single  spot  that  does  not  pro¬ 
duce  some  beautiful  plant  or  flower.  But  when 
we  are  in  the  Metamorphoses,  we  are  walking  on 
enchanted  ground,  and  see  nothing  but  scenes  of 
magic  lying  around  us. 

Horner  is  in  his  province  when  he  is  describing 
a  battle  or  a  multitude,  a  hero  or  a  god.  Virgil  is 
never  better  pleased  than  when  he  is  in  his  elys- 
ium,  or  copying  out  an  entertaining  picture.  Ho¬ 
mer’s  epithets  generally  mark  out  what  is  great  ; 
Virgil’s  what  is  agreeable.  Nothing  can  be  more 


CTATOR.  505 

magnificent  than  the  figure  Jupiter  makes  in  the 
first  Iliad,  nor  more  charming  than  that  of  Venus 
in  the  first  HEneid. 

He  spoke,  and  awful  bends  his  sable  brows, 

Shakes  his  ambrosial  curls,  and  gives  the  nod, 

The  stamp  of  Fate,  and  sanction  of  the  god: 

High  heav  n  with  trembling  the  dread  signal  took, 

And  all  Olympus  to  the  center  shook.— Pope. 

Dixit:  et  avertens  rosea  cervice  refulsit 
Ambrosiaeijue  coma)  divinum  vertice  odorem 
Spiravere ;  pedes  vestis  defluxit  ad  imos, 

Et  vera  incessu  patuit  dea. - Virg.  iEn.  i.  406. 

Thus  having  said,  she  turn’d  and  made  appear 
Her  neck  refulgent,  and  dishevel’d  hair; 

Which,  flowing  from  her  shoulders,  reach’d  the  ground, 
And  widely  spread  ambrosial  scents  around : 

In  length  of  train  descends  her  sweeping  gown, 

And  by  her  graceful  walk  the  queen  of  love  is  known. 

Dryden. 

Homer’s  persons  are  most  of  them  godlike  and 
terrible;  Virgil  has  scarce  admitted  any  into  his 
poem  who  are  not  beautiful,  and  has  taken  partic¬ 
ular  care  to  make  his  hero  so. 

• - Lumenque  juventae 

Purpureum,  et  lastos  ocuiis  aftlarat  honores. 

Virg.  iEn.  i.  594. 

And  gave  his  rolling  eyes  a  sparkling  grace, 

And  breath’d  a  youthful  vigor  on  his  face. — Dryden. 

In  a  word,  Homer  fills  his  readers  with  sublime 
ideas,  and  I  believe  has  raised  the  imagination  of 
all  the  good  poets  that  have  come  after  him.  I 
shall  only  instance  Horace,  who  immediately  takes 
fire  at  the  first  hint  of  any  passage  in  the  Iliad  or 
Odyssey,  and  always  rises  above  himself  when  he 
has  Homer  in  his  view.  Virgil  has  drawn  to¬ 
gether  into  his  HEneid,  all  the  pleasing  scenes 
his  subject  is  capable  of  admitting,  and,  in  his 
Georgies,  has  given  us  a  collection  of  the  most 
delightful  landscapes  that  can  be  made  out  of 
fields  and  woods,  herds  of  cattle,  and  swarms  of 
bees. 

Ovid,  in  his  Metamorphoses,  has  shown  us  how 
the  imagination  may  be  affected  by  what  is  strange. 
He  describes  a  miracle  in  every  story,  and  always 
gives  us  the  sight  of  some  new  creature  at  the  end 
of  it.  His  art  consists  chiefly  in  well-timing  his 
description,  before  the  first  shape  is  quite  worn 
off,  and  the  new  one  perfectly  finished  ;  so  that 
he  everywhere  entertains  us  with  something  wo 
never  saw  before,  and  shows  us  monster  after  mon¬ 
ster  to  the  end  of  the  Metamorphoses. 

If  I  were  to  name  a  poet  that  is  a  perfect  master 
in  all  these  arts  of  working  on  the  imagination,  I 
think  Milton  may  pass  for  one  ;  and  if  his  Paradise 
Lost  falls  short  of  the  HEneid  or  Iliad  in  this  re¬ 
spect,  it  proceeds  rather  from  the  fault  of  the  lan¬ 
guage  in  which  it  is  written,  than  from  any  defect 
of  genius  in  the  author.  So  divine  a  poem  in  En¬ 
glish  is  like  a  stately  palace  built  of  brick,  where 
one  may  see  architecture  in  as  great  a  perfection 
as  one  of  marble,  though  the  materials  are  of  a 
coarser  nature.  But  to  consider  it  only  as  it  re¬ 
gards  our  present  subject ;  what  can  be  conceived 
greater  than  the  battle  of  angels,  the  majesty  of 
Messiah,  the  stature  and  behavior  of  Satan  and  his 
peers  ?  What  more  beautiful  than  Pandaemonium, 
Paradise,  Heaven,  Angels,  Adam,  and  Eve?  What 
more  strange  than  the  creation  of  the  world,  the 
several  metamorphoses  of  the  fallen  angels,  and 
the  surprising  adventures  their  leader  meets  with 
in  his  search  after  Paradise?  No  other  subject 
could  have  furnished  a  poet  with  scenes  so  proper 
to  strike  the  imagination,  as  no  other  poet  could 
have  painted  those  scenes  in  more  strong  and  lively 
colors. — 0. 


506 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


No  418.J  MONDAY,  JUNE  30,  1712. 

PAPER  VIII, 

ON  THE  PLEASURES  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

CONTENTS. 

Why  anything  that  is  unpleasant  to  behold  pleases  the  im¬ 
agination  when  well  described.  Why  the  imagination  re¬ 
ceives  a  more  exquisite  pleasure  from  the  description  of 
what  is  great,  new,  or  beautiful.  The  pleasure  still  height¬ 
ened  if  what  is  described  raises  passion  in  the  mind.  Disa¬ 
greeable  passions  pleasing  when  raised  by  apt  descriptions. 
Why  terror  and  grief  are  pleasing  to  the  mind  when  excited 
by  description.  A  particular  advantage  the  writers  in  poetry 
and  fiction  have  to  please  the  imagination.  What  liberties 
are  allowed  them. 

- Ferat  et  rubus  asper  amonum. — Vma.  Eel.  iii.  89. 

The  rugged  thorn  shall  bear  the  fragrant  rose. 

The  pleasures  of  these  secondary  views  of  the 
imagination  are  of  a  wider  and  more  universal 
nature  than  those  it  has  when  joined  with  sight  ; 
for  not  only  what  is  great,  strange,  or  beautiful, 
but  anything  that  is  disagreeable  when  looked  upon 
pleases  us  in  an  apt  description.  Here,  therefore, 
we  must  inquire  after  a  new  principle  of  pleasure, 
which  is  nothing  else  but  the  action  of  the  mind, 
which  compares  the  ideas  that  arise  from  words 
with  the  ideas  that  arise  from  the  objects  them¬ 
selves  ;  and  why  this  operation  of  the  mind  is  at¬ 
tended  with  so  much  pleasure,  we  have  before  con¬ 
sidered.  For  this  reason,  therefore,  the  description 
of  a  dunghill  is  pleasing  to  the  imagination,  if  the 
image  be  represented  to  our  minds  by  suitable  ex¬ 
pressions  ;  though,  perhaps,  this  may  be  more 
properly  called  the  pleasure  of  the  understanding 
than  of  the  fancy,  because  we  are  not  so  much  de¬ 
lighted  with  the  image  that  is  contained  in  the 
description,  as  with  the  aptness  of  the  description 
to  excite  the  image. 

But  if  the  description  of  what  is  little,  common, 
or  deformed,  be  acceptable  to  the  imagination,  the 
description  of  what  is  great,  surprising,  or  beauti¬ 
ful,  is  much  more  so  ;  because  here  we  are  not 
only  delighted  with  comparing  the  representation 
with  the  original,  but  are  highly  pleased  with  the 
original  itself.  Most  readers,  I  believe,  are  more 
charmed  with  Milton’s  description  of  paradise, 
than  of  hell  ;  they  are  both,  perhaps,  equally  per¬ 
fect  in  their  kind  ;  but  in  the  one,  the  brimstone 
and  sulphur  are  not  so  refreshing  to  the  imagina¬ 
tion,  as  the  beds  of  flowers  and  the  wilderness  of 
sweets  in  the  other. 

There  is  yet  another  circumstance  which  recom¬ 
mends  a  description  more  than  all  the  rest ;  and 
that  is,  if  it  represents  to  us  such  objects  as  are  apt 
to  raise  a  secret  ferment  in  the  mind  of  the  reader, 
and  to  work  with  violence  upon  his  passions.  For, 
in  this  case,  we  are  at  once  warned  and  enlightened, 
so  that  the  pleasure  becomes  more  universal,  and 
is  several  ways  qualified  to  entertain  us.  Thus  in 
painting,  it  is  pleasant  to  look  on  the  picture  of 
any  face  where  the  resemblance  is  hit ;  but  the 
pleasure  increases  if  it  be  the  picture  of  a  face  that 
is  beautiful,  and  is  still  greater,  if  the  beauty  be 
softened  with  an  air  of  melancholy  or  sorrow.  The 
two  leading  passions  which  the  more  serious  parts 
of  poetry  endeavor  to  stir  up  in  us  are  terror  and 
pity.  And  here,  by  the  way,  one  would  wonder 
how  it  comes  to  pass  that  such  passions  as  are 
very  unpleasant  at  all  other  times,  are  very  agree¬ 
able  when  excited  by  proper  descriptions.  It  is  not 
strange  that  we  should  take  delight  in  such  pas¬ 
sages  as  are  apt  to  produce  hope,  joy,  admiration, 
love,  or  the  like  emotions,  in  us,  because  they  ne¬ 
ver  rise  in  the  mind  without  an  inward  pleasure 
which  attends  them.  But  how  comes  it  to  pass 
that  we  should  take  delight  in  being  terrified  or 
dejected  by  a  description,  when  we  find  so  much 


uneasiness  in  the  fear  or  grief  which  we  receive 
from  any  other  occasion  ? 

If  we  consider,  therefore,  the  nature  of  this  plea¬ 
sure,  we  shall  find  that  it  does  not  arise  so  properly 
from  the  description  of  what  is  terrible,  as  from  the 
reflection  we  make  on  ourselves  at  the  time  of  read¬ 
ing  it.  When  we  look  on  such  hideous  objects,  we 
are  not  a  little  pleased  to  think  we  are  in  no  dan¬ 
ger  of  them.*  We  consider  them,  at  the  same  time, 
as  dreadful  and  harmless  ;  so  that,  the  more  fright¬ 
ful  appearance  they  make,  the  greater  is  the  plea¬ 
sure  we  receive  from  the  sense  of  our  own  safety. 
In  short,  we  look  upon  the  terrors  of  a  description 
with  the  same  curiosity  and  satisfaction  that  we 
survey  a  dead  monster. 

- Informe  cadave 

Protrahitur :  nequeunt  expleri  corda  tuendo 
Terribiles  oculos,  vultum,  villosaque  setis 
Pectori  semiferi,  atque  extinctos  saucibus  ignes. 

Virg.  iEn.  viii.  264. 

- They  drag  him  from  his  den. 

The  wond’ring  neighborhood,  with  glad  surprise, 

Behold  his  shagged  breast,  his  giant  size, 

His  mouth  that  fiames  no  more,  and  his  extinguish’d  eyes. 

Dryden. 

It  is  for  the  same  reason  that  we  are  delighted  with 
the  reflecting  upon  dangers  that  are  past,  or  in 
looking  on  a  precipice  at  a  distance,  which  would 
fill  us  with  a  different  kind  of  horror  if  we  saw  it 
hanging  over  our  heads. 

In  the  like  maimer,  when  we  read  of  torments, 
wounds,  deaths,  and  the  like  dismal  accidents,  our 
pleasure  does  not  flow  so  properly  from  the  grief 
which  such  melancholy  descriptions  give  us,  as 
from  the  secret  comparison  which  we  make  be¬ 
tween  ourselves  and  the  person  who  suffers.  Such 
representations  teach  us  to  set  a  just  value  upon 
our  own  condition,  and  make  us  prize  our  good 
fortune,  which  exempts  us  from  the  like  calamities. 
This  is,  however,  such  a  kind  of  pleasure  as  we 
are  not  capable  of  receiving,  when  we  see  a  person 
actually  lying  under  the  tortures  that  we  meet 
with  in  a  description  ;  because,  in  this  case,  the 
object  presses  too  close  upon  our  senses,  and  bears 
so  hard  upon  us,  that  it  does  not  give  us  time  or 
leisure  to  reflect  on  ourselves.  Our  thoughts  are 
so  intent  upon  the  miseries  of  the  sufferer,  that  we 
cannot  turn  them  upon  our  own  happiness. 
Whereas,  on  the  contrary,  we  consider  the  misfor¬ 
tunes  we  read  in  history  or  poetry,  either  as  past 
or  as  fictitious  ;  so  that  the  reflection  upon  our¬ 
selves  rises  in  us  insensibly,  and  overbears  the 
sorrow  we  conceive  for  the  sufferings  of  the  af¬ 
flicted. 

But  because  the  mind  of  man  requires  some¬ 
thing  more  perfect  in  matter  than  what  it  finds 
there,  and  can  never  meet  with  any  sight  in  nature 
which  sufficiently  answers  its  highest  ideas  of 
pleasantness;  or,  in  other  words,  because  the 
imagination  can  fancy  to  itself  things  more  great, 
strange,  or  beautiful,  than  the  eye  ever  saw,  and 
is  still  sensible  of  some  defect  in  what  it  has 
seen  ;  on  this  account,  it  is  the  part  of  a  poet 
to  humor  the  imagination  in  our  own  notions,  by 
mending  and  perfecting  nature  where  he  describes 
a  reality,  and  by  adding  greater  beauties  than 
are  put  together  in  nature,  where  he  describes  a 
fiction. 

He  is  not  obliged  to  attend  her  in  the  slow  ad¬ 
vances  which  she  makes  from  one  season  to  an¬ 
other  or  to  observe  her  conduct  in  the  successive 
production  of  plants  and  flowers.  He  may  draw 
into  his  description  all  the  beauties  of  the  spring 
and  autumn,  and  make  the  whole  year  contribute 
something  to  render  it  the  more  ageeeable.  His 


*  Suave  mari  magno  turbantibus  sequora  yeutis,  etc. 

Lucr 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


507 


rose-trees,  woodbines,  and  jessamines,  may  flower 
together,  and  his  beds  be  covered  at  the  same  tune 
with  lilies,  violets,  &nd  fln13.r3.nths.  His  soil  is 
not  restrained  to  any  particular  set  of  plants,  but 
is  proper  either  for  oaks  or  myrtles,  and  adapts 
itself  to  the  products  of  every  climate.  Oranges 
may  grow  wild  in  it ;  myrrh  may  be  met  with  in 
every  hedge  ;  and  if  he  thinks  it  proper  to  have  a 
grove  of  spices,  he  can  quickly  command  sun 
enough  to  raise  it.  If  all  this  will  not  furnish  out 
an  agreeable  scene,  he  can  make  several  new  spe¬ 
cies  of  flowers,  with  richer  scents  and  higher  col¬ 
ors  than  any  that  grow  in  the  gardens  of  nature. 
His  concerts  of  birds  may  be  as  lull  and  harmoni¬ 
ous,  and  his  woods  as  thick  and  gloomy  as  lie 
pleases.  He  is  at  no  more  expense  in  along  vista 
than  a  short  one,  and  can  as  easily  throw  his  cas¬ 
cades  from  a  precipice  of  half  a  mile  high,  as  from 
one  of  twenty  yards.  He  has  his  choice  of  the 
winds,  and  can  turn  the  course  of  his  rivers  in  all 
the  variety  of  meanders  that  are  most  delighttu 
to  the  reader’s  imagination.  In  a  word,  he  has  the 
modeling  of  Nature  in  his  own  hands,  and  may 
give  her  what  charms  he  pleases,  provided  lie 
does  not  reform  her  too  much,  and  run  into  ab¬ 
surdities  by  endeavoring  to  excel. — 0. 


No.  419.]  TUESDAY,  JULY  1,  1712. 

PAPER  IX. 

ON  THE  PLEASURES  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

CONTENTS. 

Of  that  kind  of  poetry  which  Mr.  Dryden  calls  “  the  fairy  way 
of  writing.”  How  a  poet  should  be  qualified  for  it.  lhe 
pleasures  of  the  imagination  that  arise  from  it.  this  re¬ 
spect  why  the  moderns  excel  the  ancients.  Why  the  English 
excel  the  moderns.  Who  the  best  among  the  English.  Of 
emblematical  persons.  v 

_ _ mentis  gratissimus  error. 

HOR.  2  Ep.  n.  140. 

The  sweet  delusion  of  a  raptur  d  mind. 

There  is  a  kind  of  writing,  wherein  the  poet 
quite  loses  sight  of  nature,  and  entertains  his 
reader’s  imagination  with  the  characters  and  ac¬ 
tions  of  such  persons  as  have  many  of  them  no 
existence  but  what  lie  bestows  on  them,  buch 
are  fairies,  witches,  magicians,  demons,  and  de¬ 
parted  spirits.  This  Mr.  Dryden  calls  "  the  fairy 
wav  of  writing,”  which  is  indeed  more  difficult 
than  any  other  that  depends  on  the  poet’s  fancy, 
because  he  has  no  pattern  to  follow  in  it,  and 
must  work  altogether  out  of  his  own  invention. 

There  is  a  very  odd  turn  of  thought  required 
for  this  sort  of  writing;  and  it  is  impossible  for 
a  poet  to  succeed  in  it,  wTlio  has  not  a  paiticu- 
lar  cast  of  fancy,  and  an  imagination,  natural  y 
fruitful  and  superstitious.  Beside  this,  lie  ought 
to  be  very  'well  versed  in  legends  and  iables, 
antiquated  romances,  and  the  traditions  of  nurses 
and  old  women,  that  he  may  fall  in  with  our  natu¬ 
ral  prejudices,  and  humor  those  notions  which  we 
have  imbibed  in  our  infancy.  For  otherwise  lie 
will  be  apt  to  make  his  fairies  talk  like  people  ol 
his  own  species,  and  not  like  other  sets  of  beings, 
who  converse  with  different  objects,  and  think  in 
a  different  manner  from  that  of  mankind. 

Sylvia  deducti  cqveant,  me  judicc,  fauni, 

Ne  velut  inati  triviis,  ac  pene  foremes, 

Aut  nimium  teneris  juveneutur  versibus  — • 

IIor.  Ars.  Poet.  v.  244. 

Let  not  the  wood-born  aatyr  fondly  sport 

With  am’rous  verses,  as  if  bred  at  court.  Francis. 


I  do  not  say,  with  Mr.  Bays,  in  the  Rehearsal  that 
spirits  must  not  be  confined  to  speak  sense  :  but  it 


is  certain  their  sense  ought  to  be  a  little  discolored 
that  it  may  seem  particular,  and  proper  to  the  per¬ 
son  and  condition  of  the  speaker. 

These  descriptions  raise  a  pleasing  kind  of  hor¬ 
ror  in  the  mind  of  the  reader,  and  amuse  his  ima¬ 
gination  with  the  strangeness  and  novelty  of  the 
persons  wrho  are  represented  in  them.  They  bring 
up  into  our  memory  the  stories  we  have  heard  in 
our  childhood,  and  favor  those  secret  terrors  and 
apprehensions  to  which  the  mind  of  man  is  natu¬ 
rally  subject.  We  are  pleased  with  surveying  the 
different  habits  and  behaviors  of  foreign  coun-  ./ 
tries  :  how  much  more  must  we  be  delighted  and 
surprised  when  we  are  led,  as  it  were,  into  a  new 
creation,  and  see  the  persons  and  manners  of 
another  species  !  Men  of  cold  fancies,  and  philo¬ 
sophical  dispositions,  object  to  this  kind  of  poetry, 
that  it  has  not  probability  enough  to  affect  the 
imagination.  But  to  this  it  may  bo  answered, 
that  we  are  sure,  in  general,  there  are  many  intel- 
lectual  beings  in  the  world  beside  ourselves,  and 
several  species  of  spirits,  who  are  subject  to  differ¬ 
ent  laws  and  economies  from  those  of  mankind  : 
when  we  see,  therefore,  any  of  these  repiesented 
naturally,  we  cannot  look  upon  the  representation 
as  altogether  impossible,  nay,  many  are  prepos¬ 
sessed  with  such  false  opinions,  as  dispose  them 
to  believe  these  particular  delusions  ;  at  least  we 
have  all  heard  so  many  pleasing  relations  in  favor 
of  them,  that  we  do  not  care  for  seeing  through 
the  falsehood,  and  willingly  give  ourselves  up  to 
so  agreeable  an  imposture. 

The  ancients  have  not  much  of  this  poetry 
among  them  ;  for,  indeed,  almost  the  whole  sub- 
stance  of  it  owes  its  original  to  the  darkness  and 
superstition  of  later  ages,  when  pious  frauds  were 
made  use  of  to  amuse  mankind,  and  frighten  them 
into  a  sense  of  their  duty.  Our  forefathers  looked 
upon  nature  with  more  reverence  and  horror,  be¬ 
fore  the  world  was  enlightened  by  learning  and 
philosophy;  and  loved  to  astonish  themselves 
with  the  apprehensions  of  witchcraft,  prodigies, 
charms,  and  enchantments.  There  was  not  a  vil¬ 
lage  in  England  that  had  not*  a  ghost  in  it;  the 
churchyards  were  all  haunted';  every  large  com¬ 
mon  had  a  circle  of  fairies  belonging  to  it ;  and 
there  was  scarce  a  shepherd  to  be  met  with  who 

had  not  seen  a  spirit. 

Among  all  the  poets  of  this  kind  our  English  are 
much  the  best,  by  what  I  have  yet  seen  ;  whether 
it  be  that  we  abound  with  more  stories  of  this  na¬ 
ture,  or  that  the  genius  of  our  country  is  fitter 
for  this  sort  of  poetry.  For  the  English  are  natu¬ 
rally  fanciful,  and  very  often  disposed,  by  that 
gloominess  and  melancholy  of  temper,  which  is  so 
frequent  in  our  nation,  to  many  wild  notions  and 
visions,  to  which  others  are  not  so  liable.  < 

Among  the  English,  Shakspeare  has  incom¬ 
parably  excelled  all  others.  That  noble  extrava¬ 
gance  of  fancy,  which  he  had  in  so  great  peifec- 
tion,  thoroughly  qualified  him  to  touch  this  weak, 
superstitious  part  of  his  reader’s  imagination  ; 
and  made  him  capable  of  succeeding,  where  lie 
had  nothing  to  support  him  beside  the  strength  of 
his  own  genius.  There  is  something  so  wild,  and 
yet  so  solemn,  in  the  speeches  of  his  ghosts, 
fairies,  witches,  and  the  like  imaginary  persons, 
that  we  cannot  forbear  thinking  them  natural, 
though  we  have  no  rule  by  which  to  judge  of 
them,  and  must  confess,  if  there  are  such  beings 
in  the  world,  it  looks  highly  probable  they  should 
talk  and  act  as  he  has  represented  them. 

There  is  another  sort  of  imaginary  beings,  tnat 
we  sometimes  meet  among  the  poets,  when  tlie 
author  represents  any  passion,  appetite,  virtue, 
vice,  under  a  visible  shape,  and  makes  .  P  ' 

I  or  an  actor  in  his  poem.  Of  this  nature  aie  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


508 


descriptions  of  Hunger  and  Envy  in  Ovid,  of 
Fame  in  Virgil,  and  of  Sin  and  Death  in  Milton. 
We  find  a  whole  creation  of  the  like  shadowy 
persons  in  Spenser,  who  had  an  admirable  talent 
in  representations  of  this  kind.  I  have  discoursed 
of  these  emblematical  persons  in  former  papers' 
and  shall  therefore  only  mention  them  in  this 
place.  Thus  we  see  how  many  ways  poetry  ad¬ 
dresses  itself  to  the  imagination,  as  it  has  not 
only  the  whole  circle  of  nature  for  its  province, 
but  makes  new  worlds  of  its  own,  shows  us  per¬ 
sons  who  are  not  to  be  found  in  being,  and  repre¬ 
sents  even  the  faculties  of  the  soul,  with  the  sev¬ 
eral  virtues  and  vices,  in  a  sensible  shape  and 
character. 

I  shall,  in  my  two  following  papers,  consider, 
in  general,  how  other  kinds  of  writing  are  quali¬ 
fied  to  please  the  imagination  ;  with  which  I  in¬ 
tend  to  conclude  this  essay. — 0. 


No.  420.]  WEDNESDAY,  JULY  2,  1712. 

PAPER  X. 

ON  THE  PLEASURES  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

CONTENTS. 

Wliat  authors  please  the  imagination.  Who  have  nothing  to 
do  with  fiction.  IIow  history  pleases  the  imagination.  How 
the  authors  of  the  new  philosophy  please  the  imagination. 
The  bounds  and  defects  of  the  imagination.  Whether 
these  defects  are  essential  to  the  imagination. 

- Quocunque  volent,  animum  auditoris  agunto. 

Hob.  Ars.  Poet.  v.  100. 

And  raise  men’s  passions  to  what  height  they  will. 

Roscommon. 

As  the  writers  in  poetry  and  fiction  borrow  their 
several  materials  from  outward  objects,  aud  join 
them  together  at  their  own  pleasure,  there  are 
others  who  are  obliged  to  follow  nature  more 
closely,  and  to  take  entire  scenes  out  of  her.  Such 
are  historians,  natural  philosophers,  travelers, 
geographers,  and  in  a  word,  all  who  describe  visi¬ 
ble  objects  of  a  real  existence. 

It  is  the  most  agreeable  talent  of  a  historian  to 
be  able  to  draw  up  his  armies  and  fight  his  battles 
in  proper  expressions,  to  set  before  our  eyes  the 
divisions,  cabals,  and  jealousies  of  great  men,  to 
lead  us  step  by  step  into  the  several  actions  and 
events  of  his  history.  We  love  to  see  the  subject 
unfolding  itself  by  just  degrees,  and  breaking 
upon  us  insensibly,  that  so  we  may  be  kept  in  a 
pleasing  suspense,  and  have  time  given  us  to 
raise  our  expectations,  and  to  side  with  one  of  the 
parties  concerned  in  the  relation.  I  confess  this 
shows  more  the  art  than  the  veracity  of  the  histo¬ 
rian  ;  but  I  am  only  to  speak  of  him  as  he  is 
qualified  to  please  the  imagination,  and  in  this 
respect  Livy  has,  perhaps,  excelled  all  who  ever 
went  before  him  or  have  written  since  his  time. 
He  describes  everything  in  so  lively  a  manner, 
that  his  whole  history  is  an  admirable  picture, 
and  touches  on  such  proper  circumstances  in  every 
story,  that  his  reader  becomes  a  kind  of  Spectator, 
and  feels  in  himself  all  the  variety  of  passions 
which  are  correspondent  to  the  several  parts  of 
the  relation. 

But  among  this  set  of  writers  there  are  none 
who  more  gratify  and  enlarge  the  imagination 
than  the  authors  of  the  new  philosophy,  whether 
we  consider  their  theories  of  the  earth  or  heavens, 
the  discoveries  they  have  made  by  glasses,  or  any 
other  of  their  contemplations  on  nature.  We  are 
not  a  little  pleased  to  find  every  green  leaf  swarm 
with  millions  of  animals,  that  at  their  largest 
growth  are  not  visible  to  the  naked  eye.  There  is 
something  very  engaging  to  the  fancy,  as  well  as 


to  our  reason,  in  the  treatises  of  metals,  minerals, 
plants,  and  meteors.  But  when  we  survey  the 
whole  earth  at  once,  and  the  several  planets  that 
lie  within  its  neighborhood,  we  are  filled  with  a 
pleasing  astonishment,  to  see  so  many  worlds, 
hanging  one  above  another,  and  sliding  round 
their  axles  in  such  an  amazing  pomp  and  sol¬ 
emnity.  If,  after  this,  we  contemplate  those  wild* 
fields  of  ether,  that  reach  in  height  as  far  as  from 
Saturn  to  the  fixed  stars,  and  run  abroad  almost 
to  an  infinitude,  our  imagination  finds  its  capacity 
filled  with  so  immense  a  prospect,  and  puts  itself 
upon  the  stretch  to  comprehend  it.  But  if  we  yet 
rise  higher,  and  consider  the  fixed  stars  as  so 
many  vast  oceans  of  flame,  that  are  each  of  them 
attended  with  a  different  set  of  planets,  and  still 
discover  new  firmaments  and  new  lights  that  are 
sunk  further  into  those  unfathomless  depths  of 
ether,  so  as  not  to  be  seen  by  the  strongest  of  our 
telescopes,  we  are  lost  in  such  a  labyrinth  of  suns 
and  worlds,  and  confounded  with  the  immensity 
and  magnificence  of  nature. 

Nothing  is  more  pleasant  to  the  fancy,  than  to 
enlarge  itself  by  degrees,  in  its  contemplation  of 
the  various  proportions  which  its  several  objects 
bear  to  each  other,  when  it  compares  the  body  of 
man  to  the  bulk  of  the  whole  earth,  the  earth  to 
the  circle  it  describes  round  the  sun,  that  circle  to 
the  sphere  of  the  fixed  stars,  the  sphere  of  the 
fixed  stars  to  the  circuit  of  the  whole  creation,  the 
whole  creation  itself  to  the  infinite  space  that  is 
everywhere  diffused  about  it ;  or  when  the  ima¬ 
gination  works  downward,  and  considers  the  bulk 
of  a  human  body  in  respect  of  an  animal  a  hun¬ 
dred  times  less  than  a  mite,  the  particular  limbs 
of  such  an  animal,  the  different  springs  that 
actuate  the  limbs,  the  spirits  which  set  the  springs 
a-going,  and  the  proportionable  minuteness  of 
these  several  parts,  before  they  have  arrived  at 
their  full  growth  and  perfection  ;  but  if,  after  all 
this,  we  take  the  least  part  of  these  animal  spi¬ 
rits,  and  consider  its  capacity  of  being  wrought 
into  a  world  that  shall  contain  within  those  narrow 
dimensions  a  heaven  and  earth,  stars  and  planets, 
and  every  different  species  of  living  creatures,  in 
the  same  analogy  and  proportion  they  bear  to  each 
other  in  our  own  universe  ;  such  a  speculation,  by 
reason  of  its  nicety,  appears  ridiculous  to  those 
who  have  not  turned  their  thoughts  that  way, 
though  at  the  same  time  it  is  founded  on  no  less 
than  the  evidence  of  a  demonstration.  Nay,  we 
may  yet  carry  it  further,  and  discover  in  the 
smallest  particle  of  this  little  world,  a  new,  inex- 
hausted  fund  of  matter,  capable  of  being  spun  out 
into  another  universe. 

I  have  dwelt  the  longer  on  this  subject,  because 
I  think  it  may  show  us  the  proper  limits,  as  well 
as  the  defectiveness  of  our  imagination  ;  how  it  is 
confined  to  a  very  small  quantity  of  space,  and 
immediately  stopped  in  its  operation,  when  it  en¬ 
deavors  to  take  in  anything  that  is  very  great  or 
very  little.  Let  a  man  try  to  conceive  the  differ¬ 
ent  bulk  of  an  animal  which  is  twenty,  from  an¬ 
other  which  is  a  hundred  times  less  than  a  mite,  or 
to  compare  in  his  thoughts  a  length  of  a  thousand 
diameters  of  the  earth  with  that  of  a  million;  and 
he  will  quickly  find  that  he  has  no  different  mea¬ 
sures  in  his  mind,  adjusted  to  such  extraordinary 
degrees  of  grandeur  or  minuteness.  The  under¬ 
standing,  indeed,  opens  an  infinite  space  on  every 
side  of  us  ;  but  the  imagination,  after  a  few  faint 
efforts,  is  immediately  at  a  stand,  and  finds  her¬ 
self  swallowed  up  in  the  immensity  of  the  void 
that  surrounds  it:  our  reason  can  pursue  a  par- 


J 


*  Vide  ed.  in  folio. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


509 


tide  of  matter  through  an  infinite  variety  of  divi¬ 
sions  ;  but  the  fancy  soon  loses  sight  of  it,  and 
feels  in  itself  a  kind  of  chasm,  that  wants  to  be 
filled  with  matter  of  a  more  sensible  bulk.  We 
can  neither  widen  nor  contract  the  faculty  to  the 
dimensions  of  either  extreme.  The  object  is  too 
big  for  our  capacity  when  we  would  comprehend 
the  circumference  of  a  world  ;  and  dwindles  into 
nothing  when  we  endeavor  after  the  idea  of  an 
atom. 

It  is  possible  this  defect  of  imagination  may 
not  be  in  the  soul  itself,  but  as  it  acts  in  conjunc¬ 
tion  with  the  body.  Perhaps  there  may  not  be 
room  in  the  brain  for  such  a  variety  of  impres¬ 
sions,  or  the  animal  spirits  may  be  incapable  of 
figuring  them  in  such  a  manner  as  is  necessary  # 
to  excite  so  very  large  or  very  minute  ideas. 
However  it  be,  we  may  well  suppose  that  beings 
of  a  higher  nature  very  much  excel  us  in  this  re¬ 
spect,  as  it  is  probable  the  soul  of  man  will  be  in¬ 
finitely  more  perfect  hereafter  in  this  faculty,  as 
well  as  in  all  the  rest  ;  insomuch  that,  perhaps, 
the  imagination  will  be  able  to  keep  pace  with 
the  understanding,  and  to  form  in  itself  distinct 
ideas  of  all  the  different  modes  and  quantities  of 
space. — 0. 


No.  421.]  THURSDAY,  JULY  3,  1712. 

PAPER  XI. 

ON  THE  PLEASURES  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

CONTENTS. 

How  those  please  the  imagination  who  treat  of  subjects  ab¬ 
stracted  from  matter,  by  allusions  taken  from  it.  What  allu¬ 
sions  most  pleasing  to  the  imagination.  Great  writers  how 
faulty  in  this  respect.  Of  the  art  of  imagining  in  general. 
The  imagination  capable  of 'pain  as  welt  as  pleasure.  In 
what  degree  the  imagination  is  capable  either  of  pain  or 
pleasure. 

Ignotis  errare  locis,  ignota  videre 

Flumina  gaudebat:  studio  minuente  laborem. 

Ovid,  Met.  vi.  294. 

Tie  sought  fresh  fountains  in  a  foreign  soil ; 

The  pleasure  lessen'd  the  attending  toil. — Addison. 

The  pleasures  of  the  imagination  are  not  wholly 
confined  to  such  particular  authors  as  are  conver¬ 
sant  in  material  objects,  but  are  often  to  be  met 
with  among  the  polite  masters  of  morality,  criti¬ 
cism,  and  other  speculations  abstracted  from  mat¬ 
ter,  who,  though  they  do  not  directly  treat  of  the 
visible  parts  of  nature,  often  draw  from  them  their 
similitudes,  metaphors,  and  allegories.  By  these 
allusions,  a  truth  in  the  understanding  is,  as  it 
were,  reflected  by  the  imagination ;  we  are  able  to 
see  something  like  color  and  shape  in  a  notion, 
and  to  discover  a  scheme  of  thoughts  traced  out 
upon  matter.  And  here  the  mind  receives  a  great 
deal  of  satisfaction,  and  has  two  of  its  faculties 
gratified  at  the  same  time,  while  the  fancy  is  busy 
in  copying  after  the  understanding,  and  transcrib¬ 
ing  ideas  out  of  the  intellectual  world  into  the 
material. 

The  great  art  of  a  writer  shows  itself  in  the 
choice  of  pleasing  allusions  which  are  generally 
to  be  taken  from  the  great  or  beautiful  works  of 
art  or  nature  ;  for,  though  whatever  is  new  or 
uncommon  is  apt  to  delight  the  imagination,  the 
chief  design  of  an  allusion  being  to  illustrate* and 
explain  the  passages  of  an  author,  it  should  be 
always  borrowed  from  what  is  more  known  and 
common,  than  the  passages  which  are  to  be  ex¬ 
plained. 

Allegories,  when  well  chosen,  are  like  so  many 
tracks  of  light  in  a  discourse,  that  make  everything 
about  them  clear  and  beautiful.  A  noble  metaphor, 


when  it  is  placed  to  an  advantage,  casts  a  kind  of 
gloiy  round  it,  and  darts  a  luster  through  a  whole 
sentence.  1  liese  different  kinds  of  allusion  are 
but  so  many  different  manners  of  similitude  ;  and 
that  they  may  please  the  imagination,  the  likeness 
ought  to  be  very  exact  or  very  agreeable,  as  we  love 
to  see  a  picture  where  the  resemblance  is  just,  or 
the  posture  and  air  graceful.  But  we  often  find 
eminent  writers  very  faulty  in  this  respect :  great 
scholars  are  apt  to  fetch  their  comparisons  and  al¬ 
lusions  Bom  the  sciences  in  which  they  are  most 
conversant,  so  that  a  man  may  see  the  compass  of 
their  learning  in  a  treatise  on  the  most  indifferent 
subject.  I  have  read  a  discourse  upon  love,  which 
none  but  a  profound  chemist  could  understand, 
and  have  heard  many  a  sermon  that  should  only 
have  been  preached  before  a  congregation  of  Car¬ 
tesians.  On  the  contrary,  your  men  of  business 
usually  have  recourse  to  such  instances  as  are  too 
mean  and  familiar.  They  are  for  drawing  the 
reader  into  a  game  of  chess  or  tennis,  or  for  lead¬ 
ing  him  from  shop  to  shop,  in  the  cant  of  partic¬ 
ular  tiades  and  employments.  It  is  certain  there 
may  be  found  an  infinite  variety  of  very  agreeable 
allusions  in  both  these  kinds  j  but  for  the  general¬ 
ity,  the  most  entertaining  ones  lie  in  the  works  of 
nature,  which  are  obvious  to  all  capacities,  and 
more  delightful  than  what  is  to  be  found  in  arts 
and  sciences. 

It  is  this  talent  of  affecting  the  imagination 
that  gives  an  embellishment  to  good  sense,  and 
makes  one  man’s  compositions  more  agreeable  than 
another’s.  It  sets  off  all  writings  in  general,  but 
is  the  very  life  and  highest  perfection  of  poetry. 
Where  it  shines  in  an  eminent  degree,  it  has  pre¬ 
served  several  poems  for  many  ages,  that  have 
nothing  else  to  recommend  them  ;  and  where  all 
the  other  beauties  are  present,  the  work  appears 
dry  and  insipid  if  this  single  one  be  wanting.  It 
has  something  in  it  like  creation.  It  bestows  a 
kind  of  existence,  and  draws  up  to  the  reader’s 
view  several  objects  which  are  not  to  be  found  in 
being.  It  makes  additions  to  nature,  and  gives  a 
greater  variety  to  God’s  works.  In  a  word,  it  is 
able  to  beautify  and  adorn  the  most  illustrious 
scenes  in  the  universe,  or  to  fill  the  mind  with  more 
glorious  shows  and  apparitions  than  can  be  found 
in  any  part  of  it. 

We  have  now  discovered  the  several  originals  of 
those  pleasures  that  gratify  the  fancy  ;  and  here, 
perhaps,  it  would  not  be  very  difficult  to  cast  un¬ 
der  their  proper  heads  those  contrary  objects 
which  are  apt  to  fill  it  with  distaste  and  terror  \ 
for  the  imagination  is  as  liable  to  pain  as  plea¬ 
sure.  When  the  brain  is  hurt  by  any  accident,  or 
the  mind  disordered  by  dreams  or  sickness,  the 
fancy  is  overrun  with  wild  dismal  ideas,  and  ter¬ 
rified  with  a  thousand  hideous  monsters  of  its  own 
framing. 

Eumenidum  veluti  demens  videt  agmina  Pentheus, 

Et  solem  geminum,  et  duplices  se  ostendere  Thebas : 

Aut  Agamemnonius  scenis  agitatus  Orestes, 

Armatam  facibus  matrem  et  serpentibus  atris 
Cum  fugit,  ultricesque  sedent  in  limine  Dirae. 

ViRG.iEn.iv.  469. 

Like  Pentheus,  when  distracted  with  his  fear, 
lie  saw  two  suns,  and  double  Thebes,  appear ; 

Or  mad  Orestes,  when  his  mother’s  ghost 
Full  in  his  face  infernal  torches  tost, 

And  shook  her  snaky  locks :  he  shuns  the  sight, 

Flies  o’er  the  stage,  surpris’d  with  mortal  fright; 

The  Furies  guard  the  door,  and  intercept  his  flight. 

Dryden. 

There  is  not  a  sight  in  nature  so  mortifying  as 
that  of  a  distracted  person,  when  his  imagination 
is  troubled,  and  his  whole  soul  disordered  and 
confused.  Babylon  in  ruins  is  not  so  melan¬ 
choly  a  spectacle.  But  to  quit  so  disagreeable  a 


THE  SPECT ATO  R. 


510 

subject,  I  shall  only  consider,  by  way  of  conclu¬ 
sion,  what  an  infinite  advantage  this  faculty 
gives  an  Almighty  Being  over  the  soul  of  man, 
and  how  great  a  measure  of  happiness  or  misery 
we  are  capable  of  receiving  from  the  imagination 
only. 

We  have  already  seen  the  influence  that  one 
man  has  over  the  fancy  of  another,  and  with  what 
ease  he  conveys  into  it  a  variety  of  imagery,  how 
great  a  power  then  may  we  suppose  lodged  in  him 
who  knows  all  the  ways  of  affecting  the  imagina¬ 
tion,  who  can  infuse  what  ideas  he  pleases,  and 
fill  those  ideas  with  terror  and  delight  to  what 
degree  he  thinks  fit!  He  can  excite  images  in  the 
mind  without  the  help  of  words,  and  make 
scenes  rise  up  before  us,  and  seem  present  to  the 
eye,  without  the  assistance  of  bodies,  or  exterior 
objects.  He  can  transport  the  imagination  with 
such  beautiful  and  glorious  visions  as  cannot 
ossibly  enter  into  our  present  conceptions,  or 
aunt  it  with  such  ghastly  specters  and  appari¬ 
tions  as  would  make  us  hope  for  annihilation,  and 
think  existence  no  better  than  a  curse.  In  short, 
he  can  so  exquisitely  ravish  or  torture  the  soul 
through  this  single  faculty,  as  might  suffice  to 
make  up  the  whole  heaven  or  hell  of  any  finite 
being. 

[This  essay  on  the  Pleasures  of  the  Imagina¬ 
tion,  having  been  published  in  separate  papers,  I 
shall  conclude  it  with  a  table  of  the  principal 
contents  of  each  paper.*] 


No.  422.]  FRIDAY,  JULY  4,  1712. 

Haec  scripsi  non  otii  abundantia,  sed  amoris  erga  te. 

Tull.  Epist. 

I  have  written  this,  not  out  of  the  abundance  of  leisure,  but 
of  my  affection  toward  you. 

I  no  not  know  anything  which  gives  greater 
disturbance  to  conversation,  than  the  false  notion 
some  people  have  of  raillery.  It  ought,  certainly, 
to  be  the  first  point  to  be  aimed  at  in  society,  to 
gain  the  good-will  of  those  with  whom  you  con¬ 
verse  ;  the  way  to  that  is,  to  show  you  are  well 
inclined  toward  them.  What  then  can  be  more 
absurd  than  to  set  up  for  being  extremely  sharp 
and  biting,  as  the  term  is,  in  your  expressions  to 
our  familiars  ?  A  man  who  has  no  good  quality 
ut  courage,  is  in  a  very  ill  way  toward  making 
an  agreeable  figure  in  the  world,  because  that 
which  he  has  superior  to  other  people  cannot  be 
exerted  without  raising  himself  an  enemy.  Your 
gentleman  of  a  satirical  vein  is  in  the  like  condi¬ 
tion.  To  say  a  thing  which  perplexes  the  heart 
of  him  you  speak  to,  or  brings  blushes  into  his 
face,  is  a  degree  of  murder;  and  it  is,  I  think,  an 
unpardonable  offense  to  show  a  man  you  do  not 
care  whether  he  is  pleased  or  displeased.  But 
will  you  not  then  take  a  jest  ? — Yes  :  but  pray  let 
it  be  a  jest.  It  is  no  jest  to  put  me,  who  am  so 
unhappy  as  to  have  an  utter  aversion  to  speaking 
to  more  than  one  man  at  a  time,  under  a  necessity 
to  explain  myself  in  much  company,  and  re¬ 
ducing  me  to  shame  and  derision,  except  I  per¬ 
form  what  my  infirmity  of  silence  disables  me 
to  do. 

Calisthenes  has  great  wit,  accompanied  with 
that  quality  without  which  a  man  can  have  no 
wit  at  all — a  sound  judgment.  This  gentleman 
rallies  the  best  of  any  man  I  know  ;  for  he  forms 
his  ridicule  upon  a  circumstance  which  you  are, 

*  These  contents  are  printed  all  together  in  the  oi'iginal 
folio,  at  the  end  of  No.  421;  but  are  in  this  edition  arranged  in 
their  proper  places,  and  placed  at  the  beginnings  of  the  several 
papers. 


in  your  heart,  not  unwilling  to  grant  him  ;  to  wit, 
that  you  are  guilty  of  an  excess  in  something 
which  is  in  itself  laudable.  He  very  well  under¬ 
stands  what  you  would  be,  and  needs  not  fear  your 
anger  for  declaring  you  are  a  little  too  much  that 
thing.  The  generous  will  bear  being  reproached 
as  lavish,  and  the  valiant  as  rash,  without  being 
provoked  to  resentment  against  their  monitor. 
What  has  been  said  to  be  a  mark  of  a  good  writer 
will  fall  in  with  the  character  of  a  good  compan¬ 
ion.  The  good  writer  makes  his  reader  better 
pleased  with  himself,  and  the  agreeable  man 
makes  his  friends  enjoy  themselves,  rather  than 
him,  while  he  is  in  their  company.  Calisthenes 
does  this  with  inimitable  pleasantry.  He  whis¬ 
pered  a  friend  the  other  day,  so  as  to  be  overheard 
by  a  young  officer  who  gave  symptoms  of  cocking 
upon  the  company,  “  That  gentleman  has  very 
much  of  the  air  of  a  general  officer.”  The  youth 
immediately  put  on  a  composed  behavior,  and 
behaved  himself  suitably  to  the  conceptions  he 
believed  the  company  had  of  him.  It  is  to  be 
allowed  that  Calisthenes  will  make  a  man  run 
into  impertinent  relations  to  his  own  advantage, 
and  express  the  satisfaction  he  has  in  his  own 
dear  self,  till  he  is  very  ridiculous  ;  but  in  this 
case  the  man  is  made  a  fool  by  his  own  con¬ 
sent,  and  not  exposed  as  such  whether  he  will 
or  no.  I  take  it,  therefore,  that  to  make  raillery 
agreeable,  a  man  must  either  not  know  he  is  ral¬ 
lied,  or  think  never  the  worse,  of  himself  if  he 
sees  he  is. 

Acetus  is  of  a  quite  contrary  genius,  and  is  more 
generally  admired  than  Calisthenes,  but  not  with 
justice.  Acetus  has  no  regard  to  the  modesty  or 
weakness  of  the  person  lie  rallies  ;  but  if  his  qual¬ 
ity  or  humility  gives  him  any  superiority  to  the 
man  he  would  fall  upon,  he  has  no  mercy  in  mak¬ 
ing  the  onset.  He  can  be  pleased  to  see  his  best 
friend  out  of  countenance,  while  the  laugh  is 
loud  in  his  own  applause.  His  raillery  always 
puts  the  company  into  little  divisions  and  sepa¬ 
rate  interests,  while  that  of  Calisthenes  cements 
it,  and  makes  every  man  not  only  better  pleased 
with  himself,  but  also  with  all  the  rest  in  the  con¬ 
versation. 

To  rally  well,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that 
kindness  must  run  through  all  you  say;  and  you 
must  ever  preserve  the  character  of  a  friena  to 
support  your  pretensions  to  be  free  with  a  man. 
Acetus  ought  to  be  banished  human  society,  be¬ 
cause  he  raises  his  mirth  upon  giving  pain  to  the 
person  upon  whom  he  is  pleasant.  Nothing  but 
the  malevolence  which  is  too  general  toward 
those  who  excel  could  make  his  company  toler¬ 
ated  ;  but  they  with  whom  he  ponverses  are 
sure  to  see  some  man  sacrificed  wherever  he  is 
admitted  ;  and  all  the  credit  he  has  for  wit,  is 
owing  to  the  gratification  it  gives  to  other  mens' 
ill-nature. 

Minutius  has  a  wit  that  conciliates  a  man’s 
love,  at  the  same  time  that  it  is  exerted  against  his 
faults.  He  has  an  art  of  keeping  the  person 
he  rallies  in  countenance,  by  insinuating  that 
he  himself  is  guilty  of  the  same  imperfection. 
This  he  does  with  so  much  address,  that  he 
seems  rather  to  bewail  himself,  than  fall  upon 
his  friend. 

It  is  really  monstrous  to  see  how  unaccountably 
it  prevails  among  men  to  take  the  liberty  of  dis¬ 
pleasing  each  other.  One  would  think  sometimes 
that  the  contention  is  who  shall  be  most  disagreea¬ 
ble.  Allusions  to  past  follies,  hints  which  revive 
what  a  man  has  a  mind  to  forget  forever,  and  de¬ 
serves  that  all  the  rest  of  the  world  should,  are 
commonly  brought  forth  even  in  company  of  men 
of  distinction.  They  do  not  thrust  with  the  skill 


THE  STE 

of  fencers,  but  cut  up  with  the  barbarity  of 
butchers.  It  is,  methinks,  below  the  character  of 
men  of  humanity  and  good-manners  to  be  capable 
of  mirth  while  there  is  any  of  the  company  in 
pain  and  disorder.  They  who  have  the  true  taste 
of  conversation,  enjoy  themselves  in  a  communi¬ 
cation  of  each  other’s  excellencies,  and  not  in  a 
triumph  over  their  imperfections.  Fortius  would 
have  been  reckoned  a  wit  if  there  had  never  been 
a  fool  in  the  world  ;  he  wants  not  foils  to  be  a 
beauty,  but  has  that  natural  pleasure  in  observ¬ 
ing  perfection  in  others,  that  his  own  faults 
are  overlooked,  out  of  gratitude,  by  all  his  ac¬ 
quaintance. 

After  these  several  characters  of  men  who  suc¬ 
ceed  or  fail  in  raillery,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  re¬ 
flect  a  little  further  what  one  takes  to  be  the  most 
agreeable  kind  of  it ;  and  that  to  me  appears  when 
the  satire  is  directed  against  vice,  with  an  air  of 
contempt  of  the  fault,  but  no  ill-will  to  the 
criminal.  Mr.  Congreve’s  Doris  is  a  master¬ 
piece  in  this  kind.  It  is  the  character  of  a 
woman  utterly  .abandoned  ;  but  her  impudence, 
by  the  finest  piece  of  raillery,  is  made  only  gen¬ 
erosity  : 

Peculiar  therefore  is  her  way, 

Whether  by  nature  taught 

I  shall  not  undertake  to  say, 

Or  by  experience  bought; 

But  who  o’ernight  obtain’d  her  grace 
She  can  next  day  disown, 

And  stare  upon  the  strange  man’s  face, 

As  one  she  ne’er  had  known. 

So  well  she  can  the  truth  disguise, 

Such  artful  wonder  frame, 

The  lover  or  distrusts  his  eyes, 

Or  thinks  ’twas  all  a  dream. 

Some  censure  this  as  lewd  or  low, 

Who  are  to  bounty  blind; 

For  to  forget  what  we  bestow 
Bespeaks  a  noble  mind. 


Ho.  423.]  SATURDAY,  JULY  5,  1712. 

- Nuper  idoneus. — Hon.  3  Od.  xxvi.  1. 

Once  fit  myself. 

1  look  upon  myself  as  a  kind  of  guardian  to 
the  fair,  and  am  always  watchful  to  observe  any¬ 
thing  which  concerns  their  interest.  The  present 
aper  shall  be  employed  in  the  service  of  a  very 
ne  young  woman;  and  the  admonitions  I  give 
her  may  not  be  unuseful  to  the  rest  of  the  sex. 
Gloriana  shall  be  the  name  of  the  heroine  in  to¬ 
day’s  entertainment;  and  when  I  have  told  you 
that  she. is  rich,  witty,  young,  and  beautiful,  you 
will  believe  she  does  not  want  admirers.  She 
has  had  since  she  came  to  town  about  twenty-five 
of  those  lovers  who  make  their  addresses  by  way 
of  jointure  and  settlement:  these  come  and  go 
with  great  indifference  on  both  sides;  and  as 
beauteous  as  she  is,  a  line  in  a  deed  has  had  ex¬ 
ception  enough  against  it,  to  outweigh  the  luster 
of  her  eyes,  the  readiness  of  her  understanding, 
and  the  merit  of  her  general  character.  But 
among  the  crowd  of  such  cool  adorers,  she  has 
two  who  are  very  assiduous  in  their  attendance. 
There  is  something  so  extraordinary  and  artful  in 
their  manner  of  application,  that  I  think  it  but 
common  justice  to  alarm  her  in  it.  I  have  done  it 
in  the  following  letter  : 

“  Madam, 

“  I  have  for  some  time  taken  notice  of  two  gen¬ 
tlemen  who  attend  you  in  all  public  places,  both 
of  whom  have  also  easy  access  to  you  at  your 
own  house.  But  the  matter  is  adjusted  between 


CTATOR; 

them;  and  Damon,  who  so  passionately  addresses 
you,  has  no  design  upon  you;  but  Strephon,  who 
seems  to  be  indifferent  to  you,  is  the  man  who  is>, 
as  they  have  settled  it,  to  have  you.  The  plot 
was  laid  over  a  bottle  of  wine;  and  Strephon, 
when  he  first  thought  of  you,  proposed  to  Damon 
to  be  his  rival.  The  manner  of  his  breaking  it  to 
him,  I  was  so  placed  at  a  tavern,  that  I  could  not 
avoid  hearing.  ‘  Damon,’  said  he,  with  a  deep 
have  long  languished  for  that  miracle 
of  beauty,  Gloriana:  and  if  you  will  be  very  stead¬ 
fastly  my  rival,  I  shall  certainly  obtain  her.  Do 
not,  continued  he,  ‘  be  offended  at  this  overture; 
foi  I  go  upon  the  knowledge  of  the  temper  of  the 
woman,  rather  than  any  vanity  that  I  should 
profit  by  an  opposition  of  your  pretensions  to 
those  of  your  humble  servant.  Gloriana  has  very 
good  sense,,  a  quick  relish  of  the  satisfactions  of 
life,  and  will  not  give  herself,  as  the  crowd  of 
women  do,  to  the  arms  of  a  man  to  whom  she  is 
indifferent.  As  she  is  a  sensible  woman,  expres¬ 
sions  of  rapture  and  adoration  will  not  move  her 
neither:  but  he  that  has  her  must  be  the  object  of 
her  desire,  not  her  pity.  The  way  to  this  end  I 
take  to  be,  that  a  man’s  general  conduct  should  be 
agreeable,  without  addressing  in  particular  to  the 
woman  he  loves.  Now,  Sir,  if  you  will  be  so 
kind  as  to  sigh  and  die  for  Gloriana,  I  will  carry 
it  with  great  respect  toward  her,  but  seem  void 
of  any  thoughts  as  a  lover.  By  this  means  I 
shall  be  in  the  most  amiable  light  of  which  I  am 
capable;  I  shall  be  received  with  freedom,  you 
with  reserve.’  Damon,  who  has  himself  no  de¬ 
signs  of  marriage  at  all,  easily  fell  into  the 
scheme;  and  you  may  observe,  that  wherever  you 
are,  Damon  appears  also.  You  see  he  carries  on 
an  unaffected  exactness  in  his  dress  and  manner, 
and  strives  always  to  be  the  very  contrary  of 
Strephon.  They  have  already  succeeded  so  far, 
that  your  eyes  are  ever  in  search  of  Strephon,  and 
turn  themselves  of  course  from  Damon.  They 
meet  and  compare  notes  upon  your  carriage;  and 
the  letter  wdiich  was  brought  to  you  the  other  day 
was  a  contrivance  to  remark  your  resentment. 
When  you  saw  the  billet  subscribed  Damon,  and 
turned  away  with  a  scornful  air,  and  cried  ‘im¬ 
pertinence  !’  yon  gave  hopes  to  him  that  shuns  you, 
without  mortifying  him  that  languishes  for  you. 

“  What  I  am  concerned  for,  Madam,  is,  that  in 
the  disposal  of  your  heart  you  should  know  what 
you  are  doing,  and  examine  it  before  it  is  lost. 
Strephon  contradicts  you  in  discourse  with  the 
civility  of  one  who  has  a  value  for  you,  but  gives 
up  nothing  like  one  that  loves  you.  This  seem¬ 
ing  unconcern  gives  his  behavior  the  advantage 
of  sincerity,  and  insensibly  obtains  your  good 
opinion  by  appearing  disinterested  in  the  pur 
chase  of  it.  If  you  watch  these  correspondents 
hereafter,  you  will  find  that  Strephon  makes  his 
visit  of  civility  immediately  after  Damon  has 
tired  you  with  one  of  love.  Though  you  are 
very  discreet,  you  will  find  it  no  easy  matter  to 
escape  the  toils  so  well  laid;  as,  when  one  studies 
to  be  disagreeable  in  passion,  the  other  to  be 
pleasing  without  it.  All  the  turns  of  your  tem¬ 
per  are  carefully  watched,  and  their  quick  and 
faithful  intelligence  gives  your  lovers  irresistible 
advantage.  You  will  please,  Madam,  to  be  upon 
your  guard,  and  take  all  the  necessary  precau¬ 
tions  against  one  who  is  amiable  to  you  before 
you  know  he  is  enamored. 

“  I  am,  Madam,  your  most  obedient  Servant.” 

Strephon  makes  great  progress  in  this  lady’s 
good  graces;  for  most  women  being  actuated  by 
some  little  spirit  of  pride  and  contradiction,  he 
has  the  good  effects  of  both  those  motives  by 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


512 

this  covert  way  of  courtship.  He  received  a  mes¬ 
sage  yesterday  from  Damon  in  the  following 
words,  superscribed  “  With  speed.” 

“  All  goes  well:  she  is  very  angry  at  me,  and  I 
dare  say  hates  me  in  earnest.  It  is  a  good  time 
to  visit.  “  Yours.” 

The  comparison  of  Strephon’s  gayety  to  Damon’s 
languishment  strikes  her  imagination  with  a  pros¬ 
pect  of  very  agreeable  hours  with  such  a  man  as 
the  former,  and  abhorrence  of  the  insipid  pros¬ 
pect  with  one  like  the  latter.  To  know  when  a 
ady  is  displeased  with  another,  is  to  know  the 
pest  time  of  advancing  yourself.  This  method  of 
two  persons  playing  into  each  other’s  hand  is  so 
dangerous,  that  I  cannot  tell  how  a  woman  could 
be  able  to  withstand  such  a  siege.  The  condition 
of  Gloriana,  I  am  afraid,  is  irretrievable;  for  Stre- 
phon  has  had  so  many  opportunities  of  pleasing 
without  suspicion,  that  all  which  is  left  for  her  to 
do  is  to  bring  him,  now  she  is  advised,  to  an 
explanation  of  his  passion,  and  beginning  again, 
if  she  can  conquer  the  kind  sentiments  she  has 
already  conceived  for  him.  When  one  shows., 
himself  a  creature  to  be  avoided,  the  other  proper 
to  be  fled  to  for  succor,  they  have  the  whole 
woman  between  them,  and  can  occasionally  re¬ 
bound  her  love  and  hatred  from  one  to  the  other, 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  keep  her  at  a  distance 
from  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  cast  lots  for 
the  conquest. 

N.B.  I  have  many  other  secrets  which  concern 
the  empire  of  love;  but  I  consider,  that,  while  I 
alarm  my  women,  I  instruct  my  men. — T. 


Ho.  424.]  MONDAY,  JULY  7,  1712. 

Est  Ulubris,  animus  si  te  non  deficit  aequus. 

IIor.  1  Ep.  xi.  36. 

’Tis  not  the  place  disgust  or  pleasure  brings: 

From  our  own  mind  our  satisfaction  springs. 

“  Me.  Spectator,  London,  June  24. 

“  A  man  who  has  it  in  his  power  to  choose  his 
own  company,  would  certainly  be  much  to  blame, 
should  he  not,  to  the  best  of  his  judgment,  take 
such  as  are  of  a  temper  most  suitable  to  his  own; 
and  where  that  choice  is  wanting,  or  where  a 
man  is  mistaken  in  his  choice,  and  yet  under  a 
necessity  of  continuing  in  the  same  company,  it 
will  certainly  be  his  interest  to  carry  himself  as 
easily  as  possible. 

“  In  this  I  am  sensible  I  do  but  repeat  what  has 
been  said  a  thousand  times,  at  which,  however,  I 
think  nobody  has  any  title  to  take  exception,  but 
they  who  never  failed  to  put  this  in  practice. 
Not  to  use  any  longer  preface,  this  being  the 
season  of  the  year  in  which  great  numbers  of  all 
sorts  of  people  retire  from  this  place  of  business 
and  pleasure  to  country  solitude,  I  think  it  not 
improper  to  advise  them  to  take  with  them  as 
great  a  stock  of  good  humor  as  they  can ;  for  though 
a  country  life  is  described  as  the  most  pleasant  of 
all  others,  and  though  it  may  in  truth  be  so,  yet 
it  is  so  only  to  those  who  know  how  to  enjoy  leisure 
and  retirement. 

“  As  for  those  who  cannot  live  without  the  con¬ 
stant  helps  of  business  or  company,  let  them  con¬ 
sider,  that  in  the  country  there  is  no  exchange, 
there  are  no  playhouses,  no  variety  of  coffee-houses, 
nor  many  of  those  other  amusements  which  serve 
here  as  so  many  reliefs  from  the  repeated  occur¬ 
rences  in  their  own  families;  but  that  there  the 
greatest  part  of  their  time  must  be  spent  within 
themselves,  and  consequently  it  behooves  them  to 
consider  how  agreeable  it  will  be  to  them  before 
they  leave  this  dear  town. 


“  I  remember,  Mr.  Spectator,  we  were  very  well 
entertained,  last  year,  with  the  advices  you  gave 
us  from  Sir  Roger’s  country-seat;  which  I  the 
rather  mention,  because  it  is  almost  impossible 
not  to  live  pleasantly,  where  the  master  of  a  fa¬ 
mily  is  such  a  one  as  you  there  describe  your 
friend,  who  cannot,  therefore  (I  mean  as  to  his 
domestic  character)  be  too  often  recommended  to 
the  imitation  of  others.  How  amiable  is  that 
affability  and  benevolence  with  which  he  treats 
his  neighbors,  and  every  one,  even  the  meanest 
of  his  own  family  !  and  yet  how  seldom  imitated! 
Instead  of  which  we  commonly  meet  with  ill-na¬ 
tured  expostulations,  noise,  and  chidings - And. 

this  I  hinted,  because  the  humor  and  disposition 
of  the  head  is  what  chiefly  influences  all  the  other 
parts  of  a  family. 

“  An  agreement  and  kind  correspondence  be¬ 
tween  friends  and  acquaintance  is  the  greatest 
pleasure  of  life.  This  is  an  undoubted  truth; 
and  yet  any  man  who  judges  from  the  practice  of 
the  world  will  be  almost  persuaded  to  believe 
the  contrary;  for  how  can  we  .suppose  people 
should  be  so  industrious  to  make  themselves  un¬ 
easy?  What  can  engage  them  to  entertain  and 
foment  jealousies  of  one  another  upon  every  the 
least  occasion?  Yet  so  it  is,  there  are  people  who 
(as  it  should  seem)  delight  in  being  troublesome 
and  vexatious,  who  (as  Tully  speaks)  mira  sunt 
alacritate  ad  litigandum,  ‘have  a  certain  cheerful¬ 
ness  in  wrangling.’  And  thus  it  happens,  that 
there  are  very  few  families  in  which  there  are  not 
feuds  and  animosities,  though  it  is  every  one’s 
interest,  there  more  particularly,  to  avoid  them,  be¬ 
cause  there  (as  I  would  willingly  hope)  no  one 
gives  another  uneasiness  without  feeling  some 
share  of  it. — But  I  am  gone  beyond  what  "I  de¬ 
signed,  and  had  almost  forgot  what  I  chiefly  pro¬ 
posed;  which  was,  barely  to  tell  you  how  hardly 
we,  who  pass  most  of  our  time  in  town,  dispense 
with  a  long  vacation  in  the  country;  how  uneasy 
we  grow  to  ourselves,  and  to  one  another,  when 
our  conversation  is  confined;  insomuch  that,  by 
Michaelmas,  it  is  odds  but  we  come  to  downright 
squabbling,  and  make  as  free  with  one  another  to 
our  faces  as  we  do  with  the  rest  of  the  world  be¬ 
hind  their  backs.  After  I  have  told  you  this,  I 
am  to  desire  that  you  would  now  and  then  give 
us  a  lesson  of  good  humor,  a  family-piece,  which, 
since  we  are  all  very  fond  of  you,  I  hope  may 
have  some  influence  upon  us. 

“  After  these  plain  observations,  give  me  leave 
to  give  you  a  hint  of  what  a  set  of  company  of  my 
acquaintance,  who  are  now  gone  into  the  country, 
and  have  the  use  of  an  absent  nobleman’s  seat, 
have  settled  among  themselves  to  avoid  the  in¬ 
conveniences  above-mentioned.  They  are  a  col¬ 
lection  of  ten  or  twelve,  of  the  same  good  incli¬ 
nation  toward  each  other,  but  of  very  different 
talents  and  inclinations;  from  hence  they  hope  that 
the  variety  of  their  tempers  will  only  create  va¬ 
riety  of  pleasures.  But  as  there  always  will  arise, 
among  the  same  people,  either  for  want  of  diver¬ 
sity  of  objects,  or  the  like  causes,  a  certain  satiety, 
which  may  grow  into  ill-humor  or  discontent,  there 
is  a  large  wing  of  the  house  which  they  design  to 
employ  in  the  nature  of  an  infirmary.  Whoever 
says  a  peevish  thing,  or  acts  anything  which  be¬ 
trays  a  sourness  or  indisposition  to  company,  is 
immediately  to  be  conveyed  to  his  chambers  in 
the  infirmary;  from  whence  he  is  not  to  be  re¬ 
lieved  till  by  his  manner  of  submission,  and  the 
sentiments  expressed  in  his  petition  for  that  pur¬ 
pose,  he  appears  to  the  majority  of  the  company 
to  be  again  fit  for  society.  You  are  to  understand, 
j  that  all  ill-natured  words  or  uneasy  gestures  are 
I  suificient  cause  for  banishment;  speaking  impa- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


tiently  to  servants,  making  a  man  repeat  what  he 
says,  or  anything  that  betrays  inattention  or  dis- 
humor,  are  also  criminal  without  reprieve.  But 
it  is  provided,  that  whoever  observes  the  ill- 
natured  fit  coming  upon  himself,  and  voluntarily 
retires,  shall  be  received  at  his  return  from  the 
infirmary  with  the  highest  marks  of  esteem.  By 
these  and  other  wholesome  methods,  it  is  expected 
that,  if  they  cannot  cure  one  another,  yet  at  least 
they  have  taken  care  that  the  ill-humor  of  one 
shall  not  be  troublesome  to  the  rest  of  the  com¬ 
pany  There  are  many  other  rules  which  the 
society  have  established  for  the  preservation  of 
.®‘r  ®ase.  aa<J  tranquillity,  the  effects  of  which, 
with  the  incidents  that  arise  among  them,  shall 
be  communicated  to  you  from  time  to  time,  for 
the  public  good,  by 

“  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

L-  “  R.  0.” 

No.  425.]  TUESDAY,  JULY  8,  1712. 

Pngora  mitescunt  Zephyris :  ver  proterit  sestas 
Interitura,  simul 

Pomifer  autumn  us  fruges  effuderit,  et  mox 
Bruma  recurrit  iners.— Hor.  4  Od.  vii.  9. 

The  cold  grows  soft  with  western  gales, 

The  summer  over  spring  prevails, 

But  yields  to  autumn’s  fruitful  rain, 

As  this  to  winter  storms  and  hails ; 

Each  loss  the  hasting  moon  repairs  again. 

Sir  W.  Temple. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“There  is  hardly  anything  gives  me  a  more 
sensible  delight  than  the  enjoyment  of  a  cool  still 
evening,  after  the  uneasiness  of  a  hot  sultry  day. 
Such  a  one  I  passed  not  long  ago,  which  made  me 
rejoice  when  the  hour  was  come  for  the  sun  to  set, 
that  I  might  enjoy  the  freshness  of  the  evening  in 
my  garden,  which  then  affords  me  the  pleasantest 
hours  I  pass  in  the  whole  four-and-twenty.  I  im¬ 
mediately  rose  from  my  couch  and  went  down  into 
it.  You  descend  at  first  by  twelve  stone  steps  into 
a  large  square  divided  into  four  grassplots,  in  each 
of  which  is  a  statue  of  white  marble.  This  is  sep¬ 
arated  from  a  large  parterre  by  a  low  wall  ;  and 
from  thence,  through  a  pair  of  iron  gates,  you  are 
led  into  a  long  broad  walk  of  the  finest  turf,  set  on 
each  side  with  tall  yews,  and  on  either  hand  bor¬ 
dered  by  a  canal,  which  on  the  right  divides  the 
walk  from  a  wilderness  parted  into  a  variety  of 
alleys  and  arbors,  and  on  the  left  from  a  kind  of 
amphitheater,  which  is  the  receptacle  of  a  great 
number  of  oranges  and  myrtles.  The  moon  shone 
bright,  and  seemed  then  most  agreeably  to  supply 
the  place  of  the  sun,  obliging  me  with  as  much 
light  as  was  necessary  to  discover  a  thousand 
pleasing  objects,  and  at  the  same  time  divested  of 
all  power  ot  heat.  T.  he  reflection  of  it  in  the  wa¬ 
ter,  the  fanning  of  the  wind  rustling  on  the  leaves, 
the  singing  of  the  thrush  and  nightingale,  and  the 
coolness  of  the  walks,  all  conspired  to  make  me 
lay  aside  all  displeasing  thoughts,  and  brought 
me  into  such  a  tranquillity  of  mind  as  is,  I  believe, 
the  next  happiness  to  that  of  hereafter.  In  this 
sweet  retirement  I  naturally  fell  into  the  repetition 
of  some  lines  out  of  a  poem  of  Milton’s,  which 
he  entitles  II  Pensoroso,  the  ideas  of  which  were 
exquisitely  suited  to  my  present  wanderings  of 
thought : 


513 


Like  one  that  hath  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heaven’s  wide,  pathless  way, 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bow’d, 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Then  let  some  strange,  mysterious  dream 
,wl^  lts  wings  in  airy  stream, 

01  lively  portraiture  display’d, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid  : 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 
Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  spirits  to  mortals’  good, 

Or  the  unseen  genius  of  the  wood. 

“  I  reflected  then  upon  the  sweet  vicissitudes  of 
night  and  day  on  the  charming  disposition  of  the 
seasons,  and  their  return  again  in  a  perpetual  cir¬ 
cle  :  and  oh  !  said  I,  that  I  could  from  these  my 
declining  years,  return  again  to  my  first  spring  of 
youth  and  vigor  ;  but  that,  alas  !  is  impossible  ! 
all  that  remains  within  my  power  is  to  soften  the 
inconveniences  I  feel,  with  an  easy,  contented 
mind,  and  the  enjoyment  of  such  delights  as  this 
solitude  affords  me.  In  this  thought,  I  sat  me 
down  on  a  bank  of  flowers,  and  dropped  into  a 
slumber,  tvliich,  whether  it  were  the  effect  of  fumes 
and  vapors,  or  my  present  thoughts,  I  know  not- 
but  methought  the  genius  of  the  garden  stood  be¬ 
fore  me,  and  introduced  into  the  walk  where  I  lay 
this  drama  and  different  scenes  of  the  revolution 
of  the  year,  which  while  I  then  saw  even  in  my 
dream,  I  resolved  to  write  down,  and  send  to  the 
Spectator : — 

“  The  first  person  whom  I  saw  advancing  to¬ 
ward  me  was  a  youth  of  a  most  beautiful  air 
and  shape,  though  he  seemed  not  yet  arrived  at 
that  exact  proportion  and  symmetry  of  parts 
which  a  little  more  time  would  have  given  him  • 
but,  however,  there  was  such  a  bloom  in  his  coun¬ 
tenance,  such  satisfaction  and  joy,  that  I  thought 
it  the  most  desirable  form  that  I  had  ever  seen 


Sweet  bird !  that  shunn’st  the  noise  and  folly, 
Most  musical !  most  melancholy ! 

Thee,  chantress,  oft,  the  woods  among, 

I  woo  to  hear  thy  ev’ning  song: 

And  missing  thee  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry,  smooth-shaven  green,  • 

To  behold  the  wand’ring  moon, 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 

33 


IT  ,  .  .  .  - - .  — '-'W  OCCU. 

Me  was  clothed  m  a  flowing  mantle  of  green  silk, 
interwoven  with  flowers :  he  had  a  chaplet  of 
roses  on  his  head,  and  a  narcissus  in  his  hand: 
primroses  and  violets  sprang  up  under  his  feet,  and 
all  nature  was  cheered  at  his  approach.  Flora 
was  on  one  hand,  and  Yertumnus  on  the  other,  in 
a  robe  of  changeable  silk.  After  this,  I  was  sur¬ 
prised  to  see  the  moonbeams  reflected  with  a 
sudden  glare  from  armor,  and  to  see  a  man  com¬ 
pletely  armed  advancing  witl}  his  sword  drawn. 
I  was  soon  informed  by  the  genius  it  was  Mars, 
who  had  long  usurped  a  place  among  the  attend¬ 
ants  of  the  Spring.  He  made  way  for  a  softer 
appearance.  It  was  Venus,  without  any  orna¬ 
ment  but  her  own  beauties,  not  so  much  as  her 
own  cestus,  with  which  she  had  encompassed  a 
globe,  which  she  held  in  her  right  hand,  and  in 
her  left  hand  she  had  a  scepter  of  gold.  After 
her,  followed  the  Graces, with  their  arms  entwined 
within  one  another:  their  girdles  were  loosed,  and 
they  moved  to  the  sound  of  soft  music,  striking 
the  ground  alternately  with  their  feet.  Then  came 
up  the  three  months  which  belong  to  this  season. 
As  March  advanced  toward  me,  there  was,  me¬ 
thought,  in  his  look  a  louring  roughness,  which 
ill  befitted  a  month  which  was  ranked  in  so  soft 
a  season,  but  as  he  came  forward,  his  features 
became  insensibly  more  mild  and  gentle;  he 
smoothed  his  brow,  and  looked  with  so  sweet  a 
countenance,  that  I  could  not  but  lament  his  de¬ 
parture,  though  he  made  way  for  April.  He 
appeared  in  the  greatest  gayety  imaginable,  and 
had  a  thousand  pleasures  to  attend  him:  his  look 
was  frequently  clouded,  but  immediately  returned 
to  its  first  composure,  and  remained  fixed  in  a 
smile.  Then  came  May,  attended  by  Cupid,  with 
his  bow  strung,  and  in  a  posture  to  let  fly  an 
arrow:  as  he  passed  by,  methought  I  heard  a  con¬ 
fused  noise  of  soft  complaints,  gentle  ecstasies, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


514 

and  tender  sighs  of  lovers;  vows  of  constancy, 
and  as  many  complainings  of  perfldiousness:  all 
which  the  winds  wafted  away  as  soon  as  they 
had  reached  my  hearing.  After  these,  I  saw  a 
man  advance  in  the  full  prime  and  vigor  of  his 
age;  his  complexion  was  sanguine  and  ruddy, 
his  hair  blacK,  and  fell  down  in  beautiful  ring¬ 
lets  beneath  his  shoulders;  a  mantle  of  hair-co¬ 
lored  silk  hung  loosely  upon  him:  he  advanced 
with  a  hasty  step  after  tne  Spring,  and  sought 
out  the  shade  and  cool  fountains  which  played  in 
the  garden.  He  was  particularly  well  pleased 
when  a  troop  of  Zephyrs  fanned  him  with  their 
wings.  He  had  two  companions  who  walked  on 
each  side,  that  made  him  appear  the  most  agree¬ 
able:  the  one  was  Aurora,  with  fingers  of  roses, 
and  her  feet  dewy,  attired  in  gray:  the  other  was 
Yesper,  in  a  robe  of  azure  beset  with  drops  of 
gold,  whose  breath  he  caught  while  it  passed 
over  a  bundle  of  honeysuckles  and  tuberoses, 
which  he  held  in  his  hand.  Pan  and  Ceres  fol¬ 
lowed  them  with  four  reapers,  wTio  danced  a  mor- 
rice  to  the  sound  of  oaten  pipes  and  cymbals. 
Then  came  the  attendant  Months.  June  retained 
still  some  small  likeness  of  Spring;  but  the  other 
two  seemed  to  step  with  a  less  vigorous  tread, 
especially  August,  who  seemed  almost  to  faint, 
while  for  half  the  steps  he  took,  the  dog-star 
leveled  his  rays  full  at  his  head.  They  passed 
on,  and  made  way  for  a  person  that  seemed  to 
bend  a  little  under  the  weight  of  years;  his  beard 
and  hair,  which  were  full  grown,  were  composed 
of  an  equal  number  of  black  and  gray:  he  wore  a 
robe  which  he  had  girt  round  him,  of  a  yellowish 
cast,  not  unlike  the  color  of  fallen  leaves,  which 
he  walked  upon.  I  thought  he  hardly  made 
amends  for  expelling  the  foregoing  scene  by  the 
large  quantity  of  fruits  which  he  bore  in  his 
hands.  Plenty  walked  by  his  side  with  a  healthy, 
fresh  countenance,  pouring  out  from  a  horn  all  the 
various  products  of  the  year.  Pomona  followed 
with  a  glass  of  cider  in  her  hand,  with  Bacchus 
in  a  chariot  drawn  by  tigers,  accompanied  by  a 
whole  troop  of  satyrs,  fawns,  and  sylvans.  Sep¬ 
tember,  who  came  next,  seemed  in  his  looks  to 
promise  a  new  Spring,  and  wore  the  livery  of 
those  months.  The  succeeding  month  was  all 
soiled  with  the  juice  of  grapes,  as  if  he  had  just 
come  from  the  wine-press.  November,  though  he 
was  in  this  division,  yet  by  the  many  stops  he 
made,  seemed  rather  inclined  to  the  Winter,  which 
followed  close  at  his  heels.  He  advanced  in  the 
shape  of  an  old  man  in  the  extremity  of  age  ;  the 
hair  he  had  was  so  very  white,  it  seemed  a  real 
snow;  his  eyes  were  red  and  piercing,  and  his 
beard  hung  with  a  great  quantity  of  icicles;  he 
was  wrapped  up  in  furs,  but  yet  so  pinched  with 
excess  of  cold,  that  his  limbs  were  all  contracted, 
and  his  body  bent  to  the  ground,  so  that  he  could 
not  have  supported  himself  had  it  not  been  for 
Comus,  the  god  of  revels,  and  Necessity,  the 
mother  of  Fate,  who  sustained  him  on  each  side. 
The  shape  and  mantle  of  Comus  was  one  of  the 
things  that  most  surprised  me:  as  he  advanced 
toward  me,  his  countenance  seemed  the  most 
desirable  I  had  ever  seen.  On  the  fore  part  of 
his  mantle  was  pictured  joy,  delight,  and  satisfac¬ 
tion,  with  a  thousand  emblems  of  merriment  and 
jests,  with  faces  looking  two  ways  at  once;  but  as 
he  passed  from  me  I  was  amazed  at  a  shape  so 
little  correspondent  to  his  face;  his  head  was  bald, 
and  all  the  rest  of  his  limbs  appeared  old  and  de¬ 
formed.  On  the  hinder  part  of  his  mantle  was 
represented  murder,*  with  disheveled  hair  and  a 


*  The  English  are  branded,  perhaps  unjustly,  with  being 
addicted  to  suicide  about  this  time  of  the  year. 


dagger  all  bloody,  Anger  in  a  robe  of  scarlet,  and 
Suspicion  squinting  with  both  eyes;  but  above 
all,  the  most  conspicuous  was  the  battle  of  the 
Lapithte  and  the  Centaurs.  1  detested  so  hideous 
a  shape,  and  turned  my  eyes  upon  Saturn,  who 
was  stealing  away  behind  him,  with  a  scythe  in 
one  hand  and  an  hour-glass  in  the  other,  unob¬ 
served.  Behind  Necessity  was  Vesta,  the  goddess 
of  fire,  with  a  lamp  which  was  perpetually  sup¬ 
plied  with  oil,  and  whose  flame  was  eternal.  She 
cheered  the  rugged  brow  of  Necessity,  and  warmed 
her  so  far  as  almost  to  make  her  assume  the  fea¬ 
tures  and  likeness  of  Choice.  December,  January, 
and  February,  passed  on  after  the  rest,  all  in  furs; 
there  was  little  distinction  to  be  made  among 
them;  and  they  were  only  more  or  less  displeas¬ 
ing,  as  they  discovered  more  or  less  haste  toward 
the  grateful  return  of  Spring.” — Z. 


No.  426.]  WEDNESDAY,  JULY  9,  1712. 

- Quid  non  mortalia  pectora  cogis, 

Auri  sacra  fames? — Virg.  iEn.  iii.  56. 

0  cursed  hunger  of  pernicious  gold ! 

What  bands  of  faith  can  impious  lucre  hold. — Drtdek. 

A  very  agreeable  friend  of  mine,  the  other  day, 
carrying  me  in  his  coach  into  the  country  to  din¬ 
ner,  fell  into  discourse  concerning  the  “  care  of 
parents  due  to  their  children,”  and  the  “  piety  of 
children  toward  their  parents.”  He  was  reflecting 
upon  the  succession  of  particular  virtues  and 
qualities  there  might  be  preserved  from  one  gen¬ 
eration  to  another,  if  these  regards  were  recipro¬ 
cally  held  in  veneration;  but  as  he  never  fails  to 
mix  an  air  of  mirth  and  good-humor  with  his 
good  sense  and  reasoning,  he  entered  into  the  fol¬ 
lowing  relation  : — 

“  I  will  not  be  confident  in  what  century,  or  un¬ 
der  what  reign  it  happened,  that  this  want  of  mu¬ 
tual  confidence  and  right  understanding  between 
father  and  son  was  fatal  to  the  family  of  the  Val¬ 
entines  in  Germany.  Basilius  Valentinus  was  a 
person  who  had  arrived  at  the  utmost  perfection  in 
the  hermetic  art,  and  initiated  his  son  Alexandri- 
nus  in  the  same  mysteries;  but,  as  you  know,  they 
are  not  to  be  attained  but  by  the  painful,  the  pious, 
the  chaste,  and  pure  of  heart,  Basilius  did  not 
open  to  him,  because  of  his  youth,  and  the  devi¬ 
ations  too  natural  to  it,  the  greatest  secrets  of 
which  he  was  master,  as  well  knowing  that  the 
operation  would  fail  in  the  hands  of  a  man  so 
liable  to  errors  in  life  as  Alexandrinus.  But  be¬ 
lieving,  from  a  certain  indisposition  of  mind  as 
well  as  body,  his  dissolution  was  drawing  nigh, 
he  called  Alexandrinus  to  him,  and  as  he  lay  on 
a  couch,  over-against  which  his  son  was  seated, 
and  prepared  by  sending  out  servants  one  after 
another,  and  admonition  to  examine  that  no  one 
overheard  them,  he  revealed  the  most  important 
of  his  secrets  with  the  solemnity  and  language  of 
an  adept.  ‘My  son/ said  he,  ‘many  have  been 
the  watchings,  long  the  lucubrations,  constant  the 
labors  of  thy  father,  not  only  to  gain  a  great  and 
plentiful  estate  to  hi^  posterity,  but  also  to  take 
care  that  he  should  have  no  posterity.  Be  not 
amazed,  my  child  :  I  do  not  mean  that  thou  shalt 
be  taken  from  me,  but  that  I  will  never  leave  thee, 
and  consequently  cannot  be  said  to  have  posterity. 
Behold,  my  dearest  Alexandrinus,  the  effect  of 
what  was  propagated  in  nine  months.  We  are  not 
to  contradict  Nature,  but  to  follow  and  to  help  her; 
just  as  long  as  an  infant  is  in  the  womb  of  its 
parent,  so  long  are  these  medicines  of  revivifica¬ 
tion  in  preparing.  Observe  this  small  vial  and 
this  little  gallipot —  in  this  an  unguent,  in  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


other  a  liquor.  In  these,  my  child,  are  collected 
such  powers,  as  shall  revive  the  springs  of  life 
when  they  aie  yet  but  jusi  ceased,  and  give  new 
strength,  new  spirits,  and,  in  a  word, wholly  re¬ 
store  all  the  organs  and  senses  of  the  human  body 
to  as  gieat  a  duration  as  :t  had  before  enjoyed 
from  its  birth  to  the  day  of  tie  application  of  these 
my  medicines.  But,  my  beloved  son,  care  must 
be  taken  to  apply  them  within  ten  hours  after  the 
breath  is  out  of  the  body,  while  yet  the  clay  is 
warm  with  its  late  life,  and  yet  capable  of  resus¬ 
citation.  I  find  my  frame  grown  crazy  with  per¬ 
petual  toil  and  meditation;  and  I  conjure  you,  as 
soon  as  I  am  dead,  to  anoint  me  with  this  unguent; 
and  when  you  see  me  begin  to  move,  pour  into  my 
lips  this  inestimable  liquor,  else  the  force  of  the 
ointment  will  be  ineffectual.  By  this  means  you 
will  give  me  life  as  I  have  you,  and  we  will  from 
that  hour  mutually  lay  asid'e  the  authority  of  hav¬ 
ing  bestowed  life  on  each  other,  live  as  brethren, 
and  prepare  new  medicines  against  such  another 
period  of  time  as  will  demand  another  application 
the  same  restoratives. ’  In  a  few  days  after 
these  wonderful  ingredients  were  delivered  to 
Alexandrinus,  Basilius  departed  this  life.  But 
such  was  the  pious  sorrow  of  the  son  at  the  loss 
of  so  excellent  a  father,  and  the  first  transports 
of  grief  had  so  wholly  disabled  liira  from  all 
manner  of  business,  that  he  never  thought  of  the 
medicines  till  the  time  to  which  his  father  had 
limited  their  efficacy  was  expired.  To  tell  the 
truth,  Alexandrinus  was  a  man  of  wit  and  plea¬ 
sure,  and  considered  his  father  had  lived  out  his 
natural  time;  his  life  was  long  and  uniform,  suit¬ 
able  to  the  regularity  of  it;  but  that  he  himself, 
poor  sinner,  wanted  a  new  life,  to  repent  of  a  very 
'  bad  one  hitherto,  and,  in  the  examination  of  his 
heart,  resolved  to  go  on  as  he  did  with  this  natural 
being  of  his,  but  to  repent  very  faithfully,  and 
spend  very  piously  the  life  to  which  he  should  be 
restored  by  application  of  these  rarities,  when 
time  should  come,  to  his  own  person. 

“It  has  been  observed,  that  Providence  fre- 
uently  punishes  the  self-love  of  men,  who  would 
o  immoderately  for  their  own  offspring,  with 
children  very  much  below  their  characters  and 
qualifications;  insomuch  that  they  only  transmit 
their  names  to  be  borne  by  those  who  give  daily 
proofs  of  the  vanity  of  the  labor  and  ambition  of 
their  progenitors. 

“It  happened  thus  in  the  family  of  Basilius; 
for  Alexandrinus  began  to  enjoy  his  ample  fortune 
in  all  the  extremities  of  household  expense,  furni¬ 
ture,  and  insolent  equipage;  and  this  he  pursued 
till  the  day  of  his  own  departure  began,  as  he 
grew  sensible,  to  approach.  As  Basilius  was  pun¬ 
ished  with  a  son  very  unlike  him,  Alexandrinus 
was  visited  with  one  of  his  own  disposition.  It 
is  natural  that  ill  men  should  be  suspicious;  and 
Alexandrinus,  beside  the  jealousy,  had  proofs  of 
the  vicious  disposition  ol  his  son  Renatus,  for 
that  was  his  name. 

“  Alexandrinus,  as  I  observed,  having  very  good 
reasons  for  thinking  it  unsafe  to  trust  the  real 
6ecret  of  his  vial  and  gallipot  to  any  man  living, 
projected  to  make  sure  work,  and  hope  for  his  suc¬ 
cess  depending  from  the  avarice,  not  the  bounty 
of  his  benefactor.  J 

“With  this  thought  he  called  Renatus  to  his 
bed-side,  and  bespoke  him  in  the  most  pathetic 
gesture  and  accent.  ‘  As  much,  my  son,  as  you 
have  been  addicted  to  vanity  and  pleasure,  as  I 
also  have  been  before  you,*  you  nor  I  could  escape 


*The  word  “neither”  seems  omitted  here,  though  it  is  not 
m  the  original  publication  in  folio,  or  in  the  edit,  in  8vo.  of 


515 

the  fame  or  the  good  effects  of  the  profound  know¬ 
ledge  of  our  progenitor,  the  renowned  Basilius. 
His  symbol  is  very  well  known  to  the  philosophic 
world;  and  1  shall  never  forget  the  venerable  air 
ol  Jus  countenance,  when  he  let  me  into  the  pro¬ 
found  mysteries  of  the  smaragdine  table  of  Hermes. 

i  ls  sai(^  ^e,  “  an<^  ^ar  removed  from  all 

coior  of  deceit;  that  which  is  inferior  is  like  that 
vlnch  is  superior,  by  which  are  acquired  and  per¬ 
fected  all  the  miracles  of  a  certain  work.  The 
father  is  the  sun,  the  mother  the  moon,  the  wind 
is  in  the  womb,  the  earth  is  the  nurse  of  it,  and 
mother  of  all  perfection.  All  this  must  be  re¬ 
ceived  with  modesty  and  wisdom.”  The  chemical 
people  carry,  in  all  their  jargon,  a  whimsical  sort 
ot  piety  which  is  ordinary  with  great  lovers  of 
money,  and  is  no  more  but  deceiving  themselves, 
that  their  regularity  and  strictness  of  mariners,  for 
die  ends  of  this  world,  has  some  affinity  to  the 
innocence  of  heart  which  must  recommend  them 
to  the  next.'  Renatus  wondered  to  hear  his  father 
talk  so  like  an  adept,  and  with  such  a  mixture  of 
piety;  while  Alexandrinus,  observing  his  attention 
fixed,  proceeded.  ‘  This  vial,  child,  and  this  lit¬ 
tle  earthen  pot,  will  add  to  thy  estate  so  much  as 
to  make  thee  the  richest  man  in  the  German  em¬ 
pire.  I  am  going  to  my  long  home,  but  shall  not 
return  to  common  dust.’  Then  he  resumed  a  coun¬ 
tenance  of  alacrity,  and  told  him,  that  if  within 
an  hour  after  his  death  he  anointed  his  whole  body, 
and  poured  down  his  throat  that  liquor  which  lie 
had  from  old  Basilius,  the  corpse  would  be  con¬ 
verted  into  pure  gold.  I  will  not  pretend  to  ex¬ 
press  to  you  the  unfeigned  tenderness  that  passed 
between  these  two  extraordinary  persons;  but  if 
the  father  recommended  the  care  of  his  remains 
with  vehemence  and  affection,  the  son  was  not  be¬ 
hindhand  in  professing  that  he  would  not  cut  the 
least  bit  off  him,  but  upon  the  utmost  extremity, 
or  to  provide  for  his  younger  brothers  and  sisters. 

“Well,  Alexandrinus  died,  and  the  heir  of  his 
body  (as  our  term  is)  could  not  forbear,  in  the  wan¬ 
tonness  of  liis  heart,  to  measure  the  length  and 
breadth  of  his  beloved  father,  and  cast  up  the  en¬ 
suing  value  of  him  before  he  proceeded  to  opera¬ 
tion.  When  he  knew  the  immense  reward  of  his 
pains,  he  began  the  work :  but  lo !  when  he  had 
anointed  the  corpse  all  over,  and  began  to  apply 
the  liquor,  the  body  stirred,  and  Renatus,  in  a 
fright,  broke  the  vial.” — T. 


Ho.  427. J  THURSDAY,  JULY  10,  1712. 

Quantum  a  rerum  turpitudine  abes,  tantum  te  a  verborum 
libertate  sejungas. — Tull. 

We  should  be  as  careful  of  our  words  as  our  actions;  and  as 
far  from  speaking  as  from  doing  ill. 

It  is  a  certain  sign  of  an  ill  heart  to  be  inclined 
to  defamation.  They  who  are  harmless  and  inno¬ 
cent  can  have  no  gratification  that  way;  but  it  ever 
arises  from  a  neglect  of  what  is  laudable  in  a  man’s 
self,  and  an  impatience  of  seeing  it  in  another. 
Else  why  should  virtue  provoke?  Why  should 
beauty  displease  in  such  a  degree,  that  a  man 
given  to  scandal  never  lets  the  mention  of  either 
pass  by  him,  without  offering  something  to  the 
diminution  of  it?  A  lady,  the  other  day,  at  a 
visit,  being  attacked  somewhat  rudely  by  one 
whose  own  character  has  been  very  roughly 
treated,  answered  a  great  deal  of  heat  and  intem¬ 
perance  very  calmly,  “  Good  madam,  spare  me, 
who  am  none  of  your  match;  I  speak  ill  of  no¬ 
body,  and  it  is  a  new  thing  to  me  to  be  ill  spoken 
of.”  Little  minds  think  fame  consists  in  the  num¬ 
ber  of  votes  they  have  on  their  side  among  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


516 

multitude,  whereas  it  is  really  the  inseparable  fol¬ 
lower  of  good  and  worthy  actions.  Fame  is  as 
natural  a  follower  of  merit,  as  a  shadow  is  of  a 
body.  It  is  true,  when  crowds  press  upon  you, 
this  shadow  cannot  be  seen;  but  when  they  sepa¬ 
rate  from  around  you,  it  will  again  appear.  The 
lazy,  the  idle,  and  the  fro  ward,  are  the  persons 
who  are  most  pleased  with  the  little  tales  which 
pass  about  the  town  to  the  disadvantage  of  the 
rest  of  the  world.  Were  it  not  for  the  pleasure  of 
speaking  ill,  there  are  numbers  of  people  who  are 
too  lazy  to  go  out  of  their  own  houses,  and  too  ill- 
natured  to  open  their  lips  in  conversation.  It  was 
not  a  little  diverting,  the  other  day,  to  observe  a 
lady  reading  a  post-letter,  and  at  these  words, 

“  After  all  her  airs,  he  has  heard  some  story  or 
other,  and  the  match  is  broke  off;”  give  orders  in 
the  midst  of  her  reading,  “Put  to  the  horses.” 
That  a  young  woman  of  merit  has  missed  an  ad¬ 
vantageous  settlement  was  news  not  to  be  delayed, 
lest  somebody  else  should  have  given  her  malicious 
acquaintance  that  satisfaction  before  her.  The 
unwillingness  to  receive  good  tidings  is  a  quality 
as  inseparable  from  a  scandal-bearer,  as  the  readi¬ 
ness  to  divulge  bad.  But,  alas!  how  wretchedly 
low  and  contemptible  is  that  state  of  mind,  that 
cannot  be  pleased  but  by  what  is  the  subject  of 
lamentation.  This  temper  has  ever  been,  in  the 
highest  degree,  odious  to  gallant  spirits.  The 
Persian  soldier,  who  was  heard  reviling  Alexander 
the  Great,  was  well  admonished  by  his  officer, 
“  Sir,  you  are  paid  to  fight  against  Alexander,  and 
not  to  rail  at  him.” 

Cicero,  in  one  of  his  pleadings,  defending  his 
client  from  general  scandal,  says  very  handsomely, 
and  with  much  reason,  “  There  are  many  who  have 
particular  engagements  to  the  prosecutor;  there 
are  many  who  are  known  to  have  ill-will  to  him 
for  whom  I  appear;  there  are  many  who  are  natur¬ 
ally  addicted  to  defamation,  and  envious  of  any 
good  to  any  man  who  may  have  contributed  to 
spread  reports  of  this  kind  :  for  nothing  is  so 
swift  as  scandal,  nothing  is  more  easily  sent 
abroad,  nothing  received  with  more  welcome, 
nothing  diffuses  itself  so  universally.  I  shall  not 
desire  that  if  any  report  to  our  disadvantage  has 
any  ground  for  it,  you  would  overlook  or  extenu¬ 
ate  it :  but  if  there  be  anything  advanced,  with¬ 
out  a  person  who  can  say  whence  he  had  it,  or 
which  is  attested  by  one  who  forgot  who  told  him 
of  it,  or  who  had  it  from  one  of  so  little  consider¬ 
ation  that  he  did  not  then  think  it  worth  his  no¬ 
tice,  all  such  testimonies  as  these,  I  know,  you 
will  think  too  slight  to  have  any  credit,  against 
the  innocence  and  honor  of  your  fellow-citizens.” 
When  an  ill  report  is  traced,  it  very  often  vanishes 
among  such  as  the  orator  has  here  recited.  And 
how  despicable  a  creature  must  that  be  who  is  in 
pain  for  what  passes  among  so  frivolous  a  people! 
There  is  a  town  in  Warwickshire,  of  good  note, 
and  formerly  pretty  famous  for  much  animosity 
and  dissension,  the  chief  families  of  which  have 
now  turned  all  their  whispers,  backbitings,  en¬ 
vies,  and  private  malices,  into  mirth  and  enter¬ 
tainment,  by  means  of  a  peevish  old  gentlewoman, 
known  by  the  title  of  the  Lady  Bluernantle.  This 
heroine  had,  for  many  years  together,  outdone  the 
whole  sisterhood  of  gossips  in  invention,  quick 
utterance,  and  unprovoked  malice.  This  good 
body  is  of  a  lasting  constitution,  though  extremely 
decayed  in  her  eyes,  and  decrepid  in  her  feet.  The 
two  circumstances  of  being  always  at  home  from 
her  lameness,  and  very  attentive  from  her  blind¬ 
ness,  make  her  lodgings  the  receptacle  of  all  that 
passes  in  town,  good  or  bad;  but  for  the  latter  she 
seems  to  have  the  better  memory.  There  is  an¬ 
other  thing  to  be  noted  of  her,  which  is,  that  as  it 


is  usual  with  old  peopb,  she  has  a  livelier  memory 
of  things  which  passed  when  she  was  very  young 
than  of  late  years.  Add  to  all  this,  that  she  does 
not  only  not  love  anybody,  but  she  hates  every¬ 
body.  The  statue  la  Rome*  does  not  serve  to 
vent  malice  half  so  well  as  this  old  lady  does  to 
disappoint  it.  She  does  not  know  the  author  of 
anything  that  is  told  her,  but  can  readily  repeat 
the  matter  itself ;  therefore,  though  she  exposes 
all  the  whole  town,  she  offends  no  one  in  it.  She 
is  so  exquisitely  restless  and  peevish,  that  she 
quarrels  with  all  about  her,  and  sometimes  in  a 
freak  will  instantly  change  her  habitation.  To 
indulge  this  humor,  she  is  led  about  the  grounds 
belonging  to  the  same  house  she  is  in;  and  the 
persons  to  whom  she  is  to  remove,  being  in  the 
plot,  are  ready  to  receive  her  at  her  own  chamber 
again.  At  stated  times  the  gentlewoman  at  whose 
house  she  supposes  She  is  at  the  time,  is  sent  for 
to  quarrel  with,  according  to  her  common  custom. 
When  they  have  a  mind  to  drive  the  jest,  she  is 
immediately  urged  to  that  degree,  that  she  will 
board  in  a  family  with  which  she  has  never  yet 
been;  and  away  she  will  go  this  instant,  and  tell 
them  all  that  the  rest  have  been  saying  of  them. 
By  this  means,  she  has  been  an  inhabitant  of 
every  house  in  the  place,  without  stirring  from  the 
same  habitation  :  and  the  many  stories  which 
everybody  furnishes  her  with,  to  favor  that  de¬ 
ceit,  make  her  the  general  intelligencer  of  the  town 
of  all  that  can  be  said  by  one  woman  against  an¬ 
other.  Thus  groundless  stories  die  away,  and 
sometimes  truths  are  smothered  under  the  general 
word,  when  they  have  a  mind  to  discountenance 
a  thing,  “  Oh,  this  is  in  my  Lady  Bluemantle’s 
Memoirs.” 

Whoever  receives  impressions  to  the  disadvan¬ 
tage  of  others,  without  examination,  is  to  be  had 
in  no  other  credit  for  intelligence  than  this  good 
Lady  Bluernantle,  who  is  subjected  to  have  her 
ears  imposed  upon  for  want  of  other  helps  to  bet¬ 
ter  information.  Add  to  this,  that  other  scandal- 
bearers  suspend  the  use  of  these  faculties  which 
she  has  lost,  rather  than  apply  them  to  do  jus¬ 
tice  to  their  neighbors  ;  and  I  think,  for  the  service 
of  my  fair  readers,  to  acquaint  them,  that  there  is 
a  voluntary  Lady  Bluernantle  at  every  visit  in 
town. — T. 


No.  428.]  FRIDAY,  JULY  11,  1712. 

Occupet  extremum,  scabies. — Hor.  Ars.  Poet.  v.  417. 

The  devil  take  the  hindmost. — English  Proverb. 

It  is  an  impertinent  and  an  unreasonable  fault 
in  conversation,  for  one  man  to  take  up  all  the  dis¬ 
course.  It  may  possibly  be  objected  to  me  myself, 
that  I  am  guilty  in  this  kind,  in  entertaining  the 
town  every  day,  and  not  giving  so  many  able  per¬ 
sons,  who  have  it  more  in  their  power,  and  as 
much  in  their  inclination,  an  opportunity  to  oblige 
mankind  with  their  thoughts.  “Beside,”  said 
one  whom  I  overheard  the  other  day,  “  why  must 
this  paper  turn  altogether  upon  topics  of  learning 
and  morality?  Why  should  it  pretend  only  to 
wit,  humor,  or  the  like — things  which  are  useful 
only  to  amuse  men  of  literature  and  superior  edu¬ 
cation  ?  I  would  have  it  consist  also  of  all  things 
which  may  be  necessary  or  useful  to  any  part ■ 
society;  and  the  mechanic  arts  should  have  their 
place  as  well  as  the  liberal.  The  ways  of  gain, 
husbandry,  and  thrift,  will  serve  a  greater  number 
of  people,  than  discourses  upon  what  was  well 
said  or  done  by  such  a  philosopher,  hero,  general, 


*  A  statue  of  Pasquin  in  that  city,  on  which  sarcastic  re¬ 
marks  were  pasted,  and  thence  called  Pasquinades. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


or  poet.”— I  no  sooner  heard  this  critic  talk  of  my 
works,  but  I  minuted  what  he  had  said;  and  from 
that  instant  resolved  to  enlarge  the  plan  of  my 
speculations,  by  giving  notice  tor  all  persons  of  ail 
orders,  and  each  sex,  that,  if  they  are  pleased  to 
send  me  discourses,  with  their  names  and  places 
of  abode  to  them,  so  that  I  can  be  satisfied  the 
writings  are  authentic,  such  their  labors  shall  be 
faithfully  inserted  in  this  paper.  It  will  be  of 
much  more  consequence  to  a  youth,  in  his  appren¬ 
ticeship,  to  know  by  what  rules  and  arts  such  a 
one  became  sheriff  of  London,  than  to  see  the  sign 
of  one  of  his  own  quality  with  a  lion’s  heart  in 
each  hand.  The  world,  indeed,  is  enchanted  with 
romantic  and  improbable  achievements,  when  the 
plain  path  to  respective  greatness  and  success,  in 
the  way  of  life  a  man  is  in,  is  wholly  overlooked. 
Is  it  possible  that  a  young  man  at  present  could 
pass  his  time  better  than  in  reading  the  history  of 
stocks,  and  knowing  by  what  secret  springs  they 
have  such  sudden  ascents  and  falls  in  the  same 
day  ?  Could  lie  be  better  conducted  in  his  way  to 
wealth,  which  is  the  great  article  of  life,  than  in  a 
treatise  dated  from  ’Change-alley  by  an  able  pro¬ 
ficient  there  ?  Nothing  certainly  can  be  more 
useful,  than  to  be  well  instructed  in  his  hopes  and 
fears;  to  be  diffident  when  others  exult;  and  with 
a  secret  joy  buy  when  others  think  it  their  interest 
to  sell.  I  invite  all  persons,  who  have  anything 
to  say  for  the  profitable  information  of  the  public, 
to  take  their  turns  in  my  paper  :  they  are  welcome, 
from  the  late  noble  inventor  of  the  longitude,  to 
the  humble  author  of  strops  for  razors.  If  to  carry 
ships  in  safety,  to  give  help  to  people  tossed  in  a 
troubled  sea,  without  knowing  to  what  shore  they 
bear,  what  rocks  to  avoid,  or  what  coast  to  pray 
for  in  their  extremity,  be  a  worthy  labor,  and  an 
invention  that  deserves  a  statue;-at  the  same  time, 
he  who  has  found  means  to  let  the  instrument, 
which  is  to  make  your  visage  less  horrid  and  your 
person  more  snug,  easy  in  the  operation,  is  wor¬ 
thy  of  some  kind  of  good  reception.  If  things  of 
high  moment  meet  with  renown,  those  of  little 
consideration,  since  of  any  consideration,  are  not 
to  be  despised.  In  order  that  no  merit  may  lie  hid, 
and  no  art  unimproved,  I  repeat  it,  that  I  call  ar¬ 
tificers,  as  well  as  philosophers,  to  my  assistance 
in  the  public  service.  It  would  be  of  great  use  if 
we  had  an  exact  history  of  the  successes  of  every 
great  shop  within  the  city-walls,  what  tracts  of 
land  have  been  purchased  by  a  constant  attend¬ 
ance  within  a  walk  of  thirty  feet.  If  it  could  also 
be  noted  in  the  equipage  of  those  who  are  ascended 
from  the  successful  trade  of  their  ancestors  into 
figure  and  equipage,  such  accounts  would  quicken 
industry  in  the  pursuit  of  such  acquisitions,  and 
discountenance  luxury  in  the  enjoyment  of  them. 

.  r^°  diversify  these  kinds  of  informations,  the 
industry  of  the  female  world  is  not  to  be  unob¬ 
served.  She  to  whose,  household  virtues  it  is 
owing,  that  men  do  honor  to  her  husband,  should 
be  recorded  with  veneration;  she  who  has  wasted 
his  labors,  with  infamy.  Wlien  we  are  come  into 
domestic  life  in  this  manner,  to  awaken  caution 
and  attendance  to  the  main  point,  it  would  not  be 
amiss  to  give  now  and  then  a  touch  of  tragedy, 
and.  uesu  ibe  that  most  dreadful  of  all  human  con- 
ditions,  the  case  of  bankruptcy:  how  plenty,  credit, 
cheerfulness,  full  hopes,  and  easy  possessions,  are 
in  an  instant  turned  into  penury,  faint  aspects, 
diffidence,  sorrow,  and  misery;  how  the  man,  who 
with  an  open  hand  the  day  before  could  minister 
to  the  extremities  of  others,  is  shunned  to-day  bv 
the  friend  of  his  bosom.  It  would  be  useful  to 
show  how  just  this  is  on  the  negligent,  how  lament¬ 
able  on  the  industrious.  A  paper  written  by  a 
merchant  might  give  this  island  a  true  sense  of 


517 

the  worth  and  importance  of  his  character;  it 
might  be  visible,  from  what  he  could  say,  that  no 
soldier  entering  a  breach  adventures  more  for 
honor,  than  the  trader  does  for  wealth  to  his 
country.  In  both  cases,  the  adventurers  have 
their  own  advantage;  but  I  know  no  cases  wherein 
everybody  else  is  a  sharer  in  the  success. 

It  is  objected  by  readers  of  history,  that  the 
battles  in  those  narrations  are  scarce  ever  to  be 
understood.  This  misfortune  is  to  be  ascribed  to 
the  ignorance  of  historians  in  the  methods  of 
drawing  up,  changing  the  forms  of  a  battalia,  and 
the  enemy  retreating  from,  as  well  as  approaching 
to,  the  charge.  But  in  the  discourses  from  the  cor¬ 
respondents  whom  I  now  invite,  the  danger  will 
be  of  another  kind;  and  it  is  necessary  to  caution 
them  only  against  using  terms  of  art,  and  describ¬ 
ing  things  that  are  familiar  to  them  in  words  that 
are  unknown  to  their  readers.  I  promise  myself 
a  great  harvest  of  new  circumstances,  persons,  and 
things,  from  this  proposal;  and  a  world  which 
many  think  they  are  well  acquainted  with,  dis¬ 
covered  as  wholly  new.  This  sort  of  intelligence 
will  give  a  lively  image  of  the  chain  and  mutual 
dependence  of  human  society,  take  off  imperti¬ 
nent  prejudices,  enlarge  the  minds  of  those  whose 
views  are  confined  to  their  own  circumstances;  and, 
in  short,  if  the  knowing  in  several  arts,  profes¬ 
sions,  and  trades,  will  exert  themselves,  it  cannot 
but  produce  a  new  field  of  diversion  and  instruc¬ 
tion,  more  agreeable  than  has  yet  appeared. — T. 


No.  429.]  SATURDAY,  JULY  12,  1712. 

- Populumque  falsis  dedocet  uti 

Vocibus -  Hor.  2  Od.  ii.  19. 

From  cheats  of  words  the  crowd  she  brings 
To  real  estimates  of  things. — Creech. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Since  I  gave  an  account  of  an  agreeable  set  of 
company  which  were  gone  down  into  the  country, 
I  have  received  advices  from  thence,  that  the  in¬ 
stitution  of  an  infirmary  for  those  who  should  be 
out  of  humor  has  had  very  good  effects.  My  let¬ 
ters  mention  particular  circumstances  of  two  or 
three  persons,  who  had  the  good  sense  to  retire 
of  their  own  accord,  and  notified  that  they  were 
withdrawn,  with  the  reasons  of  it  to  the  company, 
in  their  respective  memorials. 

‘  The  Memorial  of  Mrs.  Mary  Dainty,  Spinster. 

‘  Humbly  Showeth, 

‘  That  conscious  of  her  own  want  of  merit,  ac¬ 
companied  with  a  vanity  of  being  admired,  she 
had  gone  into  exile  of  her  own  accord. 

‘  She  is  sensible  that  a  vain  person  is  the  most 
insufferable  creature  living  in  a  well-bred  as¬ 
sembly. 

‘  That  she  desired,  before  she  appeared  in  pub¬ 
lic  again,  she  might  have  assurances,  that  though 
she  might  be  thought  handsome,  there  might  not 
more  address  or  compliment  be  paid  to  tier  than 
to  the  rest  of  the  company'. 

‘That  she  conceived  it  a  kind  of  superiority, 
that  one  person  should  take  upon  him  to  com¬ 
mend  another. 

‘  Lastly,  that  she  went  into  the  infirmary,  to 
avoid  a  particular  person,  who  took  upon  him  to 
profess  an  admiration  of  her. 

She  therefore  prayed,  that  to  applaud  out  of  due 
place  might  be  declared  an  offense,  and  punished 
in  the  same  manner  with  detraction,  in  that  the 
latter  did  but  report  persons  defective,  and  the 
former  made  them  so. 

‘  All  which  is  submitted,’  etc. 


518 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


“  There  appeared  a  delicacy  and  sincerity  in  this 
memorial  very  uncommon,  but  my  friend  informs 
me,  that  the  allegations  of  it  were  groundless,  in¬ 
somuch  that  this  declaration  of  an  aversion  to 
being  praised,  was  understood  to  be  no  other  than 
a  secret  trap  to  purchase  it,  for  which  reason  it 
lies  still  on  the  table  unanswered. 

‘  The  humble  Memorial  of  the  Lady  Lydia  Loller, 

‘  Showeth, 

‘  That  the  Lady  Lydia  is  a  woman  of  quality; 
married  to  a  private  gentleman. 

‘  That  she  finds  herself  neither  well  nor  ill. 

‘  That  her  husband  is  a  clown. 

‘  That  Lady  Lydia  cannot  see  company. 

‘  That  she  desires  the  infirmary  may  be  her 
apartineut  during  her  stay  in  the  country. 

‘  That  they  would  please  to  make  merry  with 
their  equals. 

*  That  Mr.  Loller  might  stay  with  them  if  he 
thought  fit.’ 

“  It  was  immediately  resolved,  that  Lady  Lydia 
was  still  at  London. 

‘  The  humble  Memorial  of  Thomas  Sudden,  Esq.  of 
the  Inner  Temple. 

*  Showeth, 

*  That  Mr.  Sudden  is  conscious  that  he  is  too 
much  given  to  argumentation. 

‘  That  he  talks  loud. 

‘  That  he  is  apt  to  think  all  things  matter  of 
debate. 

‘  That  he  stayed  behind  in  Westminster-hall, 
when  the  late  shake  of  the  roof  happened,  only 
because  a  counsel  of  the  other  side  asserted  it  was 
coming  down. 

‘  That  he  cannot  for  his  life  consent  to  any¬ 
thing. 

‘  That  he  stays  in  the  infirmary  to  forget  himself. 

‘  That  as  soon  as  he  has  forgot  himself  he  will 
wait  on  the  company.’ 

“  His  indisposition  was  allowed  to  be  sufficient 
to  require  a  cessation  from  company. 

‘  The  Memorial  of  Frank  Jolly. 

‘Showeth, 

‘  That  he  hath  put  himself  into  the  infirmary, 
in  regard  he  is  sensible  of  a  certain  rustic  mirth 
which  renders  him  unfit  for  polite  conversation. 

‘  That  lie  intends  to  prepare  himself,  by  absti¬ 
nence  and  thin  diet,  to  be  one  of  the  company. 

‘  That  at  present  he  comes  into  a  room  as  if  he 
were  an  express  from  abroad. 

‘  That  he  has  chosen  an  apartment  with  a 
matted  antechamber,  to  practice  motion  without 
being  heard. 

‘  That  he  bows,  talks,  drinks,  eats,  and  helps 
himself  before  a  glass,  to  learn  to  act  with  mode¬ 
ration. 

‘  That  by  reason  of  his  luxuriant  health  he  is 
oppressive  to  persons  of  composed  behavior. 

‘  That  he  is  endeavoring  to  forget  the  word 
“  pshaw,  pshaw.” 

*  That  lie  is  also  weaning  himself  from  his  cane. 

‘  That  when  he  has  learned  to  live  without  his 

said  cane,  he  will  wait  on  the  company,’  etc. 

‘  The  Memorial  of  John  Rhubarb,  Esq., 

‘  Showeth, 

‘  That  your  petitioner  has  retired  to  the  infirmary, 
but  that  he  is  in  perfect  good  health,  except  that 
he  has  by  long  use,  and  for  want  of  discourse, 
contracted  a  habit  of  complaint  that  he  is  sick. 

*  That  he  wants  for  nothing  under  the  sun,  but 
what  to  say,  and  therefore  has  fallen  into  this  un¬ 
happy  malady,  of  complaining  that  he  is  sick. 


‘  That  this  custom  of  his  makes  him,  by  his 
own  confession,  fit  only  for  the  infirmary,  and 
therefore  he  has  not  waited  for  being  sentenced 
to  it. 

‘  That  he  is  conscious  there  is  nothing  more  im¬ 
proper  than  such  a  complaint  in  good  company, 
in  that  they  must  pity,  whether  they  think  the 
lamenter  ill  or  not;  and  that  the  complainant  must 
make  a  silly  figure,  whether  he  is  pitied  or  not. 

‘Your  petitioner  humbly  prays,  that  he  may 
have  time  to  know  how  he  does,  and  he  will  make 
his  appearance.’ 

“  The  valetudinarian  was  likewise  easily  ex¬ 
cused;  and  this  society,  being  resolved  not  only  to 
make  it  their  business  to  pass  their  time  agreeably 
for  the  present  season,  but  also  to  commence  sucn 
habits  in  themselves  as  may  be  of  use  in  their 
future  conduct  in  general,  are  very  ready  to  give 
into  a  fancied  or  real  incapacity  to  join  with  their 
measures,  in  order  to  have  no  humorist,  proud 
man,  impertinent  or  sufficient  fellow,  break  in 
upon  their  happiness.  Great  evils  seldom  happen 
to  disturb  company;  but  indulgence  in  particu¬ 
larities  of  humor  is  the  seed  of  making  half  our 
time  hang  in  suspense,  or  waste  away  under  real 
discomposures. 

“  Among  other  things,  it  is  carefully  provided, 
that  there  may  not  be  disagreeable  familiarities, 
no  one  is  to  appear  in  the  public  rooms  undressed, 
or  enter  abruptly  into  each  other’s  apartment 
without  intimation.  Every  one  has  hitherto  been 
so  careful  in  his  behavior,  that  there  has  but 
one  offender,  in  ten  days’  time,  been  sent  into 
the  infirmary,  and  that  was  for  throwing  away 
his  cards  at  whist. 

“  He  has  offered  his  submission  in  the  follow¬ 
ing  terms: — 

‘  The  humble  Petition  of  Jeoffrey  Hotspur,  Esq., 

*  Showeth, 

‘Though  the  petitioner  swore,  stamped,  and 
threw  down  his  cards,  he  has  all  imaginable  re¬ 
spect  for  the  ladies,  and  the  whole  company. 

‘  That  he  humbly  desires  it  may  be  considered, 
in  the  case  of  gaming,  there  are  many  motives 
which  provoke  to  disorder. 

*  That  the  desire  of  gain,  and  the  desire  of  vic¬ 
tory  are  both  thwarted  in  losing. 

‘  That  all  conversations  in  the  world,  have  in¬ 
dulged  human  infirmity  in  this  case. 

‘  Your  petitioner,  therefore,  most  humbly  prays, 
that  he  may  be  restored  to  the  company:  and  he 
hopes  to  bear  ill-fortune  with  a  good  grace  for  the 
future,  and  to  demean  himself  so  as  to  be  no 
more  than  cheerful  when  he  wins,  than  grave 
when  he  loses.’  ” — T. 


No.  430. J  MONDAY,  JULY  14,  1712. 

Quaere  peregrinum,  vicina  rauca  reclamat. 

Hor.  1  Ep.  xvii.  62. 

- The  crowd  replies, 

Go  seek  a  stranger  to  believe  thy  lies. — Creech. 

“  Sir, 

“As  you  are  Spectator-general,  you  may  with 
authority  censure  whatever  looks  ill,  and  is  offen¬ 
sive  to  the  sight ;  the  worst  nuisance  of  tin's  kind, 
methinks,  is  the  scandalous  appearance  of  poor  in 
all  parts  of  this  wealthy  city.  Such  miserable 
objects  affect  the  compassionate  beholder  with 
dismal  ideas,  discompose  the  cheerfulness  of  his 
mind,  and  deprive  him  of  the  pleasure  that  he 
might  otherwise  take  in  surveying  the  grandeur 
of  our  metropolis.  Who  can,  without  remorse, 
see  a  disabled  sailor,  the  purveyor  of  our  luxury, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


destitute  of  necessaries?  Who  can  behold  an 
honest  soldier,  that  bravely  withstood  the  enemy, 
prostrate  and  in  want  among  his  friends?  It 
were  endless  to  mention  all  the  variety  of  wretch¬ 
edness,  and  the  numberless  poor  that  not  only 
hut  i^i  companies,  implore  your  charity. 
Spectacles  of  this  nature  everywhere  occur  j  and 
it  is  unaccountable  that,  among  the  many  la¬ 
mentable  cries  that  infest  this  town,  your  comp¬ 
troller-general  should  not  take  notice  of  the  most 
shocking,  viz:  those  of  the  needy  and  afflicted. 
I  cannot  but  think  he  waved  it  merely  out  of  good 
breeding,  choosing  rather  to  stifle  his  resentment 
than  upbraid  his  countrymen  with  inhumanity  : 
however,  let  not  charity  be  sacrificed  to  popu¬ 
larity  ;  and  if  his  ears  were  deaf  to  their  com¬ 
plaints,  let  not  your  eyes  overlook  their  persons. 
There  are,  I  know,  many  impostors  among  them. 
Lameness  and  blindness  are  certainly  very  often 
acted  ;  but  can  those  who  have  their  sight  and 
limbs  employ  them  better  than  in  knowing  whether 
they  are  counterfeited  or  not?  I  know  not  which 
of  the  two  misapplies  his  senses  most,  he  who 
pretends  himself  blind,  to  move  compassion,  or  he 
who  beholds  a  miserable  object  without  pitying  it. 
But  in  order  to  remove  such  impediments,  I  wish, 
Mr.  Spectator,  you  would  give  us  a  discourse  upon 
beggars,  that  we  may  not  pass  by  true  objects  of 
charity,  or  give  to  impostors.  I  looked  out  of  my 
window  the  other  morning  earlier  than  ordinary, 
and  saw  a  blind  beggar,  an  hour  before  the  pas¬ 
sage  he  stands  in  is  frequented,  with  a  needle  and 
a  thread  thriftily  mending  his  stockings.  My  as¬ 
tonishment  was  still  greater,  when  I  beheld  a 
lame  fellow,  whose  legs  were  too  big  to  walk, 
within  an  hour  after,  bring  him  a  pot  of  ale.  I 
will  not  mention  the  shakings,  distortions,  and 
convulsions,  which  many  of  them  practice  to  gain 
an  alms  ;  but  sure  I  am  they  ought  to  be  taken 
care  of  in  this  condition,  either  by  the  beadle  or 
the  magistrate.  They,  it  seems,  relieve  their 
posts  according  to  their  talents.  There  is  the 
voice  of  an  old  woman  never  begins  to  beg  till 
nine  in  the  evening  ;  and  then  she  is  destitute  of 
lodging,  turned  out  for  want  of  rent,  and  has  the 
same  ill  fortune  every  night  in  the  year.  You 
should  employ  an  officer  to  hear  the  "distress  of 
each  beggar  that  is  constant  at  a  particular  place, 
who  is  ever  in  the  same  tone,  and  succeeds  be¬ 
cause  his  audience  is  continually  changing,  though 
he  does  not  alter  his  lamentation.  If  we  have 
nothing  else  for  our  money,  let  us  have  more 
invention  to  be  cheated  with.  All  which  is  sub¬ 
mitted  to  your  spectatorial  vigilance  ;  and 

“  I  am,  Sir, 

“  Your  most  humble  Servant.” 


519 


to  us,  and  eclipse  the  glory  of  all  other  charity. 
It  is  the  utmost  reproach  to  society,  that  there 
should  be  a  poor  man  unrelieved,  or  a  poor  rogue 
unpunished.  I  hope  you  will  think  no  part  of 
human  life  out  of  your  consideration,  but  will,  at 
your  leisure,  give  us  the  history  of  plenty  and 
want,  and  the  natural  gradations  toward  them, 
calculated  for  the  cities  of  London  and  West¬ 
minster. 

“  1  am>  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

“  T.  D.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

I  beg  you  would  be  pleased  to  take  notice  of  a 
very  great  indecency,  which  is  extremely  common, 
though,  I  think,  never  yet  under  your  censure.  It 
is.  Sir,  the  strange  freedom  some  ill-bred  married 
people  take  in  company  ;  the  unseasonable  fond¬ 
ness  of  some  husbands,  and  the  ill-timed  tender¬ 
ness  of  some  wives.  They  talk  and  act  as  if 
modesty  was  only  fit  for  maids  and  bachelors,  and 
that  too  before  both.  I  was  once,  Mr.  Spectator, 
where  the  fault  I  speak  of  was  so  very  flagrant, 
that  (being,  you  must  know,  a  very  bashful  fellow, 
and  several  young  ladies  in  the  room)  I  protest  I 
was  quite  out  of  countenance.  Lucina,  it  seems, 
was  breeding  ;  and  she  did  nothing  but  entertain 
the  company  with  a  discourse  upon  the  difficulty 
of  reckoning  to  a  day,  and  said  she  knew  those 
who  were  certain  to  an  hour ;  then  fell  a  laughing 
at  a  silly,  inexperienced  creature,  who  was  a  month 
above  her  time.  Upon  her  husband’s  coming  in, 
she  put  several  questions  to  him  ;  which  he  not 
caring  to  resolve,  ‘  Well,’  cries  Lucina,  *  I  shall 
have  em  all  at  night. — But  lest  I  should  seem 
guilty  of  the  very  fault  I  write  against,  I  shall 
only  entreat  Mr.  Spectator  to  correct  such  misde¬ 
meanors. 


T. 


For  higher  of  the  genial  bed  by  far. 

And  with  mysterious  reverence,  I  deem. 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

“  Thomas  Meanwell.” 


“  Sir, 

“I  was  last  Sunday  highly  transported  at  our 
parish  church  ;  the  gentleman  in  the  pulpit  pleaded 
movingly  in  behalf  of  the  poor  children,  and  they 
for  themselves  much  more  forcibly  by  singing  a 
hymn  ;  and  I  had  the  happiness  to  be  a  contribu¬ 
tor  to  this  little  religious  institution  of  innocents, 
and  I  am  sure  I  never  disposed  of  my  money  more 
to  my  satisfaction  and  advantage.  The  inward 
joy  1  find  in  myself,  and  the  good  will  I  bear  to 
mankind,  make  me  heartily  wish  these  pious 
works  may  be  encouraged,  that  the  present  pro¬ 
moters  may  reap  the  delight,  and  posterity  the 
benefit,  of  them.  But  while  we  are  building  this 
beautiful  edifice,  let  not  the  old  ruins  remain  in 
view  to  sully  the  prospect.  While  we  are  culti¬ 
vating  and  improving  this  young,  hopeful  off¬ 
spring,  let  not  the  ancient  and  helpless  creatures 
be  shamefully  neglected.  The  crowds  of  poor,  or 
pretended  poor,  in  every  place,  are  a  great  reproach 


No.  431.]  TUESDAY,  JULY  15,  1712. 

Quid  dulcius  hominum  generi  a  natura  datum  est,  quam  sui 
cuique  liberi  ? — Tull. 

What  is  there  iu  nature  so  dear  to  man  as  his  own  children  ? 

I  have  lately  been  casting  in  my  thoughts  the 
several  unhappinesses  of  life,  and  comparing  the 
infelicities  of  old  age  to  those  of  infancy.  The 
calamities  of  children  are  due  to  the  negligence  or 
misconduct  of  parents  ;  those  of  age,  to  the  past 
life  which  led  to  it.  I  have  here  the  history  of  a 
boy  and  girl  to  their  wedding  day,  and  think  I 
cannot  give  the  reader  a  livelier  image  of  the  in¬ 
sipid  way  in  which  time  uncultivated  passes,  than 
by  entertaining  him  with  their  authentic  epistles, 
expressing  all  that  was  remarkable  in  their  lives, 
till  the  period  of  their  life  above-mentioned.  The 
sentence  at  the  head  of  this  paper,  which  is  only 
a  warm  interrogation,  “  What  is  there  in  nature  so 
dear  as  a  man’s  own  children  to  him?”  is  all  the 
reflection  I  shall  at  present  make  on  those  who  are 
negligent  or  cruel  in  the  education  of  them. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  now  entering  into  my  one-and-twentieth 
year,  and  do  not  know  that  I  had  one  day’s  thor¬ 
ough  satisfaction  since  I  came  to  years  of  any  re¬ 
flection,  till  the  time  they  say  others  lose  their 
liberty — the  day  of  my  marriage.  I  am  son  to  a 
gentleman  of  a  very  great  estate,  who  resolved  to 
keep  me  out  of  the  vices  of  the  age  ;  and,  in  order 
to  it,  never  let  me  see  anything  that  he  thought 
could  give  me  the  least  pleasure.  At  ten  years 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


520 

old  I  was  put  to  a  grammar-school,  where  my 
master  received  orders  every  post  to  use  me  very 
severely,  and  have  no  regard  to  my  having  a  great 
estate.  At  fifteen  I  was  removed  to  the  university, 
where  I  lived,  out  of  my  father’s  great  discretion, 
in  scandalous  poverty  and  want,  till  I  was  big 
enough  to  be  married,  and  I  was  sent  for  to  see 
the  lady  who  sends  you  the  underwritten.  When 
we  were  put  together,  we  both  considered  that  we 
could  not  be  worse  than  we  were  in  taking  one 
another,  and  out  of  a  desire  of  liberty,  entered 
into  wedlock.  My  father  says  I  am  now  a  man, 
and  may  speak  to  him  like  another  gentleman. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

“  Richard  Rentfree.” 

“  Mr.  Spec., 

“  I  grew  tall  and  wild  at  my  mother’s,  who  is  a 
gay  widow,  and  did  not  care  for  showing  me,  till 
about  two  years  and  a  half  ago  ;  at  which  time 
my  guardian  uncle  sent  me  to  a  boarding-school, 
with  orders  to  contradict  me  in  nothing,  for  I  had 
been  misused  enough  already.  I  had  not  been 
there  above  a  month,  when,  being  in  the  kitchen, 
I  saw  some  oatmeal  on  the  dresser ;  I  put  two  or 
three  corns  in  my  mouth,  liked  it,  stole  a  handful, 
went  into  my  chamber,  chewed  it,  and  for  two 
months  after  never  failed  taking  toll  of  every  pen¬ 
nyworth  of  oatmeal  that  came  into  the  house  ;  but 
one  day  playing  with  a  tobacco-pipe  between  my 
teeth,  it  happened  to  break  in  my  mouth,  and  the 
spitting  out  the  pieces  left  such  a  delicious  rough¬ 
ness  on  my  tongue  that  I  could  not  be  satisfied 
till  I  had  champed  up  the  remaining  part  of  the 
pipe.  I  forsook  the  oatmeal,  and  stuck  to  the 
pipes  three  months,  in  which  time  I  had  dispensed 
with  thirty-seven  foul  pipes,  all  to  the  bowls  :  they 
belonged  to  an  old  gentleman,  father  to  my  gov¬ 
erness.  He  locked  up  the  clean  ones.  I  left  off 
eating  of  pipes,  and  fell  to  licking  of  chalk.  I 
was  soon  tired  of  this.  I  then  nibbled  all  the  red 
wax  off  our  last  ball-tickets,  and,  three  weeks  after, 
the  black  wax  from  the  burying  tickets  of  the  old 
gentleman.  Two  months  after  this  I  lived  upon 
thunderbolts,  a  certain  long,  round,  bluish  stone 
which  I  found  among  the  gravel  in  our  garden.  I 
was  wonderfully  delighted  with  this  ;  but  thun¬ 
derbolts  growing  scarce,  I  fastened  tooth  and 
nail  upon  our  garden  wall,  which  I  stuck  to 
almost  a  twelvemonth,  and  had,  in  that  time, 
eeled  and  devoured  half  a  foot  toward  our  neigh- 
or’s  yard.  I  now  thought  myself  the  happiest 
creature  in  the  world :  and  I  believe,  in  my  con¬ 
science,  I  had  eaten  quite  through,  had  I  had  it  in 
my  chamber;  but  now  I  became  lazy  and  unwil¬ 
ling  to  stir,  and  was  obliged  to  seek  food  nearer 
home.  I  then  took  a  strange  hankering  to  coals  ; 
I  fell  to  scranching  them,  and  had  already  con¬ 
sumed,  I  am  certain,  as  much  as  would  have 
dressed  my  wedding  dinner,  when  my  uncle  came 
for  me  home.  He  was  in  the  parlor  with  my  gov¬ 
erness,  when  I  was  called  down.  I  went  in,  fell 
on  my  knees,  for  he  made  me  call  him  father,  and 
when  I  expected  the  blessing  I  asked,  the  good 
gentleman,  in  a  surprise,  turns  himself  to  my 
governess,  and  asks  whether  this  (pointing  to  me) 
was  his  daughter  ?  ‘  This/  added  he,  ‘  is  the 

very  picture  of  death.  My  child  was  a  plump¬ 
faced,  hale,  fresh-colored  girl ;  but  this  looks  as 
if  she  were  half-starved,  a  mere  skeleton/  My 
governess,  who  is  really  a  good  woman,  assured 
my  father  I  had  wanted  for  nothing  ;  and  withal 
told  him  I  was  continually  eating  some  trash  or 
other,  and  that  I  was  almost  eaten  up  with  the 
green-sickness,  her  orders  being  never  to  cross 
me.  But  this  magnified  but  little  with  my  father, 
who  presently,  in  a  kind  of  pet,  paying  for  my 


board,  took  me  home  with  him.  I  had  not  been 
long  at  home,  but  one  Sunday  at  church  (I  shall 
never  forget  it)  I  saw  a  young  neighboring  gen¬ 
tleman  that  pleased  me  hugely  ;  I  liked  him  of 
all  men  I  ever  saw  in  my  life,  and  began  to  wish 
I  could  be  as  pleasing  to  him.  The  very  next 
day  he  came,  with  his  father,  a  visiting  to  our 
house  :  we  were  left  alone  together,  with  direc¬ 
tions  on  both  sides  to  be  in  love  with  one  another, 
and  in  three  weeks’  time  we  were  married.  I  re¬ 
gained  my  former  health  and  complexion,  and  am 
now  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long.  Now,  Mr. 
Spec.,  I  desire  you  would  find  out  some  name  for 
these  craving  damsels,  whether  dignified  or  dis¬ 
tinguished  under  some  or  all  of  the  following 
denominations  :  to  wit,  ‘  Trash-eaters,  Oatmeal- 
chewers,  Pipe-champers,  Chalk-lickers,  Wax-nib- 
blers,  Coal-scranchers,  Wall-peelers,  or  Gravel- 
diggers  ;’  and,  good  Sir,  do  your  utmost  endeavor 
to  prevent  (by  exposing)  this  unaccountable  folly, 
so  prevailing  among  the  young  ones  of  our  sex, 
who  may  not  meet  with  such  sudden  good  luck,  as, 
“Sir,  your  constant  Reader, 

“  and  very  humble  Servant, 

“  Sabina  Green, 

“  now  Sabina  Rentfree." 


No.  432.]  WEDNESDAY,  JULY  16,  1712. 

- Inter  strepit  anser  olores. — Vffifl,  Eel.  ix.  36. 

He  gabbles  like  a  goose  amid  the  swan-like  choir. — Dryden. 

“  Mr.  Spectator,  Oxford,  July  14. 

“  According  to  a  late  invitation  in  one  of  your 
papers  to  every  man  who  pleases  to  write,  I  have 
sent  you  the  following  short  dissertation  against 
the  vice  of  being  prejudiced. 

“Your  most  humble  Servant.” 

“  Man  is  a  sociable  creature,  and  a  lover  of  glory; 
whence  it  is,  that  when  several  persons  are  united 
in  the  same  society,  they  are  studious  to  lessen 
the  reputation  of  others,  in  order  to  raise  their 
own.  The  wise  are  content  to  guide  the  springs 
in  silence,  and  rejoice  in  secret  at  their  regular 
progress.  To  prate  and  triumph  is  the  part  allot¬ 
ted  to  the  trifling  and  superficial.  The  geese 
were  providentially  ordained  to  save  the  Capitol. 
Hence  it  is,  that  the  invention  of  marks  ana  de¬ 
vices  to  distinguish  parties  is  owing  to  the  beaux 
and  belles  of  this  island.  Hats,  moulded  into  dif¬ 
ferent  cocks  and  pinches,  have  long  bid  mutual 
defiance  ;  patches  have  been  set  against  patches  in 
battle  array;  stocks  have  risen  or  fallen  in  pro¬ 
portion  to  head-dresses  ;  and  peace  or  war  been  ex¬ 
pected,  as  the  white  or  the  red  hood  hath  prevailed. 
These  are  the  standard-bearers  in  our  contending 
armies,  the  dwarfs  and  squires  who  carry  the  im¬ 
presses  of  the  giants  or  knights,  not  born  to  fight 
themselves,  but  to  prepare  the  way  for  the  ensuing 
combat. 

“  It  is  a  matter  of  wonder  to  reflect  how  far 
men  of  weak  understanding  and  strong  fancy  are 
hurried  by  their  prejudices,  even  to  the  believ¬ 
ing  that  the  whole  body  of  the  adverse  party 
are  a  band  of  villains  and  demons.  Foreigners 
complain  that  the  English  are  the  proudest 
nation  under  heaven.  Perhaps  they  too  have 
their  share  ;  but  be  that  as  it  will,  general  charges 
against  bodies  of  men  is  the  fault  I  am  writing 
against.  It  must  be  owned,  to  our  shame,  that 
our  common  people,  and  most  who  have  not  trav¬ 
eled,  have  an  irrational  contempt  for  the  language, 
dress,  customs,  and  even  the  shape  and  minds  of 
other  nations.  Some  men,  otherwise  of  sense, 
have  wondered  that  a  great  genius  should  spring 


out  °f  Ireland  ;  and  think  you  mad  in  affirming 
that  fine  odes  have  been  written  in  Lapland 

/‘I  Ins  spirit  of  rivalship,  which  heretofore 
reigned  in  the  two  universities,  is  extinct,  and  al¬ 
most  over  betwixt  college  and  college.  In  parishes 
and  schools,  the  thirst  of  glory  still  obtains.  At 
the  seasons  of  football  and  cock-fighting,  these 
little  republicans  reassume  their  national  hatred 
to  each  other.  My  tenant  in  the  country  is  verily 
persuaded,  that  the  parish  of  the  enemy  hath  not 
one  honest  man  in  it. 

“I  always  hated  satires  against  woman,  and 
satires  against  man:  I  am  apt  to  suspect  a  stran¬ 
ger  who  laughs  at  the  religion  of  the  faculty- 
my  spleen  rises  at  a  dull  rogue,  who  is  severe  upon 
mayors  and  aldermen;  and  was  never  better  pleased 
than  wuh  a  piece  of  justice  executed  upon  the  body 

was  vel7  arch  upon  parsons.  J 
lie  necessities  of  mankind  require  various 
employments;  and  whoever  excels  in  his  province 
is  worthy  of  praise.  All  men  are  not  educated 

fiSL1  rnuame  ?ianner>  have  all  the  same 
talents.  I  hose  who  are  deficient  deserve  our  com¬ 
passion  and  have  a  title  to  our  assistance.  All 
cannot  be  bred  in  the  same  place;  but  in  all  places 
there  arise,  at  different  times,  such  persons  as  do 
onor  to  their  society,  which  may  raise  envy  in 
little  souls,  but  are  admired  and  cherished  by  gen¬ 
erous  spirits.  J  6 

.  “  Xt  \s  certainly  a  great  happiness  to  be  educated 
in  societies  of  great  and  eminent  men.  Their 
instructions  and  examples  are  of  extraordinary  ad¬ 
vantage.  It  is  highly  proper  to  instil  such  a  re¬ 
verence  of  the  governing  persons,  and  concern  for 
the  honor  of  the  place,  as  may  spur  the  growi no¬ 
members  to  worthy  pursuits  and  honest  emula°- 
tion,  but  to  swell  young  minds  with  vain  thoughts 
ol  the  dignity  of  their  own  brotherhood,  by  debase- 
lng  and  vilifying  all  others,  doth  them  a  real  in- 
lury  Uy  tins  means  I  have  found  that  their  efforts 
have  become  languid,  and  their  prattle  irksome,  as 
th  ink  mg  it  sufficient  praise  that  they  are  children 
ot  so  illustrious  and  ample  a  family.  I  should 
think  it  a  surer  as  well  as  more  generous  method, 

W  1  bf°re  ^  eyeS  of  youth  such  persons  as 
have  made  a  noble  progress  in  fraternities  less  talk- 

ed  ot  ;  which  seems  tacitly  to  reproach  their  sloth, 
who  loll  so  heavily  in  the  seats  of  mighty  improve¬ 
ment.  Active  spirits  hereby  would  enlarge  their 
notions ;  whereas,  by  a  servile  imitation  of  one,  or 
perhaps  two  admired  men,  in  their  own  body 

S  CTe  °n  7  £?in  a  sec°ndary  and  derivative 
hind  of  fame.  1  hese.copiers  of  men,  like  those  of 
authors  or  painters,  run  into  affectations  of  some 
oddness,  which  perhaps  was  not  disagreeable  in 
the  original,  but  sits  ungracefully  on  the  narrow- 
souled  transcriber. 

“  %  su.ch  early  corrections  of  vanity,  while  bovs 
are  growing  into  men,  they  will  gradually  learm 
not  to  censure  superficially;  but  imbibe  those  prin¬ 
ciples  of  general  kindness  and  humanity  which 
amne  can  make  them  easy  to  themselves;  and  be¬ 
loved  by  others. 

“Reflections  of  this  nature  have  expunged  all 
prejudices  out  of  my  heart;  insomuch,  that  though 
I  am  a  firm  Protestant,  I  hope  to  see  the  pope  and 
cardinals  without  violent  emotions;  and  though  1 

panynat“pa!fs  SraVe'  1  eXpeCt  t0  meet  6°<>d  com- 

“I  am.  Sir,  your  obedient  Servant.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  find  you  are  a  general  undertaker,  and  have 
by  your  correspondents  or  self,  an  insight  into 
most  things;  which  makes  me  apply  myself  to  you 
at  present,  in  the  sorest  calamity  that  ever  befell 
man.  My  wife  has  taken  something  ill  of  me,  and 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


521 


has  not  snoke  one  word  good  or  bad  to  me,  or  any- 
wi  7fin  1 10  Xamdy,  since  Friday  was  seven-night 
wouMnbUSt  a  maM  dVn  that  case?  Your  ^vice 
hu0mblc  Scrva8„r  gati°"  ^  y°U1'  m0St 

“Ralph  Thimbleton.  ” 

"  ^Spectator,  July  15,  1712. 

When  you  want  a  trifle  to  fill  up  a  paper  in 

wm  lay  an  obiig%sHz^ 

“  Dear  Olivia, 

“It  is  but  this  moment  I  have  had  the  happi¬ 
ness  of  knowing  to  whom  I  am  obliged  for  the  pres¬ 
ent  1  received  the  second  of  April.S  I  am  heart  fly 
ddld  not  come  to  hand  the  day  before;  for  I  can^ 
.W  ^  Veryhard  uP°n  Pe<>ple  to  lose  their 

Jmvdlf  L°ffer  at  0ne  butu0nce  a  year-  1  congratulate 
myself  however  upon  the  earnest  given  me  of  some- 

t  nng  further  intended  in  my  favor;  for  I  am  told, 

that  the  man  who  is  thought  worthy  by  a  lady  to 

make  a  fool  of,  stands  fair  enough  in  her  opinion 

to  become  one  day  her  husband.  Till  such  time 

as  1  have  the  honor  of  being  sworn,  I  take  leave 

to  subscribe  myself,  dear  Olivia,  your  fool  elect, 

“Nicodemuncio.” 

No.  433.]  THURSDAY,  JULY  17,  1712. 

Perlege  Masonio  cantatas  carmine  ranas 
Et  frontem  nugis  solvere  disce  meis. 

Mart.  Epig.  xiv.  183. 

To  banish  anxious  thought,  and  quiet  pain, 

Read  Homer’s  frogs,  or  my  more  trifling  strain. 

The  moral  world,  as  consisting  of  males  and 
females,  is  of  a  mixed  nature,  and  filled  with  sev- 
eral  customs,  fashions,  and  ceremonies,  which 
would  have  no  place  in  it  were  there  but  one  sex. 
Ha.d  our  species  no  females  in  it,  men  would  be 
quite  different  creatures  from  what  they  are  at 
present;  their  endeavors  to  please  the  opposite 
sex  polishes  and  refines  them  out  of  those  manners 
which  are  most  natural  to  them,  and  often  sets 
them  upon  modeling  themselves,  not  according 
to  the  plans  which  they  approve  in  their  own 
opnuons,  but  according  to  those  plans  which  they 
think  are  most  agreeable  to  the  female  world.  In 


.  w  o  buc  icuidie  world,  in 

a  word,  man  would  not  only  be  an  unhappy,  but  a 
lude  unfinished  creature,  were  he  conversant  with 
none  but  those  of  his  own  make. 

Women,  on  the  other  side,  are  apt  to  form  them¬ 
selves  in  everything  with  regard  to  that  other  half 
of  reasonable  creatures  with  whom  they  are  blend¬ 
ed  and  confused;  their  thoughts  are  ever  turned 
upon  appearing  amiable  to  the  other  sex;  they  talk 
|  and  move,  and  smile,  with  a  design  upon  us-  every 
feature  of  their  faces,  every  part  of  their  dress  is 
filled  with  snares  and  allurements.  There  would 
be  no  such  animals  as  prudes  or  coquettes  in  the 
world,  weie  there  not  such  an  animal  as  man.  In 
|  -s\lorL  it  is  the  male  that  gives  charms  to  woman¬ 
kind,  that  produces  an  air  in  their  faces,  a  grace 
I ln  their  motions,  a  softness  in  their  voices,  and  a 
delicacy  in  their  complexions. 

As  this  mutual  legard  between  the  two  sexes 
| tends  to  the  improvement  of  each  of  them,  we  may 
i  observe  that  men  are  apt  to  degenerate  into  rough 
•  brutal  natures,  who  live  as  if  there  were  no 
i  sucdl  things  as  women  in  the  world;  as,  on  the 
contrary,  women  who  have  an  indifference  or  aver¬ 
sion  for  their  counterparts  in  human  nature,  are 
generally  sour  and  unamiable,  sluttish  and  cen¬ 
sorious. 

I  am  led  into  this  train  of  thoughts  by  a  little 
manuscript  which  is  lately  fallen  into  my  hands, 


522 


and  which  I  shall  communicate  to  the  reader,  as  I 
have  done  some  other  curious  pieces  of  the  same 
nature,  without  troubling  him  with  any  inquiries 
about  the  author  of  it.  It  contains  a  summary  ac¬ 
count  of  two  different  states  which  bordered  upon 
one  another.  The  one  was  a  commonwealth  of 
Amazons,  or  women  without  men;  the  other  was 
a  republic  of  males,  that  had  not  a  woman  in  their 
whole  community.  As  these  two  states  bordered 
upon  one  another,  it  was  their  way,  it  seems,  to 
meet  upon  their  frontiers  at  a  certain  season  of  the 
year,  where  those  among  the  men  who  had  not 
made  their  choice  in  any  former  meeting  associat¬ 
ed  themselves  with  particular  women,  whom  they 
were  afterward  obliged  to  look  upon  as  their  wives 
in  every  one  of  these  yearly  rencounters.  The  child¬ 
ren  that  sprung  from  this  alliance,  if  males,  were 
sent  to  their  respective  fathers;  if  females,  contin¬ 
ued  with  their  mothers.  By  means  of  this  anniver¬ 
sary  carnival,  which  lasted  about  a  week,  the 
commonwealths  were  recruited  from  time  to  time, 
and  supplied  with  their  respective  subjects. 

These  two  states  were  engaged  together  in  a 
perpetual  league,  offensive  and  defensive;  so  that 
if  any  foreign  potentate  offered  to  attack  either  of 
them,  both  the  sexes  fell  upon  him  at  once,  and  filling  was 
quickly  brought  him  to  reason.  It  was  remark¬ 
able  that  for  many  ages  this  agreement  continued 
inviolable  between  the  two  states,  notwithstanding, 
as  was  said  before,  they  were  husbands  and  wives; 
but  this  will  not  appear  so  wonderful,  if  we  con¬ 
sider  that  they  did  not  live  together  above  a  week 
in  a  year. 

In  the  account  which  my  author  gives  of  the 
male  republic,  there  were  several  customs  very  re¬ 
markable.  The  men  never  shaved  their  beards,  or 
pared  their  nails,  above  once  in  a  twelvemonth, 
which  was  probably  about  the  time  of  the  great 
annual  meeting  upon  their  frontiers.  I  find  the 
name  of  a  minister  of  state  in  one  part  of  their 
history,  who  was  fined  for  appearing  too  frequently 
in  clean  linen;  and  of  a  certain  great  general,  who 
was  turned  out  of  his  post  for  effeminacy,  it  having 
been  proved  upon  him  by  several  credible  witnesses 
that  he  washed  his  face  every  morning.  If  any 
member  of  the  commonwealth  had  a  soft  voice,  a 
smooth  face,  or  a  supple  behavior,  he  was  banish¬ 
ed  into  the  commonwealth  of  females,  where  he 
was  treated  as  a  slave,  dressed  in  petticoats,  and 
get  a  spinning.  They  had  no  titles  of  honor 
among  them,  but  such  as  denoted  some  bodily 
strength  or  perfection,  as  such  a  one  “the  tall,” 
such  a  one  “  the  stocky,”  such  a  one  “the  gruff.” 

Their  public  debates  were  generally  managed  with 
kicks  and  cuffs,  insomuch  that  they  often  came 
from  the  council-table  with  broken  shins,  black 
eyes,  and  bloody  noses.  When  they  would  re¬ 
proach  a  man  in  the  most  bitter  terms,  they  would 
tell  him  his  teeth  were  white,  or  that  he  had  a 
fair  skin  and  a  soft  hand.  The  greatest  man  I 
meet  with  in  their  history  was  one  who  could  lift 
five  hundred  weight,  and  wore  such  a  prodigious 
pair  of  whiskers  as  had  never  been  seen  in  the 
commonwealth  before  his  time.  These  accom¬ 
plishments,  it  seems,  had  rendered  him  so  pop¬ 
ular,  that  if  he  had  not  died  very  seasonably,  it 
is  thought  he  might  have  enslaved  the  republic. 

Having  made  this  short  extract  out  of  the  history 
of  the  male  commonwealth,  I  shall  look  into  the 
history  of  the  neighboring  state,  which  consisted 
of  females  ;  and,  if  I  find  anything  in  it,  will  not 
fail  to  communicate  it  to  the  public. — C. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 

Ho.  434.]  FRIDAY,  JULY  18,  1712. 


Quales  Threicise,  cum  flumina  Thermodontis 
Pulsant,  et  pictis  bellaiitur  Amazones  armis: 

Seu  circum  Hippolyten,  seu  cum  se  Martia  curru 
Penthesilea  refert;  magnoque  ululanto  tumultu, 
Foeminea  exultant  lunatis  agmina  peltis. 

Virgo  Jin.  xi.  659. 

So  march’d  the  Thracian  Amazons  of  old 
When  Thermedon  with  bloody  billows  roll’d; 

Such  troops  as  these  in  shining  arms  were  seen, 

When  Theseus  met  in  fight  their  maiden  queen ; 

Such  to  the  field  Penthesilea  led, 

From  the  fierce  virgin  when  the  Grecians  fled ; 

WTith  such  returned  triumphant  from  the  war, 

Her  maids  with  cries  attend  the  lofty  car : 

They  clash  with  manly  force  their  moony  shields; 
With  female  shouts  resound  the  Phrygian  fields. 

Dkyden. 


Having  carefully  perused  the  manuscript  I  men¬ 
tioned  in  my  yesterday’s  paper,  so  far  as  it  relates 
to  the  republic  of  women,  I  find  in  it  several  par¬ 
ticulars  which  may  very  well  deserve  the  reader’s 
attention. 

The  girls  of  quality,  from  six  to  twelve  years 
old,  were  put  to  public  schools,  where  they  learned 
to  box  and  play  at  cudgels,  with  several  other  ac¬ 
complishments  of  the  same  nature  ;  so  that  no- 
more  usual  than  to  see  a  little  miss 
home  at  night  with  a  broken  pate,  or 
two  or  three  teeth  knocked  out  of  her  head. 
They  were  afterward  taught  to  ride  the  great 
horse,  to  shoot,  dart,  or  sling,  and  listed  into  sev¬ 
eral  companies  in  order  to  perfect  themselves  in 
military  exercises.  No  woman  was  to  be  married 
till  she  had  killed  her  man.  The  ladies  of  fashion 
used  to  play  with  young  lions  instead  of  lap-dogs; 
and  when  they  made  any  parties  of  diversion, 
instead  of  entertaining  themselves  at  ombre  or 
piquet,  they  would  wrestle  and  pitch  the  bar  for  a 
whole  afternoon  together.  There  was  never  any 
such  thing  as  a  blush  seen,  or  a  sigh  heard,  in  the 
commonwealth.  The  women  never  dressed  but  to 
look  terrible ;  to  which  end  they  would  some¬ 
times,  after  a  battle,  paint  their  cheeks  with  the 
blood  of  their  enemies.  For  this  reason,  likewise, 
the  face  which  had  the  most  scars  was  looked 
upon  as  the  most  beautiful.  If  they  found  lace, 
jewels,  ribbons,  or  any  ornaments  in  silver  or 
gold,  among  the  booty  which  they  had  taken,  they 
used  to  dress  their  horses  with  it,  but  never  enter¬ 
tained  a  thought  of  wearing  it  themselves.  There 
were  particular  rights  and  privileges  allowed  to 
any  member  of  tne  commonwealth  who  was  a 
mother  of  three  daughters.  The  senate  was  made 
up  of  old  women  ;  for  by  the  laws  of  the  country, 
none  was  to  be  a  counselor  of  state  that  was  not 
past  child-bearing.  They  used  to  boast  that  their 
republic  had  continued  four  thousand  years,  which 
is  altogether  improbable,  unless  we  may  suppose, 
what  I  am  very  apt  to  think,  that  they  measured 
their  time  by  lunar  years. 

There  was  a  great  revolution  brought  about  in 
this  female  republic  by  means  of  a  neighboring 
king,  who  had  made  war  upon  them  several  years 
with  various  success,  and  at  length  overthrew 
them  in  a  very  great  battle.  This  defeat  they  as¬ 
cribe  to  severai  causes  ;  some  say  that  the  secre¬ 
tary  of  state,  having  been  troubled  with  the  va¬ 
pors,  had  committed  some  fatal  mistakes  in  several 
dispatches  about  that  time.  Others  pretend  that 
the  first  minister  being  big  with  chilu,  could  not 
attend  the  public  affairs,  as  so  great  an  exigency 
of  state  required  ;  but  this  I  can  give  no  manner 
of  credit  to,  since  it  seems  to  contradict  a  funda¬ 
mental  maxim  in  their  government  which  I  have 
before  mentioned.  My  author  gives  the  most 
probable  reason  of  this  great  disaster ;  for  he 
affirms  that  the  general  was  brought  to  bed,  or  (as 
others  say)  miscarried  the  very  night  before  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


battle:  however  it  was,  this  signal  overthrow 
obliged  them  to  call  in  the  male  republic  to  their 
assistance;  but  notwithstanding  their  common 
efforts  to  repulse  the  victorious  enemy,  the  war 
continued  for  many  years  before  they  could  en 
tirelv  bring  it  to  a  happy  conclusion. 

The  campaigns  which  both  sexes  passed  to¬ 
gether  made  them  so  well  acquainted  with  one 
another,  that  at  the  end  of  the  war  they  did  not 
care  for  parting.  In  the  beginning  of  it,  they 
lodged  m  separate  camps,  but  afterward,  as  they 
grew  more  familiar,  they  pitched  their  tents  pro¬ 
miscuously.  r 

From  this  time,  the  armies  being  checkered 
with  both  sexes,  they  polished  apace.  The  men 
used  to  invite  their  fellow-soldiers  into  their  quar¬ 
ters,  and  would  dress  their  tents  with  flowers  and 
boughs  for  their  reception.  If  they  chanced  to 
like  one  more  than  another,  they  would  be  cutting 
her  name  in  the  table,  or  chalking  out  her  fio-ure 
upon  the  wall,  or  talking  of  her  in  a  kind  of  rap¬ 
turous  language,  which  by  degrees  improved  into 
verse  and  sonnet.  These  were  as  the  first  rudi¬ 
ments  of  architecture,  painting,  and  poetry,  among 
this  savage  people.  After  any  advantage  over  the 
enemy,  both  sexes  used  to  jump  together,  and 
make  a  clattering  with  their  swords  and  shields, 
tor  joy,  which  in  a  few  years  produced  several 
regular  tunes  and  set  dances. 

As  the  two  armies  romped  on  these  occasions 
the  women  complained  of  the  thick,  bushy  beards 
and  long  nails  of  their  confederates,  who  there¬ 
upon  took  care  to  prune  themselves  into  such  fig¬ 
ures  as  were  most  pleasing  to  their  female  friends 
and  allies. 

When  they  had  taken  any  spoils  from  the  en- 
emy,  the  men  would  make  a  present  of  everythin^ 
that  w  as  rich  and  showy  to  tne  women  whom  they 
most  admired,  and  would  frequently  dress  the 
necks,  or  heads,  or  arms  of  their  mistresses,  with 
anything  which  they  thought  appeared  gay  or 
pretty  The  women,  observing  that  the  men  took 
delight  in  looking  upon  them  when  they  were 
adorned  with  such  trappings  and  gewgaws,  set 
their  heads  at  work  to  find  out  new  inventions 
and  to  outshine  one  another  in  all  councils  of 
war  or  the  like  solemn  meetings.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  men,  observing  how  the  women’s  hearts 
were  set  upon  finery,  began  to  embellish  them¬ 
selves  and  look  as  agreeably  as  they  could  in  the 
eyes  of  their  associates.  In  short,  after  a  few 
years  conversing  together,  the  women  had  learned 
o  smile,  and  the  men  to  ogle  ;  the  women  grew 
soft,  and  the  men  lively.  ,  ° 

When  they  had  thus  insensibly  formed  one  an¬ 
other,  upon  the  finishing  of  the  war,  which  con¬ 
cluded  with  an  entire  conquest  of  their  common 
enemy,  the  colonels  in  one  army  married  the  colo¬ 
nels  in  the  other  ;  the  captains  in  the  same  man¬ 
ner  took  the  captains  to  their  wives  :  the  whole 
body  of  common  soldiers  were  matched  after  the 
example  of  their  leaders.  By  this  means  the  two 
lepublics  incorporated  with  one  another,  and  be¬ 
came  tne  most  flourishing  and  polite  government 
in  the  part  of  the  world  which  they  inhabited.— C. 


523 


No.  435.]  SATURDAY,  JULY  19,  1712. 

Nee  duo  sunt,  et  forma  duplex,  nec  foemina  did, 

Aec  puer,  ut  possint:  neutrumque  et  utrumque  videntur. 

Ovid,  Met.  iv.  378. 

Both  bodies  in  a  single  body  mix, 

A  single  body  with  a  double  sex.— Addison. 

Most  of  the  papers  I  give  the  public  are  written 
on  subjects  that  never  vary,  but  are  forever  fixed 


and  immutable.  Of  this  kind  are  all  my  more 
serious  essays  and  discourses  ;  but  there  is  another 
sort  of  speculations,  which  I  consider  as  occa¬ 
sional  papers,  that  take  their  rise  from  the  folly, 
extravagance,  and  caprice  of  the  present  age. 
hor  I  look  upon  myself  as  one  set  to  watch  the 
manners  and  behavior  of  my  countrymen  and 
cotemporaries,  and  to  mark  down  every  absurd 
fashion,  ridiculous  custom,  or  affected"  form  of 
sneech,  that  makes  its  appearance  in  the  world 
during  the  course  of  these  my  speculations.  The 
petticoat  no  sooner  began  to  swell,  but  I  observed 
its  motions.  The  party-patches  had  not  time  to 
muster  themselves  before  I  detected  them.  I  had 
intelligence  of  the  colored  hood  the  very  first  time 
it  appeared  in  a  public  assembly.  I  might  here 
mention  several  other  the  like  contingent  sub¬ 
jects,  upon  which  I  have  bestowed  distinct  pa¬ 
pers.  By  this  means  I  have  so  effectually  quashed 
those  irregularities  which  gave  occasion  to  them, 
that  I  am  afraid  posterity  will  scarce  have  a  suffi¬ 
cient  idea  of  them  to  relish  those  discourses  which 
v  ere  in  no  little  vogue  at  the  time  when  they  were 
written.  They  will  be  apt  to  think  that  the  fash¬ 
ions  and  customs  I  attacked  were  some  fantastic 
conceits  of  my  own,  and  that  their  great-grand¬ 
mothers  could  not  be  so  whimsical  as  I  have  rep¬ 
resented  them.  For  this  reason,  when  I  think  on 
die  figure  my  several  volumes  of  speculations  will 
make  about  a  hundred  years  hence,  I  consider 
them  as  so  many  pieces  of  old  plate,  where  the 
weight  will  be  regarded,  but  the  fashion  lost. 

Among  the  several  female  extravagances  I  have 
already  taken  notice  of,  there  is  one  which  still 
keeps  its  ground.  I  mean  that  of  the  ladies  who 
dress  themselves  in  a  hat  and  feather,  a  riding- 
coat  and  a  periwig,  or  at  least  tie  up  their  hair  in 
a  bag  or  ribbon,  in  imitation  of  the  smart  part  of 
the  opposite  sex.  As  in  my  yesterday’s  paper  I 
gave  an  account  of  the  mixture  of  two  sexes  in 
one  commonwealth,  I  shall  here  take  notice  of 
this  mixture  of  two  sexes  in  one  person.  I  have 
already  shown  my  dislike  of  this  immodest  cus¬ 
tom  more  than  once  ;  but,  in  contempt  of  every¬ 
thing  I  have  hitherto  said,  I  am  informed  that  tne 
highways  about  this  great  city  are  still  very  much 
infested  with  these  female  cavaliers. 

I  remember  when  I  was  at  my  friend  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley’s  about  this  time  twelvemonth,  an 
equestrian  lady  of  this  order  appeared  upon  the 
plains  which  lay  at  a  distance  from  his  house.  I 
was  at  that  time  walking  in  the  fields  with  my 
old  friend  ;  and  as  his  tenants  ran  out  on  every 
side  to  see  so  strange  a  sight.  Sir  Roger  asked 
one  of  them,  who  came  by  us,  what  it  was?  To 
which  the  country  fellow  replied,  “  ’Tis  a  gentle¬ 
woman,  saving  your  worship’s  presence,  in°a  coat 
and  hat.”  This  produced  a  great  deal  of  mirth 
at  the  knight’s  house,  where  we  had  a  story  at  the 
same  time  of  another  of  his  tenants,  who  meeting 
this  gentlemanlike  lady  on  the  highway,  was 
asked  by  her  whether  that  was  Coverlev-hall  ? 
The  honest  man  seeing  only  the  male  part  of  the 
querist,  replied,  “  Yes,  Sir  but  upon  the  second 
question,  whether  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  was  a 
married  man  ?  having  dropped  his  eve  upon  the 
petticoat,  he  changed  his  note  into  “No,  Madam.” 

Had  one  of  these  hermaphrodites  appeared  in 
Juvenal’s  days,  with  what  an  indignation  should 
we  have  seen  her  described  by  that  excellent  sat¬ 
irist!  He  would  have  represented  her  in  her 
riding-habit  as  a  greater  monster  than  the  centaur. 

He  would  have  called  for  sacrifices  or  purifving 
waters,  to  expatiate  the  appearance  of  such  a 
prodigy.  He  would  have  invoked  the  shades  of 
Portia  or  Lucretia,  to  see  into  what  the  Roman 
ladies  had  transformed  themselves. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


524 

For  my  own  part,  I  am  for  treating  the  sex 
with  greater  tenderness,  and  have  all  along  made 
use  of  the  most  gentle  methods  to  bring  them,  off 
from  any  little  extravagance  into  which  they  have 
sometimes  unwarily  fallen.  I  think  it,  however, 
absolutely  necessary  to  keep  up  the  partition  be¬ 
tween  the  two  sexes,  and  to  take  notice  of  the 
smallest  encroachments  which  the  one  makes  upon 
the  other.  I  hope,  therefore,  that  I  shall  not 
hear  any  more  complaints  on  this  subject.  I  am 
sure  my  she-disciples,  who  peruse  these  my  daily 
lectures,  have  profited  but  little  by  them,  if  they  are 
capable  of  giving  in  to  such  an  amphibious  dress. 
This  1  should  not  have  mentioned,  had  I  not 
lately  met  one  of  these  my  female  readers  in  Hyde- 
park,  who  looked  upon  me  with  a  masculine 
assurance,  and  cocked  her  hat  full  in  my  face. 

For  my  part,  I  have  one  general  key  to  the 
behavior  of  the  fair  sex.  When  I  see  them  sin¬ 
gular  in  any  part  of  their  dress,  I  conclude  it  is 
not  without  some  evil  intention;  and  therefore 
question  not  but  the  design  of  this  strange  fashion 
is  to  smite  more  effectually  their  male  beholders. 
Now  to  set  them  right  in  this  particular,  1  would 
fain  have  them  consider  with  themselves,  whe¬ 
ther  we  are  not  more  likely  to  be  struck  by  a 
figure  entirely  female,  than  with  such  a  one  as  we 
may  see  every  day  in  our  glasses.  Or,  if  they 
please,  let  them  reflect  upon  their  own  hearts, 
and  think  how  they  would  be  affected  should  they 
meet  a  man  on  horseback  in  his  breeches  and  jack- 
boots,  and  at  the  same  time  dressed  up  in  a  com¬ 
mode  and  a  nightraile. 

I  must  observe  that  this  fashion  was  first  of 
all  brought  to  us  from  France,  a  country  which 
has  infected  all  the  nations  of  Europe  with  its 
levity.  I  speak  not  this  in  derogation  of  a  whole 
people,  having  more  than  once  found  fault  with 
those  general  reflections  which  strike  at  kingdoms 
or  commonwealths  in  the  gross — apiece  of  cruelty, 
which  an  ingenious  writer  of  our  own  compares  to 
that  of  Caligula,  who  wished  the  Roman  people  had 
all  but  one  neck,  that  he  might  behead  them  at  a 
blow.  I  shall  therefore  only  remark,  that  as  live¬ 
liness  and  assurance  are  in  a  peculiar  manner 
the  qualifications  of  the  French  nation,  the  same 
habits  and  customs  will  not  give  the  same  offense 
to  that  people  which  they  produce  among  those  of 
our  own  country.  Modesty  is  our  distinguishing 
character,  as  vivacity  is  theirs :  and  when  this  our 
national  virtue  appears  in  that  female  beauty  for 
which  our  British  ladies  are  celebrated  above  all 
others  in  the  universe,  it  makes  up  the  most 
amiable  object  that  the  eye  of  man  can  possibly 
behold. — C. 


No  436.]  MONDAY,  JULY  21,  1712. 

- - Verso  pollice  yulgi 

Quemlibet  occidunt  populariter. — Juv.  Sat.  iii.  36. 

With  thumbs  bent  back,  they  popularly  kill. — Dryden. 

Bf.ing  a  person  of  insatiable  curiosity,  I  could 
not  forbear  going  on  Wednesday  last  to  a  place  of 
no  small  renown  for  the  gallantry  of  the  lower 
order  of  Britons,  namely,  to  the  Bear-garden,  at 
Hockley-in-the-Hole;  where  (as  a  whitish -brown 
paper,  put  into  my  hands  in  the  street,  informed 
me)  there  was  to  be  a  trial  of  skill  exhibited  be¬ 
tween  two  masters  of  the  noble  science  of  defense, 
at  two  of  the  clock  precisely.  I  was  not  a  little 
charmed  with  the  solemnity  of  the  challenge, 
which  ran  thus: 

“  I,  James  Miller,  sergeant  (lately  come  from  the 
frontiers  of  Portugal),  master  of  the  noble  science 
of  defense,  hearing  in  most  places  where  I  have 


been  of  the  great  fame  of  Timothy  Buck,  of  Lon¬ 
don,  master  of  the  said  science,  do  invite  him  to 
meet  me  and  exercise  at  the  several  weapons  fol¬ 
lowing,  viz: 

“  Back  sword,  Single  falchion, 

“  Sword  and  dagger,  Case  of  falchions, 

“  Sword  and  buckler,  Quarter  staff.” 

If  the  generous  ardor  in  James  Miller  to  dis¬ 
pute  the  reputation  of  Timothy  Buck,  had  some¬ 
thing  resembling  the  old  heroes  of  romance,  Ti¬ 
mothy  Buck  returned  answer  in  the  same  paper 
with  the  like  spirit,  adding  a  little  indignation  at 
being  challenged,  and  seeming  to  condescend  to 
fight  James  Miller,  not  in  regard  of  Miller  him¬ 
self,  but  in  that,  as  the  fame  went  out,  he  had 
fought  Parkes  of  Coventry.  The  acceptance  of 
the  combat  ran  in  these  words  : 

“  I,  Timothy  Buck,  of  Clare-market,  master  of 
the  noble  science  of  defense,  hearing  he  did  fight 
Mr.  Parkes*  of  Coventry,  will  not  fail  (God  wil¬ 
ling)  to  meet  this  fair  inviter  at  the  time  and  place 
appointed,  desiring  a  clear  stage  and  no  favor.— 
Vivat  Regina.” 

I  shall  not  here  look  back  on  the  spectacles  of 
the  Greeks  and  Romans  of  this  kind,  but  must 
believe  this  custom  took  its  rise  from  the  ages  of 
knight-errantry;  from  those  who  loved  one  woman 
so  well,  that  they  hated  all  men  and  women  else; 
from  those  who  would  fight  you,  whether  you 
were  or  were  not  of  their  mind;  from  those  who 
demanded  the  combat  of  their  cotemporaries, 
both  for  admiring  their  mistress  or  discommend¬ 
ing  her.  I  cannot  therefore,  but  lament,  that  the 
terrible  part  of  the  ancient  fight  is  preserved, 
when  the  amorous  side  of  it  is  forgotten.  We 
have  retained  the  barbarity,  but  lost  the  gallantry 
of  the  old  combatants.  I  could  wish,  methinks, 
these  gentlemen  had  consulted  me  in  the  promul¬ 
gation  of  the  conflict.  1  was  obliged  by  a  fair 
young  maid,  whom  I  understood  to  be  called 
Elizabeth  Preston,  daughter  of  the  keeper  of  the 
garden,  with  a  glass  of  water;  who  I  imagined 
might  have  been,  for  form’s  sake,  the  general 
representative  of  the  lady  fought  for,  and  from  her 
beauty  the  proper  Amaryllis  on  these' occasions. 
It  would  have  run  better  in  the  challenge,  “  I, 
James  Miller,  sergeant,  who  have  traveled  parts 
abroad,  and  came  last  from  the  frontiers  of  Por¬ 
tugal,  for  the  love  of  Elizabeth  Preston,  do  assert 
that  the  said  Elizabeth  is  the  fairest  of  women.” 
Then  the  answer  ;  “  I,  Timothy  Buck,  who  have 
staid  in  Great  Britain  during  all  the  war  in 
foreign  parts  for  the  sake  of  Susannah  Page,  do 
deny  that  Elizabeth  Preston  is  so  fair  as  the  said 
Susannah  Page.  Let  Susannah  Page  look  on,  and 
I  desire  of  James  Miller  no  favor.” 

This  would  give  the  battle  quite  another  turn; 
and  a  proper  station  for  the  ladies  whose  complex¬ 
ion  was  disputed  by  the  sword,  would  animate  the 
disputants  with  a  more  gallant  incentive  than  the 
expectation  of  money  from  the  spectators;  though 
I  would  not  have  that  neglected,  but  thrown  to 
that  fair  one  whose  lover  was  approved  by  the 
donor. 


*  On  a  large  tomb  in  the  great  church-yard  of  Coventry  is 
the  following  inscription. 

“To  the  memory  of  Mr.  John  Sparkes,  a  native  of  this  city; 
he  was  a  man  of  a  mild  disposition,  a  gladiator  by  profession, 
who,  after  having  fought  350  bottles  in  the  principal  parts 
of  Europe,  with  honor  and  applause,  at  length  quitted  the 
stage,  sheathed  his  sword,  and  with  Christian  resignation, 
submitted  to  the  grand  victor  in  the  52d  year  of  his  age. 

“  Anno  salutis  humance,  1733.” 

ITis  friend,  Sergeant  Miller,  here  mentioned,  a  man  of  vast 
athletic  accomplishments,  was  advanced  afterward  to  the 
rank  of  a  captain  in  the  British  army,  and  did  notable  service 
in  Scotland  under  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  in  1745. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Yet  considering  the  thing  wants  such  amend¬ 
ments,  it  was  carried  with  great  order.  James 
Miller  came  on  first,  preceded  by  two  disabled 
drumtneis,  to  show,  I  suppose,  that  the  prospect 
of  maimed  bodies  did  not  in  the  least  deter  him. 
There  ascended  with  the  daring  Miller  a  gentle¬ 
man,  whose  name  I  could  not  learn,  with  a  dogged 
air,  as  unsatisfied  that  he  was  not  principal. 
1  his  son  of  anger  lowered  at  the  whole  assembly, 
and,  weighing  himself  as  he  marched  around  from 
side  to  side,  with  a  stiff  knee  and  shoulder,  he 
gave  intimations  of  the  purpose  he  smothered  till 
he  saw  the  issue  of  this  encounter.  Miller  had  a 
blue  ribbon  tied  round  the  sword  arm;  which 
ornament  I  conceive  to  be  the  remain  of  that  cus¬ 
tom  of  wearing  a  mistress’s  favor  on  such  occa¬ 
sions  of  old. 

Miller  is  a  man  of  six  foot  eight  inches  in  height, 
of  ii  kind  but  bold  aspect,  well-fashioned,  and 
ready  of  his  limbs,  and  such  a  readiness  as  spoke 
his  ease  in  them  was  obtained  from  a  habit  of 
motion  in  military  exercise. 

The  expectation  of  the  spectators  was  now  al¬ 
most  at  its  height;  and  the  crowd  pressing  in, 
several  active  persons  thought  they  were  placed 
rather  according  to  their  fortune  than  their  merit, 
and  took  it  in  their  heads  to  prefer  themselves 
from  the  open  area  or  pit  to  the  galleries.  This 
dispute  between  desert  and  property  brought  many 
to  the  giound,  and  raised  others  in  proportion  to 
the  highest  seats  by  turns,  for  the  space  of  ten 
minutes,  till  limothy  Buck  came  on,  and  the 
whole  assembly,  giving  up  their  disputes,  turned 
their  eyes  upon  the  champions.  Then  it  was 
that  every  man’s  affection  turned  to  one  or  the 
other  irresistibly.  A  judicious  gentleman  near 
me  said,  ‘  I  could,  methinks,  be  Miller’s  second, 
but  I  had  rather  have  Buck  for  mine.”  Miller 
had  an  audacious  look  that  took  the  eye;  Buck  a 
pet  feet  composure,  that  engaged  the  judgment. 
Buck  came  on  in  a  plain  coat,  and  kept  all  his 
air  till  the  instant  of  engaging;  at  which  time  he 
undiessed  to  his  shirt,  his  arm  adorned  with  a 
bandage  of  red  ribbon.  No  one  can  describe  the 
sudden  concern  in  the  whole  assembly;  the  most 
tumultuous  crowd  in  nature  was  as  still  and  as 
much  engaged  as  if  all  their  lives  depended  on 
the  first  blow.  The  combatants  met  in  the  mid¬ 
dle  of  the  stage,  and  shaking  hands,  as  removing 
all  malice,  they  retired  with  much  grace  to  the 
extremities  of  it;  from  whence  they  immediately 
faced  about,  and  approached  each  other,  Miller 
with  a  heart  full  of  resolution,  Buck  with  a  watch- 
ful,  untroubled  countenance:  Buck  regarding  prin- 
cipaliy  his  own  defense,  Miller  chiefly  thoughtful 
of  annoying  his  opponent.  *It  is  not  easy  to 
describe  the  many  escapes  and  imperceptible  de¬ 
fenses  between  two  men  of  quick  eyes  and  ready 
limbs;  but  Miller’s  heat  laid  him  open  to  the  re¬ 
buke  ot  the  calm  Buck,  by  a  large  cut  on  the 
forehead.  Much  effusion  of  blood  covered  his 
eyes  in  a  moment,  and  the  huzzas  of  the  crowd 
undoubtedly  quickened  the  anguish.  The  assem¬ 
bly  v  as  divided  into  parties  upon  their  different 
ways  of  fighting;  while  a  poor  nymph  in  one  of 
the  galleries  apparently  suffered  for  Miller,  and 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  As  soon  as  his  wound 
was  wrapped  up,  he  came  on  again  with  a  little 
rage,  which  still  disabled  him  further.  But  what 
brave  man  can  be  wounded  into  more  caution  and 
patience?  The  next  was  a  warm,  eager  onset 
which  ended  in  a  decisive  stroke  on  the  left  le«-  of 
Miller.  Ihe  Lady  in  the  gallery,  during  this 
second  strife,  covered  her  face,  and  for  my  part, 

I  could  not  keep  my  thoughts  from  being  mostly 
employed  on  the  consideration  of  her  unhappy 
circumstance  that  moment,  hearing  the  clash  of 


525 

swords,  and  apprehending  life  or  victory  con¬ 
cerned  her  lover  in  every  blow,  but  not  daring  to 
satisfy  herself  on  whom  they  fell.  The  wound 
was  exposed  to  the  view  of  all  who  could  delight 
in  it,  and  sewed  up  on  the  stage.  The  surly 
second  of  Miller  declared  at  this  time,  that  he 
would  that  day  fortnight  fight  Mr.  Buck  at  the 
same  weapons,  declaring  himself  the  master  of  the 
renowned  Gorman;  but  Buck  denied  him  the  ho- 
n or  °f  that  courageous  disciple,  and,  asserting 
hat  he  himself  had  taught  that  champion,  accepted 
the  challenge. 

There  is  something  in  human  nature  very  unac¬ 
countable  on  such  occasions,  when  we  see  the 
people  take  a  painful  gratification  in  beholding 
these  encounters.  Is  it  cruelty  that  administers  • 
this  sort  of  delight?  or  is  it  a  pleasure  that  is  taken 
m  the  exercise  of  pity  ?  It  was,  methought,  pretty 
remarkable  that  the  business  of  the  day  bein^  a 
trial  of  skill,  the  popularity  did  not  run  so  high  as 
one  would  have  expected  on  the  side  of  Buck  Is 
it  that  the  people’s  passions  have  their  rise  in  self- 
love,  and  thought  themselves  (in  spite  of  all  the 
courage  they  had)  liable  to  the  fate  of  Miller,  but 
could  not  so  easily  think  themselves  qualified 
like  Buck? 

Tully  speaks  of  this  custom  with  less  horror 
than  one  would  expect,  though  he  confesses  it  was 
much  abused  in  his  time,  and  seems  directly  to 
approve  of  it  under  its  first  regulations,  when  cri¬ 
minals  only  fought  before  the  people.  “Crudele 
gladiatorum  spectaculum  et  inhumanum  nonnullis 
videri  solet ;  et  hand  scio  annon  ita  sit  ut  nunc  Jit ; 
cum  verb  sontes  ferro  depugnabant,  auribus  fortasse 
multa,  oculis  quidem  nulla,  poterat  esse  fortior  contra 
dolor em  et  mortem  disciplina.”  The  shows  of  gla¬ 
diators  may  be  thought  barbarous  and  inhuman, 
and  I  know  not  but  it  is  so  as  it  is  now  prac¬ 
tised;  but  in  those  times  when  only  criminals 
were  combatants,  the  ear  perhaps  might  receive 
many  better  instructions,  but  it  is  impossible 
that  anything  which  affects  our  eyes  should  for¬ 
tify  us  so  well  against  pain  and  death.” 


No.  437.]  TUESDAY,  JULY  22,  1712. 

i  une  impune  hscc  facias  ?  Tune  hie  homines  adolescentulos, 
Imperifccs  rerum,  eductos,  libere,  in  fraudum  illicis  ? 
Sollicitando  et  pollicitando  eorum  animos  lactas  ? 

Ac  meretricios  amores  nuptiis  conglutinas  ? 

Ter.  And.  act  v.  sc.  4. 

Shall  you  escape  with  impunity ;  you  who  lay  snares  for 
young  men  of  a  liberal  education,  but  unacquainted  with 
the  world,  and  by  force  of  importunity  and  promises  draw 
them  in  to  marry  harlots  ? 

The  other  day  passed  by  me  in  her  chariot  a 
lady  with  that  pale  and  wan  complexion  which 
we  sometimes  see  in  young  people  who  are  fallen 
into  sorrow  and  private  anxiety  of  mind,  which 
antedate  age  and  sickness.  It  is  not  three  years 
ago  since  she  was  gay,  airy,  and  a  little  toward 
libertine  in  her  carriage;  but,  methought,  I  easily 
forgave  her  that  little  insolence,  which  she  so 
severely  pays  for  in  her  present  condition.  Fla- 
villa,  of  whom  I  am  speaking,  is  married  to  a 
sullen  fool  with  wealth.  Her  beauty  and  merit  are 
lost  upon  the  dolt,  who  is  insensible  of  perfection 
in  anything.  Their  hours  together  are  either 
painful  or  insipid.  The  minutes  she  has  to  her¬ 
self  in  his  absence  are  not  sufficient  to  give  vent 
at  her  eyes,  to  the  grief  and  torment  of  his  last 
conversation.  This  poor  creature  was  sacrificed 
with  a  temper,  which,  under  the  cultivation  of  a 
man  of  sense,  would  have  made  the  most  agreea¬ 
ble  companion,  into  the  arms  of  this  loathsome 
yokefellow,  by  Sempronia.  Sempronia  is  a  good 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


526 

lady,  who  supports  herself  in  an  affluent  condi¬ 
tion,  by  contracting  friendship  with  rich  young 
widows,  and  maids  of  plentiful  fortunes  at  their 
own  disposal,  and  bestowing  her  friends  upon 
worthless,  indigent  fellows;  on  the  other  side  she 
ensnares  inconsiderate  and  rash  youths  of  great 
estates  into  the  arms  of  vicious  women.  For  this 
purpose,  she  is  accomplished  in  all  the  arts  which 
can  make  her  acceptable  at  impertinent  visits;  she 
knows  all  that  passes  in  every  quarter,  and  is  well 
acquainted  with  all  the  favorite  servants,  busy- 
bodies,  dependents,  and  poor  relations,  of  all  per¬ 
sons  of  condition  in  the  whole  town.  At  the  price 
of  a  good  sum  of  money,  Sempronia,  by  the  in¬ 
stigation  of  Flavilla’s  mother,  brought  about  the 
match  for  the  daughter;  and  the  reputation  of  this, 
which  is  apparently,  in  point  of  fortune,  more 
than  Flavilla  could  expect,  has  gained  her  the 
visits  and  the  frequent  attendance  of  the  crowd 
of  mothers,  who  had  rather  see  their  children 
miserable  in  great  wealth,  than  the  happiest  of 
the  race  of  mankind  in  a  less  conspicuous  state  of 
life.  When  Sempronia  is  so  well  acquainted  with 
a  woman’s  temper  and  circumstances,  that  she  be¬ 
lieves  marriage  would  be  acceptable  to  her,  and 
advantageous  to  the  man  who  shall  get  her,  her 
next  step  is  to  look  out  for  some  one,  whose  con¬ 
dition  has  some  secret  wound  in  it,  and  wants  a 
sum  yet,  in  the  eye  of  the  world,  not  unsuitable  to 
her.  If  such  is  not  easily  had,  she  immediately 
adorns  a  worthless  fellow  with  what  estate  she 
thinks  convenient,  and  adds  as  great  a  share  of 
good  humor  and  sobriety  as  is  requisite.  After 
this  is  settled,  no  importunities,  arts,  and  devices, 
are  omitted,  to  hasten  the  lady  to  her  happiness. 
In  the  general,  indeed,  she  is  a  person  of  so  strict 
justice,  that  she  marries  a  poor  gallant  to  a  rich 
wench,  and  a  moneyless  girl  to  a  man  of  fortune. 
But  then  she  has  no  manner  of  conscience  in  the 
disparity,  when  she  has  a  mind  to  impose  a  poor 
rogue  for  one  of  an  estate:  she  has  no  remorse  in 
adding  to  it,  that  he  is  illiterate,  ignorant,  and  un¬ 
fashioned;  but  makes  those  imperfections  argu¬ 
ments  of  the  truth  of  his  wealth;  and  will,  on 
such  an  occasion,  with  a  very  grave  face,  charge 
the  people  of  condition  with  negligence  in  the 
education  of  their  children.  Exception  being  made, 
the  other  day,  against  an  ignorant  booby  of  her 
own  clothing,  whom  she  was  putting  off  for  a  rich 
heir  :  “  Madam,”  said  she,  “  you  know  there  is  no 
making  children,  who  know  they  have  estates, 
attend  their  books.” 

Sempronia,  by  these  arts,  is  loaded  with  pres¬ 
ents,  importuned  for  her  acquaintance,  and  admired 
by  those  who  do  not  know  the  first  taste  of  life,  as 
a  woman  of  exemplary  good-breeding.  But  sure 
to  murder  and  rob  are  less  iniquities,  than  to  raise 
rofit  by  abuses  as  irreparable  as  taking  away  life; 
ut  more  grievous,  as  making  it  lastingly  un¬ 
happy.  To  rob  a  lady  at  play  of  half  her  fortune, 
is  not  so  ill  as  giving  the  wrhole  and  herself  to  an 
unworthy  husband.  But  Sempronia  can  adminis¬ 
ter  consolation  to  an  unhappy  fair  at  home,  by 
leading  her  to  an  agreeable  gallant  elsewhere. 
She  can  then  preach  the  general  condition  of  all 
the  people  in  the  married  world,  and  tell  an  inex- 

{)erienced  young  woman,  the  methods  of  softening 
ler  affliction,  and  laugh  at  her  simplicity  and 
want  of  knowledge,  with  an  “  Oh  !  my  dear,  you 
will  know  better.” 

The  wickedness  of  Sempronia,  one  would  think, 
should  be  superlative;  but  I  cannot  but  esteem 
that  of  some  parents  equal  to  it :  I  mean  such  as 
sacrifice  the  greatest  endowments  and  qualifica¬ 
tions  to  base  bargains.  A  parent  who  forces  a 
child  of  a  liberal  and  ingenious*  spirit  into  the 


arms  of  a  clown  or  a  blockhead,  obliges  her  to  a 
crime  too  odious  for  a  name.  It  is  in  a  degree  the 
unnatural  conjunction  of  rational  and  brutal  be¬ 
ings.  Yet  what  is  there  so  common,  as  the  be¬ 
stowing  an  accomplished  woman  with  such  a 
disparity  ?  And  I  could  name  crowds  wrho  lead 
miserable  lives  for  want  of  knowledge  in  their 
parents  of  this  maxim,  that  good  sense  and  good 
nature  always  go  together.  That  which  is  attri¬ 
buted  to  fools,  and  called  good-nature,  is  only  an 
inability  of  observing  what  is  faulty,  which  turns, 
in  marriage,  into  a  suspicion  of  everything  as 
such,  from  a  consciousness  of  that  inability. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  entirely  of  your  opinion  with  relation  to 
the  equestrian  females,  who  affect  both  the  mascu¬ 
line  and  feminine  air  at  the  same  time;  and  cannot 
forbear  making  a  presentment  against  another  or¬ 
der  of  them,  who  grow  very  numerous  and  power¬ 
ful;  and  since  our  language  is  not  very  capable  of 
good  compound  words,  I  must  be  contented  to  call 
them  only  ‘  the  naked-shouldered.’  These  beauties 
are  not  contented  to  make  lovers  wherever  they 
appear,  but  they  must  make  rivals  at  the  same 
time.  Were  you  to  see  Gatty  walk  the  park  at 
high  mall,  you  would  expect  those  who  followed 
her  and  those  who  met  her  would  immediately 
draw  their  swords  for  her.  I  hope,  Sir,  you  will 
provide  for  the  future,  that  women  may  stick  to 
their  faces  for  doing  any  further  mischief,  and  not 
allow  any  but  direct  traders  in  beauty  to  expose 
more  than  the  fore-part  of  the  neck,  unless  you 
please  to  allow  this  after-game  to  those  who  are 
very  defective  in  the  charms  of  the  countenance. 
I  can  say,  to  my  sorrow,  the  present  practice  is 
very  unfair,  when  to  look  back  is  death;  and  it 
may  be  said  of  our  beauties,  as  a  great  poet  did 
of  bullets, 

They  kill  and  wound,  like  Parthians,  as  they  fly. 

“I  submit  this  to  your  animadversion;  and  am, 
for  the  little  while  I  have  left, 

“  Your  humble  Servant,  the  languishing, 

“  Philanthus. 

“P.  S.  Suppose  you  mended  my  letter,  and 
made  a  simile  about  the  ‘porcupine;’  but  I  submit 
that  also.” 

T.  - 

No.  438.]  WEDNESDAY,  JULY  23,  1712. 

- Animum  rege,  qui,  nisi  paret, 

Imperat - IIor.  1  Ep.  ii.  62. 

- Curb  thy  soul, 

And  check  thy  rage,  which  must  be  rul’d  or  rule. — Creech. 

It  is  a  very  common  expression  that  such  a  one 
is  very  good-natured  but  very  passionate.  The 
expression,  indeed,  is  very  good-natured,  to  allow 
passionate  people  so  much  quarter  :  but  I  think  a 
passionate  man  deserves  the  least  indulgence  ima¬ 
ginable.  It  is  said,  it  is  soon  over;  that  is,  all  the 
mischief  he  does  is  quickly  dispatched,  which,  I 
think,  is  no  great  recommendation  to  favor.  I 
have  known  one  of  these  good-natured  passionate 
men  say  in  a  mixed  company,  even  to  his  own  wife 
or  child,  such  things  as  the  most  inveterate  enemy 
of  his  family  would  not  have  spoken,  even  in  ima¬ 
gination.  It  is  certain  that  quick  sensibility  is 
inseparable  from  a  ready  understanding;  but  why 
should  not  that  good  understanding  call  to  itself 
all  its  force  on  such  occasions,  to  master  that  sud¬ 
den  inclination  to  anger  ?  One  of  the  greatest 
souls  now  in  the  world*  is  the  most  subject  by 
nature  to  anger,  and  yet  so  famous,  from  a  con¬ 
quest  of  himself  this  way  that  he  is  the  known 


*  Ingenuous. 


*  Lord  Somers. 


example  when  you  talk  of  temper  and  command 
of  a  man  s  self  1  o  contain  the  spirit  of  anger  is 
the  worthiest  discipline  we  can  put  ourselves  to 

a  nrai?  ha'S  made  anJ  progress  this  way,  a 
frivolous  fellow  in  a  passion  is  to  him  as  con¬ 
temptible  as  a  froward  child.  It  ought  to  be  the 
study  of  every  man  for  his  own  ouiet  and  peace! 
When  he  stands  combustible  and  ready  to  flame 
upon  everything  that  touches  him,  lif/is  as 

AA..QV  tn  himonlf  n  ri  ^  11  ,  .  '  .  3 


the  spectator. 


527 


*„  4.  \  -  J  mm,  me  is  as  un¬ 

easy  to  himself  as  it  is  to  all  about  him.  Syncro- 

fifeSh!a,dS’  °f  R  Hvin^  the  most  ridiculous 

! e.Ver  ° lending  and  begging  pardon.  Jf 

W— ‘aTi!n!em  r°T  without  what  he  was  sent 

I  ask  1  hat  blo5khea,d’  ’  beg. ns  he — “  Gentlemen, 
1  a.  k  your  pardon,  but  servants  now-a-days  ” _ 

P  atl8  are  laid- they  are  thrown  into 
tlie  middle  of  the  room;  his  wife  stands  by  in 
pain  for  him,  which  he  sees  in  her  face,  and  an- 
f.'wu  a?  lfuh?  fd  fleard  a11  she  was  thinking  :— 

t_  toZ  '  ^hat  -the  devd  \  Wh7  do,1’t  jou  take  care 
to  give  °rderS  in  these  things  ?„  Hjs  friendg  sit 

down  to  a  tasteless  plenty  of  everything,  every 

nasst,neXPf  °g  nT  insu*ts  from  hl8  ^pertinent 
passions.  In  a  word,  to  eat  with,  or  visit  Syncro- 

E  s  fam,r°  other.  tha»  gomgto  see  him  exercise 
„nL;  7,  exercise  their  patience,  and  his  own 

inwl!viraunStrOUSj  that  the  shame  and  confusion 
behold'  hr '^.good-natured  angry  man  must  needs 
behoid  his  friends,  while  he  thus  lays  about  him, 
does  not  give  him  so  much  reflection,  as  to  create 
an  amendment.  This  is  the  most  scandalous  dis- 
use  of  reason  imaginable  :  all  the  harmless  part 
ot  him  is  no  more  than  that  of  a  bulldog,  they 

One  nfT)  ?°  than,  theT  «e  not  offended. 

Une  of  these  good-natured  angry  men  shall  in  an 

instant,  assemble  together  so  many  allusions  to 
secret  circumstances,  as  are  enough  to  dissolve 
the  peace  of  all  the  families  and  friends  he  is  ac¬ 
quainted  with  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  yet  the 
next  moment  be  the  best- natu red  man  in  the  whole 

Wvi!d' .y°u  Would  see  passion  in  its  purity 
without  mixture  of  reason,  behold  it  represented 
in  a  mad  hero,  drawn  by  a  mad  poet.  Nat.  Lee 
makes  lus  Alexander  say  thus  : 

Away!  begOTic!  and  give  a  whirlwind  room, 

Ur  I  will  blow  you  up  iike  dust!  Avaunt! 

Madness  but  meanly  represents  my  toil 
internal  discord ! 

Fury!  revenge!  disdain  and  indignation! 

“7  s.wol11’n  breast,  make  way  for  fire  and  tempest! 

My  brain  is  burst,  debate  and  reason  quench’d  • 

1  lie  storm  is  up,  and  my  hot  bleeding  heart  ’ 
bplits  with  the  rack ;  while  passions,  like  the  wind, 

Kise  up  to  heav’n,  and  put  out  all  the  stars. 

Every  passionate  fellow  in  town  talks  half  the 
day  with  as  little  consistency,  and  threatens  things 
as  much  out  of  his  power. 

The  next  disagreeable  person  to  the  outrageous 
gentleman,  is  one  of  a  much  lower  order  of  ano-er 
and  he  is  what  we  commonly  call  a  peevish  fellow’ 

A  peevish  fellow  is  one  who  has  some  reason  in 
himself  for  being  out  of  humor,  or  has  a  natural 
incapacity  for  delight,  and  therefore  disturbs  all 
who  are  happier  than  himself  with  pishes  and 
Fb,hnaWH  0/.other,well;bred  interjections,  at  every- 
i  'll  i  1S,  said  or  done  in  bis  presence.  There 
shouid  be  physic  mixed  in  the  food  of  all  which 
these  fellows  eat  in  good  company.  This  deo-ree 
of  anger  passes,  forsooth,  for  a  delicacy  of  ju de¬ 
ment,  that  will  not  admit  of  being  easily  pleased- 
but  none  above  the  character  of  wearing  a  peevish 
man  s  livery  ought  to  bear  with  his  ill-manners 
All  things  among  men  of  sense  and  condition 
should  pass  the  censure,  and  have  the  protection 
of  the  eye  of  reason. 

No  man  ought  to  be  tolerated  in  an  habitual 
humor,  whim,  or  particularly  of  behavior,  by  any 


who  do  not  wait  upon  him  for  bread.  Next  to  the 
peevish  fellow  is  the  snarler.  This  gentleman 
deals  mightily  in  what  we  call  the  irony;  and  as 

t  ms!  b°J]  °f  ?f0ple  exert  theinselves  most  against 

hefr  talk  f  7°U  See  their  ha™r  best  in 

their  talk  to  their  servants.  “  That  is  so  like  vou- 

fbrr;  ^  art  the  r^est  hS- 

tPorin:  tVd  tke  llke-  °[ie  w«uld  tliink  the  hec¬ 
toring,  the  storming,  the  sullen,  and  all  the 

shmild  be  PeC1G!l a  i‘d  8.ubordinations  of  the  angry, 
should  be  cured,  by  knowing  they  live  only  ai 

pardoned  men;  and  how  pitiful  is  the  condition 

of  being  only  suffered  !  But  I  am  i irrupted  by 

Sent^fT °f  anger  and  the  disaPPoint7 

pened  Uil  'f  1  haVG  ev-er  known>  which  hap- 

as  l  saf  in  h  VVT  y6t  Wntm^  and  1  overheard 
s  i  sat  in  the  back-room  at  a  French  bookseller’s 

InZrtTl  mt0  ^  shoP  a  very  learned  man  with 
a'.GeGt,Solemn  a,U  though  a  person  of  great 
parts  otherwise,  slow  in  understanding  anythin^ 

the1^^  ^  agaiP,St  !dmself-  Tbe  composureof 
the  faulty  man,  and  the  whimsical  perplexity  of 

him  that  was  justly  angry,  is  perfectly  new.  After 

turn, ng  over  many  volumes,  said  the  seller  to  the 

buyer,  Sir,  you  know  I  have  long  asked  you  to 

mon,nTefbaCk  1th?  firSt  Volume  °f  the  Frencb  Ser¬ 
mons  I  formerly  lent  you.”— “  Sir,”  said  the  chap- 

-I  •  1  have  boobed  for  it,  but  cannot  find 
t ,  it.is  certainly  lost,  and  I  know  not  to  whom  I 
lent  it,  it  is  so  many  years  ago.” — “  Then  Sir 
here  is  the  other  volume;  I’ll  send  you  home’that,' 
and  please  to  pay  for  both.”— “  %  friend,”  re- 
p  ied^  lie,  “canst  thou  be  so  senseless  as  not  to 
know  that  one  volume  is  as  imperfect  in  my  library 

S  Opr^  YGS’  Sir’  but  ifc  is  /ou  have 

naid’?l«?  T,olume;  aadVt0  be  short,  1  will  be 
p  Hi.  Sn,  answered  the  chapman,  “you  are 

a  young  man  your  book  is  lost;  and  learn  by  this 
little  loss  to  bear  much  greater  adversities,  which 
you  must  expect  to  meet  with.”— “Yes,  Sir,  but 
1 11  bear  when  I  must,  but  I  have  not  lost  now,  for 

1  say  you  have  it,  and  shall  pay  me.” _ “  Friend 

you  grow  warm;  I  tell  you  the  book  is  lost;  and  J 
foresee,  in  the  course  even  of  a  prosperous  life, 
that  you  will  meet  afflictions  to  make  you  mad  if 
you  cannot  bear  this  trifle.”— “  Sir,  there  is’ in 
this  case^no  need  of  bearing,  for  you  have  the 
I  say.  Sir,  I  have  not  the  book;  but 
your  passion  will  not  let  you  hear  enough  to  be 
informed  that  I  have  it  not.  Learn  resignation  of 
yourself  to  the  distresses  of  this  life  :  nay,  do  not 
fret  and  fume;  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  you,  that  you 
aie  of  an  impatient  spirit,  and  an  impatient  spirit 
is  never  without  woe. ’’-“Was  ever  anything  like 
,tbls  l  ~  ^  es>  Sir,  there  have  been  many  things 
like  this :  the  loss  is  but  a  trifle;  but  your  temper 
is  wanton,  and  incapable  of  the  least  pain;  there- 
fore  Jet  me  advise  you,  be  patient;  the  book  is 
Y  *  <a°  n°^  7°U  ^or  tbat  reason  lose  yourself.” 


No.  439. J  THURSDAY,  JULY  24,  1712. 

Ili  narrata  ferunt  alio :  mensuraque  ficti 
Crescit;  et  auditis  aliquid  novus  adjicifc  auctor. 

Ovn>,  Metam.  xii.  57. 

Some  tell  what  they  have  heard,  or  tales  devise ; 

Each  fiction  still  improv’d  with  added  lies. 

Ovid  describes  the  palace  of  Fame  as  situated 
in  the  very  center  of  the  universe,  and  perforated 
with  so  many  windows  and  avenues  as  gave  her 


*  By  Steel.  See  No.  324,  adfinem. 

This  scene  passed  in  the  shop  of  Mr.  Vaillant,  afterward 
Messrs,  l’ayne  and  Mackinlay’s,  in  the  strand;  and  the  sul> 
ject  of  it  was  (for  it  is  still  in  remembrance)  a  volume  of 
Massillon’s  Sermons.  The  shop  is  now  one  of  tbe  last  to 
which  authors  wish  to  have  recourse,  a  trunkmaker’s  I 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


528 


the  sight  of  everything  that  was  done  in  the  j 
heavens,  in  the  earth,  and  in  the  sea.  The  struc¬ 
ture  of  it  was  contrived  in  so  admirable  a  manner, 
that  it  echoed  every  word  which  was  spoken  in 
the  whole  compass  of  nature;  so  that  the  palace, 
says  the  poet,  was  always  filled  with  a  confused 
hubbub  of  low,  dying  sounds,  the  voices  being 
almost  spent  and  worn  out  before  they  arrived  at 
this  general  rendezvous  of  speeches  and  whispers. 

I  consider  courts  with  the  same  regard  to  the 
governments  which  they  superintend,  as  Ovid’s 
palace  of  Fame  with  regard  to  the  universe.  The 
eyes  of  a  watchful  minister  run  through  the  whole 
people.  There  is  scarcely  a  murmur  of  complaint 
that  does  not  reach  his  ears.  They  have  news- 
gatherers  and  intelligencers,  distributed  into  their 
several  walks  and  quarters,  who  bring  in  their  re¬ 
spective  quotas,  and  make  them  acquainted  with 
the  discourse  and  conversation  of  the  whole  king¬ 
dom  or  commonwealth  where  they  are  employed. 
The  wisest  of  kings,  alluding  to  these  invisible 
and  unsuspected  spies,  who  are  planted  by  kings 
and  rulers  over  their  fello'w-citizens,  as  well  as  to 
those  voluntary  informers  that  are  buzzing  about 
the  ears  of  a  great  man,  and  making  their  court  by 
such  secret  methods  of  intelligence,  has  given  us 
a  very  prudent  caution;*  “  Curse  not  the  king,  no 
not  in  thy  thought,  and  curse  not  the  rich  in  thy 
bedchamber;  for  a  bird  of  the  air  shall  carry  thy 
voice,  and  that  which  hath  wings  shall  tell  the 
matter.” 

As  it  is  absolutely  necessary  for  rulers  to  make 
use  of  other  people’s  eyes  and  ears,  they  should 
take  particular  care  to  do  it  in  such  a  manner,  that 
it  may  not  bear  too  hard  on  the  person  whose  life 
and  conversation  are  inquired  into.  A  man  who 
is  capable  of  so  infamous  a  calling  as  that  of  a 
spy,  is  not  very  much  to  be  relied  upon.  He  can 
have  no  great  ties  of  honor,  or  checks  of  conscience, 
to  restrain  him  in  those  covert  evidences,  where 
the  person  accused  has  no  opportunity  of  vindica¬ 
ting  himself.  He  will  be  more  industrious  to  carry, 
that  which  is  grateful  than  that  which  is  true. 
There  will  be  no  occasion  for  him  if  he  does  not 
hear  and  see  things  worth  discovery;  so  that  he 
naturally  inflames  every  word  and  circumstance, 
aggravates  what  is  faulty,  perverts  what  is  good, 
and  misrepresents  what  is  indifferent.  Nor  is  it 
to  be  doubted  but  that  such  ignominious  wretches 
let  their  private  passions  into  these  their  clandes¬ 
tine  informations,  and  often  wreak  their  particular 
spite  or  malice  against  the  person  whom  they  are 
set  to  watch.  It  is  a  pleasant  scene  enough, 
which  an  Italian  author  describes  between  a  spy 
and  a  cardinal  who  employed  him.  The  cardinal 
is  represented  as  minuting  down  everything  that 
is  told  him.  The  spy  begins  with  a  low  voice, 
“  Such  a  one,  the  advocate,  whispered  to  one  of 
his  friends,  within  my  hearing,  that  your  emi¬ 
nence  was  a  very  great  poltroon;  ”  and,  after  hav¬ 
ing  given  his  patron  time  to  take  it  down,  adds, 
that  another  called  him  a  mercenary  rascal  in  a 
public  conversation.  The  cardinal  replies,  “Very 
well,”  and  bids  him  go  on.  The  spy  proceeds, 
and  loads  him  with  reports  of  the  same  nature, 
till  the  cardinal  rises  in  great  wrath,  calls  him  an 
impudent  scoundrel,  and  kicks  him  out  of  the 
room.  .  ' 

It  is  observed  of  great  and  heroic  minds,  that 
they  have  not  only  shown  a  particular  disregard 
to  those  unmerited  reproaches  which  have  been 
cast  upon  them,  but  have  been  altogether  free 
from  that  impertinent  curiosity  of  inquiring  after 
them,  or  the  poor  revenge  of  resenting  them.  The 
histories  of  Alexander  and  Caesar  are  full  of  this 


kind  of  instances.  Vulgar  souls  are  of  a  quite 
contrary  character.  Dionysius,  the  tyrant  of  Si¬ 
cily,  had  a  dungeon  which  was  a  very  curious 
piece  of  architecture;  and  of  which,  as  I  am  in¬ 
formed,  there  are  still  to  be  seen  some  remains  in 
that  island.  It  was  called  Dionysius’s  Ear,  and 
built  with  several  little  windings  and  labyrinths, 
in  the  form  of  a  real  ear.  The  structure  of  it 
made  it  a  kind  of  whispering  place,  but  such  a 
one  as  gathered  the  voice  of  him  who  spoke  into  a 
funnel  which  was  placed  at  the  very  top  of  it. 
The  tyrant  used  to  lodge  all  his  state  criminals, 
or  those  whom  he  supposed  to  be  engaged  together 
in  any  evil  designs  upon  him,  in  this  dungeon. 
He  had  at  the  same  time  an  apartment  over  it, 
where  he  used  to  apply  himself  to  the  funnel, 
and  by  that  means  overheard  everything  that  was 
whispered  in  the  dungeon.  I  believe  one  may 
venture  to  affirm,  that  a  Caesar  or  an  Alexander 
would  rather  have  died  by  the  treason,  than  have 
used  such  disingenuous  means  for  the  detecting 
of  it. 

A  man  who  in  ordinary  life  is  very  inquisitive 
after  everything  which  is  spoken  ill  of  him,  passes 
his  time  but  very  indifferently.  He  is  wounded 
by  every  arrow  that  is  shot  at  him,  and  puts  it  in 
the  power  of  every  insignificant  enemy  to  disquiet 
him.  Nay,  he  will  suffer  from  what  has  been  said 
of  him,  when  it  is  forgotten  by  those  who  said  or 
heard  it.  For  this  reason  I  could  never  bear  one 
of  those  officious  friends,  that  would  be  telling 
every  malicious  report,  every  idle  censure,  that 
passed  upon  me.  The  tongue  of  man  is  so  petu¬ 
lant,  and  his  thoughts  so  variable,  that  one  should 
not  lay  too  great  a  stress  upon  any  present 
speeches  and  opinions.  Praise  and  obloquy  pro¬ 
ceed  very  frequently  out  of  the  same  mouth  upon 
the  same  person  and  upon  the  same  occasion.  A 
generous  enemy  will  sometimes  bestow  commen¬ 
dations,  as  the  dearest  friend  cannot  sometimes 
refrain  from  speaking  ill.  The  man  who  is  indif¬ 
ferent  in  either  of  these  respects  gives  his  opinion 
at  random,  and  praises  and  disapproves  as  he 
finds  himself  in  humor. 

I  shall  conclude  this  essay  with  part  of  a  char¬ 
acter,  which  is  finely  drawn  by  the  Earl  of  Claren¬ 
don,  in  the  first  book  of  his  History,  and  which 
gives  us  the  lively  picture  of  a  great  man  teasing 
himself  with  an  absurd  curiosity. 

“  He  had  not  that  application  and  submission, 
and  reverence  for  the  queen,  as  might  have  been 
expected  from  his  wisdom  and  breeding ;  and 
often  crossed  her  pretenses  and  desires  with  more 
rudeness  than  was  natural  to  him.  Yet  he  was 
impertinently  solicitous  to  know  what  her  majesty 
said  of  him  in  private,  and  what  resentments  she 
had  toward  him.  And  when  by  some  confidants, 
who  had  their  ends  upon  him  from  those  offices, 
he  was  informed  of  some  bitter  expressions  falling 
from  her  majesty,  he  was  so  exceedingly  afflicted 
and  tormented  with  the  sense  of  it,  that  sometimes 
by  passionate  complaints  and  representations  to 
the  king,  sometimes  by  more  dutiful  addresses  and 
expostulations  with  the  queen  in  bewailing  his 
misfortune,  he  frequently  exposed  himself,  and 
left  his  condition  worse  than  it  was  before,  and 
the  eclaircissement  commonly  ended  in  the  dis¬ 
covery  of  the  persons  from  whom  he  had  received 
his  most  secret  intelligence.” — C. 


*  Eccl.  x.  20. 


/ 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


No.  440.]  FRIDAY,  JULY  25,  1712. 

Yivere  si  rcctc  nescis,  decode  peritis.— IIor.  2.  Ep.  ii.  213. 

Learn  to  live  well,  or  fairly  make  your  will. — Pope. 

I  have  already  given  my  reader  an  account  of  a 
Bet  of  merry  fellows  who  are  passing  their  summer 
together  in  the  country,  being  provided  of  a  great 
house,  wheie  there  is  not  only  a  convenient  apart¬ 
ment  foi  every  particular  person,  but  a  larce  tnfir- 
m ary  for  the  reception  of  such  of  them  as  are  any 
way  indisposed  or  out  of  humor.  Having  lately 
received  a  letter  from  the  secretary  of  this  society. 
ly  order  of  the  whole  fraternity,  which  acquaints 
me  with  their  behavior  during  the  last  week,  I 
'hall  here  make  a  present  of  it  to  the  public. 

"Mr.  Spectator, 

are  t°  find  that  you  approve  the  esta¬ 
blishment  which  we  have  here  made  for  the  retriev- 


mg  of  good  manners  and  agreeable  conversation, 
and  shall  use  our  best  endeavors  so  to  improve 
ourselves  in  this  our  summer  retirement,  that  we 
may  next  winter  serve  as  patterns  to  the  town. 
But  to  the  end  that  this  our  institution  may  be  no 
less  advantageous  to  the  public  than  to  ourselves, 
we  shall  communicate  to  you  one  week  of  our  pro¬ 
ceedings,  desiring  you  at  the  same  time,  if  you  see 
anything  faulty  in  them,  to  favor  us  with  your 
admonitions  ;  for  you  must  know.  Sir,  that  it  has 
b;;en  proposed  among  us  to  choose  you  for  our 
risitor  ;  to  which  I  must  further  add,  that  one  of 
the  college  having  declared  last  week  he  did  not 
like  the  Spectator  of  the  day,  and  not  being  able 
to  assign  any  just  reasons  for  such  his  dislike,  he 
was  sent  to  the  infirmary  nemine  contradicente. 

“  On  Monday  the  assembly  was  in  a  very  o-0od 
humor,  having  received  some  recruits  of  French 
claret  that  morning  ;  when,  unluckily,  toward 
the  middle  of  the  dinner,  one  of  the  company 
swore  at  his  servant  in  a  very  rough  manner  for 
having  put  too  much  water  in  his  wine.  Upon 
which  the  president  of  the  day,  who  is  always  the 
mouth  of  the  company,  after  having  convinced  him 
of  the  impertinence  of  his  passion,  and  the  insult 
it  had  made  upon  the  company,  ordered  his  man 
to  take  him  from  the  table,  and  convey  him  to  the 
infirmary.  There  was  but  one  more  sent  away 
that  day  ;  this  was  a  gentleman,  who  is  reckoned 
by  some  persons  one  of  the  greatest  wits,  and 
by  others  one  of  the  greatest  boobies  about 
town  This  you  will  say  is  a  strange  character: 
but  what  makes  it  stranger  yei,  it  is  a  very  true 
one,  for  he  is  perpetually  the  reverse  of  him=elf 
being  always  merry  or  dull  to  excess.  We  bought 
him  hither  to  divert  us,  which  he  did  veiy  well 
upon  the  road,  having  lavished  away  as  much  wit 
and  laughter  upon  the  hackney-coach mai,  as  might 
have  served  him  during  his  whole  stay  here,  had 
it  been  duly  managed.  He  had  been  lumpish  for 
two  or  three  days,  but  was  so  far  connived  at,  in 
hopes  of  recovery,  that  we  dispatched  one  of  the 
briskest  fellows  among  the  brotherhood  into  the 
infirmary  for  having  told  him  at  table  he  was  not 
merry  But  our  president  observing  that  he  in¬ 
dulged  himself  in  this  long  fit  of  stupidity,  and 
construing  it  as  a  contempt  of  the  college,  ordered 
him  to  retire  into  the  place  prepared  for  such  com¬ 
panions.  He  was  no  sooner  got  into  it,  but  his 
wit  and  mirth  returned  upon  him  in  so  violent  a 
manuei ,  that  he  shook  the  whole  infirmary  with 
the  noise  of  it,  and  had  so  good  an  effect  upon  the 
rest  of  the  patients,  that  he  brought  them  all  out 
to  dinner  with  him  the  next  day. 

"  On  Tuesday  we  were  no  sooner  sat  down,  but 
one  of  the  company  complained  that  his  head 
iched  ;  upon  which  another  asked  him,  in  an  in- 
34 


solent  manner,  what  he  did  there  then  ?  This  in 
sensibly  grew  into  some  warm  words  ;  so  that  the 
piesident,  in  order  to  keep  the  peace,  gave  direc¬ 
tions  to  take  them  both  from  the  table,  and  lodge 
them  in  the  infirmary.  Not  long  after,  another  of 
the  company  telling  us  he  knew,  by  a  pain  in  his 
shoulder,  that  we  should  have  some  rain,  the  pre¬ 
sident  ordered  him  to  be  removed,  and  placed  as  a 
weather-gkss  in  the  apartment  above-mentioned. 

Un  Wednesday,  a  gentleman,  having  received 
a  letter  written  in  a  woman’s  hand,  and  changing 
color  twice  or  thrice  as  he  read  it,  desired  leave  to 
etire  into  the  infirmary.  The  president  consented, 

irn  dew^  him  ithe,  use  of  Pen>  ink>  and  paper, 
till  such  time,  as  he  had  slept  upon  it.  One  of  the 

company  being  seated  at  the  lower  end  of  the  ta¬ 
ble,  and  discovering  his  secret  discontent,  by  find¬ 
ing  fault  with  every  dish  that  was  served  up,  and 
refusing  to  laugh  at  anything  that  was  said,  the 
piesident  told  him,  that  he  found  he  was  in  an 
uneasy  seat,  and  desired  him  to  accommodate  him¬ 
self  better  in  the  infirmary.  After  dinner,  a  very 
honest  fellow  chancing  to  let  a  pun  fall  from  him  • 
his  neighbor  cried  out,  ‘  To  the  infirmary  at  the 
same  time  pretending  to  be  sick  at  it,  as  having 
the  same  natural  antipathy  to  a  pun  which  some 
have  to  a  cat.  This  produced  a  long  debate.  Upon 
the  whole,  the  punster  was  acquitted,  and  his 
neighbor  sent  off. 

On  Thursday,  there  was  but  one  delinquent. 

1  his  was  a  gentleman  of  strong  voice,  but  weak 
understanding.  He  had  unluckily  engaged  him¬ 
self  in  dispute  with  a  man  of  excellent  sense,  but 
of  a  modest  elocution.  The  man  of  heat  replied 
to  every  answer  of  his  antagonist  with  a  louder 
note  than  ordinary,  and  only  raised  his  voice  when 
he  should  have  enforced  his  argument.  Finding 
himself  at  length  driven  to  an  absurdity,  he  still 
reasoned  in  a  more  clamorous  and  confused  man¬ 
ner  ;  and,  to  make  the  greater  impression  upon 
his  hearers,  concluded  with  a  loud  thump  upon 
the  table.  The  president  immediately  ordered 
him  to  be  carried  off,  and  dieted  with  water-gruel 
till  such  time  as  he  should  be  sufficiently  weak¬ 
ened  for  conversation. 

"  On  Friday  there  passed  very  little  remarkable, 
saving  only,  that  several  petitions  were  read  of 
the  persons  in  custody,  desiring  to  be  released 
from  their  confinement,  and  vouching  for  one 
another’s  good  behavior  for  the  future. 

On  Saturday  we  received  many  excuses  from 
persons  who  had  found  themselves  in  an  unso¬ 
ciable  temper,  and  had  voluntarily  shut  them¬ 
selves  up.  The  infirmary  was,  indeed,  never  so 
lull  as  on  this  day,  which  I  was  at  some  loss  to 
account  for,  till,  upon  my  going  abroad,  I  observed 
that  it  was  an  easterly  wind.  The  retirement  of 
most  of  my  friends  has  given  me  opportunity  and 
leisure  of  writing  you  this  letter,  which  I  must 
not  conclude  without  assuring  you,  that  all  the 
members  of  our  college,  as  well  those  who.  are 
under  confinement  as  those  who  are  at  liberty  are 
your  very  humble  servants,  though  none  more 
than,  etc. — C. 


[No.  441.  SATURDAY,  JULY  26,  1712. 

Si  fractus  illabatur  or  bis, 

Impavidum  ferient  ruinae. — IIor.  3  Od.  iii.  7. 

Should  the  whole  frame  of  nature  round  him  break. 

In  ruin  and  confusion  hurl’d, 
lie,  unconcern’d,  would  hear  the  mighty  crack, 

And  stand  secure  amidst  a  falling  world. — Anon. 

Man,  considered  in  himself,  is  a  very  helpless 
and  a  very  wretched  being.  He  is  subject  every 
moment  to  the  greatest  calamities  and  misfortunes. 
He  is  beset  with  dangers  on  ail  sides  ;  and  may 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


o30 

become  unhappy  by  numberless  casualties,  which 
he  could  not  foresee,  nor  have  prevented  had  he 
foreseen  them. 

It  is  our  comfort,  while  we  are  obnoxious  to  so 
many  accidents,  that  we  are  under  the  care  of  One 
who  directs  contingencies,  and  has  in  his  hands 
the  management  of  everything  that  is  capable  of 
annoying  or  offending  us  ;  who  knows  the  assist¬ 
ance  we  stand  in  need  of,  and  is  always  ready  to 
bestow  it  on  those  who  ask  it  of  him. 

The  natural  homage  which  such  a  creature  bears 
to  so  infinitely  wise  and  good  a  Being,  is  a  firm 
reliance  on  him  for  the  blessings  and  conveni¬ 
ences  of  life,  and  a  habitual  trust  in  him  for 
deliverance  out  of  all  such  dangers  and  difficul¬ 
ties  as  may  befall  us. 

The  man  who  always  lives  in  this  disposition 
of  mind,  has  not  the  same  dark  and  melancholy 
views  of  human  nature^as  he  who  considers  him¬ 
self  abstractedly  from  this  relation  to  the  Supreme 
Being.  At  the  same  time  that  he  reflects  upon 
his  own  weakness  and  imperfection,  he  comforts 
himself  with  the  contemplation  of  those  divine 
attributes  which  are  employed  for  his  safety  and 
his  welfare.  He  finds  his  want  of  foresight  made 
up  by  the  Omniscience  of  him  who  is  his  support. 
Heisnotsensible  of  hisownwantof  strength;  when 
he  knows  that  his  helper  is  almighty.  In  short, 
the  person  who  has  a  firm  trust  on  the  Supreme 
Being,  is  powerful  in  his  power,  wise  by  his  wis¬ 
dom,  happy  by  his  happiness.  He  reaps  the  ben¬ 
efit  of  every  divine  attribute,  and  loses  his  own 
insufficiency  in  the  fullness  of  infinite  perfection. 

To  make  our  lives  more  easy  to  us,  we  are  com¬ 
manded  to  put  our  trust  in  him,  who  is  thus  able 
to  relieve  and  succor  us:  the  divine  goodness 
having  made  such  a  reliance  a  duty,  notwithstand¬ 
ing  we  should  have  been  miserable  had  it  been 
forbidden  us. 

Among  several  motives  which  might  be  made 
use  of  to  recommend  this  duty  to  us,  I  shall  only 
take  notice  of  these  that  follow: — 

The  first  and  strongest  is,  that  we  are  promised 
he  will  not  fail  those  who  put  their  trust  in  him. 

But,  without  considering  the  supernatural  bless¬ 
ing  which  accompanies  this  duty,  we  may  observe 
that  it  has  a  natural  tendency  to  its  own  reward, 
or,  in  other  words,  that  this  firm  trust  and  confi¬ 
dence  in  the  great  Disposer  of  all  things,  con¬ 
tributes  very  much  to  the  getting  clear  of  any 
affliction,  or  to  the  bearing  it  manfully.  A  person 
who  believes  he  has  his  succor  at  hand,  and  that 
he  acts  in  the  sight  of  his  friend,  often  exerts 
himself  beyond  his  abilities,  and  does  wonders 
that  are  not  to  be  matched  by  one  who  is  not  ani¬ 
mated  with  such  a  confidence  of  success.  I  could 
produce  instances  from  history,  of  generals,  who, 
out  of  a  belief  that  they  were  under  the  protection 
of  some  invisible  assistant,  did  not  only  encourage 
their  soldiers  to  do  their  utmost,  but  have  acted 
themselves  beyond  what  they  would  have  done 
had  they  not  been  inspired  by  such  a  belief.  I 
might  in  the  same  manner  show  how  such  a  trust 
in  the  assistance  of  an  Almighty  Being  naturally 
produces  patience,  hope,  cheerfulness,  and  all 
other  dispositions  of  the  mind  that  alleviate  those 
calamities  which  we  are  not  able  to  remove. 

The  practice  of  this  virtue  administers  great 
comfort  to  the  mind  of  man  in  times  of  poverty 
and  affliction,  but  most  of  all  in  the  hour  of  death. 
When  the  soul  is  hovering  in  the  last  moments  of 
its  separation,  when  it  is  just  entering  on  another 
state  of  existence,  to  converse  with  scenes,  and 
objects,  and  companions,  that  are  altogether  new, 
— what  can  support  her  under  such  tremblings  of 
thought,  such  fears,  such  anxiety,  such  apprehen¬ 
sions,  but  the  casting  of  all  her  cares  upon  him 


who  first  gave  her  being,  who  has  conducted  ho/ 
through  one  stage  of  it,  and  will  be  always  with 
her,  to  guide  and  comfort  her  in  her  progress 
through  eternity  ? 

David  has  very  beautifully  represented  this 
steady  reliance  on  God  Almighty  in  his  twenty- 
third  psalm,  which  is  a  kind  of  pastoral  hymn, 
and  filled  with  those  allusions  which  are  usual  in 
that  kind  of  writing.  As  the  poetry  is  very  ex¬ 
quisite,  I  shall  present  my  reader  with  the  follow¬ 
ing  translation  of  it: — 

I. 

The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare, 

And  feed  me  with  a  shepherd’s  care; 

His  presence  shall  my  wants  supply, 

And  guard  me  with  a  watchful  eye  : 

My  noon-day  walks  he  shall  attend, 

And  all  my  midnight  hours  defend. 

II. 

When  in  the  sultry  glebe  I  faint, 

Or  on  the  thirsty  mountain  pant; 

To  fertile  vales  and  dewy  meads 
My  weary,  wand’ring  steps  he  leads  , 

Where  peaceful  rivers,  soft  and  slow, 

Amid  the  verdant  landscape  flow. 

III. 

Though  in  the  paths  of  death  I  tread, 

With  gloomy  horrors  overspread, 

My  steadfast  heart  shall  know  no  ill, 

For  thou,  0  Lord,  art  with  me  still; 

Thy  friendly  crook  shall  give  me  aid, 

And  guide  me  through  the  dreadful  shade. 

IV. 

Though  in  a  hare  and  rugged  way, 

Through  devious,  lonely  wilds  I  stray, 

Thy  bounty  shall  my  pains  beguile ; 

The  barren  wilderness  shall  smile 

WTith  sudden  greens  and  herbage  crown’d, 

And  streams  shall  murmur  all  around. 


No.  442.]  MONDAY,  JULY  28, 1712. 

Scribimus  indocti  doctique -  Hor.  2  Ep.  i.  117. 

- Those  who  cannot  write,  and  those  who  can, 

All  rhyme,  and  scrawl,  and  scribble,  to  a  man. — Pope. 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  enough  explained  my¬ 
self  to  the  world,  when  I  invited  all  men  to  be 
assistant  to  me  in  this  my  work  of  speculation  ; 
for  I  have  not  yet  acquainted  my  readers,  that  be¬ 
side  the  letters  and  valuable  hints  I  have  from 
time  to  time  received  from  my  correspondents,  I 
have  by  me  several  curious  and  extraordinary 
papers  sent  with  a  design  (as  no  one  will  doubt 
when  they  are  published)  that  they  might  be 
printed  entire,  and  without  any  alteration,  byway 
of  Spectator.  I  must  acknowledge  also,  that  I 
myself,  being  the  first  projector  of  the  paper, 
thought  I  had  a  right  to  make  them  my  own,  by 
dressing  them  in  my  own  style,  by  leaving  out 
what  would  not  appear  like  mine,  and  by  adding 
whatever  might  be  proper  to  adapt  them  to  the 
character  and  genius  of  my  paper,  with  which  it 
was  almost  impossible  these  could  exactly  corre¬ 
spond,  it  being  certain  that  hardly  two  men  think 
alike  ;  and,  therefore,  so  many  men  so  many  Spec¬ 
tators.  Beside,  I  must  own  my  weakness  for 
glory  is  such,  that,  if  I  consulted  that  only,  I 
might  be  so  far  swayed  by  it,  as  almost  to  wish 
that  no  one  could  write  a  Spectator  beside  my¬ 
self  ;  nor  can  I  deny,  but  upon  the  first  perusal  of 
those  papers,  I  felt  some  secret  inclinations  of  ill- 
will  toward  the  persons  who  wrote  them.  This 
was  the  impression  I  had  upon  the  first  reading 
them  ;  but  upon  a  late  review  (more  for  the  sake 
of  entertainment  than  use),  regarding  them  with 
another  eye  than  I  had  done  at  first  (for  by  con¬ 
verting  them  as  well  as  I  could  to  my  own  use,  I 
thought  I  had  utterly  disabled  them  from  ever 
offending  me  again  as  Spectators),  I  found  myself 


moved  by  a  passion  very  different,  from  that  of 
envy  ;  sensibly  touched  with  pity,  the  softest  and 
most  generous  of  all  passions,  when  I  reflected 
what  a  cruel  disappointment  the  neglect  of  those 
papers  must  needs  have  been  to  the  writers  who 
impatiently  longed  to  see  them  appear  in  print 
ami  who  no  doubt,  triumphed  to  themselves  F„  the 
hopes  of  having  a  share  with  me  in  the  applause 

those  JhUbkC;  “  P  ea?ure  so  Sreat>  tha‘  none  but 
those  who  have  experienced  it  can  have  a  sense  of 

ipnllIrif  U!i  I?ainnjr  of  viewing  those  papers,  l 
really  found  I  had  not  done  them  justice,  there 

being  something  so  extremely  natural  and  pecu- 

gMd  ?  l°me.  of  them>  that  I  will  appeal  to 
the  wodd  whether  it  was  possible  to  alter  a  word 
in  them  without  doing  them  a  manifest  hurt  and 
violence ;  and  whether  they  can  ever  appear  rightly 
and  as  they  ought,  but  in  their  own  native  dress  and 
colors  And  therefore  I  think  I  should  not  only 
wrong  them,  but  deprive  the  world  of  a  consider¬ 
able  satisfaction,  should  I  any  longer  delay  the 
making  them  public.  y 

.  tftTet, 1  bave  Published  a  few  of  these  Specta- 
s,  I  doubt  not  but  I  shall  And  the  success  of 
them  to  equal,  if  not  surpass,  that  of  the  best  of 
my  own  An  author  should  take  all  methods  to 
humble  himself  in  the  opinion  he  has  of  his  own 

woHd  mTa,rlCe?K f  W!T  tho,Se  PaPers  appear  to  the 
world,  I  doubt  not  but  they  will  be  followed  bv 

vfn  ’i  andi  l  Sha11  not  rePine>  though  I 
myself  shall  have  left  me  but  a  very  few  days  to 

appear  in  public  ;  but,  preferring  the  generafweal 
and  advantage  to  any  considerations  of  myself  T 
am  resoived  for  the  future  to  publish  any  Specta¬ 
tor  that  deserves  it  entire,  and  without  any  aitera- 
tion  ;  assuring  the  world  (if  there  can  be  need 
tbat\lt  1S  none  of  mine  ;  and  if  the  authors 
them  t0  subscnbe  tbeir  names,  I  will  add 

*  tbi5k  tbe  best  way  of  promoting  this  gene¬ 
rous  and  useful  design  will  be  by  giving  out  sub¬ 
jects  or  themes  of  all  kinds  whatsoever/  on  which 
(with  a  preamble  of  the  extraordinary  benefit  and 
advantage  that  may  accrue  thereby  to  the  public) 

I  will  invite  all  manner  of  persons,  whether 
scholars,  citizens,  courtiers,  gentlemen  of  the 
town  or  country,  and  all  beaus,  rakes,  smarts, 
prudes  coquettes,  housewives,  and  all  sorts  of 
wits,  whether  male  or  female,  and  however  dis¬ 
tinguished,  whether  they  be  true  wits,  whole  or 
half  wits,  or  whether  arch,  dry,  natural,  acquired 
genuine,  or  depraved  wits;  and  persons  of  all 
sorts  ot  tempers  and  complexions,  whether  the 
severe,  the  delightful,  the  impertinent,  the  agree¬ 
able,  the  thoughtful,  busy  or  careless,  the  serene 
or  cloudy,  jovial  or  melancholy,  untowardly  or 
easy  the  cold,  temperate,  or  sanguine;  and  of 
hat  manners  or  dispositions  soever,  whether  the 
ambitious  or  humble-minded,  the  proud  or  pitiful 
ingenuous  or  base-minded,  good  or  ill-natured’ 
public-spirited  or  selfish  ;  and  under  what  fortune 
or  circumstance  soever,  whether  the  contented  or 
miserable,  happy  or  unfortunate,  high  or  low 
rich  or  poor  (whether  so  through  want  of  money' 
or  desire  of  more),  healthy  or  sickly,  married  or 
single  ;  nay,  whether  tall  or  short,  fat  or  lean  • 
and  of  what  trade,  occupation,  profession,  station’ 
country,  faction,  party,  persuasion,  quality,  age 
or  condition  soever  :  who  have  ever  made  think¬ 
ing  a  part  of  their  business  or  diversion,  and  have 
anything  worthy  to  impart  on  these  subjects  to  the 
world  according  to  their  several  and  respective 
talents  or  geniuses  ;  and,  as  the  subjects  given 
out  hit  their  tempers,  humors,  or  circumstances  or 
may  be  made  profitable  to  the  public  by  their  p’ar- 
ticular  knowledge  or  experience  in  the  matter  pro¬ 
posed,  to  do  their  utmost  on  them  by  such  a  tune. 


I  HE  SPECTATOR. 


531 


to  the  end  they  may  receive  the  inexpressible  and 
irresistible  pleasure  of  seeing  their  essays  allowed 
of  and  rehshed  by  the  rest  of  mankind; 

1  W'Ui.not  ^possess  the  reader  with  too  ^reat 
expectation  of  the  extraordinary  advantages  which 

theSdiffd°l,?fito  t}lG  publ'C  hy  these  essavs,  when 
different  thoughts  and  observations  of  all  sorts 

of  persons,  according  to  their  quality,  age  sex 

dido  ns  °p/  pr(fnlriS’  humors’  manners,  and  con* 
Hparpot  C‘,S  ia  be  set  out  by  themselves  in  the 
clearest  and  most  genuine  light,  and  as  they 

ttTotd.8  W0U‘d  Wish  t0  ^ 

th  JIhJ ?6fSiS  ProPosed  for  the  present  exercise  of 
the  adventurers  to  write  Spectators  is  Money  •  on 

theirhthmbjeu  all.Pe.rsons  are  desired  to  send  in 

hereof.— rf  8  Wlthm  tGn  da^S  after  tbe  date 


Ho.  443.]  TUESDAY,  JULY  29,  1712. 

Sublatum  ex  oculis  quarimus  invidi.— Hor.  3  Od.  xxiv.  32. 
Snatch’d  from  our  sight,  we  eagerly  pursue, 

And  fondly  would  recall  her  to  our  view. 

CAMILLA*  TO  THE  SPECTATOR. 

“  Mr.  Spectaor,  Venice,  July  10,  N.  S. 

“  1  TAKE  [t  extremely  ill,  that  you  do  not  reckon 
conspicuous  persons  of  your  nation  are  within 
your  cognizance,  though  out  of  the  dominions  of 
Grent  Britain.  I  little  thought,  in  the  green  years 
of  my  life,  that  I  should  ever  call  it  a  happiness 
to  be  out  of  dear  England  ;  but  as  I  grew  to  wo¬ 
man,  I  found  myself  less  acceptable  in  proportion 
to  the  increase  of  my  merit.  Their  ears  in  Italy 
are  so  differently  formed  from  the  make  of  yours 
in  England,  that  1  never  come  upon  the  stage,  but 
a  general  satisfaction  appears  in  every  counte¬ 
nance  of  the  whole  people.  When  I  dwell  upon 
a  note,  I  behold  all  the  men  accompanying  me 
with  heads  inclining,  and  falling  of  their  persons 
on  one  side,  as  dying  away  with  me.  The  wo¬ 
men  too  do  justice  to  my  merit,  and  no  ill-na¬ 
tured  worthless  creature  cries,  ‘The  vain  thing  ' 
when  I  am  wrapt  up  in  the  performance  of  mv 
part,  and  sensibly  touched  with  the  effect  my 
voice  has  upon  all  who  hear  me.  I  live  here  dis¬ 
tinguished  as  one  whom  nature  has  been  liberal  to. 
in  a  graceful  person,  and  exalted  mien,  and  heaven¬ 
ly  voice.  These  particularities,  in  this  strange 
country  are  arguments  for  respect  and  generosity 
to  her  who  is  possessed  of  them.  The  Italians 
see  a  thousand  beauties  I  am  sensible  I  have  no 
pretense  to,  and  abundantly  make  up  to  me  the 
inju&tice  I  received  in  my  own  country,  of  disal¬ 
lowing  me  what  I  really  had.  The  humor  of  his¬ 
sing  which  you  have  among  you,  I  do  not  know 
anything  of ;  and  their  applauses  are  uttered  in 
sighs  and  bearing  a  part  at  the  cadences  of  voice 
with  the  persons  who  are  performing.  I  am  often 
put  in  mind  of  those  complaisant  lines  of  ray  own 
countryman  f  when  he  is  calling  all  his  faculties 
together  to  hear  Arabella. 

Let  all  be  hush’d,  each  softest  motion  cease. 

Be  ev  ry  loud  tumultuous  thought  at  peace* 

And  ev’ry  ruder  gasp  of  breath, 

Be  calm  as  in  the  arms  of  death  : 

And  thou,  most  fickle,  most  uneasy  part. 

Thou  restless  wanderer,  my  heart, 

Be  still;  gently,  ah!  gently  leave 
Thou  busy,  idle  thing,  to  heave : 

Stir  not  a  pulse ;  and  let  my  blood, 

That  turbulent,  unruly  flood, 

Be  softly  staid ; 

Let  me  be  all,  but  my  attention,  dead. 


*  Mrs.  1  ofts,  who  played  the  part  of  Camilla  in  the  operas 
Oi  that  name. 

t  Mr.  Congreve. 


532 


THE  SPECTAT  OR. 


“  The  whole  city  of  Venice  is  as  still  when  I 
am  singing  as  this  polite  hearer  was  to  Mrs.  Hunt. 
But  when  they  break  that  silence,  did  you  know 
the  pleasure  I  am  in,  when  every  man  utters  his 
applause  by  calling  me  aloud.  ‘  The  dear  crea¬ 
ture  !  The  angel  !  The  Venus  !  What  attitude  she 
moves  with  ! — Hush,  she  sings  again  !  ’  We  have 
no  boisterous  wits  who  dare  disturb  an  audience, 
and  break  the  public  peace  merely  to  show  they 
dare.  Mr.  Spectator,  I  write  this  to  you  thus  in 
haste,  to  tell  you  I  am  so  very  much  at  ease  here, 
that  I  know  nothing  but  joy ;  and  I  will  not  return, 
but  leave  you  in  England  to  hiss  all  merit  of  your 
own  growth  off  the  stage.  I  know,  Sir,  you  were 
always  my  admirer,  and  therefore  I  am  yours, 

“  Camilla.” 

“  P.  S.  I  am  ten  times  better  dressed  than  ever 
I  was  in  England.” 

“  Mr!  Spectator, 

“  The  project  in  yours  of  the  11th  instant,  of 
furthering  tlie  correspondence  and  knowledge  of 
that  considerable  part  of  mankind,  the  trading 
world,  cannot  but  be  highly  commendable.  Good 
lectures  to  young  traders  may  have  very  good  ef¬ 
fects  on  their  conduct :  but  beware  you  propagate 
no  false  notions  of  trade  :  let  none  of  your  corre¬ 
spondents  impose  on  the  world  by  putting  forth 
base  methods  in  a  good  light,  and  glazing  them 
over  with  improper  terms.  I  would  have  no 
means  of  profit  set  for  copies  to  others,  but  such 
as  are  laudable  in  themselves.  Let  not  noise  be 
called  industry,  nor  impudence  courage.  Let  not 
good  fortune  be  imposed  on  the  world  for  good 
management,  nor  poverty  be  called  folly;  impute 
not  always  bankruptcy  to  extravagance,  nor  an 
estate  to  foresight.  Niggardliness  is  not  good 
husbandry,  nor  generosity  profusion. 

“Honestus  is  a  well-meaning  and  judicious 
trader,  hath  substantial  goods,  and  trades  with 
his  own  stock,  husbands  his  money  to  the  best 
advantage,  without  taking  all  the  advantages  of 
the  necessities  of  his  workmen,  or  grinding  the 
face  of  the  poor.  Fortunatus  is  stocked  with  ig¬ 
norance,  and  consequently  with  self-opinion;  the 
quality  of  his  goods  cannot  but  be  suitable  to  that 
of  his  judgment.  Honestus  pleases  discerning 
people,  and  keeps  their  custom  by  good  usage; 
makes  modest  profit  by  modest  means,  to  the 
decent  support  of  his  family;  while  Fortunatus, 
blustering  always,  pushes  on,  promising  much 
and  performing  little;  with  obsequiousness  offen¬ 
sive  to  people  of  sense,  strikes  at  all,  catches  much 
the  greater  part,  and  raises  a  considerable  fortune 
by  imposition  on  others,  to  the  discouragement 
and  ruin  of  those  who  trade  in  the  same  way. 

“  I  give  here  but  loose  hints,  and  beg  you  to  be 
very  circumspect  in  the  province  you  have  now 
undertaken  :  if  you  perform  it  successfully,  it  will 
be  a  very  great  good;  for  nothing  is  more  wanting 
than  that  mechanic  industry  were  set  forth  with 
the  freedom  and  greatness  of  mind  which  ought 
always  to  accompany  a  man  of  a  liberal  education. 

“  Your  humble  Servant, 

“R.  C.” 

‘'From  my  shop  under  the  Royal  Exchange, 
July  24.” 

“Mr.  Spectator,  July  24,  1712. 

“Notwithstanding  the  repeated  censures  that 
your  spectatorial  wisdom  has  passed  upon  people 
more  remarkable  for  impudence  than  wit,  there  are 
yet  some  remaining,  who  pass  with  the  giddy  part 
of  mankind  for  sufficient  sharers  of  the  latter, 
who  have  nothing  but  the  former  qualification  to 
recommend  them.  Another  timely  animadversion 
.is  absolutely  necessary  ;  be  pleased,  therefore, 


once  for  all,  to  let  these  gentlemen  know,  that 
there  is  neither  mirth  nor  good-humor  in  hooting 
a  young  fellow  out  of  countenance;  nor  that  it 
will  ever  constitute  a  wit,  to  conclude  a  tart  piece 
of  buffoonery  with  a  ‘  What  makes  you  blush?’ 
Pray  please  to  inform  them  again,  that  to  speak 
what  they  know  is  shocking  proceeds  from  ill- 
nature  and  a  sterility  of  brain;  especially  when 
the  subject  will  not  admit  of  raillery,  and  their 
discourse  has  no  pretension  to  satire  but  what  is 
in  their  design  to  disoblige.  I  should  be  very 
glad,  too,  if  you  would  take  notice,  that  a  daily 
repetition  of  the  same  overbearing  insolence  is  yet 
more  insupportable,  and  a  confirmation  of  very 
extraordinary  dullness.  The  sudden  publication 
of  this  may  have  an  effect  upon  a  notorious  of¬ 
fender  of  this  kind,  whose  reformation  would 
redound  very  much  to  the  satisfaction  and  quiet  of 
“  Your  most  humble  Servant, 

T.  “F.  B.” 


No.  444.]  WEDNESDAY,  JULY  30,  1712. 

Parturiunt  montes -  Hor.  Ars  Poet.  v.  139. 

The  mountain  labors.* 

It  gives  me  much  despair  in  the  design  of  re¬ 
forming  the  world  by  my  speculations,  when  I 
find  there  always  arise,  from  one  generation  to 
another,  successive  cheats  and  bubbles,  as  natur¬ 
ally  as  beasts  of  prey,  and  those  which  are  to  be 
their  food.  There  is  hardly  a  man  in  the  world, 
one  would  think,  so  ignorant,  as  not  to  know  that 
the  ordinary  quack-doctors  who  publish  their 
great  abilities  in  little  brown  billets,  distributed 
to  all  who  pass  by,  are  to  a  man  impostors  and 
murderers;  yet  such  is  the  credulity  of  the  vulgar, 
and  the  impudence  of  those  professors,  that  the 
affair  still  goes  on,  and  new  promises,  of  what 
was  never  done  before,  are  made  every  day.  What 
aggravates  the  jest  is,  that  even  this  promise  has 
been  made  as  long  as  the  memory  of  man  can 
trace  it,  yet  nothing  performed,  and  yet  still  pre¬ 
vails.  As  I  was  passing  along  to-aay,  a  paper 
given  into  my  hand,  by  a  fellow  without  a  nose, 
tells  us  as  follows  what  good  news  is  come  to 
town,  to  wit,  that  there  is  now  a  certain  cure  for 
the  French  disease,  by  a  gentleman  just  come  from 
his  travels. 

“In  Russel-court,  over-against  the  Cannon-ball, 
at  the  Surgeon’s-arms  in  Drury -lane,  is  lately  come 
from  his  travels,  a  surgeon  who  hath  practiced 
surgery  and  physic  both  by  sea  and  land,  these 
twenty-four  years.  He  (by  the  blessing)  cures  the 
yellow-jaundice,  green-sickness,  scurvy,  dropsy, 
surfeits,  long  sea-voyages,  campaigns,  and  women’s 
miscarriages,  lying  in,  etc.,  as  some  people  that  has 
been  lame  these  thirty  years  can  testify ;  in  short, 
he  cureth  all  diseases  incident  to  men,  women,  or 
children.” 

If  a  man  could  be  so  indolent  as  to  look  upon 
this  havoc  of  the  human  species,  which  is  made 
by  vice  and  ignorance,  it  would  be  a  good  ridicu¬ 
lous  work  to  comment  upon  the  declaration  of  this 
accomplished  traveler.  There  is  something  unac¬ 
countably  taking  among  the  vulgar  in  those  who 
come  from  a  great  way  off.  Ignorant  people  of 
quality,  as  many  there  are  of  such,  dote  excess¬ 
ively  this  way ;  many  instances  of  which  every 
man  will  suggest  to  himself,  without  any  enumer¬ 
ation  of  them.  The  ignorants  of  lower  order,  who 
cannot,  like  the  upper  ones,  be  profuse  of  their 


*  Former  motto: 

Quid  dignum  tanto  feret  hie  promissor  hiatu  ? 

Hor.  Ars  Poet.  v.  138: 

Great  cry  and  little  wool. — English  Proverb. 


money  to  those  recommended  by  coming  from  a 
distance,  are  no  less  complaisant  than  the  others 

for  they  venture  their  lives  from  the  same  admir¬ 
ation. 

j  ^oc^or  js  lately  come  from  his  travels,” 
and  has  “practiced  both  by  sea  and  land,”  and 
therefore  cures  “the  green-sickness,  long  sea- voy¬ 
ages  campaigns,  and  lying-in.”  Both  by  sea  and 
land !  I  will  not  answer  for  the  distempers  called 
sea-voyages  and  campaigns  ;  but  I  dare  say  those 
o  gteen-sickness  and  lying-in  might  be  as  well 
taken  care  of  if  the  doctor  staid  ashore.  But  the 
art  of  managing  mankind  is  only  to  make  them 
stare  a  little,  to  keep  up  their  astonishment,  to 
let  nothing  be  familiar  to  them,  but  ever  to  have 
something  in  their  sleeve,  in  which  they  must 
think  you  are  deeper  than  they  are.  There  is  an 
ingenious  follow,  a  barber  of  my  acquaintance, 
who,  beside  his  broken  fiddle  and  a  dried  sea- 
monster,  has  a  twine-cord,  strained  with  two  nails 
at  each  end,  over  his  window,  and  the  words 
rainy,  dry,  wet,”  and  so  forth,  written  to  denote 
the  weather  according  to  the  rising  or  falling  of 
the  cord.  We  very  great  scholars  are  not  apt  to 
wonder  at  this :  but  I  observed  a  very  honest 
tellow,  a  chance  customer,  who  sat  in  the  chair 
before  me  to  be  shaved,  fix  his  eye  upon  this 
miraculous  performance  during  the  operation  upon 
his  chin  and  face.  When  those  and  his  head  also 
were  cleared  of  all  incumbrances  and  excrescences 
he  looked  at  the  fish,  then  at  the  fiddle,  still  grub- 
ing  in  his  pockets,  and  casting  his  eye  again  at 
the  twine,  and  the  words  written  on  each  side;  then 


the  spectator. 


533 


twelve  and  from  two  till  six,  he  attends,  for  tha 
good  of  the  public,  to  bleed  for  threepence.” _ T 


altered  his  mind  as  to  farthings,  and  gave  my 
friend  a  silver  sixpence.  The  business,  as  I  said 
is  to  keep  up  the  amazement;  and  if  my  friend 
had  had  only  the  skeleton  and  kit,  he  must  have 
been  contented  with  a  less  payment.  But  the 
doctor  we  'were  talking  of  adds  to  his  long  voy¬ 
ages  the  testimony  of  some  people  “that  has  been 
thirty  years  lame.”  When  I  received  my  paper  a 
sagacious  fellow  took  one  at  the  same  time,  and 
read  till  lie  came  to  the  thirty  years’  confinement 
of  his  friends,  and  went  off  very  well  convinced 
ot  the  doctors  sufficiency.  You  have  many  of 
those  prodigious  persons,  who  have  had  some 
extraordinary  accident  at  their  birth,  or  a  great 
disaster  in  some  part  of  their  lives.  Anythino- 
however  foreign  from  the  business  the  people  want 
ot  you,  will  convince  them  of  your  ability  in  that 
you  profess.  There  is  a  doctor  in  Mouse-alley 
near  Mapping,  'who  sets  up  for  curing  cataracts, 
upon  the  credit  of  having,  as  his  bill  sets  forth 
lost  an  eye  in  the  emperor’s  service.  His  patients 
come  m  upon  this,  and  he  shows  the  muster-roll 
which  confirms  that  he  was  in  his  imperial  mai- 
esty  s  troops  ;  and  he  puts  out  their  eyes  with 
great  success.  Mho  would  believe  that  a  man 
should  be  a  doctor  for  the  cure  of  bursten  children 
by  declaring  that  his  father  and  grandfather  were 
both  bursten  ?  But  Charles  Ingolston,  next  door 
to  the  Harp,  in  Barbican,  has  made  a  pretty  penny 
by  that  asseveration.  The  generality  go  upon  their 
first  conception,  and  think  no  further  •  all  the  rest 
is  granted.  They  take  it,  that  there  is  somethin^ 
uncommon  in  you,  and  give  you  credit  for  the  rest 
You  may  be  sure  it  is  upon  that  I  go,  when  some¬ 
times,  let  it  be  to  the  purpose  or  not,  I  keep  a  Latin 
sentence  in  my  front;  and  I  was  not  a  little  pleased 
when  I  observed  one  of  my  readers  say,  casting 

c/ni  9yew.P°n  PaPer>  "More  Latin 

still  .  VVhat  a  prodigious  scholar  is  this  man!” 

But  as  1  have  here  taken  much  liberty  with  this 
learned  doctor,  I  must  make  up  all  I  have  said  bv 
repeating  what  he  seems  to  be  in  earnest  in,  and 
honestly  to  promise  to  those  who  will  not  receive 
him  as  a  great  man— to  wit,  « that  from  eight  to 


No.  445.]  THURSDAY,  JULY  31,  1712. 

Tanti  non  es,  ais.  Sapis,  Luperce.— Mart.  Epig.  i,  118. 

You  say,  Lupercus,  what  I  write 
l  n  t  worth  so  much:  you’re  in  the  right. 

day  ir  Thi?h  manY  eminent  authors 
wili  probably  publish  their  last  words.  I  am 

afraid  that  few  of  our  weekly  historians,  who  are 
men  that  above  all  others  delight  in  war,  will  be 
able  to  subsist  under  the  weight  of  a  stamp*  and 
an  approaching  peace.  A  sheet  of  blank  paper 
that  must  have  this  new  imprimatur  clapped  upon 
t,  before  it  is  qualified  to  communicate  anything 
to  the  public,  will  make  its  way  in  the  world  but 
very  heavily  In  short,  the  necessity  of  carrying 
a  stamp,  and  the  improbability  of  notifying  a 
bloody  battle  will,  I  am  afraid,  both  concur^  the 
sinking  of  those  thin  folios,  which  have  everv 
other  day  retailed  to  us  the  history  of  Europe  for 
several  years  last  past.  A  facetious  friend  of 
mine,  who  loves  a  pun,  calls  this  present  mortalitv 
among  the  authors,  “  The  fall  of  the  leaf  ” 

I  remember,  upon  Mr.  Baxter’s  death,  there  was 
published  a  sheet  of  very  good  sayings,  inscribed, 
1  he  last  words  of  Mr.  Baxter.”  The  title  sold 
so  great  a  number  of  these  papers,  that  about  a 
week  after  there  came  out  a  second  sheet,  inscribed 
“More  last  words  of  Mr.  Baxter.”  In  the  same 
manner,  I  have  reason  to  think  that  several  inge¬ 
nious  writers,  who  have  taken  their  leave  of  the 
public  in  farewell  papers,  will  not  give  over  so, 
but  intend  to  appear  again,  though  perhaps  under 
another  form,  and  with  a  different  title.  Be  that 
as  it  will,  it  is  my  business,  in  this  place,  to  give 
an  account  of  my  own  intentions,  and  to  acquaint 
my  reader  with  the  motives  by  which  I  act,  in  this 
great  crisis  of  the  republic  of  letters. 

I  have  been  long  debating  in  my  own  heart, 
whether  I  should  throw  up  my  pen,  as  an  author 
that  is  cashiered  by  the  act  of  parliament  which 
is  to  operate  within  this  four-and-twenty  hours,  or 
whether  I  should  still  persist  in  laying*  my  specu¬ 
lations,  from  day  to  day,  before  the  public.  The 
argument  which  prevails  with  me  most  on  the  first 
side  of  the  question  is,  that  1  am  informed  by  my 
bookseller  he  must  raise  the  price  of  every  single 
paper  to  two-pence,  or  that  he  shall  not  be  able  to 
pay  the  duty  of  it.  Now,  as  I  am  very  desirous 
my  readers  should  have  their  learning  as  cheap  as 
possible,  it  is  with  great  difficulty  that  I  comply 
with  him  in  this  particular.  *  J 

However,  upon  laying  my  reasons  together  in 
the  balance,  I  find  that  those  who  plead  for  the 
continuance  of  this  work  have  much  the  greater 
weight,  for,  in  the  first  place,  in  recompense  for 
the  expense  to  which  this  will  put  my  readers,  it 
is  to  be  hoped  they  may  receive  from  every  paper 
so  much  instruction  as  will  be  a  very  good  equiv¬ 
alent.  And,  in  order  to  this,  I  would  not  advise 
any  one  to  take  it  in,  who,  after  the  perusal  of  it, 
does  not  find  himself  two-pence  the  wiser,  or  the 
better  man  for  it,  or  who,  upon  examination,  does 
not  believe  that  he  has  had  two-pennyworth  of 
mirth  or  instruction  for  his  money. 

But  I  must  confess  there  is  another  motive 
■which  prevails  with  me  more  than  the  former.  I 

Aug.  1,  1712,  the  stamp-duty  here  alluded  to  took  place, 
and  every  single  half  sheet  paid  a  halfpenny  to  the  queen. 

Have  you  seen  the  red  stamp  ?  Methinks  the  stamping  is 
worth  a  halfpenny.  The  Observator  is  fallen ;  the  Medleys 
are  jumbled  together  with  the  Flying-Post;  the  Examiner  is 
deadly  sick.  The  Spectator  keeps  up,  and  doubles  its  price  ” 

— Swift's  Works,  cr.  8vo.  vol.  xix,  p.  173, 


THE  SPECT ATO  R. 


5d4 

consider  that  the  tax  on  paper  was  given  for  the  I 
support  of  the  government;  and  as  I  have  enemies  [ 
who  are  apt  to  pervert  everything  I  do  or  say,  I 
fear  they  would  ascribe  the  laying  down  my  paper 
on  such  an  occasion,  to  a  spirit  of  malcontented- 
ness,  which  I  am  resolved  none  shall  ever  justly 
upbraid  me  with.  No,  I  shall  glory  in  contributing 
my  utmost  to  the  public  weal;  and,  if  my  country 
receives  five  or  six  pounds  a  day  by  my  labors,  I 
shall  be  very  well  pleased  to  find  myself  so  useful 
a  member. 

It  is  a  received  maxim,  that  no  honest  man 
should  enrich  himself  by  methods  that  are  preju¬ 
dicial  to  the  community  in  which  he  lives;  and 
by  the  same  rule  I  think  we  may  pronounce  the 
person  to  deserve  very  well  of  his  countrymen, 
whose  labors  bring  more  into  the  public  coffers 
than  into  his  own  pocket. 

Since  I  have  mentioned  the  word  enemies,  I 
must  explain  myself  so  far  as  to  acquaint  my 
reader,  that  I  mean  only  the  insignificant  party- 
zealots  on  both  sides ;  men  of  such  poor,  narrow 
souls,  that  they  are  not  capable  of  thinking  on 
anything  but  with  an  eye  to  whig  or  tory.  During 
the  course  of  this  paper  I  have  been  accused  by 
these  despicable  wretches  of  trimming,  time-serv¬ 
ing,  personal  reflection,  secret  satire,  and  the  like. 
Now,  though,  in  these  my  compositions,  it  is 
visible  to  any  reader  of  common  sense,  that  I 
consider  nothing  but  my  subject,  which  is  always 
of  an  indifferent  nature,  how  is  it  possible  for  me 
to  write  so  clear  of  party,  as  not  to  lie  open  to  the 
censures  of  those  who  will  be  applying  every 
sentence,  and  finding  out  persons  and  things  in 
it,  which  it  has  no  regard  to  ? 

Several  paltry  scribblers  and  declaimers  have 
done  me  the  honor  to  be  dull  upon  me  in  reflec¬ 
tions  of  this  nature ;  but,  notwithstanding  my 
name  has  been  sometimes  traduced  by  this  con¬ 
temptible  tribe  of  men,  I  have  hitherto  avoided 
all  animadversions  upon  them.  The  truth  of  it  is, 

I  am  afraid  of  making  them  appear  considerable 
by  taking  notice  of  them ;  for  they  are  like  those 
imperceptible  insects  which  are  discovered  by  the 
microscope,  and  cannot  be  made  the  subject  of 
observation  without  being  magnified. 

Having  mentioned  those  few  who  have  shown 
themselves  the  enemies  of  this  paper,  I  should  be 
very  ungrateful  to  the  public  did  I  not  at  the  same 
time  testify  my  gratitude  to  those  who  are  its 
friends,  in  which  number  I  may  reckon  many  of 
the  most  distinguished  persons,  of  all  conditions, 
parties,  and  professions,  in  the  isle  of  Great  Britain. 

I  am  not  so  vain  as  to  think  this  approbation  is 
so  much  due  to  the  performance  as  to  the  design. 
There  is,  and  ever  will  be,  justice  enough  in  the 
world  to  afford  patronage  and  protection  for  those 
who  endeavor  to  advance  truth  and  virtue,  without 
regard  to  the  passions  and  prejudices  of  any  par¬ 
ticular  cause  or  faction.  If  I  have  any  other 
merit  in  me,  it  is  that  I  have  new  pointed  all  the 
batteries  of  ridicule.  They  have  been  generally 
planted  against  persons  who  have  appeared  serious 
rather  than  absurd  ;  or  at  best,  have  aimed  rather 
at  what  is  unfashionable  than  what  is  vicious. 
For  my  own  part,  1  have  endeavored  to  make 
nothing  ridiculous  that  is  not  in  some  measure 
criminal.  I  have  set  up  the  immoral  man  as  the 
object  of  derision.  In  short,  if  I  have  not  formed 
a  new  weapon  against  vice  and  irreligion,  I  have 
at  least  shown  how  that  weapon  may  be  put  to  a 
right  use,  which  has  so  often  fought  the  battles  of 
impiety  and  profaneness. — C. 


No.  446.]  FRIDAY,  AUGUST  1,  1712. 

Quid  deceat,  quid  non ;  quo  yirtus,  quo  ferat  error. 

IIor.  Ars.  Poet.  ver.  308. 

What  fit,  what  not;  what  excellent,  or  ill. — Roscommon. 

Since  two  or  three  writers  of  comedy,  who  are 
now  living,  have  taken  their  farewell  of  the  stage, 
those  who  succeed  them,  finding  themselves  inca¬ 
pable  of  rising  up  to  their  wit,  humor,  and  gootl 
sense,  have  only  imitated  them  in  some  of  those 
loose  unguarded  strokes,  in  which  they  complied 
with  the  corrupt  taste  of  the  more  vicious  part  of 
their  audience.  When  persons  of  a  low  genius 
attempt  this  kind  of  writing,  they  know  no  differ¬ 
ence  between  being  merry  and  being  lewd.  It  is 
with  an  eye  to  some  of  these  degenerate  composi¬ 
tions  that  I  have  written  the  following  discourse. 

Were  our  English  stage  but  half  so  virtuous  as 
that  of  the  Greeks  or  Romans,  we  should  quickly 
see  the  influence  of  it  in  the  behavior  of  all  the 
politer  part  of  mankind.  It  would  not  be  fash¬ 
ionable  to  ridicule  religion,  or  its  professors  :  the 
man  of  pleasure  would  not  be  the  complete  gen¬ 
tleman  ;  vanity  would  be  out  of  countenance; 
and  every  quality  which  is  ornamental  to  human 
nature  would  meet  with  that  esteem  which  is  due 
to  it. 

If  the  English  stage  were  under  the  same  regu¬ 
lations  the  Athenian  was  formerly,  it  would  have 
the  same  effect  that  had,  in  recommending  the 
religion,  the  government,  and  public  worship,  of 
its  country.  Were  our  plays  subject  to  proper 
inspections  and  limitations,  we  might  not  only 
pass  away  several  of  our  vacant  hours  in  the 
highest  entertainments,  but  should  always  rise 
from  them  wiser  and  better  than  we  sat  down  to 
them. 

It  is  one  of  the  most  unaccountable  things  in 
our  age,  that  the  lewdness  of  our  theater  should 
be  so  much  complained  of,  so  well  exposed,  and 
so  little  redressed.  It  is  to  be  hoped,  that  some 
time  or  other  we  may  be  at  leisure  to  restrain  the 
licentiousness  of  the  theater,  and  make  it  contri¬ 
bute  its  assistance  to  the  advancement  of  morality, 
and  to  the  reformation  of  the  age.  As  matters 
stand  at  present,  multitudes  are  shut  out  from  this 
noble  diversion,  by  reason  of  those  abuses  and 
corruptions  that  accompany  it.  A  father  is  often 
afraid  that  his  daughter  should  be  ruined  by  those 
entertainments  which  were  invented  for  the  accom¬ 
plishment  and  refining  of  human  nature.  The 
Athenian  and  Roman  plays  were  written  with, 
such  a  regard  to  morality,  that  Socrates  used  to 
frequent  the  one,  and  Cicero  the  other. 

It  happened  once,  indeed,  that  Cato  dropped 
into  the  Roman  theater  when  the  Floralia  were  to 
be  represented;  and  as,  in  that  performance,  which 
was  a  kind  of  religious  ceremony,  there  were 
several  indecent  parts  to  be  acted,  the  people 
refused  to  see  them  while  Cato  was  present.  Mar¬ 
tial,  on  this  hint,  made  the  following  epigram, 
which  we  must  suppose  was  applied  to  some  grave 
friend  of  his,  that  had  been  accidentally  present 
at  some  such  entertainment: 

Nosses  jocosm  dulce  cum  sacrum  Florae, 

I’estosque  lusus,  et  licentiam  vulgi, 

Cur  in  theatrum,  Cato  severe,  venisti? 

An  ideo  tan  turn  veneras,  ut  exires? — 1  Epig.  3. 

Why  dost  thou  come,  great  censor  of  thy  age, 

To  see  the  loose  diversions  of  the  stage  ? 

With  awful  countenance,  and  brow  severe, 

What  in  the  name  of  gooidness  dost  thou  here? 

See  the  mix’d  crowd!  how  giddy,  lewd,  and  vain! 

Didst  thou  come  in  but  to  go  out  again? 

An  accident  of  this  nature  might  happen  once 
in  an  age  among  the  Greeks  or  Romans,  but  they 
were  too  wise  and  good  to  let  the  constant  nightly 
entertainment  be  of  such  a  nature,  that  people  of 


THE  SPE 

the  most  sense  and  virtue  could  not  be  at  it. 
Whatever  vices  are  represented  upon  the  stage, 
they  ought  *o  be  so  marked  and  branded  by  the 
poet,  as  not  to  appear  either  laudable  or  amiable 
in  the  person  who  is  tainted  with  them.  But  if 
we  look  into  the  English  comedies  above-men¬ 
tioned,  we  would  think  they  were  formed  upon  a 
cjuite  contrary  maxim,  and  that  this  rule,  though 
it  held  good  upon  the  heathen  stage,  was  not  to  be 
T6S[drd6d  in  Christian  theaters.  There  is  another 
rule,  likewise,  which  was  observed  by  authors  of 
antiquity,  and  which  these  modern  geniuses  have 
no  regard  to,  and  that  was,  never  to  choose  an 
improper  subject  for  ridicule.  Now,  a  subject  is 
improper  for  ridicule,  if  it  is  apt  to  stir  up  horror 
and  commiseration  rather  than  laughter.  For  this 
reason,  we  do  not  find  any  comedy,  in  so  polite 
an  author  as  Terence,  raised  upon  the  violations 
of  the  marriage-bed.  The  falsehood  of  the  wife 
or  husband  has  given  occasion  to  noble  trage¬ 
dies  ;  but  a  Scipio  or  a  Laslius  would  not  have 
looked  upon  incest  or  murder  to  have  been  as 
proper  subjects  for  comedy.  On  the  contrary, 
cuckoldom  is  the  basis  of  most  of  our  modern 
plays.  If  an  alderman  appears  upon  the  stage, 
you  may  be  sure  it  is  in  order  to  be  cuckolded. 
A  husband  that  is  a  little  grave,  or  elderly,  gener¬ 
ally  meets  with  the  same  fate.  Knights  and  baro¬ 
nets,  country  ’squires,  and  justices  of  the  quorum, 
come  up  to  town  for  no  other  purpose.  I  have 
seen  poor  Dogget  cuckolded  in  all  these  capacities. 
In  short,  our  English  writers  are  as  frequently 
severe  upon  this  innocent,  unhappy  creature,  com¬ 
monly  known  by  the  name  of  a  cuckold,  as  the 
ancient  comic  writers  were  upon  an  eating  para¬ 
site,  or  a  vain-glorious  soldier. 

At  the  same  time,  the  poet  so  contrives  matters 
that  the  two  criminals  are  the  favorites  of  the 
audience.  We  sit  still,  and  wish  well  to  them 
through  the  whole  play,  are  pleased  when  they 
meet  with  proper  opportunities,  and  out  of  humor 
when  they  are  disappointed.  The  truth  of  it  is, 
the  accomplished  gentleman  upon  the  English 
stage,  is  the  person  that  is  familiar  with  other 
men’s  wives,  and  indifferent  to  his  own  ;  as  the 
fine  woman  is  generally  a  composition  of  spright¬ 
liness  and  falsehood.  I  do  not  know  whether  it 
pioceeds  from  barrenness  of  invention,  deprava¬ 
tion  of  manners,  or  ignorance  of  mankind,  but  I 
have  often  wondered  that  our  ordinary  poets  can¬ 
not  frame  to  themselves  the  idea  of  a  fine  man 
who  is  not  a  whoremaster,  or  of  a  fine  woman  that 
is  not  a  jilt. 

I  have  sometimes  thought  of  compiling  a  system 
of  ethics  out  of  the  writings  of  those  corrupt  poets, 
under  the  title  of  Stage  Morality.  But  I  have 
been  diverted  from  this  thought  by  a  project  which 
has  been  executed  by  an  ingenious  gentleman  of 
my  acquaintance.  He  lias  composed,  it  seems,  the 
history  of  a  young  fellow  who  has  taken  all  his 
notions  of  the  world  from  the  stage,  and  who  has 
directed  himself  in  every  circumstance  of  his  life 
and  conversation,  by  the  maxims  and  examples  of 
the  fine  gentleman  in  English  comedies.  If  I  can 
prevail  upon  him  to  give  me  a  copy  of  this  new- 
fashioned  novel,  I  will  bestow  on  it  a  place  in  my 
works,  and  question  not  but  it  may  have  as  good 
an  effect  upon  the  drama,  as  Don  Quixote  had 
upon  romance. — 0. 


No.  447.]  SATURDAY,  AUGUST  2,  1712- 

Long  exercise,  my  friend,  inures  the  mind: 

And  what  we  ouce  dislik  d  we  jileasing  find. 

There  is  not  a  common  saying  which  has  a 
better  turn  of  sense  in  it,  than  what  we  often  hear 


CTATOR.  635 

in  the  mouths  of  the  vulgar,  that  “custom  is 
second  nature.”  It  is  indeed  able  to  form  the 
man  anew,  and  to  give  him  inclinations  and  capac 
lties  altogether  different  from  those  he  was  born 
with.  Dr.  Plot,  in  his  History  of  Staffordshire, 
tells  us  of  an  idiot,  that  chancing  to  live  within 
the  sound  of  a  clock,  and  always  amusing  himself 
with  counting  the  hour  of  the  day  whenever  the 
clock  struck,  the  clock  being  spoiled  by  some  acci¬ 
dent,  the  idiot  continued  to  strike  and  count  the 
lour  without  the  help  of  it,  in  the  same  manner 
as  he  had  done  when  it  was  entire.  Though  I 
uare-not  vouch  for  the  truth  of  this  story,  it  is  very 
certain  that  custom  has  a  mechanical  effect  upon 
the  body,  at  the  same  time  that  it  has  a  very  extra¬ 
ordinary  influence  upon  the  mind. 

I  shall,  in  this  paper,  consider  one  very  remark - 
able  effect  which  custom  has  upon  human  nature, 
and  which,  if  rightly  observed,  may  lead  us  into 
very  useful  rules  of  life.  What  I  shall  here  take 
notice  of  in  custom,  is  its  wonderful  efficacy  in 
making  everything  pleasant  to  us.  A  person 
who  is  addicted  to  play  or  gaming,  though  he  took 
but  little  delight  in  it  at  first,  by  degrees  contracts 
so  strong  an  inclination  toward  it,  and  gives  him¬ 
self  up  so  entirely  to  it,  that  it  seems  the  only  end 
of  his  being.  The  love  of  a  retired  or  busy  life 
will  grow  upon  a  man  insensibly,  as  he  is  conver¬ 
sant  in  the  one  or  the  other,  till  he  is  utterly 
unqualified  for  relishing  that  to  which  he  has 
been  for  some  time  disused.  Nay,  a  man  may 
smoke,  or  drink,  or  take  snuff,  till  lie  is  unable  to 
pass  away  his  time  without  it ;  not  to  mention 
how  our  delight  in  any  particular  study,  art,  or 
science,  rises  and  improves,  in  proportion  to  the 
application  which  we  bestow  upon  it.  Thus,  what 
was  at  first  an  exercise,  becomes  at  length  an 
entertainment.  Our  employments  are  changed 
into  our  diversions.  The  mind  grows  fond  of 
those  actions  she  is  accustomed  to,  and  is  drawn 
with  reluctancy  from  those  paths  in  which  she 
has  been  used  to  walk. 

Not  only  such  actions  as  were  at  first  indifferent 
to  us,  but  even  such  as  were  painful,  will  by  cus¬ 
tom  and  practice  become  pleasant.  Sir  Francis 
Bacon  observes,  in  his  Natural  Philosophy,  that 
our  taste  is  never  pleased  better  than  with  those 
things  which  at  first  created  a  disgust  in  it.  He 
gives  particular  instances,  of  claret,  coffee,  and 
other  liquors,  which  the  palate  seldom  approves 
upon  the  first  taste,  but,  when  it  has  once  got  a 
relish  of  them,  generally  retains  it  for  life.  The 
mind  is  constituted  after  the  same  manner,  and  after 
having  habituated  herself  to  any  particular  exercise 
or  employment,  not  only  loses  her  first  aversion 
toward  it,  but  conceives  a  certain  fondness  and 
affection  for  it.  I  have  heard  one  of  the  greatest 
geniuses  this  age  has  produced,*  who  had  been 
trained  up  in  all  the  polite  studies  of  antiquity, 
assure  me,  upon  his  being  obliged  to  search  into 
several  rolls  and  records,  that  notwithstanding 
such  an  employment  was  at  first  very  dry  and 
irksome  to  him,  he  at  last  took  an  incredible  plea¬ 
sure  in  it,  and  preferred  it  even  to  the  reading  of 
Virgil  or  Cicero.  The  reader  will  observe,  that  I 
have  not  here  considered  custom  as  it  makes  things 
easy,  but  as  it  renders  them  delightful;  and  though 
others  have  often  made  the  same  reflections,  it  is 
possible  they  may  not  have  drawn  those  uses  from 
it,  with  which  I  intend  to  fill  the  remaining  part 
of  this  paper. 

If  we  consider  attentively  this  property  of  human 
nature,  it  may  instruct  us  in  very  fine  moralities. 

In  the  first  place,  I  would  have  no  man  discouraged 
with  that  kind  of  life,  or  series  of  action,  in 


*  Dr.  Atterbury 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


536 

which  the  choice  of  others,  or  his  own  necessities, 
may  have  engaged  him.  It  may  perhaps  be  very 
disagreeable  to  him  at  first;  but  use  and  applica¬ 
tion  will  certainly  render  it  not  only  less  painful, 
but  pleasing  and  satisfactory. 

In  the  second  place,  I  would  recommend  to 
every  one  that  admirable  preceptwhich  Pythagoras 
is  said  to  have  given  to  his  disciples,  and  which 
that  philosopher  must  have  drawn  the  observation 
I  have  enlarged  upon,  Optimum  vita  genus  eligito, 
nam  consuetudo  faciet  jucundissimum:  “Pitch  upon 
that  course  of  life  which  is  the  most  excellent, 
and  custom  will  render  it  the  most  delightful.” 
Men  whose  circumstances  will  permit  them  to 
choose  their  own  way  of  life,  are  inexcusable  if 
they  do  not  pursue  that  which  their  judgment 
tells  them  is  the  most  laudable.  The  voice  of 
reason  is  more  to  be  regarded  than  the  bent  of  any 
present  inclination,  since,  by  the  rule  above-men¬ 
tioned,  inclination  will  at  length  come  over  to 
reason,  though  we  can  never  force  reason  to  com¬ 
ply  with  inclination. 

In  the  third  place,  this  observation  may  teach 
the  most  sensual  and  irreligious  man  to  overlook 
those  hardships  and  difficulties  which  are  apt  to 
discourage  him  from  the  prosecution  of  a  virtuous 
life.  “  The  gods,”  said  Hesiod,  have  placed  labor 
before  virtue ;  the  way  to  her  is  at  first  rough  and 
difficult,  but  grows  more  smooth  and  easy  the 
further  you  advance  in  it.”  The  man  who  pro¬ 
ceeds  in  it  with  steadiness  and  resolution,  will,  in 
a  little  time,  find  that  “her  ways  are  ways  of 
pleasantness,  and  that  all  her  paths  are  peace.” 

To  enforce  this  consideration,  we  may  further 
observe,  that  the  practice  of  religion  will  not  only 
be  attended  with  that  pleasure  which  naturally 
accompanies  those  actions  to  which  we  are  habit¬ 
uated,  but  with  those  supernumerary  joys  of  heart 
that  rise  from  the  consciousness  of  such  a  pleasure, 
from  the  satisfaction  of  acting  up  to  the  dictates 
of  reason,  and  from  the  prospect  of  a  happy  im¬ 
mortality. 

In  the  fourth  place,  we  may  learn  from  this 
observation  which  we  have  made  on  the  mind  of 
man,  to  take  particular  care  when  we  are  once 
settled  in  a  regular  course  of  life,  how  we  too 
frequently  indulge  ourselves  in  any  of  the  most 
innocent  diversions  and  entertainments;  since  the 
mind  may  insensibly  fall  off  from  the  relish  of 
virtuous  actions,  and,  by  degrees,  exchange  that 
leasure  which  it  takes  in  the  performance  of  its 
uty,  for  delights  of  a  much  more  inferior  and 
unprofitable  nature. 

The  last  use  which  I  shall  make  of  this  remark¬ 
able  property  in  human  nature,  of  being  delighted 
with  those  actions  to  which  it  is  accustomed,  is  to 
show  how  absolutely  necessary  it  is  for  us  to  gain 
habits  of  virtue  in  this  life,  if  we  would  enjoy  the 
leasures  of  the  next.  The  state  of  bliss  we  call 
eaven  will  not  be  capable  of  affecting  those  minds 
which  are  not  thus  qualified  for  it;  we  must,  in 
this  world,  gain  a  relish  of  truth  and  virtue,  if  we 
would  be  able  to  taste  that  knowledge  and  perfec¬ 
tion,  which  are  to  make  us  happy  in  the  next. 
The  seeds  of  those  spiritual  joys  and  raptures, 
which  are  to  rise  up  and  flourish  in  the  soul  to  all 
eternity,  must  be  planted  in  her  during  this  her 
present  state  of  probation.  In  short,  heaven  is 
not  to  be  looked  upon  only  as  the  reward,  but  as 
the  natural  effect  of  a  religious  life. 

On  the  other  hand,  those  evil  spirits,  who,  by 
long  custom,  have  contracted  in  the  body  habits  of 
lust  and  sensuality,  malice  and  revenge,  and  aver¬ 
sion  to  everything  that  is  good,  just,  or  laudable, 
are  naturally  seasoned  and  prepared  for  pain  and 
misery.  Their  torments  have  already  taken  root  in 
them ;  they  cannot  be  happy  when  divested  of  the 


body,  unless  we  may  suppose  that  Providence  will 
in  a  manner  create  them  anew,  and  work  a  miracle 
in  the  rectification  of  their  faculties.  They  may, 
indeed,  taste  a  kind  of  malignant  pleasure  in  those 
actions  to  which  they  are  accustomed,  while  in 
this  life  ;  but  when  they  are  removed  from  all 
those  objects  which  are  here  apt  to  gratify  them, 
they  will  naturally  become  their  own  tormentors, 
and  cherish  in  themselves  those  painful  habits  of 
mind  which  are  called,  in  Scripture  phrase,  “the 
worm  which  never  dies.”  This  notion  of  heaven 
and  hell  is  so  very  conformable  to  the  light  of 
nature,  that  it  was  discovered  by  several  of  the 
most  exalted  heathens.  It  has  been  finely  improved 
by  many  eminent  divines  of  the  last  age,  as  in 
particular  by  Archbishop  Tillotson  and  Dr.  Sher¬ 
lock  :  but  there  is  none  who  has  raised  such  noble 
speculations  upon  it  as  Dr.  Scott,  in  the  first  book 
of  his  Christian  Life,  which  is  one  of  the  finest 
and  most  rational  schemes  of  divinity  that  is 
written  in  our  tongue,  or  in  any  other.  That,  excel¬ 
lent  author  has  shown  how  every  particular  custom 
and  habit  of  virtue  will,  in  its  own  nature,  pro¬ 
duce  the  heaven,  or  a  state  of  happiness,  in  him 
who  shall  hereafter  practice  it;  as,  on  the  contrary, 
how  every  custom  or  habit  of  vice  will  be  the 
natural  hell  of  him  in  whom- it  subsists. — C. 


Ho.  448.]  MONDAY,  AUGUST  4,  1712. 

Foedius  hoc  aliquid  quandoque  audebis. — Juv.  Sat.  ii.  82. 

In  time  to  greater  baseness  you  proceed. 

The  first  steps  toward  ill  are  very  carefully  to 
be  avoided,  for  men  insensibly  go  on  when  they 
are  once  entered,  and  do  not  keep  up  a  lively  ab¬ 
horrence  of  the  least  unworthiness.  There  is  a 
certain  frivolous  falsehood  that  people  indulge 
themselves  in,  which  ought  to  be  had  in  greater 
detestation  than  it  commonly  meets  with.  What 
I  mean  is  a  neglect  of  promises  made  on  small 
and  indifferent  occasions,  such  as  parties  of  plea¬ 
sure,  entertainments,  and  sometimes  meetings  out 
of  curiosity,  in  men  of  like  faculties,  to  be  in  each 
other’s  company.  There  are  many  causes  to  which 
one  may  assign  this  light  infidelity.  Jack  Sippet 
never  keeps  the  hour  he  has  appointed  to  come  to 
a  friend’s  to  dinner;  but  he  is  an  insignificant  fel¬ 
low,  who  does  it  out  of  vanity.  He  could  never, 
he  knows,  make  any  figure  in  company,  but  by 
giving  a  little  disturbance  at  his  entry,  and  there¬ 
fore  takes  care  to  drop  in  when  he  thinks  you  are 
just  seated.  He  takes  his  place  after  having  dis¬ 
composed  everybody,  and  desires  there  may  be  no 
ceremony;  then  does  he  begin  to  call  himself  the 
saddest  fellow,  in  disappointing  so  many  places 
as  he  was  invited  to  elsewhere.  It  is  the  fop’s 
vanity  to  name  houses  of  better  cheer,  and  to  ac¬ 
quaint  you  that  he  chose  yours  out  of  ten  dinners 
which  he  was  obliged  to  be  at  that  day.  The  last 
time  I  had  the  fortune  to  eat  with  him,  he  was 
imagining  how  very  fat  he  should  have  been,  had 
he  eaten  all  he  had  ever  been  invited  to.  But  it 
is  impertinent  to  dwell  upon  the  manners  of  such 
a  wretch  as  obliges  all  whom  he  disappoints, 
though  his  circumstances  constrain  then  to  be 
civil  to  him.  But  there  are  those  that  every  one 
would  be  glad  to  see,  who  fall  into  the  same  de* 
testable  habit.  It  is  a  merciless  thing  that  any 
one  can  be  at  ease,  and  suppose  a  set  of  people, 
who  have  a  kindness  for  him,  at  that  moment 
waiting  out  of  respect  to  him,  and  refusing  to 
taste  their  food  or  conversation  with  the  utmost 
impatience.  One  of  these  promisers  sometimes 
shall  make  his  excuses  for  not  coming  at  all,  so 
late  that  half  the  company  have  only  to  lament 


that  they  have  neglected  matters  of  moment  to 
meet  him  whom  they  find  a  trifler.  They  imme¬ 
diately  repent  of  the  value  they  had  for  him-  and 
such  treatment  repeated,  makes  company  never 
depend  upon  his  promise  any  more;  so  that  he 
often  comes  at  the  middle  of  a  meal,  where  he  is 
secretly  slighted  by  the  persons  with  whom  he 
eats,  and  cursed  by  the  servants,  whose  dinner  is 
delayed  by  his  prolonging  their  master’s  entertain¬ 
ment.  It  is  wonderful  that  men  guiltv  this  way 
could  never  have  observed,  that  the  willing  time, 
the  gathering  together,  and  waiting  a  little  before 
dinner,  is  the  most  awkwardly  passed  away  of 
any  part  of  the  four-and-twenty  hours.  If  they 
did  think  at  all,  they  would  reflect  upon  their 
gmlt  m  lengthening  such  a  suspension  of  agreea¬ 
ble  life.  1  he  constant  offending  in  this  way  has 
ln.  a  degree,  an  effect  upon  the  honesty  of  his 
mind  who  is  guilty  of  it,  as  common  swearing  is 
a  kind  of  habitual  perjury.  It  makes  the  soul  in¬ 
attentive  to  what  an  oath  is,  even  while  it  utters 
it  at  the  lips.  Phocion  beholding  a  wordy  orator, 
while  he  was  making  a  magnificent  speech  to  the 
People,  full  of  vain  promises  :  “  Methinks,”  said 
he,  “  I  am  now  fixing  my  eves  upon  a  cypress 
tree;  it  has  all  the  pomp  and  beauty  imaginable 
in  its  branches,  leaves,  and  height;  but,  alas  '  it 
bears  no  fruit.” 

Though  the  expectation  which  is  raised  by  im¬ 
pertinent  promisers  is  thus  barren,  their  confidence 
even  after  failures,  is  so  great,  that  thev  subsist 
by  still  promising  on.  I  have  heretofore  dis¬ 
coursed  of  the  insignificant  liar,  the  boaster,  and 
the  castle-builder,  and  treated  them  as  no  ill- 
designing  men  (though  they  are  to  be  placed 
among  the  frivolously  false  ones),  but  persons  who 
lall  into  that  way  purely  to  recommend  themselves 
by  their  vivacities;  but  indeed  I  cannot  let  heed¬ 
less  promisers,  though  in  the  most  minute  circum¬ 
stances,  pass  with  so  slight  a  censure.  If  a  man 
should  take  a  resolution  to  pay  only  sums  above  a 
hundred  pounds,  and  yet  contract  with  different 
people  debts  of  five  and  ten,  how  long  can  we 
suppose  he  will  keep  his  credit?  This  man  will 
as  long  support  his  good  name  in  business,  as  he 
will  in  conversation,  Avho  without  difficulty  makes 
assignations  which  he  is  indifferent  whether  he 
keeps  or  not. 

I  am  the  more  severe  upon  this  vice,  because  I 
have  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  a  very  great 
criminal  myself.  Sir  Andrew  Freeport,  and  all 
other  my  friends  who  are  scrupulous  to  promises 
of  the  meanest  consideration  imaginable,  from  a 
habit  of  virtue  that  way,  have  often  upbraided  me 
with  it.  I  take  shame  upon  myself  for  this  crime 
and  more  particularly  for  the  greatest  I  ever  com¬ 
mitted  of  the  sort,  that  when  as  agreeable  a  com¬ 
pany  of  gentlemen  and  ladies  as  ever  were  got 
together,  and  I  forsooth,  Mr.  Spectator,  to  be  of 
the  party  with  women  of  merit,  like  a  booby  as  I 
was,  mistook  the  time  of  meeting,  and  came  the 
night  following.  I  wish  every  fool  who  is  negli¬ 
gent  in  this  kind  may  have  as  great  a  loss  as  I 
had  in  this;  for  the  same  company  will  never  meet 
more,  but  are  dispersed  into  various  parts  of  the 
world,  and  I  am  left  under  the  compunction  that 
I  deserve,  in  so  many  different  places  to  be  called 
a  trifler. 

This  fault  is  sometimes  to  be  accounted  for 
when  desirable  people  a-e  fearful  of  appearing 
precise  and  reserved  by  deniais;  but  they  will  find 
the  apprehension  of  that  imputation  will  betray 
them  into  a  childish  impotence  of  mind,  and  make 
them  promise  all  who  are  so  kind  to  ask  it  of 
them.  T  his  leads  such  soft  creatures  into  the 
misfortune  of  seeming  to  return  overtures  of  good¬ 
will  with  ingratitude.  The  first  steps  in  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


537 


a  man’8  integrity  are  much  more  im 
portant  than  men  are  aware  of.  The  man  who 

wo u Id 6 n nf1  ° 1  hisword  in  little  things, 

•  r  'nt  suffer  in  his  own  conscience  so  great 

eve ffeS  °f  con.se(llience>  as  he  who  thinks 
eveiy  little  offense  against  truth  and  justice  a  dis¬ 
paragement.  We  should  not  make  Ly Idng we 
ourselves  disapprove  habitual  to  us,  i/we  would 
be  sine  of  our  integrity. 

I  remember  a  falsehood  of  the  trivial  sort 

pose^a^-m  lr*t re  atlon  t0  assignations,  that  ex- 
f'r  no  Vr  i  a  very  u,ieasy  adventure.  Will 

Innfr  Td  ^  ?tlnt  Were  chamber-fellows  in  the 
ner  Temple  about  twenty-five  years  ago.  Thev 

one  night  sat  in  the  pit  together  at  a  corned/ 
where  they  both  observed  and  liked  the  same 
young  woman  in  the  boxes.  Their  kindness  Sr 
ler  entered  both  hearts  deeper  than  they  imagined. 
Stmt  had  a  good  faculty  at  writing  letters  of  love 
and  made  his  addresses  privately  that  way;  while 
Trap  proceeded  in  the  ordinary  course,  by  money 
and  her  waiting-maid.  The  lady  gave  theni  k 
encouragement,  receiving  Trap  irfto  the  utmost 
oi,  and  answering  at  the  same  time  Stint’s  let- 
ters,  and  givinghim  appointments  at  third  places. 

7  iaP  bepaP  to  suspect  the  epistolary  correspon- 
d®nce  ,of  Jjis/nend,  and  discovered  also  that  Stint 
opened  all  his  letters  which  came  to  their  common 
odgings,  in  order  to  form  his  own  assignations. 
Alter  much  anxiety  and  restlessness.  Trap  came 
to  a  resolution  which  he  thought  would  break  off 
their  commerce  with  one  another  without  any 
lazardous  explanation.  He  therefore  wrote  a  let- 

inT  Tfe,glrd  hand  t0  Mr>  TraP  at  his  Cambers 
m  the  Temple.  Stint,  according  to  custom,  seized 

and  opened  it  and  was  not  a  little  surprised  to 
find  the  inside  directed  to  himself,  when  with 
great  perturbation  of  spirit  he  read  as  follows 

“  Mr.  Stint, 

“You  have  gained  a  slight  satisfaction  at  the 
expense  ot  doing  a  very  heinous  crime.  At  the 
price  of  a  faithful  friend  you  have  obtained  an 
inconstant  mistress.  I  rejoice  in  this  expedient  I 
have  thought  of  to  break  my  mind  to  you,  and  tell 
you  you  are  a  base  fellow,  by  a  means  which  does 
not  expose  you  to  the  affront  except  vou  deserve 
it  !  know,  Sir,  as  criminal  as  you  are,  you  have 
still  shame  enough  to  avenge  yourself  against  the 
hardiness  of  any  one  that  should  publicly  tell  you 
ot  it.  I,  therefore,  who  have  received  so  many 
secret  hurts  from  you,  shall  take  satisfaction  with 
safety  to  myself.  I  call  you  base,  and  you  must 
bear  it,  or  acknowledge  it;  I  triumph  over  you  that 
you  cannot  come  at  me;  nor  do  I  think  it* dishon¬ 
orable  to  come  in  armor  to  assault  him,  who  was 
in  ambuscade  when  he  wounded  me. 

“  What  need  more  be  said  to  convince  you  of 
being  guilty  of  the  basest  practice  imaginable 
than  that  it  is  such  as  has  made  you  liable  to  be 
treated  after  this  manner,  while  you  yourself  can- 
not  in  your  own  conscience  but  allow  the  justice 
of  the  upbraidings  of 

“  Your  injured  friend, 

1  *  “  Ralph  Trap.” 

No.  449.]  TUESDAY,  AUGUST  5,  1712. 

Tibi  scriptus,  matrona,  libellus. — Mart,  iii,  68. 

A.  book  the  chastest  matron  may  peruse. 

When  I  reflect  upon  my  labors  for  the  public, 

1  cannot  but  observe,  that  part  of  the  species,  of 
"  b,ch  I  profess  myself  a  friend  and  guardian,  is 
sometimes  treated  with  severity;  that  is,  there  are 
in  my  -writings  many  descriptions  given  of  ill 
persons,  and  not  yet  any  direct  encomium  made 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


538 

on  those  who  are  good.  When  I  was  convinced 
of  this  error,  1  could  not  but  immediately  call  to 
mind  several  of  the  fair  sex  of  my  acquaintance, 
whose  characters  deserve  to  be  transmitted  to  pos¬ 
terity  in  writings  which  will  long  outlive  mine. 
But  I  do  not  think  that  a  reason  why  I  should  not 
give  them  their  place  in  my  diurnal  as  long  as  it 
will  last.  For  the  service  therefore  of  my  female 
readers,  I  shall  single  out  some  characters .  of 
maids,  wives  and  widows,  which  deserve  the  im¬ 
itation  of  the  sex.  She  who  shall  lead  this  small 
illustrious  number  of  heroines  shall  be  the  amiable 
Fidelia. 

Before  I  enter  upon  the  particular  parts  of  her 
character,  it  is  necessary  to  preface,  that  she  is  the 
only  child  of  a  decrepid  father,  whose  life  is  bound 
up  m  hers.  This  gentleman  has  used  Fidelia  from 
her  cradle  with  all  the  tenderness  imaginable,  and 
has  viewed  her  growing  perfections  with  the  par¬ 
tiality  of  a  parent,  that  soon  thought  her  accom¬ 
plished  above  the  children  of  all  other  men,  but 
never  thought  she  was  come  to  the  utmost  improve¬ 
ment  of  which  she  herself  was  capable.  This 
fondness  has  had  very  happy  effects  upon  his  own 
happiness ;  for  she  reads,  she  dances,  she  sings, 
uses  her  spinet  and  lute  to  the  utmost  perfection  ; 
and  the  lady’s  use  of  all  these  excellencies  is  to 
divert  the  old  man  in  his  easy  chair,  when  he  is 
out  of  the  pangs  of  a  chronical  distemper.  Fidelia 
is  now  in  the  twenty-third  year  of  her  age ;  but 
the  application  of  many  lovers,  her  vigorous  time 
of  life,  her  quick  sense  of  all  that  is  truly  gallant 
and  elegant  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  plentiful  for¬ 
tune,  are  not  able  to  draw  her  from  the  side  of  her 
good  old  father.  Certain  it  is,  that  there  is  no 
kind  of  affection  so  pure  and  angelic  as  that  of  a 
father  to  a  daughter.  He  beholds  her  both  with 
and  without  regard  to  her  sex.  In  love  to  our 
wives  there  is  desire,  to  our  sons  there  is  ambition; 
but  in  that  to  our  daughters  there  is  something 
which  there  are  no  words  to  express.  Her  life  is 
designed  wholly  domestic,  and  she  is  so  ready  a 
friend  and  companion,  that  everything  that  passes 
about  a  man  is  accompanied  with  the  idea  ot  her 
presence.  Her  sex  also  is  naturally  so  much  ex¬ 
posed  to  hazard,  both  as  to  fortune  and  innocence, 
that  there  is  perhaps  a  new  cause  of  fondness 
arising  from  tnat  consideration  also.  None  but 
fathers  can  have  a  true  sense  of  these  sort  of 
pleasures  and  sensations;  but  my  familiarity  with 
the  father  of  Fidelia  makes  me  let  drop  the  words 
which  I  have  heard  him  speak,  and  observe  upon 
his  tenderness  toward  her. 

Fidelia,  on  her  part,  as  I  was  going  to  say,  as 
accomplished  as  she  is,  with  all  her  beauty,  wit, 
air,  and  mien,  employs  her  whole  time  in  care  and 
attendance  upon  her  father.  How  have  I  been 
charmed  to  see  one  of  the  most  beauteous  women 
the  age  has  produced,  on  her  knees,  helping  on 
an  old  man’s  slipper  !  Her  filial  regard  to  him  is 
what  she  makes  her  diversion,  her  business,  and 
her  glory.  When  she  was  asked  by  a  friend  of  her 
deceased  mother,  to  admit  of  the  courtship  of  her 
son,  she  answered  that  she  had  a  great  respect  and 
gratitude  to  her  for  the  overture  in  behalf  of  one 
so  near  to  her,  but  that  during  her  father’s  life  she 
would  admit  into  her  heart  no  value  for  anything 
that  should  interfere  with  her  endeavor  to  make 
his  remains  of  life  as  happy  and  easy  as  could  be 
expected  in  his  circumstances.  The  lady  admon¬ 
ished  her  of  the  prime  of  life  with  a  smile;  which 
Fidelia  answered  with  a  frankness  that  always  at¬ 
tends  unfeigned  virtue  :  “  It  is  true,  Madam,  there 
are  to  be  sure  very  great  satisfactions  to  be  ex¬ 
pected  in  the  commerce  of  a  man  of  honor,  whom 
one  tenderly  loves;  but  I  find  so  much  satisfaction 
.‘n  the  reflection  how  much  I  mitigate  a  good 


man’s  pains,  whose  welfare  depends  upon  my 
assiduity  about  him,  that  I  willingly  exclude  the 
loose  gratifications  of  passion  for  the  solid  reflec¬ 
tions  of  duty.  I  know  not  whether  any  man’s 
wife  would  be  allowed,  and  (what  I  still  more 
fear)  I  know  not  whether  I,  a  wife,  should  be 
willing  to  be  as  officious  as  I  am  at  present  about 
my  parent.”  The  happy  father  has  her  declara¬ 
tion  that  she  will  not  marry  during  his  life,  and 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  that  resolution  not  uneasy 
to  her.  Were  one  to  paint  filial  affection  in  its 
utmost  beauty,  he  could  not  have  a  more  lively 
idea  of  it  than  in  beholding  Fidelia  serving  her 
father  at  his  hours  of  rising,  meals,  and  rest. 

When  the  general  crowd  of  female  youth  are 
consulting  their  glasses,  preparing  for  balls,  assem¬ 
blies,  or  plays;  for  a  young  lady  who  could  be 
regarded  among  the  foremost  in  those  places, 
either  for  her  person,  wit,  fortune  or  conversa¬ 
tion,  and  yet  contemn  all  these  entertainments,  to 
sweeten  the  heavy  hours  of  a  decrepid  parent,  is  a 
resignation  truly  heroic.  Fidelia  performs  the 
duty  of  a  nurse  with  all  the  beauty  of  a  bride; 
nor  does  she  neglect  her  person,  because  of  her 
attendance  on  him,  when  lie  is  too  ill  to  receive 
company,  to  whom  she  may  make  an  appearance. 

Fidelia,  who  gives  him  up  her  youth,  does  not 
think  it  any  great  sacrifice  to  add  to  it  the  spoil¬ 
ing  of  her  dress.  Her  care  and  exactness  in  her 
habit  convinces  her  father  of  the  alacrity  of  her 
mind;  and  she  has  of  all  women  the  best  founda¬ 
tion  for  affecting  the  praise  of  a  seeming  negli¬ 
gence.  What  adds  to  the  entertainment  of  the 
good  old  man  is,  that  Fidelia,  where  merit  and 
fortune  cannot  be  overlooked  by  epistolary  lovers, 
reads  over  the  accounts  of  her  conquests,  plays 
on  her  spinet  the  gayest  airs  (and,  while  she  is 
doing  so,  you  would  think  her  formed  only  for 
gallantry)  to  intimate  to  him  the  pleasures  she 
despises  for  his  sake. 

Those  who  think  themselves  the  patterns  of 
good-breeding  and  gallantry  would  be  astonished 
to  hear  that,  in  -those  intervals  when  the  old  gen¬ 
tleman  is  at  ease,  and  can  bear  company,  there 
are  at  his  house,  in  the  most  regular  order,  assem¬ 
blies  of  people  of  the  highest  merit;  where  there 
is  conversation  without  mention  of  the  faults  of 
the  absent,  benevolence  between  men  and  women 
without  passion,  and  the  highest  subjects  of  mo¬ 
rality  treated  of  as  natural  and  accidental  dis¬ 
course;  all  of  which  is  owing  to  the  genius  of 
Fidelia,  who  at  once  makes  her  father’s  way  to 
another  world  easy,  and  herself  capable  of  being 
an  honor  to  his  name  in  this. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  was  the  other  day  at  the  Bear-garden,  in 
hopes  to  have  seen  your  short  face ;  but  not  being 
so  fortunate,  I  must  tell  you  by  way  of  letter, 
that  there  is  a  mystery  among  the  gladiators  which 
has  escaped  your  spectatorial  penetration.  For, 
being  in  a  box  at  an  alehouse  near  the  renowned 
seat  of  honor  above-mentioned,  I  overheard  two 
masters  of  the  science  agreeing  to  quarrel  on  the 
next  opportunity.  This  was  to  happen  in  the 
company  of  a  set  of  the  fraternity  of  basket-hilts, 
who  were  to  meet  that  evening.  When  this  was 
settled,  one  asked  the  other,  ‘  Will  you  give^cuts 
or  receive?’  The  other  answered,  ‘ Receive.’  It 
was  replied,  ‘Are  you  a  passionate  man  l  ‘  No, 
provided  you  cut  no  more,  nor  no  deeper  than  we 
agree.’  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  acquaint  you 
with  this,  that  the  people  may  not  pay  their 
money  for  fighting,  and  be  cheated. 

“  Your  humble  Servant, 

“  Scabbard  Rusty.” 


539 


THE  SPE 

No.  450.]  WEDNESDAY,  AUGUST  16,  1712. 

- Quserenda  pecuuia  priinum, 

Virtus  post  nummos. —  Hor.  1  Ep.  i.  53. 

- Get  money,  money  still, 

And  then  let  virtue  follow,  if  she  will. — Pope. 

**  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  All  men,  through  different  paths,  make  at  the 
same  common  thing,  money;  and  it  is  to  her  we 
owe  the  politician,  the  merchant,  and  the  lawyer; 
nay,  to  be  free  with  you,  I  believe  to  that  also  we 
are  beholden  for  our  Spectator.  I  am  apt  to  think, 
that  could  we  look  into  our  own  hearts,  we  should 
see  money  engraved  in  them  in  more  lively  and 
moving  characters  than  self  preservation;  for  who 
can  reflect  upon  the  merchant  hoisting  sail  in  a 
doubtful  pursuit  of  her,  and  all  mankind  sacrific¬ 
ing  their  quiet  to  her,  but  must  perceive  that  the 
characters  of  self-preservation  (which  were,  doubt¬ 
less,  originally  the  brightest)  are  sullied,  if  not 
wholly  defaced;  and  that  those  of  money  (which 
at  first  w'as  only  valuable  as  a  mean  to  security) 
are  of  late  so  brightened,  that  the  characters  of  self- 
preservation,  like  a  less  light  set  by  a  greater,  are 
become  almost  imperceptible?  Thus  has  money 
got  the  upper  hand  of  what  all  mankind  formerly 
thought  most  dear,  viz:  security;  and  I  wish  I 
could  say  she  had  here  put  a  stop  to  her  victories: 
but,  alas  !  common  honesty  fell  a  sacrifice  to  her. 
This  is  the  way  scholastic  men  talk  of  the  greatest 
good  in  the  world;  but  I,  a  tradesman,  shall  give 
you  another  account  of  this  matter  in  the  plain 
narrative  of  my  own  life.  I  think  it  proper  in 
the  first  place,  to  acquaint  my  readers,  that  since 
my  setting  out  in  the  world,  which  was  in  the 
year  1660,  I  never  wanted  money:  having  begun 
with  an  indifferent  good  stock  in  the  tobacco- 
trade,  to  which  I  was  bred;  and  by  the  continual 
successes  it  has  pleased  Providence  to  bless  my 
endeavors  with,  am  at  last  arrived  at  what  they 
call  a  plum.*  To  uphold  my  discourse  in  the 
manner  of  your  wits  or  philosophers,  by  speaking 
fine  things,  or  drawing  inferences  as  they  pretend, 
from  the  nature  of  the  subject,  I  account  it  vain; 
having  never  found  anything  in  the  writings  of 
such  men,  that  did  not  savor  more  of  the  inven¬ 
tion  of  the  brain,  or  what  is  styled  speculation, 
than  of  sound  judgment  or  profitable  observation. 

I  will  readily  grant,  indeed,  that  there  is  what 
the  wits  call  natural  in  their  talk;  which  is  the 
utmost  those  curious  authors  can  assume  to  them¬ 
selves,  and  is,  indeed,  all  they  endeavor  at,  for 
they  are  but  lamentable  teachers.  And  what,  I 
pray,  is  natural?  That  which  is  pleasing  and 
easy.  And  what  are  pleasing  and  easy  ?  Forsooth 
a  new  thought,  or  conceit,  dressed  up  in  smooth 
quaint  language,  to  make  you  smile  and  wag  your 
head,  as  being  what  you  never  imagined  before, 
and  yet  wonder  why  you  had  not;  mere  frothy 
amusements,  fit  only  for  boys  or  silly  women  to 
be  caught  with ! 

“  It  is  not  my  present  intention  to  instruct  my 
readers  in  the  methods  of  acquiring  riches;  that 
may  be  the  work  of  another  essay;  but  to  exhibit 
the  real  and  solid  advantages  I  have  found  by 
them  in  my  long  and  manifold  experience;  nor 
yet  all  the  advantages  of  so  worthy  and  valuable 
a  blessing,  (for  who  does  not  know  or  imagine  the 
comforts  of  being  warm  or  living  at  ease,  and  that 
power  and  pre-eminence  are  their  inseparable 
attendants  ?)  but  only  to  instance  the  great  supports 
they  afford  us  under  the  severest  calamities  and  mis¬ 
fortunes;  to  show  that  the  love  of  them  is  a  special 
antidote  against  immorality  and  vice;  and  that 
the  same  does  likewise  naturally  dispose  men  to 


CTATOR. 

actions  of  piety  and  devotion.  All  which  I  can 
make  out  by  my  own  experience,  who  think  my¬ 
self  no  ways  particular  from  the  rest  of  mankind, 
nor  better  nor  worse  by  nature  than  generally  other 
men  are. 

“In  the  year  1665,  when  the  sickness  *  was,  I 
lost  by  it  my  wife  and  two  children,  which  were 
all  rav  stock.  Probably  I  might  have  had  more, 
considering  I  was  married  between  four  and  five 
years;  but  finding  her  to  be  a  teeming  woman,  I 
was  careful,  as  having  then  little  above  a  brace  of 
thousand  pounds  to  carry  on  my  trade  and  main¬ 
tain  a  family  with.  I  loved  them  as  usually  men 
do  their  wives  and  children,  and  therefore  could 
not  resist  the  first  impulses  of  nature  on  so 
wounding  a  loss;  but  I  quickly  roused  myself, 
and  found  means  to  alleviate,  and  at  last  con¬ 
quer,  my  affliction,  by  reflecting  how  that  she 
and  her  children  had  been  no  great  expense  to 
me;  the  best  part  of  her  fortune  was  still  left; 
that  my  charge  being  reduced  to  myself,  a  jour- 
neyman,  and  a  maid,  I  might  live  far  cheaper 
than  before;  and  that  being  now  a  childless  wi¬ 
dower,  I  might  perhaps,  marry  a  no  less  deserving 
woman,  and  with  a  much  better  fortune  than  she 
brought,  which  was  but  800Z.  And  to  convince 
my  readers  that  such  considerations  as  these  were 
proper  and  apt  to  produce  such  an  effect,  I  remem¬ 
ber  it  was  the  constant  observation  at  that  deplor¬ 
able  time  when  so  many  hundreds  were  swept 
away  daily,  that  the  rich  ever  bore  the  loss  of 
their  families  and  relations  far  better  than  the 
oor:  the  latter,  having  little  or  nothing  before- 
and,  and  living  from  hand  to  mouth,  placed  the 
whole  comfort  and  satisfaction  of  their  lives  in 
their  wives  and  children,  and  were  therefore,  in¬ 
consolable. 

“  The  following  year  happened  the  fire;  at 
which  time,  by  good  providence,  it  was  my  for¬ 
tune  to  have  converted  the  greatest  part  of  my 
effects  into  ready  money,  on  the  prospect  of  an 
extraordinary  advantage  which  I  was  preparing 
to  lay  hold  on.  This  calamity  was  very  terrible 
and  astonishing,  the  fury  of  the  flames  being  such, 
that  whole  streets,  at  several  distant  places,  were 
destroyed,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  so  that  (as 
it  is  Avell  known)  almost  all  our  citizens  were 
burnt  out  of  what  they  had.  But  what  did  I  then 
do?  I  did  not  stand  gazing  on  the  ruins  of  our 
noble  metropolis;  I  did  not  shake  my  head,  wring 
my  hands,  sigh,  and  shed  tears;  I  considered  with 
myself  what  could  this  avail?  I  fell  a  plodding 
what  advantages  might  be  made  of  the  ready  cash 
I  had;  and  immediately  bethought  myself  that 
wonderful  pennyworths  might  be  bought  of  the 
goods  that  were  saved  out  of  the  fire.  In  short, 
with  about  2000Z.  and  a  little  credit,  I  bought  as 
much  tobacco  as  raised  my  estate  to  the  value  of 
10,0D0Z.  I  then  ‘looked  on  the  ashes  of  our  city, 
and  the  misery  of  its  late  inhabitants,  as  an  effect 
of  the  just  wrath  and  indignation  of  heaven  to¬ 
ward  a  sinful  and  perverse  people.' 

“After  this  I  married  again:  and  that  wife 
dying  I  took  another:  but  both  proved  to  be  idle 
baggages:  the  first  gave  me  a  great  deal  of  plague 
and  vexation  by  her  extravagances,  and  I  became 
one  of  the  by-words  of  the  city.  I  knew  it  would 
be  to  no  manner  of  purpose  to  go  about  to  curb 
the  fancies  and  inclinations  of  women,  which  fly 
out  the  more  for  being  restrained;  but  what  I 
could,  I  did;  I  watched  her  narrowly,  and  by 
goodluck  found  her  in  the  embraces  (for  which  I  had 
two  witnesses  with  me)  of  a  wealthy  spark  of  the 
court-end  of  the  town;  of  whom  I  recovered  15,000Z. 
which  made  me  amends  for  what  she  had  idly 


*  A  cant  word  used  by  commercial  people,  to  signify  100,0003. 


*  The  plague. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


540 

squandered,  and  put  a  silence  to  all  my  neighbors, 
taking  off  my  reproach  by  the  gain  they  saw  I  had 
by  it.  The  last  died  about  two  years  after  I  mar¬ 
ried  her,  in  labor  of  three  children.  I  conjecture 
they  wTere  begotten  by  a  country  kinsman  of  hers, 
whom,  at  her  recommendation,  I  took  into  my 
family,  and  gave  wages  to  as  a  journeyman.  What 
this  creature  expended  in  delicacies  and  high  diet 
for  her  kinsman  (as  wTell  as  I  could  compute  by 
the  poulterer’s,  fishmonger’s,  and  grocer’s  bills), 
amounted  in  the  said  two  years  to  one  hundred 
eighty-six  pounds  four  shillings  and  five-pence 
halfpenny.  The  fine  apparel,  bracelets,  lockets,  and 
treats,  etc.,  of  the  other,  according  to  the  best  calcu¬ 
lation,  came,  in  three  years  and  about  three  quarters, 
to  seven  hundred  forty-four  pounds  seven  shillings 
and  nine-pence.  After  this  I  resolved  never  to 
marry  more,  and  found  I  had  been  a  gainer  by  my 
marriages,  and  the  damage  granted  me  for  the 
abuses  of  my  bed  (all  charges  deducted),  eight 
thousand  three  hundred  pounds  within  a  trifle. 

“  I  come  now  to  show  the  good  effects  of  the 
love  of  money  on  the  lives  of  men,  toward  render¬ 
ing  them  honest,  sober,  and  religious.  When  I 
was  a  young  man,  I  had  a  mind  to  make  the  best 
of  my  wits,  and  overreached  a  country  chap  in  a 

Earcel  of  unsound  goods;  to  whom,  upon  his  up- 
raiding,  and  threatening  to  expose  me  for  it,  I 
returned  the  equivalent  of  his  loss;  and  upon  his 
good  advice,  wherein  he  clearly  demonstrated  the 
folly  of  such  artifices,  which  can  never  end  but  in 
shame,  and  the  ruin  of  all  correspondence,  I  never 
after  transgressed.  Can  your  courtiers  who  take 
bribes,  or  your  lawyers  or  physicians  in  their 
practice,  or  even  the  divines  Avho  intermeddle  in 
worldly  affairs,  boast  of  making  but  one  slip  in 
their  lives,  and  of  such  a  thorough  and  lasting 
reformation?  Since  my  coming  into  the  world  I 
do  not  remember  I  was  ever  overtaken  in  drink, 
save  nine  times,  once  at  the  christening  of  my 
first  child,  thrice  at  our  city  feasts,  and  five  times 
at  driving  of  bargains.  My  reformation  I  can 
attribute  to  nothing  so  much  as  the  love  and  es¬ 
teem  of  money,  for  1  found  myself  to  be  extrava¬ 
gant  in  my  drink,  and  apt  to  turn  projector,  and 
make  rash  bargains.  As  for  women,  I  never  knew 
any  except  my  wives :  for  my  reader  must  know, 
and  it  is  what  we  may  confide  in  as  an  excellent 
recipe,  that  the  love  of  business  and  money  is 
the  greatest  mortifier  of  inordinate  desires  imagin¬ 
able,  as  employing  the  mind  continually  in  the 
careful  oversight  of  what  one  has,  in  the  eager 
quest  after  more,  in  looking  after  the  negligences 
and  deceits  of  servants,  in  the  due  entering  and 
stating  of  accounts,  in  hunting  after  chaps,  and 
in  the  exact  knowledge  of  the  state  of  markets; 
which  things  whoever  thoroughly  attends  to,  will 
find  enough  and  enough  to  employ  his  thoughts 
on  every  moment  of  the  day;  so  that  I  cannot 
call  to  mind,  that  in  all  the  time  I  was  a  hus¬ 
band,  which,  off  and  on,  was  about  twelve  years, 
I  ever  once  thought  of  my  wives  but  in  bed.  And, 
lastly,  for  religion,  I  have  ever  been  a  constant 
churchman,  both  forenoons  and  afternoons,  on 
Sundays,  never  forgetting  to  be  thankful  for  any 
ain  or  advantage  I  had  had  that  day;  and  on  Satur- 
ay  nights,  upon  casting  up  my  accounts,  I  always 
was  grateful  for  the  sum  of  my  week’s  profits,  and 
at  Christmas  for  that  of  the  whole  year.  It  is  true, 
perhaps,  that  my  devotion  has  not  been  the  most 
fervent;  which,  I  think,  ought  to  be  imputed  to 
the  evenness  and  sedateness  of  my  temper,  which 
never  would  admit  of  any  impetuosities  of  any 
sort:  and  I  can  remember  that  in  my  youth  and 
prime  of  manhood,  when  my  blood  ran  brisker,  I 
took  greater  pleasure  in  religious  exercises  than  at 
present,  or  many  years  past,  and  that  my  devotion 


sensibly  declined  as  age,  which  is  dull  and  un¬ 
wieldy,  came  upon  me. 

“  I  have,  I  hope,  here  proved,  that  the  love  of 
money  prevents  all  immorality  and  vice;  which, 
if  you  will  not  allow,  you  must,  that  the  pursuit 
of  it  obliges  men  to  the  same  kind  of  life  as  they 
would  follow  if  they  were  really  virtuous;  which 
is  all  I  have  to  say  at  present,  only  recommend¬ 
ing  to  you,  that  you  would  think  of  it,  and  turn 
ready  wit  into  ready  money  as  fast  as  you  can.  I 
conclude,  “  Your  Servant, 

T.  “  Ephraim  Weed.” 


No.  451.]  THURSDAY,  AUGUST  7,  1712. 

- Jam  ssevus  apertam 

In  rabiem  verti  coepit  jocua,  et  per  honestas 

Ire  domos  impune  minax - Hor.  2  Ep.  i.  140. 

_ _ Times  corrupt  and  nature  ill-inclin’d 

Produc’d  the  point  that  left  the  sting  behind; 

Till,  friend  with  friend,  and  families  at  strife, 

Triumphant  malice  rag’d  through  private  life.— Pops. 

There  is  nothing  so  scandalous  to  a  govern¬ 
ment,  and  detestable  in  the  eyes  of  all  good  men, 
as  defamatory  papers  and  pamphlets;  but  at  the 
same  time  there  is  nothing  so  difficult  to  tame  as 
a  satirical  author.  An  angry  writer  who  cannot 
appear  in  print,  naturally  vents  his  spleen  in 
libels  and  lampoons.  A  gay  old  woman,  says 
the  fable,  seeing  all  her  wrinkles  represented  in  a 
large  looking-glass,  threw  it  upon  the  ground  in 
a  passion,  and  broke  it  into  a  thousand  pieces;  but 
as  she  was  afterward  surveying  the  fragments  with 
a  spiteful  kind  of  pleasure,  she  could  not  forbear 
uttering  herself  in  the  following  soliloquy.  “  What 
have  I  got  by  this  revengeful  blow  of  mine?  I 
have  only  multiplied  my  deformity,  and  see  a 
hundred  ugly  faces,  where  before  I  saw  but  one.” 

It  has  been  proposed  to  oblige  every  person 
that  writes  a  book,  or  a  paper,  to  swear  himself 
the  author  of  it,  and  enter  down  in  a  public  re¬ 
gister  his  name  and  place  of  abode. 

This  indeed  would  have  effectually  suppressed 
all  printed  scandal,  which  generally  appears  under 
borrowed  names,  or  under  none  at  all.  But  it  is 
to  be  feared  that  such  an  expedient  would  not 
only  destroy  scandal,  but  learning.  It  would 
operate  promiscuously,  and  root  up  the  coru  and 
tares  together.  Not  to  mention  some  of  the  most 
celebrated  works  of  piety,  which  have  proceeded 
from  anonymous  authors,  who  have  made  it  their 
merit  to  convey  to  us  so  great  a  charity  in  secret; 
there  are  few  works  of  genius  that  come  out  at 
first  with  the  author’s  name.  The  writer  gene¬ 
rally  makes  a  trial  of  them  in  the  world  before  he 
owns  them;  and,  I  believe,  very  few,  who  are 
capable  of  writing,  would  set  pen  to  paper,  if  they 
knew  beforehand  that  they  must  not  publish 
their  productions  but  on  such  conditions.  For 
my  own  part,  I  must  declare,  the  papers  I  pre¬ 
sent  the  public  are  like  fairy  favors,  which 
shall  last  no  longer  than  while  the  author  is 
concealed. 

That  which  makes  it  particularly  difficult  to  re¬ 
strain  these  sons  of  calumny  and  defamation  is, 
that  all  sides  are  equally  guilty  of  it,  and  that 
every  dirty  scribbler  is  countenanced  by  great 
names,  whose  interests  he  propagates  by  such  vile 
and  infamous  methods.  I  have  never  yet  heard 
of  a  ministry  who  have  inflicted  an  exemplary 
punishment  on  an  author  that  has  supported  their 
cause  with  falsehood  and  scandal,  and  treated  in 
a  most  cruel  manner  the  names  of  those  who  have 
been  looked  upon  as  their  rivals  and  antagonists. 
Would  a  government  set  an  everlasting  mark  of 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


their  displeasure  upon  one  of  those  infamous 
writers,  who  makes  his  court  to  them  by  tearing 
to  pieces  the  reputation  of  a  competitor,  we  should 
quickly  see  an  end  put  to  this  race  of  vermin  that 
are  a  scandal  to  government,  and  a  reproach  to 
human  nature.  Such  a  proceeding  would  make  a 
minister  of  state  shine  in  history,  and  would  fill 
all  mankind  with  a  just  abhorrence  of  persons 
who  should  treat  him  unworthily,  and  employ 
against  him  those  arms  which  he  scorned  to  make 
use  of  against  his  enemies. 

I  cannot  think  that  any  one  will  be  so  unjust  as 
to  imagine  what  I  have  here  said  is  spoken  with 
respect  to  any  party  or  faction.  Every  one  who 
has  in  him  the  sentiments  either  of  a  Christian  or, 
gentleman,  cannot  but  be  highly  offended  at  this 
wicked  and  ungenerous  practice,  which  is  so 
much  in  use  among  us  at  present,  that  it  is  become 
a  kind  of  national  crime,  and  distinguishes  us 
from  all  the  governments  that  lie  about  us.  I 
cannot  but  look  upon  the  finest  strokes  of  satire 
which  are  aimed  at  particular  persons,  and  which 
are  supported  even  with  the  appearances  of  truth, 
to  be  the  marks  of  an  evil  mind,  and  highly  cri¬ 
minal  in  themselves.  Infamy,  like  other  punish¬ 
ments,  is  under  the  direction  and  distribution  of 
the  magistrate,  and  not  of  any  private  person. 
Accordingly  we  learn,  from  a  fragment  of  Cicero, 
that  though  there  were  very  few  capital  punish¬ 
ments  in  the  twelve  tables,  a  libel  or  lampoon, 
which  took  away  the  good  name  of  another,  was 
to  be  punished  by  death.  But  this  is  far  from 
being  our  case.  Our  satire  is  nothing  but  ribaldry, 
and  Billingsgate.  Scurrility  passes  for  wit;  and 
he  who  can  call  names  in  the  greatest  variety  of 
phrases,  is  looked  upon  to  have  the  shrewdest 
pen.  By  this  means  the  honor  of  families  is 
ruined,  the  highest  posts  and  greatest  titles  are 
rendered  cheap  and  vile  in  the  sight  of  the  people, 
the  noblest  virtues  and  most  exalted  parts  ex¬ 
posed  to  the  contempt  of  the  vicious  and  the 
ignorant.  Should  a  foreigner,  who  knows  nothin  o- 
of  our  private  factions,  or  one  who  is  to  act  his 
part  in  the  ivorld  when  our  present  heats  and 
animosities  are  forgot, — should,  I  say,  such  a  one 
form  to  himself  a  notion  of  the  greatest  men  of  all 
sides  in  the  British  nation,  who  are  now  living, 
from  the  characters  which  are  given  them  in  some 
or  other  of  those  abominable  writings  which  are 
daily  published  among  us,  what  a  nation  of  mon¬ 
sters  must  we  appear! 

As  this  cruel  practice  tends  to  the  utter  subver¬ 
sion  of  all  truth  and  humanity  among  us,  it  de¬ 
serves  the  utmost  detestation  and  discouragement 
of  all  who  have  either  the  love  of  their  country  or 
the  honor  of  their  religion  at  heart.  I  would 
therefore  earnestly  recommend  it  to  the  considera¬ 
tion  of  those  who  deal  in  these  pernicious  arts  of 
writing,  and  of  those  who  take  pleasure  in  the 
reading  of  them.  As  for  the  first,  I  have  spoken 
of  them  in  former  papers,  and  have  not  stuck  to 
rank  them  with  the  murderer  and  assassin.  Every 
honest  man  sets  as  high  a  value  upon  a  good 
name  as  upon  life  itself;  and  I  cannot  but  think 
that  those  who  privily  assault  the  one,  would  de¬ 
stroy  the  other,  might  they  do  it  with  the  same 
secrecy  and  impunity. 

As  for  persons  who  take  pleasure  in  the  reading 
and  dispersing  of  such  detestable  libels,  I  am 
afraid  they  fall  veiy  little  short  of  the  guilt  of  the 
first  composers.  By  a  law  of  the  Emperors  Va¬ 
lenti  nian  and  Valens,  it  was  made  death  for  any 
person  not  only  to  write  a  libel,  but,  if  he  met 
with  one  by  chance,  not  to  tear  or  burn  it.  But 
because  I  would  not  be  thought  singular  in  mv 
opinion  of  this  matter,  I  shall  conclude  my  paper 
with  the  words  of  Monsieur  Bayle,  who"  was  a 


541 

man  of  great  freedom  of  thought  as  well  as  of 
exquisite  learning  and  judgment. 

“  I  cannot  imagine,  that  a  man  who  disperses  a 
libel  is  less  desirous  of  doing  mischief  tiian  the 
author  himself.  But  what  shall  we  say  of  the 
pleasure  which  a  man  takes  in  the  reading  of  a  de¬ 
famatory  libel  ?  Is  it  not  a  heinous  sin  in  the  sight 
of  God  ?  We  must  distinguish  in  this  point.  This 
pleasure  is  either  an  agreeable  sensation  we  are 
affected  with,  when  we  meet  with  a  witty  thought 
which  is  well  expressed,  or  it  is  a  joy  which  we 
conceive  from  the  dishonor  of  the  person  who  is 
defamed.  I  will  say  nothing  to  the  first  of  these 
cases;  for  perhaps  some  would  think  that  my  mo¬ 
rality  is  not  severe  enough,  if  I  should  affirm  that 
a  man  is  not  master  of  those  agreeable  sensations, 
any  more  than  of  those  occasioned  by  sugar  or  honey, 
when  they  touch  his  tongue,  but  as  to  the  second,* 
every  one  will  own  that  pleasure  to  be  a  heinous 
sin.  The  pleasure  in  the  first  case  is  of  no  con¬ 
tinuance;  it  prevents  our  reason  and  reflection, 
and  may  be  immediately  followed  by  a  secret 
grief,  to  see  our  neighbor’s  honor  blasted.  If  it 
does  not  cease  immediately,  it  is  a  sign  that  we 
are  not  displeased  with  the  ill-nature  of  the 
satirist,  but  are  glad  to  see  him  defame  his  enemy 
by  all  kinds  of  stories;  and  then  we  deserve  the 
punishment  to  which  the  writer  of  the  libel  is 
subject.  I  shall  here  add  the  words  of  a  modern 
author.  St.  Gregory,  upon  excommunicating  those 
writers  who  had  dishonored  Castorius,  does  not 
except  those  who  read  their  works;  because,  says 
he,  if  calumnies  have  always  been  the  delight  of 
the  hearers,  and  a  gratification  of  those  persons 
who  have  no  other  advantage  over  the  honest 
man,  is  not  he  who  takes  pleasure  in  reading  them 
as  guilty  as  he  who  composed  them?  It  is  an  un¬ 
contested  maxim,  that  they  who  approve  an  action, 
would  certainly  do  it  if  they  could ;  that  is,  if 
some  reason  of  self-love  did  not  hinder  them. 
There  is  no  difference,  says  Cicero,  between  ad¬ 
vising  a  crime,  and  approving  it  when  committed. 
The  Roman  law  confirmed  this  maxim,  having 
subjected  the  approvers  and  authors  of  this  evil 
to  the  same  penalty.  We  may,  therefore,  conclude 
that  those  who  are  pleased  with  reading  defama¬ 
tory  libels,  so  far  as  to  approve  the  authors  and 
dispersers  of  them,  are  as  guilty  as  if  they  had 
composed  them;  for,  if  they  do  not  write  such 
libels  themselves,  it  is  because  they  have  not  the 
talent  of  writing,1  or  because  they  will  run  no 
hazard.” 

The  author  produces  other  authorities  to  con¬ 
firm  his  judgment  in  this  particular. — C. 


No.  452.]  FRIDAY,  AUGUST  8,  1712. 

Est  natura  homiuum  novitatis  avida.— Plin.  apud  Lillium. 
Human  nature  is  fond  of  novelty. 

There  is  no  humor  in  my  countrymen  which  I 
am  more  inclined  to  wonder  at  than  their  general 
thirst  after  news.  There  are  about  half-a-dozen 
ingenious  men,  who  live  very  plentifully  upon 
this  curiosity  of  their  fellow-subjects.  They  all 
of  them  receive  the  same  advices  from  abroad, 
and  very  often  in  the  same  words;  but  their  way 
of  cooking  it  is  so  different,  that  there  is  no  citi¬ 
zen,  who  has  an  eye  to  the  public  good,  that  can 
leave  the  coffee-house  with  peace  of  mind,  before 
he  has  gi  ven  every  one  of  them  a  reading.  These 
several  dishes  of  news  are  so  very  agreeable  to  the 
Dalate  of  my  countrymen,  that  they  are  not  only 
fleased  with  them  when  they  are  served  up  hot, 
)ut  when  they  are  again  set  cold  before  them, 
by  those  penetrating  politicians  who  oblige  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


542 

public  with  their  reflections  and  observations 
upon  every  piece  of  intelligence  that  is  sent  us 
from  abroad.  The  text  is  given  us  by  one  set  of 
writers,  and  the  comment  by  another. 

But  notwithstanding  we  have  the  same  tale 
told  us  in  so  many  different  papers,  and.  if  occa¬ 
sion  requires,  in  so  many  articles  of  the  same 
paper;  notwithstanding,  in  a  scarcity  of  foreign 
posts,  we  hear  the  same  story  repeated  by  differ¬ 
ent  advices  from  Paris,  Brussels,  the  Hague,  and 
from  every  great  town  in  Europe;  notwithstand¬ 
ing  the  multitude  of  annotations,  explanations, 
reflections,  and  various  readings,  which  it  passes 
through,  our  time  lies  heavy  on  our  hands  till  the 
arrival  of  a  fresh  mail;  we  long  to  receive  further 
particulars,  to  hear  what  will  be  the  next  step,  or 
what  will  be  the  consequences  of  that  which  has 
been  already  taken.  A  westerly  wind  keeps  the 
whole  town  in  suspense,  and  puts  a  stop  to  con¬ 
versation. 

This  general  curiosity  has  been  raised  and  in¬ 
flamed  by  our  late  wars,  and,  if  rightly  directed, 
might  be  of  good  use  to  a  person  who  has  such  a 
thirst  awakened  in  him.  Why  should  not  a  man, 
who  takes  delight  in  reading  everything  that  is 
new,  apply  himself  to  history,  travels,  and  other 
writings  of  the  same  kind,  where  he  will  find  per¬ 
petual  fuel  for  his  curiosity,  and  meet  with  much 
more  pleasure  and  improvement  than  in  these 
>apers  of  the  week?  An  honest  tradesman,  who 
'  anguishes  a  whole  summer  in  expectation  of  a 
battle,  and  perhaps  is  baulked  at  last,  may  here 
meet  with  half  a-dozen  in  a  day.  He  may  read 
the  news  of  a  whole  campaign  in  less  time  than 
he  now  bestows  upon  the  products  of  any  single 
post.  Fights,  conquests,  and  revolutions,  lie  thick 
together.  The  reader’s  curiosity  is  raised  and 
satisfied  every  moment,  and  his  passions  disap¬ 
pointed  or  gratified,  without  being  detained  in  a 
state  of  uncertainty  from  day  to  day,  or  lying  at 
the  mercy  of  the  sea  and  wind;  in  short,  the  mind 
is  not  here  kept  in  perpetual  gape  after  know 
ledge,  nor  punished  with  that  eternal  thirst  which 
is  the  portion  of  all  our  modern  newsmongers  and 
coffee-house  politicians. 

All  matters  of  fact,  which  a  man  did  not  know 
before,  are  news  to  him;  and  I  do  not  see  how 
any  haberdasher  in  Cheapside  is  more  concerned 
in  the  present  quarrel  of  the  Cantons,  than  he  was 
in  that  of  the  League.  At  least,  I  believe  every 
one  will  allow  me  it  is  of  more  importance  to  an 
Englishman  to  know  the  history  of  his  ancestors 
than  that  of  his  cotemporaries  who  live  upon 
the  bank  of  the  Danube  or  the  Borysthenes.  As 
for  those  who  are  of  another  mind,  I  shall  recom¬ 
mend  to  them  the  following  letter  from  a  pro¬ 
jector  who  is  willing  to  turn  a  penny  by  this  re¬ 
markable  curiosity  of  his  countrymen. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“You  must  have  observed,  that  men  who  fre¬ 
quent  coffee-houses,  and  delight  in  news,  are 
pleased  with  everything  that  is  matter  of  fact,  so 
it  be  what  they  have  not  heard  before.  A  victory, 
or  a  defeat,  is  equally  agreeable  to  them.  The 
shutting  of  a  cardinal’s  mouth  pleases  them  one 
post,  and  the  opening  of  it  another.  They  are 
glad  to  hear  the  French  court  is  removed  to  Marli, 
and  are  afterward  as  much  delighted  with  its  re¬ 
turn  to  Versailles.  They  read  the  advertisements 
with  the  same  curiosity  as  the  articles  of  public 
news;  and  are  as  pleased  to  hear  of  a  piebald 
horse  that  is  strayed  out  of  a  field  near  Islington, 
as  of  a  whole  troop  that  have  been  engaged  in 
any  foreign  adventure.  In  short,  they  have  a 
relish  for  everything  that  is  news,  let  the  matter 


of  it  be  what  it  will;  or,  to  speak  more  properly; 
they  are  men  of  a  voracious  appetite,  but  no  taste. 
Now,  Sir,  since  the  great  fountain  of  news,  I  mean 
the  war,  is  very  near  being  dried  up;  and  since 
these  gentlemen  have  contracted  such  an  inextin¬ 
guishable  thirst  after  it;  I  have  taken  their  case  and 
my  own  into  consideration,  and  have  thought  of  a 
project  which  may  turn  to  the  advantage  of  us  both. 

I  have  thoughts  of  publishing  a  daily  paper,  which 
shall  comprehend  in  it  all  the  most  remarkable 
occurrences  in  every  little  town,  village,  and 
hamlet,  that  lie  within  ten  miles  of  London,  or, 
in  other  words,  within  the  verge  of  the  penny- 
post.  I  have  pitched  upon  this  scene  of  intelli¬ 
gence  for  two  reasons;  first  because  the  carriage 
of  letters  will  be  very  cheap;  and,  secondly,  be¬ 
cause  I  may  receive  them  every  day.  By  this 
means  my  readers  will  have  their  news  fresh 
and  fresh,  and  many  worthy  citizens,  who  cannot 
sleep  with  any  satisfaction  at  present,  for  want  of 
being  informed  how  the  world  goes,  may  go  to 
bed  contentedly,  it  being  my  design  to  put  out 
my  paper  every  night  at  nine  o’clock  precisely. 

I  have  already  established  correspondences  in 
these  several  places,  and  received  very  good  in¬ 
telligence. 

“  By  my  last  advices  from  Knightsbridge  I  hear 
that  a  horse  was  clapped  into  the  pound  on  the 
third  instant,  and  that  he  was  not  released  when 
the  letters  came  away. 

“  We  are  informed  from  Pankridge,*  that  a 
dozen  weddings  were  lately  celebrated  in  the 
mother-church  of  that  place,  but  are  referred  to 
their  next  letters  for  the  names  of  the  parties  con¬ 
cerned. 

“  Letters  from  Brompton  advise,  that  the  widow 
Blight  had  received  several  visits  from  John  Mil¬ 
dew,  which  affords  great  matter  of  speculation  in 
those  parts. 

“  By  a  fisherman  who  lately  touched  at  Ham¬ 
mersmith,  there  is  advice  from  Putney,  that  a  cer¬ 
tain  person  well  known  in  that  place  is  like  to 
lose  his  election  for  churchwarden;  but  this  being 
boat-news,  we  cannot  give  entire  credit  to  it. 

“Letters  from  Paddington  bring  little  more 
than  that  William  Squeak,  the  sow-gelder,  passed 
through  that  place  the  fifth  instant. 

“  They  advise  from  Fulham,  that  things  re¬ 
mained  there  in  the  same  state  they  were.  They 
had  intelligence,  just  as  the  letters  came  away,  of 
a  tub  of  excellent  ale  just  set  abroach  at  Parson’s 
Green;  but  this  wanted  confirmation. 

“  I  have  here,  Sir,  given  you  a  specimen  of  the 
news  with  which  I  intend  to  entertain  the  town, 
and  which,  when  drawn  up  regularly  in  the  form  of  a 
newspaper,  will,  I  doubt  not,  be  very  acceptable 
to  many  of  those  public  spirited  readers  who  take 
more  delight  in  acquainting  themselves  with  other 
people’s  business  than  their  own.  I  hope  a  paper 
of  this  kind,  which  lets  us  know  what  is  done 
near  home,  may  be  more  useful  to  us  than  those 
which  are  filled  with  advices  from  Zug  and  Bender, 
and  make  some  amends  for  that  dearth  of  intelli¬ 
gence,  which  we  may  justly  apprehend  in  times  of 
peace.  If  I  find  that  you  receive  this  project  fa¬ 
vorably,  I  will  shortly  trouble  you  with  one  or 
two  more;  and  in  the  meantime  am,  most  worthy 
Sir,  with  all  due  respect, 

“  Your  most  obedient, 

C.  “  and  most  humble  Servant.” 


*  Pancras,  then  a  fashionable  place  for  weddings. 


THE  SPECTATOR 


No.  453. J  SATURDAY,  AUGUST  9,  1712. 


543 


Non  usitata  nec  tenui  forar 


Penna 


lion.  2  0d.  xx.  1. 


No  weak,  no  common  wing  shall  bear 
My  rising  body  through  the  air.— Ckeech. 

1  here  is  not  a  more  pleasing  exercise  of  the 
mind  than  gratitude.  It  is  accompanied  with 
such  an  inward  satisfaction  that  the  duty  is  suffi¬ 
ciently  rewarded  by  the  performance.  It  is  not 
like  the  practice  of  many  other  virtues,  difficult 
and  painful,  but  attended  with  so  much  pleasure, 
that  were  there  no  positive  command  which  en¬ 
joined  it,  nor  any  recompense  laid  up  for  it  here¬ 
after,  a  generous  mind  would  indulge  in  it,  for  the 
natural  gratification  that  accompanies  it. 

If  gratitude  is  due  from  man  to  man,  how  much 
more  from  man  to  his  Maker  ?  The  Supreme  Be¬ 
ing  does  not  only  confer  upon  us  those  bounties, 
which  proceed  more  immediately  from  his  hand, 
but  even  those  benefits  which  are  conveyed  to  us 
by  others.  Every  blessing  we  enjoy,  by  what 
means  soever  it  may  be  derived  upon  us,  is  the 
gift  of  him  who  is  the  great  Author  of  good,  and 
V  ather  of  mercies. 

It  gratitude  when  exerted  toward  one  another, 
naturally  produces  a  very  pleasing  sensation  in 
the  mind  of  a  grateful  man;  it  exalts  the  soul  into 
rapture,  when  it  is  employed  on  this  great  object 
of  gratitude,  on  this  beneficent  Being  who  has 
given  us  everything  we  already  possess,  and  from 
whom  we  expect  everything  we  yet  hope  for. 

Most  of  the  Avorks  of  the  pagan  poets  were  either 
direct  hymns  to  their  deities,  or  tended  indirectly 
to  the  celebration  of  their  respective  attributes 
and  perfections.  Those  who  are  acquainted  with 
the  works  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  poets  which  are 
still  extant,  will,  upon  reflection,  find  this  obser¬ 
vation  so  true,  that  1  shall  not  enlarge  upon  it 
One  would  wonder  that  more  of  our  Christian 
poets  have  not  turned  their  thoughts  this  Avay 
especially  if  we  consider  that  our  idea  of  the  Su¬ 
preme  Being  is  not  only  infinitely  more  great  and 
noble  than  what  could  possibly  enter  into  the 
iiea!  if  a  heathen,  but  filled  Avith  everything  that 
can  raise  the  imagination,  and  give  an  opportu¬ 
nity  for  the  sublimest  thoughts  and  conceptions. 

Plutarch  tells  us  of  a  heathen  who  was  singinw 
a  hymn  to  Diana,  in  which  he  celebrated  her  for 
her  delight  in  human  sacrifices,  and  other  instan¬ 
ces  of  cruelty  and  revenge;  upon  which  a  poet 
who  was  present  at  this  piece  of  devotion,  and 
seems  to  have  had  a  truer  idea  of  the  divine 
nature,  told  the  votary,  by  way  of  reproof,  that, 
m  recompense  for  his  hymn,  he  heartily  wished 
e  might  have  a  daughter  with  the  same  temper 
with  the  goddess  he  celebrated.  It  was  indeed 
impossible  to  Avrite  the  praises  of  one  of  those 
false  deities,  according  to  the  pagan  creed,  without 
a  mixture  of  impertinence  and  absurdity. 

The  Jews  who,  before  the  time  of  Christianity, 
wmre  the  only  people  who  had  any  knowledge  of 
the  true  God,  have  set  the  Christian  world  an  ex- 
ample  how  they  ought  to  employ  this  divine  talent 
of  which  I  am  speaking,  as  that  nation  produced 
men  of  great  genius,  without  considering  them  as 
inspired  writers,  they  have  transmitted  to  us  many 
hymns  and  divine  odes,  which  excel  those  that 
are,  delivered  down  to  us  by  the  ancient  Greeks 
and  Romans,  in  the  poetry,  as  much  as  in  the 
subject  to  Ayhich  it  was  consecrated.  This,  I  think 
might  easily  be  shown,  if  there  were  occasion 
for  it. 

I  have  already  communicated  to  the  public  some 
pieces  of  divine  poetry;  and,  as  they  have  met 
with  a  very  favorable  reception,  I  shall,  from  time 
to  time,  publish  any  work  of  the  same  nature. 


which  has  not  yet  appeared  in  print,  and  may  be 
acceptable  to  my  readers. 

L 

When  all  thy  mercies,  0  my  God, 

My  rising  soul  surveys ; 

Transported  with  the  view,  I’m  lost 
In  wonder,  love,  and  praise: 

II. 

0  how  shall  words  with  equal  warmth 
The  gratitude  declare, 

That  glows  within  my  ravish’d  heart? 

But  thou  canst  read  it  there. 

III. 

Thy  providence  my  life  sustain’d, 

And  all  my  wants  redress’d 
When  in  the  silent  womb  I  lay,  1 

And  hung  upon  the  breast. 

IV. 

To  all  my  weak  complaints  and  cries, 
lhy  mercy  lent  an  ear, 

y®1  my  feeWe  thoughts  had  learnt 
xo  iorm  themselves  in  pray’r. 

V. 

Unnumber’d  comforts  to  my  soul, 

Thy  tender  care  bestow’d, 

Before  my  infant  heart  conceiv’d 
From  whom  those  comforts  flow’d. 

VI. 

When  in  the  slipp’ry  paths  of  youth 
With  heedless  steps  I  ran, 

Thine  arm  unseen  convey’d  me  safe, 

And  led  me  up  to  man. 

VII. 

Through  hidden  dangers,  toils,  and  death?, 

It  gently  clear’d  my  way, 

And  through  the  pleasing  snares  of  vice. 

More  to  be  fear’d  than  they. 

VIII. 

When  worn  with  sickness,  oft  hast  Thou 
V  ith  health  renew’d  my  face. 

And  when  in  sins  and  sorrows  sunk, 

Reviv’d  my  soul  with  grace. 

IX. 

Thy  bounteous  hand  with  worldly  bliss 
Has  made  my  cup  run  o’er, 

And  in  a  kind  and  faithful  friend 
Has  doubled  all  my  store. 

X. 

Ten  thousand  thousand  precious  gifts 
My  daily  thanks  employ; 

Nor  is  the  least  a  cheei  ful  heart, 

That  tastes  those  gifts  with  joy. 

XI. 

Through  every  period  of  my  life 
Thy  goodness  I’ll  pursue  ; 

And  after  death  in  distant  worlds 
The  glorious  theme  renew. 

XII. 

When  nature  fails,  and  day  and  night 
Divide  thy  works  no  more, 

My  ever-grateful  heart,  0  Lord, 

Thy  mercy  shall  adore. 

XIII. 

Through  all  eternity  to  Thee 
A  joyful  song  I’ll  raise, 

For  oh!  eternity’s  too  short 
To  utter  all  thy  Praise. 


No.  454.]  MONDAY,  AUGUST  11,  1712. 

Sine  me,  vacivum  tempus  ne  quod  dem  mihi 
Laboris.  Ter.  Hcaut.  act.  i.  sc.  1. 


G'*  e  me  leave  to  allow  myself  no  respite  from  labor. 

It  is  an  inexpressible  pleasure  to  know  a  little 
of  the  world,  and  be  of  no  character  or  signifi 
cancy  in  it. 


THE  SPECTATO  R. 


544 

To  be  ever  unconcerned,  and  ever  looking  on 
new  objects  with  an  endless  curiosity,  is  a  delight 
known  only  to  those  who  are  turned  for  specula¬ 
tion  :  nay,  they  who  enjoy  it  must  value  things 
only  as  they  are  the  objects  of  speculation,  with¬ 
out  drawing  any  worldly  advantage  to  themselves 
from  them,  but  just  as  they  are  what  contribute  to 
their  amusement,  or  the  improvement  of  the  mind. 

I  lay  one  night  last  week  at  Richmond;  and  being 
restless,  not  out  of  dissatisfaction,  but  a  certain 
busy  inclination  one  sometimes  has,  I  rose  at  four 
in  the  morning,  and  took  boat  for  London,  with  a 
resolution  to  rove  by  boat  and  coach  for  the  next 
four-and-twenty  hours,  till  the  many  objects  I 
must  needs  meet  with  should  tire  my  imagination, 
and  give  me  an  inclination  to  a  repose  more  pro¬ 
found  than  I  was  at  that  time  capable  of.  I  beg 
people’s  pardon  for  an  odd  humor  I  am  guilty  ol, 
and  was  often  that  day,  which  is  saluting  any 
person  whom  I  like,  whether  I  know  him  or  not. 
This  is  a  particularity  would  be  tolerated  in  me, 
if  they  considered  that  the  greatest  pleasure  I 
know  I  receive  at  my  eyes,  and  that  I  am  obliged 
to  an  agreeable  person  for  coming  abroad  into  my 
view,  as  another  is  for  a  visit  of  conversation  at 
their  own  houses. 

The  hours  of  the  day  and  night  are  taken  up  in 
the  cities  of  London  and  Westminster,  by  people 
as  different  from  each  other  as  those  who  are  born 
in  different  centuries.  Men  of  six  o’clock  give 
way  to  those  of  nine,  they  of  nine  to  the  genera¬ 
tion  of  twelve;  and  they  of  twelve  disappear,  and 
make  room  for  the  fashionable  world,  who  have 
made  two  o’clock  the  noon  of  the  day. 

When  we  first  put  off  from  shore,  we  soon  fell 
in  with  a  fleet  of  gardeners,  bound  for  the  several 
market  ports  of  London;  and  it  was  the  most 
pleasing  scene  imaginable  to  see  the  cheerfulness 
with  which  those  industrious  people  plied  their 
way  to  a  certain  sale  of  their  goods.  The  banks 
on  each  side  are  as  well  peopled,  and  beautified 
with  as  agreeable  plantations,  as  any  spot  on  the 
earth;  but  the  Thames  itself,  loaded  with  the  pro¬ 
duct  of  each  shore,  added  very  much  to  the  land¬ 
scape.  It  was  very  easy  to  observe  their  sailing, 
and  the  countenances  of  the  ruddy  virgins,  who 
were  supercargoes,  the  parts  of  the  town  to  which 
they  were  bound.  There  was  an  air  in  the  pur¬ 
veyors  for  Covent-garden,  who  frequently  converse 
Vith  morning  rakes,  very  unlike  the  seeming 
sobriety  of  those  bound  for  Stocks-market. 

Nothing  remarkable  happened  in  our  voyage; 
but  I  landed  with  ten  sail  of  apricot-boats,  at 
Strand-bridge,  after  having  put  in  at  Nine-Elms, 
and  taken  in  melons  consigned  by  Mr.  Cuffe,  of 
that  place  to  Sarah  Sewell  and  Company,  at  their 
stall  in  Covent  garden.  We  arrived  at  Strand- 
bridge  at  six  of  the  clock,  and  were  unloading, 
when  the  hackney-coachmen  of  the  foregoing  night 
took  their  leave  of  each  other  at  the  Dark-house, 
to  go  to  bed  before  the  day  was  too  far  spent. 
Chimney-sweepers  passed  by  us  as  we  made  up 
to  the  market,  and  some  raillery  happened  be¬ 
tween  one  of  the  fruit-wenches  and  those  black 
men  about  the  Devil  and  Eve,  with  allusion  to 
their  several  professions.  I  could  not  believe 
any  place  more  entertaining  than  Covent-garden; 
where  I  strolled  from  one  fruit-shop  to  another, 
with  crowds  of  agreeable  young  women  around 
me,  who  were  purchasing  fruit  for  their  respective 
families.  It  was  almost  eight  of  the  clock  before 
I  could  leave  that  variety  of  objects.  I  took 
coach  and  followed  a  young  lady,  who  tripped 
into  another  just  before  me,  attended  by  her  maid. 
I  saw  immediately  she  was  of  the  family  of  the 
Vain-loves.  There  are  a  set  of  these,  who,  of  all 
"hhigs,  affect  the  play  of  BlindmanV  huff,  and  lead¬ 


ing  men  into  love  for  they  know  not  whom,  who 
are  fled  they  know  not  where.  This  sort  of  woman 
is  usually  a  janty  slattern ;  she  hangs  on  her 
clothes,  plays  her  head,  varies  her  posture,  and 
changes  place  incessantly,  and  all  with  an  appear¬ 
ance  of  striving  at  the  same  time  to  hide  herself, 
and  yet  give  you  to  understand  she  is  in  humor  to 
laugh  at  you.  You  must  have  often  seen  the 
coachmen  make  signs  with  their  fingers,  as  they 
drive  by  each  other,  todntimate  how  much  they 
have  got  that  day.  They  can  carry  on  that  lan¬ 
guage  to  give  intelligence  where  they  are  driving, 
in  an  instant  my  coachman  took  the  wink  to  pur¬ 
sue;  and  the  lady’s  driver  gave  the  hint  that  he 
was  going  through  Long-acre  toward  St.  James’s; 
while  he  whipped  up  James-street,  we  drove  for 
King-street,  to  save  the  pass  at  St.  Martin’s-lane. 
The  coachmen  took  care  to  meet,  jostle,  and  threa¬ 
ten  each  other  for  way,  and  be  entangled  at  the 
end  of  Newport-street  and  Long-acre.  The  fright, 
you  must  believe,  brought  down  the  lady’s  coach- 
door,  and  obliged  her,  with  her  mask  off,  to  in¬ 
quire  into  the  bustle, — when  she  sees  the  man  she 
would  avoid.  The  tackle  of  the  coach-window  is  so 
I  bad  she  cannot  draw  it  up  again,  and  she  drives 
on,  sometimes  wholly  discovered,  and  sometimes 
half  escaped,  according  to  the  accident  of  carriages 
in  her  way.  One  of  these  ladies  keeps  her  seat  in 
a  hackney-coach,  as  well  as  the  best  rider  does  on 
a  managed  horse.  The  laced  shoe  on  her  left  foot, 
with  a  careless  gesture,  just  appearing  on  the  op¬ 
posite  cushion,  held  her  both  firm,  and  in  a  proper 
attitude  to  receive  the  next  jolt. 

As  she  was  an  excellent  coach-woman,  many 
were  the  glances  at  each  other  which  we  had  for 
an  hour  and  a  half,  in  all  parts  of  the  town,  by 
the  skill  of  our  drivers  ;  till  at  last  my  lady  was 
conveniently  lost,  with  notice  from  her  coachman 
to  ours  to  make  off,  and  he  should  hear  where  she 
went.  This  chase  was  now  at  an  end :  and  the 
fellow  who  drove  her  came  to  us,  and  discovered 
that  he  was  ordered  to  come  again  in  an  hour,  for 
that  she  was  a  silk-worm.  I  was  surprised  with 
this  phrase,  but  found  it  was  a  cant  among  the 
hackney  fraternity  for  their  best  customers,  women 
who  ramble  twice  or  thrice  a  week  from  shop  to 
shop,  to  turn  over  all  the  goods  in  town  without 
buying  anything.  The  silk-worms  are,  it  seems, 
indulged  by  the  tradesmen;  for,  though  they  never 
buy,  they  are  ever  talking  of  new  silks,  laces,  and 
ribbons,  and  serve  the  owners  in  getting  them 
customers,  as  their  common  dunners  ao  in  making 
them  pay. 

The  day  of  people  of  fashion  began  now  to 
break,  and  carts  and  hacks  were  mingled  with 
equipages  of  show  and  vanity;  when  1  resolved 
to  walk  it,  out  of  cheapness ;  but  my  unhappy 
curiosity  is  such,  that  I  find  it  always  my  interest 
to  take  coach;  for  some  odd  adventure  among 
beggars,  ballad-singers,  or  the  like,  detains  and 
throws  me  into  expense.  It  happened  so  imme¬ 
diately:  for  at  the  corner  of  Warwick  street,  as  I 
was  listening  to  a  new  ballad,  a  ragged  rascal,  a 
beggar  who  knew  me,  came  up  to.  me,  and  began 
to  turn  the  eyes  of  the  good  company  upon  me, 
by  telling  me  he  was  extremely  poor,  and  should 
die  in  the  street  for  want  of  drink,  except  I  imme¬ 
diately  would  have  the  charity  to  give  him  six¬ 
pence  to  go  into  the  next  ale-house  and  save  his 
life.  He  urged,  with  a  melancholy  face,  that  all 
his  family  had  died  of  thirst.  All  the  mob  have 
humor,  and  two  or  three  began  to  take  the  jest; 
by  which  Mr.  Sturdy  carried  his  point,  and  let  me 
sneak  off  to  a  coach.  As  I  drove  along,  it  was  a 
pleasing  reflection  to  see  the  world  so  prettily 
checkered  since  I  left  Richmond,  and  the  scene 
still  filling  with  children  of  a  new  hour.  This 


THE  SPECTATOR.  •  545 

No.  455.]  TUESDAY,  AUGUST  12,  1712. 


satisfaction  increased  as  I  moved  toward  the  city; 
and  gay  signs,  well-disposed  streets,  magnificent 
public  structures,  and  wealthy  shops  adorned  with 
contented  faces,  made  the  joy  still  rising  till  we 
came  into  the  center  of  the  city,  and  center  of  the 
woi  Id  of  trade,  the  Exchange  of  London.  As 
other  men  in  the  crowds  about  me  were  pleased 
with  their  hopes  and  bargains,  1  found  my  account 
in  observing  them,  in  attention  to  their  several 
interests.  I,  indeed,  looked  upon  myself  as  the 
richest  man  that  walked  the  Exchange  that  day ; 
for  my  benevolence  made  me  share  the  gains  of 
eveiy  bargain  that  was  made.  It  was  not  the  least 
of  my  satisfaction  in  my  survey,  to  go  up  stairs, 
and  pass  the  shops  of  agreeable  females;  to  ob¬ 
serve  so  many  pretty  hands  busy  in  the  folding 
of  ribbons,  and  the  utmost  eagerness  of  agreeable 
faces  in  the  sale  of  patches,  pins,  and  wires,  on 
each  side  of  the  counters,  was  an  amusement  in 
which  I  could  longer  have  indulged  myself,  had 
not  the  dear  creatures  called  to  me,  to  ask  what  I 
wanted,  when  I  could  not  answer,  only  “  To  look 
at  you.”  I  went  to  one  of  the  windows  which 
opened  to  the  area  below,  where  all  the  several 
voices  lost  their  distinction,  and  rose  up  in  a  con¬ 
fused  humming;  which  created  in  me  a  reflection 
that  could  not  come  into  the  mind  of  any  but  of 
one  a  little  too  studious;  for  I  said  to  myself  with 
a  kind  of  pun  in  thought,  “What  nonsense  is  all 
.the,  hurry  of  this  world  to  those  who  are  above 
it?”  In  these,  or  not  much  wiser  thoughts,  I  had 
like  to  have  lost  my  place  at  the  chop-house,  where 
every  man,  according  to  the  natural  bashfulness 
or  sullenness  of  our  nation,  eats  in  a  public  room 
a  mess  of  broth,  or  chop  of  meat,  in  dumb  silence, 
as  if  they  had  no  pretense  to  speak  to  each  other 
on  the  foot  of  being  men,  except  they  were  of  each 
other’s  acquaintance. 

I  went  afterward  to  Robin’s,  and  saw  people, 
who  had  dined  with  me  at  the  live-penny  ordinary 
just  before,  give  bills  for  the  value  of  large  estates; 
and  could  not  but  behold  with  great  pleasure,' 
property  lodged  in,  and  transferred  in  a  moment 
from,  such  as  would  never  be  masters  of  half  as 
much  as  is  seemingly  in  them,  and  given  from 
them,  every  day  they  live.  But  before  “five  in  the 
afternoon  I  left  the  city,  came  to  my  common  scene 
of  Covent-garden,  and  passed  the  evening  at  Will’s 
in  attending  the  discourses  of  several  sets  of 
people,  who  relieved  each  other  within  my  hearing 
on  the  subjects  of  cards,  dice,  love,  learning,  and 
politics.  The  last  subject  kept  me  till  I  heard  the 
streets  in  the  possession  of  the  bellman,  who  had 
now  the  world  to  himself,  and  cried,  “Past  two 
0  clock.”  This  roused  me  from  my  seat;  and  I 
went  to  my  lodgings,  led  by  a  light,  whom  I  put 
into  the  discourse  of  his  private  economy,  and 
made  him  give  me  an  account  of  the  charge,  hazard, 
profit,  and  loss,  of  a  family  that  depended  upon  a 
link,  with  a  design  to  end  my  trivial  day  with  the 
generosity  of  six-pence,  instead  of  a  third  part  of 
that  sum.  When  I  came  to  my  chambers,  I  wrote 
down  these  minutes;  but  was  at  a  loss  what 
instruction  I  should  propose  to  my  reader  from 
the  enumeration  of  so  many  insignificant  matters 
and  occurrences;  and  I  thought  it  of  great  use,  if 
they  could  learn  with  me  to  keep  their  minds  open 
to  gratification,  and  ready  to  receive  it  from  any¬ 
thing  it  meets  with.  This  one  circumstance  will 
make  every  face  you  see  give  you  the  satisfaction 
you  now  take  in  beholding  that  of  a  friend;  will 
make  every  object  a  pleasing  one;  will  make  all 
the  good  which  arrives  to  any  man,  an  increase  of 
happiness  to  yourself. — T. 


- - Ego  apis  Matime 

More  modoque. 

Grata  carpentis  thyina  per  laborem 
Plurimum - h0r.  4  Od.  ii.  27. 

- -My  timorous  M  use 

Unambitious  tracks  pursues; 

Does  with  weak  unballast  wings, 

About  the  mossy  brooks  and  springs, 

Like  the  laborious  bee, 

For  little  drops  of  honey  fly, 

And  there  with  humble  sweets  contents  her  industry. 

Cowley. 

The  following  letters  have  in  them  reflections 
which  will  seem  of  importance  both  to  the  learned 
woi  Id  and  to  domestic  life.  There  is  in  the  first 
an  allegory  so  well  carried  on,  that  it  cannot  but 
be  very  pleasing  to  those  who  have  a  taste  of  good 
writing  :  and  the  other  billets  may  have  their  use 
in  common  life  : 

‘Mr.  Spectator, 

“As  I  walked  the  other  clay  in  a  fine  garden, 
and  observed  the  great  variety  of  improvements 
in  plants  and  flowers,  beyond  what  they  otherwise 
would  have  been,  I  was  naturally  led  into  a  reflec¬ 
tion  upon  the  advantages  of  education,  of  modern 
culture  :  how  many  good  qualities  in  the  mind 
are  lost,  for  want  of  the  like  due  care  in  nursing 
and  skillfully  managing  them  ;  how  many  virtues 
are  choked  by  the  multitude  of  weeds  which  are 
suffered  to  grow  among  them;  how  excellent  parts 
are  often  starved  and  useless,  by  being  planted  in 
a  wrong  soil;  and  how  very  seldom  do  these  moral 
seeds  produce  the  noble  fruits  which  might  be 
expected  from  them  by  a  neglect  of  proper  manur¬ 
ing,  necessary  pruning,  and  an  artful  management 
of  our  tender  inclinations  and  first  spring  of  life. 
These  obvious  speculations  made  me  at  length 
conclude,  that  there  is  a  sort  of  vegetable  princi¬ 
ple  in  the  mind  of  every  man  when  he  comes  into 
the  world.  In  infants,  the  seeds  lie  buried  and 
undiscovered,  till  after  a  while  they  sprout  forth 
in  a  kind  of  rational  leaves,  which  are  words;  and 
in  due  season  the  flowers  begin  to  appear  in 
variety  of  beautiful  colors,  and  all  the  gay  pictures 
of  youthful  fancy  and  imagination  ;  at  last  the 
fruit  knits  and  is  formed,  which  is  green  perhaps 
at  first,  sour  and  unpleasant  to  the  taste,  and  not 
fit  to  be  gathered :  till,  ripened  by  due  care  and 
application,  it  discovers  itself  in  all  the  noble  pro¬ 
ductions  of  philosophy,  mathematics, close  reason¬ 
ing,  and  handsome  argumentation.  These  fruits, 
when  they  arrive  at  a  just  maturity,  and  are  of  a 
good  kind,  afford  the  most  vigorous  nourishment 
to  the  minds  of  men.  I  reflected  further  on  the 
intellectual  leaves  before-mentioned,  and  found 
almost  as  great  a  variety  among  them,  as  in  the 
vegetable  world.  I  could  easily  observe  the  smooth 
shining  Italian  leaves,  the  nimble  French  aspen 
always  in  motion,  the  Greek  and  Latin  evergreens, 
the  Spanish  myrtle,  the  English  oak,  the  Scotch 
thistle,  the  Irish  shainbrogue,  the  prickly  German 
and  Dutch  holly,  the  Polish  and  Russian  nettle, 
beside  a  vast  number  of  exotics  imported  from 
Asia,  Africa,  and  America.  I  saw  several  barren 
plants,  which  bore  only  leaves,  without  any  hopes 
of  flower  or  fruit.  The  leaves  of  some  were  fra¬ 
grant  and  well-shaped,  of  others  ill-scented  and 
irregular.  I  wondered  at  a  set  of  old  whimsical 
botanists,  who  spent  their  whole  lives  in  the  con¬ 
templation  of  some  withered  Egyptian,  Coptic, 
Armenian,  or  Chinese  leaves;  while  others  made 
it  their  business  to  collect,  in  voluminous  herbals, 
all  the  several  leaves  of  some  one  tree.  The  flow¬ 
ers  afforded  a  most  diverting  entertainment,  in  a 
wonderful  variety  of  figures,  colors,  and  scents ; 
however,  most  of  them  withered  soon,  or  at  best 


35 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


546 

are  but  annuals.  Some  professed  florists  make 
them  their  constant  study  and  employment,  and 
despise  all  fruit ;  and  now  and  then  a  few  fanciful 
people  spend  all  their  time  in  the  cultivation  of  a 
single  tulip,  or  a  carnation.  But  the  most  agreea¬ 
ble  amusement  seems  to  be  the  well-choosing,  mix¬ 
ing,  and  binding  together,  these  flowers  in  pleasing 
nosegays,  to  present  to  ladies.  The  scent  of  Ital¬ 
ian  flowers  is  observed,  like  their  other  perfumes, 
to  be  too  strong,  and  to  hurt  the  brain ;  that  of 
the  French  with  glaring,  gaudy  colors,  yet  faint 
and  languid ;  German  and  northern  flowers  have 
little  or  no  smell,  or  sometimes  an  unpleasant  one. 
The  ancients  had  a  secret  to  give  a  lasting  beauty, 
color,  and  sweetness,  to  some  of  their  choice  flowers, 
which  flourish  to  this  day,  and  which  few  of  the 
moderns  can  effect.  These  are  becoming  enough, 
and  agreeable  in  their  season,  and  do  often  hand¬ 
somely  adorn  an  entertainment;  but  an  over-fond¬ 
ness  of  them  seems  to  be  a  disease.  It  rarely  hap¬ 
pens  to  find  a  plant  vigorous  enough  to  have  (like 
an  orange  tree)  at  once  beautiful  and  shining  leaves, 
fragrant  flowers,  and  delicious,  nourishing  fruit. 

“  Sir,  yours,”  etc. 

“Dear  Spec.  August  6, 1712. 

“You  have  given  us,  in  your  Spectator  of  Sat¬ 
urday  last,  a  very  excellent  discourse  upon  the  force 
of  custom,  and  its  wonderful  efficacy  in  making 
everything  pleasant  to  us.  I  cannot  deny  but  that 
I  received  above  two-pennyworth  of  instruction 
from  your  paper,  and  in  the  general  was  very  well 
pleased  with  it:  but  I  am,  without  a  compliment, 
sincerely  troubled  that  I  cannot  exactly  be  of  your 
opinion,  that  it  makes  everything  pleasing  to  us. 
In  short,  I  have  the  honor  to  be  yoked  to  a  young 
lady,  who  is,  in  plain  English,  for  her  standing,  a 
very  eminent  scold.  She  began  to  break  her  mind, 
very  freely,  both  to  me  and  to  her  servants,  about 
two  months  after  our  nuptials  ;  and,  though  I  have 
been  accustomed  to  this  humor  of  hers  these  three 
years,  yet  I  do  not  know  what  is  the  matter  with 
me,  but  I  am  no  more  delighted  with  it  than  I  was 
at  the  very  first,  I  have  advised  with  her  relations 
about  her, and  they  all  tell  me  that  her  mother  and 
her  grandmother  before  her  were  both  taken  much 
after  the  same  manner;  so  that,  since  it  runs  in 
the  blood,  I  have  but  small  hopes  of  her  recovery. 
I  should  be  glad  to  have  a  little  of  your  advice  in 
this  matter.  I  would  not  willingly  trouble  you  to 
contrive  how  it  may  be  a  pleasure  to  me;  if  you 
will  but  put  me  in  a  way  that  I  may  bear  it  with 
indifference,  I  shall  rest  satisfied. 

“Dear  Spec., 

“Your  very  humble  Servant.” 

“P.  S.  I  must  do  the  poor  girl  the  justice  to 
let  you  know  that  this  match  was  none  of  her  own 
choosing  (or  indeed  of  mine  either);  in  consider¬ 
ation  of  which,  I  avoid  giving  her  the  least  prov¬ 
ocation  ;  and,  indeed,  we  live  better  together  than 
usually  folks  do  who  hated  one  another  when  they 
were  first  joined.  To  evade  the  sin  against  pa¬ 
rents,  or  at  least  to  extenuate  it,  my  dear  rails  at 
my  father  and  mother,  and  I  curse  hers  for  making 
the  match.” 

“Mr.  Spectator,  August  8,  1712. 

“I  like  the  theme  you  lately  gave  out  extremely, 
and  should  be  as  glad  to  handle  it  as  any  man 
living.  But  I  find  myself  no  better  qualified  to 
write  about  money  than  about  my  wife ;  for,  to  tell 
you  a  secret,  which  I  desire  may  go  no  further,  I 
am  master  of  neither  of  those  subjects. 

“  Yours, 

“  Pill  Garltck.” 


“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  desire  you  will  print  this  in  italic,  so  as  it 
may  be  generally  taken  notice  of.  It  is  designed 
only  to  admonish  all  persons,  who  speak  either  at 
the  bar,  pulpit,  or  any  public  assembly  whatsoever, 
how  they  discover  their  ignorance  in  the  use  of 
similes.  There  are,  in  the  pulpit  itself,  as  well  as 
in  other  places,  such  gross  abuses  in  this  kind, 
that  I  give  this  warning  to  all  I  know.  I  shall 
bring  them  for  the  future  before  your  spectatorial 
authority.  On  Sunday  last,  one,  who  shall  be 
nameless,  reproving  several  of  his  congregation  for 
standing  at  prayers,  was  pleased  to  say,  ‘One 
would  think, like  the  elephant,  you  had  no  knees.’ 
Now  I,  myself,  saw  an  elephant,  in  Bartholomew- 
fair,  kneel  down  to  take  on  his  back  the  ingenious 
Mr.  William  Penkethman. 

“Your  most  humble  Servant.” 


No.  456.]  WEDNESDAY,  AUGUST  13,  1712. 

De  quo  libelli  in  celeberrimis  locis  proponuntur,  huic  ne 
perire  quidem  tacite  conceditur.  Tull. 

The  man  whose  conduct  is  publicly  arraigned  is  not  suffered 
even  to  be  undone  quietly. 

Otway,  in  his  tragedy  of  Venice  Preserved,  has 
described  the  misery  of  a  man  whose  effects  are  in 
the  hands  of  the  law,  with  great  spirit.  The  bit¬ 
terness  of  being  the  scorn  and  laughter  of  base 
minds,  the  anguish  of  being  insulted  by  men  har¬ 
dened  beyond  the  sense  of  shame  or  pity,  and  the 
injury  of  a  man’s  fortune  being  wasted,  under 
pretense  of  justice,  are  excellently  aggravated  in 
the  following  speech  of  Pierre  to  Jaffier : 

I  pass’d  this  very  moment  by  thy  doors, 

And  found  them  guarded  by  a  troop  of  villains; 

The  sons  of  public  rapine  were  destroying, 

They  told  me,  by  the  sentence  of  the  law. 

They  had  commission  to  seize  all  thy  fortune; 

Nay,  more,  Priuli’s  cruel  hand  had  signed  it. 

Here  stood  a  ruffian  with  a  horrid  face, 

Lording  it  o’er  a  pile  of  massy  plate, 

Tumbled  into  a  heap  for  public  sale; 

There  was  another  making  villainous  jests 
At  thy  undoing.  He  had  ta’en  possession 
Of  all  thy  ancient  most  domestic  ornaments; 

Rich  hangings  intermix’d  and  wrought  with  gold; 

The  very  bed,  which  on  thy  wedding  night 
Received  thee  to  the  arms  of  Belvidera, 

The  scene  of  all  thy  joys,  was  violated 
By  the  coarse  hands  of  filthy  dungeon  villains, 

And  thrown  among  the  common  lumber. 

Nothing,  indeed,  can  be  more  unhappy  than  the 
condition  of  bankruptcy.  The  calamity  which 
happens  to  us  by  ill  fortune,  or  by  the  injury  of 
others,  has  in  it  some  consolation;  but  what  arises 
from  our  own  misbehavior,  or  error,  is  the  state 
of  the  most  exquisite  sorrow.  When  a  man  con¬ 
siders  not  only  an  ample  fortune,  but  even  the 
very  necessaries  of  life,  his  pretense  to  food  itself, 
at  the  mercy  of  his  creditors,  he  cannot  but  look 
upon  himself  in  the  state  of  the  dead,  with  his 
case  thus  much  worse,  that  the  last  office  is  per¬ 
formed  by  his  adversaries  instead  of  his  friends. 
From  this  hour  the  cruel  world  does  not  only  take 
possession  of  his  whole  fortune,  but  even  of  every¬ 
thing  else  which  had  no  relation  to  it.  All  his 
indifferent  actions  have  new  interpretations  put 
upon  them  ;  and  those  whom  he  has  favored  in  his 
former  life,  discharge  themselves  of  their  obliga¬ 
tions  to  him,  by  joining  in  the  reproaches  of  his 
enemies.  It  is  almost  incredible  that  it  should 
be  so  ;  but  it  is  too  often  seen  that  there  is  a  pride 
mixed  with  the  impatience  of  the  creditor;  and 
there  are  who  would  rather  recover  their  own 
by  the  downfall  of  a  prosperous  man,  than  be  dis¬ 
charged  to  the  common  satisfaction  of  themselves 
and  their  creditors.  The  wretched  man,  who  was 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


lately  master  of  abundance,  is  now  under  the  di¬ 
rection  of  others  ;  and  the  wisdom,  economy,  good 
sense,  and  skill  in  human  life  before,  by  reason  of 
his  present  misfortune,  are  of  no  use  to  him  in  the 
disposition  of  anything.  The  incapacity  of  an 
infant,  or  a  lunatic,  is  designed  for  his  provision 
and  accommodation  ;  but  that  of  a  bankrupt  with¬ 
out  any  mitigation  in  respect  of  the  accidents  by 
which  it  arrived,  is  calculated  for  his  utter  ruin, 
except  there  be  a  remainder  ample  enough,  after 
the  discharge  of  his  creditors,  to  bear  also  the  ex- 
pense  of  rewarding  those  by  whose  means  the  effect 
ot  all  this  labor  was  transferred  from  him.  This 
man  is  to  look  on  and  see  others  giving  directions 
iipon  what  terms  and  conditions  his  goods  are  to 
be  purchased;  and  all  this  usually  done,  not  with 
an  air  of  trustees  to  dispose  of  his  effects,  but  de- 
strovers  to  divide  and  tear  them  to  pieces. 

i  here  is  something  sacred  in  misery  to  great  and 
good  minds;  for  this  reason  all  wise  lawgivers 
have  been  extremely  tender  how  they  let  loose 
even  the  man  who  has  right  on  his  side,  to  act 
With  anv  mixture  of  resentment  against  the  defen¬ 
dant.  Virtuous  and  modest  men,  though  they  be 
used  with  some  artifice,  and  have  it  in  their  power 
to  avenge  themselves,  are  slow  in  the  application 

ot  that  power,  and  are  ever  constrained  to  go  into 
rigorous  measures.  They  are  careful  to  demon¬ 
strate  themselves  not  only  persons  injured,  but 
also  that  to  bear  it  longer  would  be  a  means  to 
make  the  offender  injure  others  before  they  proceed 
buch  men  clap  their  hands  upon  their  hearts,  and 
consider  what  it  is  to  have  at  their  mercy  the  life 
of  a  citizen.  Such  would  have  it  to  say  to  their 
own  souls,  if  possible,  that  they  were  merciful 
when  they  could  have  destroyed,  rather  than  when 
it  was  m  their  power  to  have  spared  a  man,  they 
destioyed.  This  is  a  due  to  the  common  calamity 
of  human  life,  due  in  some  measure  to  our  very 
enemies.  They  who  scruple  doing  the  least  injury 
are  cautious  of  exacting  the  utmost  justice. 

Let  any  one  who  is  conversant  in  the  variety  of 
human  life  reflect  upon  it,  and  he  will  find  the 
man  who  wants  mercy  has  a  taste  of  no  enjoyment 
of  any  kind.  _  There  is  a  natural  disrelish  of  every 
thing  which  is  good  in  his  very  nature,  and  he  is 
born  an  enemy  to  the  world.  He  is  ever  extremely 
partial  to  himself  in  all  his  actions,  and  has  no 
sense  of  iniquity  but  from  the  punishment  which 
shall  attend  it.  The  law  of  the  land  is  his  gospel, 
and  all  his  cases  of  conscience  are  determined  by 
his  attorney  Such  men  know  not  what  it  is  to 
gladden  the  heart  of  a  miserable  man  ;  that  riches 
are  the  instruments  of  serving  the  purposes  of 
heaven  or  hell,  according  to  the  disposition  of  the 
possessor.  The  wealthy  can  torment  or  gratify 
all  who  are  in  their  power,  and  choose  to  do  one 
or  other,  as  they  are  affected  with  love,  or  hatred 
to  mankind.  As  for  such  who  are  insensible  of 
the  concerns  of  others,  but  merely  as  they  affect 
themselves,  these  men  are  to  be  valued  only  for 
their  mortality,  and  as  we  hope  better  things  from 
their  heirs.  I  could  not  but  read  with  great  de¬ 
light  a  letter  from  an  eminent  citizen,  who  has 
failed,  to  one  who  was  intimate  with  him  in  his 
better  fortune,  and  able  by  his  countenance  to  re¬ 
trieve  his  lost  condition. 


547 


JJ!!?  1  }^ve  lost;  and  I  know  (for  that  reason,  as 
as  kindness  lo  me)  you  cannot  but  be  in  pain 

in  cm)  abb*  ^  •  T°  s,ho*  ?ou  1  am  ^t  a  man 

incapable  of  bearing  calamity,  I  will,  though  a 

fnd  ,7ifn’-  fy^aS1?e  the  distinction  betwee.f  us, 
nearer  \  Wlt  !  tlie  jrankness  we  did  when  we  were 
with  n  °.ar*  _e ^uabty  ;  as  all  I  do  will  be  received 
wi  h  prejudice,  all  you  do  will  be  looked  upon 
with  partiality.  What  I  desire  of  you  is  S3 
co“r‘ed  all.  would  smile  up,,,’,  me, 
'  ’  sl,u?“fd  ®lt  Let  that  grace  and  favor 

make  nn  !  ^  “i"*  ,hrcT-  T°"  W  **  turned  to 
Iowa rd  P  c“  dness  and  indifference  that  is  used 
ton  ard  me.  All  good  and  generous  men  will  have 
an  eye  of  kindness  for  me  for  my  own  sake  and 

Thprf^  °l  the  W°rld  wiU  reg;lrd  nie  for  yours, 
des^neh-v  iapPy  contaS,on  1,1  riches,  as  well  as  a 
v  IVe  °fne  in  Poverty:  the  rich  can  make  rich 
Without  parting  with  any  of  their  store;  and  the 
onversation  ot  the  poor  makes  men  poor,  though 
they  borrow  nothing  of  them.  How  this  is  to  be 

«ed  for  1  know  not;  but  men's  estfmation 
follows  us  according  to  the  company  we  keep.  If 
you  are  what  you  were  to  me,  you  can  go  a  great 
way  toward  ray  recovery ;  if  you  are  notTmy  good 
fortune  if  it  ever  returns,  will  return  by  slower 
reproaches.  J 

“I  am,  Sir, 

“Your  affectionate  Friend 

“and  humble  Servant.’ 

This  was  answered  by  a  condescension  that  did 
not,  by  long  impertinent  professions  of  kindness, 
insult  his  distress,  but  was  as  follows  : 

“Dear  Tom, 

I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  heart 
enough  to  begin  the  world  a  second  time.  I  assure 
you,  1  do  not  think  your  numerous  family  at  all 
diminished  (in  the  gifts  of  nature,  for  which  I 
have  ever  so  much  admired  them)  by  what  has  so 
lately  happened  to  you.  I  shall  not  only  counte¬ 
nance  your  affairs  with  my  appearance  for  you, 
but  shall  accommodate  you  with  a  considerable 
sum  at  common  interest  for  three  years.  You 
know  I  could  make  more  of  it;  but  I  have  so 
great  a  love  ior  you,  that  I  can  wave  opportunities 
of  gain  to  help  you  ;  for  I  do  not  care  whether 
thev  say  of  me  after  I  am  dead,  that  1  had  a  hun¬ 
dred  or  fifty  thousand  pounds' more  than  I  wanted 
when  I  was  living. 

T*  “  Y our  obliged  humble  Servant.” 


“Sir, 

“It  is  in  vain  to  multiply  words  and  make 
apologies  for  what  is  never  to  be  defended  by  the 
best  advocate  in  the  world,  the  guilt  of  being  un¬ 
fortunate.  All  that  a  man  in  my  condition  can  do 
or  say,  will  be  received  with  prejudice  by  the  gen¬ 
erality  of  mankind,  but  I  hope  not  with  you  ;  you 
nave  been  a  great  instrument  in  helping  me  to  get 


Ho.  457.]  THURSDAY,  AUGUST  14,  1712. 

Multa  et  praeclara  minantis.— Hor.  2  Sat.  iii.  9. 
Seeming  to  promise  something  wondrous  great. 

I  shall  this  day  lay  before  my  readers  a  letter 
written  by  the  same  hand  with  that  of  last  Friday 
which  contained  proposals  for  a  printed  newspa¬ 
per  that  should  take  in  the  whole  circle  of  the 
penny-post. 

“Sir, 


“The  kind  reception  you  gave  my  last  Friday  s 
letter,  in  which  I  broached  my  project  of  a  news¬ 
paper,  encourages  me  to  lay  before  you  two  or  three 
more  ;  for  you  must  know.  Sir,  that  we  look  upon 
you  to  be  the  Lowndes*  of  the  learned  world,  and 
cannot  think  any  scheme  practicable  or  rational 
before  you  have  approved  of  it,  though  all  the 

^  (^Secretary  at  this  time  of  the  Treasury,  and  director  of  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


548 

money  we  raise  by  it  is  on  our  own  funds,  and  for 
our  private  use. 

“I  have  often  thought  that  a  news-letter  of 
whispers,  written  every  post,  and  sent  about  the 
kingdom,  after  the  same  manner  as  that  of  Mr. 
Dyer,  Mr.  Dawkes,  or  any  other  epistolary  histo¬ 
rian,  might  be  highly  gratifying  to  the  public,  as 
well  as  beneficial  to  the  author.  By  whispers  I 
mean  those  pieces  of  news  which  are  communica¬ 
ted  as  secrets,  and  which  bring  a  double  pleasure 
to  the  hearer;  first,  as  they  are  private  history; 
and,  in  the  next  place,  as  they  have  always  in 
them  a  dish  of  scandal.  These  are  the  two  chief 
qualifications  in  an  article  of  news,  which  recom¬ 
mend  it,  in  a  more  than  ordinary  manner,  to  the 
ears  of  the  curious.  Sickness  of  persons  in  high 
posts,  twilight  visits  paid  and  received  by  minis¬ 
ters  of  state,  clandestine  courtships  and  marriages, 
secret  amours,  losses  at  play,  applications  for 
places,  with  their  respective  successes  or  repulses, 
are  the  materials  in  which  I  chiefly  intend  to  deal. 

I  have  two  persons,  that  are  each  of  them  the  rep¬ 
resentative  of  a  species,  who  are  to  furnish  me 
with  those  whispers  which  I  intend  to  convey  to 
my  correspondents.  The  first  of  these  is  Peter 
Hush,  descended  from  the  ancient  family  of  the 
Hushes.  The  other  is  the  old  Lady  Blast,  who 
has  a  very  numerous  tribe  of  daughters  in  the  two 
great  cities  of  London  and  Westminster.  Peter 
Hush  has  a  whispering-hole  in  most  of  the  great 
coffee-houses  about  town.  If  you  are  alone  with 
him  in  a  wide  room,  he  carries  you  up  into  a  cor¬ 
ner  of  it,  and  speaks  in  your  ear.  I  have  seen 
Peter  seat  himself  in  a  company  of  seven  or  eight 
persons,  whom  he  never  saw  before  in  his  life  ; 
and,  after  having  looked  about  to  see  there  was  no 
one  that  overheard  him,  has  communicated  to  them 
in  a  low  voice,  and  under  the  seal  of  secrecy,  the 
death  of  a  great  man  in  the  country,  who  was, 
perhaps,  a  fox-hunting  the  very  moment  this  ac¬ 
count  was  given  of  him.  If,  upon  your  entering 
a  coffee-house,  you  see  a  circle  of  heads  bending 
over  the  table,  and  lying  close  to  one  another,  it 
is  ten  to  one  but  my  friend  Peter  is  among  them. 
I  have  known  Peter  publishing  the  whisper  of  the 
day  by  eight  o’clock  in  the  morning  at  Garraway’s, 
by  twelve  at  Will’s,  and  before  two  at  the  Smyrna. 
When  Peter  has  thus  effectually  launched  a  secret, 
I  have  been  very  well  pleased  to  hear  people 
whispering  it  to  one  another  at  second-hand,  and 
spreading  it  about  as  their  own;  for  you  must 
know,  Sir,  the  great  incentive  to  whispering  is  the 
ambition  which  every  one  has  of  being  thought  in 
the  secret,  and  being  looked  upon  as  a  man  who 
has  access  to  greater  people  than  one  would  imag¬ 
ine.  After  having  given  you  this  account  of  Peter 
Hush,  I  proceed  to  that  virtuous  lady,  the  old 
Lady  Blast,  who  is  to  communicate  to  me  the  pri¬ 
vate  transactions  of  the  crimp-table,  with  all  the 
arcana  of  the  fair  sex.  The  Lady  Blast,  you  must 
understand,  has  such  a  particular  malignity  in  her 
whisper,  that  it  blights  like  an  easterly  wind,  and 
withers  every  reputation  it  breathes  upon.  She 
has  a  particular  knack  at  making  private  weddings, 
and  last  winter  married  about  five  women  of  qual¬ 
ity  to  their  footmen.  Her  whisper  can  make  an 
innocent  young  woman  big  with  child,  or  fill  a 
healthful  young  fellow  with  distempers  that  are 
not  to  be  named.  She  can  turn  a  visit  into  an  in¬ 
trigue,  and  a  distant  salute  into  an  assignation. 
She  can  beggar  the  wealthy,  and  degrade  the  noble. 
In  short,  she  can  whisper  men  base  or  foolish, 
jealous  or  ill-natured ;  or,  if  occasion  requires, 
can  tell  you  the  slips  of  their  great  grandmothers, 
and  traduce  the  memory  of  honest  coachmen  that 
have  been  in  their  graves  above  these  hundred 
years.  By  these  and  the  like  helps,  I  question 


not  but  I  shall  furnish  out  a  very  handsome  news¬ 
letter.  If  you  approve  my  project,  I  shall  begin 
to  whisper  by  the  very  next  post,  and  question  not 
but  every  one  of  my  customers  will  be  very  well 
pleased  with  me,  when  he  considers  that  every 
piece  of  news  I  send  him  is  a  word  in  his  ear,  and 
lets  him  into  a  secret. 

“Having  given  you  a  sketch  of  this  project,  I 
shall,  in  the  next  place,  suggest  to  you  another  for 
a  monthly  pamphlet,  which  I  shall  likewise  sub¬ 
mit  to  your  spectatorial  wisdom.  I  need  not  tell 
you,  Sir,  that  there  are  several  authors  in  France, 
Germany,  and  Holland,  as  well  as  in  our  own 
country,*  who  publish  every  month  what  thev 
call,  An  Account  of  the  Works  of  the  Learned, 
in  which  they  give  us  an  abstract  of  all  such 
books  as  are  printed  in  any  part  of  Europe.  Now, 
Sir,  it  is  my  design  to  publish  every  month,  An 
Account  of  the  Works  of  the  Unlearned.  Several 
late  productions  of  my  own  countrymen,  who, 
many  of  them,  make  a  very  eminent  figure  in  the 
illiterate  wTorld,  encourage  me  in  this  undertaking. 
I  may  in  this  wmrk  possibly  make  a  review  of 
several  pieces  which  have  appeared  in  the  foreign 
accounts  above-mentioned,  though  they  ought  not 
to  have  been  taken  notice  of  in  works  which  bear 
such  a  title.  I  may  likewise  take  into  consider¬ 
ation  such  pieces  as  appear,  from  time  to  time, 
under  the  names  of  those  gentlemen  who  compli¬ 
ment  one  another  in  public  assemblies  by  the  title 
of  ‘  the  learned  gentlemen.’  Our  party-authors 
will  also  afford  me  a  great  variety  of  subjects,  not 
to  mention  the  editors,  commentators,  and  others, 
who  are  often  men  of  no  learning,  or,  what  is  as 
bad,  of  no  knowledge.  I  shall  not  enlarge  upon 
this  hint;  but,  if  you  think  anything  can  be  made 
of  it,  I  shall  set  about  it  with  all  the  pains  and 
application  that  so  useful  a  work  deserves. — C. 

“  I  am  ever, 

“Most  worthy  Sir,”  etc. 


No.  458.]  FRIDAY,  AUGUST  15,  1712. 

- Pudor  malus -  Hor. 

False  modesty. 

I  could  not  but  smile  at  the  account  that  was 
yesterday  given  me  of  a  modest  young  gentleman, 
who,  being  invited  to  an  entertainment,  though  he 
was  not  used  to  drink,  had  not  the  confidence  to 
refuse  his  glass  in  his  turn,  when  on  a  sudden  he 
grew  so  flustered,  that  he  took  all  the  talk  of  the 
table  into  his  own  hands,  abused  every  one  of  the 
company,  and  flung  a  bottle  at  the  gentleman’s 
head  who  treated  him.  This  has  given  me  occa¬ 
sion  to  reflect  upon  the  ill  effects  of  a  vicious 
modesty,  and  to  remember  the  saying  of  Brutus, 
as  it  is  quoted  by  Plutarch,  that  “the  person  has 
had  but  an  ill  education,  wrho  has  not  been  taught 
to  deny  anything.”  This  false  kind  of  modesty 
has,  perhaps,  betrayed  both  sexes  into  as  many 
vices  as  the  most  abandoned  impudence;  and  is 
the  more  inexcusable  to  reason,  because  it  acts  to 
gratify  others  rather  than  itself,  and  is  punished 
with  a  kind  of  remorse,  not  only  like  other  vicious 
habits  -when  the  crime  is  over,  but  even  at  the  very 
time  that  it  is  committed. 

Nothing  is  more  amiable  than  true  modesty,  and 
nothing  is  more  contemptible  than  the  false.  The 
one  guards  virtue,  the  other  betrays  it.  True 
modesty  is  ashamed  to  do  anything  that  is  re¬ 
pugnant  to  the  rules  of  right  reason:  false  mod¬ 
esty  is  ashamed  to  do  anything  that  is  opposite  to 


*Mr.  Michael  de  la  Koche,  38  vols.  8vo.  in  Engl,  under  dif¬ 
ferent  titles,  and  in  Fr.  8  tomes,  24mo. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


the  humor  of  the  company.  True  modesty  avoids 
everything  that  is  criminal,  false  modesty  every¬ 
thing  that  is  unfashionable.  The  latter  is  only  a 
general  undetermined  instiuct;  the  former  is  that 
instinct,  limited  and  circumscribed  by  the  rules  of 
prudence  and  religion. 

We  may  conclude  that  modesty  to  be  false  and 
vicious  which  engages  a  man  to  do  anything  that 
is  ill  or  indiscreet,  or  which  restrains  him  from 
doing  anything  that  is  of  a  contrary  nature.  How 
many  men,  in  the  common  concerns  of  life,  lend 
sums  of  money  whicli  they  are  not  able  to  spare, 
are  bound  for  persons  whom  they  have  but  little 
friendship  for,  give  recommendatory  characters  of 
men  whom  they  are  not  acquainted  with,  bestow 
places  on  those  whom  they  do  not  esteem,  live  in 
such  a  manner  as  they  themselves  do  not  approve, 
and  all  this  merely  because  they  have  not  the 
confidence  to  resist  solicitation,  importunity,  or 
example! 

Nor  does  this  false  modesty  expose  us  only  to 
such  actions  as  are  indiscreet,  but  very  often  to 
such  as  are  highly  criminal.  When  Xenophanes 
was  called  timorous  because  he  would  not  venture 
his  money  in  a  game  at  dice:  “  I  confess,”  said  he, 
“that  I  am  exceeding  timorous,  for  I  dare  not  do 
an  ill  thing.”  On  the  contrary,  a  man  of  vicious 
modesty  complies  with  everything,  and  is  only 
fearful  of  doiug  what  may  look  singular  in  the 
company  where  he  is  engaged.  He  falls  in  with 
the  torrent,  and  lets  himself  go  to  every  action  or 
discourse,  however  unjustifiable  in  itself,  so  it  be 
in  vogue  among  the  present  party.  This,  though 
one  of  the  most  common,  is  one  of  the  most 
ridiculous  dispositions  in  human  nature,  that  men 
should  not  be  ashamed  of  speaking  or  acting  in  a 
dissolute  or  irrational  manner,  but  that  one  who 
is  in  their  company  should  be  ashamed  of  gov¬ 
erning  himself  by  the  principles  of  reason  and 
virtue. 

In  the  second  place,  we  are  to  consider  false 
modesty  as  it  restrains  a  man  from  doing  what  is 
good  and  laudable.  My  reader’s  own  thoughts 
will  suggest  to  him  many  instances  and  examples 
under  this  head.  I  shall  only  dwell  upon  one 
reflection,  which  I  cannot  make  without  a  secret 
concern.  We  have  in  England  a  particular  bash¬ 
fulness  in  everything  that  regards  religion.  A 
well-bred  man  is  obliged  to  conceal  any  serious 
sentiment  of  this  nature,  and  very  often  to  appear 
a  greater  libertine  than  he  is,  that  he  may  keep 
himself  in  countenance  among  the  men  of  mode! 
Our  excess  of  modesty  makes  us  shamefaced  in 
all  the  exercises  of  piety  and  devotion.  This  hu¬ 
mor  prevails  upon  us  daily;  insomuch  that,  at 
many  well-bred  tables,  the  master  of  the  house  is 
so  very  modest  a  man,  that  he  has  not  the  confi¬ 
dence  to  say  grace  at  his  own  table:  a  custom 
which  is  not  only  practiced  by  all  the  nations 
about  us,  but  was  never  omitted  by  the  heathens 
themselves.  English  gentlemen  who  travel  into 
Roman  Catholic  countries  are  not  a  little  sur¬ 
prised  to  meet  with  people  of  the  best  quality 
kneeling  in  their  churches,  and  engaged  in  their 
private  devotions,  though  it  be  not  at  the  hours  of 
public  worship.  An  officer  of  the  army,  or  a  man 
of  wit  and  pleasure,  in  those  countries,  would  be 
afraid  of  passing  not  only  for  an  irreligious,  but 
an  ill-bred  man,  should  he  be  seen  to  go  to  bed,  or 
sit  down  at  table,  without  offering  up  his  devo¬ 
tions  on  such  occasions.  The  same  show  of  re¬ 
ligion  appears  in  all  the  foreign  reformed  churches, 
and  enters  so  much  into  their  ordinary  conversa¬ 
tion,  that  an  Englishman  is  apt  to  term  them 
hypocritical  and  precise. 

This  little  appearance  of  a  religious  deportment 
in  our  nation  may  proceed  in  some  measure  from 


549 

that  modesty  which  is  natural  to  us;  but  the  great 
occasion  of  it  is  certainly  this.  Those  swarms  of 
sectaries  that  overran  the  nation  in  the  time  of  the 
great  rebellion  carried  their  hypocrisy  so  high,  that 
tney  had  converted  our  whole  language  into  a  jar¬ 
gon  of  enthusiasm;  insomuch  that,  upon  the  Res¬ 
toration,  men  thought  they  could  not  recede  too 
tar  trom  the  behavior  and  practice  of  those  per- 
sons  who  had  made  religion  a  cloak  to  so  many 
vi  lainies.  This  led  them  into  the  other  extreme; 
every  appearance  of  devotion  was  looked  upon  as 
puritanical;  and  falling  into  the  hands  of  the 
ridiculers  who  flourished  in  that  reign,  and 
attacked  everything  that  was  serious,  it  has  ever 
since  been  out  of  countenance  among  us.  By  this 
means  we  are  gradually  fallen  into  that  vicious 
modesty  which  has  in  some  measure  worn  out 
trom  among  us  the  appearance  of  Christianity  in 
ordinary  life  and  conversation,  and  which  distin¬ 
guishes  us  from  all  our  neighbors. 

Hypocrisy  cannot  indeed  be  too  much  detested, 
but  at  the  same  time  it  is  to  be  preferred  to  open 
impiety  They  are  both  equally  destructive  to  the 
person  who  is  possessed  with  them;  but,  in  regard 
to  others,  hypocrisy  is  not  so  pernicious  as  bare¬ 
faced  irreligion.  The  due  mean  to  be  observed 
is,  “to  be  sincerely  virtuous,  and  at  the  same  time 
to  let  the  world  see  that  we  are  so.”  I  do  not 
know  a  more  dreadful  menace  in  the  holy  wri¬ 
tings  than  that  which  is  pronounced  against  those 
who  have  this  perverted  modesty,  to  be  ashamed 
before  men  in  a  particular  of  such  unspeakable 
importance. — C. 


No.  459.]  SATURDAY,  AUGUST  16,  1712. 

- Quicquid  dignum  sapiente  bonoque  est. 

IIor.  1  Ep.  iv.  5. 

- Whate’er  befits  the  wise  and  good.— Creech. 

Religion  may  be  considered  under  two  general 
heads.  The  first  comprehends  what  we  are  to 
believe,  the  other  what  we  are  to  practice.  By 
those  things  which  we  are  to  believe,  I  mean 
whatever  is  revealed  to  us  in  the  holy  writings, 
and  which  we  could  not  have  obtained  the  know¬ 
ledge  of  by  the  light  of  nature;  by  the  things 
which  we  are  to  practice,  I  mean  all  those  duties 
to  which  we  are  directed  by  reason  or  natural 
religion.  Th^  first  of  these  I  shall  distinguish  by 
the  name  of  faith,  the  second  by  that  of  morality. 

If  we  look  into  the  more  serious  part  of  man¬ 
kind,  we  find  many  who  lay  so  great  a  stress  upon 
faith,  that  they  neglect  morality;  and  many  who 
build  so  much  upon  morality,  that  they  do  not 
pay  a  due  regard  to  faith.  The  perfect  man 
should  be  defective  in  neither  of  these  particu¬ 
lars,  as  will  be  very  evident  to  those  who  con¬ 
sider  the  benefits  which  arise  from  each  of  them, 
and  which  I  shall  make  the  subject  of  this  day’s 
paper.  J 

Notwithstanding  this  general  division  of  Chris¬ 
tian  duty  into  morality  and  faith,  and  that  they 
have  both  their  peculiar  excellencies,  the  first  has 
the  pre-eminence  in  several  respects. 

First,  Because  the  greatest  part  of  morality  (as 
I  have  stated  the  notion  of  it)  is  of  a  fixed  eternal 
nature,  and  will  endure  when  faith  shall  fail,  and 
be  lost  in  conviction. 

Secondly,  Because  a  person  may  be  qualified  to 
do  greater  good  to  mankind,  and  become  more 
beneficial  to  the  world,  by  morality  without  faith, 
than  by  faith  without  morality. 

Thirdly,  Because  morality  gives  a  greater  per¬ 
fection  to  human  nature,  by  quieting  the  mind, 
moderating  the  passions,  and  advancing  the  hap¬ 
piness  of  every  man  in  his  private  capacity. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


550 

Fourthly,  Because  the  rule  of  morality  is  much 
more  certain  than  that  of  faith,  all  the  civilized 
nations  of  the  world  agreeing  in  the  great  points 
of  morality,  as  much  as  they  differ  in  those  of 
faith. 

Fifthly,  Because  infidelity  is  not  of  so  malig¬ 
nant  a  nature  as  immorality;  or,  to  put  the  same 
reason  in  another  light,  because  it  is  generally 
owned,  there  may  be  salvation  for  a  virtuous  inn- 
del  (particularly  in  the  case  of  invincible  igno¬ 
rance),  but  none  for  a  vicious  believer. 

Sixthly,  Because  faith  seems  to  draw  its  prin¬ 
cipal,  if  not  all  its  excellency,  from  the  influence 
it  has  upon  morality;  as  we  shall  see  more  at 
large,  if  we  consider  wherein  consists  the  excel¬ 
lency  of  faith,  or  the  belief  of  revealed  religion; 
and  this,  I  think,  is, 

First,  In  explaining  and  carrying  to  greater 
heights  several  points  of  morality. 

Secondly,  In  furnishing  new  and  stronger  mo¬ 
tives  to  enforce  the  practice  of  morality. 

Thirdly,  In  giving  us  more  amiable  ideas  of 
the  Supreme  Being,  more  endearing  notions  of 
one  another,  and  a  truer  state  of  ourselves,  both 
in  regard  to  the  grandeur  and  vileness  of  our 
natures. 

Fourthly,  By  showing  us  the  blackness  and  de¬ 
formity  of  vice,  which  in  the  Christian  system  is 
so  very  great,  that  he  who  is  possessed  of  all  per¬ 
fection,  and  the  sovereign  judge  of  it,  is  repre¬ 
sented  by  several  of  our  divines  as  hating  sin  to 
the  same  degree  that  he  loves  the  sacred  person 
who  was  made  the  propitiation  of  it. 

Fifthly,  In  being  the  ordinary  and  prescribed 
method  of  making  morality  effectual  to  salvation. 

I  have  only  touched  on  these  several  heads, 
which  every  one  who  is  conversant  in  discourses 
of  this  nature  will  easily  enlarge  upon  in  his  own 
thoughts,  and  draw  conclusions  from  them  which 
may  be  useful  to  him  in  the  conduct  of  his  life. 
One  I  am  sure  is  so  obvious,  that  he  cannot  miss 
it,  namely,  that  a  man  cannot  be  perfect  in  his 
scheme  of  morality,  who  does  not  strengthen  and 
support  it  with  that  of  the  Christian  faith. 

Beside  this,  I  shall  lay  down  two  or  three  other 
maxims,  which,  I  think,  we  may  deduce  from  what 
has  been  said: 

First,  That  we  should  be  particularly  cautious 
of  making  anything  an  article  of  faith,  which  does 
not  contribute  to  the  confirmation  or  improvement 
of  morality. 

Secondly,  That  no  article  of  faith  can  be  true 
and  authentic,  which  weakens  or  subverts  the  prac¬ 
tical  part  of  religion,  or  what  I  have  hitherto  called 
morality. 

Thirdly,  That  the  greatest  friend  of  morality 
and  natural  religion  cannot  possibly  apprehend 
any  danger  from  embracing  Christianity,  as  it  is 
preserved  pure  and  uncorrupt  in  the  doctrines  of 
our  national  church.* 

There  is  likewise  another  maxim  which  I  think 
may  be  drawn  from  the  foregoing  considerations, 
which  is  this;  that  we  should,  in  all  dubious  points, 
consider  any  ill  consequences  that  may  arise  from 
them,  supposing  they  should  be  erroneous,  before 
we  give  up  our  assent  to  them. 

For  example,  In  that  disputable  point  of  perse¬ 
cuting  men  for  conscience’  sake,  beside  the  lmbit- 
tering  their  minds  with  hatred,  indignation,  and 
all  the  vehemence  of  resentment,  and  insnaring 
them  to  profess  what  they  do  not  believe,  we  cut 
them  off  from  the  pleasures  and  advantages  of 
society,  afflict  their  bodies,  distress  their  fortunes, 
hurt  their  reputations,  ruin  their  families,  make 
their  lives  painful,  or  put  an  end  to  them.  Sure 


when  I  see  such  dreadful  consequences  rising  from 
a  principle,  I  would  be  as  fully  convinced  of  the 
truth  of  it,  as  of  a  mathematical  demonstration, 
before  I  would  venture  to  act  upon  it,  or  make  it  a 
part  of  my  religion. 

In  this  case  the  injury  done  our  neighbor  is 
plain  and  evident:  the  principle  that  puts  us  upon 
doing  it,  of  a  dubious  and  disputable  nature.  Mo¬ 
rality  seems  highly  violated  by  the  one;  and 
whether  or  no  a  zeal  for  what  a  man  thinks  the 
true  system  of  faith  may  justify  it,  is  very  uncer¬ 
tain.  I  cannot  but  think,  if  our  religion  produces 
charity  as  well  as  zeal,  it  will  not  be  for  showing 
itself  by  such  cruel  instances.  But  to  conclude 
with  the  words  of  an  excellent  author,  “We  have 
just  enough  of  religion  to  make  us  hate,  but  not 
enough  to  make  us  love,  one  another.” — C. 


No.  460.]  MONDAY,  AUGUST  18,  1712. 

Decipimur  specie  recti. — Hoit.  Ars  Poet.  v.  25. 

Deluded  by  a  seeming  excellence. — Roscommon. 

Our  defects  and  follies  are  too  often  unknown  to 
us;  nay,  they  are  so  far  from  being  known  to  us, 
that  they  pass  for  demonstrations  of  our  worth. 
This  makes  us  easy  in  the  midst  of  them,  fond  to 
show  them,  fond  to  improve  them,  and  to  be  es¬ 
teemed  for  them.  Then  it  is  that  a  thousand  unac¬ 
countable  conceits,  gay  inventions,  and  extravagant 
actions,  must  afford  us  pleasures,  and  display  us 
to  others  in  the  colors  which  we  ourselves  take  a 
fancy  to  glory  in.  Indeed  there  is  something  so 
amusing  for  the  time  in  the  state  of  vanity  and  ill- 
grounded  satisfaction,  that  even  the  wiser  world 
has  chosen  an  exalted  word  to  describe  its  enchant¬ 
ments.  and  called  it  “The  Paradise  of  Fools.” 

Perhaps  the  latter  part  of  this  reflection  may 
seem  a  false  thought  to  some,  and  bear  another  turn 
than  what  I  have  given;  but  it  is  at  present  none 
of  my  business  to  look  after  it,  who  am  going  to 
confess  that  I  have  been  lately  among  them  in  a 
vision. 

Methought  I  was  transported  to  a  hill,  green, 
flowery,  and  of  an  easy  ascent.  Upon  the  broad 
top  of  it  resided  squint-eyed  Error,  and  Popular 
Opinion  with  many  heads;  two  that  dealt  in  sor¬ 
cery,  and  were  famous  for  bewitching  people  with 
the  love  of  themselves.  To  these  repaired  a  mul¬ 
titude  from  every  side,  by  two  different  paths  which 
lead  toward  each  of  them.  Some  who  had  the 
most  assuming  air  went  directly  of  themselves  to 
Error,  without  expecting  a  conductor;  others  of  a 
softer  nature  went  first  to  Popular  Opinion,  from 
whence,  as  she  influenced  and  engaged  them  with 
their  own  praises,  she  delivered  them  over  to  his 
government. 

When  we  had  ascended  to  an  open  part  of  the 
summit  where  Opinion  abode,  we  found  her  enter¬ 
taining  several  who  had  arrived  before  us.  Her 
voice  was  pleasing;  she  breathed  odors  as  she 
spoke.  She  seemed  to  have  a  tongue  for  every 
one;  every  one  thought  he  heard  of  something  that 
was  valuable  in  himself,  and  expected  a  paradise 
which  she  promised  as  the  reward  of  his  merit. 
Thus  wTere  we  drawn  to  folloAv  her,  till  she  should 
bring  us  where  it  was  to  be  bestowed;  and  it  was 
observable,  that  all  the  way  we  went,  the  company 
was  either  praising  themselves  for  their  qualifica¬ 
tions,  or  one  another  for  those  qualifications  which 
they  took  to  be  conspicuous  in  their  own  charac¬ 
ters,  or  dispraising  others  for  wanting  theirs  or 
vying  in  the  degrees  of  them. 

At  last  we  approached  a  bower,  at  the  entrance 
of  which  Error  was  seated.  The  trees  were  thick 
woven,  and  the  place  where  he  sat  artfully  con- 


*  The  Gospel. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


trivod  to  darken  him  a  little.  He  was  diso-uised 
in  a  whitish  robe,  which  he  had  put  on,  that  he 
might  appear  to  us  with  a  nearer  resemblance  to 
J  ruth  and  as  she  has  a  light  whereby  she  mani¬ 
fests  the  beauties  of  nature  to  the  eyes  of  her 
adorers,  so  he  had  provided  himself  with  a  magical 
wand,  that  he  might  do  something  in  imitation  of 
it,  and  please  with  delusions.  This  he  lifted  sol- 
emnlv,  and,  muttering  to  himself,  bid  the  glories 
which  he  kept  under  enchantment  to  appear  before 
us.  Immediately  we  cast  our  eyes  on  that  part  of 
the  sky  to  which  he  pointed,  and  observed  a  thin 
blue  prospect,  which  cleared  as  mountains  in  a 
summer  morning  when  the  mist  goes  off,  and  the 
palace  of  Vanity  appeared  to  sight. 

The  foundation  seemed  hardly  a  foundation,  but 
a  set  of  curling  clouds,  which  it  stood  upon  by 
magical  contrivance.  The  way  by  which  we  as¬ 
cended  was  painted  like  a, rainbow;  and  as  we 
w-ent,  the  breeze  that  played  about  us,  bewitched 
the  senses.  The  walks  were  gilded  all  for  show; 
the  lowest  set  of  pillars  were  of  the  slight  fine’ 
Corinthian  order,  and  the  top  of  the  building  being 
rounded,  bore  so  far  the  resemblance  of  a  bubble. 

At  the  gate  the  travelers  neither  met  with  a  por¬ 
ter,  nor  waited  till  one  should  appear;  every  one 
thought  his  merits  a  sufficient  passport,  and  pressed 
forward.  In  the  hall  we  met  with  several  phan¬ 
toms,  that  roved  among  us,  and  ranged  the  com¬ 
pany  according  to  their  sentiments.  There  was 
decreasing  Honor,  that  had  nothing  to  show,  but 
an  old  coat,  of  his  ancestor’s  achievements.  There 
was  Ostentation,  that  made  himself  his  own  con¬ 
stant  subject,  and  Gallantry  strutting  upon  his 
tiptoes.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  hall  stood  a 
throne,  whose  canopy  glittered  with  all  the  riches 
that  gayety  could  contrive  to  lavish  on  it ;  and 
between  the  gilded  arms  sat  Vanity,  decked  in  the 
peacock’s  feathers,  and  acknowledged  for  another 
Venus  by  her  votaries.  The  boy  who  stood  beside 
her  for  a  Cupid,  and  who  made  the  world  to  bow 
before  her,  was  called  Self-Conceit.  His  eyes  had 
everynow  and  then  a  cast  inward,  to  the  neglect  of 
all  objects  about  him;  and  the  arms  which  he  made 
use  of  for  conquest,  were  borrowed  from  those 
against  whom  he  had  a  design.  The  arrow  which 
he  shot  at  the  soldier,  was  fledged  from  his  own 
plume  of  feathers;  the  dart  he  directed  against  the 
man  of  wit,  was  winged  from  the  quills  he  wrote 
with;  and  that  which  he  sent  against  those  who 
presumed  upon  their  riches,  was  headed  with  gold 
out  of  their  treasuries.  He  made  nets  for  states¬ 
men  from  their  own  contrivances;  he  took  fire 
from  the  eyes  of  ladies,  with  which  he  melted 
their  hearts;  and  lightning  from  the  tongues  of  the 
eloquent,  to  inflame  them  with  their  own  glories. 
At  the  foot  of  the  throne  sat  three  false  Graces: 
Flattery  with  a  shell  of  paint,  Affectation  with  a 
mirror  to  practice  at,  ana  Fashion  ever  changing 
the  posture  ot  her  clothes.  These  applied  them¬ 
selves  to  secure  the  conquests  which  Self-Conceit 
had  gotten,  and  had  each  of  them  their  particular 
polities.  Flattery  gave  new  colors  and  complex¬ 
ions  to  all  things;  Affectation  new  airs  and  appear¬ 
ances,  which,  as  she  said,  were  not  vulgar;  and 
Fashion  both  concealed  some  home  defects,  and 
added  some  foreign  external  beauties. 

As  I  was  reflecting  upon  what  I  saw,  I  heard  a 
voice  in  the  crowd  bemoaning  the  condition  of 
mankind,  which  is  thus  managed  by  the  breath  of 
Opinion,  deluded  by  Error,  fired  by  Self-Conceit 
and  given  up  to  be  trained  in  all  the  courses  of 
Vanity,  till  Scorn  or  Poverty  come  upon  us.  These 
expressions  were  no  sooner  handed  about,  but  I 
immediately  saw  a  general  disorder,  till  at  last 
there  was  a  parting  in  one  place,  and  a  grave  old 
man,  decent  and  resolute,  was  led  forward  to  be 


553 


)u ni shed  for  the  words  he  had  uttered.  He  ap¬ 
peared  inclined  to  have  spoken  in  his  own  defense, 
nit  L  could  not  observe  that  any  one  was  willing 
to  hear  him.  Vanity  cast  a  scornful  smile  at  him; 
feeit-Conceit  was  angry;  Flattery,  who  knew  him 
lor  1  lani-Dealmg,  put  on  a  vizard,  and  turned 
away.  Affectation  tossed  her  fan,  made  mouths, 
and  called  him  Envv  or  Slander;  and  Fashion 
would  have  it  that  at  least  he  must  be  Ill-Manners. 
J  bus  slighted  and  despised  by  all,  he  was  driven 
out  tor  abusing  people  of  merit  and  figure;  and  I 
ieai  it  fi linly  resolved,  that  he  shouli?  be  used  no 
better  wherever  they  met  with  him  hereafter. 

I  had  already  seen  the  meaning  of  most  part  of 
that  warning  which  he  had  given,  and  was  consid¬ 
ering  how  the  latter  words  should  be  fulfilled,  when 
a  mighty  noise  was  heard  without,  and  the  door 
was  blackened  by  a  numerous  train  of  harpies 
crowding  in  upon  us.  Folly  and  Broken-Credit 
were  seen  in  the  house  before  they  entered.  Trou¬ 
ble,  bhame,  Infamy,  Scorn,  and  Poverty,  brought 
up  the  rear.  Vanity,  with  her  Cupid  and  Graces, 
disappeared;  her  subjects  ran  into  holes  and  cor- 
ners;  but  many  of  them  were  found  and  carried 
oft  (as  I  was  told  by  one  who  stood  near  me)  either 
to  prisons  or  cellars,  solitude  or  little  company,  the 
mean  arts  or  the  viler  crafts  of  life.  “But  these,” 
added  he  with  a  disdainful  air,  “are  such  who 
would  fondly  live  here,  when  their  merits  neither 
matched  the  luster  ol  the  place,  nor  their  riches 
its  expenses.  We  have  seen  such  scenes  as  these 
before  now;  the  glory  you  saw  will  all  return  when 
the  hurry  is  over.”  I  thanked  him  for  his  infor¬ 
mation;  and,  believing  him  so  incorrigible  as  that 
he  would  stay  till  it  was  his  turn  to  be  taken,  I 
made  off  to  the  door,  and  overtook  some  few,  who 
though  they  would  not  harken  to  Plain-Dealing’ 
were  now  terrified  to  good  purpose  by  the  example 
of  others.  But  when  they  had  touched  the  thresh¬ 
old,  it  was  a  strange  shock  to  them  to  find  that  the 
delusion  of  Error  was  gone,  and  they  plainly  dis¬ 
cerned  the  building  to  hang  a  little  up  in  the  air 
without  any  real  foundation.  At  first  we  saw 
nothing  but  a  desperate  leap  remained  for  us,  and 
I  a  thousand  times  blamed  my  unmeaning  curiosity 
that  had  brought  me  into  so  much  danger.  But  as 
they  began  to  sink  lower  in  their  own  minds, 
methought  the  place  sunk  along  with  us,  till  they 
were  arrived  at  the  due  point  of  esteem  which  they 
ought  to  have  for  themselves:  then  the  part  of  the 
building  in  which  they  stood  touched  the  earth, 
and  we  departing  out,  it  retired  from  our  eyes. 
Now,  whether  they  who  stayed  in  the  palace  were 
sensible  of  this  descent,  I  cannot  tell;  it  was  then 
my  opinion  that  they  were  not.  However  it  be,  my 
dream  broke  up  at  it,  and  has  given  me  occasion 
all  my  life  to  reflect  upon  the  fatal  consequences 
of  following  the  suggestions  of  Vanity. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  write  to  you  to  desire,  that  you  would  again 
touch  upon  a  certain  enormity,  which  is  chiefly  in 
use  among  the  politer  and  better-bred  part  of  man 
kind;  I  mean  the  ceremonies,  bows,  courtesies,  whis¬ 
perings,  smiles,  winks,  nods,  with  other  familiar 
arts  of  salutation,  which  take  up  in  our  churches 
so  much  time  that  might  be  better  employed,  and 
which  seem  so  utterly  inconsistent  with  the  duty 
and  tiue  intent  of  our  entering  into  (hose  religious 
assemblies.  I  he  resemblance  which  this  bears  to 
our  indeed  proper  behavior  in  theaters,  may  be 
some  instance  of  its  incongruity  in  the  above-men¬ 
tioned  places.  In  Roman  Catholic  churches  and 
chapels  abroad,  I  myself  have  observed,  more  than 
once,  persons  of  the  first  quality,  of  the  nearest 
relation,  and  intimatest  acquaintance,  passing  by 
one  another  unknowing,,  as  it  were,  and  unknown, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


552 


and  with  so  little  notice  of  each  other,  that  it  looked 
like  having  their  minds  more  suitably  and  more 
solemnly  engaged;  at  least  it  was  an  acknowledg¬ 
ment  that  they  ought  to  have  been  so.  I  have  been 
told  the  same  even  of  the  Mahometans,  with  rela¬ 
tion  to  the  propriety  of  their  demeanor  in  the 
conventions  of  their  erroneous  worship ;  and  I 
cannot  but  think  either  of  them  sufficient  laudable 
patterns^for  our  imitation  in  this  particular. 

“  I  cannot  help  upon  this  occasion,  remarking  on 
the  excellent  memories  of  those  devotionists,  who 
upon  returning  from  church  shall  give  a  particular 
account  how  two  or  three  hundred  people  were 
dressed;  a  thing,  by  reason  of  its  variety,  so  diffi¬ 
cult  to  be  digested  and  fixed  in  the  head,  that  it  is 
a  miracle  to  me  how  two  poor  hours  of  divine 
service  can  be  time  sufficient  for  so  elaborate  an 
undertaking,  the  duty  of  the  place  too  being  jointly, 
and  no  doubt  oft  pathetically,  performed  along 
with  it.  Where  it  is  said  in  sacred  writ,  that  ‘  the 
woman  ought  to  have  a  covering  on  her  head  be¬ 
cause  of  the  angels,’  that  last  word  is  by  some 
thought  to  be  metaphorically  used,  and  to  signify 
young  men.  Allowing  this  interpretation  to  be 
right,  the  text  may  not  appear  to  be  wholly  foreign 
to  our  present  purpose. 

“  When  you  are  in  a  disposition  proper  for  writ¬ 
ing  on  such  a  subject,  I  earnestly  recommend  this 
to  you:  and  am,  “  Sir 

T.  “  Your  very  humble  servant.” 


No.  461.]  TUESDAY,  AUGUST  19,  1712. 

- Sect  non  ego  credulus  illis. — Virg.  Eel.  ix.  34. 

But  I  discern  their  flatt’ry  from  their  praise. — Dryden. 

For  want  of  time  to  substitute  something  else 
in  the  room  of  them,  I  am  at  present  obliged  to 
publish  compliments  above  my  desert  in  the  fol¬ 
lowing  letters.  It  is  no  small  satisfaction  to  have 
given  occasion  to  ingenious  men  to  employ  their 
thoughts  upon  sacred  subjects,  from  the  approba¬ 
tion  of  such  pieces  of  poetry  as  they  have  seen  in 
my  Saturday’s  papers.  I  shall  never  publish  verse 
on  that  day  but  what  is  written  by  the  same  hand:* 
yet  shall  I  not  accompany  these  writings  with 
eulogiums,  but  leave  them  to  speak  for  themselves. 

“For  the  Spectator. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“You  very  much  promote  the  interests  of  virtue, 
while  you  reform  the  taste  of  a  profane  age;  and 
persuade  us  to  be  entertained  with  divine  poems, 
while  we  are  distinguished  by  so  many  thousand 
humors,  and  split  into  so  many  different  sects  and 
parties;  yet  persons  of  every  party,  sect,  and  hu¬ 
mor,  are  fond  of  conforming  their  taste  to  yours. 
You  can  transfuse  your  own  relish  of  a  poem  into 
all  your  readers  according  to  their  capacity  to 
receive;  and  when  you  recommend  the  pious  pas¬ 
sion  that  reigns  in  the  verse,  we  seem  to  feel  the 
devotion,  and  grow  proud  and  pleased  inwardly, 
that  we  have  souls  capable  of  relishing  what  the 
Spectator  approves. 

“  Upon  reading  the  hymns  that  you  have  pub¬ 
lished  in  some  late  papers,  I  had  a  mind  to  try 
yesterday  whether  I  could  write  one.  The  cxivth 
psalm  appears  to  me  an  admirable  ode,  and  I  began 
to  turn  it  into  our  language.  As  I  was  describing 
the  journey  of  Israel  from  Egypt,  and  added 
the  Divine  Presence  among  them,  I  perceived  a 
beauty  in  this  psalm,  which  was  entirely  new  to 
me,  and  which  I  was  going  to  lose;  and  that  is, 
that  the  poet  utterly  conceals  the  presence  of  God 


in  the  beginning  of  it,  and  rather  lets  a  possessive 
pronoun  go  without  a  substantive,  than  ne  will  so 
much  as  mention  anything  of  divinity  there.  'Ju¬ 
dah  was  his  sanctuary,  and  Israel  his  dominion  or 
kingdom.’  The  reason  now  seems  evident,  and 
this  conduct  necessary;  for,  if  God  had  appeared 
before,  there  could  be  no  wonder  why  the  moun¬ 
tains  should  leap  and  the  sea  retire;  therefore,  that 
this  convulsion  of  nature  may  be  brought  in  with 
due  surprise,  his  name  is  not  mentioned  till  after¬ 
ward  :  and  then  with  a  very  agreeable  turn  of 
thought,  God  is  introduced  at  once  in  all  his  maj¬ 
esty.  This  is  what  I  have  attempted  to  imitate  in 
a  translation  without  paraphrase,  and  to  preserve 
what  I  could  of  the  spirit  of  the  sacred  author. 

“If  the  following  essay  be  not  too  incorrigible, 
bestow  upon  it  a  few  brightenings  from  your  ge¬ 
nius,  that  I  may  learn  how  to  write  better,  or  to 
write  no  more. 

“  Your  daily  admirer,  and  humble  Servant,”  etc. 

PSALM  CXIY. 

I. 

When  Israel,  freed  from  Pharaoh’s  hand, 

Left  the  proud  tyrant  and  his  land, 

The  tribes  with  cheerful  homage  own 
Their  King,  and  J  udah  was  bis  throne. 

II. 

Across  the  deep  their  journey  lay, 

The  deep  divides  to  make  them  way, 

The  streams  of  Jordan  saw,  and  fled 
With  backward  current  to  their  head. 

III. 

The  mountains  shook  like  frighted  sheep, 

Like  lambs  the  little  hillocks  leap; 

Not  Sinai  on  her  base  could  stand, 

Conscious  of  sov’reign  power  at  hand. 

IY. 

What  power  could  make,  the  deep  divide? 

Make  Jordan  backward  roll  his  tide  ? 

Why  did  ye  leap,  ye  little  hills? 

And  whence  the  fright  that  Sinai  feels? 

V. 

Let  every  mountain,  ev’ry  flood, 

Retire,  and  know  th’  approaching  God, 

The  King  of  Israel  1  See  him  here : 

Tremble,  thou  earth,  adore  and  fear. 

YI. 

He  thunders — and  all  nature  mourns ; 

The  rocks  to  standing  pools  he  turns; 

Flints  spring  with  fountains  at  his  word, 

And  fires  and  seas  confess  their  Lord.* 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“There  are  those  who  take  the  advantage  of 
your  putting  a  halfpenny  value  upon  yourself 
above  the  rest  of  our  daily  writers,  to  defame  you 
in  public  conversation,  and  strive  to  make  you 
unpopular  upon  the  account  of  this  said  halfpenny. 
But,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  insist  upon  that  small 
acknowledgment  for  the  superior  merit  of  yours, 
as  being  a  work  of  invention.  Give  me  leave, 
therefore,  to  do  you  justice,  and  say  in  your  behalf, 
what  you  cannot  yourself,  which  is,  that  your 
writings  have  made  learning  a  more  necessary  part 
of  good-breeding  than  it  was  before  you  appeared; 
that  modesty  is  become  fashionable,  and  impu¬ 
dence  stands  in  need  of  some  wit,  since  you  have 
put  them  both  in  their  proper  lights.  Profaneness, 
lewdness,  and  debauchery,  are  not  now  qualifica¬ 
tions;  and  a  man  may  be  a  very  fine  gentleman, 
though  he  is  neither  a  keeper  nor  an  infidel. 

“I  would  have  you  tell  the  town  the  story  of  the 
Sibyls,  if  they  deny  giving  you  two-pence.  Let 
them  know,  that  those  sacred  papers  were  valued 
at  the  same  rate  after  two-thirds  of  them  were 
destroyed,  as  when  there  was  the  whole  set.  There 


*  Addison. 


*By  Dr.  Isaac  Watts. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


553 


are  so  many  of  us  who  will  give  you  your  own 
price,  that  you  may  acquaint  your  non-conformist 
readers,  that  they  shall  not  have  it,  except  they 
come  in  within  such  a  day,  under  three-pence.  I 
do  not  know  but  you  might  bring  in  the  ‘  Date 
Obolum  Belisario’  with  a  good  grace.  The  wit¬ 
lings  come  in  clusters  to  two  or  three  coffee-houses 
which  have  left  you  off ;  and  1  hope  vou  will  make 
us,  who  fine  to  your  wit,  merry  with  their  charac¬ 
ters  who  stand  out  against  it. 

“I  am  your  most  humble  Servant.” 

“P.  S.  I  have  lately  got  the  ingenious  authors 
of  blacking  for  shoes,  powder  for  coloring  the  hair, 
pomatum  for  the  hands,  cosmetic  for  the  face,  to  be 
your  constant  customers;  so  that  your  advertise¬ 
ments  will  as  much  adorn  the  outward  man,  as 
your  paper  does  the  inward.” 

T. 


No.  462.]  WEDNESDAY,  AUGUST  20,  1712. 

Nil  ego  pnetulerim  jucundo  sanus  amico. 

Hor.  1  Sat.  v.  44. 

Nothing  so  grateful  as  a  pleasant  friend. 

People  are  not  aware  of  the  very  great  force 
which  pleasantry  in  company  has  upon  all  those 
with  whom  a  man  of  that  talent  converses.  His 
faults  are  generally  overlooked  by  all  his  acquaint¬ 
ance;  and  a  certain  carelessness,  that  constantly 
attends  all  his  actions,  carries  him  on  with  greater 
success,  than  diligence  and  assiduity  do  others 
who  have  no  share  of  this  endowment.  Dacinthus 
breaks  his  word  upon  all  occasions  both  trivial  and 
important;  and,  when  he  is  sufficiently  railed  at 
for  that  abominable  quality,  they  who  talk  of  him 
end  with,  “  After  all,  he  is  a  very  pleasant  fellow.” 
Dacinthus  is  an  ill-natured  husband,  and  yet  the 
very  women  end  their  freedom  of  discourse  upon 
this  subject,  “But  after  all,  he  is  very  pleasant 
cpmpany.”  Dacinthus  is  neither  in  point  of  honor, 
civility,  good-breeding,  nor  good-nature,  unexcep¬ 
tionable,  and  yet  all  is  answered,  “For  he  is  a  very 
pleasant  fellow.”  When  this  quality  is  conspicu¬ 
ous  in  a  man  who  has,  to  accompany  it,  manly  and 
virtuous  sentiments,  there  cannot  certainly  be  any¬ 
thing  which  can  give  so  pleasing  a  gratification  as 
the  gayety  of  such  a  person;  but  when  it  is  alone, 
and  serves  only  to  gild  a  crowd  of  ill  qualities, 
there  is  no  man  so  much  to  be  avoided  as  your 
pleasant  fellow.  A  very  pleasant  fellow  shall  turn 
your  good  name  to  a  jest,  make  your  character 
contemptible,  debauch  your  wife  or  daughter,  and 
yet  be  received  with  the  rest  of  the  world  with 
welcome  wherever  he  appears.  It  is  very  ordinary 
with  those  of  this  character  to  be  attentive  only  to 
their  own  satisfactions,  and  have  very  little  bowels 
for  the  concerns  or  sorrows  of  other  men;  nay,  they 
are  capable  of  purchasing  their  own  pleasures  at 
the  expense  of  giving  pain  to  others.  But  they 
who  do  not  consider  this  sort  of  men  thus  care¬ 
fully,  are  irresistibly  exposed  to  their  insinuations. 
The  author  of  the  following  letter  carries  the  mat¬ 
ter  so  high,  as  to  intimate  that  the  liberties  of 
England  have  been  at  the  mercy  of  a  prince  merely 
as  he  was  of  this  pleasant  character  : 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 


|  ably  condescend  to  soothe  our  humor  or  temper, 
1  finds  always  an  open  avenue  to  our  soul;  espe¬ 
cially  il  the  flatterer  happen  to  be  our  superior. 

“  0,ie  might  give  many  instances  of  this  in  a 
late  English  monarch  under  the  title  of  '  The  Gaye- 
ties  ot  King  Charles  II.’  This  prince  was  by 
natuie  extremely  familiar,  of  very  easy  access,  and 
much  delighted  to  see  and  be  seen;  and  his  happy 
temper,  which  in  the  highest  degree  gratified  his 
people  s  vanity,  did  him  more  service  with  his 
loving  subjects  than  all  his  other  virtues,  though 
it  must  be  confessed  he  had  many.  He  delighted 
though  a  mighty  king,  to  give  and  take  a  jest  as 
they  say;  and  a  prince  of  this  fortunate  disposi¬ 
tion,  who  was  inclined  to  make  an  ill  use  of  his 
power,  may  have  anything  of  his  people,  be  it  never 
so  much  to  their  prejudice.  But  this  good  king 
made  generally  a  very  innocent  use,  as  to  the  pub- 
lic,  of  this  ensnaring  temper;  for,  it  is  well  known, 
he  pursued  pleasure  more  than  ambition.  He 
seemed  to  glory  in  being  the  first  man  at  cock- 
matches,  horse-races,  balls,  and  plays;  lie  appeared 
highly  delighted  on  those  occasions,  and  never 
tailed  to  warm  and  gladden  the  heart  of  every 
spectator.  He  more  than  once  dined  with  his 
good  citizens  of  London  on  their  lord-mayor’s  day 
and  did  so  the  year  that  Sir  Robert  Viner  was 
mayor.  Sir  Robert  was  a  very  loyal  man,  and  if 
you  will  allow  the  expression,  very  fond  of  his 
sovereign;  but  what  with  the  joy  he  felt  at  heart 
for  the  honor  done  him  by  his  prince,  and  through 
the  warmth  he  was  in  with  continual  toasting 
healths  to  the  royal  family,  his  lordship  grew  a 
little  fond  of  his  majesty,  and  entered  into  a 
familiarity  not  altogether  so  graceful  in  so  public 
a  place.  The  king  understood  very  well  how  to 
extricate  himself  in  all  kinds  of  difficulties,  and, 
with  a  hint  to  the  company  to  avoid  ceremony" 
stole  off  and  made  toward  his  coach,  which  stood 
ready  for  him  in  Guildhall  yard.  But  the  mayor 
liked  his  company  so  well,  and  was  grown  so 
intimate,  that  he  pursued  him  hastily,  and,  catch¬ 
ing  him  fast  by  the  hand,  cried  out  with  a  vehe¬ 
ment  oath  and  accent,  ‘Sir,  you  shall  stay  and  take 
t’other  bottle.”  rI  he  airy  monarch  looked  kindly 
at  him  over  his  shoulder,  and  with  a  smile  and 
graceful  air  (for  I  saw  him  at  the  time,  and  do 
now)  repeated  this  line  of  the  old  song: 

He  that’s  drunk  is  as  great  as  a  king ; 


and  immediately  returned  back,  and  complied  with 
his  landlord. 

“I  give  you  this  story,  Mr.  Spectator,  because, 
as  I  said,  1  saw  the  passage;  and  I  assure  you  it 
is  very  true,  and  yet  no  common  one;  and  when  I 
tell  you  the  sequel,  you  will  say  I  have  a  better 
reason  for  it.  This  very  mayor  afterward  erected 
a  statue  of  his  merry  monarch  in  Stocks-market,* 
and  did  the  crown  many  and  great  services;  and  it 
was  owing  to  this  humor  of  the  king,  that  his 
family  had  so  great  a  fortune  shut  up  in  the  ex¬ 
chequer  of  their  pleasant  sovereign.  The  many 
good-natured  condescensions  of  this  prince  are 
vulgarly  known;  and  it  is  excellently  said  of  him 
by  a  great  handf  which  wrote  his  character,  that 
he  was  not  a  king  a  quarter  of  an  hour  together  in 


“  There  is  no  one  passion  which  all  mankind  so 
naturally  give  into  as  pride,  nor  any  other  passion 
which  appears  in  such  different  disguises.  It  is 
to  be  found  in  all  habits  and  all  complexions.  Is 
it  not  a  question,  whether  it  does  more  harm  or 
good  in  the  world;  and  if  there  be  not  such  a 
thing  as  what  we  may  call  a  virtuous  and  laudable 
pride  ? 

“  It  is  this  passion  alone,  when  misapplied,  that 
lays  us  so  open  to  flatterers;  and  he  who  can  agree- 


*Tlie  equestrian  statue  of  Charles  II,  in  Stocks-market, 
erected  at  the  sole  charge  of  Sir  Robert  Viner,  was  originally 
made  for  John  Sobieski,  King  of  Poland;  but  by  some  acci¬ 
dent  it  had  been  left  on  the  workman’s  hands.  To  save  time 
and  expense,  the  Polander  was  converted  into  a  Briton,  and 
the  Turk  underneath  his  horse  into  Oliver  Cromwell  to  com¬ 
plete  the  compliment.  Unfortunately  the  turban  on  the 
Turk’s  head  was  overlooked,  and  left  an  undeniable  proof  of 
this  story.  See  Stowe’s  Survey,  etc.,  ed.  1755,  p.  517,  vol.  1; 
and  Ralph’s  Review,  etc.,  ed.  1736,  p.  9. 

f  Sheffield,  Duke  of  Buckingham,  who  said,  that  “on  apre- 
meditation,  Charles  II  could  not  act  the  part  of  a  king  for  a 
moment.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


554 

his  whole  reign.  He  would  receive  visits  from 
fools  and  half  madmen;  and  at  times  I  have  met 
with  people  who  have  boxed,  fought  at  back¬ 
sword,  and  taken  poison  before  King  Charles  II. 
In  a  word,  he  was  so  pleasant  a  man,  that  no  one 
could  be  sorrowful  under  his  government.  This 
made  him  capable  of  baffling,  with  the  greatest 
ease  imaginable,  all  suggestions  of  jealousy;  and 
the  people  could  not  entertain  notions  of  anything 
terrible  in  him,  whom  they  saw  every  way  agree¬ 
able.  This  scrap  of  the  familiar  part  of  that 
prince’s  history  I  thought  fit  to  send  you,  in  com¬ 
pliance  to  the  request  you  lately  made  to  your 
correspondents.  “I  am.  Sir, 

“  Your  most  humble  Servant.” 


Ho.  463.]  THURSDAY,  AUGUST  21,  1712. 

Omnia  quie  sensu  volvuntur  vota  diurno, 

Pectore  sopito  reddit  arnica  quies. 

Venator  defessa  toro  cum  membra  reponit, 

Mens  tamen  ad  sylvas  et  sua  lustra  redit: 

Judicibus  lites,  aurigis  somnia  currus, 

Vmiaque  nocturnis  meta  cavetur  equis. 

Me  quoque  Musarum  studium  sub  nocte  silenti 
Artibus  assuetis  sollicitare  solet. — Claud. 

In  sleep,  when  fancy  is  let  loose  to  play, 

Our  dreams  repeat  the  wishes  of  the  day. 

Though  farther  toil  his  tired  limbs  refuse, 

The  dreaming  hunter  still  the  chase  pursues. 

The  judge  abed  dispenses  still  the  laws, 

And  sleeps  again  o'er  the  unfinish’d  cause. 

The  dozing  racer  hears  his  chariot  roll, 

Smacks  the  vain  whip,  and  shuns  the  fancied  goal. 

Me  too  the  Muses,  in  the  silent  night, 

With  wonted  chimes  of  jingling  verse  delight. 

I  was  lately  entertaining  myself  with  comparing 
Homer’s  balance,  in  which  Jupiter  is  represented 
as  weighing  the  fates  of  Hector  and  Achilles,  with 
a  passage  of  Virgil,  wherein  that  deity  is  intro¬ 
duced  as  weighing  the  fates  of  Turnus  and  iEneas. 
I  then  considered  how  the  same  way  of  thinking 
prevailed  in  the  eastern  parts  of  the  world,  as  in 
those  noble  passages  of  Scripture,  wherein  we  are 
told,  that  the  great  king  of  Babylon,  the  day  be¬ 
fore  his  death,  had  been  “weighed  in  the  balance, 
and  found  wanting.”  In  other  places  of  the  holy 
writings,  the  Almighty  is  described  as  weighing 
the  mountains  in  scales,  making  the  weight  for  the 
winds,  knowing  the  balancings  of  the  clouds;  and 
in  others  as  weighing  the  actions  of  men,  and 
laying  their  calamities  together  in  a  balance. 
Milton,  as  I  have  observed  in  a  former  paper, 
had  an  eye  to  several  of  these  foregoing  instances 
in  that  beautiful  description,  wherein  he  repre¬ 
sents  the  archangel  and  the  evil  spirit  as  ad¬ 
dressing  themselves  for  the  combat,  but  parted 
by  the  balance  which  appeared  in  the  heavens, 
and  weighed  the  consequences  of  such  a  battle. 

The  Eternal,  to  prevent  such  horrid  fray. 

Hung  forth  in  heav’n  his  golden  scales,  yet  seen 
Betwixt  Astrea  and  the  Scorpion  sign; 

Wherein  all  things  created  first  he  weigh’d. 

The  pendulous  round  earth,  with  balanc’d  air, 

In  counterpoise,  now  ponders  all  events, 

Battles  ami  realms;  in  these  he  put  two  weights, 

The  sequel  each  of  parting  and  of  fight, 

The  latter  quirk  up  flew,  and  kick’d  the  beam; 

Which  Gabriel  spying,  thus  bespoke  the  fiend: 

1‘ Satan,  I  know  thy  strength,  and  thou  know’st  mine; 
Neither  our  own,  but  giv’n.  What  folly  then 
To  boast  what  arms  can  do,  since  thine  no  more 
Than  heaven  permits ;  nor  mine,  though  doubled  now 
To  trample  thee  as  mire!  Eor  proof  look  up, 

And  read  thy  lot  jn  yon  celestial  sign, 

Where  thou  art  weighed,  and  shown  how  light,  how  weak, 
If  thou  resist.”  The  fiend  looked  up,  and  knew 
His  mounted  scale  aloft;  nor  more;  but  fled 
Murm’ring,  and  with  him  fled  the  shades  of  night. 

These  several  amusing  thoughts,  having  taken 
possession  of  my  mind  some  time  before  I  went  to 


sleep,  and  mingling  themselves  with  my  ordinary 
ideas,  raised  in  my  imagination  a  very  odd  kind 
of  vision.  I  was,  methought,  replaced  in  my 
study,  and  seated  in  my  elbow-chair,  where  I  had 
indulged  the  foregoing  speculations  with  my  lamp 
burning  by  me  as  usual.  While  I  was  here  medi¬ 
tating  on  several  subjects  of  morality,  and  consid¬ 
ering  the  nature  of  many  virtues  and  vices,  as 
materials  for  those  discourses  with  which  I  daily 
entertain  the  public,  I  saw,  methought,  a  pair  of 
golden  scales  hanging  by  a  chain  of  the  same 
metal,  over  the  table  that  stood  before  me;  when, 
on  a  sudden,  there  were  great  heaps  of  weights 
thrown  down  on  each  side  of  them.  I  found, 
upon  examining  these  weights,  they  showed  the 
value  of  everything  that  is  in  esteem  among  men. 
I  made  an  essay  of  them,  by  putting  the  weight 
of  wisdom  in  one  scale,  and  that  of  riches  in 
another:  upon  which  the  latter,  to  show  its  com¬ 
parative  lightness,  immediately  flew  up  and  kicked 
the  beam. 

But,  before  I  proceed,  I  must  inform  my  reader, 
that  these  weights  did  not  exert  their  natural  grav¬ 
ity  till  they  were  laid  in  the  golden  balance,  inso¬ 
much  that  I  could  not  guess  which  was  light  or 
heavy  while  I  held  them  in  my  hand.  This  I 
found  by  several  instances:  for  upon  my  laying  a 
weight  in  one  of  the  scales,  which  was  inscribed 
with  the  word  “Eternity,”  though  I  threw  in  that 
of  Time,  Prosperity,  Affliction,  Wealth,  Poverty, 
Interest,  Success,  with  many  other  weights  which 
in  my  hand  seemed  very  ponderous,  they  were  not 
able  to  stir  the  opposite  balance;  nor  could  they 
have  prevailed,  though  assisted  with  the  weight 
of  the  Sun,  the  Stars,  and  the  Earth. 

Upon  emptying  the  scales,  I  laid  several  titles 
and  honors,  with  Pomps,  Triumphs,  and  many 
weights  of  the  like  nature,  in  one  of  them;  ana 
seeing  a  little  glittering  weight  lie  by  me,  I  threw 
it  accidentally  into  the  other  scale,  when,  to  my 
great  surprise,  it  proved  so  exact  a  counterpoise, 
that  it  kept  the  balance  in  an  equilibrium.  This 
little  glittering  weight  was  inscribed  upon  the 
edges  of  it  with  the  word  “Vanity.”  I  found 
there  w^ere  several  other  weights  which  were 
equally  heavy,  and  exact  counterpoise  to  one 
another:  a  few  of  them  I  tried,  as  Avarice  and 
Poverty,  Riches  and  Content,  with  some  others. 

There  were  likewise  several  weights  that  were 
of  the  same  figure,  and  seemed  to  correspond  with 
each  other,  but  were  entirely  different  when  thrown 
into  the  scales;  as  Religion  and  Hypocrisy,  Pe¬ 
dantry  and  Learning,  Wit  and  Vivacity,  Super¬ 
stition  and  Devotion,  Gravity  and  Wisdom,  with 
many  others. 

I  observed  one  particular  weight  lettered  on 
both  sides:  and,  upon  applying  myself  to  the 
reading  of  it,  I  found  on  one  side  written,  “In 
the  dialect  of  men,”  and  underneath  it,  “  Calami¬ 
ties;”  on  the  other  side  was  written,  “In  the  lan¬ 
guage  of  the  gods,”  and  underneath,  “Blessings.” 
I  found  the  intrinsic  value  of  this  weight  to  be 
much  greater  than  I  imagined,  for  it  overpowered 
Health,  Wealth,  Good-fortune,  and  many  other 
weights,  which  were  much  more  ponderous  in  my 
hand  than  the  other. 

There  is  a  saying  among  the  Scotch,  that  an 
ounce  of  mother-wit  is  worth  a  pound  of  clergy: 
I  was  sensible  of  the  truth  of  this  saying,  when  I 
saw  the  difference  between  the  weight  of  Natural 
Parts  and  that  of  Learning.  The  observations 
which  I  made  upon  these  two  weights  opened  to 
me  a  new  field  of  discoveries;  for,  notwithstand¬ 
ing  the  weight  of  the  Natural  Parts  vTas  much 
heavier  than  that  of  Learning,  I  observed  that  it 
weighed  a  hundred  times  heavier  than  it  did  be- 
i  fore,  when  I  put  Learning  into  the  same  scale 


555 


THE  SPE 

with  it.  I  made  the  same  observation  upon  Faith 
and  Morality;  for,  notwithstanding  the  latter  out¬ 
weighed  the  former  separately,  it  received  a  thou¬ 
sand  times  more  additional  weight  from  its  con¬ 
junction  with  the  former,  than  what  it  had  by 
itself.  This  odd  phenomenon  showed  itself  in 
other  particulars,  as  in  Wit  and  Judgment,  Phi¬ 
losophy  and  Religion,  Justice  and  Humanity,  Zeal 
and  Charity,  depth  of  Sense  and  perspicuity  of 
Style,  with  innumerable  other  particulars  too  long 
to  be  mentioned  in  this  paper. 

As  a  dream  seldom  fails  of  dashing  seriousness 
with  impertinence,  mirth  with  gravity,  methought 
I  made  several  other  experiments  of  a  more  ludi¬ 
crous  nature,  by  one  of  which  I  found  that  an 
English  octavo  was  very  often  heavier  than  a 
French  folio;  and,  by  another,  that  an  old  Greek 
or  Latin  author  weighed  down  a  whole  library  of 
moderns.  Seeing  one  of  the  Spectators  lying  by 
me,  I  had  it  into  one  of  the  scales,  and  flung  a 
two-penny  piece  into  the  other.  The  reader  will 
not  inquire  into  the  event,  if  he  remembers  the 
first  trial  which  I  have  recorded  in  this  paper.  I 
afterward  threw  both  the  sexes  into  the  balance: 
but,  as  it  is  not  for  my  interest  to  disoblige  either 
of  them,  I  shall  desire  to  be  excused  from  telling 
the  result  of  this  experiment.  Having  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  this  nature  in  my  hands,  I  could  not  for¬ 
bear  throwing  into  one  scale  the  principles  of  a 
Tory,  and  into  the  other  those  of  a  Whig;  but,  as 
I  have  all  along  declared  this  to  be  a  neutral 
paper,  I  shall  likewise  desire  to  be  silent  under 
this  head  also;  though,  upon  examining  one  of 
the  weights  I  saw  the  word  “  terel”  engraven  on 
it  in  capital  letters. 

I  made  many  other  experiments;  and,  though  I 
have  not  room  for  them  all  in  this  day’s  specula¬ 
tion,  I  may  perhaps  reserve  them  for  anotner.  I 
shall  only  add,  that,  upon  my  awaking,  I  was 
sorry  to  find  my  golden  scales  vanished;  but  re¬ 
solved  for  the  future  to  learn  this  lesson  from 
them,  not  to  despise  or  value  any  things  for  their 
appearances,  but  to  regulate  my  esteem  and  pas¬ 
sions  toward  them  according  to  their  real  and 
intrinsic  value.— C. 


No.  464.]  FRIDAY,  AUGUST  22,  1712. 

Auream  quisquis  mediocritatem 
Diligit,  tutus  caret  obsoleti 
Sordibus  tecti,  caret  invidenda 

Sobrius  aula. — IIor.  2  Od.  x,  5. 

The  golden  mean,  as  she’s  too  nice  to  dwell 
Among  the  ruins  of  a  filthy  cell, 

So  is  her  modesty  withal  as  great, 

To  balk  the  envy  of  a  princely  seat. — Norris. 

I  am  wonderfully  pleased  when  I  meet  with  any 
passage  in  an  old  Greek  and  Latin  author,  that  is 
not  blown  upon,  and  which  I  have  never  met  with 
in  a  quotation.  Of  this  kind  is  a  beautiful  saying 
in  Theognis:  “Vice  is  covered  by  wealth,  and 
virtue  by  poverty;”  or,  to  give  it  in  the  verbal 
translation,  “  Among  men  there  are  some  who  have 
their  vices  concealed  by  wealth,  and  others  who 
have  their  virtues  concealed  by  poverty.”  Every 
man's  observation  will  supply  him  with  instances 
of  rich  men,  who  have  several  faults  and  defects 
that  are  overlooked,  if  not  entirely  hidden,  by 
means  of  their  riches;  and,  I  think,  we  cannot  find 
a  more  natural  description  of  a  poor  man,  whose 
merits  are  lost  in  his  poverty,  than  that  in  the 
words  of  the  wise  man:  “There  was  a  little  city, 
and  few  men  within  it,  and  there  came  a  great 
king  against  it,  and  besieged  it,  and  built  great 
bulwarks  against  it.  Now  there  was  found  in  it  a 
poor  wise  man,  and  he,  by  his  wisdom,  delivered 


CTATOR. 

the  city;  yet  no  man  remembered  that  same  poor 
man.  Then  said  I,  wisdom  is  better  than  strength; 
nevertheless,  the  poor  man’s  wisdom  is  despised, 
and  his  words  are  not  heard.” 

J  he  middle  condition  seems  to  be  the  most  ad¬ 
vantageously  situated  for  the  gaining  of  wisdom. 
Poverty  turns  our  thoughts  too  much  upon  the 
supplying  of  our  wants,  and  riches  upon  enjoying 
our  superfluities;  and,  as  Cowley  has  said  in  an¬ 
other  case,  “It  is  hard  for  a  man  to  keep  a  steady 
eye  upon  truth,  who  is  alwavs  in  a  battle  or  a 
triumph.” 

If  we  regard  poverty  and  wealth,  as  they  are 
apt  to  produce  virtues  or  vices  in  the  mind  of 
man,  one  may  observe  that  there  is  a  set  of  each 
of  these  growing  out  of  poverty,  quite  different 
from  that  which  rises  out  of  wealth.  Humility 
and  patience,  industry  and  temperance,  are  very 
often  the  good  qualities  of  a  poor  man.  Human¬ 
ity  and  good-nature,  magnanimity  and  a  sense  of 
honor,  are  as  often  the  qualifications  of  the  rich. 
On  the  contrary,  poverty  is  apt  to  betray  a  man 
into  envy,  riches  into  arrogance.  Poverty  is  too 
often  attended  with  fraud,  vicious  compliance, 
repining,  murmur,  and  discontent;  riches  expose 
a  man  to  pride  and  luxury,  a  foolish  elation  of 
heart,  and  too  great  a  fondness  for  the  present 
world.  In  short,  the  middle  condition  is  most 
eligible  to  the  man  who  would  improve  himself  in 
virtue;  as  I  have  before  shown,  it  is  the  most  ad¬ 
vantageous  for  the  gaining  of  knowledge.  It  was 
upon  this  consideration  that  Agur  founded  his 
prayer,  which,  for  the  wisdom  of  it,  is  recorded 
in  holy  writ.  “  Two  things  have  I  required  of 
thee;  deny  me  them  not  before  I  die.  Remove  far 
from  me  vanity  and  lies;  give  me  neither  poverty 
nor  riches;  feed  me  with  food  convenient  for  me; 
lest  I  be  full  and  deny  thee,  and  say,  Who  is  the 
Lord?  or  lest  I  be  poor  and  steal,  and  take  the 
name  of  my  God  in  vain.” 

I  shall  fill  the  remaining  part  of  my  paper  with 
a  very  pretty  allegory,  which  is  wrought  into  a 
play  by  Aristophanes,  the  Greek  comedian.  It 
seems  originally  designed  as  a  satire  upon  the 
rich,  though,  in  some  parts  of  it,  it  is,  like  the 
foregoing  discourse,  a  kind  of  comparison  between 
wealth  and  poverty. 

Chremylus,  who  was  an  old  and  a  good  man, 
and  withal  exceeding  poor,  being  desirous  to 
leave  some  riches  to  his  son,  consults  the  oracle 
of  Apollo  upon  the  subject.  The  oracle  bids  him 
follow  the  first  man  he  should  see  upon  his  going 
out  of  the  temple.  The  person  he  chanced  to  see 
was  to  appearance  an  old,  blind,  sordid  man,  but, 
upon  his  following  him  from  place  to  place,  he  at 
last  found,  by  his  own  confession,  that  he  was 
Plutus,  the  god  of  riches,  and  that  he  was  just 
come  out  of  the  house  of  a  miser.  Plutus  further 
told  him,  that  when  he  was  a  boy,  he  used  to 
declare,  that  as  soon  as  he  came  to  age  he  would 
distribute  wealth  to  no  one  but  virtuous  and  just 
men;  upon  which  Jupiter,  considering  the  perni¬ 
cious  consequences  of  such  a  resolution,  took  his 
sight  away  from  him,  and  left  him  to  stroll  about 
the  world  in  the  blind  condition  wherein  Chremy¬ 
lus  beheld  him.  With  much  ado  Chremylus  pre¬ 
vailed  upon  him  to  go  to  his  house,  where  he  met 
an  old  woman  in  a  tattered  raiment,  who  had  been 
his  guest  for  many  years,  and  whose  name  was 
Poverty.  The  old  woman  refusing  to  turn  out  so 
easily  as  he  would  have  her,  he  threatened  to 
banish  her  not  only  from  his  own  house,  but  out 
of  all  Greece,  if  she  made  any  more  words  upon 
the  matter.  Poverty  on  this  occasion  pleads  her 
cause  very  notably,  and  represents  to  her  landlord, 
that,  should  she  be  driven  out  of  the  country,  all 
their  trades,  arts,  and  sciences,  would  be  driven 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


556 

out  with  her;  and  that  if  every  one  was  rich,  they 
would  never  be  supplied  with  those  pomps,  or¬ 
naments,  and  conveniences  of  life,  which  made 
riches  desirable.  She  likewise  represented  to  him 
the  several  advantages  which  she  bestowed  upon 
her  votaries  in  regard  to  their  shape,  their  health, 
and  their  activity,  by  preserving  them  from  gouts, 
dropsies,  unwieldiness,  and  intemperance.  But 
whatever  she  had  to  say  for  herself,  she  was  at 
last  forced  to  troop  off.  Chremylus  immediately 
considered  how  he  might  restore  Plutus  to  his 
sight;  and,  in  order  to  it,  conveyed  him  to  the 
temple  of  HCsculapius,  who  was  famous  for  cures 
and  miracles  of  this  nature.  By  this  means,  the 
deity  recovered  his  eyes,  and  began  to  make  a 
right  use  of  them,  by  enriching  every  one  that 
was  distinguished  by  piety  toward  the  gods,  and 
justice  toward  men;  and  at  the  same  time  by  tak¬ 
ing  away  his  gifts  from  the  impious  and  unde¬ 
serving.  This  produces  several  merry  incidents, 
till  in  the  last  act  Mercury  descends  with  great 
complaints  from  the  gods,  that  since  the  good 
men  were  grown  rich,  they  had  received  no  sacri¬ 
fices;  which  is  confirmed  by  a  priest  of  Jupiter, 
who  enters  with  a  remonstrance,  that  since  this 
late  innovation  he  was  reduced  to  a  starving  con¬ 
dition,  and  could  not  live  upon  his  office.  Clire- 
myius,  who  in  the  beginning  of  the  play  was  re¬ 
ligious  in  his  poverty,  concludes  it  with  a  pro¬ 
posal,  which  was  relished  by  all  the  good  men 
who  were  now  grown  rich  as  well  as  himself,  that 
they  should  carry  Plutus  in  a  solemn  procession 
to  the  temple,  and  install  him  in  the  place  of 
Jupiter.  This  allegory  instructed  the  Athenians 
in  two  points;  first,  as  it  vindicated  the  conduct  of 
Providence  in  its  ordinary  distributions  of  wealth; 
and  in  the  next  place,  as  it  showed  the  great 
tendency  of  riches  to  corrupt  the  morals  of  those 
who  possessed  them. 

C. 


No.  465.]  SATURDAY,  AUGUST  23,  1712. 

Qua  ratione  queas  traducere  leniter  sevum ; 

Ne  te  semper  inops  agitet  vexetque  cupido; 

Ne  pavor,  et  rerum  mediocriter  utilium  spes. 

Hor.  1  Ep.  xviii.  97. 

How  you  may  glide  with  gentle  ease 

Adown  the  current  of  your  days; 

Nor  vex’d  by  mean  and  low  desires, 

Nor  warm’d  by  wild  ambitious  fires; 

By  hope  alarm’d,  depress’d  by  fear, 

For  things  but  little  worth  your  care. — Francis. 

Having  endeavored  in  my  last  Saturday’s  paper 
to  show  the  great  excellency  of  faith,  I  shall  here 
consider  what  are  the  proper  means  of  strength¬ 
ening  and  confirming  it  in  the  mind  of  man. 
Those  who  delight  in  reading  books  of  contro¬ 
versy,  which  are  written  on  both  sides  of  the 
question  on  points  of  faith,  do  very  seldom  arrive 
at  a  fixed  and  settled  habit  of  it.  They  are  one 
day  entirely  convinced  of  its  important  truths,  and 
the  next  meet  with  something  that  shakes  and 
disturbs  them.  The  doubt  which  was  laid  revives 
again,  and  shows  itself  in  new  difficulties,  and 
that  generally  for  this  reason,  because  the  mind, 
which  is  perpetually  tost  in  controversies  and 
disputes,  is  apt  to  forget  the  reasons  which  once 
set  it  at  rest,  and  to  be  disquieted  with  any  former 
perplexity,  when  it  appears  in  a  new  shape,  or  is 
started  by  a  different  hand.  As  nothing  is  more 
laudable  than  an  inquiry  after  truth,  so  nothing 
is  more  irrational  than  to  pass  away  our  whole 
lives,  without  determining  ourselves  one  way  or 
other,  in  those  points  which  are  of  the  last  im¬ 
portance  to  us.  There  are  indeed  many  things 
from  which  we  may  withhold  our  assent;  but,  in 


cases  by  which  we  are  to  regulate  our  lives,  it  is 
the  greatest  absurdity  to  be  wavering  and  unset¬ 
tled,  without  closing  with  that  side  which  appears 
the  most  safe  and  the  most  probable.  The  first 
rule,  therefore,  which  1  shall  lay  down,  is  this;  that 
when  bv  reading  or  discourse  we  find  ourselves 
thoroughly  convinced  of  the  truth  of  any  article, 
and  of  the  reasonableness  of  our  belief  in  it,  we 
should  never  after  suffer  ourselves  to  call  it  in 
question.  We  may,  perhaps,  forget  the  arguments 
which  occasioned  our  conviction,  but  we  ought 
to  remember  the  strength  they  had  with  us,  and 
therefore  still  to  retain  the  conviction  which  they 
once  produced.  This  is  no  more  than  what  we  do 
in  every  common  art  or  science;  nor  is  it  possible  to 
act  otherwise,  considering  the  weakness  and  limi¬ 
tation  of  our  intellectual  faculties.  It  was  thus 
that  Latimer,  one  of  the  glorious  army  of  martyrs, 
who  introduced  the  reformation  in  England,  be¬ 
haved  himself  in  that  great  conference  which  was 
managed  between  the  most  learned  among  the 
Protestants  and  Papists  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Mary.  This  venerable  old  man,  knowing  how 
his  abilities  were  impaired  by  age,  and  that  it 
was  impossible  for  him  to  recollect  all  those 
reasons  which  had  directed  him  in  the  choice  of 
his  religion,  left  his  companions,  who  were  in 
the  full  possession  of  their  parts  and  learning,  to 
baffle  and  confound  their  antagonists  by  the  force 
of  reason.  As  for  himself,  he  only  repeated  to 
his  adversaries  the  articles  in  which  he  firmly 
believed,  and  in  the  profession  of  which  he  was 
determined  to  die.  It  is  in  this  manner  that  the 
mathematician  proceeds  upon  propositions  which 
he  has  once  demonstrated;  and  though  the  demon¬ 
stration  may  have  slipped  out  of  his  memory,  he 
builds  upon  the  truth,  because  he  knows  it  was 
demonstrated.  This  rule  is  absolutely  necessary 
for  weaker  minds,  and  in  some  measure  for  men 
of  the  greatest  abilities;  but  to  these  last  I  would 
propose,  in  the  second  place,  that  they  should  lay 
up  in  their  memories,  and  always  keep  by  them 
in  readiness,  those  arguments  which  appear  to 
them  of  the  greatest  strength,  and  which  cannot 
be  got  over  by  all  the  doubts  and  cavils  of  infi¬ 
delity. 

But,  in  the  third  place,  there  is  nothing  which 
strengthens  faith  more  than  morality.  Faith  and 
morality  naturally  produce  each  other.  A  man  is 
quickly  convinced  of  the  truth  of  religion,  who 
finds  it  is  not  against  his  interest  that  it  should 
be  true.  The  pleasure  he  receives  at  present  and 
the  happiness  which  he  promises  himself  from  it 
hereafter,  will  both  dispose  him  very  powerfully 
to  give  credit  to  it,  according  to  ^he  ordinary  ob¬ 
servation,  that  we  are  easy  to  believe  what  we 
wish.  It  is  very  certain,  that  a  man  of  sound 
reason  cannot  forbear  closing  with  religion  upon 
an  impartial  examination  of  it;  but  at  the  same 
time  it  is  as  certain  that  faith  is  kept  alive  in  us, 
and  gathers  strength  from  practice  more  than 
from  speculation. 

There  is  still  another  method,  which  is  more 
persuasive  than  any  of  the  former;  and  that  is 
an  habitual  adoration  of  the  Supreme  Being,  as 
well  in  constant  acts  of  mental  worship,  as  in  out¬ 
ward  forms.  The  devout  man  does  not  only 
believe,  but  feels  there  is  a  Deity.  He  has  actual 
sensations  of  him;  his  experience  concurs  with 
his  reason;  he  sees  him  more  and  more  in  all  his 
intercourses  with  him.  and  even  in  this  life  almost 
loses  his  faith  in  conviction. 

The  last  method  which  I  shall  mention  for  the 
giving  life  to  a  man’s  faith,  is  frequent  retirement 
from  the  world,  accompanied  with  religious  medi¬ 
tation.  When  a  man  thinks  of  anything  in  the 
darkness  of  the  night,  whatever  deep  impressions 


THE  SPECTATOR.  557 

No.  466.]  MONDAY,  AUGUST  25.  1712. 


it  may  make  in  his  mind,  they  arc  apt  to  vanish 
as  soon  as  the  day  breaks  about  him.  The  light 
and  noise  of  the  day,  which  are  perpetually  so¬ 
liciting  his  senses,  and  calling  on  his  attention, 
wear  out  of  his  mind  the  thoughts  that  imprinted 
themselves  in  it,  with  so  much  strength,  during 
the  silence  and  darkness  of  the  night.  A  man 
finds  the  same  difference  as  to  himself  in  a  crowd 
and  in  a  solitude:  the  mind  is  stunned  and  daz¬ 
zled  amidst  that  variety  of  objects  which  press 
upon  her  in  a  great  city.  She  cannot  apply  her¬ 
self  to  the  consideration  of  those  things  which  are 
of  the  utmost  concern  to  her.  The  cares  or  plea¬ 
sures  of  the  world  strike  in  with  every  thought, 
and  a  multitude  of  vicious  examples  gives  a  kind 
of  justification  to  our  folly.  In  our  retirements 
everything  disposes  us  to  be  serious.  In  courts 
and  cities  we  are  entertained  with  the  works  of 
men;  in  the  country  with  those  of  God.  One  is 
the  province  of  art,  the  other  of  nature.  Faith 
and  devotion  naturally  grow  in  the  mind  of  every 
reasonable  man,  who  sees  the  impressions  of 
divine  power  and  wisdom  in  every  object  on 
which  he  casts  his  eye.  The  Supreme  Being  has 
made  the  best  arguments  for  his  own  existence, 
in  the  formation  of  the  heavens  and  the  earth; 
and  these  are  arguments  which  a  man  of  sense 
cannot  forbear  attending  to,  who  is  out  of  the 
noise  and  hurry  of  human  affairs.  Aristotle  says, 
that  should  a  man  live  under  ground,  and  there 
converse  with  works  of  art  and  mechanism,  and 
should  afterward  be  brought  up  into  the  open 
day,  and  see  the  several  glories  of  the  heavenand 
earth,  he  would  immediately  pronounce  them  the 
works  of  such  a  being  as  we  define  God  to  be. 
The  psalmist  has  very  beautiful  strokes  of  poetry 
to  this  purpose,  in  that  exalted  strain:  “The 
heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God;  and  the  firma¬ 
ment  showetli  his  handy-work.  One  day  telleth 
■Another;  and  one  night  certifieth  another.  There  is 
neither  speech  nor  language;  but  their  voices  are 
heard  among  them.  Their  sound  is  gone  out 
into  all  lands;  and  their  words  into  the  ends  of 
the  world.”  As  such  a  bold  and  sublime  manner 
of  thinking  furnishes  very  noble  matter  for  an  ode, 
the  reader  may  see  it  wrought  into  the  following 
one  : — 

I. 

•  The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

W  ith  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 

And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 

Their  great  original  proclaim ; 

Th’  unwearied  sun  from  day  to  day, 

Does  his  Creator’s  power  display, 

And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

II. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 

The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 

And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth: 

While  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 

And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 

Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

III. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball? 

What  though  no  real  voice  or  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found? 

In  reason’s  ear  they  all  rejoice, 

And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice; 

Forever  singing  as  they  shine, 

“The  Hand  that  made  us  is  divine.” 


- - — Vera  incessu  patuit  dea.— Virg.  iEn.  i.  409. 

And  by  her  graceful  walk  the  queen  of  love  is  known. 

Dryden. 

When  HSneas,  the  hero  of  Virgil,  is  lost  in  the 
wood,  and  a  perfect  stranger  in  the  place  on 
which  he  is  landed,  he  is  accosted  by  a  lady  in  a 
habit  for  the  chase.  She  inquires  of  him,  whether 
he  has  seen  pass  by  that  way  any  young  woman 
diessed  as  she  was?  whether  she  were  following 
the  sport  in  the  wood,  or  any  other  way  employed^ 
according  to  the  custom  of  huntresses  ?  The  hero 
answers  with  the  respect  due  to  the  beautiful  ap¬ 
pearance  she  made;  tells  her  he  saw  no  such  per¬ 
son  as  she  inquired  for;  but  intimates  that  he 
knows  her  to  be  of  the  deities,  and  desires  she 
would  conduct  a  stranger.  Her  form,  from  her 
first  appearance,  manifested  she  was  more  than 
mortal;  but,  though  she  was  certainly  a  goddess, 
the  poet  does  not  make  her  known  to  be  the  god¬ 
dess  of  beauty  until  she  moved.  All  the  charms 
of  an  agreeable  person  are  then  in  their  highest 
exertion;  every  limb  and  feature  appears  with  its 
respective  grace.  It  is  from  this  observation  that 
I  cannot  help  being  so  passionate  an  admirer  as  I 
am  of  good  dancing.  As  all  art  is  an  imitation 
of  nature,  this  is  an  imitation  of  nature  in  its 
highest  excellence,  and  at  a  time  when  she  is 
most  agreeable.  The  business  of  dancing  is  to 
display  beauty;  and  for  that  reason  all  distor¬ 
tions  and  mimicries,  as  such,  are  what  raise  aver¬ 
sion  instead  of  pleasure;  but  things  that  are  in 
themselves  excellent,  are  ever  attended  with  im¬ 
posture  and  false  imitation.  Thus,  as  in  poetry 
there  are  laboring  fools  who  write  anagrams  and 
acrostics,  there  are  pretenders  in  dancing,  who 
think  merely  to  do  what  others  cannot,  is  to  excel. 
Such  creatures  should  be  rewarded  like  him  who 
had  acquired  a  knack  of  throwing  a  grain  of  corn 
through  the  eye  of  a  needle,  with  a  bushel  to  keep 
his  hands  in  use.  The  dancers  on  our  stage  are 
very  faulty  in  this  kind;  and  what  they  mean  by 
writhing  themselves  into  such  postures,  as  it  would 
be  a  pain  for  any  of  the  spectators  to  stand  in, 
and  yet  hope  to  please  those  spectators,  is  unin¬ 
telligible.  Mr.  Prince  has  a  genius,  if  he  were 
encouraged,  would  prompt  him  to  better  things. 
In  all  the  dances  he  invents,  you  see  he  keeps 
close  to  the  characters  he  represents.  He  does 
not  hope  to  please  by  making  his  performers  move 
in  a  manner  in  which  no  one  else  ever  did,  but  by 
motions  proper  to  the  characters  he  represents. 
He  gives  to  clowns  and  lubbards  clumsy  graces; 
that  is,  he  makes  them  practice  what  they  would 
think  graces;  and  I  have  seen  dances  of  his  which 
might  give  hints  that  would  be  useful  to  a  comic 
writer.  These  performances  have  pleased  the  taste 
of  such  as  have  not  reflection  enough  to  know  their 
excellence,  because  they  are  in  nature;  and  the  dis¬ 
torted  motions  of  others  have  offended  those  who 
could  not  form  reasons  to  themselves  for  their 
displeasure,  from  their  being  a  contradiction  to 
nature. 

When  one  considers  the  inexpressible  advan¬ 
tage  there  is  in  arriving  at  some  excellence  in  this 
art.  it  is  monstrous  to  behold  it  so  much  neglected. 
The  following  letter  has  in  it  something  very  natu¬ 
ral  on  this  subject: 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  a  widower  with  but  one  daughter:  she 
was  by  nature  much  inclined  to  be  a  romp;  and  I 
had  no  way  of  educating  her,  but  commanding  a 
young  woman,  whom  I  entertained,  to  take  care 
of  her,  to  be  very  watchful  in  her  care  and  attend¬ 
ance  about  her.  I  am  a  man  of  business,  and 


OT  ATOR. 


558  THE  SPE 

obliged  to  be  much  abroad.  The  neighbors  have 
told  me,  that  in  my  absence  our  maid  has  let  in 
the  spruce  servants  in  the  neighborhood  to  junk 
etings,  while  my  girl  played  and  romped  even  in 
the  street.  To  tell  you  the  plain  truth,  I  caught 
her  once,  at  eleven  years  old,  at  chuck-farthing 
among  the  boys.  ^  This  put  me  upon  new  thoughts 
about  ray  child,  and  I  determined  to  place  her  at 
a  boarding-school;  and  at  the  same  time  gave  a 
very  discreet  young  gentlewoman  her  maintenance 
at  the  same  place  and  rate,  to  be  her  companion. 
I  took  little  notice  of  my  girl  from  time  to  time, but 
saw  her  now  and  then  in  good  health,  out  of  harm’s 
way,  and  was  satisfied.  But,  by  much  importu¬ 
nity,  I  was  lately  prevailed  writh  to  go  to  one  of 
their  balls.  I  cannot  express  to  you  the  anxiety 
my  silly  heart  was  in,  when  I  saw  my  romp,  now 
fifteen,  taken  out;  I  never  felt  the  pangs  of  a  father 
upon  me  so  strongly  in  my  whole  life  before,  and 
I  could  not  have  suffered  more  had  my  whole  for¬ 
tune  been  at  stake.  My  girl  came  on  with  the  most 
becoming  modesty  I  had  ever  seen,  and  casting  a 
respectful  eye,  as  if  she  feared  me  more  than  all 
the  audience,  I  gave  a  nod,  which  I  think  gave 
her  all  the  spirit  she  assumed  upon  it ;  but  she 
rose  properly  to  that  dignity  of  aspect.  My  romp, 
now  the  most  graceful  person  of  her  sex,  assumed  a 
majesty,  which  commanded  the  highest  respect; 
and  when  she  turned  to  me,  and  saw  my  face  in 
rapture,  she  fell  into  the  prettiest  smile,  and  I  saw 
in  all  her  motions  that  she  exulted  in  her  father’s 
satisfaction.  You,  Mr.  Spectator,  will,  better  than 
I  can  tell  3'ou,  imagine  to  yourself  all  the  different 
beauties  and  changes  of  aspect  in  an  accomplished 
young  woman,  setting  forth  all  her  beauties  with  a 
design  to  please  no  one  so  much  as  her  father. 
My  girl’s  lover  can  never  know  half  the  satisfac¬ 
tion  that  I  did  in  her  that  day.  I  could  not  possi¬ 
bly  have  imagined  that  so  great  an  improvement 
could  have  been  wrought  by  an  art  that  I  always 
held  in  itself  ridiculous  and  contemptible.  There 
is,  I  am  convinced,  no  method  like  this,  to  give 
young  women  a  sense  of  their  own  value  and  dig¬ 
nity;  and  I  am  sure  there  can  be  none  so  expedi¬ 
tious  to  communicate  that  value  to  others.  As  for 
the  flippant,  insipidly  gay,  and  wantonly  forward, 
whom  you  behold  among  dancers,  that  carriage  i.4 
more  to  be  attributed  to  the  perverse  genius  of  the 
performers,  than  imputed  to  the  art  itself.  For 
my  part,  my  child  has  danced  herself  into  my  es¬ 
teem;  and  i  have  as  great  an  honor  for  her  as  ever 
I  had  for  her  mother,  from  whom  she  derived  those 
latent  good  qualities  which  appeared  in  her  coun¬ 
tenance  when  she  was  dancing;  for  my  girl,  though 
I  say  it  myself,  showed  in  one  quarter  of  an  hour 
the  innate  principles  of  a  modest  virgin,  a  tender 
wife,  a  generous  friend,  a  kind  mother,  and  an  in¬ 
dulgent  mistress.  I’ll  strain  hard  but  I  will  pur¬ 
chase  for  her  a  husband  suitable  to  her  merit.  I 
am  your  convert  in  the  admiration  of  what  I 
thought  you  jested  when  you  recommended;  and 
if  you  please  to  be  at  my  house  on  Thursday  next, 
I  make  a  ball  for  my  daughter,  and  you  shall  see 
her  dance,  or,  if  you  will  do  her  that  honor,  dance 
with  her. 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

“  Philopater.” 

I  have  some  time  ago  spoken  of  a  treatise  writ¬ 
ten  by  Mr.  Weaver  on  this  subject,  which  is  now, 
I  understand,  ready  to  be  published.  This  work 
sets  this  matter  in  a  very  plain  and  advantageous 
light;  and  1  am  convinced  from  it,  that  if  the  art 
was  under  proper  regulations,  it  would  be  a  me¬ 
chanic  way  of  implanting  insensibly,  in  minds  not 
capable  of  receiving  it  so  well  by  any  other  rules, 
a  sense  of  good-breeding  and  virtue. 


Were  any  one  to  see  Mariamne*  dance,  let  him 
be  never  so  sensual  a  brute,  I  defy  him  to  entertain 
any  thoughts  but  of  the  highest  respect  and  esteem 
toward  her.  I  was  showed  last  week  a  picture  in 
a  lady’s  closet,  for  which  she  had  a  hundred  differ¬ 
ent  dresses,  that  she  could  clap  on  round  the  face 
on  purpose  to  demonstrate  the  force  of  habits  in 
the  diversity  of  the  same  countenance.  Motion, 
and  change  of  posture  and  aspect,  has  an  effect  no 
less  surprising  on  the  person  of  Mariamne  when 
she  dances. 

Chloe  is  extremely  pretty,  and  as  silly  as  she  is 
pretty.  This  idiot  has  a  very  good  ear,  and  a 
most  agreeable  shape;  but  the  folly  of  the  thing 
is  such,  that  it  smiles  so  impertinently,  and  affects 
to  please  so  sillily,  that  while  she  dances  you  see 
the  simpleton  from  head  to  foot.  For  you  must 
know  (as  trivial  as  this  art  is  thought  to  b'e),  no 
one  ever  was  a  good  dancer  that  had  not  a  good 
understanding.  If  this  be  a  truth,  I  shall  leave 
the  reader  to  judge,  from  that  maxim,  what  esteem 
they  ought  to  have  for  such  impertinents  as  fly, 
hop,  caper,  tumble,  twirl,  turn  round,  and  jump 
over  their  heads ;  and,  in  a  word,  play  a  thousand 
pranks  which  many  animals  can  do  better  than  a 
man,  instead  of  performing  to  perfection  what  the 
human  figure  only  is  capable  of  performing. 

It  may  perhaps  appear  odd,  that  I,  who  set  up 
for  a  mighty  lover,  at  least,  of  virtue,  should  take 
so  much  pains  to  recommend  what  the  soberer  part 
of  mankind  look  upon  to  be  a  trifle ;  but,  under 
favor  of  the  soberer  part  of  mankind,  1  think  they 
have  not  enough  considered  this  matter,  and  for 
that  reason  only  disesteem  it.  I  must  also,  in  my 
own  justification,  say,  that  I  attempt  to  bring  into 
the  service  of  honor  and  virtue  everything  in  na¬ 
ture  that  can  pretend  to  give  elegant  delight.  It 
may  possibly  be  proved,  that  vice  is  in  itself  de¬ 
structive  of  pleasure,  and  virtue  in  itself  conducive 
to  it.  If  the  delights  of  a  free  fortune  were  under 
proper  regulations,  this  truth  would  not  want 
much  argument  to  support  it;  but  it  would  be  ob¬ 
vious  to  every  man,  that  there  is  a  strict  affinity 
between  all  tilings  that  are  truly  laudable  and 
beautiful,  from  the  highest  sentiment  of  the  soul 
to  the  most  indifferent  gesture  of  the  body. — T. 


No.  467.]  TUESDAY,  AUGUST  26,  1712. 

- Quodcunque  mese  poterunt  audere  Camainae, 

Seu  tibi  par  poterunt;  seu,  quod  spes  abnuit,  ultra; 

Sive  minus;  certeque  canent  minus;  omne  vovemus 
Hoc  tibi :  ne  tanto  careat  mihi  nomine  charta. 

Tibull,  ad  Messalam,  1  Eleg.  iv,  24. 

Whate’er  my  Muse  adventurous  dares  indite, 

Whether  the  niceness  of  thy  piercing  sight 
Applaud  my  lays,  or  censure  what  I  write, 

To  thee  I  sing,  and  hope  to  borrow  fame, 

By  adding  to  my  page  Messala’s  name. 

The  love  of  praise  is  a  passion  deeply  fixed  in 
the  mind  of  every  extraordinary  person;  and  those 
who  are  most  affected  with  it  seem  most  to  par¬ 
take  of  that  particle  of  the  divinity  which  dis¬ 
tinguishes  mankind  from  the  inferior  creation. 
The  Supreme  Being  himself  is  most  pleased  with 
praise  and  thanksgiving:  the  other  part  of  our 
duty  is  but  an  acknowledgment  of  our  faults, 
while  this  is  the  immediate  adoration  of  his  per¬ 
fections.  ’Twas  an  excellent  observation,  that  we 
then  only  despise  commendation  when  we  cease 
to  deserve  it;  and  we  have  still  extant  two  orations 
of  Tully  and  Pliny,  spoken  to  the  greatest  and  best 
rinces  of  all  the  Roman  emperors,  who,  no  doubt, 
eard  with  the  greatest  satisfaction,  what  even  the 


*  Probably  Mrs.  Bicknell. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


most  disinterested  persons,  and  at  so  large  a  dis¬ 
tance  of  time,  cannot  read  without  admiration 
Caesar  thought  his  life  consisted  in  the  breath  of 
praise,  when  he  professed  he  had  lived  long  enough 
for  himself,  when  he  had  for  his  glory  Others 
have  sacrificed  themselves  for  a  name  which  was 
not  to  begin  till  they  were  dead,  giving  away 
themselves  to  purchase  a  sound  which  was  not  to 
commence  till  they  were  out  of  hearing.  But  by 
iP6/1*'  superior  excellencies,  not  only  to  gain, 
but,  while  living,  to  enjoy  a  great  and  universal 
reputation,  is  the  last  degree  of  happiness  which 
we  can  hope  for  here.  Bad  characters  are  dispersed 
abroad  with  confusion,  I  hope  for  example  sake, 
and  (as  punishments  are  designed  by  the  civil 
power)  more  for  the  deterring  the  innocent  than 
the  chastising  the  guilty.  The  good  are  less  fre¬ 
quent,  whether  it  be  that  there  are  indeed  fewer 
originals  of  this  kind  to  copy  after,  or  that,  through 
the  malignity  of  our  nature,  we  rather  delight  in 
the  ridicule  than  the  virtues  we  find  in  others. 
However,  it  is  but  just,  as  well  as  pleasing,  even 
lor  variety,  sometimes  to  give  the  world  a  repre¬ 
sentation  of  the  bright  side  of  human  nature,  as 
well  as  the  dark  and  gloomy.  The  desire  of  im- 
itation  may,  perhaps,  be  a  greater  incentive  to  the 
practice  of  what  is  good,  than  the  aversion  we  may 
conceive  at  what  is  blamable ;  the  one  immedi¬ 
ately  directs  you  what  you  should  do,  while  the 
other  only  shows  what  you  should  avoid  ;  and  I 
cannot  at  present  do  this  with  more  satisfaction, 
than  by  endeavoring  to  do  some  justice  to  the 
character  of  Manilius. 

It  would  far  exceed  my  present  design,  to  give  a 
particular  description  of  Manilius  through  all  the 
parts  of  his  excellent  life.  I  shall  now  only  draw 
him  in  his  retirement,  and  pass  over  in  silence  the 
various  arts,  the  courtly  manners,  and  the  unde- 
sigmng  honesty  by  which  he  attained  the  honors 
he  has  enjoyed,  and  which  now  give  a  dignity  and 
veneration  to  the  ease  he  does  enjoy.  ’Tis  here 
that  he  looks  back  with  pleasure  on  the  waves  and 
billows  through  which  he  has  steered  to  so  fair  a 
haven;  he  is  now  intent  upon  the  practice  of  every 
virtue,  which  a  great  knowledge  or  use  of  mankind 
has  discovered  to  be  thd  most  useful  to  them.  Thus 
in  his  private  domestic  employments  he  is  no  less 
glorious  than  in  his  public ;  for  it  is  in  reality  a 
more  difficult  task  to  be  conspicuous  in  a  sedentary 
inactive  life,  than  in  one  that  is  spent  in  hurvy  and 
business;  persons  engaged  in  the  latter,  like  bo¬ 
dies  violently  agitated,  from  the  swiftness  of  their 
motion,  have  a  brightness  added  to  them,  which 
otten  vanishes  when  they  are  at  rest;  but  if  it 
then  still  remain,  it  must  be  the  seeds  of  intrinsic 
worth  that  thus  shine  out  without  any  foreign  aid 
or  assistance.  ° 

His  liberality  in  another  might  almost  bear  the 
name  of  profusion;  he  seems  to  think  it  laudable 
even  in  the  excess,  like  that  river  which  most  en¬ 
riches  when  it  overflows  *  But  Manilius  has  too 
perfect  a  taste  of  the  pleasure  of  doing  good,  ever 
to  let  it  be  out  of  his  power;  and  for  that  reason 
he  will  have  a  just  economy  and  a  splendid  fru¬ 
gality  at  home,  the  fountain  from  whence  those 
streams  should  flow  which  he  disperses  abroad. 
He  looks  with  disdain  on  those  who  propose  their 
death  as  the  time  when  they  are  to  begin  their  mu- 
nificence;  lie  will  both  see  and  enjoy  (which  he 
then  does  in  the  highest  degree)  what  he  bestows 
himself;  he  will  be  the  living  executor  of  his  own 
bounty,  while  they  who  have  the  happiness  to  be 
i tin n  his  care  and  patronage,  at  once  pray  for 
the  continuation  of  his  life  and  their  own  good 
fortune.  N o  one  is  out  of  the  reach  of  his  obliga- 


559 


tions;  he  knows  how,  by  proper  and  becoming 
methods,  to  raise  himself  to  a  level  with  those  of 
t  ic  highest  rank;  and  his  good-nature  is  a  sufficient 
warrant  against  the  want  of  those  who  are  so  un- 
happy  as  to  be  in  the  very  lowest.  One  may  say 
ol  him,  as  Pindar  bids  his  Muse  say  of  Theron, 

Swear  that  Theron  sure  has  sworn 
No  one  near  him  should  be  poor. 

Swear  that  none  ever  had  such  graceful  art, 
fortune’s  free  gifts  of  freely  to  impart, 

" ith  an  unenvious  hand,  and  an  unbounded  heart. 


*  The  Nile. 


Never  did  Atticus  succeed  better  in  gaining  the 
universal  love  and  esteem  of  all  men;  nor  steer  with 
more  success  betvveen  the  extremes  of  two  contend¬ 
ing  part.*.  ’Tis  his  peculiar  happiness  that, 
while  he  espouses  neither  with  an  intemperate  zeal, 
he  is  not  only  admired,  but,  what  is  a  more  rare 
and  unusual  felicity,  lie  is  beloved  and  caressed  by 
both;  and  I  never  yet  saw  any  person,  of  whatever 
age  or  sex,  but  was  immediately  struck  with  the 
merit  of  Manilius.  There  are  many  who  are  ac¬ 
ceptable  to  some  particular  persons,  while  the  rest 
of  mankind  look  upon  them  with  coldness  and 
indifference;  but  he  is  the  first  whose  entire  good 
fortune  it  is  ever  to  please  and  to  be  pleased, 
wherever  he  comes  to  be  admired,  and  wherever 
he  is  absent  to  be  lamented.  His  merit  fares  like 
the  pictures  of  Raphael,  which  are  either  seen  with 
admiration  by  all,  or  at  least  no  one  dare  own  that 
he  has  no  taste  for  a  composition  which  has  re¬ 
ceived  so  universal  an  applause.  Envy  and  malice 
hnd  it  against  their  interest  to  indulge  slander  and 
o  iloquy  Tis  as  hard  for  an  enemy  to  detract 
from,  as  for  a  friend  to  add  to,  his  praise.  An  at¬ 
tempt  upon  his  reputation  is  a  sure  lessening  of 
ones  own;  and  there  is  but  one  way  to  injure 
him,  which  is  to  refuse  him  his  just  commenda¬ 
tions,  and  be  obstinately  silent. 

It  is  below  him  to  catch  the  sight  with  any  care 
of  dress;  his  outward  garb  is  but  the  emblem  of 
his  mind.  It  is  genteel,  plain,  and  unaffected;  he 
knows  that  gold  and  embroidery  can  add  nothing 
to  the  opinion  which  all  have  of  his  merit,  and 
that  he  gives  a  luster  to  the  plainest  dress,  while 
it  is  impossible  the  richest  should  communicate 
any  to  him.  He  is  still  the  principal  figure  in  the 
room.  He  first  engages  your  eye,  as  if  there  were 
some  point  of  light  which  shone  stronger  upon 
him  than  on  any  other  person. 

He  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  story  of  the  famous 
Hussy  d  Amboise,  who,  at  an  assembly  at  court 
where  every  one  appeared  with  the  utmost  magnifi¬ 
cence,  relying  on  his  own  superior  behavior,  in¬ 
stead  of  adorning  himself  like  the  rest,  put  on 
that  day  a  plain  suit  of  clothes,  and  dressed  all 
his  servants  in  the  most  costly  gay  habits  he  could 
procure.  The  event  was,  that  the  eyes  of  the 
whole  court  were  fixed  upon  him;  all  the  rest 
looked  like  his  attendants,  while  he  alone  had  the 
air  of  a  person  of  quality  and  distinction. 

Like  Aristippus,  whatever  shape  or  condition 
he  appears  in,  it  still  sits  free  and  easy  upon  him- 
but  m  some  part  of  his  character,  Tis  true,  he  dif¬ 
fers  from  him;  for,  as  he  is  altogether  equal  to  the 
largeness  of  his  present  circumstances,  the  recti¬ 
tude  of  his  judgment  has  so  far  corrected  the  incli¬ 
nations  of  his  ambition,  that  he  will  not  trouble 
himself  with  either  the  desires  or  pursuits  of  any¬ 
thing  beyond  his  present  enjoyments. 

A  thousand  obliging  things  flow  from  him  upon 
every  occasion ;  and  they  were  always  so  just 
and  natural,  that  it  is  impossible  to  think  he  was 
at  the  least  pains  to  look  for  them.  One  would 
think  it  was  the  demon  of  good  thoughts  that  dis¬ 
covered  to  him  those  treasures,  which  he  must 
have  blinded  others  from  seeing,  they  lay  so  di 
rectly  in  their  way.  Nothing  can  equal  the  plea- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


560 

sure  that  is  taken  in  hearing  him  speak,  but  the 
satisfaction  one  receives  in  the  civility  and  atten¬ 
tion  he  pays  to  the  discourse  of  others.  His  looks 
are  a  silent  commendation  of  what  is  good  and 
praiseworthy,  and  a  secret  reproof  to  what  is  licen¬ 
tious  and  extravagant.  He  knows  how  to  appear 
free  and  open  without  danger  of  intrusion,  and  to 
be  cautious  Avithout  seeming  reserved.  The  gra¬ 
vity  of  his  conversation  is  always  enlivened  with 
his  wit  and  humor,  and  the  gayety  of  it  is  tem- 
ered  with  something  that  is  instructive,  as  well  as 
arely  agreeable.  Thus, with  him  you  are  sure  not 
to  be  merry  at  the  expense  of  your  reason,  nor  se¬ 
rious  Avith  the  loss  of  your  good-humor ;  but  by  a 
happy  mixture  of  his  temper  they  either  go  to¬ 
gether,  or  perpetually  succeed  each  other.  In  fine, 
his  whole  behavior  is  equally  distant  from  con¬ 
straint  and  negligence,  and  he  commands  your 
respect  while  he  gains  your  heart. 

There  is  in  his  whole  carriage  such  an  engaging 
softness,  that  one  cannot  persuade  one’s-self  he  is 
ever  actuated  by  those  rougher  passions,  which, 
wherever  they  find  place,  seldom  fail  of  shoAving 
themselves  in  the  outward  demeanor  of  the  person 
they  belong  to;  but  his  constitution  is  a  just 
temperature  betAveen  indolence  on  one  hand,  and 
violence  on  the  other.  He  is  mild  and  gentle, 
wherever  his  affairs  will  give  him  leave  to  follow 
his  own  inclinations;  but  yet  never  failing  to  exert 
himself  with  vigor  and  resolution  in  the  service  of 
his  prince,  his  country,  or  his  friend. — Z. 


No.  468.]  WEDNESDAY,  AUGUST  27,  1712. 

Erat  homo  ingeniosus,  acutus,  acer,  et  qui  plurimum  ct  salis 
haberet  et  fellis,  nec  candoris  minus. — Pun  Epist. 

He  was  an  ingenious,  pleasant  fellow,  and  one  who  had  a  great 
deal  of  wit  and  satire,  with  an  equal  share  of  good-humor. 

My  paper  is,  in  a  kind,  a  letter  of  netvs,  but  it 
regards  rather  vvhat  passes  in  the  world  of  conver¬ 
sation  than  that  of  business.  I  am  very  sorry  that 
I  have  at  present  a  circumstance  before  me,  which 
is  of  very  great  importance  to  all  avIio  have  a  relish 
for  gayety,  wit,  mirth,  or  humor;  I  mean  the  death 
of  poor  Dick  Estcourt.  I  have  been  obliged  to 
him  for  so  many  hours  of  jollity,  that  it  is  but  a 
small  recompense,  though  all  I  can  give  him,  to 
pass  a  moment  or  tAvo  in  sadness  for  the  loss  of  so 
agreeable  a  man.  Poor  Estcourt !  the  last  time  I 
saAV  him,  we  were  plotting  to  show  the  toAvn  his 
great  capacity  for  acting  in  its  full  light,  by  intro¬ 
ducing  him  as  dictating  to  a  set  of  young  players, 
in  Avhat  manner  to  speak  this  sentence,  and  utter 
the  other  passion.  He  had  so  exquisite  a  discern¬ 
ing  of  what  was  defective  in  any  object  before  him, 
that  in  an  instant  he  could  show  you  the  ridiculous 
side  of  Avhat  would  pass  for  beautiful  and  just, 
even  to  men  of  no  ill  judgment,  before  he  had 
pointed  at  the-failure.  He  was  no  less  skillful  in 
the  knowledge  of  beauty;  and  I  dare  say,  there  is 
no  one  who  kneAv  him  Avell,  but  can  repeat  more 
well-turned  compliments,  as  well  as  smart  repar¬ 
tees  of  Mr.  Estcourt’s,  than  of  any  other  man  in 
England.  This  was  easily  to  be  observed  in  his 
inimitable  faculty  of  telling  a  story,  in  which  he 
would  throw  in  natural  and  unexpected  incidents 
to  make  his  court  to  one  part,  and  rally  the  other 
part  of  the  company.  Then  he  Avould  vary  the 
usage  he  gave  them,  according  as  he  saw  them 
bear  kind  or  sharp  language.  He  had  the  knack 
to  raise  up  a  pensive  temper,  and  mortify  an  imper¬ 
tinently  gay  one,  with  the  most  agreeable  skill 
imaginable.  There  are  a  thousand  things  which 
crowd  into  my  memory,  which  make  me  too  much 
concerned  to  tell  on  about  him.  Hamlet  holding 


up  the  skull  which  the  grave-digger  threw  to  him, 
Avith  an  account  that  it  Avas  the  head  of  the  king’s 
jester,  falls  into  very  pleasing  reflections,  and  cries 
out  to  his  companion,  “Alas,  poor  Yorick!  I 
knew  him,  Horatio,  a  fellow  of  infinite  jest,  of 
most  exquisite  fancy;  he  hath  borne  me  on  his 
back  a  thousand  times;  and  now  how  abhorred  in 
my  imagination  it  is!  my  gorge  rises  at  it.  Here 
hung  those  lips  that  I  have  kissed  I  know  not  how 
oft.  Where  De  your  gibes  now?  your  gambols? 
your  songs?  your  flashes  of  merriment,  that  Avere 
Avont  to  set  the  table  on  a  roar  ?  not  one  now  to 
mock  your  oAvn  grinning?  quite  chap-fallen ?  Now 
get  you  to  my  lady's  chamber,  and  tell  her,  let  her 
paint  an  inch  thick,  to  this  favor  she  must  come. 
Make  her  laugh  at  that.” 

It  is  an  insolence  natural  to  the  wealthy,  to  affix, 
as  much  as  in  them  lies,  the  character  of  a  man  to 
his  circumstances.  Thus  it  is  ordinary  with  them 
to  praise  faintly  the  good  qualities  of  those  below 
them,  and  say,  It  is  very  extraordinary  in  such  a 
man  as  he  is,  or  the  like,  Avhen  they  are  forced  to 
acknoAvledge  the  value  of  him  whose  lowness  up¬ 
braids  their  exaltation.  It  is  to  this  humor  only, 
that  it  is  to  be  ascribed,  that  a  quick  wit  in  con¬ 
versation,  a  nice  judgment  upon  any  emergency 
that  could  arise,  and  a  most  blameless  inoffensive 
behavior,  could  not  raise  this  man  above  being  re¬ 
ceived  only  upon  the  foot  of  contributing  to  mirth 
and  diversion.  But  he  was  as  easy  under  that 
condition,  as  a  man  of  so  excellent  talents  was 
capable;  and  since  they  would  have  it>  that  to 
divert  was  his  business,  he  did  it  with  all  the 
seeming  alacrity  imaginable,  though  it  stung  him 
to  the  heart  that  it  Avas  his  business.  Men  of 
sense,  who  could  taste  his  excellencies,  were  well 
satisfied  to  let  him  lead  the  way  in  conversation, 
and  play  after  his  OAvn  manner;  but  fools,  who 
provoked  him  to  mimicry,  found  he  had  the  indig¬ 
nation  to  let  it  be  at  their  expense  who  called  for 
it,  and  he  Avould  sIioav  the  form  of  conceited  heavy 
felloAvs  as  jest  to  the  company  at  their  own  request, 
in  revenge  for  interrupting  him  from  being  a  com¬ 
panion  to  put  on  the-character  of  a  jester. 

What  Avas  peculiarly  excellent  in  this  memorable 
companion  was,  that  in  the  account  he  gave  of 
persons  and  sentiments,  he  did  not  only  hit  the 
figure  of  their  faces,  and  manner  of  their  gestures, 
but  he  Avould  in  his  narrations  fall  into  their  very 
Avay  of  thinking,  and  this  Avhen  he  recounted  pas¬ 
sages  wherein  men  of  the  best  wit  Avere  concerned, 
as  Avell  as  such  Avherein  were  represented  men  of 
the  lowest  rank  of  understanding.  It  is  certainly 
as  great  an  instance  of  self-love  to  a  weakness,  to 
be  impatient  of  being  mimicked,  as  any  can  be 
imagined.  There  were  none  but  the  vain,  the 
formal,  the  proud,  or  those  Avho  were  incapable  of 
amending  their  faults,  that  dreaded  him;  to  others 
he  Avas  in  the  highest  degree  pleasing;  and  I  do 
not  know  any  satisfaction  of  any  different  kind  I 
ever  tasted  so  much,  as  having  got  over  an  impa¬ 
tience  of  my  seeing  myself  in  the  air  he  could  put 
me  when  I  have  displeased  him.  It  is  indeed  to 
his  exquisite  talent  this  Avay,  more  than  any  philo¬ 
sophy  I  could  read  on  the  subject,  that  my  person 
is  very  little  of  my  care,  and  it  is  indifferent  to  me 
what  is  said  of  my  shape,  my  air,  my  manner,  my 
speech,  or  my  address.  It  is  to  poor  Estcourt  I 
chiefly  owe  that  I  am  arrived  at  the  happiness  of 
thinking  nothing  a  diminution  to  me,  Dut  what 
argues  a  depravity  of  my  will. 

It  has  as  much  surprised  me  as  anything  in 
nature,  to  have  it  frequently  said,  that  he  was  not 
a  good  player;  but  that  must  be  owing  to  a  parti¬ 
ality  for  former  actors  in  the  parts  in  which  he 
succeeded  them,  and  judging  by  comparison  of 
what  was  liked  before,  rather  than  by  the  nature 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


561 


of  the  thing.  When  a  man  of  his  wit  and  smart¬ 
ness  could  put  on  an  utter  absence  of  common 
sense  in  his  face,  as  he  did  in  the  character  of 
Bullfinch  in  the  Northern  Lass,  and  an  air  of 
insipid  cunning  and  vivacity  in  the  character  of 
Pounce  in  the  Tender  Husband,  it  is  folly  to  dis¬ 
pute  his  capacity  and  success,  as  he  was  an  actor. 

Poor  Esteourt  I  let  the  vain  and  proud  be  at 
rest,  thou  wilt  no  more  disturb  their  admiration  of 
their  dear  selves;  and  thou  art  no  longer  to  drudge 
in  raising  the  mirth  of  stupids,  who  know  nothing 
of  thy  merit,  for  thy  maintenance. 

It  is  natural  for  the  generality  of  mankind  to 
run  into  reflections  upon  our  mortality,  when  dis¬ 
turbers  of  the  world  are  laid  to  rest,  but  to  take  no 
notice  when  they  who  can  please  and  divert  are 
pulled  from  us.  But  for  my  part,  I  cannot  but 
think  the  loss  of  such  talents,  as  the  man  of  whom 
I  am  speaking  was  master  of,  a  more  melancholy 
instance  of  mortality  than  the  dissolution  of  per¬ 
sons  of  never  so  high  characters  in  the  world, 
whose  pretensions  were  that  they  were  noisy  and 
mischievous. 

But  I  must  grow  more  succinct,  and,  as  a  Spec¬ 
tator,  give  an  account  of  this  extraordinary  man, 
who,  in  his  way,  never  had  an  equal  in  any  age 
before  him,  or  in  that  wherein  he  lived.  I  speak 
of  him  as  a  companion,  and  a  man  qualified  for 
conversation.  His  fortune  exposed  him  to  an  obse¬ 
quiousness  toward  the  worst  sort  of  company,  but 
his  excellent  qualities  rendered  him  capable  of 
making  the  best  figure  in  the  most  refined.  I  have 
been  present  with  him  among  men  of  the  most 
delicate  taste  a  whole  night,  and  have  known  him 
(for  he  saw  it  was  desired)  keep  the  discourse  to 
himself  the  most  part  of  it,  and  maintain  his  good 
humor  with  a  countenance,  in  a  language  so  de¬ 
lightful,  without  offense  to  any  person  or  thing 
upon  earth,  still  preserving  the  distance  his  cir¬ 
cumstances  obliged  him  to;  I  say,  I  have  seen  him 
do  all  this  in  such  a  charming  manner,  that  I  am 
sure  none  of  those  I  hint  at  will  read  this  without 
giving  him  some  sorrow  for  their  abundant  mirth, 
and  one  gush  of  tears  for  so  many  bursts  of  laugh¬ 
ter.  I  wish  it  were  any  honor  to  the  pleasant 
creature’s  memory,  that  my  eyes  are  too  much 
suffused  to  let  me  go  on - . — T. 

***  The  following  severe  passage  in  this  number  of  the 
Spectator  in  folio,  apparently  leveled  at  Dr.  Radcliffe,  was 
suppressed  in  all  the  subsequent  editions : 

It  is  a  felicity  his  friends  may  rejoice  in,  that  he  had  his 
senses,  and  used  them  as  he  ought  to  do,  in  his  last  moments. 
It  is  remarkable  that  his  judgment  was  in  his  calm  perfection 
to  the  utmost  article ;  for  when  his.  wife,  out  of  her  fondness, 
desired  that  she  might  send  for  an  illiterate  humorist  (whom 
he  had  accompanied  in  a  thousand  mirthful  moments,  and 
whose  insolence  makes  fools  think  he  assumes  from  conscious 
merit),  he  answered,  “Do  what  you  please,  hut  he  will  not 
come  near  me.  ’  Let  poor  Estcourt’s  negligence  about  this 
message  convince  the  unwary  of  a  triumphant  empiric’s  igno¬ 
rance  and  inhumanity. 


No.  469.]  THURSDAY,  AUGUST  28,  1712. 

Detrahere  aliquid  alteri,  et  hominem  hominis  incommodo 
suum  augere  commodum,  magis  est  contra  naturam  quain 
mors,  quam  paupertas,  quam  dolor,  quam  caetera  qum  pos- 
sunt  aut  corpori  accidere,  aut  rebus  externis. — Tull. 

To  detract  anything  from  another,  and  for  one  man  to  multi¬ 
ply  his  own  conveniences  by  the  inconveniences  of  another 
is  more  against  nature  than  death,  than  poverty,  than  pain 
and  the  other  things  which  can  befall  the  body,  or  external 
Circumstances. 

I  am  persuaded  there  are  fewT  men,  of  generous 
principles,  who  would  seek  after  great  places,  were 
it  not  rather  to  have  an  opportunity  in  their  hands 
of  obliging  their  particular  friends,  or  those  whom 
they  look  upon  as  men  of  worth,  than  to  procure 
wealth  and  honor  for  themselves.  To  an  honest 
36 


mind,  the  best  perquisites  of  a  place  are  the  ad¬ 
vantages  it  gives  a  man  of  doing  good. 

rl  hose  who  are  under  the  great  officers  of  state, 
and  are  the  instruments  by  which  they  act,  have 
more  frequent  opportunities  for  the  exercise  of 
compassion  and  benevolence,  than  their  superiors 
themselves.  1  hese  men  know  every  little  case 
that  is  to  come  before  the  great  man,  and,  if  they 
are  possessed  with  honest  minds,  will  consider 
poverty  as  a  recommendation  in  the  person  who 
applies  himself  to  them,  and  make  the  justice  of 
his  cause  the  most  powerful  solicitor  in  his  behalf. 
A  man  of  this  temper,  when  he  is  in  a  post  of 
business,  becomes  a  blessing  to  the  public.  He 
patronizes  the  orphan  and  the  widow,  assists  the 
friendless,  and  guides  the  ignorant.  He  does  not 
reject  the  person’s  pretensions,  who  does  not  know 
how  to  explain  them,  or  refuse  doing  a  good  office 
for  a  man  because  he  cannot  pay  the  fee  of  it.  In 
short,  though  he  regulates  himself  in  all  his  pro¬ 
ceedings  by  justice  and  equity,  he  finds  a  thousand 
occasions  for  all  the  good-natured  offices  of  gener¬ 
osity  and  compassion. 

A  man  is  unfit  for  such  a  place  of  trust,  who  is 
of  a  sour  untractable  nature,  or  has  any  other  pas¬ 
sion  that  makes  him  uneasy  to  those  who  approach 
him.  Roughness  of  temper  is  apt  to  discounte¬ 
nance  the  timorous  or  modest.  The  proud  man 
discourages  those  from  approaching  him,  who  are 
of  a  mean  condition,  and  who  must  want  his 
assistance.  The  impatient  man  will  not  give  him¬ 
self  time  to  be  informed  of  the  matter  that  lies 
before  him.  An  officer,  with  one  or  more  of  these 
unbecoming  qualities,  is  sometimes  looked  upon 
as  a  proper  person  to  keep  off  impertinence  and 
solicitation  from  his  superior;  but  this  is  a  kind 
of  merit  that  can  never  atone  for  injustice  which 
may  very  often  arise  from  it. 

There  are  two  other  vicious  qualities  which 
render  a  man  very  unfit  for  such  a  place  of  trust. 
The  first  of  these  is  a  dilatory  temper,  which 
commits  innumerable  cruelties  without  design. 
The  maxim  which  several  have  laid  down  for  a 
man’s  conduct  in  ordiuary  life,  should  be  inviola¬ 
ble  with  a  man  in  office,  never  to  think  of  doing  that 
to-morrow  which  may  be  done  to-day.  A  man 
who  defers  doing  what  ought  to  be  done,  is  guilty 
of  injustice  so  long  as  he  defers  it.  The  dispatch 
of  a  good  office  is  very  often  as  beneficial  to  the 
solicitor  as  the  good  office  itself.  In  short,  if  a  man 
compared  the  inconveniences  which  another  suffers 
by  his  delays,  with  the  trifling  motives  and  ad¬ 
vantages  which  he  himself  may  reap  by  such  a 
delay,  he  would  never  be  guilty  of  a  fault  which 
very  often  does  an  irreparable  prejudice  to  the 
person  who  depends  upon  him,  and  which  might 
be  remedied  with  little  trouble  to  himself. 

But  in  the  last  place  there  is  no  man  so  improper 
to  be  employed  in  business,  as  he  who  is  in  any 
degree  capable  of  corruption;  and  such  a  one  is 
the  man  who,  upon  any  pretense  whatsoever,  re¬ 
ceives  more  than  what  is  the  stated  and  unques¬ 
tioned  fee  of  his  office.  Gratifications,  tokens  of 
thankfulness,  dispatch  money,  and  the  like  specious 
terms,  are  the  pretenses  under  which  corruption 
very  frequently  shelters  itself.  An  honest  man 
will,  however,  look  on  all  these  methods  as  unjus¬ 
tifiable,  and  will  enjoy  himself  better  in  a  moderate 
fortune  that  is  gained  with  honor  and  reputation, 
than  in  an  overgrown  state  that  is  cankered  with 
the  acquisitions  of  rapine  and  exaction.  Were  all 
our  offices  discharged  with  such  an  inflexible 
integrity,  we  should  not  see  men  in  all  ages,  who 
grow  up  to  exorbitant  wealth,  with  the  abilities 
which  are  to  be  met  with  in  an  ordinary  mechanic. 

I  cannot  but  think  that  such  a  corruption  proceeds 
chiefly  from  men’s  employing  the  first  that  offer 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


562 

themselves,  or  those  who  have  the  character  of 
shrewd  worldly  men,  instead  of  searching  out  such 
as  have  had  a  liberal  education,  and  have  been 
trained  up  in  the  studies  of  knowledge  and  virtue. 

It  has  been  observed,  that  men  of  learning  who 
take  to  business,  discharge  it  generally  with  greater 
honesty  than  men  of  the  world.  The  chief  reason 
for  it  I  take  to  be  as  follows  :  A  man  that  has 
spent  his  youth  in  reading,  has  been  used  to  find 
virtue  extolled,  and  vice  stigmatized.  A  man  that 
has  passed  his  time  in  the  world,  has  often  seen 
vice  triumphant,  and  virtue  discountenanced.  Ex¬ 
tortion,  rapine,  and  injustice,  which  are  branded 
with  infamy  in  books,  often  give  a  man  a  figure 
in  the  world;  while  several  qualities,  which  are 
celebrated  in  authors,  as  generosity,  ingenuity, 
and  good-nature,  impoverish  and  ruin  him.  This 
cannot  but  have  a  proportionable  effect  on  men 
whose  tempers  and  principles  are  equally  good 
and  vicious. 

There  would  be  at  least  this  advantage  in  em¬ 
ploying  men  of  learning  and  parts  in  business; 
that  their  prosperity  would  sit  more  gracefully  on 
them,  and  that  we  should  not  see  many  worthless 
persons  shot  up  into  the  greatest  figures  of  life. — C. 


No.  470.]  FRIDAY,  AUGUST  29,  1712. 

Turpe  est  difficiles  habere  nil  gas, 

Et  stultus  labor  est  ineptiarum. 

Mart.  2  Epig.  lxxxvi. 

’Tis  folly  only,  and  defect  of  sense, 

Turns  trifles  into  things  of  consequence. 

I  have  been  very  often  disappointed,  of  late 
years,  when  upon  examining  the  new  edition  of 
a  classic  author,  I  have  found  above  half  the 
volume  taken  up  with  various  readings.  When 
I  have  expected  to  meet  with  a  learned  note  upon  a 
doubtful  passage  in  a  Latin  poet,  I  have  only  been 
informed,  that  such  or  such  ancient  manuscripts 
for  an  et  write  an  ac,  or  of  some  other  notable  dis¬ 
covery  of  the  like  importance.  Indeed,  when  a 
different  reading  gives  us  a  different  sense,  or  a 
new  elegance  in  an  author,  the  editor  does  very 
well  in  taking  notice  of  it;  but  when  he  only  en¬ 
tertains  us  with  the  several  ways  of  spelling  the 
same  word,  and  gathers  together  the  various  blun¬ 
ders  and  mistakes  of  twenty  or  thirty  different 
transcribers,  they  only  take  up  the  time  of  the 
learned  reader,  and  puzzle  the  minds  of  the  igno¬ 
rant.  I  have  often  fancied  with  myself  how  en¬ 
raged  an  old  Latin  author  would  be,  should  he 
pee  the  several  absurdities  in  sense  and  grammar, 
which  are  imputed  to  him  by  some  or  other  of 
these  various  readings.  In  one  he  speaks  non¬ 
sense;  in  another  makes  use  of  a  word  that  was 
never  heard  of;  and  indeed  there  is  scarce  a  sole¬ 
cism  in  writing  which  the  best  author  is  not  guilty 
of,  if  we  may  be  at  liberty  to  read  him  in  the 
words  of  some  manuscript,  which  the  laborious 
editor  has  thought  fit  to  examine  in  the  prosecu¬ 
tion  of  his  work. 

I  question  not  but  the  ladies  and  pretty  fellows 
will  be  very  curious  to  understand  what  it  is  that 
I  have  been  hitherto  talking  of.  I  shall  therefore 
give  them  a  notion  of  this  practice,  by  endeavor¬ 
ing  to  write  after  several  persons  who  make  an 
eminent  figure  in  the  republic  of  letters.  To  this 
end,  we  will  suppose  that  the  folloAving  song  is 
an  old  ode,  which  I  present  to  the  public  in  a  new 
edition,  with  the  several  various  readings  which 
I  find  of  it  in  former  editions,  and  in  ancient 
manuscripts.  Those  who  cannot  relish  the  vari¬ 
ous  readings,  will  perhaps  find  their  account  in 
the  song,  which  never  before  appeared  in  print. 


My  love  was  fickle  once  and  changing, 

Nor  e’er  would  settle  in  my  heart; 

From  beauty  still  to  beauty  ranging, 

In  every  face  I  found  a  dart. 

’Twas  first  a  chtrming  shape  enslav’d  me, 

An  eye  then  gave  the  fatal  stroke: 

’Till  by  her  wit  Corinna  sav’d  me, 

And  all  my  former  fetters  broke. 

But  now  a  long  and  lasting  anguish 
For  Belvidera  I  endure: 

Hourly  I  sigh,  and  hourly  languish, 

Nor  hope  to  find  the  wonted  cure. 

For  here  the  false  inconstant  lover, 

After  a  thousand  beauties  shown, 

Does  new  surprising  charms  discover, 

And  finds  variety  in  one. 

VARIOUS  READINGS. 

Stanza  the  first,  verse  the  first.  And  changing.] 
The  and  in  some  manuscripts  is  written  thus,  <$•: 
but  that  in  the  Cotton  library  writes  it  in  three 
distinct  letters. 

Yerse  the  second.  Nor  e'er  would.]  Aldus  reads 
it  ever  would;  but  as  this  would  hurt  the  meter,  we 
have  restored  it  to  its  genuine  reading,  by  observ¬ 
ing  that  synseresis  which  had  been  neglected  by 
ignorant  transcribers. 

Ibid.  In  my  heart.]  Scaliger  and  others,  on  my 
heart. 

Verse  the  fourth.  I  found  a  dart.]  The  Vatican 
manuscript  for  /  reads  it;  but  this  must  have  been 
the  hallucination  of  the  transcriber,  who  probably 
mistook  the  dash  of  the  I  for  a  T. 

Stanza  the  second,  verse  the  second.  The  fatal 
stroke .]  Scioppius,  Salmasius,  and  many  others, 
for  the  read  a;  but  I  have  stuck  to  the  usual 
reading. 

Verse  the  third.  Till  by  her  wit.]  Some  manu¬ 
scripts  have  it  his  wit,  others  your,  others  their  wit. 
But  as  I  find  Corinna  to  be  the  name  of  a  woman 
in  other  authors,  I  cannot  doubt  but  it  should 
be  her. 

Stanza  the  third,  verse  the  first.  A  long  and 
lasting  anguish .]  The  German  manuscript  reads 
a  lasting  passion,  but  the  rhyme  will  not  admit  it. 

Verse  the  second.  For  Belvidera  I  endure.]  Did 
not  all  the  manuscripts  reclaim,  I  should  change 
Belvidera  into  Pelvidera ;  Pelvis  being  used  by 
several  of  the  ancient  comic  writers  for  a  looking- 
glass,  by  which  means  the  etymology  of  the  word 
is  very  visible,  and  Pelvidera  will  signify  a  lady 
who  often  looks  in  her  glass;  as  indeed  she  had 
very  good  reason,  if  she  had  all  those  beauties 
which  our  poet  here  ascribes  to  her. 

Verse  the  third.  Hourly  I  sigh,  and  hourly  lan¬ 
guish.]  Some  for  the  word  hourly  read  daily,  and 
others  nightly;  the  last  has  great  authorities  of  its 
side. 

Verse  the  fourth.  The  wonted  cure.]  The  elder 
Stevens  reads  wanted  cure. 

Stanza  the  fourth,  verse  the  second.  After  a 
thousand  beauties.]  In  several  copies  we  meet  with 
a  hundred  beauties,  by  the  usual  error  of  the  tran¬ 
scribers,  who  probably  omitted  a  cipher,  and  had 
not  taste  enough  to  know  that  the  word  thousand 
was  ten  times  a  greater  compliment  to  the  poet's 
mistress  than  a  hundred. 

Verse  the  fourth.  And  finds  variety  in  one.] 
Most  of  the  ancient  manuscripts  have  it  in  two. 
Indeed  so  many  of  them  concur  in  this  last  read¬ 
ing,  that  I  am  very  much  in  doubt  whether  it 
ought  not  to  take  place.  There  are  but  two  rea¬ 
sons  which  incline  me  to  the  reading  as  I  have 
published  it:  first,  because  the  rhyme,  and  sec¬ 
ondly,  because  the  sense  is  preserved  by  it.  It 
might  likewise  proceed  from  tne  oscitancy  of  tran¬ 
scribers,  who,  to  dispatch  their  work  the  sooner, 
used  to  write  all  numbers  in  cipher,  and  seeing 
the  figure  1  followed  by  a  little  dash  of  the  pen, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


as  is  customary  in  old  manuscripts,  they  perhaps 
mistook  the  dash  for  a  second  figure,  and  by  cast¬ 
ing  up  both  together,  composed  out  of  them  the 
figure  2.  But  this  I  shall  leave  to  the  learned, 
without  determining  anything  in  a  matter  of  so 
great  uncertainty. — C. 


563 


No.  471.]  SATURDAY,  AUGUST  30,  1712. 

The  wise  with  hope  support  the  pains  of  life. 

The  time  present  seldom  affords  sufficient  em¬ 
ployment  to  the  mind  of  man.  Objects  of  pain 
or  pleasure,  love  or  admiration,  do  not  lie  thick 
enough  together  in  life  to  keep  the  soul  in  con¬ 
stant  action,  and  supply  an  immediate  exercise  to 
its  faculties.  In  order,  therefore,  to  remedy  this 
defect,  that  the  mind  may  not  want  business,  but 
always  have  materials  for  thinking,  she  is  en¬ 
dowed  with  certain  powers,  that  can  recall  what 
is  passed,  and  anticipate  what  is  to  come. 

That  wonderful  faculty,  which  we  call  the  mem- 
ory,  is  perpetually  looking  back,  when  we  have 
nothing  present  to  entertain  us.  It  is  like  those 
repositories  in  several  animals  that  are  filled  with 
stores  of  their  former  food,  on  which  they  may 
ruminate  when  their  present  pasture  fails. 

As  the  memory  relieves  the  mind  in  her  vacant 
moments,  and  prevents  any  chasms  of  thought  by 
ideas  of  what  is  passed,  we  have  other  faculties 
that  agitate  and  employ  her  for  what  is  to  come. 
These  are  the  passions  of  hope  and  fear. 

By  these  two  passions  we  reach  forward  into 
futurity,  and  bring  up  to  our  present  thoughts 
objects  that  lie  hid  in  the  remotest  depths  of 
time.  We  suffer  misery  and  enjoy  happiness  be¬ 
fore  they  are  in  being;  we  can  set  the  sun  and 
stars  forward,  or  lose  sight  of  them  by  wandering 
into  those  retired  parts  of  eternity,  when  the  heav¬ 
ens  and  earth  shall  be  no  more. 

By  the  way,  who  can  imagine  that  the  existence 
of  a  creature  is  to  be  circumscribed  by  time,  whose 
thoughts  are  not?  But  I  shall,  in  this  paper,  con¬ 
fine  myself  to  that  particular  passion  which  goes 
by  the  name  of  hope. 

Our  actual  enjoyments  are  so  few  and  transient, 
that  man  would  be  a  very  miserable  being,  were 
he  not  endowed  with  this  passion,  which  gives 
him  a  taste  of  those  good  things  that  may  possi¬ 
bly  come  into  his  possession.  “We  should  hope 
for  everything  that  is  good/’  says  the  old  poet 
Linus,  “because  there  is  nothing  which  may  not 
be  hoped  for,  and  nothing  but  what  the  gods  are 
able  to  give  us.”  Hope  quickens  all  the  still 
parts  of  life,  and  keeps  the  mind  awake  in  her 
most  remiss  and  indolent  hours.  It  gives  habit¬ 
ual  serenity  and  good-humor.  It  is  a  kind  of 
vital  heat  in  the  soul,  that  cheers  and  gladdens 
her,  when  she  does  not  attend  to  it.  It  makes 
pain  easy,  and  labor  pleasant. 

Beside  these  several  advantages  which  rise  from 
hope,  there  is  another  which  is  none  of  the  least, 
and  that  is,  its  great  efficacy  in  preserving  us  from 
setting  too  high  a  value  on  present  enjoyments. 
The  saving  of  Ctesar  is  very  well  known.  When 
he  had  given  away  all  his  estate  in  gratuities 
among  his  friends,  one  of  them  asked  what  he 
had  left  for  himself;  to  which  that  great  man  re- 

§lied,  “Hope.”  His  natural  magnanimity  hin- 
ered  him  from  prizing  what  he  was  certainly 
possessed  of,  and  turned  all  his  thoughts  upon 
something  more  valuable  that  he  had  in  view. 

I  question  not  but  every  reader  will  draw  a  moral 
from  this  story,  and  apply  it  to  himself  without 
my  direction. 

The  old  story  of  Pandora’s  box  (which  many  of 
the  learned  believe  was  formed  arnoDg  the  heathens 


upon  the  tradition  of  the  fall  of  man)  shows  us 
how  deplorable  a  state  they  thought  the  present 
life,  without  hope.  To  set  forth  the  utmost  con¬ 
dition  of  misery,  they  tell  us,  that  our  forefather, 
according  to  the  pagan  theology,  had  a  great  vessel 
Presented  him  by  Pandora.  Upon  his  lifting  up 
the  lid  of  it,  says  the  fable,  there  flew  out  all  the 
calamities  and  distempers  incident  to  men,  from 
which,  till  that  time,  they  had  been  altogether 
exempt.  Hope,  who  had  been  inclosed  in  the  cup 
with  so  much  bad  company,  instead  of  flying  off 
with  the  rest,  stuck  so  close  to  the  lid  of  it,  that 
it  Avas  shut  down  upon  her. 

I  shall  make  but  two  reflections  upon  what  I 
have  hitherto  said.  First,  that  no  kind  of  life  is 
so  happy  as  that  which  is  full  of  hope,  especially 
AAhen  the  hope  is  Avell  grounded,  and  Avhen  the 
object  of  it  is  of  an  exalted  kind,  and  in  its  nature 
proper  to  make  the  person  happy  who  enjoys  it. 
Inis  proposition  must  be  very  evident  to  those 
Avho  consider  hoAv  feAv  are  the  present  enjoyments 
of  the  most  happy  man,  and  how  insufficient  to 
giAre  him  an  entire  satisfaction  and  acquiescence 
in  them. 

.  My  ne*t  observation  is  this,  that  a  religious  life 
is  that  which  most  abounds  in  a  well-grounded 
hope,  and  such  a  one  as  is  fixed  on  objects  that 
are  capable  of  making  us  entirely  happy.  This 
hope  in  a  religious  man  is  much  more  sure  and 
certain  than  the  hope  of  any  temporal  blessing, 
as  it  is  strengthened  not  only  by  reason,  but  by 
faith.  It  has  at  the  same  time  its  eye  perpetually 
fixed  on  that  state,  which  implies  in  the  very 
notion  of  it  the  most  full  and  the  most  complete 
happiness. 

.  1  have  before  shown  how  the  influence  of  hope 
in  general  sweetens  life,  and  makes  our  present 
condition  supportable,  if  not  pleasing;  but  a  re¬ 
ligious  hope  lias  still  greater  advantages.  It  does 
not  only  bear  up  the  mind  under  her  sufferings, 
but  makes  her  rejoice  in  them,  as  they  may  be  the 
instruments  of  procuring  her  the  great  and  ulti¬ 
mate  end  of  all  her  hope. 

Religious  hope  has  likewise  this  advantage 
above  any  other  kind  of  hope,  that  it  is  able  to 
revive  the  dying  man,  and  to  fill  his  mind  not  only 
with  secret  comfort  and  refreshment,  but  sometimes 
Avith  rapture  and  transport.  He  triumphs  in  his 
agonies,  Avhile  the  soul  springs  forward  with  delight 
to  the  great  object  which  she  has  ahvays  had  in 
vieAv,  and  leaves  the  body  with  an  expectation  of 
being  reunited  to  her  in  a  glorious  and  joyful 
resurrection. 

I  shall  conclude  this  essay  with  those  emphati- 
cal  expressions  of  a  lively  hope,  which  the  Psalmist 
made  use  of  in  the  midst  of  those  dangers  and  ad¬ 
versities  which  surrounded  him;  for  the  folloAving 
passage  had  its  present  and  personal,  as  Avell  as 
its  future  and  prophetic  sense.  “I  haAre  set  the 
Lord  always  before  me.  Because  he  is  at  my  right 
hand  I  shall  not  be  moved.  Therefore  my  heart 
is  glad,  and  my  glory  rejoiceth.  My  flesh  also 
shall  rest  in  hope.  For  thou  wilt  not  leave  my 
soul  in  hell,  neither  wilt  thou  suffer  thine  holy 
one  to  see  corruption.  Thou  wilt  show  me  the 
path  of  life.  In  thy  presence  is  fullness  of  joy, 
at  thy  right  hand  there  are  pleasures  for  ever¬ 
more.” — C. 


No.  472.]  MONDAY,  SEPTEMBER  1,  1712. 


■Voluptus 
Solamenque  mali 


ViRG.  JEn.  iii,  660. 


This  only  solace  his  hard  fortune  sends. — Dryden. 

I  received  some  time  ago  a  proposal,  which  had 
a  preface  to  it,  wherein  the  author  discoursed  at 
large  of  the  innumerable  objects  of  charity  in  a 


THE  SPECT ATO  R. 


564 

nation,  and  admonished  the  rich,  who  were  afflic¬ 
ted  with  any  distemper  of  body,  particularly  to 
regard  the  poor  in  the  same  species  of  affliction, 
and  confine  their  tenderness  to  them,  since  it  is 
impossible  to  assist  all  who  are  presented  to  them. 
The  proposer  had  been  relieved  from  a  malady  in 
his  eyes  by  an  operation  performed  by  Sir  William 
Read;  and,  being  a  man  of  condition,  had  taken  a 
resolution  to  maintain  three  poor  blind  men  during 
their  lives,  in  gratitude  for  that  great  blessing. 
This  misfortune  is  so  very  great  and  unfrequent, 
that  one  would  think  an  establishment  for  all  the 
poor  under  it  might  be  easily  accomplished,  with 
the  addition  of  a  very  few  others  to  those  wealthy 
who  are  in  the  same  .calamity.  However,  the 
thought  of  the  proposer  arose  from  a  very  good  mo¬ 
tive;  and  the  parceling  of  ourselves  out,  as  called 
to  particular  acts  of  beneficence,  would  be  a  pretty 
cement  of  society  and  virtue.  It  is  the  ordinary 
foundation  for  men’s  holding  a  commerce  with 
each  other,  and  becoming  familiar,  that  they  agree  [ 
in  the  same  sort  of  pleasure;  and  sure  it  may  also 
be  some  reason  for  amity,  that  they  are  under  one 
common  distress.  If  all  the  rich  who  are  lame  in 
the  gout,  from  a  life  of  ease,  pleasure,  and  luxury, 
would  help  those  few  who  have  it  without  a  pre¬ 
vious  life  of  pleasure,  and  add  a  few  of  such  la¬ 
borious  men,  who  are  become  lame  from  unhappy 
blows,  falls,  or  other  accidents  of  age  or  sickness; 
I  say,  would  such  gouty  persons  administer  to  the 
necessities  of  men  disabled  like  themselves,  the 
consciousness  of  such  a  behavior,  would  be  the 
best  jalap,  cordial,  and  anodyne,  in  the  feverish, 
faint,  and  tormenting  vicissitudes  of  that  misera¬ 
ble  distemper.  The  same  may  be  said  of  all  other, 
both  bodily  and  intellectual  evils.  These  classes 
of  charity  would  certainly  bring  down  blessings 
upon  an  age  and  people ;  and  if  men  were  not 
petrified  with  the  love  of  this  world,  against  all 
sense  of  the  commerce  which  ought  to  be  among 
them,  it  would  not  be  an  unreasonable  bill  for  a 
poor  man  in  the  agony  of  pain,  aggravated  by 
want  and  poverty,  to  draw  upon  a  sick  alderman 
after  this  form  : 

“  Mr.  Basil  Plenty. 

“  Sir, 

“You  have  the  gout  and  stone,  with  sixty  thou¬ 
sand  pounds  sterling ;  I  have  the  gout  and  stone, 
not  worth  one  farthing ;  I  shall  pray  for  you,  and 
desire  you  would  pay  the  bearer  twenty  shillings 
for  value  received  from, 

“  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

“Lazarus  Hopeful. 

“  Cripplegate,  August  29, 1712.” 

The  reader’s  own  imagination  will  suggest  to 
him  the  reasonableness  of  such  correspondences, 
and  diversify  them  into  a  thousand  forms;  but  I 
shall  close  this,  as  I  began,  upon  the  subject  of 
blindness.*  The  following  letter  seems  to  be  writ¬ 
ten  by  a  man  of  learning,  who  is  returned  to 
his  study  after  a  suspense  of  an  ability  to  do  so. 
The  benefit  he  reports  himself  to  have  received, 
may  well  claim  the  handsomest  encomium  he  can 
give  the  operator. 

' ‘  Mr.  Spectator,  . 

“Ruminating  lately  on  your  admirable  dis¬ 
courses  on  the  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  I  began 
to  consider  to  which  of  our  senses  we  are  obliged 
for  the. greatest  and  most  important  share  of  those 


*  A  benevolent  institution  in  favor  of  blind  people,  and 
Swift’s  hospital,  seem  to  have  originated  from  this  paper, 
certainly  from  the  principles  of  humanity  stated  in  it. 


pleasures;  and  I  soon  concluded  that  it  was  to  the 
sight.  That  is  the  sovereign  of  the  senses,  and 
mother  of  all  the  arts  and  sciences,  that  have  re¬ 
fined  the  rudeness  of  the  uncultivated  mind  to  a 
politeness  that  distinguishes  the  fine  spirits  from 
the  barbarous  gout  of  the  great  vulgar  and  the 
small.  The  sight  is  the  obliging  benefactress  that 
bestows  on  us  the  most  transporting  sensations 
that  we  have  from  the  various  and  wonderful  pro¬ 
ducts  of  nature.  To  the  sight  we  owe  the  amaz¬ 
ing  discoveries  of  the  height,  magnitude,  and  mo¬ 
tion  of  the  planets;  their  several  revolutions  about 
their  common  center  of  light,  heat,  and  motion, 
the  sun.  The  sight  travels  yet  further  to  the  fixed 
stars,  and  furnishes  the  understanding  with  solid 
reasons  to  prove,  that  each  of  them  is  a  sun,  mov¬ 
ing  on  its  own  axis,  in  the  center  of  its  own  vortex 
or  turbillion,  and  performing  the  same  offices  to  its 
dependent  planets  that  our  glorious  sun  does  to 
this.  But  the  inquiries  of  the  sight  will  not  be 
stopped  here,  but  make  their  progress  through  the 
immense  expanse  to  the  Milky  Way,  and  there 
divide  the  blended  fires  of  the  galaxy  into  infinite 
and  different  worlds,  made  up  of  distinct  suns, 
and  their  peculiar  equipages  of  planets,  till,  una¬ 
ble  to  pursue  this  track  any  further,  it  deputes  the 
imagination  to  go  on  to  new  discoveries,  till  it  fill 
the  unbounded  space  with  endless  worlds. 

“  The  sight  informs  the  statuary’s  chisel  with 
power  to  give  breath  to  lifeless  brass  and  marble, 
and  the  painter’s  pencil  to  swell  the  flat  canvas 
with  moving  figures  actuated  by  imaginary  souls. 
Music,  indeed,  may  plead  another  original,*  since 
Jubal,  by  the  different  falls  of  his  hammer  on  the 
anvil,  discovered  by  the  air  the  first  rude  music 
that  pleased  the  antediluvian  fathers;  but  then  the 
sight  has  not  only  reduced  those  wilder  sounds 
into  artful  order  and  harmony,  but  conveys  that 
harmony  to  the  most  distant  parts  of  the  world 
without  the  help  of  sound.  To  the  sight  we  owe 
not  only  all  the  discoveries  of  philosophy,  but  all 
the  divine  imagery  of  poetry  that  transports  the 
intelligent  reader  of  Homer,  Milton,  and  VirgiL 

“As  the  sight  has  polished  the  world,  so  does  it 
supply  us  with  the  most  grateful  and  lasting  plea¬ 
sure.  Let  love,  let  friendship,  paternal  affection, 
filial  piety,  and  conjugal  duty,  declare  the  joys 
the  sight  bestows  on  a  meeting  after  absence.  But 
it  would  be  endless  to  enumerate  all  the  pleasures 
and  advantages  of  sight;  every  one  that  has  it, 
every  hour  he  makes  use  of  it,  finds  them,  feels 
them,  enjoys  them. 

“  Thus,  as  our  greatest  pleasures  and  knowledge 
are  derived  from  the  sight,  so  has  Providence  been 
more  curious  in  the  formation  of  its  seat,  the  eye, 
than  of  the  organs  of  the  other  senses.  That  stu¬ 
pendous  machine  is  composed,  in  a  wonderful 
manner,  of  muscles,  membranes,  and  humors.  Its 
motions  are  admirably  directed  by  the  muscles; 
the  perspicuity  of  the  humors  transmit  the  rays 
of  light;  the  rays  are  regularly  refracted  by  their 
figure;  the  black  lining  of  the  sclerotes  effectually 
prevents  their  being  confounded  by  reflection.  It 
is  wonderful  indeed  to  consider  how  many  objects 
the  eye  is  fitted  to  take  in  at  once,  and  successively 
in  an  instant,  and  at  the  same  time  to  make  a 
judgment  of  their  position,  figure,  and  color.  It 
watches  against  our  dangers,  guides  our  steps, 
and  lets  in  all  the  visible  objects,  whose  beauty 
and  variety  instruct  and  delight. 

“  The  pleasures  and  advantages  of  sight  being 
so  great,  the  loss  must  be  very  grievous;  of  which 
Milton,  from  experience,  gives  the  most  sensible 
idea,  both  in  the  third  book  of  his  Paradise  Lost, 
and  in  his  Samson  Agonistes. 


*  Mr.  Weaver  ascribes  the  discovery  to  Pythagoras. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


“  To  light,  in  the  former. 

- These  I  revisit  safe, 

Anil  feel  thy  sov’reign  vital  lamp ;  but  thou 
Revisit  st  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in  vain 
To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  but  find  no  dawn. 

“  And  a  little  after. 

Seasons  return,  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  ev’n  or  morn, 

Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer’s  rose, 

Or  tiocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine; 

But  cloud  instead,  and  ever-duriug  dark, 

Surround  me:  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 
Cut  off.  and  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair 
Presented,  with  a  universal  blank 
Of  nature’s  works,  to  me  expung’d  and  raz’d, 

And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out. 

“Again,  in  Samson  Agonistes 

-  But  chief  of  all 

O  loss  of  sight!  of  thee  I  most  complain; 

Blind  among  enemies!  0  worse  than  chains, 

Dungeon,  or  beggary,  or  decrepid  age ! 

Light,  the  prime  work  of  God,  to  me’s  extinct, 

And  all  her  various  objects  of  delight 
Annull’d - 

- Still  as  a  fool, 

In  pow'r  of  others,  never  in  my  own, 

Scarce  half  I  seem  to  live,  dead  more  than  half: 

0  dark!  dark!  dark!  amid  the  blaze  of  noon! 
Irrecoverably  dark,  total  eclipse, 

Without  all  hopes  of  day. 

“The  enjoyment  of  sight  then  being  so  great  a 
blessing,  and  the  loss  of  it  so  terrible  an  evil,  how 
excellent  and  valuable  is  the  skill  of  that  artist 
which  can  restore  the  former,  and  redress  the  lat¬ 
ter !  My  frequent  perusal  of  the  advertisements 
in  the  public  newspapers  (generally  the  most 
agreeable  entertainment  they  afford)  has  presented 
me  with  many  and  various  benefits  of  this  kind 
done  to  my  countrymen,  by  that  skillful  artist  Dr. 
Grant,  her  majesty’s  oculist  extraordinary,  whose 
happy  hand  has  brought  and  restored  to  sight 
several  hundreds  in  less  than  four  years.  Many 
have  received  sight  by  his  means  who  came  blind 
from  their  mother’s  womb,  as  in  the  famous  in¬ 
stance  of  Jones  of  Newington.”*  I  myself  have 
been  cured  by  him  of  weakness  in  the  eyes  next 
to  blindness,  and  am  ready  to  believe  anything 
that  is  reported  of  his  ability  this  way ;  and 
know  that  many,  who  could  not  purchase  his 
assistance  with  money,  have  enjoyed  it  from  his 
charity.  But  a  list  of  particulars  would  swell  my 
letter  beyond  its  bounds  :  what  I  have  said  being 
sufficient  to  comfort  those  wrho  are  in  the  like  dis¬ 
tress,  since  they  may  conceive  hopes  of  being  no 
longer  miserable  in  this  kind,  while  there  is  yet 
alive  so  able  an  oculist  as  Dr.  Grant. 

“I  am  the  Spectator’s  humble  Servant, 

T-  “  Philanthropus.” 


No.  473.]  TUESDAY,  SEPTEMBER  2,  1712. 

Quid?  si  quis  vultu  torvo  ferus,  et  pede  nudo, 
Exigua?que  togse  simulet  textorc  Catonem; 
Virtutemne  repraeseutet  moresque  Catonis? 

Hor.  1  Ep.  xix,  12. 

Suppose  a  man  the  coarsest  gown  should  wear, 
fto  shoes,  his  forehead  rough,  his  look  severe, 

And  ape  great  Cato  in  his  form  and  dress; 

Must  he  his  virtues  and  his  mind  express? — Creech. 

“To  the  Spectator. 

“Sir, 

“I  am  now  in  the  country,  and  employ  most  of 
my  time  in  reading,  or  thinking  upon  what  I  have 
read.  \  our  paper  comes  constantly  down  to  me, 

*  This  ostentatious  oculist  was,  it  seems,  originally  a  cobbler 
or  tinker,  afterward  a  preacher  in  a  congregation  of  Baptists 
William  Jones  was  not  born  blind,  and  was  but  very  little,  if 
at  all,  benefited  by  Grant’s  operation,  who  appears  to  have 
been  guilty  of  great  fraud  and  downright  forgery,  in  his  ac¬ 
count  and  advertisements  of  this  pretended  cure. 


565 

and  it  affects  me  so  much,  that  I  find  my  thoughts 
run  into  your  way  :  and  recommend  to  you  a  sub¬ 
ject  upon  which  you  have  not  yet  touched,  and 
that  is,  the  satisfaction  some  men  seem  to  take  in 
their  imperfections :  I  think  one  may  call  it  glory¬ 
ing  in  their  insufficiency.  A  certain  great  author 
is  of  opinion  it  is  I  he  contrary  to  envy,  though 
perhaps  it  may  proceed  from  it.  Nothing  is  so 
common  as  to  hear  men  of  this  sort,  speaking  of 
themselves,  add  to  their  own  merit  (as  they  think) 
by  impairing  it,  in  praising  themselves  for  their 
defects,  freely  allowing  they  commit  some  few  friv¬ 
olous  errors,  in  order  to  be  esteemed  persons  of 
uncommon  talents  and  great  qualifications.  They 
aie  generally  professing  an  injudicious  neglect  of 
dancing,  fencing,  and  riding,  as  also  an  unjust 
contempt  for  traveling,  and  the  modern  languages; 
as  for  their  part,  say  they,  they  never  valued  or 
troubled  their  head  about  them.  This  panegyrical 
satire  on  themselves  certainly  is  worthy  our  ani¬ 
madversion.  I  have  known  one  of  these  gentle¬ 
men  think  himself  obliged  to  forget  the  day  of  an 
appointment,  and  sometimes  even  that  you  spoke 
to  him;  and  when  you  see  them,  they  hope  you’ll 
pardon  them,  for  they  have  the  worst  memory  in 
the  world".  One  of  them  started  up  the  other  day 
in  some  confusion,  and  said,  ‘Now  I  think  on’t,  I 
am  to  meet  Mr.  Mortmain,  the  attorney,  about  some 
business,  but  whether  it  is  to-day,  or  to-morrow, 
’faith  I  cannot  tell.’  Now,  to  my  certain  know¬ 
ledge,  he  knew  his  time  to  a  moment,  and  was 
there  accordingly.  These  forgetful  persons  have, 
to  heighten  their  crime,  generally  the  best  memo¬ 
ries  of  any  people,  as  1  have  found  out  by  their  re¬ 
membering  sometimes  through  inadvertency.  Two 
or  three  of  them  that  I  know  can  say  most  of  our 
modern  tragedies  by  heart.  I  asked  a  gentleman 
the  other  day,  that  is  famous  for  a  good  carver  (at 
which  acquisition  he  is  out  of  countenance,  imag¬ 
ining  it  may  detract  from  some  of  his  more  essen¬ 
tial  qualifications)  to  help  me  to  something  that 
was  near  him  ;  but  he  excused  himself,  and  blush¬ 
ing  told  me,  ‘Of  all  things  he  could  never  carve 
in  his  life;’  though  it  can  be  proved  upon  him 
that  he  cuts  up,  disjoints,  and  uncases,  with  in¬ 
comparable  dexterity.  I  would  not  be  understood 
as  if  I  thought  it  laudable  for  a  man  of  quality 
and  fortune  to  rival  the  acquisitions  of  artificers, 
and  endeavor  to  excel  in  little  handy  qualities;  no, 

I  argue  only  against  being  ashamed  at  what  is 
really  praiseworthy.  As  these  pretenses  to  inge¬ 
nuity  show  themselves  several  ways,  you  will 
often  see  a  man  of  this  temper  ashamed  to  be  clean, 
and  setting  up  for  wit,  only  from  negligence  in 
his  habit.  Now  I  am  upon  this  head,  I  cannot 
help  observing  also  upon  a  very  different  folly 
proceeding  from  the  same  cause.  As  these  above- 
mentioned  arise  from  affecting  an  equality  with 
men  of  greater  talents,  from  having  the  same  faults, 
there  are  others  that  would  come  at  a  parallel  with 
those  above  them,  by  possessing  little  advantages 
which  they  want.  I  heard  a  young  man  not  long 
ago,  who  has  sense,  comfort  himself  in  his  igno¬ 
rance  of  Greek,  Hebrew,  and  the  Orientals  :  at  the 
same  time  that  he  published  his  aversion  to  those 
languages,  he  said  that  the  knowledge  of  them 
was  rather  a  diminution  than  an  advancement  of  a 
man’s  character;  though, at  the  same  time,  I  know 
he  languishes  and  repines  he  is  not  master  of  them 
himself.  Whenever  I  take  any  of  these  fine  per¬ 
sons  thus  detracting  from  what  they  do  not  under¬ 
stand,  I  tell  them  I  will  complain  to  you;  and  say 
I  am  sure  you  will  not  allow  it  an  exception 
against  a  thing,  that  he  who  contemns  it  is  an 
ignorant  in  it. 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

“  S.  P  ” 


566 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


"  Mu.  Spectator, 

“I  am  a  man  of  a  very  good  estate,  and  am 
honorably  in  love.  I  hope  you  will  allow,  when 
the  ultimate  purpose  is  honest,  there  may  be,  with¬ 
out  trespass  against  innocence,  some  toying  by  the 
way.  People  of  condition  are  perhaps  too  distant 
and  formal  on  those  occasions;  but  however  that 
is,  I  am  to  coufess  to  you  that  I  have  written  some 
verses  to  atone  for  my  offense.  You  professed 
authors  are  a  little  severe  upon  us,  who  write  like 
gentlemen;  but  if  you  are  a  friend  to  love,  you 
will  insert  my  poem.  You  cannot  imagine  how 
much  service  it  would  do  me  with  my  fair  one,  as 
well  as  reputation  with  all  my  friends,  to  have 
something  of  mine  in  the  Spectator.  My  crime 
was,  that  I  snatched  a  kiss,  and  my  poetical  ex¬ 
cuse  as  follows: 

I. 

Belinda,  see  from  yonder  flowers 
The  bee  flies  loaded  to  its  cell ; 

Can  you  perceive  what  it  devours  ? 

Are  they  impair’d  in  show  or  smell  ? 

II. 

So,  though  I  robb’d  you  of  a  kiss, 

Sweeter  than  their  ambrosial  dew ; 

Why  are  you  angry  at  my  bliss? 

Has  it  at  all  impoverish’d  you  ? 

III. 

’Tis  by  this  cunning  I  contrive, 

In  spite  of  your  unkind  reserve, 

To  keep  my  famished  love  alive, 

Which  you  inhumanly  would  starve. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

“  Timothy  Stanza/’ 

“  Sir,  August  23,  1712. 

“Having  a  little  time  upon  my  hands,  I  could 
not  think  of  bestowing  it  better  than  in  writing  an 
epistle  to  the  Spectator,  which  I  now  do,  and  am, 
Sir,  “  Your  humble  Servant, 

“  Bob  Short. 

“  P.  S.  If  you  approve  of  my  style,  I  am  likely 
enough  to  become  your  correspondent.  I  desire 
your  opinion  of  it.  I  design  it  for  that  way  of 
writing  called  by  the  judicious  ‘  the  familiar.’  ” — T. 


Ho.  474.]  WEDNESDAY,  SEPT.  3,  1712. 

Aspcritas  agrestis,  et  inconcinna. — Hor.  1  Ep.  xviii.  6. 

Rude,  rustic,  and  inelegant. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Being  of  the  number  of  those  that  have  lately 
retired  from  the  center  of  business  and  pleasure, 
my  uneasiness  in  the  country  where  I  am  arises 
rather  from  the  society  than  the  solitude  of  it.  To 
be  obliged  to  receive  and  return  visits  from  and  to 
a  circle  of  neighbors,  who,  through  diversity  of 
age  or  inclinations,  can  neither  be  entertaining  nor 
serviceable  to  us,  is  a  vile  loss  of  time,  and  a  sla¬ 
very  from  which  a  man  should  deliver  himself,  if 
possible:  for  why  must  I  lose  the  remaining  part 
of  my  life,  because  they  have  thrown  away  the 
former  part  of  theirs  ?  It  is  to  me  an  insupporta¬ 
ble  affliction,  to  be  tormented  with  the  narrations 
of  a  set  of  people,  who  are  warm  in  their  expres¬ 
sions  of  the  quick  relish  of  that  pleasure  which 
their  dogs  and  horses  have  a  more  delicate  taste 
of.  I  do  also  in  my  heart  detest  and  abhor  that 
damnable  doctrine  and  position  of  the  necessity  of 
a  bumper,  though  to  one’s  own  toast;  for  though 
it  is  pretended  that  these  deep  potations  are  used 
only  to  inspire  gayety,  they  certainly  drown  that 
cheerfulness  which  would  survive  a  moderate  cir¬ 
culation.  If  at  these  meetings  it  were  left  to  every 
stranger  either  to  fill  his  glass  according  to  his 
own  inclination,  or  to  make  his  retreat  when  he 


finds  he  has  been  sufficiently  obedient  to  that  of 
others,  these  entertainments  would  be  governed 
with  more  good  sense,  and  consequently  with  more 
good-breeding,  than  at  present  they  are.  Indeed, 
where  any  of  the  guests  are  known  to  measure 
their  fame  or  pleasure  by  their  glass,  proper  exhor¬ 
tations  might  be  used  to  these  to  push  their  fortunes 
in  this  sort  of  reputation;  but  where  it  is  unsea¬ 
sonably  insisted  on  to  a  modest  stranger,  this 
drench  may  be  said  to  be  swallowed  with  the  same 
necessity  as  if  it  had  been  tendered  in  the  horn  for 
that  purpose,*  with  this  aggravating  circumstance, 
that  it  distresses  the  entertainer’s  guest  in  the  same 
degree  as  it  relieves  his  horses. 

“  To  attend  without  impatience  on  account  of 
five-barred  gates,  double  ditches,  and  precipices, 
and  to  survey  the  orator  with  desiring  eyes,  is  to 
me  extremely  difficult  and  absolutely  necessary,  to 
be  upon  tolerable  terms  with  him;  but  then  the 
occasional  burstings  out  into  laughter  is  of  all 
other  accomplishments  the  most  requisite.  I  con¬ 
fess  at  present  I  have  not  that  command  of  these 
convulsions  as  is  necessary,  to  be  good  company; 
therefore  I  beg  you  would  publish  this  letter,  and 
let  me  be  known  all  at  once  for  a  queer  fellow,  and 
avoided.  It  is  monstrous  to  me,  that  we  who  are 
given  to  reading  and  calm  conversation,  should 
ever  be  visited  by  these  roarers;  but  they  think 
they  themselves,  as  neighbors,  may  come  into  our 
rooms  with  the  same  right  that  they  and  their  dogs 
hunt  in  our  grounds. 

“  Your  institution  of  clubs  I  have  always  ad¬ 
mired,  in  which  you  constantly  endeavored  the 
union  of  the  metaphorically  defunct,  that  is,  such 
as  are  neither  serviceable  to  the  busy  and  enterpris¬ 
ing  part  of  mankind,  nor  entertaining  to  the 
retired  and  speculative.  There  should  certainly, 
therefore,  in  each  county  be  established  a  club  of 
the  persons  whose  conversations  I  have  described, 
who  for  their  own  private,  as  also  the  public  emol¬ 
ument,  should  exclude,  and  be  excluded,  all  other 
society.  Their  attire  should  be  the  same  with  their 
huntsmen’s,  and  none  should  be  admitted  into  this 
green  conversation-piece  except  he  had  broken  his 
collar-bone  thrice.  A  broken  rib  or  two  might  also 
admit  a  man  without  the  least  opposition.  The 
president  must  necessarily  have  broken  his  neck, 
and  have  been  taken  up  dead  once  or  twice;  for  the 
more  maims  this  brotherhood  shall  have  met  with, 
the  easier  will  their  conversation  flow  and  keep 
up;  and  when  any  one  of  these  vigorous  invalids 
had  finished  his  narration  of  the  collar  bone,  this 
naturally  would  introduce  the  history  of  the  ribs. 
Beside,  the  different  circumstances  of  their  falls 
and  fractures  would  help  to  prolong  and  diversify 
their  relations.  There  should  also  be  another  cluo 
of  such  men,  who  had  not  succeeded  so  well  in 
maiming  themselves,  but  are  however  in  the  con¬ 
stant  pursuit  of  these  accomplishments.  I  would 
by  no  means  be  suspected,  by  what  I  have  said,  to 
traduce  in  general  the  body  of  fox-hunters;  for 
while  I  look  upon  a  reasonable  creature  full  speed 
after  a  pack  of  dogs  by  way  of  pleasure,  and  not 
of  business,  I  shall  always  make  honorable  men¬ 
tion  of  it. 

“  But  the  most  irksome  conversation  of  all  others 
I  have  met  with  in  the  neighborhood,  lias  been 
among  two  or  three  of  your  travelers  who  have 
overlooked  men  and  manners,  and  have  passed 
through  France  and  Italy  with  the  same  observa¬ 
tion  that  the  carriers  and  stage  coachmen  do 
through  Great  Britain;  that  is,  their  stops  and 
stages  have  been  regulated  according  to  the  liquor 
they  have  met  with  in  their  passage.  They  indeed 
remember  the  names  of  abundance  of  places,  with 


*  A  liorn  is  used  to  administer  potions  to  horses. 


THE SPE 

the  particular  fineries  of  certain  churches;  but 
their  distinguishing  mark  is  a  certain  prettiness 
of  foreign  languages,  the  meaning  of  which  they 
could  have  better  expressed  in  their  own.  The 
entertainment  of  these  fine  observers  Shakspeare 
has  described  to  consist 

In  talking  of  the  Alps  and  Apennines, 

The  Pyrenean,  and  the  river  Po: 

and  then  concludes  with  a  sigh. 

Now  this  is  worshipful  society  ? 

“  I  would  not  be  thought  in  all  this  to  hate  such 
honest  creatures  as  dogs;  I  am  only  unhappy  that 
I  cannot  partake  in  their  diversions.  But  I  love 
them  so  well,  as  dogs,  that  I  often  go  with  my 
pockets  stuffed  with  bread  to  dispense  my  favors, 
or  make  my  way  through  them  at  neighbors’ 
houses.  There  is  in  particular  a  young  hound  of 
great  expectation,  vivacity,  and  enterprise,  that 
attends  my  flights  wherever  he  spies  me.  This 
creature  observes  my  countenance,  and  behaves 
himself  accordingly.  His  mirth,  his  frolic,  and 
'oy,  upon  the  sight  of  me,  has  been  observed,  and 
have  been  gravely  desired  not  to  encourage  him 
so  much,  for  it  spoiled  his  parts;  but  I  think  he 
shows  them  sufficiently  in  the  several  boundings, 
friskings,  and  scourings,  when  he  makes  his  court 
to  me;  but  I  foresee  in  a  little  time  he  and  I  must 
keep  company  with  one  another  only,  for  we  are 
fit  for  no  other  in  these  parts.  Having  informed 
you  how  I  do  pass  my  time  in  the  country  where  I 
am,  I  must  proceed  to  tell  you  how  I  would  pass 
it,  had  I  such  a  fortune  as  would  put  me  above  the 
observance  of  ceremony  and  custom. 

“  My  scheme  of  a  country  life,  then,  should  be 
as  follows:  As  I  am  happy  in  three  or  four  very 
agreeable  friends,  these  1  would  constantly  have 
with  me;  and  the  freedom  we  took  with  one  an¬ 
other  at  school  and  the  university,  we  would 
maintain  and  exert  upon  all  occasions  with  great 
courage.  There  should  be  certain  hours  of  the 
day  to  be  employed  in  reading,  during  which  time 
it  should  be  impossible  for  any  one  of  us  to  enter 
the  other’s  chamber,  unless  by  storm.  After  this 
we  wTould  communicate  the  trash  or  treasure  we 
had  met  with,  with  our  own  reflections  upon  the 
matter;  the  justness  of  which  we  would  controvert 
with  good-humored  warmth,  and  never  spare  one 
another  out  of  that  complaisant  spirit  of  conver¬ 
sation,  which  makes  others  affirm  and  deny  the 
same  matter  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  If  any  of 
the  neighboring  gentlemen,  not  of  our  turn,  should 
take  it  in  their  heads  to  visit  me,  I  should  look 
upon  these  persons  in  the  same  degree  enemies  to 
my  particular  state  of  happiness,  as  ever  the  French 
were  to  that  of  the  public,  and  I  would  be  at  an 
annual  expense  in  spies  to  observe  their  motions. 
Whenever  I  should  be  surprised  with  a  visit,  as  I 
hate  drinking,  1  would  be  brisk  in  swilling  bump¬ 
ers,  upon  this  maxim,  that  it  is  better  to  trouble 
others  with  my  impatience,  than  to  be  troubled 
myself  with  theirs.  The  necessity  of  an  infirmary 
makes  me  resolve  to  fall  into  that  project;  and  as 
we  should  be  but  five,  the  terrors  of  an  involuntary 
separation,  which  our  number  cannot  so  well 
admit  of,  would  make  us  exert  ourselves  in  oppo¬ 
sition  to  all  the  particulars  mentioned  in  your 
institution  of  that  equitable  confinement.  This 
my*vay  of  life,  I  know,  would  subject  me  to  the 
imputation  of  a  morose,  covetous,  and  singular 
fellow.  These  and  all  other  hard  words,  with  all 
manner  of  insipid  jests,  and  all  other  reproach, 
would  be  matter  of  mirth  to  me  and  my  friends; 
beside,  I  would  destroy  the  application  of  the 
epithets  morose  and  covetous,  by  a  yearly  relief 
of  my  undeservedly  necessitous  neighbors,  and  by 
treating  my  friends  and  domestics  with  a  humanity 


C  T  A  T  0  R .  567 

that  should  express  the  obligation  to  lie  rather  on 
my  side;  and  as  for  the  word  singular,  I  was 
always  of  opinion  every  man  must  be  so,  to  be 
what  one  would  desire  him. 

“  Your  very  humble  Servant,  J.  R.”* 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  About  two  years  ago  I  was  called  upon  by  the 
younger  part  of  a  country  family,  by  my  mother’s 
side  related  to  me,  to  visit  Mr.  Campbell, f  the 
dumb  man;  for  they  told  me  that  that  was  chiefly 
what  brought  them  to  town,  having  heard  wonders 
of  him  in  Essex.  I,  who  always  wanted  faith  in 
matters  of  this  kind,  was  not  easily  prevailed  on 
to  go;  but,  lest  they  should  take  it  ill,  I  went  with 
them;  when,  to  my  surprise,  Mr.  Campbell  related 
all  their  past  life;  in  short,  had  he  not  been  pre¬ 
vented,  such  a  discovery  would  have  come  out  as 
would  have  ruined  the  next  design  of  their  coming 
to  town,  viz:  buying  wedding  clothes.  Our  names 

though  he  never  heard  of  us  before — and  wc 
endeavored  to  conceal — were  as  familiar  to  him  as 
to  ourselves.  To  be  sure,  Mr.  Spectator,  he  is  a 
very  learned  and  wise  man.  Being  impatient  to 
know  my  fortune,  having  paid  my  respects  in  a 
family  Jacobus,  he  told  me  (after  his  manner), 
among  several  other  things,  that  in  a  year  and  nine 
months  I  should  fall  ill  of  a  new  fever,  be  given 
oyer  by  my  physicians,  but  should  with  much 
difficulty  recover;  that,  the  first  time  I  took  the  air 
afterward,  I  should  be  addressed  to  by  a  young 
gentleman  of  a  plentiful  fortune,  good  sense,  and 
a  generous  spirit.  Mr.  Spectator,  he  is  the  purest 
man  in  the  world,  for  all  he  said  is  come  to  pass, 
and  I  am  the  happiest  she  in  Kent.  I  have  been 
in  quest  of  Mr.  Campbell  these  three  months,  and 
cannot  find  him  out.  Now,  hearing  you  are  a 
dumb  man  too,  I  thought  you  might  correspond, 
and  be  able  to  tell  me  something;  for  I  think  my¬ 
self  as  highly  obliged  to  make  his  fortune,  as  he 
has  mine.  It  is  very  possible  your  worship,  who 
has  spies  all  over  this  towrn,  can  inform  me  how 
to  send  to  him.  If  you  can,  I  beseech  you  be  as 
speedy  as  possible,  and  you  will  highly  oblige 
“Your  constant  reader  and  admirer, 

“  Dulcibella  Thankley.” 

Ordered,  That  the  inspector  I  employ  about  won¬ 
ders  inquire  at  the  Golden-Lion,  opposite  to  the 
Half-Moon  tavern  in  Drury-lane,  into  the  merit  of 
the  silent  sage,  and  report  accordingly. — T. 


No.  475.]  THURSDAY,  SEPTEMBER  4,  1712. 

- Quae  res  in  se  neque  consilium,  neque  modum 

Habet  ullum  earn  consilio  regere  non  potes. 

Ter.  Eun  act.  i,  sc.  1. 

The  thing  that  in  itself  has  neither  measure  nor  considera¬ 
tion,  counsel  cannot  rule. 

It  is  an  old  observation,  which  has  been  made 
of  politicians  who  would  rather  ingratiate  them- 


*  This  letter  was  probably  written  by  Steele’s  fellow-collegian 
and  friend,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Richard  Parker.  This  accomplished 
scholar  was  for  many  years  vicar  of  Embleton,  in  Northum¬ 
berland,  a  living  in  the  gift  of  Merton  college,  where  he  and 
Steele  lived  in  the  most  cordial  familiarity.  Not  relishing  the 
rural  sports  of  Bamboroughshire,  he  declined  the  interchange 
of  visits  with  most  of  the  hospitable  gentlemen  in  his  neigh¬ 
borhood  ;  who,  invigorated  by  their  diversions,  indulged  in 
copious  meals,  and  were  apt  to  be  vociferous  in  their  mirth, 
and  over  importunate  with  their  guests,  to  join  in  their  con¬ 
viviality. 

f  Duncan  Campbell  announced  himself  to  the  public  as  a 
Scotch  highlander,  gifted  with  the  second-sight.  lie  was,  or 
pretended  to  be,  deaf  and  dumb,  and  succeeded  in  making  a 
fortune  to  himself  by  practicing  for  some  years  on  the  credu¬ 
lity  of  the  vulgar  in  the  ignominious  character  of  a  fortune¬ 
teller. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


568 

selves  with  their  sovereign,  than  promote  his  real 
service,  that  they  accommodate  their  counsels  to 
his  inclinations,  and  advise  him  to  such  actions 
only  as  his  heart  is  naturally  set  upon.  The  privy 
counselor  of  one  in  love  must  observe  the  same 
conduct,  unless  he  would  forfeit  the  friendship  of 
the  person  who  desires  his  advice.  I  have  known 
several  odd  cases  of  this  nature.  Hipparchus  was 
going  to  marry  a  common  woman;  but  being  re¬ 
solved  to  do  nothing  without  the  advice  of  his 
friend  Philander,  he  consulted  him  upon  the  occa¬ 
sion.  Philander  told  him  his  mind  freely,  and 
represented  his  mistress  to  him  in  such  strong 
colors,  that  the  next  morning  he  received  a  chal¬ 
lenge  for  his  pains,  and  before  twelve  o’clock  was 
run  through  the  body  by  the  man  who  had  asked 
his  advice.  Celia  was  more  prudent  on  the  like 
occasion.  She  desired  Leonilla  to  give  her  opin¬ 
ion  freely  upon  the  young  fellow  who  made  his 
addresses  to  her.  Leonilla,  to  oblige  her,  told  her 
with  great  frankness,  that  she  looked  upon  him 
as  one  of  the  most  worthless. — Celia,  foreseeing 
what  a  character  she  was  to  expect,  begged  her 
not  to  go  on,  for  that  she  had  been  privately  mar¬ 
ried  to  him  above  a  fortnight.  The  truth  of  it  is, 
a  woman  seldom  asks  advice  before  she  has  bought 
her  wedding  clothes.  When  she  has  made  her 
own  choice,  for  form’s  sake,  she  sends  a  conge 
d’elire  to  her  friends. 

If  we  look  into  the  secret  springs  and  motives 
that  set  people  at  work  on  these  occasions,  and 
put  them  upon  asking  advice  which  they  never 
intend  to  take;  I  look  upon  it  to  be  none  of  the 
least,  that  they  are  incapable  of  keeping  a  secret 
which  is  so  very  pleasing  to  them.  A  girl  longs 
to  tell  her  confidante,  that  she  hopes  to  be  married 
in  a  little  time;  and,  in  order  to  talk  of  the  pretty 
fellow  that  dwells  so  much  in  her  thoughts,  asks 
her  very  gravely  what  she  would  advise  her  to  do 
in  a  case  of  so  much  difficulty.  Why  else  should 
Melissa,  who  had  not  a  thousand  pounds  in  the 
world,  go  into  every  quarter  of  the  town  to  ask 
her  acquaintance,  whether  they  would  advise  her 
to  take  Tom  Townly,  that  made  his  addresses  to 
her,  with  an  estate  of  five  thousand  a  year  ?  It  is 
very  pleasant,  on  this  occasion,  to  hear  the  lady 
propose  her  doubts;  and  to  see  the  pains  she  is  at 
to  get  over  them. 

I  must  not  here  omit  a  practice  that  is  in  use 
among  the  vainer  part  of  our  own  sex,  who  will 
often  ask  a  friend’s  advice  in  relation  to  a  fortune 
whom  they  are  never  like  to  come  at.  Will  Hon¬ 
eycomb,  who  is  now  on  the  verge  of  threescore, 
took  me  aside  not  long  since,  and  asked  me  in  his 
most  serious  look,  whether  I  would  advise  him  to 
marry  my  Lady  Betty  Single,  who,  by  the  way, 
has  one  of  the  greatest  fortunes  about  town.  I 
stared  him  full  in  the  face  upon  so  strange  a  ques¬ 
tion;  upon  which  he  immediately  gave  me  an  in¬ 
ventory  of  her  jewels  and  estate,  adding  that  he 
was  resolved  to  do  nothing  in  a  matter  of  such 
consequence  without  my  approbation.  Finding 
he  would  have  an  answer,  i  told  him  if  he  could 
get  the  lady’s  consent  he  had  mine.  This  is  about 
the  tenth  match  which,  to  my  knowledge.  Will 
has  consulted  his  friends  upon,  without  ever  open¬ 
ing  his  mind  to  the  party  herself. 

I  have  been  engaged  in  this  subject  by  the  fol¬ 
lowing  letter,  which  comes  to  me  from  some  nota¬ 
ble  young  female  scribe,  who,  by  the  contents  of 
it,  seems  to  have  carried  matters  so  far,  that  she  is 
ripe  for  asking  advice;  but  as  I  would  not  lose 
her  good-will,  nor  forfeit  the  reputation  which  1 
have  with  her  for  wisdom,  I  shall  only  communi¬ 
cate  the  letter  to  the  public,  without  returning  any 
answer  to  it. 


|  “  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Now,  Sir,  the  thing  is  this;  Mr.  Shapely  is  the 
prettiest  gentleman  about  town.  He  is  very  tall, 
but  not  too  tall  neither.  He  dances  like  an  angel. 
His  mouth  is  made  I  do  not  know  how,  but  it  is 
the  prettiest  that  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  He  is 
always  laughing,  for  he  has  an  infinite  deal  of  wit- 
If  you  did  but  see  how  he  rolls  his  stockings  ! 
He  has  a  thousand  pretty  fancies,  and  1  am  sure, 
if  you  saw  him,  you  would  like  him.  He  is  a 
very  good  scholar,  and  can  talk  Latin  as  fast  as 
English.  I  wish  you  could  but  see  him  dance. 
Now  you  must  understand  poor  Mr.  Shapely  has 
no  estate ;  but  how  can  he  help  that,  you  know? 
And  yet  my  friends  are  so  unreasonable  as  to  be 
always  teasing  me  about  him,  because  he  has  no 
estate;  but  I  am  sure  he  has  that  that  is  better  than 
an  estate;  for  he  is  a  good-natured,  ingenious, 
modest,  civil,  tall,  well-bred,  handsome  man;  and 
I  am  obliged  to  him  for  his  civilities  ever  since  I 
saw  him.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  he  has  black 
eyes,  and  looks  upon  me  now  and  then  as  if  they 
had  tears  in  them.  And  yet  my  friends  are  so 
unreasonable,  that  they  would  have  me  be  uncivil 
to  him.  I  have  a  good  portion  which  they  cannot 
hinder  of,  and  I  shall  be  fourteen  on  the  29th  day 
of  August  next,  and  am  therefore  willing  to  settle 
in  the  world  as  soon  as  I  can,  and  so  is  Mr.  Shapely. 
But  everybody  I  advise  with  here,  is  poor  Mr. 
Shapely’s  enemy.  I  desire  therefore  you  will  give 
me  your  advice,  for  1  know  you  are  a  wise  man; 
and  if  you  advise  me  well,  I  am  resolved  to  follow 
it.  I  heartily  wish  you  could  see  him  dance;  and 
am, 

“Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant,  B.  D. 

C.  “He  loves  your  Spectators  mightily.” 


No.  476.  J  FRIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  5,  1712. 

■ - Lucidus  ordo. — Hor.  Ars.  Poet.  41. 

Method  gives  light, 

Among  my  daily  papers  which  I  bestow  on  the 
public,  there  are  some  which  are  written  with  regu¬ 
larity  and  method,  and  others  that  run  out  into  the 
wildness  of  those  compositions  which  go  by  the 
name  of  essays.  As  for  the  first,  I  have  the  whole 
scheme  of  the  discourse  in  my  mind  before  I  set 
my  pen  to  paper.  In  the  other  kind  of  writing,  it 
is  sufficient  that  I  have  several  thoughts  on  a  sub¬ 
ject,  without  troubling  myself  to  range  them  in 
such  order,  that  they  may  seem  to  grow  out  of  one 
another,  and  be  disposed  under  the  proper  heads. 
Seneca  and  Montaigne  are  patterns  for  writing  in 
this  last  kind,  as  Tully  and  Aristotle  excel  in  the 
other.  When  I  read  an  author  of  genius  who 
writes  without  method,  I  fancy  myself  in  a  wood 
that  abounds  with  a  great  many  noble  objects, 
rising  among  one  another  in  the  greatest  confusion 
and  disorder.  When  I  read  a  methodical  dis¬ 
course,  I  am  in  a  regular  plantation,  and  can  place 
myself  in  its  several  centers,  so  as  to  take  a  view  of 
all  the  lines  and  walks  that  are  struck  from  them. 
You  may  ramble  in  the  one  a  whole  day  together, 
and  every  moment  discover  something  or  other 
that  is  new  to  you;  but  when  you  have  done,  you 
will  have  but  a  confused  imperfect  notion  of  the 
place  :  in  the  other  your  eye  commands  the  whole 
prospect,  and  gives  you  such  an  idea  of  it  as  is 
not  easily  worn  out  of  the  memory. 

Irregularity  and  want  of  method  are  only  sup¬ 
portable  in  men  of  great  learning  or  genius,  who 
are  often  too  full  to  be  exact,  and  therefore  choose 
to  throw  down  their  pearls  in  heaps  before  the 
reader,  rather  than  be  at  the  pains  of  stringing 
them. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


569 


Method  is  of  advantage  to  a  work,  both  in  re¬ 
spect  to  the  writer  and  the  reader.  In  regard  to 
the  first,  it  is  a  great  help  to  his  invention.  When 
a  man  has  planned  his  discourse,  he  finds  a  great 
many  thoughts  rising  out  of  every  head,  that  do 
not  offer  themselves  upon  the  general  survey  of  a 
subject.  His  thoughts  are  at  the  same  time  more 
intelligible,  and  better  discover  their  drift  and 
meaning,  when  they  are  placed  in  their  proper 
lights  and  follow  one  another  in  a  regular  series, 
than  when  they  are  thrown  together  without  order 
and  connection.  There  is  always  an  obscurity  in 
confusion;  and  the  same  sentence  that  would  have 
enlighteued  the  reader  in  one  part  of  a  discourse, 

f perplexes  him  in  another.  For  the  same  reason, 
ikewise,  every  thought  in  a  methodical  discourse 
shows  itself  in  its  greatest  beauty,  as  the  several 
figures  in  a  piece  of  painting  receive  new  grace  from 
their  disposition  in  the  picture.  The  advantages  of 
a  reader  from  a  methodical  discourse,  are  correspon¬ 
dent  with  those  of  the  writer.  He  comprehends 
everything  easily,  takes  it  in  with  pleasure,  and 
retains  it  long. 

Method  is  not  less  requisite  in  ordinary  conversa¬ 
tion  than  in  writing,  provided  a  man  would  talk  to 
make  himself  understood.  I  who  hear  a  thousand 
coffee-house  debates  every  day,  am  very  sensible  of 
this  want  of  method  in  the  thoughts  of  my  honest 
countrymen.  There  is  not  one  dispute  in  ten  which 
is  managed  in  those  schools  of  politics,  where, 
after  the  three  first  sentences,  the  question  is  not 
entirely  lost.  Our  disputants  put  rge  in  mind  of 
the  cuttle-fish,  that  when  he  is  unable  to  extricate 
himself,  blackens  all  the  water  about  him  until  he 
becomes  invisible.  The  man  who  does  not  know 
how  to  methodize  his  thoughts,  has  always,  to 
borrow  a  phrase  from  the  Dispensary,  “a  barren 
superfluity  of  words:”  the  fruit  is  lost  amidst  the 
exuberance  of  leaves. 

Tom  Puzzle  is  one  of  the  most  eminent  imme- 
thodical  disputants  of  any  that  has  fallen  under 
my  observation.  Tom  has  read  enough  to  make 
him  very  impertinent:  his  knowledge  is  sufficient 
to  raise  doubts,  but  not  to  clear  them.  It  is  pity 
that  he  has  so  much  learning,  or  that  he  has  not  a 
great  deal  more.  With  these  qualifications,  Tom 
sets  up  for  a  freethinker,  finds  a  great  many  things 
to  blame  in  the  constitution  of  his  country,  and 
gives  shrewd  intimations  that  he  does  not  believe 
in  another  world.  In  short,  Puzzle  is  an  atheist 
as  much  as  his  parts  will  give  him  leave.  He  has 
got  about  half  a  dozen  common-place  topics,  into 
which  he  never  fails  to  turn  the  conversation, 
whatever  was  the  occasion  of  it.  Though  the 
matter  in  debate  be  about  Douay  or  Denain,  it  is 
ten  to  one  but  half  his  discourse  runs' upon  the 
unreasonableness  of  bigotry  and  priestcraft.  This 
makes  Mr.  Puzzle  the  admiration  of  all  those  who 
have  less  sense  than  himself,  and  the  contempt  of 
all  those  who  have  more.  There  is  none  in  town 
whom  Tom  dreads  so  much  as  my  friend  Will  Dry. 
Will,  who  is  acquainted  with  Tom’s  logic,  when 
he  finds  him  running  off  the  question,  cuts  him 
short  with  a  “What  then?  We  allow  all  this  to 
be  true;  but  what  is  it  to  our  present,  purpose?”  I 
have  know  Tom  eloquent  half  an  hour  together, 
and  triumphing,  as  he  thought,  in  the  superiority 
of  the  argument,  when  he  has  been  non-plused 
on  a  sudden  by  Mr.  Dry’s  desiring  him  to  tell  the 
company  what  it  was  that  he  endeavored  to  prove. 

In  short,  Dry  is  a  man  of  clear  methodical  head, 
but  few  words,  and  gains  the  same  advantages  over 
Puzzle,  that  a  small  body  of  regular  troops  would 
gain  over  a  numberless  undisciplined  militia. 


No.  477.]  SATDTIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  6,  1712. 

- An  me  ludit  amabilis 

Insania  ?  Audire,  et  videor  pios 
Errare  per  lueos,  amamae 

Qos  ct  aquae  subeunt  et  aura}. — IIob.  3  Od.  iv.  5. 

- Do.es  airy  fancy  cheat 

My  mind  well  pleas’d  with  the  deceit? 

I  seem  to  hear,  1  fjeern  to  move, 

And  wander  through  the  happy  grove, 

\Y  here  smooth  springs  flow,  and  murm’ring  breeze 
Wantons  through  the  waving  trees. — Creech. 

“Sir, 

“Having  lately  read  your  essay  on  The  Plea¬ 
sures  of  the  Imagination,  I  was  so  taken  with  your 
thoughts  upon  some  of  our  English  gardens,  that 
I  cannot  forbear  troubling  you  with  a  letter  upon 
that  subject.  I  am  one,  you  must  know,  who  am 
looked  upon  as  a  humorist  in  gardening.  I  have 
several  acres  about  my  house,  which  I  call  roy 
garden,  and  which  a  skillful  gardener  would  not 
know  what  to  call.  It  is  a  confusion  of  kitchen 
and  parterre,  orchard  and  flower  garden,  which  lie 
so  mixed  and  interwoven  with  one  another,  that 
if  a  foreigner  who  had  seen  nothing  of  our  coun¬ 
try,  should  be  conveyed  into  my  garden  at  his  first 
landing,  he  would  look  upon  it  as  a  natural  wild¬ 
erness,  and  one  of  the  uncultivated  parts  of  our 
country.  My  flowers  grow  up  in  several  parts  of 
the  garden  in  the  greatest  luxuriancy  and  profu¬ 
sion.  I  am  so  far  from  being  fond  of  any  particu¬ 
lar  one,  by  reason  of  its  rarity,  that  if  I  meet  with 
any  one  in  a  field  which  pleases  me,  I  give  it  a 
place  in  my  garden.  By  this  means,  when  a  stran¬ 
ger  walks  with  me,  he  is  surprised  to  see  several 
large  spots  of  ground  covered  with  ten  thousand 
different  colors,  and  has  often  singled  out  flowers 
that  he  might  have  met  with  under  a  common 
hedge,  in  a  field,  or  in  a  meadow,  as  some  of  the 
greatest  beauties  of  the  place.  The  only  method 
I  observe  in  this  particular,  is  to  range  in  the  same 
quarter  the  products  of  the  same  season,  that  they 
may  make  their  appearance  together,  and  compose  a 
picture  of  the  greatest  variety.  There  is  the  same  ir¬ 
regularity  in  my  plantations,  which  run  into  as  great 
a  wilderness  as  their  natures  will  permit.  I  take 
in  none  that  do  not  naturally  rejoice  in  the  soil;  and 
am  pleased,  when  I  am  walking  in  a  labyrinth  of 
my  own  raising,  not  to  know  whether  the'next  tree 
I  shall  meet  with  is  an  apple  or  an  oak,  an  elm  or 
a  pear-tree.  My  kitchen  has  likewise  its  partic¬ 
ular  quarters  assigned  it  ;  for  beside  the  whole¬ 
some  luxury  which  that  place  abounds  with,  I  have 
always  thought  a  kitchen-garden  a  more  pleasant 
sight  than  the  finest  orangery,  or  artificial  green¬ 
house.  I  love  to  see  everything  in  its  perfection; 
and  am  more  pleased  to  survey  my  rows  of  cole- 
worts  and  cabbages,  with  a  thousand  nameless 
pot-herbs,  springing  up  in  their  full  fragrancy  and 
verdure,  than  to  see  the  tender  plants  of  foreign 
countries  kept  alive  by  artificial  heats,  or  wither¬ 
ing  in  an  air  and  soil  that  are  not  adapted  to  them. 

I  must  not  omit,  that  there  is  a  fountain  rising  in 
the  upper  part  of  my  garden,  which  forms  a  little 
wandering  rill,  and  administers  to  the  pleasure  as 
well  as  the  plenty  of  the  place.  I  have  so  con¬ 
ducted  it,  that  it  visits  most  of  my  plantations : 
and  have  taken  particular  care  to  let  it  run  in  the 
same  manner  as  it  would  do  in  an  open  field,  so 
that  it  generally  passes  through  banks  of  violets 
and  primroses,  plats  of  willow,  or  other  plants, 
that  seem  to  be  of  its  own  producing.  There  is 
another  circumstance  in  which  I  am  very  particu¬ 
lar,  or,  as  my  neighbors  call  me,  very  whimsical : 
as  my  garden  invites  into  it  all  the  birds  of  the 
country,  by  offering  them  the  conveniency  of 
springs  and  shades,  solitude  and  shelter,  I  do  not 
suffer  any  one  to  destroy  their  nests  in  the  spring. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


570 

or  drive  them  from  their  usual  haunts  in  fruit-time; 
I  value  my  garden  more  for  being  full  of  blackbirds 
than  cherries,  and  very  frankly  give  them  fruit  for 
their  songs.  By  this  means,  I  have  always  the 
music  of  the  season  in  its  perfection,  and  am 
highly  delighted  to  see  the  jay  or  the  thrush  hop  ¬ 
ping  about  my  walks,  and  shooting  before  my  eye 
across  the  several  little  glades  and  alleys  that  1  pass 
through.  I  think  there  are  as  many  kinds  of  gar¬ 
dening  as  of  poetry  :  your  makers  of  parterres  and 
flower-gardens  are  epigrammatists  and  sonneteers 
in  this  art;  contrivers  of  bowers  and  grottoes,  treil- 
lages  and  cascades,  are  romance  writers.  Wise 
and  London  are  our  heroic  poets;  and  if,  as  a  critic, 
I  may  single  out  any  passage  of  their  works  to 
commend,  I  shall  take  notice  of  that  part  in  the 
upper  garden  at  Kensington,  which  was  at  first 
nothing  but  a  gravel-pit.  It  must  have  been  a  fine 
genius  for  gardening  that  could  have  thought  of 
forming  such  an  unsightly  hollow  into  so  beauti¬ 
ful  an  area,  and  to  have  hit  the  eye  with  so  un¬ 
common  and  agreeable  a  scene  as  that  which  it  is 
now  wrought  into.  To  give  this  particular  spot 
of  ground  the  greater  effect,  they  have  made  a 
very  pleasing  contrast;  for,  as  on  one  side  of  the 
walk  you  see  this  hollow  basin,  with  its  several 
little  plantations,  lying  so  conveniently  under  the 
eye  of  the  beholder,  on  the  other  side  of  it  there 
appears  a  seeming  mount,  made  up  of  trees,  rising 
one  higher  than  another,  in  proportion  as  they  ap¬ 
proach  the  center.  A  spectator,  wTho  has  not  heard 
this  account  of  it,  would  think  this  circular  mount 
was  not  only  a  real  one,  but  that  it  had  been  actu¬ 
ally  scooped  out  of  that  hollow  space  which  I 
have  before  mentioned.  I  never  yet  met  with  any 
one,  w7ho  has  walked  in  this  garden,  who  was  not 
struck  with  that  part  of  it  which  I  have  here  men¬ 
tioned.  As  for  myself,  you  will  find,  by  the  ac¬ 
count  w7hich  I  have  already  given  you,  that  my 
compositions  in  gardening  are  altogether  after  the 
Pindaric  manner,  and  run  into  the  beautiful  wild¬ 
ness  of  nature,  without  affecting  the  nicer  elegances 
of  art.  What  I  am  now  going  to  mention,  will 

ferhaps  deserve  your  attention  more  than  anything 
have  yet  said.  I  find  that,  in  the  discourse 
which  I  spoke  of  at  the  beginning  of  my  letter, 
you  are  against  filling  an  English  garden  with 
evergreens;  and  indeed  I  am  so  far  of  your  opin¬ 
ion,  that  I  can  by  no  means  think  the  verdure  of 
an  evergreen  comparable  to  that  which  shoots  out 
annually,  and  clothes  our  trees  in  the  summer  sea¬ 
son.  But.  1  have  often  wondered  that  those  w7ho 
are  like  myself,  and  love  to  live  in  gardens,  have 
never  thought  of  contriving  a  winter  garden, 
which  should  consist  of  such  trees  only  as  never 
cast  their  leaves.  We  have  very  often  little 
snatches  of  sunshine  and  fair  wTeather  in  the  most 
uncomfortable  parts  of  the  year,  and  have  fre¬ 
quently  several  days  in  November  and  January 
that  are  as  agreeable  as  any  in  the  finest  months. 
At  such  times,  therefore,  I  think  there  could  not 


be  a  greater 
garden  as  I 
son  the  w  ho 


fieasure  than  to  wralk  in  such  a  winter 
iave  proposed.  In  the  summer  sea- 
e  country  blooms,  and  is  a  kind  of 
garden;  for  which  reason  wre  are  not  so  sensible  of 
those  beauties  that  at  this  time  may  be  everywhere 
met  with;  but  when  nature  is  in  her  desolation, 
and  presents  us  with  nothing  but  bleak  and  barren 
prospects,  there  is  something  unspeakably  cheerful 
in  a  spot  of  ground  which  is  covered  with  trees 
that  smile  amid  all  the  rigors  of  wdnter,  and  give 
us  a  view7  of  the  most  gay  season  in  the  midst  of 
that  which  is  the  most  dead  and  melancholy.  I 
have  so  far  indulged  myself  in  this  thought,  that 
I  have  set  apart  a  whole  acre  of  ground  for  the 
execution  of  it.  The  w'alls  are  covered  with  ivy 
instead  of  vines.  The  laurel,  the  horn  beam  and 


the  holly,  w7ith  many  other  trees  and  plants  of  the 
same  nature,  grow  so  thick  in  it,  that  you  caunot 
imagine  a  more  lively  scene.  The  glowing  redness 
of  the  berries,  with  which  they  are  hung  at  this 
time,  vies  with  the  verdure  of  their  leaves,  and  is 
apt  to  inspire  the  heart  of  the  beholder  with  that 
vernal  delight  which  you  have  somewhere  taken 
notice  of  in  your  former  papers.  It  is  very  pleas¬ 
ant,  at  the  same  time,  to  see  the  several  kinds  of 
birds  retiring  into  this  little  green  spot,  and  en¬ 
joying  themselves  among  the  branches  and  foliage, 
when  my  great  garden,  which  I  have  before  men¬ 
tioned  to  you,  does  not  afford  a  single  leaf  for 
their  shelter. 

“You  must  know.  Sir,  that  I  look  upon  the 
pleasure  which  we  take  in  a  garden  as  one  of  the 
most  innocent  delights  in  human  life.  A  garden 
was  the  habitation  of  our  first  parents  before  the 
fall.  It  is  naturally  apt  to  fill  the  mind  with 
calmness  and  tranquillity,  and  to  lay  all  its  turbu¬ 
lent  passions  at  rest.  It  gives  us  a  great  insight 
into  the  contrivances  and  wisdom  of  Providence, 
and  suggests  innumerable  subjects  for  meditation. 
I  cannot  but  think  the  very  complacency  and  sat¬ 
isfaction  which  a  man  takes  in  these  works  of 
nature  to  be  a  laudable,  if  not  a  virtuous  habit  of 
mind.  For  all  which  reasons,  I  hope  you  will 
pardon  the  length  of  my  present  letter. 

C.  “  I  am.  Sir,”  etc. 


No.  478.]  MONDAY,  SEPTEMBER  8,  1712. 

- TJnus, 

Quem  penes  arbitrium  est,  et  jus,  et  norma - 

Hor.  Ars.  Poet.  v.  72. 

Fashion,  sole  arbitress  of  dress. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  It  happened  lately  that  a  friend  of  mine,  who 
had  many  things  to  buy  for  his  family,  would 
oblige  me  to  walk  with  him  to  the  shops.  He  was 
very  nice  in  his  way,  and  fond  of  having  every¬ 
thing  shown;  which  at  first  made  me  very  uneasy; 
but  as  his  humor  still  continued,  the  things  which 
I  had  been  staring  at  along  with  him  began  to  fill 
my  head,  and  led  me  into  a  set  of  amusing  thoughts 
concerning  them. 

“  I  fancied  it  must  be  very  surprising  to  any  one 
who  enters  into  a  detail  of  fashions  to  consider 
how  far  the  vanity  of  mankind  has  laid  itself  out 
in  dress,  what  a  prodigious  number  of  people  it 
maintains,  and  what  a  circulation  of  money  it 
occasions.  Providence  in  this  case  makes  use  of 
the  folly  which  we  will  not  give  up,  and  it  becomes 
instrumental  to  the  support  of  those  who  are  wil¬ 
ling  to  labor.  Hence  it  is  that  fringe  makers,  lace- 
men,  tire-women,  and  a  number  of  other  trades, 
which  would  be  useless  in  a  simple  state  of  nature, 
draw  their  subsistence;  though  it  is  seldom  seen 
that  such  as  these  are  extremely  rich,  because  their 
original  fault  being  founded  upon  vanity,  keeps 
them  poor  by  the  light  inconstancy  of  its  nature. 
The  variableness  of  fashion  turns  the  stream  of 
business,  which  flows  from  it,  now  into  one  chan¬ 
nel,  and  anon  into  another;  so  that  different  sets 
of  people  sink  or  flourish  in  their  turns  by  it. 

“  From  the  shops  we  retired  to  the  tavern,  where 
I  found  my  friend  express  so  much  satisfaction  for 
the  bargains  he  had  made,  that  my  moral  reflec¬ 
tions  (if  I  had  told  them)  might  have  passed  fora 
reproof;  so  I  chose  rather  to  fall  in  with  him.  and 
let  the  discourse  run  upon  the  use  of  fashions. 

“Here  we  remembered  how  much  man  is  gov¬ 
erned  by  his  senses,  how  livelily  he  is  struck  by  the 
objects  which  appear  to  him  in  an  agreeable  man¬ 
ner,  how  much  clothes  contribute  to  make  us 


THE  SPE 

agreeable  objects,  and  how  much  we  owe  it  to 
ourselves  that  we  should  appear  so. 

“We  considered  man  as  Delonging  to  societies; 
societies  as  formed  of  different  ranks,  and  different 
ranks  distinguished  by  habits,  that  all  proper  duty 
or  respect  might  attend  their  appearance. 

“We  took  notice  of  several  advantages  which 
are  met  with  in  the  occurrences  of  conversation; 
how  the  bashful  man  has  been  sometimes  so  raised, 
as  to  express  himself  with  an  air  of  freedom,  when 
he  imagines  that  his  habit  introduces  him  to  com¬ 
pany  with  a  becoming  manner;  and  again,  how  a 
fool  in  fine  clothes  shall  be  suddeidy  heard  with 
attention,  till  he  has  betrayed  himself;  whereas  a 
man  of  sense,  appearing  with  a  dress  of  negli- 
ence,  shall  be  but  coldly  received  till  hebe proved 
y  time,  and  established  in  a  character.  Such 
things  as  these  we  could  recollect  to  have  happened 
to  oujr  own  knowledge  so  very  often,  that  we  con¬ 
cluded  the  author  had  his  reasons,  who  advises  his 
son  to  go  in  dress  rather  above  his  fortune  than 
under  it. 

“  At  last  the  subject  seemed  so  considerable,  that 
it  was  proposed  to  have  a  repository  built  for 
fashions,  as  there  are  chambers  for  medals  and 
other  rarities.  The  building  may  be  shaped  as 
that  which  stands  among  the  pyramids  in  the 
form  of  a  woman’s  head.  This  may  be  raised 
upon  pillars,  whose  ornaments  shall  bear  a  just  rela¬ 
tion  to  the  design.  Thus  there  may  be  an  imitation 
of  fringe  carved  in  the  base,  a  sort  of  appearance 
of  lace  in  the  frieze,  and  a  representation  of  curling 
locks,  with  bows  of  ribands  sloping  over  them, 
may  fill  up  the  work  of  the  cornice.  The  inside 
may  be  divided  into  two  apartments  appropriated 
to  each  sex.  The  apartments  may  be  filled  with 
shelves,  on  which  boxes  are  to  stand  as  regularly 
as  books  in  a  library.  These  are  to  have  folding 
doors,  which  being  opened,  you  are  to  behold  a 
baby  dressed  out  in  some  fashion  which  has  flour¬ 
ished,  and  standing  upon  a  pedestal,  where  the 
time  of  its  reign  is  marked  down.  For  its  further 
regulation  let  it  be  ordered,  that  every  one  who 
invents  a  fashion  shall  bring  in  his  box,  whose 
front  he  may  at  pleasure  have  either  worked  or 

f)ainted  with  some  amorous  or  gay  device,  that, 
ike  books  with  gilded  leaves  and  covers,  it  may 
the  sooner  draw  the  eyes  of  the  beholders.  And  to 
the  end  that  these  may  be  preserved  with  all  due 
care,  let  there  be  a  keeper  appointed,  who  shall  be 
a  gentleman  qualified  with  a  competent  knowledge 
in  clothes,  so  that  by  this  means  the  place  will  be 
a  comfortable  support  for  some  beau  who  has  spent 
his  estate  in  dressing. 

“The  reasons  offered,  by  which  we  expected 
to  gain  the  approbation  of  the  public,  were  as 
follows: 

“First,  That  every  one  who  is  considerable 
enough  to  be  a  mode,  or  has  any  imperfection  of 
nature  or  chance,  which  it  is  possible  to  hide  by 
the  advantage  of  clothes,  may,  by  coming  to  this 
repository,  be  furnished  herself,  and  furnish  all, 
who  are  under  the  same  misfortune,  with  the  most 
agreeable  manner  of  concealing  it;  and  that  on  the 
other  side,  every  one  who  has  anv  beauty  in  face 
or  shape,  may  also  be  furnished  with  the  most 
agreeable  manner  of  showing  it. 

“  Secondly,  That  whereas  some  of  our  young 
gentlemen  who  travel,  give  us  great  reason  to  sus¬ 
pect  lliat  they  only  go  abroad  to  make  or  improve 
a  fancy  for  dress,  a  project  of  this  nature  may  be  a 
means  to  keep  them  at  home;  which  is  in  effect  the 
keeping  of  so  much  money  in  the  kingdom.  And 
perhaps  the  balance  of  fashion  in  Europe,  which 
now  leans  upon  the  side  of  France,  may  be  so 
altered  for  the  future,  that  it  may  become  as  com¬ 
mon  with  Frenchmen  to  come  to  England  for  their 


CTATOR.  57  j 

finishing  stroke  of  breeding,  as  it  has  been  for 
Englishmen  to  go  to  France  for  it. 

“  Thirdly,  Whereas  several  great  scholars,  who 
might  have  been  otherwise  useful  to  the  world, 
have  spent  their  time  in  studying  to  describe  the 
dresses  ot  the  ancients  from  dark  hints,  which 
they  are  fain  to  interpret  and  support  with  much 
learning;  it  will  from  henceforth  happen  that  they 
shall  be  freed  from  the  trouble,  and  the  world  from 
these  useless  volumes.  This  project  will  be  a 
registry,  to  which  posterity  may  have  recourse,  for 
the  clearing  such  obscure  passages  as  tend  that  way 
in  authors;  and  therefore  we  shall  not  for  the 
future  submit  ourselves  to  the  learning  of  etymol¬ 
ogy,  which  might  persuade  the  age  to  come  that 
the  farthingale  was  worn  for  cheapness,  or  the 
furbelow  for  warmth. 

“Fourthly,  Whereas  they,  who  are  old  them¬ 
selves,  have  often  a  way  of  railing  at  the  extrava¬ 
gance  of  youth,  and  the  whole  age  in  which  their 
children  live;  it  is  hoped  that  this  ill-humor  will 
be  much  suppressed,  when  we  can  have  recourse 
to  the  fashions  of  their  times,  produce  them  in  our 
vindication,  and  be  able  to  show  that  it  might 
have  been  as  expensive  in  Queen  Elizabeth’s  time 
only  to  wash  and  quill  a  ruff,  as  it  is  now  to  buy 
cravats  or  neck-handkerchiefs. 

“  We  desire  also  to  have  it  taken  notice  of,  that 
because  we  would  show  a  particular  respect  to 
foreigners,  which  may  induce  them  to  perfect  their 
breeding  here  in  a  knowledge  which  is  very  proper 
for  pretty  gentlemen,  we  have  conceived  the  motto 
for  the  house  in  the  learned  language.  There  is 
to  be  a  picture  over  the  door,  with  a  looking  glass 
and  a  dressing-chair  in  the  middle  of  it;  then  on 
one  side  are  to  be  seen,  one  above  another,  patch- 
boxes,  pincushions,  and  little  bottles;  on  the  other, 
powTder  bags,  puffs,  combs,  and  brushes;  beyond 
these,  swords  with  fine  knots,  whose  points  are 
hidden,  and  fans  almost  closed,  with  the  handles 
downward,  are  to  stand  out  interchangeably  from 
the  sides,  until  they  meet  at  the  top,  and  form  a 
semicircle  over  the  rest  of  the  figures;  beneath 
all,  the  writing  is  to  run  in  this  pretty  sounding 
manner: 

Adeste,  0  quotquot  sunt,  Veneres,  Gratise,  Cupidines : 

En  vobis  adsunt  in  promptu 
Faces,  vincula,  spicula; 

Hinc  eligite,  sumite,  regite. 

All  ye  Venuses,  Graces,  and  Cupids,  attend: 

See  prepared  to  your  hands, 

Darts,  torches,  and  bands: 

Your  weapons  here  choose,  and  your  empire  extend. 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

“A.  B.” 

The  proposal  of  my  correspondent  I  cannot  but 
look  upon  as  an  ingenious  method  of  placing  per¬ 
sons  (whose  parts  make  them  ambitious  to  exert 
themselves  in  frivolous  things)  in  a  rank  by  them¬ 
selves.  In  order  to  this,  1  would  propose  that 
there  be  a  board  of  directors  of  the  fashionable 
society;  and,  because  it  is  a  matter  of  too  much 
weight  for  a  private  man  to  determine  alone,  I 
should  be  highly  obliged  to  my  correspondents  if 
they  would  give  in  lists  of  persons  qualified  for 
this  trust.  If  the  chief  coffee-houses,  the  conver¬ 
sations  of  which  places  are  carried  on  by  persons, 
each  of  whom  has  his  little  number  of  followers 
and  admirers,  would  name  from  among  them¬ 
selves  two  or  three  to  be  inserted,  they  should 
be  put  up  with  great  faithfulness.  Old  beaux  are 
to  be  represented  in  the  first  place;  but  as  that 
sect,  with  relation  to  dress,  is  almost  extinct,  it 
will,  I  fear,  be  absolutely  necessary  to  take  in  all 
time-servers,  properly  so  deemed;  that  is,  such  as, 
without  any  conviction  of  conscience,  or  view  of 
interest,  change  with  the  world,  and  that  merely 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


572 

from  a  terror  of  being  out  of  fashion.  Such  also,  ! 
•who  from  facility  of  temper,  and  too  much  obse¬ 
quiousness,  are  vicious  against  their  will,  and 
follow  leaders  whom  they  do  not  approve,  for 
want  of  courage  to  go  their  own  way,  are  capa¬ 
ble  persons  for  this  superintendency.  Those  who 
are  loth  to  grow  old,  or  would  do  anything  con¬ 
trary  to  the  course  and  order  of  things,  out  of 
fondness  to  be  in  fashion,  are  proper  candidates. 
To  conclude,  those  who  are  in  fashion  without 
apparent  merit,  must  be  supposed  to  have  latent 
qualities,  which  would  appear  in  a  post  of  direc¬ 
tion;  and  therefore  are  to  be  regarded  in  forming 
these  lists.  Any  who  shall  be  pleased  according 
to  these,  or  what  further  qualifications  may  occur 
to  himself,  to  send  a  list,  is  desired  to  do  it  within 
fourteen  days  after  this  date. 

N.  B.  The  place  of  the  physician  to  this  society, 
according  to  the  last-mentioned  qualification,  is 
already  engaged. 

T. 


No.  479.]  TUESDAY,  SEPTEMBER  9,  1712. 

- Dare  jura  mantis. — Hor.  Ars.  Poet.  398. 

To  regulate  the  matrimonial  life. 

Many  are  the  epistles  I  every  day  receive  from 
husbands  who  complain  of  vanity,  pride,  but, 
above  all,  ill-nature  in  their  wives.  I  cannot  tell 
how  it  is,  but  I  think  I  see  in  all  their  letters  that 
the  cause  of  their  uneasiness  is  in  themselves; 
and  indeed  1  have  hardly  ever  observed  the  mar¬ 
ried  condition  unhappy,  but  from  want  of  judg¬ 
ment  or  temper  in  the  man.  The  truth  is,  we 
generally  make  love  in  a  style  and  with  senti¬ 
ments  very  unfit  for  ordinary  life:  they  are  half 
theatrical,  half  romantic.  By  this  means,  we  raise 
our  imaginations  to  what  is  not  to  be  expected  in 
human  life;  and  because  Ave  did  not  beforehand 
think  of  the  creature  we  are  enamored  of,  as  sub¬ 
ject  to  dishumor,  age,  sickness,  impatience,  or 
sullenness,  but  altogether  considered  her  as  the 
object  of  joy;  human  nature  itself  is  often  im¬ 
puted  to  her  as  her  particular  imperfection,  or 
defect. 

I  take  it  to  be  a  rule,  proper  to  be  observed  in 
all  occurrences  of  life,  but  more  especially  in  the 
domestic,  or  matrimonial  part  of  it,  to  preserve 
ahvays  a  disposition  to  be  pleased.  This  cannot 
be  supported  but  by  considering  things  in  then- 
right  light,  and  as  nature  has  formed  them,  and 
not  as  our  own  fancies  or  appetites  would  have 
them.  He  then  Avho  took  a  young  lady  to  his  bed, 
with  no  other  consideration  than  the  expectation 
of  scenes  of  dalliance,  and  thought  of  her  (as  I 
said  before)  only  as  she  was  to  administer  to  the 
gratification  of  desire;  as  that  desire  flags,  will, 
without  her  fault,  think  her  charms  and  her  merit 
abated:  from  hence  must  follow  indifference,  dis¬ 
like,  peevishness,  and  rage.  But  the  man  who 
brings  his  reason  to  support  his  passion,  and  be¬ 
holds  what  he  loves,  as  liable  to  all  the  calamities 
of  human  life,  both  in  body  and  mind,  and  even 
at  the  best  Avhat  must  bring  upon  him  new  cares  j 
and  new  relations;  such  a  lover,  I  say,  w ill  form 
himself  accordingly,  and  adapt  his  mind  to  the 
nature  of  his  circumstances.  This  latter  person 
will  be  prepared  to  be  a  father,  a  friend,  an  advo¬ 
cate,  a  steward  for  people  yet  unborn,  and  has 
proper  affections  ready  for  every  incident  in  the 
marriage  state.  Such  a  man  can  hear  the  cries  of 
children  Avith  pity  instead  of  anger;  and,  Avhen 
they  run  over  his  head,  he  is  not  disturbed  at 
their  noise,  but  is  glad  of  their  mirth  and  health. 
Tom  Trusty  has  told  me,  that  he  thinks  it  doubles 
his  attention  to  the  most  intricate  affair  he  is  about, 


to  hear  his  children,  for  whom  all  his  cares  are 
applied,  make  a  noise  in  the  next  room:  on  the 
other  side,  Will  Sparkish  cannot  put  on  his  peri- 
Avig,  or  adjust  his  cravat  at  the  glass,  for  the  noise 
of  those  damned  nurses  and  squalling  brats;  and 
then  ends  with  a  gallant  reflection  upon  the  com¬ 
forts  of  matrimony,  runs  out  of  the  hearing,  and 
drives  to  the  chocolate-house. 

According  as  the  husband  has  disposed  in  him¬ 
self,  every  circumstance  in  his  life  is  to  give  him 
torment  or  pleasure.  When  the  affection  is  well 
placed,  and  is  supported  by  the  considerations  of 
duty,  honor,  and  friendship,  which  are  in  the 
highest  degree  engaged  in  this  alliance,  there  can 
nothing  rise  in  the  common  course  of  life,  or  from 
the  bloAvs  or  favors  of  fortune,  in  which  a  man 
will  not  find  matters  of  some  delight  unknown  to 
a  single  condition. 

He  that  sincerely  loves  his  wife  and  family,  and 
studies  to  improve  that  affection  in  himself,  con¬ 
ceives  pleasure  from  the  most  indifferent  things; 
while  the  married  man  who  has  not  bid  adieu  to 
the  fashions  and  false  gallantries  of  the  town,  is 
perplexed  Avith  everything  around  him.  In  both 
these  cases  men  cannot,  indeed,  make  a  sillier 
figure,  than  in  repeating  such  pleasures  and  pains 
to  the  rest  of  the  world:  but  I  speak  of  them  only 
as  they  sit  upon  those  who  are  involved  in  them. 
As  I  visit  all  sorts  of  people,  I  cannot  indeed  but 
smile,  when  the  good  lady  tells  her  husband  what 
extraordinary  things  the  child  spoke  since  he  went 
out.  No  longer  than  yesterday  I  Avas  prevailed 
Avith  to  go  home  with  a  fond  husband;  and  his 
wife  told  him,  that  his  son,  of  his  own  head, 
when  the  clock  in  the  parlor  struck  two,  said 
papa  would  come  home  to  dinner  presently. 
While  the  father  has  him  in  a  rapture  in  his 
arms,  and  is  droAvning  him  with  kisses,  the  wife 
tells  me  he  is  but  just  four  years  old.  Then  they 
both  struggle  for  him,  and  bring  him  up  to  me, 
and  repeat  his  observation  of  two  o  clock.  I  was 
called  upon,  by  looks  upon  the  child,  and  then  at 
me,  to  say  something:  and  I  told  the  father  that 
this  remark  of  the  infant  of  his  coming  home,  and 
joining  the  time  Avith  it,  was  a  certain  indication 
that  lie  would  be  a  great  historian  and  chronologer. 
They  are  neither  of  them  fools,  yet  received  my 
compliment  with  great  acknowledgment  of  my 
prescience.  I  fared  very  Avell  at  dinner,  and 
heard  many  other  notable  sayings  of  their  heir, 
which  would  haAre  given  very  little  entertainment 
to  one  less  turned  to  reflection  than  J  was:  but  it 
Avas  a  pleasing  speculation  to  remark  on  the  hap¬ 
piness  of  a  life,  in  which  things  of  no  moment 
give  occasion  of  hope,  self-satisfaction,  and  tri¬ 
umph.  On  the  other  hand,  I  have  known  an  ill- 
natured  coxcomb,  who  has  hardly  improved  in 
anything  but  bulk,  for  Avant  of  this  disposition, 
silence  the  whole  family  as  a  set  of  silly  women 
and  children,  for  recounting  things  which  were 
really  above  his  oavii  capacity. 

When  I  say  all  this,  I  cannot  deny  but  there  are 
perverse  jades  that  fall  to  men’s  lots,  with  whom 
it  requires  more  than  common  proficiency  in  phi¬ 
losophy  to  be  able  to  live.  When  these  are  joined 
to  men  of  warm  spirits,  without  temper  or  learn¬ 
ing,  they  are  frequently  corrected  with  stripes;  but 
one  of  our  famous  lawyers*  is  of  opinion  that  this 
ought  to  be  used  sparingly;  as  I  remember,  those 
are  his  very  words;  but  as  it  is  proper  to  draw 
some  spiritual  use  out  of  all  afflictions,  I  should 
rather  recommend  to  those  who  are  \-isited  with 
women  of  spirit,  to  form  themselves  for  the  Avorld  by 
patience  at  home.  Socrates,  who  is  by  all  accounts 
the  undoubted  head  of  the  sect  of  the  henpecked, 


*  Bracton. 


573 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


owned  and  acknowledged  that  he  owed  groat  part 
of  his  virtue  to  the  exercise  which  his  useful  wife 
constantly  g*ave  it.  There  are  several  good  in¬ 
structions  may  be  drawn  from  his  wise  answers 
to  the  people  of  less  fortitude  than  himself  on  her 
subject.  A  friend,  with  indignation,  asked  how 
so  good  a  man  could  live  with  so  violent  a  crea¬ 
ture  !  He  observed  to  him,  that  they  who  learn 
to  keep  a  good  seat  on  horseback,  mount  the  least 
manageable  they  can  get;  and,  when  they  have 
mastered  them,  they  are  sure  never  to  be  discom¬ 
posed  on  the  backs  of  steeds  less  restive.  At 
several  times,  to  different  persons,  on  the  same 
subject,  he  lias  said,  “My  dear  friend,  you  are 
oeholden  to  Xantippe,  that  I  bear  so  well  your 
flying  out  in  a  dispute.”  To  another,  “My  hen 
clacks  very  much,  but  she  brings  me  chickens. 
1  hey  that  live  in  a  trading  street  are  not  dis¬ 
turbed  at  the  passage  of  carts.”  I  would  have, 
if  possible,  a  wise  man  be  contented  with  his  lot, 
even  with  a  shrew;  for,  though  he  cannot  make 
her  better,  he  may,  you  see,  make  himself  better 
by  her  means. 

But,  instead  of  pursuing  my  design  of  display¬ 
ing  conjugal  love  in  its  natural  beauties  and  attrac¬ 
tions,  I  am  got  into  tales  to  the  disadvantage  of 
that  state  of  life.  I  must  say,  therefore,  that  I  am 
verily  persuaded,  that  whatever  is  delightful  in 
human  life  is  to  be  enjoyed  in  greater  perfection  in 
the  married  than  in  the  single  condition.  He  that 
has  this  passion  in  perfection,  in  occasions  of  joy, 
can  say  to  himself,  beside  his  own  satisfaction, 
“How  happy  will  this  make  my  wife  and  chil¬ 
dren!”  Upon  occurrences  of  distress  or  danger, 
can  comfort  himself,  “  But  all  this  while  my  wife 
and  children  are  safe.”  There  is  something  in  it 
that  doubles  satisfactions,  because  others  partici¬ 
pate  them;  and  dispels  afflictions  because  others 
aie  exempt  from  them.  All  who  are  married  with¬ 
out  this  relish  of  their  circumstance  are  in  either  a 
tasteless  indolence  and  negligence  which  is  hardly 
to  be  attained,  or  else  live  in  the  hourly  repetition 
of  sharp  answers,  eager  upbraidings,  and  distract¬ 
ing  reproaches.  In  a  word,  the  married  state,  with 
and  without  the  affection  suitable  to  it,  is  the  com- 
pletest  image  of  heaven  and  hell  we  are  capable 
of  receiving  in  this  life. — T. 


Xo.  480.]  WEDNESDAY,  SEPT.  10,  1712. 

Itesponsare  cupidinitms,  contenmere  honores 
Fortis,  et  in  seipso  totus  teres  atque  rotundus. 

IIor.  2  Sat.  vii,  S5. 

He,  Sir,  is  proof  to  grandeur,  pride,  or  pelf, 

And,  greater  still,  lie’s  master  of  himself: 

Not  to  and  fro,  by  fears  and  factions  hurl’d, 

But  loose  to  all  the  interests  of  the  world; 

And  while  the  world  turns  round,  entire  and  whole. 
He  keeps  the  sacred  tenor  of  his  soul. — Pitt. 

The  other  day,  looking  over  those  old  manu¬ 
scripts  of  which  I  have  formerly  given  some  ac¬ 
count,  and  which  relate  to  the  character  of  the 
mighty  Pharamond  of  France,  and  the  close  friend¬ 
ship  between  him  and  his  friend  Eucrate,  I  found 
among  the  letters,  which  had  been  in  the  custody 
of  the  latter,  an  epistle  from  a  country  gentleman 
to  Pharamond,  wherein  he  excuses  himself  from 
coming  to  court.  The  gentleman,  it  seems,  was 
contented  with  his  condition,  had  formerly’been 
in  the  king’s  service;  but  at  the  writing  the  fol¬ 
lowing  letter  had,  from  leisure  and  reflection,  quite 
another  sense  of  things  than  that  which  he  had  in 
the  more  active  part  of  his  life. 


“Monsieur  Chezluy  to  Pharamond. 

“  Dread  Sir, 

I  have  from  your  own  hand  (inclosed  under 
the  cover  of  Mr.  Eucrate,  of  your  majesty’s  bed¬ 
chamber)  a  letter  which  invites  me  to  court.  I 
understand  this  great  honor  to  be  done  me  more 
out  of  respect  and  inclination  to  me,  rather  than 
regal  d  to  your  own  service;  for  which  reason  I 
beg  leave  to  lay  before  your  majesty  my  reasons 
foi  declining  to  depart  from  home;  and  will  not 
doubt  but  as  your  motive  in  desiring  my  attend- 
ance  was  to  make  me  a  happier  man,  when  you 
think  that  will  not  be  effected  by  my  remove,  you 
will  permit  me  to  stay  where  I  am.  Those' who 
have  an  ambition  to  appear  in  courts,  have  either 
an  opinion  that  their  persons  or  their  talents  are 
particularly  formed  for  the  service  or  ornament  of 
that  place;  or  else  are  hurried  by  downright  desire 
of  gain,  or  what  they  call  honor,  to  take  upon  them¬ 
selves  whatever  the  generosity  of  their  master  can 
giv^  them  opportunities  to  grasp  at.  But  your 
goodness  shall  not  be  thus  imposed  upon  by 
me:  I  will  therefore  confess  to  you,  that  frequent 
solitude,  and  long  conversation  with  such  who 
know  no  arts  whicli  polish  life,  have  made  me 
the  plainest  creature  in  your  dominions.  Those 
less  capacities  of  moving  with  a  good  grace,  bear¬ 
ing  a  ready  affability  to  all  around  me,  and  acting 
with  ease  before  many,  have  quite  left  me.  I  am 
come  to  that,  with  regard  to  my  person,  that  I 
consider  it  only  as  a  machine  I  am  obliged  to  take 
care  of,  in  order  to  enjoy  my  soul  in  its  faculties 
with  alacrity;  well  remembering  that  this  habita¬ 
tion  of  clay  will  in  a  few  years  be  a  meaner  piece 
of  earth  than  any  utensil  about  my  house.  When 
this  is,  as  it  really  is,  the  most  frequent  reflection 
I  have,  you  will  easily  imagine  how  well  I  should 
become  a  drawing-room;  add  to  this,  what  shall  a 
man  without  desires  do  about  the  generous  Phara¬ 
mond  ?  Monsieur  Eucrate  has  hinted  to  me,  that 
you  have  thoughts  of  distinguishing  me  with  titles. 
As  for  myself,  in  the  temper  of  my  present  mind, 
appellations  of  honor  would  but  embarrass  dis¬ 
course,  and  new  behavior  toward  me  perplex  me 
in  every  habitude  of  life.  I  am  also  to  acknow¬ 
ledge  to  you,  that  my  children,  of  whom  your 
majesty  condescended  to  inquire,  are  all  of  them 
mean,  both  in  their  persons  and  genius.  The 
estate  my  eldest  son  is  heir  to,  is  more  than  he 
can  enjoy  with  a  good  grace.  My  self-love  will 
not  carry  me  so  far  as  to  impose  upon  mankind 
the  advancement  of  persons  (merely  for  their  being 
related  to  me)  into  high  distinctions,  who  ought 
for  their  own  sakes,  as  well  as  that  of  the  public, 
to  affect  obscurity.  I  wish,  my  generous  prince, 
as  it  is  in  your  power  to  give  honors  and  offices, 
it  were  also  to  give  talents  suitable  to  them;  were 
it  so,  the  noble  Pharamond  would  reward  the  zeal 
m.y  youth  with  abilities  to  do  him  service  in 
my  age. 

Those  who  accept  of  favor  without  merit,  sup¬ 
port  themselves  in  it  at  the  expense  of  your  ma¬ 
jesty.  Give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  Sir,  this  is  the 
reason  that  we  in  the  country  hear  so  often  re¬ 
peated  the  word  prerogative.  That  part  of  your 
law  which  is  reserved  in  yourself,  for  the  readier 
service  and  good  of  the  public,  slight  men  are 
eternally  buzzing  in  our  ears,  to  cover  their  own 
follies  and  miscarriages.  It  would  be  an  addition 
to  the  high  favor  you  have  done  me,  if  you  would 
let  Eucrate  send  me  word  how  often  and  in  what 
cases,  you  allow  a  constable  to  insist  upon  the 
prerogative.  From  the  highest  to  the  lowest  offi¬ 
cer  in  your  dominions,  something  of  their  own  car¬ 
riage  they  would  exempt  from  examination,  under 
the  shelter  of  the  word  prerogative.  I  would  fain, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


574 

most  noble  Pharamond,  see  one  of  your  officers 
assert  your  prerogative  by  good  and  gracious 
actions.  When  is  it  used  to  help  the  afflicted,  to 
rescue  the  innocent,  to  comfort  the  stranger  ?  Un¬ 
common  methods,  apparently  undertaken  to  attain 
worthy  ends,  would  never  make  power  invidious. 
You  see,  Sir,  I  talk  to  you  with  the  freedom  ^our 
noble  nature  approves  in  all  whom  you  admit  to 
your  conversation. 

“  But  to  return  to  your  majesty’s  letter,  I  humbly 
conceive  that  all  distinctions  are  useful  to  men, 
only  as  they  are  to  act  in  public ;  and  it  would 
be  a  romantic  madness  for  a  man  to  be  a  lord  in 
his  closet.  Nothing  can  be  honorable  to  a  man 
apart  from  the  world,  but  the  reflection  upon  wor¬ 
thy  actions ;  and  lie  that  places  honor  in  a  con¬ 
sciousness  of  well-doing,  will  have  but  little  relish 
for  any  outward  homage  that  is  paid  him  ;  since 
what  gives  him  distinction  to  himself,  cannot 
come  within  the  observation  of  his  beholders. 
Th  us  all  the  words  of  lordship,  honor,  and  grace, 
are  only  repetitions  to  a  man  that  the  king  has 
ordered  him  to  be  called  so  ;  but  no  evidences  that 
there  is  anything  in  himself,  that  would  give  the 
man,  who  applies  to  him,  those  ideas,  without  the 
creation  of  his  master. 

“  I  have,  most  noble  Pharamond,  all  honors  and 
all  titles  in  your  own  approbation  :  I  triumph  in 
them  as  they  are  your  gift,  I  refuse  them  as  they 
are  to  give  me  the  observation  of  others.  Indulge 
me,  my  noble  master,  in  this  chastity  of  renown  ; 
let  me  know  myself  in  the  favor  of  Pharamond  ; 
aud  look  down  upon  the  applause  of  the  people. 

“  I  am  in  all  duty  and  loyalty, 

“Your  majesty’s  most  obedient 
“  Subject  and  Servant, 

“Jean  Chezluy.” 

“Sir, 

“I  need  not  tell  with  what  disadvantages  men 
of  low  fortunes  and  great  modesty  come  into  the 
world  ;  what  wrong  measures  their  diffidence  of 
themselves,  and  fear  of  offending,  often  oblige 
them  to  take  ;  and  what  a  pity  it  is  that  their 
greatest  virtues  and  qualities,  that  shpuld  soonest 
recommend  them,  are  the  main  obstacle  in  the 
way  of  their  preferment. 

“  This,  Sir,  is  my  case  ;  I  was  bred  at  a  country 
school,  where  I  learned  Latin  and  Greek.  The 
misfortunes  of  my  family  forced  me  up  to  town, 
where  a  profession  of  the  politer  sort  has  protected 
me  against  infamy  and  want.  I  am  now  clerk  to 
a  lawyer,  and,  in  times  of  vacancy  and  recess 
from  business,  have  made  myself  master  of  Italian 
and  French ;  and  though  the  progress  I  have 
made  in  my  business  has  gained  me  reputation 
enough  for  one  of  my  standing,  yet  my  mind 
suggests  to  me  every  day  that  it  is  not  upon  that 
foundation  1  am  to  build  my  fortune. 

‘  The  person  I  have  my  present  dependence 
upon  has  it  in  his  nature,  as  well  as  in  his  power, 
to  advance  me,  by  recommending  me  to  a  gentle¬ 
man  that  is  going  beyond  sea  in  a  public  employ¬ 
ment.  I  know  the  printing  this  letter  would  point 
me  out  to  those  I  want  confidence  to  speak  to, 
and  I  hope  it  is  not  in  your  power  to  refuse 
making  anybody  happy. 

“  Yours,  etc. 

“  September  9,  1712.  “  M.  D.” 

T. 


No.  481.]  THURSDAY,  SEPT.  11,  1712. 

- Uti  non 

Compositus  melius  cum  Bitho  Bacchius.  In  jus 

Acres  procurrunt - Hor.  Sat.  1.  vii.  19. 

Who  shall  decide  when  doctors  disagree, 

And  soundest  casuists  doubt,  like  you  and  me?. — Pop*. 

It  is  sometimes  pleasant  enough  to  consider  the 
different  notions  which  different  persons  have  of 
the  same  thing.  If  men  of  low  condition  very 
often  set  a  value  on  things  which  are  not  prized 
by  those  who  are  in  a  higher  station  of  life,  there 
are  many  things  these  esteem  which  are  in  no 
value  among  persons  of  an  inferior  rank.  Com¬ 
mon  people  are,  in  particular,  very  much  aston¬ 
ished  when  they  hear  of  those  solemn  contests  and 
debates,  which  are  made  among  the  great  upon 
the  punctilios  of  a  public  ceremony;  and  wonder 
to  hear  that  any  business  of  consequence  should 
be  retarded  by  those  little  circumstances,  which 
they  represent  to  themselves  as  trifling  and  insig¬ 
nificant.  I  am  mightily  pleased  with  a  porter’s 
decision  in  one  of  Mr.  Southern’s  plays,  which  is 
founded  upon  that  fine  distress  of  a  virtuous  wo¬ 
man’s  marrying  a  second  husband,  while  the  first 
was  yet  living.  The  first  husband,  who  was  sup¬ 
posed  to  have  been  dead,  returning  to  his  house 
after  a  long  absence,  raises  a  noble  perplexity  for 
the  tragic  part  of  the  play.  In  the  meanwhile  the 
nurse  and  the  porter  conferring  upon  the  difficul¬ 
ties  that  would  ensue  in  such  a  case,  honest  Sam¬ 
son  thinks  the  matter  may  be  easily  decided,  and 
solves  it  very  judiciously  by  the  old  proverb,  that, 
if  his  first  master  be  still  living,  “the  man  must 
have  his  mare  again.”  There  is  nothing  in  my 
time  which  has  so  much  surprised  aud  confounded 
the  greatest  part  of  my  honest  countrymen,  as  the 
present  controversy  between  Count  Rechteren  and 
Monsieur  Mesnager,  which  employs  the  wise  heads 
of  so  many  nations,  and  holds  all  the  affairs  of 
Europe  in  suspense. 

Upon  my  going  into  a  coffee-house  yesterday, 
and  lending  an  ear  to  the  next  table,  which  was 
encompassed  with  a  circle  of  inferior  politicians, 
one  of  them,  after  having  read  over  the  news  very 
attentively,  broke  out  into  the  following  remarks: 
“  I  am  afraid,”  says  he,  “  this  unhappy  rupture 
between  the  footmen  at  Utrecht  will  retard  the 
peace  of  Christendom.  I  wish  the  pope  may  not 
be  at  the  bottom  of  it.  His  holiness  has  a  very 
good  hand  at  fomenting  a  division,  as  the  poor 
Swiss  cantons  have  lately  experienced  to  their 
cost.  If  Monsieur  What-d’ye-call-him’s  domestics 
will  not  come  to  an  accommodation,  I  do  not  know 
how  the  quarrel  can  be  ended  but  by  a  religious 
I  war.” 

“  Why,  truly,”  says  a  wiseacre  that  sat  by  him, 
“  were  I  as  the  king  of  France,  I  would  scorn  to 
;  take  part  with  the  footmen  of  either  side :  here’s 
|  all  the  business  of  Europe  stands  still,  because 
Monsieur  Mesnager’s  man  has  had  his  head  broke. 
If  Count  Rectrum*  had  given  them  a  pot  of  ale 
after  it,  all  would  have  been  well,  without  any  of 
this  bustle;  but  they  say  he’s  a  warm  man,  and 
;  does  not  care  to  be  made  mouths  at.” 

Upon  this,  one  that  had  held  his  tongue  hith¬ 
erto,  began  to  exert  himself ;  declaring,  “  that  he 
was  very  well  pleased  the  plenipotentiaries  of  our 
!  Christian  princes  took  this  matter  into  their  seri¬ 
ous  consideration  ;  for  that  lackeys  were  never  so 
saucy  and  pragmatical  as  they  are  now-a-days, 
and  that  he  should  be  glad  to  see  them  taken 
down  in  the  treaty  of  peace,  if  it  might  be  done 
without  prejudice  to  the  public  affairs.” 
j  One  who  sat  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  and 
I  seemed  to  be  in  the  interests  of  the  French  king, 


*  Count  Rechteren. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


told  them,  that  they  did  not  take  the  matter  ri'dit, 
for  that  His  Most  Christian  majesty  did  not  resent 
this  matter  because  it  was  an  injury  done  to  Mon¬ 
sieur  Mesnager’s  footman  :  “  for,”  says  he,  “  what 
are  Monsieur  Mesnager’s  footmen  to  him  ?  but  be¬ 
cause  it  was  done  to  his  subjects.  Now,”  says  he, 
.  ^  lrie  you,  it  would  look  very  odd  for  a  sub¬ 
ject  of  France  to  have  a  bloody  nose,  and  his  sov¬ 
ereign  not  to  take  notice  of  it.  He  is  obliged  in 
honor  to  defend  his  people  against  hostilities  ; 
and  if  the  Dutch  will  be  so  insolent  to  a  crowned 
head,  as  in  anywise  to  cuff  or  kick  those  who  are 
under  his  protection,  I  think  he  is  in  the  right  to 
call  them  to  an  account  for  it.” 

1  his  distinction  set  the  controversy  upon  a  new 
foot,  and  seemed  to  be  very  well  approved  by 
most  that  heard  it,  until  a  little  warm  fellow,  who 
had  declared  himselt  a  friend  to  the  house  of  Aus¬ 
tria,  fell  most  unmercifully  upon  his  Gallic  ma¬ 
jesty,  as  encouraging  his  subjects  to  make  mouths 
at  their  betters,  and  afterward  screening  them 
from  the  punishment  that  was  due  to  their  inso¬ 
lence.  To  which  he  added,  that  the  French  na¬ 
tion  was  so  addicted  to  grimace,  that,  if  there  was 
not  ^  stop  put  to  it  at  the  general  congress,  there 
would  be  no  walking  the  streets  for  them  in  a 
time  of  peace,  especially  if  they  continued  masters 
of  the  West  Indies.  The  little  man  proceeded 
with  a  great  deal  of  warmth,  declaring  that,  if  the 
allies  were  of  his  mind,  he  would  oblige  the 
french  king  to  burn  his  galleys,  and  tolerate  the 
-rrotestant  religion  in  his  dominions,  before  he 
would  sheath  his  sword.  He  concluded  with  call- 
mg  Monsieur  Mesnager  an  insignificant  prig. 

ihe  dispute  was  now  growing  very  warm,  and 
one  does  not  know  where  it  would  have  ended, 
had  not  a  young  man  of  about  one-and-twenty! 
who  seems  to  have  been  brought  up  with  an  eye  to 
the  law,  taken  the  debate  into  his  hand,  and  given 
it  as  his  opinion,  that  neither  Count  Rechteren 
nor  Monsieur  Mesnager  had  behaved  themselves 
right  in  this  affair.  “  Count  Rechteren,”  says  he, 

“  should  have  made  affidavit  that  his  servants  had 
been  affronted,  and  then  Monsieur  Mesnao-er 
would  have  done  him  justice,  by  taking  away 
their  liveries  from  them,  or  some  other  way  that 
he  might  have  thought  the  most  proper  ;  for,  let 
me  tell  you,  if  a  man  makes  a  mouth  at  me,  I  am 
not  to  knock  the  teeth  out  of  it  for  his  pains. 

1  lien  again,  as  for  Monsieur  Mesnager,  upon  his 
servants  being  beaten,  why,  he  might  have  had 
nis  action  of  assault  and  battery.  But  as  the  case 
now  stands,  if  you  will  have  my  opinion,  I  think 
they  ought  to  bring  it  to  referees.” 

I  heard  a  great  deal  more  of  this  conference  but 
1  must  confess,  with  little  edification  ;  for  all  I 
could  learn  at  last  from  these  honest  gentlemen 
was,  that  the  matter  in  debate  was  of  too  high  a 
nature  for  such  heads  as  theirs,  or  mine,  to  com¬ 
prehend. — 0. 


575 


tradesman,  who  dates  his  letter  from  Cheapside 
sends  me  thanks  in  the  name  of  a  club,  who,  he 
tells  me,  meet  as  often  as  their  wives  will  give 
them  leave,  and  stay  together  till  they  are  sent 
tor  home.  He  informs  me,  that  my  paper  has  ad¬ 
ministered  great  consolation  to  their  whole  club, 
and  desires  me  to  give  some  further  account  of 
bocrates  and  to  acquaint  them  in  whose  reign  he 
ived,  whether  he  was  a  citizen  or  a  courtier, 
vhether  he  buried  Xantippe,  with  many  other 
pai  icu  ars  :  for  that,  by  his  sayings,  he  appears 
to  have  been  a  very  wise  man,  and  a  good  Chris¬ 
tian  Another,  who  writes  himself  Beniamin 
iiamboo,  tells  me  that,  being  coupled  with  a 
snrew,  he  had  endeavored  to  tame  her  by  such 
lawful  means  as  those  which  I  mentioned  in  my 
last  Tuesday’s  paper,  and  that  in  his  wrath  he 
lad  often  gone  further  than  Bracton  allows  in 
those  cases;  but  that  for  the  future  he  was  re¬ 
solved  to  bear  it  like  a  man  of  temper  and  learn¬ 
ing,  and  consider  her  only  as  one  who  lives  in  his 
house  to  teach  him  philosophy.  Tom  Dapperwit 
says,  that  he  agrees  with  me  in  that  whole  dis- 
course  excepting  only  the  last  sentence,  where  I 
affirm  the  married  state  to  be  either  a  heaven  or  a 
hell.  I  oin  has  been  at  the  charge  of  a  penny  upon 
this  occasion  to  tell  me,  that  by  his  experience  it 
is  neither  one  nor  the  other,  but  rather  that  middle 
Kind  of  state,  commonly  known  by  the  name  of 
purgatory. 

The  fair  sex  have  likewise  obliged  me  with  their 
reflections  upon  the  same  discourse.  A  lady,  who 
calls  herself  Euterpe,  and  seems  a  woman  of  let¬ 
ters,  asks  me  whether  I  am  for  establishing  the 
balic  law  in  every  family,  and  why  it  is  not  fit 
that  a  woman  who  has  discretion  and  learning 
should  sit  at  the  helm,  when  the  husband  is  weak 
and  illiterate  ?  Another,  of  a  quite  contrary  char- 
acter,  subscribes  herself  Xantippe,  and  tells  me 
that  she  follows  the  example  of  her  namesake  • 
or  being  married  to  a  bookish  man,  who  has  no' 
knowiedge  of  the  world,  she  is  forced  to  take  their 
affairs  into  her  own  hands,  and  to  spirit  him  up 
now  and  then,  that  he  may  not  grow  musty,  and 
unfit  for  conversation. 

After  this  abridgment  of  some  letters  which 
are  come  to  my  hands  upon  this  occasion,  I  shall 
publish  one  of  them  at  large. 


No.  482.]  FRIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  12,  1712. 

Floriferis  ut  apes  in  saltibus  omnia  libant.— Lucr.  iii.  11. 

As  from  the  sweetest  flower  the  lab’ring  bee 

Extracts  her  precious  sweets. — Creech.” 

When  I  have  published  any  single  paper  that 
falls  in  with  the  popular  taste,  and  pleases  more 
than  ordinary,  it  always  brings  me  in  a  great  re¬ 
turn  of  letters.  My  Tuesday’s  discourse,  wherein 
1  gave  several  admonitions  to  the  fraternity  of 
the  henpecked,  has  already  produced  me  very 
many  correspondents  ;  the  reason  I  cannot  guess 
at,  unless  it  be,  that  such  a  discourse  is  of  general 
use,  and  every  married  man’s  money.  An  honest 


“  Mr.  Spectator, 

i  -‘7™  ha/e  ?iven  us  a  lively  picture  of  that 
kind  of  husband  who  comes  under  the  denomina¬ 
tion  of  the  henpecked  ;  but  I  do  not  remember 
that  you  have  ever  touched  upon  one  that  is  of  the 
quite  different  character,  and  who,  in  several 
places  of  England,  goes  by  the  name  of  ‘a  cot- 
quean.  I  have  the  misfortune  to  be  joined  for 
life  with  one  of  this  character,  who  in  reality  is 
more  a  woman  than  I  am.  He  was  bred  up  under 
the  tuition  of  a  tender  mother,  till  she  had  made 
him  as  good  a  housewife  as  herself.  He  could 
preserve  apricots,  and  make  jellies,  before  he  had 
been  two  years  out  of  the  nursery.  He  was  never 
suffered  to  go  abroad,  for  fear  of  catching  cold  • 
when  he  should  have  been  hunting  down  a  buck 
he  was  by  his  mother’s  side  learning  how  to  sea¬ 
son  it,  or  put  it  in  crust;  and  was  making  paper 
boats  with  his  sisters,  at  an  age  when  other  vouno- 
gentlemen  are  crossing  the  seas,  or  travelino-  into 
foreign  countries.  He  has  the  whitest  hand  that 
you  ever  saw  in  your  life,  and  raises  paste  better 
than  any  woman  in  England.  These  qualifica¬ 
tions  make  him  a  sad  husband.  He  is  perpetually 
in  the  kitchen,  and  has  a  thousand  squabbles  with 
the  cook-maid.  He  is  better  acquainted  with  the 
milk-score  than  his  steward’s  accounts.  I  fret  to 
death  when  I  hear  him  find  fault  with  a  dish  that 


576 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


is  not  dressed  to  his  liking,  and  instructing  liis 
friends  that  dine  with  him  in  the  best  pickle  for  a 
walnut,  or  sauce  for  a  haunch  of  venison.  With 
all  this  he  is  a  very  good-natured  husband,  and 
never  fell  out  with  me  in  his  life  but  once,  upon 
the  over-roasting  of  a  dish  of  wild  fowl.  At  the 
same  time  I  must  own,  I  would  rather  he  was  a 
man  of  a  rough  temper,  that  would  treat  me  harsh¬ 
ly  sometimes,  than  of  such  an  effeminate  busy 
nature,  in  a  province  that  does  not  belong  to  him. 
Since  you  have  given  us  the  character  of  a  wife 
who  wears  the  breeches,  pray  say  something  of  a 
husband  that  wears  the  petticoat.  Why  should 
not  a  female  character  be  as  ridiculous  in  a  man, 
as  a  male  character  in  one  of  our  sex  ? 

0.  “I  am,”  etc. 


Ho.  483.]  SATURDAY,  SEPT.  13,  1712. 

Nec  deus  intersit,  nisi  dignus  vindice  nodus 

Incident - —  Hor.  Ars  Poet.  ver.  191. 

Never  presume  to  make  a  god  appear, 

But  for  a  business  worthy  of  a  god. — Roscommon. 

We  cannot  be  guilty  of  a  greater  act  of  unchar¬ 
itableness  than  to  interpret  the  afflictions  which 
befall  our  neighbors  as  punishments  and  judg¬ 
ments.  It  aggravates  the  evil  to  him  who  suffers, 
when  he  looks  upon  himself  as  the  mark  of  Divine 
vengeance,  and  abates  the  compassion  of  those 
toward  him  who  regard  him  in  so  dreadful  a  light. 
This  humor,  of  turning  every  misfortune  into  a 
judgment,  proceeds  from  wrong  notions  of  relig¬ 
ion,  which  in  its  own  nature  produces  good-will 
toward  men,  and  puts  the  mildest  construction 
upon  every  accident  that  befalls  them.  In  this  case, 
therefore,  it  is  not  religion  that  sours  a  man’s 
temper,  but  it  is  his  temper  that  sours  his  religion. 
People  of  gloomy,  uncheei'ful  imaginations,  or  of 
envious  malignant  tempers,  whatever  kind  of  life 
they  are  engaged  in,  will  discover  their  natural 
tincture  of  mind  in  all  their  thoughts,  words,  and 
actions.  As  the  finest  wines  have  often  the  taste 
of  the  soil,  so  even  the  most  religious  thoughts 
often  draw  something  that  is  particular  from  the 
constitution  of  the  mind  in  which  they  arise. 
When  folly  or  superstition  strike  in  with  this  nat¬ 
ural  depravity  of  temper,  it  is  not  in  the  power 
even  of  religion  itself,  to  preserve  the  character  of 
the  person  who  is  possessed  with  it  from  appear¬ 
ing  highly  absurd  and  ridiculous. 

An  old  maiden  gentlewoman,  whom  I  shall  con¬ 
ceal  under  the  name  of  Nemesis,  is  the  greatest 
discoverer  of  judgments  that  I  have  met  with. 
She  can  tell  you  what  sin  it  was  that  set  such  a 
man’s  house  on  fire,  or  blew  down  his  barns. 
Talk  to  her  of  an  unfortunate  young  lady  that  lost 
her  beauty  by  the  small-pox,  she  fetches  a  deep 
sigh,  and  tells  you,  that  when  she  had  a  fine  face 
she  was  always  looking  on  jt  in  her  glass.  Tell 
her  of  a  piece  of  good  fortune  that  has  befallen  one 
of  her  acquaintance,  and  she  wishes  it  may  pros¬ 
per  with  her,  but  her  mother  used  one  of  her  nieces 
very  barbarously.  Her  usual  remarks  turn  upon 
people  who  had  great  estates,  but  never  enjoyed 
them  by  reason  of  some  flaw  in  their  own  or  their 
father’s  behavior.  She  can  give  you  the  reason 
why  such  a  one  died  childless;  why  such  a  one  was 
cut  off  in  the  flower  of  his  youth;  why  such  a  one 
was  unhappy  in  her  marriage;  why  one  broke  his 
leg  on  such  a  particular  spot  of  ground;  and  why 
another  wras  killed  with  a  back-sword,  rather  than 
with  any  other  kind  of  weapon.  She  has  a  crime 
for  every  misfortune  that  can  befall  any  of  her 
acquaintance;  and  when  she  hears  of  a  robbery 
that  has  been  made,  or  a  murder  that  has  been 


committed,  enlarges  more  on  the  guilt  of  the  suf¬ 
fering  person,  than  on  that  of  the  thief,  or  the 
assassin.  In  short,  she  is  so  good  a  Christian,  that 
whatever  happens  to  herself  is  a  trial,  and  what¬ 
ever  happens  to  her  neighbors  is  a  judgment. 

The  very  description  of  this  folly,  in  ordinary 
life,  is  sufficient  to  expose  it;  but,  when  it  appears 
in  a  pomp  and  dignity  of  style,  it  is  very  apt  to 
amuse  and  terrify  the  mind  of  the  reader.  Hero- 
dotys  and  Plutarch  very  often  apply  their  judg¬ 
ments  as  impertinently  as  the  old  woman  I  have 
before  mentioned,  though  their  manner  of  relating 
them  makes  the  folly  itself  appear  venerable.  In¬ 
deed,  most  historians,  as  well  Christian  as  Pagan, 
have  fallen  into  this  idle  superstition,  and  spoken 
of  ill  success,  unforeseen  disasters,  and  terrible 
events,  as  if  they  had  been  let  into  the  secrets  of 
Providence,  and  made  acquainted  with  that  private 
conduct  by  which  the  world  is  governed.  One 
would  think  several  of  our  own  historians  in  par¬ 
ticular  had  many  revelations  of  this  kind  made  to 
them.  Our  old  English  monks  seldom  let  any  of 
their  kings  depart  in  peace,  who  had  endeavored 
to  diminish  the  power  or  wealth  of  which  the 
ecclesiastics  were  in  those  times  possessed.  Wil¬ 
liam  the  Conqueror’s  race  generally  found  their 
judgments  in  the  New  Forest,  where  their  father 
had  pulled  down  churches  and  monasteries.  In 
short,  read  one  of  the  chronicles  written  by  an 
author  of  this  frame  of  mind,  and  you  would  think 
you  were  reading  a  history  of  the  kings  of  Israel 
or  Judah,  where  the  historians  were  actually  in¬ 
spired,  and  where,  by  a  particular  scheme  of  Prov¬ 
idence,  the  kings  were  distinguished  by  judgments, 
or  blessings,  according  as  they  promoted  idolatry, 
or  the  worship  of  the  true  God. 

I  cannot  but  look  upon  this  manner  of  judging 
upon  misfortunes,  not  only  to  be  very  uncharitable 
in  regard  to  the  person  on  whom  they  fall,  but  very 
presumptuous  in  regard  to  him  who  is  supposed 
to  inflict  them.  It  is  a  strong  argument  for  a  state 
of  retribution  hereafter,  that  in  this  world  virtuous 
persons  are  very  often  unfortunate,  and  vicious 
persons  prosperous;  which  is  wholy  repugnant  to 
the  nature  of  a  Being  who  appears  infinitely  wise 
and  good  in  all  his  wrnrks,  unless  we  may  suppose 
that  such  a  promiscuous  and  undistinguishing 
distribution  of  good  and  evil,  which  was  necessary 
for  carrying  on  the  designs  of  Providence  in  this 
life,  will  be  rectified,  and  made  amends  for,  in  an¬ 
other.  We  are  not  therefore  to  expect  that  fire 
should  fall  from  heaven  in  the  ordinary  course  of 
Providence;  nor,  when  we  see  triumphant  guilt  or 
depressed  virtue  in  particular  persons,  that  Om¬ 
nipotence  will  make  bare  his  holy  arm  in  the 
defense  of  the  one,  or  punishment  of  the  other. 
It  is  sufficient  that  there  is  a  day  set  apart  for  the 
hearing  and  requiting  of  both,  according  to  their 
respective  merits. 

The  folly  of  ascribing  temporal  judgments  to 
any  particular  crimes,  may  appear  from  several 
considerations.  I  shall  only  mention  two.  First, 
that,  generally  speaking,  there  is  no  calamity  or 
affliction,  which  is  supposed  to  have  happens  as 
a  judgment  to  a  vicious  man,  wrhich  does  not  some¬ 
times  happen  to  men  of  approved  religion  and 
virtue.  When  Diagoras  the  atheist  was  on  board 
one  of  the  Athenian  ships,  there  arose  a  very  vio¬ 
lent  tempest;  upon  wThich,  the  mariners  told  him, 
that  it  was  a  just  judgment  upon  them  for  having 
taken  so  impious  a  man  on  board.  Diagoras  beg¬ 
ged  them  to  look  upon  the  rest  of  the  ships  that 
were  in  the  same  distress,  and  asked  them  wdiether 
or  no  Diagoras  was  on  board  every  vessel  in  the 
fleet.  We  are  all  involved  in  the  same  calamities, 
and  subject  to  the  same  accidents;  and  wdien  we 
see  any  one  of  the  species  under  any  particular 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


oppression,  we  should  look  upon  it  as  arising  from 
the  common  lot  of  human  nature,  rather  than  from 
the  guilt  of  the  person  who  suffers. 

Another  consideration,  that  may  check  our  pre¬ 
sumption  in  putting  such  a  construction  upon  a 
misfortune,  is  this;  that  it  is  impossible  for  us  to 
know  what  are  calamities  and  what  are  blessings. 
How  many  accidents  have  passed  for  misfortunes, 
which  have  turned  to  the  welfare  and  prosperity 
of  the  persons  to  whose  lot  they  have  fallen  !  How 
many  disappointments  have,  in  their  consequences, 
saved  a  man  from  ruin  !  If  we  could  look  into 
the  effects  of  everything,  we  might  be  allowed  to 
pronounce  boldly  upon  blessings  and  judgments; 
but  for  a  man  to  give  his  opinion  of  what  he  sees 
but  in  part,  and  in  its  beginnings,  is  an  unjustifia¬ 
ble  piece  of  rashness  and  folly.  The  story  of 
Biton  and  Clitobus,  which  was  in  great  reputation 
among  the  heathens  (for  we  see  it  quoted  by  all 
the  ancient  authors,  both  Greek  and  Latin,  who 
have  written  upon  the  immortality  of  the  soul), 
may  teach  us  a  caution  in  this  matter.  These  two 
brothers  being  the  sons  of  a  lady  who  was  priest¬ 
ess  to  Juno,  drew  their  mother’s  chariot  to  the 
temple  at  the  time  of  a  great  solemnity,  the  per¬ 
sons  being  absent  who,  by  their  office,  were  to 
have  drawn  her  chariot  on  that  occasion.  The 
mother  was  so  transported  with  this  instance  of 
filial  duty,  that  she  petitioned  her  goddess  to  be¬ 
stow  upon  them  the  greatest  gift  that  could  be 
given  to  men;  upon  which  they  were  both  cast 
into  a  deep  sleep,  and  the  next  morning  found  dead 
in  the  temple.  This  was  such  an  event  as  would 
have  been  construed  into  a  judgment,  had  it  hap¬ 
pened  to  the  two  brothers  after  an  act  of  disobedi¬ 
ence,  and  would  doubtless  have  been  represented 
as  such  by  any  ancient  historian  who  had  given  us 
an  account  of  it. — O. 


577 


No.  484.]  MONDAY,  SEPTEMBER  15,  1712. 

Neque  cuiquam  tam  statim  clarum  ingenium  est,  ut  possit 
emergere;  nisi  illi  materia,  occasio,  fautor  etiam,  commen 
datorque  contingat. — Plin.  Epist. 

Nor  has  any  one  so  bright  a  genius  as  to  become  illustrious 
instantaneously,  unless  it  fortunately  meets  with  occasion 
and  employment,  with  patronage  too,  and  commendation. 

*‘Mr.  Spectator, 

“Of  all  the  young  fellows  who  are  in  their  pro 
gress  through  any  profession,  none  seem  to  have 
so  good  a  title  to  the  protection  of  the  men  of 
eminence  in  it,  as  the  modest  man;  not  so  much 
because  his  modesty  is  a  certain  indication  of  his 
merit,  as  because  it  is  a  certain  obstacle  to  the  pro 
during  of  it.  Now,  as  of  all  professions  this  virtue 
is  thought  to  be  more  particularly  unnecessary  in 
that  of  the  law  than  in  any  other,  I  shall  only 
apply  myself  to  the  relief  of  such  who  follow  this 
professioh  with  this  disadvantage.  What  aggra¬ 
vates  the  matter  is,  that  those  persons  who,  the 
better  to  prepare  themselves  for  this  study,  have 
made  some  progress  in  others,  have,  by  addicting 
themselves  to  letters,  increased  their  natural  mod^ 
esty,  and  consequently  heightened  the  obstruction 
to  this  sort  of  preferment;  so  that  every  one  of 
these  may  emphatically  be  said  to  be  such  a  one  as 
‘  laboreth  and  taketh  pains,  and  is  still  the  more 
behind.’  It  may  be  a  matter  worth  discussing, 
then,  why  that  which  made  a  youth  so  amiable  to 
the  ancients,  should  make  him  appear  so  ridic¬ 
ulous  to  the  moderns  ?  and  why,  in  our  days,  there 
should  be  neglect,  and  even  oppression,  of  young 
beginners,  iustead  of  that  protection  which  was 
the  pride  of  theirs?  In  the  profession  spoken  of, 
it  is  obvious  to  every  one  whose  attendance  is 
required  at  Westminster- hall,  with  what  difficulty 


a  youth  of  any  modesty  has  been  permitted  to 
make  an  observation,  that  could  in  no  wi§e  detract 
from  the  merit  of  his  elders,  and  is  absolutely 
necessary  for  the  advancing  his  own.  I  have  often 
seen  one  of  these  not  only  molested  in  his  utter¬ 
ance  of  something  very  pertinent,  but  even  plun¬ 
dered  of  his  question,  and  by  a  strong  sergeant 
shouldered  out  of  his  rank,  which  he  has  recovered 
with  much  difficulty  and  confusion.  Now,  as 
great  part  of  the  business  of  this  profession  might 
be  dispatched  by  one  that  perhaps 

- — Abest  virtute  diserti 
Messalae,  nec  scit  quantum  Casccllius  Aulus: 

Hor.  Ars  Poet.  370. 

- wants  Messala’s  powerful  eloquence, 

And  is  less  read  than  deep  Cascellius. — Roscommon. 

so  I  cannot  conceive  the  injustice  done  to  the  pub¬ 
lic,  if  the  men  of  reputation  in  this  calling  would 
introduce  such  of  the  young  ones  into  business, 
whose  application  to  this  study  will  let  them  into 
the  secrets  of  it,  as  much  as  their  modesty  will 
hinder  them  from  the  practice;  1  say  it  would  be 
laying  an  everlasting  obligation  upon  a  voung 
man,  to  be  introduced  at  first  only  as  a  mute,  till 
by  this  countenance,  and  a  resolution  to  support 
the  good  opinion  conceived  of  him  in  his  betters, 
his  complexion  shall  be  so  well  settled,  that  the 
litigious  of  this  island  may  be  secure  of  his  ob¬ 
streperous  aid.  If  I  might  be  indulged  to  speak 
in  the  style  of  a  lawyer,  I  would  say,  that  any  one 
about  thirty  years  of  age  might  make  a  common 
motion  to  the  court  with  as  much  elegance  and 
propriety  as  the  most  aged  advocates  in  the  hall. 

I  cannot  advance  the  merit  of  modestv  by  any 
argument  of  my  own  so  powerfully,  as  by  inquir¬ 
ing  into  the  sentiments  the  greatest  among  the 
ancients  of  different  ages  entertained  upon  this 
virtue.  If  we  go  back  to  the  days  of  Solomon, 
we  shall  find  favor  a  necessary  consequence  to  a 
shamefaced  man.  Pliny,  the  greatest  awyer  and 
most  elegant  writer  of  the  age  he  lived  in,  in  sev¬ 
eral  of  his  epistles  is  very  solicitous  in  recom¬ 
mending  to  the  public  some  young  men  of  his  own 
profession,  and  very  often  undertakes  to  become 
an  advocate,  upon  condition  that  some  one  of  these 
his  favorites  might  be  joined  with  him,  in  order  to 
produce  the  merit  of  such,  whose  modesty  other¬ 
wise  would  have  suppressed  it.  It  may  seem 
very  marvelous  to  a  saucy  modern,  that  multum 
sanguinis,  multum  verecundice,  multum  sollicitudinis 
%n  ore;  to  have  the  ‘face  first  full  of  blood,  then 
the  countenance  dashed  with  modesty,  and  then 
the  whole  aspect  as  of  one  dying  with  fear,  when 
a  man  begins  to  speak;’  should  be  esteemed  by 
Pliny  the  necessary  qualifications  of  a  fine  speaker. 
Shakspeare  also  has  expressed  himself  in  the  same 
favorable  strain  of  modesty,  when  he  says: 

- In  the  modesty  of  fearful  duty 

I  read  as  much  as  from  the  rattling  tongue, 

Of  saucy  and  audacious  eloquence - 

“Now,  since  these  authors  have  professed  them¬ 
selves  for  the  modest  man,  even  in  the  utmost  con¬ 
fusions  of  speech  and  countenance,  why  should  an 
intrepid  utterance  and  a  resolute  vociferation  thun¬ 
der  so  successfully  in  our  courts  of  justice?  And 
why  should  that  confidence  of  speech  and  beha¬ 
vior,  which  seems  to  acknowledge  no  superior,  and 
to  defy  all  contradiction,  prevail  over  that  defer¬ 
ence  and  resignation  with  which  the  modest  man 
implores  that  favorable  opinion  which  the  other 
seems  to  command  ? 

“As  the  case  at  present  stands,  the  best  consola¬ 
tion  that  I  can  administer,  to  those  who  cannot  get 
into  that  stroke  of  business  (as  the  phrase  is)  which 
Ley  deserve,  is  to  reckon  every  particular  acquisi¬ 
tion  of  knowledge  in  this  stuay  as  a  real  increase 
ot  their  fortune;  and  fully  to  believe,  that  one  day 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


578 

this  imaginary  gain  will  certainly  be  made  out  by 
one  more  substantial.  I  wish  you  would  talk  to 
us  a  little  on  this  head;  you  will  oblige,  Sir, 

'‘  Your  most  humble  Servant.” 

The  author  of  this  letter  is  certainly  a  man  of 
good  sense;  but  I  am  perhaps  particular  in  my 
opinion  on  this  occasion  :  for  I  have  observed  that 
under  the  notion  of  modesty,  men  have  indulged 
themselves  in  a  spiritless  sheepishness,  and  been 
forever  lost  to  themselves,  their  families,  their 
friends,  and  their  country.  When  a  man  has  taken 
care  to  pretend  to  nothing  but  what  he  may  justly 
aim  at,  and  can  execute  as  well  any  other,  without 
injustice  to  any  other,  it  is  ever  want  of  breeding, 
or  courage,  to  be  brow-beaten,  or  elbowed  out  of  his 
honest  ambition.  I  have  said  often,  modesty  must 
be  an  act  of  the  will,  and  yet  it  always  implies 
self-denial;  for,  if  a  man  has  an  ardent  desire  to  do 
what  is  laudable  for  him  to  perform,  and  from  an 
unmanly  bashfulness  shrinks  away,  and  lets  his 
merit  languish  in  silence,  he  ought  not  to  be  angry 
at  the  world  that  a  more  unskillful  actor  succeeds 
in  his  part,  because  he  has  not  confidence  to  come 
upon  the  stage  himself.  The  generosity  my  cor¬ 
respondent  mentions  of  Pliny  cannot  be  enough 
applauded.  To  cherish  the  dawn  of  merit,  and 
hasten  its  maturity,  was  a  work  worthy  a  noble 
Roman,  and  a  liberal  scholar.  That  concern  which 
is  described  in  the  letter,  is  to  all  the  world  the 
greatest  charm  imaginable;  but  then  the  modest 
man  must  proceed,  and  show  a  latent  resolution 
in  himself :  for  the  admiration  of  his  modesty 
arises  from  the  manifestation  of  his  merit.  1  must 
confess  we  live  in  an  age  wherein  a  few  empty  blus¬ 
terers  carry  away  the  praise  of  speaking,  while  a 
crowd  of  fellows  overstocked  with  knowledge  are 
run  down  by  them  :  1  say  overstocked,  because 
they  certainly  are  so,  as  to  their  service  of  man¬ 
kind,  if  from  their  very  store  they  raise  to  them¬ 
selves  ideas  of  respect  and  greatness  of  the  occa¬ 
sion,  and  I  know  not  what,  to  disable  themselves 
from  explaining  their  thoughts.  I  must  confess, 
when  I  have  seen  Charles  Frankair  rise  up  with  a 
commanding  mien,  and  torrent  of  handsome  words 
talk  a  mile  off  the  purpose,  and  drive  down  twenty 
bashful  boobies  of  ten  times  his  sense,  who  at  the 
same  time  were  envying  his  impudence,  and  de¬ 
spising  his  understanding,  it  has  been  matter  of 
great  mirth  to  me:  but  it  soon  ended  in  a  secret 
lamentation,  that  the  fountains  of  everything 
praiseworthy  in  these  realms,  the  universities, 
should  be  so  muddied  with  a  false  sense  of  this 
virtue,  as  to  produce  men  capable  of  being  so 
abused.  I  will  be  bold  to  say,  that  it  is  a  ridicu¬ 
lous  education  which  does  not  qualify  a  man  to 
make  his  best  appearance  before  the  greatest  man, 
and  the  finest  woman,  to  whom  he  can  address 
himself.  Were  this  judiciously  corrected  in  the 
nurseries  of  learning,  pert  coxcombs  would  know 
their  distance :  but  we  must  bear  with  this  false 
modesty  in  our  young  nobility  and  gentry,  till 
they  cease  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge  to  grow  dumb 
in  the  study  of  eloquence. — T. 


No.  485.]  TUESDAY,  SEPTEMBER  16,  1712. 

Nihil  tam  firmnm  est,  cui  periculum  non  sit  etiam  ab  inva- 
lido. — Quin.  Curt.  1.  vii.  c.  8. 

The  strongest  things  are  not  so  well  established  as  to  be  out 
of  danger  from  the  weakest. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“My  Lord  Clarendon  has  observed,  that  few 
men  have  done  more  harm  than  those  who  have 
been  thought  to  be  able  to  do  least;  and  there  cannot 


be  a  greater  error,  than  to  believe  a  man,  whom 
we  see  qualified  with  too  mean  parts  to  do  good, 
to  be  therefore  incapable  of  doing  hurt.  There  is 
a  supply  of  malice,  of  pride,  of  industry,  and 
even  of  folly,  in  the  weakest,  when  he  sets  his 
heart  upon  it,  that  makes  a  strange  progress  in 
mischief.  What  may  seem  to  the  reader  the  great¬ 
est  paradox  in  the  reflection  of  the  historian  is,  I 
suppose,  that  folly',  which  is  generally  thought 
incapable  of  contriving  or  executing  any  design, 
should  be  so  formidable  to  those  whom  it  exerts 
itself  to  molest.  But  this  will  appear  very  plain, 
if  we  remember  that  Solomon  says,  ‘It  is  as  sport 
to  a  fool  to  do  mischief;’  and  that  he  might  the  more 
emphatically  express  the  calamitous  circumstances 
of  him  who  falls  under  the  displeasure  of  this 
wanton  person,  the  same  author  adds  further,  that 
‘  A  stone  is  heavy,  and  the  sand  weighty,  but  a 
fool’s  wrath  is  heavier  than  them  both.’  It  is  im¬ 
possible  to  suppress  my  own  illustration  upon  this 
matter,  which  is,  that  as  the  man  of  sagacity  be¬ 
stirs  himself  to  distress  his  enemy  by  methods 
probable  and  reducible  to  reason,  so  the  same  rea¬ 
son  will  fortify  his  enemy  to  elude  these  his  regu¬ 
lar  efforts;  but  your  fool  projects,  acts,  and  con¬ 
cludes,  with  such  notable  inconsistency,  that  no 
regular  course  of  thought  can  evade  or  counterplot 
his  prodigious  machinations.  My  frontispiece,  I 
believe,  may  be  extended  to  imply,  that  several 
of  our  misfortunes  arise  from  things,  as  well  as 
persons,  that  seem  of  very  little  consequence.  Into 
what  tragical  extravagances  does  Shakspeare  hurry 
Othello,  upon  the  loss  of  a  handkerchief  only! 
And  what  barbarities  does  Desdemona  suffer,  from 
a  slight  inadvertency  in  regard  to  this  fatal  trifle! 
If  the  schemes  of  all  the  enterprising  spirits  were 
to  be  carefully  examined,  some  intervening  acci¬ 
dent,  not  considerable  enough  to  occasion  any  de¬ 
bate  upon,  or  give  them  any  apprehension  of,  ill 
consequence  from  it,  will  be  found  to  be  the  occa¬ 
sion  of  their  ill  success,  rather  than  any  error  in 
points  of  moment  and  difficulty,  which  naturally 
engaged  their  maturest  deliberations.  If  you  go 
to  the  levee  of  any  great  man  you  will  observe 
him  exceeding  gracious  to  several  very  insignifi¬ 
cant  fellows;  and  upon  this  maxim,  that  the  neg¬ 
lect  of  any  person  must  arise  from  the  mean  opin¬ 
ion  you  have  of  his  capacity  to  do  you  any  service 
or  prejudice;  and  that  this  calling  his  sufficiency 
in  question  must  give  him  inclination,  and  where 
this  is  there  never  wants  strength, or  opportunity, 
to  annoy  you.  There  is  nobody  so  weak  of  inven¬ 
tion,  that  cannot  aggravate,  or  make  some  little 
stories  to  vilify  his  enemy;  there  are  very  few  but 
have  good  inclinations  to  hear  them;  and  it  is  in¬ 
finite  pleasure  to  the  majority  of  mankind  to  level 
a  person  superior  to  his  neighbors.  Beside,  in 
all  matters  of  controversy,  that  party  which  has 
the  greatest  abilities  labors  under  this  prejudice, 
that  he  will  certainly  be  supposed,  upon  account 
of  his  abilities,  to  have  done  an  injury,  when  per¬ 
haps  he  has  received  one.  It  would  be  tedious  to 
enumerate  the  strokes  that  nations  and  particular 
friends  have  suffered  from  persons  very  contempt¬ 
ible. 

“I  think  Henry  IV,  of  France,  so  formidable  to 
his  neighbors,  could  no  more  be  secured  against 
the  resolute  villany  of  Ravillac,  than  Villiers,  duke 
of  Buckingham,  could  be  against  that  of  Felton. 
And  there  is  no  incensed  person  so  destitute,  but 
can  provide  himself  with  a  knife  or  a  pistol,  if  he 
finds  stomach  to  apply  them.  That  things  and 
persons  of  no  moment  should  give  such  powerful 
revolutions  to  the  progress  of  those  of  the  greatest, 
seems  a  providential  disposition  to  baffle  and  abate 
the  pride  of  human  sufficiency;  as  also  to  engage 
the  humanity  and  benevolence  of  superiors  to  all 


579 


the  spectator. 


below  (hem,  by  letting  them  into  this  secret,  that 
the  stronger  depends  upon  the  weaker. 

1  am,  bir,  your  very  humble  Servant.” 

Dear  Sir,  Temple,  Paper- buildings. 

“I  received  a  letter  from  you  some  time  ago. 
which  I  should  have  answered  sooner,  had  you  in¬ 
formed  me  in  yours  to  what  part  of  this  island  I 
might  have  directed  my  impertinence;  but,  having 
been  led  into  the  knowledge  of  that  matter,  tin's 
handsome  excuse  is  no  longer  serviceable.  My 
neighbor  Prettyman  shall  be  the  subject  of  this 
letter;  who, falling  in  with  the  Spectator’s  doctrine 
concerning  the  month  of  May,  began  from  that 
season  to  dedicate  himself  to  the  service  of  the 
lair  in  the  following  manner.  I  observed  at  the 
beginning  of  the  month  he  bought  him  a  new 
nightgown,  either  side  to  be  worn  outward,  both 
equally  gorgeous  and  attractive;  but  till  the  end 
ot  the  month  I  did  not  enter  so  fully  into  the 
knowledge  of  his  contrivance,  as  the  use  of  that 
garment  has  since  suggested  to  me.  Now  you 
must  know,  that  all  new  clothes  raise  and  warm 
tiie  wearers  imagination  into  a  conceit  of  his  be¬ 
luga  much  finer  gentleman  than  he  was  before,  ban¬ 
ishing  all  sobriety  and  reflection,  and  givirm  him 
up  to  gaHantry  and  amour.  Inflamed,  therefore, 
with  this  wav  of  thinking,  and  foil  „f  the  spirit 
o  the  month  of  May,  did  this  merciless  youth 
resolve  upon  the  business  of  captivating.  At  first 
he  confined  himself  to  his  room,  only  now  and 
then  appearing  at  Ins  window,  in  his  nightgown 

?,nirraf1CU1^at  eaS^  Posture  which  expresses 
the  %eiy  top  and  dignity  of  languishment.  It  was 
pleasant  to  see  him  diversify  his  loveliness,  some- 
times  obliging  the  passengers  only  with  a  sideface, 
with  a  book  in  his  hand;  sometimes  beino-  so  gen¬ 
erous  as  to  expose  the  whole  in  the  fullness  of  its 
beauty;  at  other  times  by  a  judicious  throwing 
back  his  periwig,  he  would  throw  in  his  ears. 
You  know  he  is  that  sort  of  person  which  the  mob 
call  a  handsome,  jolly  man  ;  which  appearance 
cannot  miss  of  captives  in  this  part  of  the  town 
Being  emboldened  by  daily  success,  he  leaves  his 
room  with  a  resolution  to  extend  his  conquests- 
and  I  have  apprehended  him  in  his  nightgown 
T  all.Parts  of  this  neighborhood^ 

•f,  -  ’  being  of  an  amorous  complexion,  saw 

with  indignation,  and  had  thoughts  of  purchasing 
a  wig  m  these  parts;  into  which,  being  at  a  greater 

distance  from  the  earth,  I  might  hafe  thrown  a 
very  liberal  mixture  of  white  horse-hair,  which 
ould  make  a  fairer  and  consequently  a  hand¬ 
somer  appearance,  while  my  situation  would  se- 

anj  difcoveries-  But  the  passion 
fhe  handsome  gentleman  seems  to  be  so  fixed 

trempf  W  of  the  budding,  that  it  will  be  ex¬ 
tremely  difficult  to  divert  it  to  mine-  so  that  T  am 
re,olved  to  stand  boldly  to  ,h,  compkxion  of'  Z 

eyebrow,  and  prepare  me  an  immense  black 

rt  gi°f  llie  SarVe  sort  structure  with  that  of  mv 
rival.  Now,  though  by  this  I  shall  not,  perhaps7 
essen  the  number  of  the  admirers  of  his  eomX- 
ion,  I  shall  have  a  fair  chance  to  divide  the^nas- 
sengers  by  the  irresistible  force  of  mine.  P"‘ 

I  expect  sudden  dispatches  from  you  with 
dvice  of  the  family  your  are  in  now,  how  to  de- 
poit  myself  upon  this  so  delicate  a  conjuncture  • 
tvith  some  comfortable  resolutions  in  favor  of  the 
handsome  black  man  against  the  handsome  fair 

I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 


“Mr.  Spectator, 

h  ‘‘1„onl7  ®aL-  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  say 
how  much  I  am,  Yours,  ** 

“Robin  Shorter.” 

not*  mu'  1  Sha11  !hink  ifc  a  iittle  hard,  if  you  do 

hte  of  t?  m  -notic*  °f  this  ePistle>  ™  you 
•itvlid  m  l'f  "'S®"10"®  Mr-  Short’s.  I  am  not 

man  of  two.”  'V°  *"  WWch  iS  the  deePer 

advertisement. 

London,  September  15. 

Whereas  a  young  woman  on  horseback,  in  an 
equestrian  habit,  on  the  13th  instant,  in  the  cven- 

!hts  Swn  anHPeflCt-t°r-Witl,in  3  “'ik'  and  »  of 
this  town,  and,  flying  in  the  face  of  justice  pulled 

off  her  hat,  in  which  there  was  a  feather,  with  the 

tinm  »Y  a'r  °f  a  y°UA?  officer»  8ayiug  at  the  same 
on  n’f  J°Z  s?rva,lt».Mr*  Spec.,”  m  words  to  that 
pm  pose;  this  is  to  give  notice,  that  if  any  person 

sa  1°  16  nan]e  and  place  of  abode  of  the 

-  .  d  offender,  so  as  she  can  be  brought  to  justice 

ment!— TmaUt  ShaU  haVe  a11  fittlnS  encourage- 


No.  486.]  WEDNESDAY,  SEPT.  17,  1712. 

Audire  est  operae  pretium,  prooedere  recto 
Qui  moechis  non  vultis -  H0r.  l  fcfat.  ii.  37. 

IMITATED. 

All  you  who  think  the  city  ne’er  can  thrive 
Ill  I  ev  ry  cuckold-maker’s  flayed  alive 
Attend -  p0PB. 


“C.” 

He  wko  wote  this  is  a  black  man,  two 
air  °f  stairs;  the  gentleman  of  whom  he  writes 
a  fair,  and  one  pair  of  stairs.” 


“Mr.  Spectator, 

,  7iHERE  /a  very  many  of  my  acquaintances 
followers  of  Socrates,  with  more  particular  regard 
to  that  part  of  his  philosophy  which  we,  anfong 
ourselves,  call  his  domestics;  under  which  denom? 
ination  or  title,  we  include  all  the  conjugal  joys 
and  sufferings.  We  have  indeed  with  iery  great 
pleasure  observed,  the  honor  you  do  the  whole 
fraternity  of  the  henpecked,  in  placing  that  illus¬ 
trious  man  at  our  head;  and  it  does  in  a  very  great 
measure  baffle  the  raillery  of  pert  rogues,  who 
have  no  advantage  above  us,  but  in  that  they  are 
single.  But,  when  you  look  about  into  the  crowd 
of  mankind,  you  will  find  the  fair  sex  reigns  with 
greater  tyranny  over  lovers  than  husbands.  You 
shall  hardly  meet  one  in  a  thousand  who  is  wholly 
exempt  from  their  dominion,  and  those  that  are  so 
are  capable  of  no  taste  of  life,  and  breathe  and 
walk  about  the  earth  as  insignificants.  But  I  am- 
going  to  desire  your  further  favor  in  behalf  of  our 
harmless  brotherhood,  and  hope  you  will  show  in, 
a  true  light  the  unmarried  henpecked,  as  well  as 
you  have  done  justice  to  us,  who  submit  to  the 
conduct  of  our  wives.  I  am  very  particularly  ac¬ 
quainted  with  one  who  is  under  entire  submission 
to  a  kind  girl  as  he  calls  her;  and  though  he 
knows  I  have  been  witness  both  to  the  ill  usao-e 
he  has  received  from  her,  and  his  inability  to  re¬ 
sist  her  tyranny,  he  still  pretends  to  make  a  jest 
of  me  for  a  little  more  than  ordinary  obsequious¬ 
ness  to  my  spouse.  No  longer  than  Tuesday  last 
he  took  me  with  him  to  visit  his  mistress;  and  he 
l*  S,ee!n8’  been  a  little  in  disgrace  before, 
thought  by  bringing  me  with  him  she  would  con¬ 
strain  herself,  and  insensibly  fall  into  general  dis¬ 
course  with  him;  and  so  he  might  break  the  ice, 
and  save  himself  all  the  ordinary  compunctions 
and  mortifications  she  used  to  make  him  suffer 
before  she  would  be  reconciled,  after  any  act  of 
rebellion  on  his  part.  When  we  came  into  the 
room  we  were  received  with  the  utmost  coldness; 
and  when  he  presented  me  as  Mr.  Such-a-one,  his 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


580 

very  good  fnend,  she  just  had  patience  to  suffer 
my  salutation  ;  but  when  he  himself,  with  a  very 
gay  air.  offered  to  follow  me,  she  gave  him  a  thun¬ 
dering  box  on  the  ear,  called  him  a  pitiful,  poor- 
spirited  wretch — how  durst  he  see  her  face  ?  His 
wig  and  hat  fell  on  different  parts  of  the  floor.  She 
seized  the  wig  too  soon  for  him  to  recover  it,  and 
kicking  it  down  stairs,  threw  herself  into  an  oppo¬ 
site  room,  pulling  the  door  after  her  with  a  force 
that  you  would  "have  thought  the  hinges  would 
have  given  way.  We  went  down,  you  must  think, 
with  no  very  good  countenances;  and  as  we  sneak¬ 
ed  off,  and  were  driving  home  together,  he  con¬ 
fessed  to  me,  that  her  anger  was  thus  highly  raised, 
because  he  did  not  think  fit  to  fight  a  gentle¬ 
man  who  had  said  she  was  what  she  was  :  ‘  but,’ 
says  he  ‘  a  kind  letter  or  two,  or  fifty  pieces,  will 
put  her  in  humor  again.’  I  asked  him  whv  he 
did  not  part  with  her  ;  he  answered,  he  loved  her 
with  all  the  tenderness  imaginable,  and  she  had 
too  many  charms  to  be  abandoned  for  a  little 
quickness  of  spirit.  Thus  does  this  illegitimate 
henpecked  overlook  the  hussy’s  having  no  regard 
to  his  very  life  and  fame,  in  putting  him  upon  an 
infamous  dispute  about  her  reputation  ;  yet  has 
he  the  confidence  to  laugh  at  me,  because  I  obey 
my  poor  dear  in  keeping  out  of  harm’s  way,  and 
not  staying  too  late  from  my  own  family,  to  pass 
through  the  hazards  of  a  town  full  of  ranters  and 
debauchees.  You,  that  are  a  philosopher,  should 
urge  in  our  behalf,  that  when  we  bear  with  a  Ho¬ 
ward  woman,  our  patience  is  preserved,  in  consid¬ 
eration  that  a  breach  with  her  might  be  a  dishonor 
to  children  who  are  descended  from  us,  and  whose 
concern  makes  us  tolerate  a  thousand  frailties,  for 
fear  they  should  redound  dishonor  upon  the  inno¬ 
cent.  This,  and  the  like  circumstances,  which 
carry  with  them  the  most  valuable  regards  of  hu¬ 
man  life,  may  be  mentioned  for  our  long-suffering; 
but,  in  the  case  of  gallants  they  swallow  ill-usage 
from  one  to  whom  they  have  no  obligation,  but 
a  base  passion,  which  it  is  mean  to  indulge,  and 
which  it  would  be  glorious  to  overcome. 

“  These  sort  of  fellows  are  very  numerous,  and 
some  have  been  conspicuously  such,  without 
shame.;  nay,  they  have  carried  on  the  jest  in  the 
very  article  of  death,  and  to  the  diminution  of  the 
wealth  and  happiness  of  their  families,  in  bar  of 
those  honorably  near  to  them,  have  left  immense 
wealth  to  their  paramours.  What  is  this  but  be¬ 
ing  a  cully  in  the  grave  !  Sure  this  is  being  hen¬ 
pecked  with  a  vengeance  !  But,  without  dwell¬ 
ing  upon  these  less  frequent  instances  of  eminent 
cullyism,  what  is  there  so  common  as  to  hear  a 
fellow  curse  his  fate  that  he  cannot  get  rid  of  a 
passion  to  a  jilt,  and  quote  a  half  line  out  of 
a  miscellany  poem  to  prove  his  weakness  is  na¬ 
tural  ?  If  they  will  go  on  thus,  I  have  nothing 
to  say  to  it ;  but  then  let  them  not  pretend  to 
be  free  all  this  while,  and  laugh  at  us  poor  mar¬ 
ried  patients. 

“  I  have  known  one  wench  in  this  town  carry  a 
haughty  dominion  over  her  lovers  so  well,  that 
she  has  at  the  same  time  been  kept  by  a  sea-cap¬ 
tain  in  the -Straits,  a  merchant  in  the  city,  a  coun¬ 
try  gentleman  in  Hampshire,  and  had  all  her  cor¬ 
respondences  managed  by  one  she  kept  for  her 
own  uses.  This  happy  man  (as  the  phrase  is) 
used  to  write  very  punctually,  every  post,  letters 
for  the  mistress  to  transcribe.  He  would  sit  in  his 
uightgown  and  slippers,  and  be  as  grave  giving  an 
account,  only  changing  names,  that  there  was  no¬ 
thing  in  those  idle  reports  they  had  heard  of  such 
a  scoundrel  as  one  of  the  other  lovers  was ;  and 
how  could  he  think  she  could  condescend  so  low, 
after  such  a  fine  gentleman  as  each  of  them  ?  For 
the  same  epistle  said  the  same  thing  to,  and  of, 


every  one  of  them.  And  so  Mr.  Secretary  and  his 
lady  went  to  bed  with  great  order. 

“  To  be  short,  Mr.  Spectator,  we  husbands  shall 
never  make  the  figure  we  ought  in  the  imagina¬ 
tions  of  young  men  growing  up  in  the  world,  ex¬ 
cept  you  can  bring  it  about  that  a  man  of  the 
town  shall  be  as  infamous  a  character  as  a  woman 
of  the  town.  But  of  all  that  I  have  met  in  my 
time,  commend  me  to  Betty  Dual ;  she  is  the  wife 
of  a  sailor,  and  the  kept  mistress  of  a  man  of  qual¬ 
ity  ;  she  dwells  with  .the  latter  during  the  sea¬ 
faring  of  the  former.  The  husband  asks  no  ques¬ 
tions,  sees  his  apartments  furnished  with  riches 
not  his,  when  he  comes  into  port,  and  the  lover  is 
as  joyful  as  a  man  arrived  at  his  haven  when  the 
other  puts  to  sea.  Betty  is  the  most  eminently 
victorious  of  any  of  her  sex,  and  ought  to  stand 
recorded  the  only  woman  of  the  age  in  which  she 
lives,  who  has  possessed  at  the  same  time  two 
abused  and  two  contented - .”  T. 


No.  487.]  THURSDAY,  SEPTEMBER  18,  1712. 

- Cum  prostrata  sopore 

Urget  membra  quies,  et  mens  sine  pondere  ludit. — Petb. 

While  sleep  oppresses  the  tired  limbs,  the  mind 

Plays  •without  weight,  and  wantons  unconfined. 

Though  there  are  many  authors  who  have  writ¬ 
ten  on  dreams,  they  have  generally  considered 
them  only  as  revelations  of  what  has  already  hap¬ 
pened  in  distant  parts  of  the  world,  or  as  presages 
of  what  is  to  happen  in  future  periods  of  time. 

I  shall  consider  this  subject  in  another  light,  as 
dreams  may  give  us  some  idea  of  the  great  excel¬ 
lency  of  a  human  soul,  and  some  intimations  of 
its  independency  on  matter. 

In  the  first  place,  our  dreams  are  great  instances 
of  that  activity  which  is  natural  to  the  human 
soul,  and  which  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  sleep  to 
deaden  or  abate.  When  the  man  appears  tired 
and  worn  out  with  the  labors  of  the  day,  this  ac¬ 
tive  part  in  his  composition  is  still  busied  and 
unwearied.  When  the  organs  of  sense  want  their 
due  repose  and  necessary  reparations,  and  the 
body  is  no  longer  able  to  keep  pace  with  that  spir¬ 
itual  substance  to  which  it  is  united,  the  soul 
exerts  herself  in  her  several  faculties,  and  contin¬ 
ues  in  action  until  her  partner  is  again  qualified 
to  bear  her  company.  In  this  case  dreams  look 
like  the  relaxations  and  amusements  of  the  soul, 
when  she  is  disencumbered  of  her  machine  ;  her 
sports  and  recreations,  when  she  has  laid  her 
charge  asleep. 

In  the  second  place,  dreams  are  an  instance  of 
that  agility  and  perfection  which  is  natural  to  the 
faculties  of  the  mind,  when  they  are  disengaged 
from  the  body.  The  soul  is  clogged  and  retarded 
in  her  operations,  when  she  acts'  in  conjunction 
with  a  companion  that  is  so  heavy  and  unwieldy 
in  its  motions.  But  in  dreams  it  is  wonderful  to 
observe  with  what  a  sprightliness  and  alacrity  she 
exerts  herself.  The  slow  of  speech  make  unpre¬ 
meditated  harangues,  or  converse  readily  in  lan¬ 
guages  that  they  are  but  little  acquainted  with. 
The  grave  abound  in  pleasantries,  the  dull  in  re¬ 
partees  and  points  of  wit.  There  is  not  a  more 
painful  action  of  the  mind  than  invention  ;  yet  in 
dreams  it  works  with  that  ease  and  activity,  that 
we  are  not  sensible  of  when  the  faculty  is  employ¬ 
ed.  For  instance,  I  believe  every  one,  some  time 
or  other,  dreams  that  he  is  reading  papers,  books, 
or  letters  ;  in  which  case  the  invention  prompts 
so  readily,  that  the  mind  is  imposed  upon,  and 
mistakes  its  own  suggestions  for  the  compositions 
of  another. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


I  shall  under  this  head  quote  a  passage  out  of 
the  Religio  Medici*  in  which  the  ingenious  au¬ 
thor  gives  an  account  of  himself  in  his  dreaming 
and  his  waking  thoughts.  “  We  are  somewhat 
more  than  ourselves  in  our  sleeps,  and  the  slum¬ 
ber  of  the  body  seems  to  be  but  the  waking  of  the 
soul.  It  is  the  litigation  of  sense,  but  the  liberty 
of  reason  ;  and  our  waking  conceptions  do  not 
match  the  lancies  of  our  sleeps.  At  my  nativity 
my  ascendant  was  the  watery  sign  of  Scorpius  ; 
I  was  born  in  the  planetary  hour  of  Saturn,  and  I 
think  I  have  a  piece  of  that  leaden  planet  in  me. 
I  am  no  way  facetious,  nor  disposed  for  the  mirth 
and  galliardise  of  company  ;  yet  in  one  dream  I 
can  compose  a  whole  comedy,  behold  the  action, 
apprehend  the  jests,  and  laugh  myself  awake  at 
the  conceits  thereof.  Were  my  memory  as  faith¬ 
ful  as  my  reason  is  theu  fruitful,  I  would  never 
study  but  in  my  dreams;  and  this  time  also  would 
I  choose  for  my  devotions  ;  but  our  grosser  mem¬ 
ories  have  then  so  little  hold  of  our  abstracted  un¬ 
derstandings,  that  they  forget  the  story,  and  can 
only  relate  to  our  awaked  souls  a  confused  and 
broken  tale  of  that  that  has  passed.  Thus  it  is 
observed  that  men  sometimes,  upon  the  hour  of 
their  departure,  do  speak  and  reason  above  them¬ 
selves;  for  then  the  soul,  beginning  to  be  freed 
from  the  ligaments  of  the  body,  begins  to  reason 
like  herself,  and  to  discourse  in  a  strain  above 
mortality.” 

We  may  likewise  observe,  in  the  third  place, 
that  the  passions  affect  the  mind  with  greater 
strength  when  we  are  asleep  than  when  we  are 
awake.  Joy  and  sorrow  give  us  more  vigorous 
sensations  of  pain  or  pleasure  at  this  time  than 
any  other.  Devotion,  likewise,  as  the  excellent 
author  above-mentioned  has  hinted,  is  in  a  very 
particular  manner  heightened  and  inflamed,  when 
it  rises  in  the  soul  at  a  time  that  the  body  is  thus 
laid  at  rest.  Every  man’s  experience  will  inform 
him  in  this  matter,  though  it  is  very  probable, 
that  this  may  happen  differently  in  different  con¬ 
stitutions.  I  shall  conclude  this  head  with  the 
two  following  problems,  which  I  shall  leave  to  the 
solution  of  my  reader.  Supposing  a  man  always 
happy  in  his  dreams  and  miserable  in  his  waking 
thoughts,  and  that  his  life  was  equally  divided 
between  them  :  whether  would  he  be  more  happy 
or  miserable  ?  Were  a  man  a  king  in  his  dreams, 
and  a  beggar  awake,  and  dreamt  as  consequen- 
tially,  and  in  as  continued  unbroken  schemes,  as 
he  thinks  when  awake  :  whether  he  would  be  in 
reality  a  king  or  a  beggar?  or,  rather,  whether  he 
would  not  be  both  ? 

There  is  another  circumstance,  which  methinks 
gives  us  a  very  high  idea  of  the  nature  of  the  soul, 
in  regard  to  what  passes  in  dreams:  I  mean*that 
innumerable  multitude  and  variety  of  ideas  which 
then  arise  in  her.  Were  that  active  and  watchful 
being  only  conscious  of  her  own  existence  at  such 
a  time,  what  a  painful  solicitude  would  our  hours 
of  sleep  be  !  Were  the  soul  sensible  of  her  being 
alone  in  her  sleeping  moments,  after  the  same  mam 
ner  that  she  is  sensible  of  it  while  awake,  the 
time  would  hang  very  heavy  on  her,  as  it  often 
actually  does  when  she  dreams  that  she  is  in  such 
a  solitude. 

- - Semperque  relinqui 

Sola  sibi,  semper  longam  incomitata  videtur 

Ire  viam -  Virg.  iEn.  iv.  476. 

- - — -She  seems  alone 

To  wander  in  her  sleep  through  ways  unknown, 

Guileless  and  dark. -  Dryden. 

But  thiy  observation  I  only  make  by  the  way. 
What  I  would  here  remark,  is  that  wonderful 
power  in  the  soul,  of  producing  her  own  company 


581 

on  these  occasions.  She  converses  with  number¬ 
less  beings  of  her  own  creation,  and  is  transported 
into  ten  thousand  scenes  of  her  own  raising.  She 
is  herself  the  theater,  the  actors,  and  the  beholder. 
I  his  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  saying  which  I  am  in¬ 
finitely  pleased  with,  and  which  i’lutarch  ascribes 
to  Hei  aclitus,  that  all  men  while  they  are  awake 
are  in  one  common  world;  but  that  each  of  them, 
when  he  is  asleep,  is  in  a  world  of  his  own.  The 
waking  man  is  conversant  in  the  world  of  nature* 
when  he  sleeps  he  retires  to  a  private  world  that 
is  particular  to  himself.  There  seems  something 
in  this  consideration  that  intimates  to  us  a  natural 
grandeur  and  perfection  in  the  soul,  which  is  rather 
to  be  admired  than  explained. 

I  must  not  omit  that  argument  for  the  excel 
f  nT  0  sou^  which  I  have  seen  quoted  out 
ot  lertullian,  namely,  its  power  of  divining  in 
dreams.  That  several  such  divinations  have  been 
made,  none  can  question  who  believes  the  holy 
wntings,  or  who  has  but  the  least  degree  of  a  com¬ 
mon  liistoi  ical  faith;  there  being  innumerable  in¬ 
stances  of  this  nature  in  several  authors,  both 
ancient  and  modern,  sacred  and  profane.  Whether 
such  dark  presages,  such  visions  of  the  night,  pro¬ 
ceed  from  any  latent  power  in  the  soul,  during 
this  her  state  of  abstraction,  or  from  any  com  mu- 
ni cation  with  the  Supreme  Being,  or  from  any 
opeiation  of  subordinate  spirits,  has  been  a  great 
dispute  among  the  learned:  the  matter  of  fact  is, 

I  think,  incontestable,  and  has  been  looked  upon 
as  such  by  the  greatest  writers,  who  have  been 
never  suspected  either  of  superstition  or  enthu¬ 
siasm. 

,  J  do  not  suppose  that  the  soul  in  these  instances 
is  entirely  loose  and  unfettered  from  the  body:  it 
is  sufficient  if  she  is  not  so  far  sunk  and  immersed 
in  matter,  nor  entangled  and  perplexed  in  her 
opeiations  with  such  motions  of  blood  and  spirits, 
as  when  she  actuates  the  machine  in  its  waking 
hours.  The  corporeal  union  is  slackened  enough 
to  give  the  mind  more  play.  The  soul  seems 
gathered  within  herself,  and  recovers  that  spring 
which  is  broke  and  weakened,  when  she  operates 
more  in  concert  with  the  body. 

The  speculations  I  have  here  made,  if  they  are 
not  arguments,  they  are  at  least  strong  intimations, 
not  only  of  the  excellency  of  a  human  soul,  but  ol 
its  independence  on  the  body;  and  if  they  do  not 
prove,  do  at  least  confirm  these  two  great  points, 
which  are  established  by  many  other  reasons  that 
are  altogether  unanswerable. — 0. 


No.  488.]  FRIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  19,  1712. 

Quanti  emptas?  parvo.  Quanti  Ergo?  octo  assibus.  Eheuf 

Hor.  2  Sat.  iii.  156. 

W  hat  does  it  cost?  Not  mucb,  upon  my  word, 

How  much,  pray  ?  Wdiy,  two-pence.  Two-pence,  0  Lord! 

Creech. 

I  find  by  several  letters  which  I  receive  daily, 
that  many  of  my  readers  would  be  better  pleased 
to  pay  three-halfpence  for  my  paper  than  two¬ 
pence.  The  ingenious  T.  W  *  tells  me  that  I 
have  deprived  him  of  the  best  part  of  his  break¬ 
fast;  for  that,  since  th^  rise  of  my  paper,  he  is 
forced  every  morning  to  drink  his  dish  of  coffee 
by  itself,  without  the  addition  of  the  Spectator, 
that  used  to  be  better  than  lacef  to  it.  Eugenius 
informs  me,  very  obligingly,  that  he  never  thought 
he  should  have  disliked  any  passage  in  my  paper, 

*  Dr.  Thomas  W'alker,  head-master  of  the  Charter-house 
school,  whose  scholars  Addison  and  Steele  had  been.  The 
doctor  was  head-master  49  years,  and  died  June  12,  1728,  in 
the  81st  year  of  his  age. 
f  A  little  brandy  or  rum. 


*  By  Sir  T.  Brown,  M.  D. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


582 


but  that  of  late  there  have  been  two  words  in 
every  one  of  them  which  he  could  heartily  wisli 
left  out,  viz:  “  Price  Two-pence.”  1  have  a  letter 
from  a  soap-boiler,  who  condoles  with  me  very 
affectionately  upon  the  necessity  we  both  lie  under 
of  setting  a  higher  price  on  our  commodities  since 
the  late  tax  has  been  laid  upon  them,  and  desiring 
me,  when  I  write  next  on  that  subject,  to  speak  a 
word  or  two  upon  the  present  duties  on  Castile 
soap.  But  there  is  none  of  these  my  correspond¬ 
ents  who  writes  with  a  greater  turn  of  good  sense, 
and  elegance  of  expression,  than  the  generous 
Philomedes,  who  advises  me  to  value  every  Spec¬ 
tator  at  six-pence,  and  promises  that  he  himself 
will  engage  for  above  a  hundred  of  his  acquaint¬ 
ance,  who  shall  take  it  in  at  that  price. 

Letters  from  the  female  world  are  likewise  come 
to  me,  in  great  quantities,  upon  the  same  occasion; 
and,  as  I  naturally  bear  a  great  deference  to  this 
part  of  our  species,  I  am  very  glad  to  find  that 
those  who  approve  my  conduct,  in  this  particular, 
are  much  more  numerous  than  those  w ho  condemn 
it.  A  large  family  of  daughters  have  drawn  me 
up  a  very  handsome  remonstrance,  in  which  they 
set  forth  that  their  father  having  refused  to  take  in 
the  Spectator,  since  the  additional  price  was  set 
upon  it,  they  offered  him  unanimously  to  bate 
him  the  article  of  bread  and  butter  in  the  tea- 
table  account,  provided  the  Spectator  might  be 
served  up  to  them  every  morning  as  usual.  Upon 
this  the  old  gentleman,  being  pleased,  it  seems, 
with  their  desire  of  improving  themselves,  lias 
granted  them  the  continuance  botli  of  the  Spec¬ 
tator  and  their  bread  and  butter,  having  given 
particular  orders  that  the  tea-table  shall  be  set 
forth  every  morning  with  its  customary  bill  of 
fare,  and  without  any  manner  of  defalcation.  I 
thought  myself  obliged  to  mention  this  particular, 
as  it  does  honor  to  this  worthy  gentleman;  and  if 
the  young  lady  Laetitia,  who  sent  me  this  account, 
will  acquaint  me  with  his  name,  I  will  insert  it  at 
length  m  one  of  my  papers,  if  he  desires  it. 

I  should  be  very  glad  to  find  out  any  expedient 
that  might  alleviate  the  expense  which  this  my 
paper  brings  to  any  of  my  readers;  and,  in  order 
to  it,  must  propose  two  points  to  their  considera¬ 
tion.  First,  that  if  they  retrench  any  the  smallest 
particular  in  their  ordinary  expense,  it  will  easily 
make  up  the  halfpenny  a  day  which  we  have  now 
under  consideration.  Let  a  lady  sacrifice  but  a 
single  riband  to  her  morning  studies,  and  it  will 
be  sufficient:  let  a  family  burn  but  a  candle  a 
night  less  than  the  usual  number,  and  they  may 
take  in  the  Spectator  without  detriment  to  their 
private  affairs. 

In  the  next  place,  if  my  readers  will  not  go  to 
the  price  of  buying  my  papers  by  retail,  let  them 
have  patience,  and  they  may  buy  them  in  the 
lump,  without  the  burthen  of  a  tax  upon  them. 
My  speculations,  when  they  are  sold  single,  like 
cherries  upon  the  stick,  are  delights  for  the  rich 
and  wealthy:  after  some  time  they  come  to  market 
in  greater  quantities,  and  are  every  ordinary  man’s 
money.  The  truth  of  it  is,  they  have  a  certain 
flavor  at  their  first  appearance,  from  several  acci¬ 
dental  circumstances  of  time,  place,  and  person, 
which  they  may  lose  if  they  are  not  taken  early; 
but  in  this  case,  every  reader  is  to  consider, 
whether  it  is  not  better  for  him  to  be  half  a  year 
behindhand  with  the  fashionable  and  polite  part 
of  the  world,  than  to  strain  himself  beyond  his 
circumstances.  My  bookseller  has  now  about  ten 
thousand  of  the  third  and  fourth  volumes,  which 
he  is  ready  to  publish,  having  already  disposed 
of  as  large  an  edition  both  of  the  first  and  second 
volume.  As  he  is  a  person  whose  head  is  very 
well  turned  to  his  business,  he  thinks  they  would 


be  a  very  proper  present  to  be  made  to  persons  at 
christenings,  marriages,  visiting  days,  and  the 
like  joyful  solemnities,  as  several  other  books 
are  frequently  given  at  funerals.  He  has  printed 
them  in  such  a  little  portable  volume,  that  many 
of  them  may  be  ranged  together  upon  a  single 
plate;  and  is  of  opinion,  that  a  salver  of  Specta¬ 
tors  would  be  as  acceptable  an  entertainment  to 
the  ladies  as  a  salver  of  sweetmeats. 

I  shall  conclude  this  paper  with  an  epigram 
lately  sent  to  the  writer  of  the  Spectator,  after 
having  returned  my  thanks  to  the  ingenious  au¬ 
thor  of  it: 

“  Sir, 

“Having  heard  the  following  epigram  very 
much  commended,  I  "wonder  that  it  has  not  yet 
had  a  place  in  any  of  your  papers;  I  think  the 
suffrage  of  our  poet-laureate  should  not  be  over¬ 
looked,  which  shows  the  opinion  he  entertains  of 
our  paper,  whether  the  notion  he  proceeds  upon 
e  true  or  false.  I  make  bold  to  convey  it  to  you, 
not  knowing  if  it  has  yet  come  to  your  hands.” 

ON  THE  SPECTATOR. 

BY  MR.  TATE. 

- Aliusque  et  idem 

Nasceris —  Hor.  Carm.  Saec.  10. 

You  rise  another  and  the  same. 

When  first  the  Tatler  to  a  mute  was  turn’d, 

Great  Britain  for  her  censor’s  silence  mourn’d; 

Robbed  of  his  sprightly  beams  she  wept  the  night, 

Till  the  Spectator  rose,  and  blaz’d  as  bright. 

So  the  first  man  the  sun’s  first  setting  view’d, 

And  sigh’d  till  circling  days  his  joys  renew’d. 

Yet,  doubtful  how  that  second  sun  to  name, 

Whether  a  bright  successor,  or  the  same, 

So  we :  but  now  from  this  suspense  are  freed, 

Since  all  agree,  who  both  with  judgment  read, 

’Tis  the  same  sun,  and  does  himself  succeed. 

0. 


No.  469.]  SATURDAY,  SEPTEMBER  20,  1712. 

The  mighty  force  of  ocean’s  troubled  flood. 

“  Sir, 

“  Upon  reading  your  essay  concerning  the  Pleas¬ 
ures  of  the  Imagination,  I  find,  among  the  three 
sources  of  those  pleasures  which  you  have  dis¬ 
covered,  that  greatness  is  one.  This  has  sug¬ 
gested  to  me  the  reason  why,  of  all  objects  that  I 
have  ever  seen,  there  is  none  which  affects  my 
imagination  so  much  as  the  sea,  or  ocean.  I  can¬ 
not  see  the  heavings  of  this  prodigious  bulk  of 
waters,  even  in  a  calm,  without  a  very  pleasing 
astonishment;  but  when  it  is  worked  up  in  a  tem- 
est,  so  that  the  horizon  on  every  side  is  nothing 
ut  foaming  billow's  and  floating  mountains,  it  is 
impossible  to  describe  the  agreeable  horror  that 
rises  from  such  a  prospect.  A  troubled  ocean,  to 
a  man  who  sails  upon  it,  is,  I  think,  the  biggest 
object  that  he  can  see  in  motion,  and  consequently 
gives  his  imagination  one  of  the  highest  kinds  of 
pleasure  that  can  arise  from  greatness.  I  must 
confess  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  survey  this 
v'orld  of  fluid  matter,  without  thinking  on  the 
hand  that  first  poured  it  out,  and  made  a  proper 
channel  for  its  reception.  Such  an  object  naturally 
raises  in  my  thoughts  the  idea  of  an  Almighty 
Being,  and  convinces  me  of  his  existence  as  much 
as  a  metaphysical  demonstration.  The  imagina¬ 
tion  prompts  the  understanding,  and,  by  the  great¬ 
ness  of  the  sensible  object,  produces  in  it  the  idea 
of  a  Being  who  is  neither  circumscribed  by  time 
nor  space. 

“  As  I  have  made  several  voyages  upon  the  sea, 
I  have  often  been  tossed  in  storms,  and  on  that 
occasion  have  frequently  reflected  on  the  descrip¬ 
tions  of  them  in  ancient  poets.  I  remember 


58S 


THE  SPE 

Longinus  highly  recommends  one  in  Homer,  be¬ 
cause  the  poet  has  not  amused  himself  with  little 
fancies  upon  the  occasion,  as  authors  of  an  infe¬ 
rior  genius,  whom  he  mentions,  had  done,  but 
because  he  has  gathered  together  those  circum¬ 
stances  which  are  the  most  apt  to  terrify  the 
imagination,  and  which  really  happen  in  the 
raging  of  a  tempest.  It  is  for  the  same  reason 
that  1  prefer  the  following  description  of  a  ship 
in  a  storm,  which  the  Psalmist  has  made,  before 
any  other  I  have  ever  met  with:  4  They  that  go 
down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  that  do  business  in  great 
waters;  these  see  the  works  of  the  Lord,  and  his 
wonders  in  the  deep.  For  he  commandeth  and 
raiseth  the  stormy  wind,  which  lifteth  up  the 
waves  thereof.  They  mount  up  to  the  heaven, 
they  go  down  again  to  the  depths;  their  soul  is 
melted  because  of  trouble.  They  reel  to  andTro, 
and  stagger  like  a  drunken  man,  and  are  at  their 
wit’s  end.  Then  they  cry  unto  the  Lord  in  their 
trouble,  and  he  bringeth  them  out  of  their  dis¬ 
tresses.  He  maketh  the  storm  a  calm,  so  that 
the  waves  thereof  are  still.  Then  they  are  glad, 
because  they  be  quiet,  so  he  bringeth  them  unto 
their  desired  haven.’* 

44  By  the  way,  how  much  more  comfortable,  as 
well  as  rational,  is  this  system  of  the  Psalmist, 
than  the  pagan  scheme  in  Virgil  and  other  poets, 
where  one  deity  is  represented  as  raising  a  storm, 
and  another  as  laying  it!  Were  we  only  to  con¬ 
sider  the  sublime  in  this  piece  of  poetry,  what 
can  be  nobler  than  the  idea  it  gives  us  of  the 
Supreme  Being  thus  raising  a  tumult  among  the 
elements,  and  recovering  them  out  of  their  con¬ 
fusion;  thus  troubling  and  becalming  nature?” 

“  Great  painters  do  not  only  give  us  landscapes 
of  gardens,  groves,  and  meadows,  but  very  often 
employ  their  pencils  upon  sea-pieces.  1  could 
wish  you  would  follow  their  example.  If  this 
small  sketch  rnay  deserve  a  place  among  your 
works,  I  shall  accompany  it  with  a  divine  ode 
made  by  a  gentleman  upon  the  conclusion  of  his 
travels.” 

I. 

How  are  thy  servants  blest!  0  Lord! 

How  sure  is  their  defense ! 

Eternal  wisdom  is  their  guide, 

Their  help  Omnipotence. 

n. 

In  foreign  realms  and  lands  remote, 

Supported  by  thy  care, 

Through  burning  climes  I  pass’d  unhurt, 

And  breath’d  in  tainted  air. 

III. 

Thy  mercy  sweeten’d  every  soil, 

Made  every  region  please : 

The  iioary  Alpine  hills  it  warm’d. 

And  smooth’d  the  Tyrrhene  seas. 

IV. 

Think,  0  my  soul,  devoutly  think, 

How  with  affrighted  eyes, 

Thou  saw’st  the  wide  extended  deep 
In  all  its  horrors  rise! 

V. 

Confusion  dwelt  in  ev’ry  face, 

And  fear  in  ev’ry  heart; 

When  waves  on  waves,  and  gulfs  in  gulfs, 

O’ercame  the  pilot’s  art. 

VI. 

Yet  then  from  all  my  griefs,  0  Lord, 

Thy  mercy  set  me  free, 

While,  in  the  confidence  of  prayer, 

My  soul  took  hold  on  thee. 

VII. 

For  though  in  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 
High  on  the  broken  wave, 

I  knew  thou  wert  not  slow  to  hear, 

Nor  impotent  to  save. 


CTATOR. 

VIII. 

The  storm  was  laid,  the  winds  retir’d, 
Obedient  to  thy  will ; 

The  sea  that  roar’d  at  thy  command, 
At  thy  command  was  still. 

IX. 

In  midst  of  dangers,  fears,  and  death, 
Thy  goodness  I’ll  adore, 

And  praise  thee  for  thy  mercies  past. 
And  humbly  hope  for  more. 

X. 

My  life,  if  thou  preserv’st  my  life, 

Thy  sacrifice  shall  be; 

And  death,  if  death  must  be  my  doom, 
Shall  join  my  soul  to  thee. 


No.  490.]  MONDAY,  SEPTEMBER  22,  1712. 

Domus  et  placens  uxor.— IIor.  2  Od.  xiv.  21. 

Thy  house  and  pleasing  wife. — Creech. 

I  have  very  long  entertained  an  ambition  to 
make  the  word  wife  the  most  agreeable  and  de¬ 
lightful  name  in  nature.  If  it  be  not  so  in  itself, 
all  the  wiser  part  of  mankind,  from  the  beginning 
of  the  world  to  this  day,  has  consented  in  an  error. 
But  our  unhappiness  in  England  has  been,  that  a 
few  loose  men,  of  genius  for  pleasure,  have  turned 
it  all  to  the  gratification  of  ungoverned  desires,  in 
despite  of  good  sense,  form  and  order;  when,  in 
truth,  any  satisfaction  beyond  the  boundaries  of 
reason  is  but  a  step  toward  madness  and  folly. 
But  is  the  sense  ot  joy  and  accomplishment  of 
desire  no  way  to  be  indulged  or  attained?  And 
have  we  appetites  given  us  not  to  be  at  all  grati¬ 
fied  ?  Yes,  certainly.  Marriage  is  an  institution 
calculated  for  a  constant  scene  of  as  much  delight 
as  our  being  is  capable  of.  Two  persons  who 
have  chosen  each  other  out  of  all  the  species,  with 
design  to  be  each  other’s  mutual  comfort  and  en¬ 
tertainment,  have  in  that  action  bound  themselves 
to  be  good-humored,  affable,  discreet,  forgiving, 
patient,  and  joyful,  with  respect  to  each  other’s 
frailties  and  perfections,  to  the  end  of  their  lives. 
The  wiser  of  the  two  (and  it  always  happens  one 
of  them  is  such)  will,  for  her  or  his  own  sake, 
keep  tilings  from  outrage  with  the  utmost  sanc¬ 
tity.  When  this  union  is  thus  preserved  (as  I 
have  often  said),  the  most  indifferent  circum¬ 
stance  administers  delight.  '  Their  condition  is 
an  endless  source  of  new  gratifications.  The  mar¬ 
ried  man  can  say,  “If  I  am  unacceptable  to  all 
the  world  beside,  there  is  one  whom  1  entirely 
love  that  will  receive  me  with  joy  and  transport, 
and  think  herself  obliged  to  double  her  kindness 
and  caresses  of  me  from  the  gloom  with  which 
she  sees  me  overcast.  I  need  not  dissemble  the 
sorrow  of  my  heart  to  be  agreeable  there;  that 
very  sorrow  quickens  her  affection.” 

This  passion  toward  each  other,  when  once  well 
fixed,  enters  into  the  very  constitution,  and  the 
kindness  flows  as  easily  and  silently  as  the  blood 
in  the  veins.  When  this  affection  is  enjoyed  in  the 
most  sublime  degree,  unskillful  eyes  see  nothing 
of  it;  but  when  it  is  subject  to  be  changed,  and 
has  an  alloy  in  it  that  may  make  it  end  in  "distaste, 
it  is  apt  to  break  into  rage,  or  overflow  into  fond¬ 
ness,  before  the  rest  of  the  world. 

Uxander  and  Viramira  are  amorous  and  young, 
and  have  been  married  these  two  years;  yet  do 
they  so  much  distinguish  each  other  in  company, 
that  in  your  conversation  with  the  dear  things  you 
are  still  put  to  a  sort  of  cross-purposes.  Whenever 
you  address  yourself  in  ordinary  discourse  to  Vira¬ 
mira,  she  turns  her  head  another  way,  and  the 
answer  is  made  to  the  dear  Uxander.  If  you  tell  a 
merry  tale,  the  application  is  still  directed  to  her 


*  Ps.  evii,  23  et.  seqq. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


584 

dear;  and  when  she  should  commend  you,  she  says  j 
to  him,  as  if  be  had  spoke  it,  “  That  is,  my  dear, 
so  pretty.” — This  puts  me  in  mind  of  what  I  have 
somewhere  read  in  the  admired  memoirs  of  the 
famous  Cervantes;  where,  while  honest  Sancho 
Pansa  is  putting  some  necessary  humble  question 
concerning  Rosinante,  his  supper,  or  his  lodging, 
the  knight  of  the  sorrowful  countenance  is  ever 
improving  the  harmless  lowly  hints  of  his  squire 
to  poetical  conceit,  rapture,  and  flight,  in  contem¬ 
plation  of  the  dear  Dulcinea  of  his  affections. 

On  the  other  side,  Dictamnus  and  Moria  are  ever 
squabbling;  and  you  may  observe  them,  all  the 
time  they  are  in  company,  in  a  state  of  impatience. 
As  Uxander  and  Viramira  wish  you  all  gone,  that 
they  may  be  at  freedom  for  dalliance;  Dictamnus 
and  Moria  wait  your  absence,  that  they  may  speak 
their  harsh  interpretations  ori  each  other’s  words 
and  actions,  during  the  time  you  were  with  them. 

It  is  certain  that  the  greater  part  of  the  evils 
attending  this  condition  of  life  arises  from  fashion. 
Prejudice  in  this  case  is  turned  the  wrong  way; 
ana,  instead  of  expecting  more  happiness  than  we 
shall  meet  with  in  it,  we  are  laughed  into  a  pre- 
ossession,  that  we  shall  be  disappointed  if  we 
ope  for  lasting  satisfactions. 

With  all  persons  who  have  made  good  sense  the 
rule  of  action,  marriage  is  described  as  the  state 
capable  of  the  highest  human  felicity.  Tully  has 
epistles  full  of  affectionate  pleasure,  when  he 
writes  to  his  wife,  or  speaks  of  his  children.  But, 
above  all  the  hints  of  this  kind  I  have  met  with 
in  writers  of  ancient  date,  I  am  pleased  with  an 
epigram  of  Martial,  in  honor  of  the  beauty  of  his 
wife  Cleopatra.  Commentators  say  it  was  written 
the  day  after  his  wedding  night.  When  his  spouse 
was  retired  to  the  bathing- room  in  the  heat  of  the 
day,  he,  it  seems,  came  in  upon  her  when  she  was 
just  going  into  the  water.  To  her  beauty  and 
carriage  on  this  occasion  we  owe  the  following 
epigram,  which  I  showed  my  friend  Will  Honey¬ 
comb  in  French,  who  has  translated  it  as  follows, 
without  understanding  the  original.  I  expect  it 
will  please  the  English  better  than  the  Latin  reader: 

When  my  bright  consort,  now  nor  wife  nor  maid, 
Asham'd  and  wanton,  of  embrace  afraid, 

Fled  to  the  streams,  the  streams  my  fair  betray’d, 

To  my  fond  eyes  she  all  transparent  stood ; 

She  blush’d;  I  smil’d  at  the  slight  covering  flood. 

Thus  through  the  glass  the  lovely  lily  glows  : 

Thus  through  the  ambient  gem  shines  forth  the  rose  : 

I  saw  new  charms,  and  plung’d  to  seize  my  store, 

Kisses  I  snatch’d — the  waves  prevented  more. 

My  friend  would  not  allow  that  this  luscious 
account  could  be  given  of  a  wife,  and  therefore 
used  the  word  consort;  which  he  learnedly  said, 
would  serve  for  a  mistress  as  well,  and  give  a  more 
gentlemanly  turn  to  the  epigram.  But  under  favor 
of  him  and  all  other  such  fine  gentlemen,  I  cannot 
be  persuaded  but  that  the  passion  a  bridegroom 
has  for  a  virtuous  young  woman,  will,  by  little  and 
little,  grow  into  friendship,  and  then  it  is  ascended 
to  a  higher  pleasure  than  it  Avas  in  its  first  fervor. 
Without  this  happens,  he  is  a  very  unfortunate 
man  who  has  entered  into  this  state,  and  left  the 
habitudes  of  life  he  might  have  enjoyed  with  a 
faithful  friend.  But  when  the  wife  proves  capable 
of  filling  serious  as  well  as  joyous  hours,  she 
brings  happiness  unknown  to  friendship  itself. 
Spenser  speaks  of  each  kind  of  love  with  great 
justice,  and  attributes  the  highest  praise  to  friend¬ 
ship;  and  indeed  there  is  no  disputing  that  point, 
but  by  making  that  friendship  take  its  place  be¬ 
tween  two  married  persons. 

Hard  is  the  doubt,  and  difficult  to  deem, 

When  all  three  kinds  of  love  together  meet, 

And  do  dispart  the  heart  with  power  extreme, 

Whether  shall  weigh  the  balance  down;  to  wit, 

The  dear  affection  unto  kindred  sweet, 


Or  raging  fire  of  love  to  womankind, 

Or  zeal  of  friends  combin’d  by  virtues  meet : 

But,  of  them  all,  the  band  of  virtuous  mind, 
Methinks,  the  gentle  heart  should  most  assured  bind. 
For  natural  affection  soon  doth  cease, 

And  quenched  is  with  Cupid’s  greater  flame ; 

But  faithful  friendship  doth  them  both  suppress, 

And  them  with  mastering  discipline  doth  tame, 
Through  thoughts  aspiring  to  eternal  fame, 

For  as  the  soul  doth  rule  the  earthly  mass, 

And  kll  the  service  of  the  body  frame ; 

So  love  of  soul  doth  love  of  body  pass, 

No  less  than  perfect  gold  surmounts  the  meanest  brass. 

T. 


No.  491.]  TUESDAY,  SEPTEMBER  23, 1712. 

- Digna  satis  fortuna  revisit. — Virg.  iEn.  iii.  318. 

A  just  reverse  of  fortune  on  him  waits. 

It  is  common  with  me  to  run  from  book  to  book 
to  exercise  my  mind  with  many  objects,  and  qual¬ 
ify  myself  for  my  daily  labors.  After  an  hour 
spent  in  this  loitering  Avay  of  reading,  something 
Avill  remain  to  be  food  to  the  imagination.  The 
Avritings  that  please  me  most  on  such  occasions  are 
stories,  for  the  truth  of  which  there  is  good  au¬ 
thority.  The  mind  of  man  is  naturally  a  lover  of 
justice;  and  Avhen  we  read  a  story  wherein  a  crim¬ 
inal  is  overtaken,  in  whom  there  is  no  quality 
Avhich  is  the  object  of  pity,  the  soul  enjoys  a  cer¬ 
tain  revenge  for  the  offense  done  to  its  nature,  in 
the  Avicked  actions  committed  in  the  preceding 
art  of  the  history.  This  Avill  be  better  understood 
y  the  reader  from  the  following  narration  itself, 
than  from  anything  which  I  can  say  to  introduce  it. 

When  Charles,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  surnamed 
The  Bold,  reigned  over  the  spacious  dominions 
now  swalloAved  up  by  the  power  of  France,  he 
heaped  many  favors  and  honors  upon  Claudius 
Rhynsault,  a  German,  Avho  had  served  him  in  his 
wars  against  the  insults  of  his  neighbors.  A  great 
part  of  Zealand  was  at  that  time  in  subjection  to 
that  dukedom.  The  prince  himself  was  a  person 
of  singular  humanity  and  justice.  Rhynsault, 
with  no  other  real  quality  than  courage,  had  dis¬ 
simulation  enough  to  pass  upon  his  generous  and 
unsuspicious  master  for  a  person  of  blunt  honesty 
and  fidelity,  without  any  vice  that  could  bias  him 
from  the  execution  of  justice.  His  highness,  pre¬ 
possessed  to  his  advantage,  upon  the  decease  of  the 
governor  of  his  chief  toAvn  of  Zealand,  gave  Rhyn¬ 
sault  that  command.  He  Avas  not  long  seated  in 
that  government,  before  he  cast  his  eyes  upon  Sap- 
phira,  a  woman  of  exquisite  beauty,  the  wife  of  Paul 
Danvelt,  a  Avealthy  merchant  of  the  city,  under  his 
protection  and  government.  Rhynsault  Avas  a  man 
of  a  warm  constitution,  and  violent  inclination  to 
women,  and  not  unskilled  in  the  soft  arts  which 
Avin  their  favor.  He  knew  Avhat  it  was  to  enjoy 
the  satisfactions  which  are  reaped  from  the  pos¬ 
session  of  beauty,  but  was  an  utter  stranger  to  the 
decencies,  honors,  and  delicacies  that  attend  the 
passion  toward  them  in  elegant  minds.  However, 
he  had  so  much  of  the  world,  that  he  had  a  great 
share  of  the  language  which  usually  prevails  upon 
the  weaker  part  of  that  sex;  and  he  could  with  his 
tongue  utter  a  passion  with  which  his  heart  was 
wholly  untouched.  He  was  one  of  those  brutal 
minds  Avhich  can  be  gratified  with  the  violation  of 
innocence  and  beauty,  Avith'out.  the  least  pity,  pas¬ 
sion,  or  love,  to  that  with  Avhich  they  are  so -much 
delighted.  Ingratitude  is  a  vice  inseparable  to  a 
lustful  man;  and  the  possession  of  a  woman  by 
him,  Avho  has  no  thought  but  allaying  a  passion 
painful  to  himself,  is  necessarily  folloAved  by  dis¬ 
taste  and  aversion.  Rhynsault,  being  resolved  to 
accomplish  his  will  on  the  Avife  of  Danvelt,  left  no 
arts  untried  to  get  into  a  familiarity  at  her  house; 
but  she  knew  his  character  and  disposition  too  well, 
not  to  shun  all  occasions  that  might  insnare  her 


THE  SPE 

into  his  conversation.  The  governor  despairing  of 
success  bv  ordinary  means,  apprehended  and  im¬ 
prisoned  her  husband,  under  pretense  of  an  infor¬ 
mation,  that  he  was  guilty  of  a  correspondence 
with  the  enemies  of  the  duke  to  betray  the  town 
into  their  possession.  This  design  had  its  desired 
effect;  and  the  wife  of  the  unfortunate  Danvelt, 
the  day  before  that  which  was  appointed  for  his 
execution,  presented  herself  in  the  hall  of  the 
governor  s  house,  and  as  he  passed  through  the 
apartment,  threw  herself  at  his  feet,  and  holding 
his  knees,  beseeched  his  mercy.  Rhynsault  beheld 
her  with  a  dissembled  satisfaction;  and,  assuming 
an  air  of  thought  and  authority,  he  bid  her  arise, 
and  told  her  she  must  follow  him  to  his  closet; 
and,  asking  her  whether  she  knew  the  hand  of  the 
letter  he  pulled  out  of  his  pocket,  went  from  her, 
leaving  this  admonition  aloud;  “If  you  will  save 
your  husband,  you  must  give  me  an  account  of  all 
you  know  without  prevarication;  for  everybody 
is  satisfied  he  was  too  fond  of  you  to  be  able  to 
hide  from  you  the  names  of  the  rest  of  the  con¬ 
spirators,  or  any  other  particulars  whatsoever.” 
He  went  to  his  closet,  and  soon  after  the  lady  was 
sent  for  to  an  audience.  The  servant  knew  his 
distance  when  matters  of  state  were  to  be  debated; 
and  the  governor,  laying  aside  the  air  with  which 
he  had  appeared  in  public,  began  to  be  the  appli¬ 
cant,  to  rally  an  affliction,  which  it  was  in  her 
power  easily  to  remove,  and  relieve  an  innocent 
man  from  his  imprisonment.  She  easily  perceived 
his  intention;  and  bathed  in  tears,  began  to  depre¬ 
cate  so  wicked  a  design.  Lust,  like  ambition, 
takes  all  the  faculties  of  the  mind  and  body  into 
its  service  and  subjection.  Her  becoming  tears, 
her  honest  anguish,  the  wringing  of  her  hands, 
and  the  many  changes  of  her  posture  and  figure  in 
the  vehemence  of  speaking,  were  but  so  many 
attitudes  in  which  he  beheld  her  beauty,  and  fur¬ 
ther  incentives  of  his  desire.  All  humanity  was 
lost  in  that  one  appetite,  and  he  signified  to  her  in 
so  many  plain  terms,  that  he  was  unhappy  till  he 
had  possessed  her,  and  nothing  less  should  be  the 
price  of  her  husband’s  life;  and  she  must,  before 
the  following  noon,  pronounce  the  death,  or  en¬ 
largement,  of  Danvelt.  After  this  notification, 
when  he  saw  Sapphira  enough  again  distracted,  to 
make  the  subject  of  their  discourse  to  common  eyes 
appear  different  from  what  it  was,  he  called  ser¬ 
vants  to  conduct  her  to  the  gate.  Loaded  with 
insupportable  affliction,  she  immediately  repaired 
to  her  husband;  and  having  signified  to  his  jailers 
that  she  had  a  proposal  to  make  to  her  husband 
from  the  governor,  she  was  left  alone  Avith  him, 
revealed  to  him  all  that  had  passed,  and  repre¬ 
sented  the  endless  conflict  shewras  in  between  love 
to  his  person  and  fidelity  to  his  bed.  It  is  easy  to 
imagine  the  sharp  affliction  this  honest  pair  was  in 
upon  such  an  incident,  in  lives  not  used  to  any 
but  ordinary  occurrences.  The  man  was  bridled 
by  shame  from  speaking  what  his  fear  prompted, 
upon  so  near  an  approach  of  death;  but  let  fall 
words  that  signified  to  her,  he  should  not  think 
her  polluted,  though  she  had  not  yet  confessed  to 
him  that  the  governor  had  violated  her  person, 
since  he  knew  her  will  had  no  part  in  the  action! 
She  parted  from  him  with  this  oblique  permission 
to  save  a  life  he  had  not  resolution  enough  to 
resign  for  the  safety  of  his  honor. 

The  next  morning  the  unhappy  Sapphira  at¬ 
tended  the  governor,  and  being  led  into  a  remote 
apartment,  submitted  to  bis  desires.  Rhynsault 
commended  her  charms,  claimed  her  familiarity 
after  what  had  passed  between  them,  and  with  an 
air  of  gayety,  in  the  language  of  agallant,  bid  her 
return  and  take  her  husband  out  of  prison:  “  but,” 
continued  he,  “  my  fair  one  must  not  be  offended 


CTATOE.  585 

that  I  have  taken  care  he  should  not  be  an  inter¬ 
ruption  to  our  future  assignations.”  These  last 
words  foreboded  what  she  found  when  she  came  to 
the  jail — her  husband  executed  by  the  order  of 
Rhynsault ! 

It  was  remarkable  that  the  woman,  who  was  full 
of  tears  and  lamentations  during  the  whole  course 
of  her  affliction,  uttered  neither  sigh  nor  complaint, 
but  stood  fixed  with  grief  at  this  consummation 
ot  her  misfortunes.  She  betook  herself  to  her 
abode;  and  after  having  in  solitude  paid  her  de¬ 
votions  to  Him  who  is  the  avenger  of  inuocence, 
she  lepaired  privately  to  court.  Her  person,  and 
a  certain  grandeur  of  sorrow,  negligent  of  forms, 
gained  her  passage  into  the  presence  of  the  duke 
her  sovereign.  As  soon  as  she  came  into  the  pres¬ 
ence,  she  broke  forth  into  the  following  words: 

Behold,  0  mighty  Charles,  a  wretch  weary  of 
life,  though  it  has  always  been  spent  with  inno¬ 
cence  and  virtue.  It  is  not  in  your  power  to 
redress  my  injuries,  but  it  is  to  avenge  them.  And 
if  the  protection  of  the  distressed,  and  the  punish¬ 
ment  of  oppressors  is  a  task  worthy  a  prince,  I 
bring  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  ample  matter  for 
doing  honor  to  his  own  great  name,  and  wiping 
the  infamy  off  of  mine.” 

When  she  had  spoken  this,  she  delivered  the 
Duke  a  paper  reciting  her  story.  He  read  it  with 
all  the  emotions  that  indignation  and  pity  could 
raise  in  a  prince  jealous  of  his  honor  in  the  beha¬ 
vior  of  his  officers,  and  prosperity  of  his  subjects. 

Upon  an  appointed  day,  Rhynsault  was  sent  for 
to  court,  and,  in  the  presence  of  a  few  of  the  coun¬ 
cil,  confronted  by  Sapphira.  The  prince  asking, 
“Do  you  know  that  lady?”  Rhynsault,  as  soon 
as  he  could  recover  his  surprise,  told  the  duke  he 
would  marry  her,  if  his  highness  would  please  to 
think  that  a  reparation.  The  duke  seemed  con¬ 
tented  with  this  answer,  and  stood  by  during  the 
immediate  solemnization  of  the  ceremony.  At 
the  conclusion  of  it  he  told  Rhynsault,  “Thus  far 
you  have  done  as  constrained  by  ray  authority  :  I 
shall  not  be  satisfied  of  your  kind  usage  of  her, 
without  you  sign  a  gift  of  your  whole  estate  to 
her  after  your  decease.  To  the  performance  of 
this  also  the  duke  was  a  witness.  When  these 
twm  acts  were  executed,  the  duke  turned  to  the  lady 
and  told  her,  “It  now  remains  for  me  to  put  you 
in  quiet  possession  of  what  your  husband  has  so 
bountifully  bestowed  on  you;”  and  ordered  the 
immediate  execution  of  Rhynsault. — T. 

C.  J 


No.  492.]  WEDNESDAY,  SEPT.  24,  1712. 

Quicquid  est  boni  moris,  levitate,  extinguitur. — Seneca. 
Levity  of  behavior  is  the  bane  of  all  that  is  good  and  virtuous. 

“  Tunbridge,  Sept.  18. 

“  Dear  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  a  young  woman  of  eighteen  years  of  age, 
and  I  do  assure  you  a  maid  of  unspotted  reputa¬ 
tion,  founded  upon  a  very  careful  carriage  in  all 
my  looks,  words,  and  actions.  At  the  same  time 
I  must  own  to  you,  that  it  is  with  much  constraint 
to  flesh  and  blood  that  my  behavior  is  so  strictly 
irreproachable  ;  for  I  am  naturally  addicted  to 
mirth,  to  gayety,  to  a  free  air,  to  motion,  and  gad¬ 
ding.  Now,  what  gives  me  a  great  deal  of  anxiety, 
and  is  some  discouragement  in  the  pursuit  of  vir¬ 
tue,  is,  that  the  young  women  who  run  into  greater 
freedoms  with  the  men  are  more  taken  notice  of 
than  I  am.  The  men  are  such  unthinking  sots, 
that  they  do  not  prefer  her  who  restrains  all  her 
passions  and  affections,  and  keeps  much  within 
the  bounds  of  what  is  lawful,  to  her  who  goes  to 
the  utmost  verge  of  innocence,  and  parleys  at  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


586 


very  brink  of  vice,  whether  she  shall  be  a  wife  or 
a  mistress.  But  I  must  appeal  to  your  spectatorial 
wisdom,  who,  I  find,  have  passed  very  much  of 
your  time  in  the  study  of  woman,  whether  this  is 
not  a  most  unreasonable  proceeding.  1  have  read 
somewhere  that  Hobbes  of  Malmesbury  asserts, 
that  continent  persons  have  more  of  what  they 
contain  Ilian  those  who  give  a  loose  to  their  de¬ 
sires.  According  to  this  rule,  let  there  be  equal 
age,  equal  wit,  and  equal  good-humor,  in  the  wo¬ 
man  of  prudence,  and  her  of  liberty,  what  stores 
has  he  to  expect  who  takes  the  former?  What 
refuse  must  he  be  contented  with  who  chooses  the 
latter?  Well,  but  I  sat  down  to  write  to  you  to 
vent  my  indignation  against  several  pert  creatures 
who  are  addressed  to  and  courted  in  this  place, 
while  poor  I,  and  two  or  three  like  me,  are  wholly 
unregarded. 

“Every  one  of  these  affect  gaining  the  hearts  of 
your  sex.  This  is  generally  attempted  by  a  parti¬ 
cular  manner  of  carrying  themselves  with  famil¬ 
iarity.  Glycera  has  a  dancing  walk,  and  keeps 
time  in  her  ordinary  gait.  Cliloe,  her  sister,  who 
is  unwilling  to  interrupt  her  conquests,  comes  into 
the  room  before  her  with  a  familiar  run.  Dulcissa 
takes  advantage  of  the  approach  of  the  winter,  and 
has  introduced  a  very  pretty  shiver;  closing  up 
her  shoulders,  and  shrinking  as  she  moves.  All 
that  are  in  this  mode  carry  their  fans  between  both 
hands  before  them.  Dulcissa,  herself,  who  is  au¬ 
thor  of  this  air,  adds  the  pretty  run  to  it;  and  has 
also,  when  she  is  in  a  very  good  humor,  a  taking 
familiarity  in  throwing  herself  into  the  lowest  seat 
in  the  room,  and  letting  her  hooped  petticoats  fall 
with  a  lucky  decency  about  her.  I  know  she 
practices  this  way  of  sitting  down  in  her  chamber; 
and  indeed  she  does  it  as  well  as  you  may  have 
seen  an  actress  fall  down  dead  in  a  tragedy.  Not 
the  least  indecency  in  her  posture.  If  you  have 
observed  what  pretty  carcasses  are  carried  off  at 
the  end  of  a  verse  at  the  theater,  it  will  give  you  a 
notion  how  Dulcissa  plumps  into  a  chair.  Here 
is  a  little  country  girl  that  is  very  cunning,  that, 
makes  her  use  of  being  young  and  unbred,  and 
outdoes  the  ensnarers  who  are  almost  twice  her 
age.  The  air  that  she  takes  is  to  come  into  com- 
any  after  a  walk,  and  is  very  successfully  out  of 
reath  upon  occasion.  Her  mother  is  in  the  secret, 
and  calls  her  romp,  and  then  looks  round  to  see 
what  young  men  stare  at  her. 

“It  would  take  up  more  than  can  come  into  one 
of  your  papers,  to  enumerate  all  the  particular  airs 
of  the  younger  company  in  this  place.  But  I  can 
not  omit  Dulceorella,  whose  manner  is  the  most 
indolent  imaginable,  but  still  as  watchful  of  con¬ 
quest  as  the  busiest  virgin  among  us.  She  has  a 
peculiar  art  of  staring  at  a  young  fellow,  till  she 
sees  she  has  got  him,  and  inflamed  him  by  so  much 
observation.  When  she  sees  she  has  him,  and  he 
begins  to  toss  his  head  upon  it,  she  is  immediately 
short-sighted,  and  labors  to  observe  what  he  is  at 
a  distance,  with  her  eyes  half  shut.  Thus  the 
captive  that  thought  her  first  struck,  is  to  make 
very  near  approaches,  or  be  wholly  disregarded. 
This  artifice  has  done  more  execution  than  all  the 
ogling  of  the  rest  of  the  women  here,  with  the 
utmost  variety  of  half  glances,  attentive  heedless¬ 
ness,  childish  inadvertencies,  haughty  contempt, 
or  artificial  oversights.  After  I  have  said  thus 
much  of  ladies  among  us  who  fight  thus  regularly, 
I  am  to  complain  to  you  of  a  set  of  familiar  romps, 
who  have  broken  through  all  common  rules,  and 
have  thought  of  a  very  effectual  way  of  showing 
more  charms  than  all  of  us.  These,  Mr.  Spectator, 
are  the  swingers.  You  are  to  know  these  careless 
pretty  creatures  are  very  innocents  again  ;  and 
it  is  to  be  no  matter  what  they  do,  for  it  is  all 


i  harmless  freedom.  They  get  on  ropes,  as  you 
j  must  have  seen  the  children,  and  are  swung 
.  their  men  visitants.  The  jest  is,  that  Mr.  Sucli- 
a-one  can  name  the  color  of  Mrs.  Such-a-one’a 
stockings;  and  she  tells  him  he  is  a  lying  thief,  so 
he  is,  and  full  of  roguery;  and  she  will  lay  a  wa¬ 
ger.  and  her  sister  shall  tell  the  truth  if  lie  says 
right,  and  he  cannot  tell  what  color  her  garters 
are  of.  In  this  diversion  there  are  very  many 
pretty  shrieks,  not  so  much  for  fear  of  falling,  as 
that  their  petticoats  should  untie;  for  there  is  a 
great  care  had  to  avoid  improprieties:  and  the 
lover  who  swings  the  lady  is  to  tie  her  clothes 
very  close  with  his  hatband,  before  she  admits  him 
to  throw  up  her  heels. 

“  Now,  Mr.  Spectator,  except  you  can  note  these 
wantonnesses  in  their  beginnings,  and  bring  us 
sober  girls  into  observation,  there  is  no  help  for 
it;  we  must  swim  with  the  tide;  the  coquettes  are 
too  powerful  a  party  for  us.  To  look  into  the 
merit  of  a  regular  and  well-behaved  woman  is  a 
slow  thing.  A  loose,  trivial  song  gains  their  affec¬ 
tions,  when  a  wise  homily  is  not  attended  to. 
There  is  no  other  "way  but  to  make  war  upon  them, 
or  we  must  go  over  to  them.  As  for  my  part,  I 
will  show  all  the  world  it  is  not  for  want  of  charms 
that  I  stand  so  long  unasked;  and  if  you  do  not 
take  measures  for  the  immediate  redress  of  us 
rigids,  as  the  fellows  call  us,  I  can  move  with  a 
speaking  mien,  can  look  significantly,  can  lisp, 
can  trip,  can  loll,  can  start,  can  blush,  can  rage, 
can  weep,  if  I  must  do  it,  and  can  be  frightened 
as  agreeably  as  any  she  in  England.  All  which 
is  humbly  submitted  to  your  spectatorial  consid¬ 
eration,  with  all  humility,  by 

“Your  most  humble  Servant, 

T.  “  Matilda  Mohaib.” 


No.  493.]  THURSDAY,  SEPT.  25,  1712. 

Qualem  commendes,  etiam  atque  etiam  aspice,  ne  mox 
lncutiant  aliena  tibi  peccata  pudorem. — Hor.  1  Ep.  xviii.  70. 

Commend  not,  till  a  man  is  thoroughly  known: 

A  rascal  prais'd,  you  make  his  faults  your  own. — Anon. 

It  is  no  unpleasant  matter  of  speculation  to  con¬ 
sider  the  recommendatory  epistles  that  pass  round 
this  town  from  hand  to  hand,  and  the  abuse  people 
put  upon  one  another  in  that  kind.  It  is,  indeed, 
come  to  that  pass,  that,  instead  of  being  the  testi¬ 
mony  of  merit  in  the  person  recommended,  the 
true  reading  of  a  letter  of  this  sort  is,  “  The  bearer 
hereof  is  so  uneasy  to  me,  that  it  will  be  an  act  of 
charity  in  you  to  take  him  off  my  hands;  whether 
you  prefer  him  or  not,  it  is  all  one;  for  I  have  no 
manner  of  kindness  for  him,  or  obligation  to  him 
or  his;  and  do  what  you  please  as  to  that.”  As 
negligent  as  men  are  in  this  respect,  a  point  of 
honor  is  concerned  in  it;  and  there  is  nothing  a 
|  man  should  be  more  ashamed  of,  than  passing  a 
worthless  creature  in  the  service  or  interest  of  a 
[  man  who  has  never  injured  you.  The  women, 

I  indeed,  are  a  little  too  keen  in  their  resentments 
to  trespass  often  this  way;  but  you  shall  some¬ 
times  know,  that  the  mistress  and  the  maid  shall 
quarrel,  and  give  each  other  very  free  language, 
and  at  last  the  lady  shall  be  pacified  to  turn  her 
out  of  doors,  and  give  her  a  very  good  word  to 
anybody  else.  Hence,  it  is  that  you  see,  in  a  year 
and  half's  time,  the  same  face  a  domestic  in  all 
parts  of  the  town.  Good-breeding  and  good-na¬ 
ture  lead  people  in  a  great  measure  to  this  injus¬ 
tice:  when  suitors  of  no  consideration  will  have 
confidence  enough  to  press  upon  their  superiors, 
those  in  power  are  tender  of  speaking  the  excep¬ 
tions  they  have  against  them,  and  are  mortgaged 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


into  promises  out  of  their  impatience  of  importu¬ 
nity.  In  this  latter  case,  it  would  be  a  very  useful 
inquiry  to  know  the  history  of  recommendations. 
There  are,  you  must  know,  certain  abettors  of  this 
way  of  torment,  who  make  it  a  profession  to  man¬ 
age  the  affairs  of  candidates.  These  gentlemen 
let  out  their  impudence  to  their  clients,  and  supply 
any  defective  recommendation,  by  informing  how 
such  and  such  a  man  is  to  be  attacked.  They  will 
tell  you,  get  the  least  scrap  from  Mr.  Such-a-one, 
and  leave  the  rest  to  them.  When  one  of  these 
undertakers  has  your  business  in  hand,  you  may 
be  sick,  absent  in  town  or  country,  and  the  patron 
shall  be  worried,  or  you  prevail.  1  remember  to  have 
been  shown  a  gentleman  some  years  ago,  who 
punished  a  whole  people  for  their  facility  in  giv¬ 
ing  their  credentials.  This  person  had  belonged 
to  a  regiment  which  did  duty  in  the  West  Indies, 
and,  by  the  mortality  of  the  place,  happened  to  be 
commanding  officer  in  the  colony.  He  oppressed 
his  subjects  with  great  frankness,  till  be  became 
sensible  that  he  was  heartily  hated  by  every  man 
under  his  command.  When  he  had  carried  his 
point  to  be  thus  detestable,  in  a  pretended  fit  of 
aishumor,  and  feigned  uneasiness  of  living  where 
he  found  he  was  so  universally  unacceptable,  he 
communicated  to  the  chief  inhabitants  a  design 
he  had  to  return  for  England,  provided  they  would 

five  him  ample  testimonials  of  their  approbation. 

'he  planters  came  into  it  to  a  man,  and,  in  propor¬ 
tion  to  his  deserving  the  quite  contrary,  the  words 
justice,  generosity,  and  courage,  were  inserted  in  his 
commission,  not  omitting  the  general  good-liking 
of  people  of  all  conditions  in  the  colony.  The 
gentleman  returns  for  England,  and  withiu  a  few 
months  after,  came  back  to  them  their  governor, 
on  the  strength  of  their  own  testimonials. 

Such  a  rebuke  as  this  cannot  indeed  happen  to 
easy  recommenders,  in  the  ordinary  course  of 
things,  from  one  hand  to  another;  but  how  would 
a  man  bear  to  have  it  said  to  him,  “  The  person  I 
took  into  confidence  on  the  credit  you  gave  him, 
has  proved  false,  unjust,  and  has  not  answered 
any  way  the  character  you  gave  me  of  him  ?” 

I  cannot  but  conceive  very  good  hopes  of  that 
rake  Jack  Toper  of  the  Temple,  for  an  honest  scru¬ 
pulousness  in  this  point.  A  friend  of  his  meeting 
with  a  servant  that  had  formerly  lived  with  Jack, 
and  having  a  mind  to  take  him,  sent  to  him  to 
know  what  faults  the  fellow  had,  since  he  could 
not  please  such  a  careless  fellow  as  he  was.  His 
answer  was  as  follows  : 

“Sir, 

“  Thomas  that  lived  wTith  me  was  turned  away 
because  he  was  too  good  for  me.  You  know  I  live 
in  taverns  ;  he  is  an  orderly  sober  rascal,  and 
thinks  much  to  sleep  in  an  entry  until  two  in  the 
morning.  He  told  me  one  day ;  when  he  was  dress¬ 
ing  me,  that  he  wondered  I  was  not  dead  before 
now,  since  I  went  to  dinner  in  the  evening,  and  went 
to  supper  at  two  in  the  morning.  We  were  com¬ 
ing  down  Essex-street  one  night  a  little  flustered, 
and  I  was  giving  him  the  word  to  alarm  the  watch; 
he  had  the  impudence  to  tell  me  it  was  against  the 
law.  You  that  are  married,  and  live  one  day  after 
another  the  same  way,  and  so  on  a  whole  week,  I 
dare  say  will  like  him,  and  he  will  be  glad  to  have 
his  meat  in  due  season.  The  fellow  is  certainly 
very  honest.  My  service  to  your  lady. 

“Yours,  J.  T.” 

Now  this  was  very  fair  dealing.  Jack  knew 
very  well  that  though  the  love  of  order  made  a 
man  very  awkward  in  his  equipage,  it  was  a  val¬ 
uable  quality  among  the  queer  people  who  live  by 
rule;  and  had  too  much  good  sense  and  good  na¬ 


587 

ture  to  let  the  fellow  starve,  because  he  was  not 
fit  to  attend  his  vivacities. 

I  shall  end  this  discourse  with  a  letter  of  recom 
mendation  from  Horace  to  Claudius  Nero.  You 
will  see  in  that  letter  a  slowness  to  ask  a  favor,  a 
stiong  reason  tor  being  unable  to  deny  his  good 
word  any  longer,  and  that  it  is  a  service  to  the 
person  to  whom  he  recommends,  to  comply  with 
what  is  asked;  all  which  are  necessary  circum¬ 
stances,  both  in  justice  and  good- breeding,  if  a 
man  would  ask  so  as  to  have  reason  to  complain 
of  a  denial;  and  indeed  a  man  should  not  in  strict¬ 
ness  ask  otherwise.  In  hopes  the  authority  of 
Horace,  who  perfectly  understood  how  to  live  with 
great  men,  may  have  a  good  effect  toward  amend¬ 
ing  this  facility  in  people  of  condition,  and  the 
confidence  of  those  who  apply  to  them  without 
merit,  I  have  translated  the  epistle. 

“To  Claudius  Nero. 

“  Sir, 

“  Septimius,  who  Avaits  upon  you  with  this,  is 
very  Avell  acquainted  with  the  place  you  are  pleased 
to  alloAV  me  in  your  friendship.  For  when  he  be¬ 
seeches  me  to  recommend  him  to  your  notice,  in 
j  such  a  manner  as  to  be  received  by  you,  who  are 
j  delicate  in  the  choice  of  your  friends  and  domes¬ 
tics,  lie  knoAvs  our  intimacy,  and  understands  my 
ability  to  serve  him  better  than  I  do  myself.  I 
have  defended  myself  against  his  ambition  to  be 
yours,  as  long  as  I  possibly  could;  but  fearing  the 
imputation  of  hiding  my  poAver  in  you  out  of 
mean  and  selfish  considerations,  I  am  at  last  pre¬ 
vailed  upon  to  give  you  this  trouble.  Thus  to 
avoid  the  appearance  of  a  greater  fault,  I  have  put 
on  this  confidence.  If  you  can  forgive  this  trans¬ 
gression  of  modesty  in  behalf  of  a  friend,  receive 
this  gentleman  into  your  interests  and  friendship, 
and  take  it  from  me  that  he  is  an  honest  and  a 
brave  man.” 


No.  494.]  FRIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  26,  1712. 

iEgritudinem  laudare,  unam  rem  maxime  detestabilem,  quo¬ 
rum  est  tandem  philosophorum  ? — Cicero. 

AA  hat  kind  of  philosophy  is  it  to  extol  melancholy,  the  most 
detestable  thing  in  nature  ? 

About  an  age  ago  it  Avas  the  fashion  in  England 
for  every  one  that  Avould  be  thought  religious,  to 
throw  as  much  sanctity  as  possible  into  his  face, 
and  in  particular  to  abstain  from  all  appearances 
of  mirth  and  pleasantry,  which  Avere  looked  upon 
as  the  marks  of  a  carnal  mind.  The  saint  Avas  of 
a  sorrowful  countenance,  and  generally  eaten  up 
Avith  spleen  and  melancholy.  A  gentleman,  Avho 
was  lately  a  great  ornament*  to  the  learned  Avorld, 
has  diverted  me  more  than  once  with  an  account 
of  the  reception  which  he  met  with  from  a  very 
famous  independent  minister,  who  was  head  of  a 
collegef  in  those  times.  This  gentleman  Avas  then 
a  young  adventurer  in  the  republic  of  letters,  and 
just  fitted  out  for  the  university  Avith  a  good  cargo 
of  Latin  and  Greek.  His  friends  Avere  resolved 
that  he  should  try  his  fortune  at  an  election  which 
was  drawing  near  in  the  college,  of  which  the  in¬ 
dependent  minister  Avhom  I  have  before  mentioned 
was  governor.  The  youth,  according  to  custom, 
waited  on  him  in  order  to  be  examined.  He  Avas 
received  at  the  door  by  a  servant  Avho  Avas  one  of 
that  gloomy  generation  that  were  then  in  fashion. 


*  The  gentleman  here  alluded  to  was  Anthony  Henley, 
Esq.,  who  died  much  lamented  in  August,  1711. 

fThe  head  of  a  college  was  Dr.  Thomas  Goodwin,  S.  T.  P., 
President  of  Magdalen  College  in  Oxford,  and  one  of  the  as¬ 
sembly  of  divines  who  sat  at  Westminster. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


588 

He  conducted  him,  with  great  silence  and  serious¬ 
ness,  to  a  long  gallery,  which  was  darkened  at 
noon-day,  and  had  only  a  single  candle  burning  in 
it.  After  a  short  stay  in  this  melancholy  apart¬ 
ment,  he  was  led  into  a  chamber  hung  with  black, 
where  he  entertained  himself  for  some  time  by  the 
glimmering  of  a  taper,  until  at  length  the  head  of 
the  college  came  out  to  him  from  an  inner  room, 
with  half  a  dozen  nightcaps  upon  his  head,  and 
a  religious  horror  in  his  countenance.  The  young 
man  trembled;  but  his  fears  increased,  when  in¬ 
stead  of  being  asked  what  progress  he  had  made 
in  learning,  he  was  examined  how  he  abounded  in 
grace.  His  Latin  and  Greek  stood  him  in  little 
stead:  he  was  to  give  an  account  only  of  the  state 
of  his  soul;  whether  he  was  of  the  number  of  the 
elect;  what  was  the  occasion  of  the  conversion; 
upon  what  day  of  the  month,  and  hour  of  the  day  it 
happened;  how  it  was  carried  on,  and  when  com¬ 
pleted.  The  whole  examination  was  summed  up 
with  one  short  question,  namely:  whether  he  was 
prepared  for  death  ?  The  boy,  who  had  been  bred 
up  by  honest  parents,  was  frightened  out  of  his  wits 
at  the  solemnity  of  the  proceeding,  and  especially 
by  the  last  dreadful  interrogatory;  so  that,  upon 
making  his  escape  out  of  this  house  of  mourning, 
he  could  never  be  brought  a  second  time  to  the  ex¬ 
amination,  as  not  being  able  to  go  through  the  ter¬ 
rors  of  it. 

Notwithstanding  this  general  form  and  outside 
of  religion  is  pretty  well  worn  out  among  us,  there 
are  many  persons  who,  by  a  natural  uncheerfulness 
of  heart,  mistaken  notions  of  piety,  or  weakness 
of  understanding,  love  to  indulge  this  uncomfort¬ 
able  way  of  life,  and  give  up  themselves  a  prey  to 
grief  and  melancholy.  Superstitious  fears  and 
groundless  scruples  cut  them  off  from  the  pleasures 
of  conversation,  and  all  those  social  entertain¬ 
ments,  which  are  not  only  innocent  but  laudable; 
as  if  mirth  was  made  for  reprobates,  and  cheerful¬ 
ness  of  heart  denied  those  who  are  the  only  per¬ 
sons  that  have  a  proper  title  to  it. 

Sombrius,  is  one  of  these  sons  of  sorrow.  He 
thinks  himself  obliged  in  duty  to  be  sad  and  dis¬ 
consolate.  He  looks  on  a  sudden  fit  of  laughter 
as  a  breach  of  his  baptismal  vow.  An  innocent 
jest  startles  him  like  blasphemy.  Tell  him  of  one 
who  is  advanced  to  a  title  of  honor,  he  lifts  up  his 
hands  and  eyes;  describe  a  public  ceremony,  he 
shakes  his  head;  show  him  a  gay  equipage,  he 
blesses  himself.  All  the  little  ornaments  of  life 
are  pomps  and  vanities.  Mirth  is  wanton,  and 
wit  profane.  He  is  scandalized  at  youth  for  being 
lively,  and  at  childhood  for  being  playful.  He  sits 
at  a  christening,  or  a  marriage  feast,  as  at  a  funeral; 
sighs  at  the  conclusion  of  a  merry  story,  and  grows 
devout  when  the  rest  of  the  company  grow  pleasant. 
After  all,  Sombrius  is  a  religious  man,  and  would 
have  behaved  himself  very  properly,  had  he  lived 
when  Christianity  was  under  a  general  persecution. 

I  would  by  no  means  presume  to  tax  such  char¬ 
acters  with  hypocrisy,  as  is  done  too  frequently: 
that  being  a  vice  which  I  think  none  but  He  who 
knows  the  secrets  of  men’s  hearts  should  pretend 
to  discover  in  another,  where  the  proofs  of  it  do 
not  amount  to  a  demonstration.  On  the  contrary, 
as  there  are  many  excellent  persons  who  are 
weighed  down  by  this  habitual  sorrow  of  heart, 
they  rather  deserve  our  compassion  than  our  re¬ 
proaches.  I  think,  however,  they  would  do  well 
to  consider  whether  such  a  behavior  does  not  deter 
men  from  a  religious  life,  by  representing  it  as  an 
unsociable  state,  that  extinguishes  all  joy  and 
gladness,  darkens  the  face  of  nature,  and  destroys 
the  relish  of  being  itself. 

I  have,  in  former  papers,  shown  how  great  a 
tendency  there  is  to  cheerfulness  in  religion,  and 


how  such  a  frame  of  mind  is  not  only  the  most 
lovely,  but  the  most  commendable  in  a  virtuous 
person.  In  short,  those  who  represent  religion  in  so 
un  ami  able  a  light,  are  like  the  spies  sent  by  Moses 
to  make  a  discovery  of  the  land  of  promise,  when 
by  their  reports  they  discouraged  the  people  from 
entering  upon  it.  Those  who  show  us  the  joy,  the 
cheerfulness,  the  good-humor,  that  naturally  spring 
up  in  this  happy  state,  are  like  the  spies  bringing 
along  with  them  the  clusters  of  grapes,  and  deli¬ 
cious  fruits,  that  might  invite  their  companions 
into  the  pleasant  country  which  produced  them* 

An  eminent  pagan  writerf  has  made  a  discourse 
to  show  that  the  atheist,  who  denies  a  God,  does 
him  less  dishonor  than  the  man  who  owns  his 
being,  but  at  the  same  time  believes  him  to  be 
cruel,  hard  to  please,  and  terrible  to  human  nature. 
“  For  my  own  part,”  says  he,  “  I  would  rather  it 
should  be  said  of  me,  that  there  was  never  any  such 
man  as  Plutarch,  than  that  Plutarch  was  ill-na¬ 
tured,  capricious,  or  unhuman.” 

If  we  may  believe  our  logicians,  man  is  distin¬ 
guished  from  all  other  creatures  by  the  faculty  of 
laughter.  He  has  a  heart  capable  of  mirth,  and 
naturally  disposed  to  it.  It  is  not  the  business  of 
virtue  to  extirpate  the  affections  of  the  mind,  but 
to  regulate  them.  It  may  moderate  and  restrain, 
but  was  not  designed  to  banish  gladness  from  the 
heart  of  man.  Religion  contracts  the  circle  of  our 
pleasures,  but  leaves  it  wide  enough  for  her  vota¬ 
ries  to  expatiate  in.  The  contemplation  of  the 
Divine  Being,  and  the  exercise  of  virtue,  are,  in 
their  own  nature,  so  far  from  excluding  all  glad¬ 
ness  of  heart,  that  they  are  perpetual  sources  of 
it.  In  a  word,  the  true  spirit  of  religion  cheers, 
as  well  as  composes,  the  soul;  it  banishes  indeed 
all  levity  of  behavior,  all  vicious  and  dissolute 
mirth;  but  in  exchange  fills  the  mind  with  a  per¬ 
petual  serenity,  uninterrupted  cheerfulness,  and 
an  habitual  inclination  to  please  others,  as  well  as 
to  be  pleased  in  itself. — 0. 


No.  495.]  SATURDAY,  SEPTEMBER  27, 1712. 

Duris  ut  ilex  tonsa  bipennibus, 

Nigrae  feraci  frondis  in  Algido, 

Per  damna,  per  csedes,  ab  ipso 
Ducit  opes  anim unique  ferro. — IIOR.  4  Od.  iv.  57. 

— Like  an  oak  on  some  cold  mountain  brow, 

At  ev’ry  wound  they  sprout  and  grow : 

The  ax  and  sword  new  vigor  give, 

And  by  their  ruins  they  revive. — Anon. 

As  I  am  one  who,  by  my  profession,  am  obliged 
to  look  into  all  kinds  of  men,  there  are  none  whom 
I  consider  with  so  much  pleasure,  as  those  who 
have  anything  new  or  extraordinary  in  their  char¬ 
acters,  or  ways  of  living.  For  this  reason,  I  have 
often  amused  myself  with  speculations  on  the  race 
of  people  called  Jews,  many  of  whom  I  have  met 
with  in  most  of  the  considerable  towns  which  I 
have  passed  through  in  the  course  of  my  travels. 
They  are,  indeed,  so  disseminated  through  all  the 
trading  parts  of  the  world,  that  they  are  become 
the  instruments  by  which  the  most  distant  nations 
converse  with  one  another,  and  by  which  mankind 
are  knit  together  in  a  general  correspondence. 
They  are  like  the  pegs  and  nails  in  a  great  build¬ 
ing,  which,  though  they  are  but  little  valued  in 
themselves,  are  absolutely  necessary  to  keep  the 
whole  frame  together. 

That  I  may  not  fall  into  any  common  beaten 
tracks  of  observation,  I  shall  consider  this  people 
in  three  views.  First,  with  regard  to  their  number; 


*Num.  cb.  xiii. 

-j-piut.  Opera,  tom  i,  p.  286.  H.  Steph.  1572,  12mo. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


secondly,  their  dispersion;  and  thirdly,  their  ad¬ 
herence  to  their  religion:  and  afterward  endeavor 
to  show,  first,  what  natural  reasons,  and,  secondly, 
what  providential  reasons,  may  be  assigned  for 
these  three  remarkable  particulars. 

The  Jews  are  looked  upon  by  many  to  be  as 
numerous  at  present,  as  they  were  formerly  in  the 
land  of  Canaan. 

This  is  wonderful,  considering  the  dreadful 
slaughter  made  of  them  under  some  of  the  Roman 
emperors,  which  historians  describe  by  the  death 
of  many  hundred  thousands  in  a  war;  and  the 
innumerable  massacres  and  persecutions  they  have 
undergone  in  Turkey,  as  well  as  in  all  Christian 
nations  in  the  world.  The  rabbins,  to  express  the 
great  havoc  which  has  been  sometimes  made  of 
them,  tell  us  after  their  usual  manner  of  hyperbole, 
that  here  were  such  torrents  of  holy  blood  shed, 
as  carried  rocks  of  a  hundred  yards  in  circumfer¬ 
ence  above  three  miles  into  the  sea. 

Their  dispersion  is  the  second  remarkable  par¬ 
ticular  in  this  people.  They  swarm  over  all  the 
East.,  and  are  settled  in  the  remotest  parts  of  China. 
They  are  spread  through  most  of  the  nations  in 
Europe  and  Africa,  and  many  families  of  them  are 
established  in  the  West  Indies;  not  to  mention 
whole  nations  bordering  on  Prester- John’s  country, 
and  discovered  in  the  inner  parts  of  America,  if 
we  may  give  any  credit  to  their  own  writers. 

Their  firm  adherence  to  their  religion  is  no^  less 
remarkable  than  their  numbers  and  dispersion, 
especially  considering  it  as  persecuted  or  con¬ 
temned  over  the  face  of  the  'whole  earth.  This  is 
likewise  the  more  remarkable,  if  wTe  consider  the 
frequent  apostasies  of  this  people,  when  they  lived 
under  their  kings  in  the  land  of  promise,  and 
within  sight  of  their  temple. 

If  in  the  next  place  Ave  examine  what  may  be 
the  natural  reasons  for  these  three  particulars 
which  we  find  in  the  Jews,  and  which  are  not  to 
be  found  in  any  other  religion  or  people,  I  can,  in 
the  first  place,  attribute  their  numbers  to  nothing 
but  their  constant  employment,  their  abstinence, 
their  exemption  from  wars,  and  above  all,  their 
frequent  marriages;  for  they  look  on  celibacy  as 
an  accursed  state,  and  generally  are  married  before 
twenty,  as  hoping  the  Messiah  may  descend  from 
them. 

The  dispersion  of  the  Jews  into  ail  the  nations 
of  the  earth  is  the  second  remarkable  particular 
of  that  people,  though  not  so  hard  to  be  accounted 
for.  They  Avere  always  in  rebellions  and  tumults 
while  they  had  the  temple  and  holy  city  in  view, 
for  which  reason  they  have  often  been  driven  out 
of  their  old  habitations  in  the  land  of  promise. 
They  have  as  often  been  banished  out  of  most 
other  places  where  they  have  settled,  which  must 
very  much  disperse  and  scatter  a  people,  and 
oblige  them  to  seek  a  livelihood  where  they  can 
find  it.  Beside,  the  wThole  people  is  now  a  race 
of  such  merchants  as  are  wanderers  by  profes¬ 
sion,  and,  at  the  same  time,  are  in  most,  if  not 
all  places,  incapable  of  either  lands  or  offices  that 
might  engage  them  to  make  any  part  of  the  world 
their  home. 

This  dispersion  would  probably  have  lost  their 
religion,  had  it  not  been  secured  by  the  strength  of 
its  constitution;  for  they  are  to  live  all  in  a  body, 
and  generally  within  the  same  inclosure;  to  marry 
among  themselves,  and  to  eat  no  meats  that  are 
not  killed  or  preserved  their  own  wTay.  This  shuts 
them  out  from  all  table  conversation,  and  the  most 
agreeable  intercourses  of  life;  and,  by  consequence, 
excludes  them  from  the  most  probable  means  of 
conversation. 

If,  in  the  last  place,  we  consider  what  providen¬ 
tial  reasons  may  be  assigned  for  these  three  par¬ 


589 

ticulars,  we  shall  find  that  their  numbers,  disper¬ 
sion,  and  adherence  to  their  religion,  have  fur¬ 
nished  every  age,  and  every  nation  of  the  Avorld, 
with  the  strongest  arguments  for  the  Christian 
faith,  not  only  as  these  very  particulars  are  foretold 
of  them,  but  as  they  themselves  are  the  deposito¬ 
ries  of  these,  and  all  the  other  prophesies,  Avhich 
tend  to  their  OAvn  confusion.  Their  number  fur¬ 
nishes  us  with  a  sufficient  cloud  of  witnesses  that 
attest  the  truth  of  the  . old  Bible.  Their  disper¬ 
sion  spreads  these  witnesses  through  all  parts  of 
the  Avorld.  The  adherence  to  their  religion  makes 
their  testimony  unquestionable.  Had  the  wdiole 
body  of  Jews  been  converted  to  Christianity,  we 
should  certainly  have  thought  all  the  prophesies 
of  the  Old  Testament,  that  relate  to  the  coming 
and  history  of  our  blessed  Savior,  forged  by 
Christians,  and  have  looked  upon  them,  with  the 
prophesies  of  the  Sibyls,  as  made  many  years 
after  the  events  they  pretended  to  foretell. — 0. 


No.  496.]  MONDAY,  SEPTEMBER  29,  1712. 

Gnatum  pariter  uti  his  decuit,  aut  etiam  amplius, 

Quod  ilia  aetas  magis  ad  h*c  idonea  est. 

Terent.  Heaut.  act.  i.  sc.  1. 

Your  son  ought  to  have  shared  in  these  things,  because 
youth  is  best  suited  to  the  enjoyment  of  them. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“Those  ancients  who  were  the  most  accurate  in 
their  remarks  on  the  genius  and  temper  of  man¬ 
kind,  by  considering  the  various  bent  and  scope 
of  our  actions,  throughout  the  progress  of  life, 
have  with  great  exactness  allotted  inclinations  and 
objects  of  desire  particular  to  every  stage,  accord¬ 
ing  to  the  different  circumstances  of  our  conversa¬ 
tion  and  fortune  through  the  several  periods  of  it. 
Hence  they  were  disposed  easily  to  excuse  those 
excesses  Avhich  might  possibly  arise  from  a  too 
eager  pursuit  of  the  affections  more  immediately 
proper  to  each  state.  They  indulged  the  levity 
of  childhood  "with  tenderness,  overlooked  the 
gayety  of  youth  with  good  nature,  tempered  the 
froward  ambition  and  impatience  of  ripened  man¬ 
hood  with  discretion,  and  kindly  imputed  the 
tenacious  avarice  of  old  men  to  their  Avant  of  relish 
of  any  other  enjoyment.  Such  allowances  as  these 
Avere  no  less  advantageous  to  common  society  than 
obliging  to  particular  persons  ;  for,  by  maintain¬ 
ing  a  decency  and  regularity  in  the  course  of  life, 
they  supported  the  dignity  of  human  nature, 
■which  then  suffers  the  greatest  violence  Avhen  the 
order  of  things  is  inverted  ;  and  in  nothing  is  it 
more  remarkably  vilified  and  ridiculous,  than 
when  feebleness  preposterously  attempts  to  adorn 
itself  with  that  outward  pomp  and  luster,  which 
serve  only  to  set  off  the  bloom  of  youth  with  bet¬ 
ter  advantage.  I  was  insensibly  carried  into  re¬ 
flections  of  this  nature  by  just  now  meeting  Pau¬ 
lino  (avIio  is  in  his  climacteric)  bedecked  Avith  the 
utmost  splendor  of  dress  and  equipage,  and  giving 
an  unbounded  loose  to  all  manner  of  pleasure, 
while  his  only  son  is  debarred  all  innocent  diver¬ 
sion,  and  may  be  seen  frequently  solacing  himself 
in  the  Mall  with  no  other  attendance  than  one  an¬ 
tiquated  servant  of  his  father’s  for  a  companion 
and  director. 

“  It  is  a  monstrous  want  of  reflection,  that  a 
man  cannot  consider,  that  wThen  he  cannot  resign 
the  pleasures  of  life  in  his  decay,  of  appetite  and 
inclination  to  them,  his  son  must  have  a  much 
uneasier  task  to  resist  the  impetuosity  of  growing 
desires.  The  skill  therefore  should,  metliinks,  be, 
to  let  a  son  want  no  lawful  diversion,  in  propor¬ 
tion  to  his  future  fortune,  and  the  figure  lie  is  to 
make  in  the  world.  The  first  step  toAvard  virtue 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


590 

that  T  have  observed,  in  young  men  of  condition 
that  have  run  into  excesses,  has  been,  that  they 
had  a  regard  to  their  quality  and  reputation  in 
the  management  of  their  vices.  Narrowness  in 
their  circumstances  has  made  many  youths,  to 
supply  themselves  as  debauchees,  commence  cheats 
and  rascals.  The  father  who  allows  his  son  to 
the  utmost  ability  avoids  this  latter  evil,  which 
as  to  the  world  is  much  greater  than  the  former. 
But  the  contrary  practice  has  prevailed  so  much 
among  some  men,  that  I  have  known  them  deny 
them  what  was  merely  necessary  for  education 
suitable  to  their  quality.  Poor  young  Antonio  is 
a  lamentable  instance  of  ill-conduct  in  this  kind. 
The  young  man  did  not  want  natural  talents  ;  but 
the  father  of  him  was  a  coxcomb,  who  affected 
being  a  fine  gentleman  so  unmercifully,  that  he 
could  not  endure,  in  his  sight,  or  the  frequent 
mention  of  one,  who  was  his  son;  growing  into 
manhood,  and  thrusting  him  out  of  the  gay  world. 
I  have  often  thought  the  father  took  a  secret  pleas¬ 
ure,  in  reflecting  that,  when  that  fine  house  and 
seat  came  into  the  next  hands,  it  would  revive  his 
memory,  as  a  person  who  knew  how  to  enjoy 
them,  from  observation  of  the  rusticity  and  igno¬ 
rance  of  his  successor.  Certain  it  is,  that  a  man 
may,  if  he  will,  let  his  heart  close  to  the  having 
no  regard  to  anything  but  his  dear  self,  even  with 
exclusion  of  his  very  dear  children.  I  recommend 
this  subject  to  your  consideration,  and  am,  Sir, 
“Your  most  humble  Servant, 

“T.  B.” 

“Mr.  Spectator,  London,  Sept.  26,  1712. 

“  I  am  just  come  from  Tunbridge,  and  have 
since  my  return  read  Mrs.  Matilda  Mohair’s  letter 
to  you.  She  pretends  to  make  a  mighty  story 
about  the  diversion  of  swinging  in  that  place. 
What  was  done,  was  only  among  relations,  and 
no  man  swung  any  woman  who  was  not  second 
cousin  at  furthest.  She  is  pleased  to  say,  care 
was  taken  that  the  gallants  tied  the  ladies’  legs 
before  they  were  wafted  into  the  air.  Since  she 
is  so  spiteful,  I  will  tell  you  the  plain  truth. 
There  was  so  much  nicety  observed,  since  we 
were  all,  as  I  just  now  told  you,  near  relations  : 
but  Mrs.  Mohair  herself  has  been  swung  there, 
and  she  invents  all  this  malice,  because  it  was  ob¬ 
served  she  has  crooked  legs,  of  which  I  was  an 
eye  witness. 

“  Your  humble  Servant, 

“  Rachel  Shoestring.” 

“  Tunbridge,  Sept.  26,  1712. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  We  have  just  now  read  your  paper,  containing 
Mohair’s  letter.  It  is  an  invention  of  her  own 
from  one  end  to  the  other;  and  I  desire  you  would 
print  the  inclosed  letter  by  itself,  and  shorten  it 
so  as  to  come  within  the  compass  of  your  half 
sheet.  She  is  the  most  malicious  minx  in  the 
world,  for  all  she  looks  so  innocent.  Do  not  leave 
out  that  part  about  her  being  in  love  with  her 
father’s  butler,  which  makes  her  shun  men  ;  for 
that  is  the  truest  of  it  all. 

“Your  humble  Servant, 

“  Sarah  Trice. 

“  P.  S.  She  has  crooked  legs.” 

“Tunbridge,  Sept.  26,  1712. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“All  that  Mrs.  Mohair  is  so  vexed  at  against 
the  good  company  of  this  place  is,  that  we  all 
know  she  has  crooked  legs.  This  is  certainly  true. 
I  do  not  care  for  putting  my  name,  because  one 
would  not  be  in  the  power  of  the  creature. 

“Your  humble  Servant,  unknown.” 


“Tunbridge,  Sept.  26,  1712. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  That  insufferable  prude,  Mrs.  Mohair,  who  has 
told  such  stories  of  the  company  here,  is  with 
child,  for  all  her  nice  airs  and  her  crooked  legs. 
Pray  be  sure  to  put  her  in  for  both  these  two  things, 
and  you  will  oblige  everybody  here,  especially 

“  Your  humble  Servant, 

T.  “Alice  Bluegarter.” 


No.  497.]  TUESDAY,  SEPTEMBER  30,  1712. 

A  cunning  old  fox  this! 

A  favor  well  bestowed  is  almost  as  great  an 
honor  to  him  who  confers  it  as  to  him  who  receives 
it.  What  indeed  makes  for  the  superior  reputa¬ 
tion  of  the  patron  in  this  case  is,  that  he  is  always 
surrounded  with  specious  pretenses  of  unworthy 
candidates,  and  is  often  alone  in  the  kind  inclina¬ 
tion  he  has  toward  the  well-deserving.  Justice  is 
the  first  quality  in  the  man  who  is  in  a  post  of 
direction  ;  and  I  remember  to  have  heard  an  old 
gentleman  talk  of  the  civil  wars,  and  in  his  rela¬ 
tion  give  an  account  of  a  general  officer,  who  with 
this  one  quality,  without  any  shining  endow¬ 
ments,  became  so  popularly  beloved  and  honored, 
that  all  decisions  between  man  and  man  were  laid 
before  him  by  the  parties  concerned,  in  a  private 
way  ;  and  they  would  lay  by  their  animosities 
implicity,  if  he  bid  them  be  friends,  or  submit 
themselves  in  the  wrong  without  reluctance,  if  he 
said  it,  without  waiting  the  judgment  of  courts- 
martial.  His  manner  was  to  keep  the  dates  of  all 
commissions  in  his  closet,  and  wholly  dismiss  from 
the  service  such  who  were  deficient  in  their  duty; 
and  after  that  took  care  to  prefer  according  to  the 
order  of  battle.  His  familiars  were  his  entire 
friends,  and  could  have  no  interested  vieAvs  in 
courting  his  acquaintance  ;  for  his  affection  was 
no  step  to  their  preferment,  though  it  was  to  their 
reputation.  By  this  means,  a  kind  aspect,  a  salu¬ 
tation,  a  smile  and  giving  out  his  hand,  had  the 
weight  of  what  is  esteemed  by  vulgar  minds  more 
substantial.  His  business  was  very  short,  and  he 
who  had  nothing  to  do  but  justice,  was  never  af¬ 
fronted  with  a  request  of  a  familiar  daily  visitant 
for  what  was  due  to  a  brave  man  at  a  distance. 
Extraordinary  merit  he  used  to  recommend  to  the 
king  for  some  distinction  at  home  ;  till  the  order 
of  battle  made  way  for  his  rising  in  the  troops. 
Add  to  this,  that  he  had  an  excellent  manner  of 
getting  rid  of  such  who  he  observed  were  good  at 
a  halt,  as  his  phrase  was.  Under  this  description 
he  comprehended  all  those  who  were  contented  to 
live  without  reproach,  and  had  no  promptitude 
in  their  minds  toward  glory.  These  fellows  were 
also  recommended  to  the  king,  and  taken  off  of 
the  general’s  hands  into  posts  wherein  diligence 
and  common  honesty  were  all  that  were  necessary. 
This  general  had  no  weak  part  in  his  line,  but 
every  man  had  as  much  care  upon  him,  and  as 
much  honor  to  lose  as  himself.  Every  officer  could 
answer  for  what  passed  where  he  was;  and  the 
general's  presence  was  never  necessary  anywhere, 
but  where  he  had  placed  himself  at  the  first  dis¬ 
position,  except  that  accident  happened  from  ex¬ 
traordinary  efforts  of  the  enemy  which  he  could 
not  foresee  ;  but  it  was  remarkable  that  it  never 
fell  out  from  failure  in  his  own  troops.  It  must 
be  confessed  the  world  is  just  so  much  out  of  order, 
as  an  unworthy  person  possesses  what  should  be 
in  the  direction  of  him  who  has  better  pretensions 
to  it. 

Instead  of  such  a  conduct  as  this  old  fellow 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


591 


used  to  describe  in  his  general,  all  the  evils  which 
have  ever  happened  among  mankind  have  arose 
from- the  wanton  disposition  of  the  favors  of  the 
powerful.  It  is  generally  all  that  men  of  modesty 
and  virtue  can  do,  to  fall  in  with  some  whimsical 
turn  in  a  great  man,  to  make  way  for  things  of  real 
and  absolute  service.  In  the  time  of  Don  Sebas¬ 
tian  of  Portugal,  or  some  time  since,  the  first  min¬ 
ister  would  let  nothing  come  near  him  but  what 
bore  the  most  profound  face  of  wisdom  and  gra¬ 
vity.  1  hey  carried  it  so  far,  that  for  the  greater 
show  of  their  profound  knowledge,  a  pair  of  spec¬ 
tacles  tied  on  their  noses,  with  a  black  ribbon 
round  their  heads,  was  what  completed  the  dress 
of  those  who  made  their  court  at  his  levee,  and 
none  with  naked  noses  were  admitted  to  his  pres¬ 
ence.  A  blunt  honest  fellow,  who  had  a  command 
in  the  train  of  artillery,  had  attempted  to  make  an 
impression  upon  the  porter,  day  after  day  in  vain, 
until  at  length  he  made  his  appearance  in  a  very 
thoughtful  dark  suit  of  clothes  and  two  pairof  spec¬ 
tacles  on  at  once.  He  was  conducted  from  room 
to  room,  with  great  deference,  to  the  minister  ; 
and,  carrying  on  the  farce  of  the  place,  he  told  his 
excellency  that  he  had  pretended  in  this  manner 
to  be  wiser  than  he  really  was,  but  with  no  ill 
intention  ;  but  he  was  honest  Such-a-one  of  the 
train,  and  he  came  to  tell  him  that  they  wanted 
wheelbarrows  and  pickaxes.  The  thing  hap¬ 
pened  not  to  displease,  the  great  man  was  seen  to 
smile,  and  the  successful  officer  was  reconducted 
with  the  same  profound  ceremony  out  of  the  house. 

When  Leo  X,  reigned  pope  of  Rome,  his  holi¬ 
ness,  though  a  man  of  sense,  and  of  an  excellent 
taste  of  letters,  of  all  things  affected  fools,  buffoons, 
humorists  and  coxcombs.  Whether  it  were  from 
vanity,  and  that  he  enjoyed  no  talents  in  other 
men  but  what  were  inferior  to  him,  or  whatever  it 
was,  he  carried  it  so  far,  that  his  whole  delight 
was  in  finding  out  new  fools,  and,  as  our  phrase 
is,  playing  them  off,  and  making  them  show  them¬ 
selves  to  advantage.  A  priest  of  his  former  ac¬ 
quaintance  suffered  a  great  many  disappointments 
in  attempting  to  find  access  to  him  in  a  regular 
character,  until  at  last  in  despair  he  retired  from 
Rome,  and  returned  in  an  equipage  so  very  fan¬ 
tastical,  both  as  to  the  dress  of  himself  and  ser¬ 
vants,  that  the  whole  court  were  in  an  emulation 
who  should  first  introduce  him  to  his  holiness. 
What  added  to  the  expectation  his  holiness  had 
of  the  pleasure  he  should  have  in  his  follies,  was, 
that  this  fellow,  in  a  dress  the  most  exquisitely 
ridiculous,  desired  he  might  speak  to  him  alone, 
for  he  had  matters  of  the  highest  importance, 
upon  which  he  wanted  a  conference.  Nothing 
could  be  denied  to  a  coxcomb  of  so  great  hope°; 
but  when  they  were  apart,  the  impostor  revealed 
himself,  and  spoke  as  follows  : — 

“  Do  not  be  surprised,  most  holy  father,  at  see¬ 
ing,  instead  of  a  coxcomb  to  laugh  at,  your  old 
friend,  who  has  taken  this  way  of  access  to  ad¬ 
monish  you  of  your  own  folly.  Can  anything 
show  your  holiness  how  unworthily  you  treat 
mankind,  more  than  my  being  put  upon  this  diffi¬ 
culty  to  speak  with  you?  It  is  a  degree  of  folly 
to  delight  to  see  it  in  others,  and  it  is  the  greatest 
insolence  imaginable  to  rejoice  in  the  disgrace  of 
human  nature.  It  is  a  criminal  humility  in  a  per¬ 
son  of  your  holiness’s  understanding,  to  believe 
you  cannot  excel  but  in  the  conversation  of  half¬ 
wits,  humorists,  coxcombs,  and  buffoons.  If  your 
holiness  has  a  mind  to  be  diverted  like  a  rational 
man,  you  have  a  great  opportunity  for  it,  in  dis¬ 
robing  all  the  impertiuents  you  have  favored  of  all 
their  riches  and  trappings  at  once,  and  bestowing 
them  on  the  humble,  the  virtuous,  and  the  meek° 

If  your  holiness  is  not  concerned  for  the  sake  of 


virtue  and  religion,  be  pleased  to  reflect,  that  for 
the  sake  of  your  own  safety,  it,  is  not  proper  to  be 
so  very  much  in  jest.  When  the  pope  is  thus 
merry,  the  people  will  in  time  begin  to  think  many 
things, which  they  have  hitherto  beheld  with  great 
veneration,  are  in  themselves  objects  of  scorn  and 
derision.  If  they  once  get  a  trick  of  knowing 
how  to  laugh,  your  holiness’s  saying  this  sentence 
in  one  nightcap,  and  the  other  with  the  other,  the 
change  of  your  slippers,  bringing  you  your  staff  in 
the  midst  of  a  prayer,  then  stripping  you  of  one 
vest,  and  clapping  on  a  second  during  divine  ser¬ 
vice,  will  be  found  out  to  have  nothing  in  it. 
Considei,  Sir,  that  at  this  rate  a  head  will  be  reck- 
oned  never  the  wiser  for  being  bald;  and  the  igno¬ 
rant  will  be  apt  to  say,  that  going  barefoot  does 
not  at  all  help  on  in  the  way  to  heaven.  The 
red  cap  and  the  cowl  will  fall  under  the  same  con¬ 
tempt;  and  the  vulgar  will  tell  us  to  our  faces, 
that  we  shall  have  no  authority  over  them  but 
from  the  force  of  our  arguments  and  the  sanctity 
of  our  lives.” 


No.  498.]  WEDNESDAY,  OCTOBER  1,  1712. 

- Frustra  retinacula  tendens 

Fertur  equis  auriga,  neque  audit  currus  habenas. 

Virg.  Georg,  i.  514. 

Nor  reins,  nor  curbs,  nor  cries,  the  horses  fear, 

But  force  along  the  trembling  charioteer. — Dryden. 

To  the  Spectator- General  of  Great  Britain, 

“From  the  further  end  of  the  Widow’s  Coffee-house 
in  Devereux-Court,  Monday  evening,  twenty-eight 
minutes  and  a  half  past  six. 

“  Dear  Dumb, 

“In  short,  to  use  no  other  preface,  if  I  should 
tell  you  that  I  have  seen  a  hackney-coachman, 
when  lie  has  come  to  set  down  his  fare,  which  has 
consisted  of  two  or  three  very  fine  ladies,  hand 
them  out,  and  salute  every  one  of  them  with  an 
air  of  familiarity,  without  giving  the  least  offense, 
you  would  perhaps  think  me  guilty  of  a  gasconade. 
But  to  clear  myself  from  that  imputation,  and  to 
explain  this  matter  to  you,  I  assure  you  that  there 
are  many  illustrious  youths  within  this  city,  who 
frequently  recreate  themselves  by  driving  of  a 
hackney-coach;  but  those  whom,  above  all  others, 
I  would  recommend  to  you,  are  the  young  gentle¬ 
men  belonging  to  the  inns  of  court.  We  have,  I 
think,  about  a  dozen  coachmen,  who  have  cham¬ 
bers  here  in  the  Temple;  and,  as  it  is  reason¬ 
able  to  believe  others  will  follow  their  example, 
we  may  perhaps  in  time  (if  it  shall  be  thought 
convenient),  be  drove  to  Westminster  by  our  own 
fraternity,  allowing  every  fifth  person  to  apply  his 
meditations  this  way,  which  is  but  a  modest  com¬ 
putation,  as  the  humor  is  now  likely  to  take.  It 
is  to  be  hoped,  likewise,  that  there  are  in  the  other 
nurseries  of  the  law  to  be  found  a  proportionable 
number  of  these  hopeful  plants,  springing  up  to 
the  everlasting  renown  of  their  native  country. 
Of  how  long  standing  this  humor  has  been,  I  know 
not.  vT he  first  time  I  had  any  particular  reason  to 
take  notice  of  it  was  about  this  time  twelvemonth, 
when,  being  upon  Hampstead-heath  with  some  of 
these  studious  young  men,  who  went  thither  purely 
for  the  sake  of  contemplation,  nothing  would  serve 
them  but  I  must  go  through  a  course  of  this  phi¬ 
losophy  too;  and,  being  ever  willing  to  embellish 
myself  with  any  commendable  qualification,  it 
was  not  long  ere  they  persuaded  me  into  the  coach 
box;  nor  indeed  much  longer,  before  I  underwent 
the  fate  of  my  brother  Phaeton;  for,  having  drove 
about  fifty  paces  with  pretty  good  success,  through 
my  own  natural  sagacity,  together  with  the  good 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


592 

instructions  of  mv  tutors,  who,  to  give  them  their 
due,  were  on  all  hands  encouraging  and  assisting 
me  in  this  laudable  undertaking;  I  say,  Sir,  hav¬ 
ing  drove  about  fifty  paces  with  pretty  good  suc¬ 
cess,  I  must  needs  be  exercising  the  lash;  which 
the  horses  resented  so  ill  from  my  hands,  that  they 
gave  a  sudden  start,  and  thereby  pitched  me  di¬ 
rectly  upon  my  head,  as  I  very  well  remembered 
about  half  an  hour  afterward;  which  not  only  de¬ 
prived  me  of  all  the  knowledge  I  had  gained  for 
fifty  yards  before,  but  had  like  to  have  broke  my 
neck  into  the  bargain.  After  such  a  severe  repri¬ 
mand,  you  may  imagine  I  was  not  very  easily 
prevailed  with  to  make  a  second  attempt;  and,  in¬ 
deed,  upon  mature  deliberation,  the  whole  science 
seemed,  at  least  to  me,  to  be  surrounded  with  so 
many  difficulties,  that,  notwithstanding  the  un¬ 
known  advantages  which  might  have  accrued  to 
me  thereby,  I  gave  over  all  hopes  of  attaining  it; 
and  I  believe  had  never  thought  of  it  more  but 
that  my  memory  has  been  lately  refreshed  by  see¬ 
ing  some  of  these  ingenious  gentlemen  ply  in  the 
open  streets,  one  of  which  I  saw  receive  so  suita¬ 
ble  a  reward  to  his  labors,  that  though  I  know  you 
are  no  friend  to  story-telling,  yet  I  must  beg  leave 
to  trouble  you  with  this  at  large. 

“About  a  fortnight  since,  as  I  was  diverting  my¬ 
self  with  a  pennyworth  of  walnuts  at  the  Temple- 
gate,  a  lively  young  fellow  in  a  fustian  jacket  shot 
by  me,  beckoned  a  coach,  and  told  the  coachman 
he  wanted  to  go  as  far  as  Chelsea.  They  agreed 
upon  the  price,  and  this  young  gentleman  mounts 
the  coach-box;  the  fellow,  staring  at  him,  desired 
to  know  if  he  should  not  drive  until  they  were 
out  of  town.  ‘No,  no/  replied  he.  He  was  then 
going  to  climb  up  to  him,  but  received  another 
check,  and  was  then  ordered  to  get  into  the  coach, 
or  behind  it,  for  that  he  wanted  no  i  instructors ;  ‘  but 
be  sure  you  dog  you,’  says  he,  ‘do  not  you  bilk 
me.’  The  fellow  thereupon  surrendered  his  whip, 
scratched  his  head  and  crept  into  the  coach.  Hav¬ 
ing  myself  occasion  to  go  into  the  Strand  about 
the  same  time,  we  started  both  together;  but  the 
street  being  very  full  of  coaches,  and  he  not  so 
able  a  coachman  as  perhaps  he  imagined  himself, 

I  had  soon  got  a  little  way  before  him;  often, 
however,  having  the  curiosity  to  cast  my  eye  back 
upon  him,  to  observe  how  he  behaved  himself  in 
this  high  station;  which  he  did  with  great  com¬ 
posure,  until  he  came  to  the  pass,  which  is  a,  mili¬ 
tary  term  the  brothers  of  the  whip  have  given  to 
the  strait  at  St.  Clement’s  church.  When  he  was 
arrived  near  this  place,  where  are  always  coaches 
in  waiting,  the  coachmen  began  to  suck  up  the 
muscles  of  their  cheeks,  and  to  tip  the  wink  upon 
each  other,  as  if  they  had  some  roguery  in  their 
heads,  which  I  was  immediately  convinced  of,  for 
he  no  sooner  came  within  reach,  but  the  first  of 
them  with  his  whip  took  the  exact  dimensions  of 
his  shoulders,  which  he  very  ingeniously  called 
indorsing:  aud,  indeed,  I  must  say,  that  every 
one  of  them  took  due  care  to  indorse  him  as  he 
came  through  their  hands.  He  seemed  at  first  a 
little  uneasy  under  the  operation,  and  was  jjoing 
in  all  haste  to  take  the  numbers  of  their  ccmches; 
but  at  length,  by  the  mediation  of  the  worthy 
gentleman  in  the  coach,  his  wrath  was  assuaged, 
and  he  prevailed  upon  to  pursue  his  journey; 
though  I  thought  they  had  clapped  such  a  spoke 
in  his  wheel,  as  had  disabled  him  from  being  a 
coachman  for  that  day  at  least;  for  I  am  only  mis¬ 
taken,  Mr.  Speck.,  if  some  of  these  indorsements 
were  not  wrote  in  so  strong  a  hand  that  they  are 
still  legible.  Upon  my  inquiring  the  reason  of 
this  unusual  salutation,  they  told  me,  that  it  was 
a  custom  among  them,  whenever  they  saw  a  brother 
tottering  or  unstable  in  his  post,  to  lend  him  a  hand, 


in  order  to  settle  him  again  therein.  For  my  part, 

I  thought  their  allegations  but  reasonable,  and  so 
marched  off.  Beside  our  coachmen,  we  abound  in 
divers  other  sorts  of  ingenious  robust  youth, who, 

I  hope,  will  not  take  it  ill  if  I  defer  giving  you  an 
account  of  their  several  recreations  to  another  op¬ 
portunity.  In  the  meantime,  if  you  would  but 
bestow  a  little  of  your  wholesome  advice  upon  our 
coachmen,  it  might,  perhaps,  be  a  reprieve  to  some 
of  their  necks.  '  As  I  understand  you  have  seve¬ 
ral  inspectors  under  you,  if  you  would  but  send 
one  among  us  here  in  the  Temple,  I  am  persua¬ 
ded  he  would  not  want  employment.  But  I  leave 
this  to  your  own  consideration,  and  am,  Sir, 
“Your  humble  Servant, 

“  Moses  Greenbag.” 

“P.  S.  I  have  heard  our  critics  in  the  coffee¬ 
houses  hereabout,  talk  mightily  of  the  unity  of 
time  and  place.  According  to  my  notion  of  the 
matter,  1  have  endeavored  at  something  like  it  in 
the  beginning  of  my  epistle.  I  desire  to  be  in¬ 
formed"  a  little  as  to  that  particular.  In  my  next 
I  design  to  give  you  some  account  of  excellent 
watermen,  who  are  bred  to  the  law,  and  far  outdo 
the  land  students  above-mentioned.” 

T. 


No.  499.]  THURSDAY,  OCTOBER  2, 1712. 

-  Nimis  uncis 

Naribus  indulges - -  Pers.  Sat.  i.  40. 

- You  drive  the  jest  too  far. — Dryden. 

My  friend  Will  Honeycomb  has  told  me,  for 
above  this  half-year,  that  he  had  a  great  mind  to 
try  his  hand  at  a  Spectator,  and  that  he  would  fain 
have  one  of  his  writing  in  my  works.  This  morn¬ 
ing  I  received  from  him  the  following  letter,  which, 
after  having  rectified  some  little  orthographical 
mistakes,  I  shall  make  a  present  of  to  the  public: 

“Dear  Spec., 

“I  was  about  two  nights  ago  in  company  with 
very  agreeable  young  people  of  both  sexes,  where, 
talking  of  some  of  your  papers  which  are  written 
on  conjugal  love,  there  arose  a  dispute  among  us, 
whether  there  was  not  more  bad  husbands  in  the 
world  than  bad  wives.  A  gentleman,  who  was 
advocate  for  the  ladies,  took  this  occasion  to  tell 
us  the  story  of  a  famous  siege  in  Germany,  which 
I  have  since  found  related  in  my  historical  dic¬ 
tionary,  after  the  following  manner:  When  the 
Emperor  Conrade  the  Third  had  besieged  Guel- 
phus,  duke  of  Bavaria,  in  the  city  of  Hensberg, 
the  women,  finding  that  the  town  could  not  possi¬ 
bly  hold  out  long,  petitioned  the  emperor  that 
they  might  depart  out  of  it,  with  so  much  as  each 
of  them  could  carry.  The  emperor,  knovving  that 
they  could  not  convey  away  many  of  their  effects, 
granted  them  their  petition  :  when  the  women,  to 
his  great  surprise,  came  out  of  the  place  with 
every  one  her  husband  upon  her  back.  The  em¬ 
peror  was  so  moved  with  the  sjght,  that  he  burst 
into  tears;  and,  after  having  very  much  extolled  the 
women  for  their  conjugal  affection,  gave  the  men 
to  their  wives,  and  received  the  duke  into  his 
favor. 

“The  ladies  did  not  a  little  triumph  at  this 
story,  asking  us  at  the  same  time,  whether  in  our 
consciences  we  believed  that  the  men  of  any  town 
in  Great  Britain  would,  upon  the  same  offer,  and 
at  the  same  conjuncture,  have  laden  themselves 
with  their  wives;  or  rather,  whether  they  would 
not  have  been  glad  of  such  an  opportunity  to  get 
rid  of  them  ?  To  this  my  very  good  friend,  Tom 
Dapperwit,  who  took  upon  him  to  be  the  mouth 


HE  SPECTATOR. 


of  our  sex  replied  that  they  would  be  very  much 
to  blame  if  they  would  not  do  the  same  good 
office  for  the  women,  considering  that  their 
strength  would  be  greater  and  their  burdens 
lighter.  As  we  were  amusing  ourselves  with 
discourses  of  this  nature,  in  order  to  pass  away 
the  evening,  which  now  begins  to  grow  tedious, 
we  fell  into  that  laudable  and  primitive  diversion 
of  questions  aud  commands.  I  was  no  sooner 
vested  with  the  regal  authority,  but  I  enjoined 
all  the  ladies,  under  pain  of  my  displeasure,  to 
tell  the  company  ingenuously,  in  case  they  had 
been  in  the  siege  above-mentioned,  and  had  the 
same  offers  made  them  as  the  good  women  of  that 
place,  what  every  one  of  them  would  have  brought 
off  with  her,  and  have  thought  most  worth  the 
saving?  There  were  several  merry  answers  made 
to  my  question,  which  entertained  us  till  bed¬ 
time.  This  filled  my  mind  with  such  a  huddle 
of  ideas,  that  upon  my  going  to  sleep,  I  fell  into 
the  following  dream: 

“  I  saw  a  town  of  this  island,  which  shall  be 
nameless,  invested  on  every  side,  and  the  inhabit¬ 
ants  of  it  so  straitened  as  to  cry  for  quarter.  The 
general  refused  any  other  terms  than  those  granted 
to  the  above-mentioned  town  of  Hensberg,  namely, 
that  the  married  women  might  come  out  with  what 
they  could  bring  along  with  them.  Immediately 
the  city  gates  flew  open,  and  a  female  procession 
appeared,  multitudes  of  the  sex  following  one  an¬ 
other  in  a  row,  and  staggering  under  their  respec¬ 
tive  burdens.  I  took  my  stand  upon  an  eminence 
in  the  enemy’s  camp,  which  was  appointed  for  the 
general  rendezvous  of  these  female  carriers,  being 
very  desirous  to  look  into  their  several  ladings. 
The  first  of  them  had  a  huge  sack  upon  her  shoul¬ 
ders,  which  she  set  down  with  great  care.  Upon 
the  opening  of  it,  when  I  expected  to  have  seen 
her  husband  shot  out  of  it,  I  found  it  was  filled 
with  china-ware.  The  next  appeared  in  a  more 
decent  figure,  carrying  a  handsome  young  fellow 
upon  her  back:  I  could  not  forbear  commending 
the  young  woman  for  her  conjugal  affection,  when, 
to  my  great  surprise,  I  found  that  she  had  left  the 
ood  man  at  home  and  brought  away  her  gallant, 
saw  the  third,  at  some  distance,  with  a  little 
withered  face  peeping  over  her  shoulder,  whom  I 
could  not  suspect  for  any  but  her  spouse,  until, 
upon  her  setting  him  down,  I  heard  her  call  him 
dear  pug,  and  found  him  to  be  her  favorite  mon¬ 
key.  A  fourth  brought  a  huge  bale  of  cards  along 
with  her;  and  the  fifth  a  Bolonia  lap-dog;  for  her 
husband,  it  seems,  being  a  very  burly  man,  she 
thought  it  would  be  less  trouble  for  her  to  bring 
away  little  Cupid.  The  next  was  the  wife  of  a 
rich  usurer,  laden  with  a  bag  of  gold;  she  told 
us  that  her  spouse  was  very  old,  and  by  the  course 
of  nature  could  not  expect  to  live  long;  and  that 
to  show  her  tender  regards  for  him,  she  had  saved 
that  which  the  poor  man  loved  better  than  his  life. 
The  next  came  toward  us  with  her  son  upon  her 
back,  who,  we  were  told,  was  the  greatest  rake 
in  the  place,  but  so  much  the  mother’s  darling, 
that  she  left  her  husband  behind  with  a  large 
family  of  hopeful  sons  and  daughters,  for  the 
sake  of  this  graceless  youth. 

“It  would  be  endless  to  mention  the  several 
persons,  with  their  several  loads,  that  appeared  to 
me  in  this  strange  vision.  All  the  place  about  me 
was  covered  with  packs  of  ribbons,  brocades,  em¬ 
broidery,  and  ten  thousand  other  materials,  suffi¬ 
cient  to  have  furnished  a  whole  street  of  toy¬ 
shops.  One  of  the  women,  having  a  husband, 
who  was  none  of  the  heaviest,  was  bringing  him 
off  upon  her  shoulders,  at  the  same  time  that  she 
carried  a  great  bundle  of  Flanders  lace  under  her 
arm:  but  findiug  herself  so  overladen,  that  she 
38 


593 

could  not  save  both  of  them,  she  dropped  „he  good 
man,  and  brought  away  the  bundle.  In  short,  I 
found  but  one  husband  among  this  great  mountain 
of  baggage,  who  was  a  lively  cobbler,  that  kicked 
and  spurred  all  the  while  his  wife  was  carrying 
him  on,  and,  as  it  was  said,  had  scarce  passed  a 
day  in  his  life  without  giving  her  the  discipline 
of  the  strap. 

“I  cannot  conclude  my  letter,  dear  Spec.,  with¬ 
out  telling  thee  one  very  odd  whim  in  this  my 
dream.  I  saw,  methought,  a  dozen  women  em¬ 
ployed  in  bringing  off  one  man;  I  could  not  guess 
who  it  should  be,  until  upon  his  nearer  approach 
I  discovered  thy  short  phiz.  The  women  all  de¬ 
clared  that  it  was  for  the  sake  of  thy  works,  and 
not  thy  person,  that  they  brought  thee  off,  and  that 
it  was  on  condition  that  thou  shouldst  continue 
the  Spectator.  If  thou  thinkest  this  dream  will 
make  a  tolerable  one,  it  is  at  thy  service,  from, 

“Dear  Spec., 

“  Thine,  sleeping  and  waking, 

“Will  Honeycomb.” 

The  ladies  will  see  by  this  letter  what  I  have 
often  told  them,  that  Will  is  one  of  those  old- 
fashioned  men  of  wit  and  pleasure  of  the  town, 
that  shows  his  parts  by  raillery  on  marriage, 
and  one  who  has  often  tried  his  fortune  that  way 
without  success.  I  cannot  however  dismiss  his 
letter,  without  observing,  that  the  true  story  on 
which  it  is  built  does  honor  to  the  sex,  and  that, 
in  order  to  abuse  them,  the  writer  is  obliged  to 
have  recourse  to  dream  and  fiction. 

0. 


Ho.  500.]  FRIDAY,  OCTOBER  3,  1712. 

- - - Hue  natas  adjice  septem, 

Et  totidem  juvenes ;  et  mox  generosque  nurusque. 
Quaerite  nunc,  habeat  quam  nostra  superbia  causam. 

Ovid,  Met.  vi.  182. 

Seven  are  my  daughters  of  a  form  divine, 

With  seven  fair  sons,  an  indefective  line. 

Go,  fools,  consider  this,  and  ask  the  cause, 

From  which  my  pride  its  strong  presumption  draws. 

Croxal. 

“Sir, 

“You,  who  are  so  well  acquainted  with  the 
story  of  Socrates,  must  have  read  how,  upon  his 
making  a  discourse  concerning  love,  he  pressed 
his  point  with  so  much  success,  that  all  the  bach¬ 
elors  in  his  audience  took  a  resolution  to  marry 
by  the  first  opportunity,  and  that  all  the  married 
men  immediately  took  horse,  and  galloped  home 
to  their  wives.  I  am  apt  to  think  your  discourses, 
in  which  you  have  drawn  so  many  agreeable  pic¬ 
tures  of  marriage,  have  had  a  very  good  effect  this 
way  in  England.  We  are  obliged  to  you,  at  least, 
for  having  taken  off  that  senseless  ridicule,  which 
for  many  years  the  witlings  of  the  town  have 
turned  upon  their  fathers  and  mothers.  For  my 
own  part  I  was  born  in  wedlock,  and  I  do  not 
care  who  knows  it;  for  which  reason,  among 
many  others,  I  should  look  upon  myself  as  a 
most  insufferable  coxcomb,  did  I  endeavor  to 
maintain  that  cuckoldom  was  inseparable  from 
marriage,  or  to  make  use  of  husband  and  wife 
as  terms  of  reproach.  Nay,  Sir,  I  will  go  one 
step  further,  and  declare  to  you  before  the  whole 
world,  that  I  am  a  married  man,  and  at  the  same 
time  I  have  so  much  assurance  as  not  to  be  ashamed 
of  what  I  have  done. 

“  Among  the  several  pleasures  that  accompany 
this  state  of  life,  and  which  you  have  described  in 
your  former  papers,  there  are  two  you  have  not 
taken  notice  of,  and  which  are  seldom  cast  into 
the  account,  by  those  who  write  on  this  subject. 
You  must  have  observed,  in  your  speculations  on 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


594 


human  natuie,  that  nothing  is  more  gratifying  to 
the  mind  of  man  than  power  or  dominion;  and 
this  I  think  myself  amply  possessed  of,  as  I  am 
the  father  of  a  family.  I  am  perpetually  taken  up 
in  giving  out  orders,  in  prescribing  duties,  in  hear¬ 
ing  parties,  in  administering  justice,  and  in  dis¬ 
tributing  rewards  and  punishments.  To  speak  in 
the  language  of  the  centurion,  I  say  unto  one.  Go, 
and  he  goeth;  and  to  another,  Come,  and  he  cometh; 
and  to  my  servant,  Do  this,  and  he  doeth  it.  In 
short,  Sir,  I  look  upon  my  family  as  a  patriarchal 
sovereignty,  in  which  I  am  myself  both  king  and 
riest.  All  great  governments  are  nothing  else 
ut  clusters  of  these  little  private  royalties,  and 
therefore  I  consider  the  masters  of  families  as 
small  deputy-governors  presiding  over  the  several 
little  parcels  and  divisions  of  their  fellow-subjects. 
As  I  take  great  pleasure  in  the  administration  of 
my  government  in  particular,  so  I  look  upon  my¬ 
self  not  only  as  a  more  useful,  but  as  a  much 
greater  and  happier  man  than  any  bachelor  in 
England,  of  my  own  rank  and  condition. 

“  There  is  another  accidental  advantage  in  mar¬ 
riage,  which  has  likewise  fallen  to  my  share;  I 
mean  the  having  a  multitude  of  children.  These 
I  cannot  but  regard  as  very  great  blessings.  When 
I  see  my  little  troop  before  me,  I  rejoice  in  the 
additions  which  I  have  made  to  my  species,  to 
my  country,  and  to  my  religion,  in  having  pro¬ 
duced  such  a  number  of  reasonable  creatures,  citi¬ 
zens,  and  Christians.  I  am  pleased  to  see  myself 
thus  perpetuated;  and  as  there  is  no  production 
comparable  to  that  of  a  human  creature,  I  am 
more  proud  of  having  been  the  occasion  of  ten 
such  glorious  productions,  than  if  I  had  built  a 
hundred  pyramids  at  my  own  expense,  or  pub¬ 
lished  as  many  volumes  of  the  finest  wit  and 
learning.  In  what  a  beautiful  light  has  the  holy 
Scripture  represented  Abdon,  one  of  the  judges  of 
Israel,  who  had  forty  sons  and  thirty  grandsons, 
that  rode  on  threescore  and  ten  ass-colts,  accord¬ 
ing  to  the  magnificence  of  the  eastern  countries! 
How  must  the  heart  of  the  old  man  rejoice  when 
he  saw  such  a  beautiful  procession  of  his  own 
descendants,  such  a  numerous  cavalcade  of  his 
own  raising!  For  my  own  part,  I  can  sit  in  my 
parlor  with  great  content,  when  I  take  a  review 
of  half-a-dozen  of  my  little  boys  mounting  upon 
hobby-horses,  and  of  as  many  little  girls  tutoring 
their  babies,  each  of  them  endeavoring  to  excel 
the  rest,  and  to  do  something  that  may  gain  my 
favor  and  approbation.  I  cannot  question  but  he 
who  has  blessed  me  with  so  many  children  will 
assist  my  endeavors  in  providing  for  them.  There 
is  one  thing  I  am  able  to  give  each  of  them,  which 
is  a  virtuous  education.  I  think  it  is  Sir  Francis 
Bacon’s  observation,  that  in  a  numerous  family  of 
children,  the  eldest  is  often  spoiled  by  the  pros¬ 
pect  of  an  estate,  and  the  youngest  by  being  the 
darling  of  the  parent;  but  that  som,e  other  in  the 
middle,  who  has  not  perhaps  been  regarded,  has 
made  his  way  into  the  world,  and  overtopped  the 
rest.  It  is  my  business  to  implant  in  every  one 
of  my  children  the  same  seeds  of  industry,  and 
the  same  honest  principles.  By  this  means,  I 
think  I  have  a  fair  chance,  that  one  or  other  of 
them  may  grow  considerable  in  some  or  other  way 
of  life,  whether  it  be  in  the  army  or  in  the  fleet,  in 
trade  or  in  any  of  the  three  learned  professions; 
for  you  must  know,  Sir,  that  from  long  experience 
and  observation,  I  am  persuaded  of  what  seems  a 
paradox  to  most  of  those  with  whom  I  converse, 
namely,  that  a  man  who  has  many  children,  and 
gives  them  a  good  education,  is  more  likely  to 
raise  a  family,  than  he  who  has  but  one,  notwith¬ 
standing  he  leaves  him  his  whole  estate.  For  this 
reason,  I  cannot  forbear  amusing  myself  with  find¬ 


ing  out  a  general,  an  admiral,  or  an  alderman  of 
London,  a  divine,  a  physician,  or  a  lawyer,  among 
my  little  people  who  are  now  perhaps  in  petti¬ 
coats;  and  when  I  see  the  motherly  airs  of  my 
little  daughters  when  they  are  playing  with  their 
uppets,  I  cannot  but  flatter  my  sell  that  their  hus- 
anas  and  children  will  be  happy  in  the  posses¬ 
sion  of  such  wives  and  mothers. 

“  If  you  are  a  father,  you  will  not,  perhaps, 
think  this  letter  impertinent;  but  if  you  are  a 
single  man,  you  will  not  know  the  meaning  of  it, 
and  probably  throw  it  into  the  fire.  Whatever 
you  determine  of  it,  you  may  assure  yourself  that 
it  comes  from  one  who  is 

“  Your  most  humble  Servant,  and  Well-wisher, 
0.  “  Philogamus.” 


No.  501.]  SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  4,  1712. 

Durum.  Sed  levins  fit  patientia 

Quicquid  corrigere  est  nefas. — Hor.  1  Od.  xxiv.  19. 

’Tis  hard :  hut  when  we  needs  must  hear, 

Enduring  patience  makes  the  burden  light. — Creech. 

As  some  of  the  finest  compositions  among  the 
ancients  are  in  allegory,  I  have  endeavored,  in 
several  of  my  papers,  to  revive  that  way  of  wri¬ 
ting,  and  hope  I  have  not  been  altogether  unsuc¬ 
cessful  in  it;  for  I  find  there  is  always  a  great 
demand  for  those  particular  papers,  and  cannot 
but  observe  that  several  authors  have  endeavored 
of  late  to  excel  in  works  of  this  nature.  Among 
these,  I  do  not  know  any  one  who  has  succeeded 
better  than  a  very  ingenious  gentleman,  to  whom 
I  am  obliged  for  the  following  piece,  and  who  was 
the  author  of  the  vision  in  the  460th  paper:  0. 

“  How  are  we  tortured  with  the  absence  of  what 
we  covet  to  possess,  when  it  appears  to  be  lost  to 
us!  What  excursions  does  the  soul  make  in  im¬ 
agination  after  it!  and  how  does  it  turn  into  itself 
again,  more  foolishly  fond  and  dejected  at  the  dis¬ 
appointment  !  Our  grief,  instead  of  having  re¬ 
course  to  reason,  which  might  restrain  it,  searches 
to  find  a  further  nourishment.  It  calls  upon 
memory  to  relate  the  several  passages  and  cir¬ 
cumstances  of  satisfaction  which  we  formerly  en¬ 
joyed;  the  pleasures  we  purchased  by  those  riches 
that  are  taken  from  us;  or  the  power  and  splendor 
of  our  departed  honors,  or  the  voice,  the  words, 
the  looks,  the  temper,  and  affections,  of  our  friends 
that  are  deceased.  It  needs  must  happen  from 
hence  that  the  passion  should  often  swell  to  such 
a  size  as  to  burst  the  heart  which  contains  it,  if 
time  did  not  make  these  circumstances  less  strong 
and  lively,  so  that  reason  should  become  a  more 
equal  match  for  the  passion,  or  if  another  desire 
which  becomes  more  present  did  not  overpower 
them  with  a  livelier  representation.  These  are 
thoughts  which  I  had  when  I  fell  into  a  kind  of 
vision  upon  this  subject,  and  may  therefore  stand 
for  a  proper  introduction  to  a  relation  of  it. 

“I  found  myself  upon  a  naked  shore,  with  com¬ 
pany  whose  afflicted  countenances  witnessed  their 
conditions.  Before  us  flowed  a  water,  deep,  silent, 
and  called  the  River  of  Tears,  which,  issuing  from 
two  fountains  on  an  upper  ground,  encompassed 
an  island  that  lay  before  us.  The  boat  which 
plied  in  it  was  old  and  shattered,  having  been 
sometimes  overset  by  the  impatience  and  haste  of 
single  passengers  to  arrive  at  the  other  side.  This 
immediately  was  brought  to  us  by  Misfortune  who 
steers  it,  and  we  were  all  preparing  to  take  our 
places,  when  there  appeared  a  woman  of  a  mild 
and  composed  behavior,  who  began  to  deter  us 
from  it,  by  representing  the  dangers  which  would 
attend  our  voyage.  Hereupon  some  who  knew 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


her  for  Patience,  and  some  of  those,  too,  who 
until  then  cried  the  loudest,  were  persuaded  by 
her,  and  returned  back.  The  rest  of  us  went  in, 
and  she  (whose  good-nature  would  not  suffer  her 
to  forsake  persons  in  trouble)  desired  leave  to 
accompany  us,  that  she  might  at  least  administer 
some  small  comfort  or  advice  while  we  sailed. 
We  were  no  sooner  embarked  but  the  boat  was 
pushed  off,  the  sheet  was  spread;  and  being  filled 
■with  sighs,  which  are  the  winds  of  that  country, 
we  made  a  passage  to  the  further  bank,  through 
several  difficulties  of  which  the  most  of  us  seemed 
utterly  regardless. 

“When  we  landed,  we  perceived  the  island  to 
be  strangely  overcast  with  fogs,  which  no  bright¬ 
ness  could  pierce,  so  that  a  kind  of  gloomy  horror 
sat  always  brooding  over  it.  This  had  something 
in  it  very  shocking  to  easy  tempers,  insomuch  that 
some  others  whom  Patience  had  by  this  time  gained 
over,  left  us  here,  and  privily  conveyed  themselves 
round  the  ver?e  of  the  island,  to  find  a  ford  by 
which  she  tola  them  they  might  escape. 

For  my  part,  I  still  went  along  with  those 
who  were  for  piercing  into  the  center  of  the  place- 
and  joining  ourselves  to  others  whom  we  found 
upon  the  same  journey,  we  marched  solemnly  as 
at  a  funeial,  through  bordering  hedges  of  rose¬ 
mary  and  through  a  grove  of  yew  trees,  which 
love  to  overshadow  tombs  and  flourish  in  church¬ 
yards.  Here  we  heard  on  every  side  the  wailings 
and  complaints  of  several  of  the  inhabitants,  wlio 
bad  cast  themselves  disconsolately  at  the  feet  of 
trees ;  and  as  we  chanced  to  approach  any  of 
these,  we  might  perceive  them  wringing  their 
hands,  beating  their  breasts,  tearing  their  hair 
or  after  some  other  manner  visibly  agitated  with 
vexation.  Our  sorrows  were  heightened  by  the 
influence  of  what  we  heard  and  saw,  and  one  of 
our  number  was- wrought  up  to  such  a  pitch  of 
wildness,  as  to  talk  of  hanging  himself  upon  a 
bough  which  shot  temptingly  across  the  path  we 
traveled  in;  but  he  was  restrained  from  it  by 
the  kind  endeavors  of  our  above-mentioned  com¬ 
panion. 

“We  had  now  gotten  into  the  most  dusky 
silent  part  of  the  island,  and  by  the  redoubled 
sounds  of  sighs,  which  made  a  doleful  whistling 
in  the  branches,  the  thickness  of  air,  which  occa* 
sioned  faintish  respiration,  and  the  violent  throb- 
bings  of  heart,  which  more  and  more  affected  us, 
we  found  that  we  approached  the  Grotto  of  Grief. 

It  was  a  wide,  hollow  and  melancholy  cave,  sunk 
deep  in  a  dale,  and  watered  by  rivulets  that  had  a 
color  between  red  and  black.  These  crept  slow 
and  half  congealed  among  its  windings,  and 
mixed  their  heavy  murmurs  with  the  echo  of 
groans  that  rolled  through  all  the  passages.  In 
the  most  retired  parts  of  it  sat  the  doleful  being 
herself;  the  path  to  her  was  strewed  with  goads 
stings,  and  thorns;  and  her  throne  on  which  she 
sat  was  broken  into  a  rock,  with  ragged  pieces 
pointing  upward  for  her  to  lean  upon.  A  heavy 
mist  hung  above  her:  her  head  oppressed  with  it 
reclined  upon  her  arm.  Thus  did  she  reign  over 
her  disconsolate  subjects,  full  of  herself  to  stu¬ 
pidity,  m  eternal  pensiveness,  and  the  profoundest 
silence.  On  one  side  of  her  stood  Dejection  just 
dropping  into  a  swoon,  and  Paleness  wastino-  to  a 
skeleton;  on  the  other  side  where  Care  inwardly 
tormented  with  imaginations,  and  Anguish  suf¬ 
fering  outward  troubles  to  suck  the  blood  from  her 
heart  in  the  shape  of  vultures.  The  whole  vault 
had  a  genuine  dismalness  in  it,  which  a  few  scat¬ 
tered  lamps,  whose  bluish  flames  arose  and  sunk 
m  their  urns,  discovered  to  our  eyes  with  increase, 
some  of  us  fell  down,  overcome  and  spent  with 
*hat  they  suffered  in  the  way,  and  were  given 


595 


over  to  those  tormentors  that  stood  on  either  hand 
o  .  c  presence;  others,  galled  and  mortified  with 
pam,  recovered  the  entrance,  where  Patience,  whom 
We«  w-  behind)  was  still  waiting  to  receive  us. 

With  her  (whose  company  was  now  become 
more  grateful  to  us  by  the  want  we  had  found  of 
her)  we  winded  round  the  grotto,  and  ascended  at 
the  back  of  it,  out  of  the  mournful  dale  in  whose 
bottom  it  lay.  On  this  eminence  we  halted  by  her 
advice,  to  pant  for  breath;  and  lifting  our  eyes 
which  until  then  were  fixed  downward,  felt  a  sul¬ 
len  sort  of  satisfaction,  in  observing  through  the 
shades  what  numbers  had  entered  the  island.  This 
satisfaction,  which  appears  to  have  ill-nature  in  it 
was  excusable,  because  it  happened  at  a  time  when 
we  weie  too  much  taken  up  with  our  own  concern 
to  have  respect  to  that  of  others;  and  therefore  we 
did  not  consider  them  as  suffering,  but  ourselves 
as  not  suffering  in  the  most  forlorn  estate.  It  had 
also  the  groundwork  of  humanity  and  compassion 
in  it,  though  the  mind  was  too  dark  and  too  deeply 
engaged  to  perceive  it;  but  as  we  proceeded  on¬ 
ward,  it  began  to  discover  itself,  and,  from  ob¬ 
serving  that  others  were  unhappy,  we  came  to 
question  one  another,  when  it  was  that  we  met 
and  what  were  the  sad  occasions  that  broug]^,  us* 
together.  Then  we  heard  our  stories,  we  com¬ 
pared  them,  we  mutually  gave  and  received  pity 
and  so  by  degrees  became  tolerable  company. 

A.  considerable  part  of  the  troublesome  road 
was  thus  deceived;  at  length  the  openings  among 
the  trees  grew  larger,  the  air  seemed  thinner,  it 
lay  with  less  oppression  upon  us,  and  we  could 
now  and  then  discern  tracks  in  it  of  a  lighter  gray- 
ness,  like  thebreakings  of  day,  short  in  duration, 
much  enlivening,  and  called  in  that  country  gleams 
of  amusement.  Within  a  short  while,  these  gleams 
began  to  appear  more  frequent,  and  then  brighter 
and  of  a  longer  continuance;  the  sighs  that  hith¬ 
erto  filled  the  air  with  so  much  dolefulness,  altered 
to  the  sound  of  common  breezes,  and  in  general  the 
horrors  of  the  island  were  abated. 

“  When  we  had  arrived  at  last  at  the  ford  by 
winch  we  were  to  pass  out,  we  met  with  those 
tashionable  mourners  who  had  been  ferried  over 
along  with  us,  and,  who  being  unwilling  to  go  as 
far  as  we  had  coasted  by  the  shore  to  find  the  place 
where  they  waited  our  coming;  that  by  showing 
themselves  to  the  world  only  at  the  time  when  we 
did,  they  might  seem  also  to  have  been  among 
the  troubles  of  the  grotto.  Here  the  waters  that 
roiled  on  the  other  side  so  deep  and  silent,  were 
much  dried  up,  and  it  was  an  easier  matter  for  us 
to  wade  over. 

“  The  river  being  crossed,  we  were  received  upon 
the  further  bank  by  our  friends  and  acquaintance, 
whom  Comfort  had  brought  out  to  congratulate  our 
appearance  in  the  world  again.  Some  of  these 
blamed  us  for  staying  so  long  away  from  them, 
others  advised  us  against  all  temptations  of  going 
back  again;  every  one  was  cautious  not  to  renew 
our  trouble,  by  asking  any  particulars  of  the  jour¬ 
ney;  and  all  concluded  that,  in  a  case  of  so  much 
melancholy  and  affliction,  we  could  not  have  made 
choice  of  a  fitter  companion  than  Patience.  Here 
Patience,  appearing  serene  at  her  praises,  delivered 
us  over  to  Comfort.  Comfort  smiled  at  his  receiv¬ 
ing  the  charge;  immediately  the  sky  purpled  on 
that  side  to  which  he  turned,  and  double  day  at 
once  broke  in  upon  me.” 


596 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


No.  502.]  MONDAY,  OCTOBER  6,  1712. 

Melius,  pejus,  prosit,  obsit,  nil  vident,  nisi  quod  lubet. 

Ter.  Heaut.  act  iv.  sc.  1. 

Better  or  worse,  profitable  or  disadvantageous,  they  see  noth¬ 
ing  but  what  they  list. 

When  men  read,  they  taste  the  matter  with 
which  they  are  entertained,  according  as  their  own 
respective  studies  and  inclinations  have  prepared 
them,  and  make  their  reflections  accordingly. 
Some,  perusing  Roman  writers,  would  find  in 
them,  whatever  the  subject  of  the  discourses  were, 
parts  which  implied  the  grandeur  of  that  people 
in  their  warfare,  or  their  politics.  As  for  my  part, 
who  am  a  mere  Spectator,  I  drew  this  morning 
conclusions  of  their  eminence  in  what  I  think 
great,  to  wit:  in  having  worthy  sentiments,  from 
the  reading  a  comedy  of  Terence.  The  play  was 
the  Self-Tormentor .  It  is  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  a  perfect  picture  of  human  life,  but  I  did  not 
observe  in  the  whole  one  passage  that  could  raise 
a  laugh.  How  well  disposed  must  that  people  be 
who  could  be  entertained  with  satisfaction  by  so 
sober  and  polite  mirth  !  In  the  first  scene  of  the 
comedy,  when  one  of  the  old  men  accuses  the 
other  of  impertinence  for  interposing  in  his  affairs, 
he  answers,  “I  am  a  man,  and  cannot  help  feeling 
any  sorrow  that  can  arrive  at  man.”*  It  is  said 
this  sentence  was  received  with  a  universal  ap¬ 
plause.  There  cannot  be  a  greater  argument  of 
the  general  good  understanding  of  a  people,  than 
a  sudden  consent  to  give  their  approbation  of  a 
sentiment  which  has  no  emotion  in  it.  If  it  were 
spoken  with  never  so  great  skill  in  the  actor,  the 
manner  of  uttering  that  sentence  could  have  noth¬ 
ing  in  it  which  could  strike  any  but  people  of  the 
greatest  humanity,  nay  people  elegant  and  skillful 
in  observations  upon  it.  It  is  possible  he  might 
have  laid  his  hand  on  his  breast,  and,  with  a  win¬ 
ning  insinuation  in  his  countenance,  expressed  to 
his  neighbor  that  he  was  a  man  who  made  his  case 
his  own;  yet  I  will  engage  a  player  in  Covent- 
garden  might  hit  such  an  attitude  a  thousand 
times  before  he  would  have  been  regarded.  I  have 
heard  that  a  minister  of  state  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  had  all  manner  of  books  and  ballads 
brought  to  him  of  what  kind  soever,  and  took 
great  notice  how  much  they  took  with  the  people; 
upon  which  he  would,  and  certainly  might,  very 
well  judge  of  their  present  dispositions,  and  the 
most  proper  way  of  applying  them  according  to 
his  own  purposes.  What  passes  on  the  stage,  and 
the  reception  it  meets  with  from  the  audience,  is  a 
very useful  instruction  of  this  kind.  According 
to  what  you  may  observe  there  on  our  stage,  you 
see  them  often  moved  so  directly  against  all  com¬ 
mon  sense  and  humanity,  that  you  would  be  apt 
to  pronounce  us  a  nation  of  savages.  It  cannot 
be  called  a  mistake  of  what  is  pleasant,  but  the 
very  contrary  to  it  is  what  most  assuredly  takes 
with  them.  The  other  night  an  old  woman  carried 
off  with  a  pain  in  her  side,  with  all  the  distortions 
and  anguish  of  countenance  which  is  natural  to 
one  in  that  condition,  was  laughed  and  clapped  off 
the  stage.  Terence’s  comedy,  which  I  am  speaking 
of,  is  indeed  written  as  if  he  hoped  to  please  none 
but  such  as  had  as  good  a  taste  as  himself.  I  could 
not  but  reflect  upon  the  natural  description  of  the 
innocent  young  woman  made  by  the  servant  to  his 
master.  ‘‘When  I  came  to  the  house,”  said  he, 
“  an  old  woman  opened  the  door,  and  I  followed 
her  in,  because  I  could,  by  entering  upon  them 
unawares,  better  observe  what  was  your  mistress’ 
ordinary  manner  of  spending  her  time,  the  only 

*  Homo  sum,  et  nihil  humanum  a  me  alienum  puto. 

I  am  a  man ;  and  all  calamities, 

That  touch  humanity,  come  home  to  me. — Colman. 


way  of  judging  any  one’s  inclinations  and  genius. 

I  found  her  at  her  needle  in  a  sort  of  second  mourn¬ 
ing,  which  she  wore  for  an  aunt  she  had  lately 
lost.  She  had  nothing  on  but  what  showed  she 
dressed  only  for  herself.  Her  hair  hung  negli¬ 
gently  about  her  shoulders.  She  had  none  of  the 
arts  with  which  others  used  to  set  themselves  off, 
but  had  that  negligence  of  person  which  is  re¬ 
markable  in  those  who  are  careful  of  their  minds. 
Then  she  had  a  maid  who  was  at  work  near  her 
that  was  a  slattern,  because  her  mistress  was  care¬ 
less;  which  I  take  to  be  another  argument  of  your 
security  in  her;  for  the  go-betweens  of  women  of 
intrigue  are  rewarded  too  well  to  be  dirty.  When 
you  were  named,  and  I  told  her  you  desired  to  see 
her,  she  threw  down  her  work  for  joy,  covered  her 
face,  and  decently  hid  her  tears.”  He  must  be  a 
very  good  actor,  and  draw  attention  rather  from 
his  own  character  than  the  words  of  the  author, 
that  could  gain  it  among  us  for  this  speech,  though 
so  full  of  nature  and  good  sense. 

The  intolerable  folly  and  confidence  of  players 
putting  in  words  of  their  own,  does  in  a  great 
measure  feed  the  absurd  taste  of  the  audience. 
But  however  that  is,  it  is  ordinary  for  a  cluster  of 
coxcombs  to  take  up  the  house  to  themselves,  and 
equally  insult  both  the  actors  and  the  company. 
These  savages,  who  want  all  manner  of  regard 
and  deference  to  the  rest  of  mankind,  come  only  to 
show  themselves  to  us,  without  any  other  purpose 
than  to  let  us  know  they  despise  us. 

The  gross  of  an  audience  is  composed  of  two 
sorts  of  people,  those  who  know  no  pleasure  but 
of  the  body,  and  those  who  improve  or  command 
corporeal  pleasures,  by  the  addition  of  fine  senti¬ 
ments  of  their  mind.  At  present  the  intelligent 
part  of  the  company  are  wholly  subdued  by  the 
insurrections  of  those  who  know  no  satisfactions 
but  what  they  have  in  common  with  all  other  ani¬ 
mals. 

This  is  the  reason  that  when  a  scene  tending  to 
procreation  is  acted,  you  see  the  whole  pit  in  such 
a  chuckle,  and  old  lechers,  with  mouths  open,  stare 
at  the  loose  gesticulations  on  the  stage  with  shame¬ 
ful  earnestness;  when  the  justest  pictures  of  human 
life  in  its  calm  dignity,  and  the  properest  senti¬ 
ments  for  the  conduct  of  it,  pass  by  like  mere 
narration,  as  conducing  only  to  somewhat  much 
better  which  is  to  come  after.  I  have  seen  the 
whole  house  at  some  times  in  so  proper  a  disposi¬ 
tion,  that  indeed  I  have  trembled  for  the  boxes, 
and  feared  tlie  entertainment  would  end  in  the 
representation  of  the  rape  of  the  Sabines. 

I  would  not  be  understood  in  this  talk  to  argue 
that  nothing  is  tolerable  on  the  stage  but.  what  has 
an  immediate  tendency  to  the  promotion  of  virtue. 
On  the  contrary,  I  can  allow,  provided  there  is 
nothing  against  the  interests  of  virtue,  and  is  not 
offensive  to  good  manners,  that  things  of  an  indif¬ 
ferent  nature  may  be  represented.  For  this  reason 
I  have  no  exception  to  the  well-drawn  rusticities 
in  the  Country  Wake;  and  there  is  something  so 
miraculously  pleasant  in  Dogget’s  acting  the  awk¬ 
ward  triumph  and  comic  sorrow  of  Hob  in  dif¬ 
ferent  circumstances,  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
stay  away  whenever  it  is  acted.  All  that  vexes  me 
is,  that  the  gallantry  of  taking  the  cudgels  for 
Gloucestershire,  with  the  pride  of  heart  in  tucking 
himself  up,  and  taking  aim  at  his  adversary,  as 
well  as  the  other’s  protestation  in  the  humanity  of 
low  romance,  that  he  could  not  promise  the  ’squire 
to  break  Hob’s  head,  but  he  would,  if  he  could,  do 
it  in  love;  then  flourish  and  begin:  I  say  what 
vexes  me  is,  that  such  excellent  touches  as  these, 
as  well  as  the  ’squire’s  being  out  of  all  patience 
at  Hob’s  success,  and  venturing  himself  into  the 
crowd,  are  circumstances  hardly  taken  notice  of, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


597 


and  the  height  of  the  jest  is  only  in  the  very  point 
that  heads  are  broken.  I  am  confident  were  there 
a  scene  written,  wherein  Penkethman  should  break 
his  leg  by  wrestling  with  Bullock,  and  Dicky  come 
in  to  set  it,  without  one  word  said  but  what  should 
be  according  to  the  exact  rules  of  surgery  in  mak¬ 
ing  this  extension,  and  binding  up  the  leg,  the 
whole  house  should  be  in  a  roar  of  applause  at  the 
dissembled  anguish  of  the  patient,  the  help  given 
by  him  who  threw  him  down,  and  the  handy  ad¬ 
dress  and  arch  looks  of  the  surgeon.  To  enu¬ 
merate  the  entrance  of  ghosts,  the  embattling  of 
armies,  the  noise  of  heroes  in  love,  with  a  thou¬ 
sand  other  enormities,  would  be  to  transgress  the 
bounds  of  this  paper,  for  which  reason  it  is  possi¬ 
ble  they  may  have  hereafter  distinct  discourses: 
not  forgetting  any  of  the  audience  who  shall  set 
up  for  actors,  and  interrupt  the  play  on  the  stage; 
and  players  who  shall  prefer  the  applause  of  fools, 
to  that  of  the  reasonable  part  of  the  company. — T. 

POSTSCRIPT  TO  SPECTATOR,  NO.  502. 

H.  B.  There  are  in  the  play  of  the  Self-Tormen¬ 
tor  of  Terence,  which  is  allowed  a  most  excellent 
comedy,  several  incidents  which  would  draw  tears 
from  any  man  of  sense,  and  not  one  which  would 
move  his  laughter. — Spec,  in  folio,  No.  521. 

This  speculation,  No.  502,  is  controverted  in  the 
Guard,  No.  59,  by  a  writer  under  the  fictitious 
name  of  John  Lizard;  perhaps  Dr.  Edw.  Young. 


No.  503.]  TUESDAY,  OCTOBER  7,  1712. 

— Delo  omnes  dehinc  ex  animo  mulieres. 

Ter.  Eun.  act.  ii.  gc.  3. 

From  henceforward  I  blot  out  of  my  thoughts  all  memory 
of  womankind.  J 

u  Mr.  Spectator, 

“You  haye  often  mentioned  with  great  vehe¬ 
mence  and  indignation  the  misbehavior  of  people 
at  church  but  I  am  at  present  to  talk  to  you  on 
that  subject,  and  complain  to  you  of  one,  whom  at 
the  same  time  I  know  not  what  to  accuse  of,  ex¬ 
cept  it  be  looking  too  well  there,  and  diverting  the 
eyes  of  the  congregation  to  that  one  object.  How¬ 
ever,  I  have  this  to  say,  that  she  might  have 
stayed  at  her  own  parish,  and  not  come  to  perplex 
those  who  are  otherwise  intent  upon  their  duty. 

“Last  Sunday  was  sevennight  I  went  into  a 
church  not  far  from  London-bridge ;  but  I  wish  I 
had  been  contented  to  go  to  my  own  parish,  I  am 
sure  it  had  been  better  for  me  ;  I  say  I  went  to 
church  thither,  and  got  into  a  pew  very  near  the 
pulpit.  I  had  hardly  been  accommodated  with  a 
seat,  before  there  entered  into  the  aisle  a  younc 
hidy  in  the  very  bloom  of  youth  and  beauty,  and 
dressed  in  the  most  elegant  manner  imaginable. 
Her  form  was  such  that  it  engaged  the  eyes  of  the 
whole  congregation  in  an  instant,  and  mine  amono- 
the  rest.  Though  we  were  all  thus  fixed  upon 
her,  she  was  not  in  the  least  out  of  countenance, 
or  under  the  least  disorder,  though  unattended  by 
any  one,  and  not  seeming  to  know  particularly 
where  to  place  herself.  However,  she  had  not  in 
the  least  a  confident  aspect,  but  moved  on  with 
the  most  graceful  modesty,  every  one  making  way 
until  she  came  to  a  seat  just  over  against  that  in 
which  I  was  placed.  The  deputy  of  the  ward  sat  ’ 
in  that  pew,  and  she  stood  opposite  to  him,  and 
it  a  glance  into  the  seat,  though  she  did  not  ap¬ 
pear  the  least  acquainted  with  the  gentleman, 
was  let  in,  with  a  confusion  that  spoke  much 
idnuration  at  the  novelty  of  the  thing.  The 
service  immediately  began,  and  she  composed 
aerself  for  it  with  an  air  of  so  much  goodness  and  ■ 


sweetness,  that  the  confession  which  she  uttered, 
so  as  to  be  heard  where  I  sat,  appeared  an  act  of 
humiliation  more  than  she  had  occasion  for.  The 
tiuth  is,  her  beauty  had  something  so  innocent, 
and  yet  so  sublime,  that  we  all  gazed  upon  her 
like  a  phantom.  None  of  the  pictures  which  we 
behold  of  the  best  Italian  painters  have  anything 
like  the  spirit  which  appeared  in  her  countenance, 
at  the  different  sentiments  expressed  in  the  several 
parts  of  Divine  service.  That  gratitude  and  joy 
at  a  thanksgiving,  that  lowliness  and  sorrow  at 
the  prayers  for  the  sick  and  distressed,  that  tri¬ 
umph  at  the  passages  which  gave  instances  of  the 
Divine  mercy,  which  appeared  respectively  in  her 
aspect,  will  be  in  my  memory  to  my  last  hour.  I 
protest  to  you,  Sir,  she  suspended  the  devotion  of 
every  one  dtound  her  ;  and  the  ease  she  did  every¬ 
thing  with  soon  dispersed  the  churlish  dislike  and 
hesitation  in  approving  what  is  excellent,  too  fre¬ 
quent  among  us,  to  a  general  attention  and  enter¬ 
tainment  in  observing  her  behavior.  All  the 
while  that  we  were  gazing  at  her,  she  took  notice 
of  no  object  about  her,  but  had  an  art  of  seemino- 
awkwardly  attentive,  whatever  else  her  eyes  were 
accidentally  thrown  upon.  One  thing,  indeed, 
was  particular,  she  stood  the  whole  service,  and 
never  kneeled  or  sat :  I  do  not  question  but  that 
was  to  show  herself  with  the  greater  advantage, 
and  set  forth  to  better  grace  her  hands  and  arms, 
lifted  up  with  the  most  ardent  devotion  ;  and  her 
bosom,  the  fairest  that  ever  was  seen,  bare  to  ob¬ 
servation  ;  while  she,  you  must  think,  knew  no¬ 
thing  of  the  concern  she  gave  others,  any  other 
than  as  an  example  of  devotion,  that  threw  herself 
out,  without  regard  to  dress  or  garment,  all  con- 
trition,  and  loose  of  all  worldly  regards,  in  ecstasy 
of(devotion.  Well;  now  the  organ  was  to  play 
a  voluntary,  and  she  was  so  skillful  in  music,  and 
so  touched  with  it,  that  she  kept  time  not  only 
with  some  motion  of  her  head,  but  also  with  a 
different  air  in  her  countenance.  When  the  music 
was  strong  and  bold,  she  looked  exalted,  but  seri¬ 
ous  ;  when  lively  and  airy,  she  was  smiling  and 
gracious  ;  when  the  notes  were  more  soft  and  lan¬ 
guishing,  she  was  kind  and  full  of  pity.  When 
she  had  now  made  it  visible  to  the  whole  congre¬ 
gation,  by  her  motion  and  ear,  that  she  could 
dance,  and  she  wanted  now  only  to  inform  us  that 
she  could  sing  too  ;  when  the  psalm  was  given 
out,  her  voice  was  distinguished  above  all  the  rest, 
or  rather  people  did  not  exert  their  own,  in  order 
to  hear  her.  Never  was  any  heard  so  sweet  and 
so  strong.  The  organist  observed  it,  and  he 
thought  fit  to  play  to  her  only,  and  she  swelled 
every  note,  when  she  found  she  had  thrown  us  all 
out,  and  had  the  last  verse  to  herself  in  such  a 
manner  as  the  whole  congregation  was  intent 
upon  her,  in  the  same  manner  as  you  see  in  the 
cathedrals  they  are  on  the  person  who  sings  alone 
the  anthem.  Well ;  it  came  at  last  to  the  sermon, 
arid  our  young  lady  would  not  lose  her  part  in 
that  either;  for  she  fixed  her  eye  upon  the  preacher, 

a?T,fS  I16  Sa^  anything  she  approved,  with  one 
of  Charles  Mather’s  fine  tablets  she  set  down  the 
sentence,  at  once  showing  her  fine  hand,  the  gold 
pen,  her  readiness  in  writing,  and  her  judgment 
in  choosing  what  to  write.  To  sum  up  what  I 
intend  by  this  long  and  particular  account,  I  mean 
to  appeal  to  you,  whether  it  is  reasonable  that 
such  a  creature  as  this  shall  come  from  a  jaunty 
part  of  the  town,  and  give  herself  such  violent 
airs,  to  the  disturbance  of  an  innocent  and  inoffen¬ 
sive  congregation,  with  her  sublimities.  The  fact, 

I  assure  you,  was  as  I  have  related  :  but  I  had 
like  to  have  forgot  another  very  considerable  par¬ 
ticular.  As  soon  as  church  was  done,  she  imme¬ 
diately  stepped  out  of  her  pew,  and  fell  into  the 


598 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


finest  pitty-patty  air,  forsooth,  wonderfully  out  of 
countenance,  tossing  her  head  up  and  down,  as 
she  swam  along  the  body  of  the  church.  I,  with 
several  others  of  the  inhabitants,  followed  her  out, 
and  saw  her  hold  up  her  fan  to  a  hackney  coach 
at  a  distance,  who  immediately  came  up  to  her, 
and  she  whipped  into  it  with  great  nimbleness, 
ulled  the  door  with  a  bowing  mien,  as  if  she  had 
een  used  to  a  better  glass.  She  said  aloud,  ‘  You 
know  where  to  go,’  and  drove  off.  By  this  time 
the  best  of  the  congregation  was  at  the  church- 
door,  and  I  could  hear  some  say,  ‘A  very  fine 
lady  ;’  others,  ‘  I’ll  warrant  you,  she  is  no  better 
than  she  should  be  ;’  and  one  very  wise  old  lady 
said,  ‘she  ought  to  have  been  taken  up.’  Mr. 
Spectator,  I  think  this  matter  lies  wholly  before 
you  :  for  the  offense  does  not  come  umfer  any  law, 
though  it  is  apparent  this  creature  came  among  us 
only  to  give  herself  airs,  and  enjoy  her  full  swing 
in  being  admired.  I  desire  you  will  print  this, 
that  she  may  be  confined  to  her  own  parish  ;  for 
I  can  assure  you  there  is  no  attending  anything 
else  in  a  place  where  she  is  a  novelty.  She  has 
been  talked  of  among  us  ever  since,  under  the 
name  of  ‘  the  phantom  :’  but  I  would  advise  her 
to  come  no  more  ;  for  there  is  so  strong  a  party 
made  by  the  women  against  her,  that  she  must 
expect  they  will  not  be  excelled  a  second  time  in 
so  outrageous  a  manner,  without  doing  her  some 
insult.  Young  women,  who  assume  after  this 
rate,  and  affect  exposing  themselves  to  view  in 
congregations  at  the  other  end  of  the  town,  are  not 
so  mischievous,  because  they  are  rivaled  by  more 
of  the  same  ambition,  who  will  not  let  the  rest  of 
the  company  be  particular ;  but  in  the  name  of 
the  whole  congregation  where  I  was,  I  desire  you 
to  keep  these  agreeable  disturbances  out  of  the 
city,  where  sobriety  of  manners  is  still  preserved, 
and  all  glaring  and  ostentatious  behavior,  even 
in  things  laudable,  discountenanced.  I  wish  you 
may  never  see  the  phantom,  and  am, 

“  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

T.  “Ralph  Wondee.” 


No.  504.]  WEDNESDAY,  OCT.  8,  1712. 

Lepus  tute  es,  et  pulpamentum  quseris. 

Ter.  Eun.  act.  iii.  sc.  1. 

You  are  a  hare  yourself,  and  want  dainties,  forsooth. 

It  is  a  great  convenience  to  those  who  want  wit 
to  furnish  out  a  conversation,  that  there  is  some¬ 
thing  or  other  in  all  companies  where  it  is  wanted 
substituted  in  its  stead,  which,  according  to  their 
taste,  does  the  business  as  well.  Of  this  nature  is 
the  agreeable  pastime  in  country  halls  of  cross - 
purposes,  questions  and  commands,  and  the  like. 
A  little  superior  to  these  are  those  who  can  play 
at  crambo,  or  cap  verses.  Then  above  them  are 
such  as  can  make  verses,  that  is,  rhyme  ;  and 
among  those  who  have  the  Latin  tongue,  such  as 
used  to  make  what  they  call  golden  verses.  Com¬ 
mend  me  also  to  those  who  have  not  brains  enough 
for  any  of  these  exercises,  and  yet  do  not  give  up 
their  pretensions  to  mirth.  These  can  slap  you  on 
the  back  unawares,  laugh  loud,  ask  you  how  you 
do  with  a  twang  on  your  shoulders,  say  you  are  dull 
to-day,  and  laugh  a  voluntary  to  put  you  in  humor; 
not  to  mention  the  laborious  way  among  the  minor 
poets,  of  making  things  come  into  such  and  such 
a  shape,  as  that  of  an  egg,  a  hand,  an  ax,  or  any¬ 
thing  that  nobody  had  ever  thought  on  before,  for 
that  purpose,  or  which  would  have  cost  a  great 
deal  of  pains  to  accomplish,  if  they  did.  But  all 
these  methods,  though  they  are  mechanical,  and 
may  be  arrived  at  with  the  smallest  capacity,  do 


not  serve  an  honest  gentleman  who  wants  wit  for 
his  ordinary  occasions  ;  therefore  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  the  poor  in  imagination  should  have 
something  which  may  be  serviceable  to  them  at  all 
hours  upon  all  common  occurrences.  That  which 
we  call  punning  is  therefore  greatly  affected  by 
men  of  small  intellects.  These  men  need  not  be 
concerned  with  you  for  the  whole  sentence  ;  but 
if  they  can  say  a  quaint  thing,  or  bring  in  a  word 
which  sounds  like  any  one  word  you  have  spoken 
to  them,  they  can  turn  the  discourse,  or  distract 
you  so  that  you  cannot  go  on,  and  by  consequence, 
if  they  cannot  be  as  witty  as  you  are,  they  can 
hinder  your  being  any  wittier  than  they  are.  Thus, 
if  you  talk  of  a  candle,  he  “  can  deal  ”  with  you  ; 
and  if  you  ask  him  to  help  you  to  some  bread,  a 
punster  should  think  himself  very  “ill-bred”  if 
he  did  not;  and  if  he  is  not  as  “  well-bred”  as  your¬ 
self,  he  hopes  for  “grains”  of  allowance.  If  you 
do  not  understand  that  last  fancy,  you  must  recol¬ 
lect  that  bread  is  made  of  grain  ;  and  so  they  go 
on  forever,  without  possibility  of  being  exhausted. 

There  are  another  kind  of  people  of  small  facul¬ 
ties,  who  supply  want  of  wit  with  want  of  breed¬ 
ing  ;  and  because  women  are  both  by  nature  and 
education  more  offended  at  anything  which  is  im¬ 
modest  than  we  men  are,  these  are  ever  harping 
upon  things  they  ought  not  to  allude  to,  and  deal 
mightily  in  double  meanings.  Every  one’s  own 
observation  will  suggest  instances  enough  of  this 
kind  without  my  mentioning  any  ;  for  your  double 
meaners  are  dispersed  up  and  down  through  all 
parts  of  the  town  or  city  where  there  are  any  to 
offend,  in  order  to  set  off  themselves.  These  men 
are  mighty  loud  laughers,  and  held  very  pretty 
gentlemen  with  the  sillier  and  unbred  part  of  wo¬ 
mankind.  But  above  all  already  mentioned,  or 
any  who  ever  were,  or  ever  can  be  in  the  world, 
the  happiest  and  surest  to  be  pleasant,  are  a  sort 
of  people  whom  we  have  not  indeed  lately  heard 
much  of,  and  those  are  your  “  biters.” 

‘A  biter  is  one  who  tells  you  a  thing  you  have 
no  reason  to  disbelieve  in  itself,  and  perhaps  has 
given  you,  before  he  bit  you,  no  reason  to  disbe¬ 
lieve  it  for  his  saying  it ;  and  if  you  give  him 
credit,  laughs  in  your  face,  and  triumphs  that  he 
has  deceived  you.  In  a  word,  a  biter  is  one 
who  thinks  you  a  fool,  because  you  do  not  think 
him  a  knave.  This  description  of  him  one  may 
insist  upon  to  be  a  just  one;  for  what  else  but  a 
degree  of  knavery  is  it,  to  depend  upon  deceit  for 
what  you  gain  of  another,  be  it  in  point  of  wit,  or 
interest,  or  anything  else  ? 

This  way  of  wit  is  called  “  biting,”  by  a  meta¬ 
phor  taken  from  beasts  of  prey,  which  devour 
harmless  and  unarmed  animals,  and  look  upon 
them  as  their  food  wherever  they  meet  them.  The 
sharpers  about  town  very  ingeniously  understood 
themselves  to  be  to  the  undesigning  part  of  man¬ 
kind  what  foxes  are  to  lambs,  and  therefore  used 
the  word  biting,  to  express  any  exploit  wherein 
they  had  overreached  any  innocent  and  inadver¬ 
tent  man  of  his  purse.  These  rascals,  of  late  years, 
have  been  the  gallants  of  the  town,  and  carried 
it  with  a  fashionable  haughty  air,  to  the  discour¬ 
agement  of  modesty,  and  all  honest  arts.  Shallow 
fops,  who  are  governed  by  the  eye,  and  admire 
everything  that  struts  in  vogue,  took  up  from  the 
sharpers  the  phrase  of  biting,  and  used  it  upon 
all  occasions,  either  to  disown  any  nonsensical 
stuff  they  should  talk  themselves,  or  evade  the 
force  of  what  was  reasonably  said  by  others. 
Thus,  when  one  of  these  cunning  creatures  was 
entered  into  a  debate  with  you,  whether  it  was 
practicable  in  the  present  state  of  affairs  to  ac¬ 
complish  such  a  proposition,  and  you  thought  he 
had  let  fall  what  destroyed  his  side  of  the  question, 


THE  SPECTATOR.  599 


as  soon  as  you  looked  with  an  earnestness  ready 
to  lay  hold  of  it,  he  immediately  cried,  “Bite,” 
and  you  were  immediately  to  ackiiowledge  all  that 
part  was  in  jest.  They  carry  this  to  all  the  extra¬ 
vagance  imaginable ;  and  if  one  of  these  witlings 
knows  any  particulars  which  may  give  authority 
to  what  he  says,  he  is  still  the  more  ingenious  if 
he  imposes  upon  your  credulity.  I  remember  a 
remarkable  instance  of  this  kind.  There  came  up 
a  shrewd  young  fellow  to  a  plain  young  man,  his 
countryman,  and  taking  him  aside  with  a  grave 
concerned  countenance,  goes  on  at  this  rate :  “  I 
see  you  here,  and  have  you  heard  nothing  out  of 
Yorkshire?  You  look  so  surprised  you  could  not 
have  heard  of  it — and  yet  the  particulars  are  such 
that  it  cannot  be  false :  I  am  sorry  I  am  got  into 
it  so  far  that  I  now  must  tell  you;  but  I  know  not 
but  it  may  be  for  your  service  to  know.  On  Tues¬ 
day  last,  just  after  dinner — you  know  his  manner 
is  to  smoke — opening  his  box,  your  father  fell 
down  dead  in  an  apoplexy.”  The  youth  showed 
the  filial  sorrow  which  he  ought — upon  which  the 
witty  man  cried,  “Bite;  there  was  nothing  in  all 
this.” 

To  put  an  end  to  this  silly,  pernicious,  frivolous 
way  at  once,  I  will  give  the  reader  one  late  instance 
of  a  bite,  which  no  biter  for  the  future  will  ever 
be  able  to  equal,  though  I  heartily  wish  him  the 
same  occasion.  It  is  a  superstition  with  some 
surgeons  who  beg  the  bodies  of  condemned  male¬ 
factors,  to  go  to  the  jail,  and  bargain  for  the  car¬ 
cass  with  the  criminal  himself.  A  good  honest 
fellow  did  so  last  sessions,  and  was  admitted  to 
the  condemned  men  on  the  morning  wherein  they 
died.  The  surgeon  communicated  his  business, 
and  fell  into  discourse  with  a  little  fellow,  who 
refused  twelve  shillings,  and  insisted  upon  fifteen 
for  his  body.  The  fellow  who  killed  the  officer 
of  Newgate,  very  forwardly,  and  like  a  man  who 
was  willing  to  deal,  told  him,  “Look  you,  Mr. 
Surgeon,  that  little  dry  fellow,  who  has  been  half 
starved  all  his  life,  and  is  now  half  dead  with  fear, 
cannot  answer  your  purpose.  I  have  ever  lived 
high  and  freely,  my  veins  are  full,  I  have  not 
pined  in  imprisonment;  you  see  my  crest  swells 
to  your  knife;  and  after  Jack  Catch  has  done,  upon 
my  honor  you  will  find  me  as  sound  as  ever  a  bul¬ 
lock  in  any  of  the  markets.  Come,  for  twenty 
shillings  I  am  your  man.”  Says  the  surgeon, 
“Done,  there  is  a  guinea.”  This  witty  rogue  took 
the  money,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  it  in  his  fist, 
cries,  “  Bite;  I  am  to  be  hanged  in  chains.” — T. 


No.  505.]  THURSDAY,  OCTOBER  9,  1712. 

Non  habeo  denique  nauci  Marsum  augurem, 

Non  vicanos  aruspices,  non  de  circo  astrologos, 

Non  Isiacos  conjectores,  non  interpretes  somnium, 

Non  enim  sunt  ii.  aut  scientia,  aut  arte  divini, 

Sed  superstitiosi  vates,  impudentesque  harioli, 

Aut  inertes,  aut  insani,  aut  quibus  egestas  imperat: 

Qui  sui  quaestus  causa  fictas  suscitant  sententias : 

Qui  sibi  semitam  non  sapiunt,  alteri  monstrant  viam : 
Quibus  divitias  pollicentur,  ab  iis  drachmam  petunt: 

De  divitiis  deducant  drachmam,  reddant  caetera. 

Ennius. 

Augurs  and  Soothsayers,  astrologers, 

Diviners,  and  interpreters  of  dreams, 

I  ne’er  consult,  and  heartily  despise : 

Vain  their  pretense  to  more  than  human  skill : 

For  gain,  imaginary  schemes  they  draw  ; 

Wand’rers  themselves,  they  guide  another’s  steps: 

And  for  poor  sixpence  promise  countless  wealth. 

Let  them,  if  they  expect  to  be  believed, 

Deduct  the  sixpence,  and  bestow  the  rest. 

Those  who  have  maintained  that  men  would  be 
more  miserable  than  beasts,  were  their  hopes  con¬ 
fined  to  this  life  only,  among  other  considerations 
take  notice  that  the  latter  are  only  afflicted  with 


the  anguisli  of  the  present  evil,  whereas  the  former 
are  very  often  pained  by  the  reflection  on  what  is 
passed,  and  the  fear  of  what  is  to  come.  This  fear 
of  any  future  difficulties  or  misfortunes  is  so  nat¬ 
ural  to  the  mind,  that  were  a  man’s  sorrows  and 
disquietudes  summed  up  at  the  end  of  his  life,  it 
would  generally  be  found  that  he  had  suffered 
more  from  the  apprehension  of  such  evils  as  never 
happened  to  him,  than  from  those  evils  which  had 
already  befallen  him.  To  this  we  may  add,  that 
among  those  evils  which  befall  us,  there  are  many 
which  have  been  more  painful  to  us  in  the  pros¬ 
pect,  than  by  their  actual  pressure. 

This  natural  impatience  to  look  into  futurity, 
and  to  know  what  accidents  may  happen  to  us 
hereafter,  has  given  birth  to  many  ridiculous  arts 
and  inventions.  Some  found  their  prescience  on 
the  lines  of  a  man’s  hand,  others  on  the  features  of 
his  face;  some  on  the  signatures  which  nature  has 
impressed  on  his  body,  and  others  on  his  own 
hand- writing  :  some  read  men’s  fortunes  in  the 
stars,  as  others  have  searched  after  them  in  the 
entrails  of  beasts,  or  the  flights  of  birds.  Men  of 
the  best  sense  have  been  touched  more  or  less  with 
these  groundless  horrors  and  presages  of  futurity, 
upon  surveying  the  most  indifferent  works  of  na¬ 
ture.  Can  anything  be  more  surprising  than  to 
consider  Cicero,*  who  made  the  greatest  figure  at 
the  bar  and  in  the  senate  of  the  Roman  common¬ 
wealth,  and  at  the  same  time  outshined  all  the 
philosophers  of  antiquity  in  his  library  and  in  his 
retirements,  as  busying  himself  in  the  college  of 
augurs,  and  observing  with  a  religious  attention 
after  what  manner  the  chickens  pecked  the  several 
grains  of  corn  which  were  thrown  to  them  ? 

Notwithstanding  these  follies  are  pretty  well 
worn  out  of  the  minds  of  the  wise  and  learned  in 
the  present  age,  multitudes  of  weak  and  ignorant 
ersons  are  still  slaves  to  them.  There  are  num- 
erless  arts  of  prediction  among  the  vulgar,  which 
are  too  trifling  to  enumerate;  and  infinite  observa¬ 
tions  of  days,  numbers,  voices,  and  figures,  which 
are  regarded  by  them  as  portents  and  prodigies. 
In  short,  everything  prophesies  to  the  supersti¬ 
tious  man;  there  is  scarce  a  straw,  or  a  rusty  piece 
of  iron,  that  lies  in  his  way  by  accident. 

It  is  not  to  be  conceived  how  many  wizards, 
gipseys,  and  cunning  men,  are  dispersed  through 
all  the  counties  and  market-towns  of  Great  Britain, 
not  to  mention  the  fortune-tellers  and  astrologers, 
who  live  very  comfortably  upon  the  curiosity  of 
several  well-disposed  persons  in  the  cities  of  Lon¬ 
don  and  Westminster. 

Among  the  many  pretended  arts  of  divination, 
there  is  none  which  so  universally  amuses  as  that 
by  dreams.  I  have  indeed  observed  in  a  late  spec¬ 
ulation,  that  there  have  been  sometimes,  upon  very 
extraordinary  occasions,  supernatural  revelations 
made  to  certain  persons  by  this  means;  but  as  it 
is  the  chief  business  of  this  paper  to  root  out  pop¬ 
ular  errors,  I  must  endeavor  to  expose  the  folly 
and  superstition  of  those  persons,  who,  in  the 
common  and  ordinary  course  of  life,  lay  any  stress 
upon  things  of  so  uncertain,  shadowy,  and  chim¬ 
erical  a  nature.  This  I  cannot  do  more  effectually 
than  by  the  following  letter,  which  is  dated  from  a 
quarter  of  the  town  that  has  always  been  the  hab¬ 
itation  of  some  prophetic  Philomath :  it  having 
been  usual,  time  out  of  mind,  for  all  such  people 
as  have  lost  their  wits,  to  resort  to  that  place  either 
for  their  cure  or  for  their  instruction  ; 

“Mr.  Spectator,  Moorfields,  Oct  4,  1712. 

“Having  long  considered  whether  there  be  any 

*  This  censure  of  Cicero  seems  to  be  unfounded;  for  it  is 
said  of  him  that  he  wondered  how  one  augur  could  meet 
another  without  laughing  in  his  face. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


600 

trade  wanting  in  this  great  city,  after  having  sur¬ 
veyed  very  attentively  all  kinds  of  ranks  and  pro¬ 
fessions,  I  do  not  find  in  any  quarter  of  the  town 
an  oneiro-critic,  or,  in  plain  English,  an  interpreter 
of  dreams.  For  want  of  so  useful  a  person,  there 
are  several  good  people  who  are  very  much  puz¬ 
zled  in  this  particular,  and  dream  a  whole  year 
together  without  being  ever  the  wiser  for  it.  I 
hope  I  am  pretty  well  qualified  for  this  office,  hav¬ 
ing  studied  by  candlelight  all  the  rules  of  art 
which  have  been  laid  down  upon  this  subject. 
Mv  great  uncle  by  my  wife’s  side  was  a  Scotch 
highlander,  and  second-sighted.  I  have  four  fingers 
and  two  thumbs  upon  one  hand,  and  was  born  on 
the  longest  night  of  the  year.  My  Christian  and 
surname  begin  and  end  with  the  same  letters.  I 
am  lodged  in  Moorfields,  in  a  house  that  for  these 
fifty  years  has  been  always  tenanted  by  a  conjurer. 

“If  you  had  been  in  company,  so  much  as  my¬ 
self,  with  ordinary  women  of  the  town,  you  must 
know  that  there  are  many  of  them  who  every  day 
in  their  lives,  upon  seeing  or  hearing  of  anything 
that  is  unexpected,  cry,  £My  dream  is  out;’  and 
cannot  go  to  sleep  in  quiet  the  next  night,  until 
something  or  other  has  happened  which  has  ex¬ 
pounded  the  visions  of  the  preceding  one.  There 
are  others  who  are  in  very  great  pain  for  not  being 
able  to  recover  the  circumstances  of  a  dream,  that 
made  strong  impressions  upon  them  while  it  lasted. 
In  short,  Sir,  there  are  many  whose  waking 
thoughts  are  wholly  employed  on  their  sleeping 
ones.  For  the  benefit,  therefore,  of  this  curious 
and  inquisitive  part  of  my  fellow-subjects,  I  shall 
in  the  first  place  tell  those  persons  what  they 
dreamed  of,  who  fancy  they  never  dream  at  all. 
In  the  next  place  I  shall  make  out  any  dream, 
upon  hearing  a  single  circumstance  of  it ;  and,  in 
the  last  place,  I  shall  expound  to  them  the  good 
or  bad  fortune  which  such  dreams  portend.  If 
they  do  not  presage  good  luck,  I  shall  desire  no¬ 
thing  for  my  pains;  not  questioning  at  the  same 
time,  that  those  who  consult  me  will  be  so  reason¬ 
able  as  to  afford  me  a  moderate  share  out  of  any 
considerable  estate,  profit,  or  emolument,  which  I 
shall  thus  discover  to  them.  I  interpret  to  the 
poor  for  nothing,  on  condition  that  their  names 
may  be  inserted  in  public  advertisements,  to  attest 
the  truth  of  such  my  interpretations.  As  for  peo¬ 
ple  of  quality,  or  others  who  are  indisposed,  and 
do  care  to  come  in  person,  I  can  interpret  their 
dreams  by  seeing  their  water.  I  set  aside  one  day 
in  the  week  for  lovers;  and  interpret  by  the  great 
for  any  gentlewoman  who  is  turned  of  sixty,  after 
the  rate  of  half-a-crown  per  week,  with  the  usual 
allowances  for  good  luck.  I  have  several  rooms 
and  apartments  fitted  up  at  reasonable  rates,  for 
such  as  have  not  conveniences  for  dreaming  at 
their  own  houses. 

“  Titus  Trophonius. 

O  “N.  B.  I  am  not  dumb.” 


Ho.  506.]  FRIDAY,  OCTOBER  10,  1712. 

Candida  perpetuo  reside,  Concordia,  lecto, 

Tamque  pari  semper  sit  Venus  aqua  jugo. 

Diligat  ilia  senem  quondam ;  sed  et  ilia  marito, 

Tunc  quoque  cum  fuerit,  non  videatur  anus. 

Mart.  4  Epig.  xiii.  7. 

Perpetual  harmony  their  bed  attend, 

And  Venus  still  the  well-match’d  pair  befriend! 

May  she,  when  time  has  sunk  him  into  years, 

Love  her  old  man,  and  cherish  his  white  hairs ; 

Nor  he  perceive  her  charms  through  age  decay, 

But  think  each  happy  sun  his  bridal  day! 

The  following  essay  is  written  by  the  gentleman 
to  whom  the  world  is  obliged  for  those  several  ex¬ 


cellent  discourses  which  have  been  marked  with 
the  letter  X  : —  , 

I  have  somewhere  met  with  a  fable  that  made 
Wealth  the  father  of  Love.  It  is  certain  a  mind 
ought  at  least  to  be  free  from  the  apprehensions 
of  want  and  poverty,  before  it  can  fully  attend  to 
all^he  softnesses  and  endearments  of  this  passion; 
notwithstanding  we  see  multitudes  of  married 
people,  who  are  utter  strangers  to  this  delightful 
passion,  amidst  all  the  affluence  of  the  most  plen¬ 
tiful  fortunes. 

It  is  not  sufficient,  to  make  a  marriage  happy, 
that  the  humors  of  two  people  should  be  alike.  I 
could  instance  a  hundred  pair,  who  have  not  the 
least  sentiment  of  love  remaining  for  one  another, 
yet  are  so  alike  in  their  humors,  that  if  they  were 
not  already  married,  the  whole  world  would  design 
them  for  man  and  wife. 

The  spirit  of  love  has  something  so  extremely 
fine  in  it,  that  it  is  very  often  disturbed  and  lost, 
by  some  little  accidents,  which  the  careless  and 
unpolite  never  attend  to,  until  it  is  gone  past  re¬ 
covery. 

Nothing  has  more  contributed  to  banish  it  from 
a  married  state,  than  too  great  a  familiarity,  and 
laying  aside  the  common  rules  of  decency.  Though 
I  could  give  instances  of  this  in  several  particu¬ 
lars,  I  shall  only  mention  that  of  dress.  The 
beaux  and  belles  about  town,  who  dress  purely  to 
catch  one  another,  think  there  is  no  further  occa¬ 
sion  for  the  bait,  when  their  first  design  has  suc¬ 
ceeded.  But  beside  the  too  common  fault  in  point 
of  neatness,  there  are  several  others  which  I  do 
not  remember  to  have  seen  touched  upon,  but  in 
one  of  our  modern  comedies,*  where  a  French 
woman  offering  to  undress  and  dress  herself  be¬ 
fore  the  lover  of  the  play,  and  assuring  his  [her] 
mistress  that  it  was  very  usual  in  France,  the  lady 
tells  her  that  it  is  a  secret  in  dress  she  never  knew 
before,  and  that  she  was  so  unpolished  an  English 
woman,  as  to  resolve  never  to  learn  even  to  dress 
before  her  husband. 

There  is  something  so  gross  in  the  carriage  of 
some  wives,  that  they  lose  their  husbands’  hearts 
for  faults  which,  if  a  man  has  either  good  nature 
or  good  breeding,  he  knows  not  how  to  tell  them 
of.  I  am  afraid,  indeed,  the  ladies  are  generally 
most  faulty  in  this  particular,  who,  at  their  first 
giving  in  to  love,  find  the  way  so  smooth  and 
pleasant,  that  they  fancy  it  is  scarce  possible  to  be 
tired  in  it. 

There  is  so  much  nicety  and  discretion  required 
to  keep  love  alive  after  marriage,  and  make  con¬ 
versation  still  new  and  agreeable  after  twenty  or 
thirty  years,  that  I  know  nothing  which  seems 
readily  to  promise  it,  but  an  earnest  endeavor  to 
please  on  both  sides,  and  superior  good  sense  on 
the  part  of  the  man. 

By  a  man  of  sense,  I  mean  one  acquainted  with 
business  and  letters. 

A  woman  very  much  settles  her  esteem  for  a 
man,  according  to  the  figure  he  makes  in  the  world, 
and  the  character  he  bears  among  his  own  sex. 
As  learning  is  the  chief  advantage  we  have  over 
them,  it  is,  methinks,  as  scandalous  and  inexcu¬ 
sable  for  a  man  of  fortune  to  be  illiterate,  as  for  a 
woman  not  to  know  how  to  behave  herself  on  the 
most  ordinary  occasions.  It  is  this  which  sets  the 
two  sexes  at  the  greatest  distance  :  a  woman  is 
vexed  and  surprised,  to  find  nothing  more  in  the 
conversation  of  a  man  than  in  the  common  tattle 
of  her  own  sex. 

Some  small  engagement  at  least  in  business,  not 
only  sets  a  man’s  talents  in  the  fairest  light,  and 
allots  him  a  part  to  act  in  which  a  wife  cannot 

*  The  “Funeral,”  or  “  Grief  A  la-mode,”  by  Steele. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


well  intermeddle,  but  gives  frequent  occasions  for 
those  little  absences,  which,  whatever  seeming 
uneasiness  they  may  give,  are  some  of  the  best 
preservatives  of  love  and  desire. 

The  fair  sex  are  so  conscious  to  themselves,  that 
they  have  nothing  in  them  which  can  deserve  en¬ 
tirely  to  engross  the  whole  man,  that  they  heartily 
despise  one,  who,  to  use  their  own  expressions,  is 
always  hanging  at  their  apron  strings. 

Laetitia  is  pretty,  modest,  tender,  and  has  sense 
enough;  she  married  Erastus,  who  is  in  a  post  of 
some  business,  and  has  a  general  taste  in  most  parts 
of  polite  learning.  Laetitia,  wherever  she  visits,  has 
the  pleasure  to  hear  of  something  which  was  hand¬ 
somely  said  or  done  by  Erastus.  Erastus  since 
his  marriage,  is  more  gay  in  his  dress  than  ever, 
and  in  all  companies  is  as  complaisant  to  Laetitia 
as  to  any  other  lady.  I  have  seen  him  give  her 
her  fan,  when  it  has  dropped,  with  all  the  gallantry 
of  a  lover.  When  they  take  the  air  together, 
Erastus  tS  continually  improving  her  thoughts, 
and  with  a  turn  of  wit  and  spirit  which  is  peculiar 
to  him,  giving  her  an  insight  into  things  she  had  no 
notions  of  before.  Laetitia  is  transported  at  having 
a  new  world  thus  opening  to  her,  and  hangs  upon 
the  man  that  gives  her  such  agreeable  informations. 
Erastus  has  carried  this  point  still  further,  as  he 
makes  her  daily  not  only  fond  of  him,  but  infi¬ 
nitely  more  satisfied  with  herself.  Erastus  finds 
a  justness  or  beauty  in  whatever  she  says  or  ob¬ 
serves  that  Laetitia  herself  was  not  aware  of  ;  and 
by  his  assistance  she  has  discovered  a  hundred 
good  qualities  and  accomplishments  in  herself, 
which  she  never  before  once  dreamed  of.  Erastus, 
with  the  most  artful  complaisance  in  the  world, 
by  several  remote  hints,  finds  the  means  to  make 
her  say  or  propose  almost  whatever  he  has  a  mind 
to,  which  he  always  receives  as  her  own  discovery 
and  gives  her  all  the  reputation  of  it. 

Erastus  has  a  perfect  taste  in  painting,  and  car¬ 
ried  Ltetitia  with  him  the  other  day  to  see  a  col¬ 
lection  of  pictures.  I  sometimes  visit  this  happy 
couple.  As  we  were  last  week  walking  in  the  long 
gallery  before  dinner,  “I  have  lately  laid  out  some 
money  in  paintings,”  says  Erastus;  “I  bought 
that  Venus  and  Adonis  purely  upon  Lastitia’s  judg¬ 
ment;  it  cost  me  threescore  guineas,  and  I  was  this 
morning  offered  a  hundred  for  it.”  I  turned  to¬ 
ward  Laetitia,  and  saw  her  cheeks  glow  with 
pleasure,  while  at  the  same  time  she  cast  a  look 
upon  Erastus,  the  most  tender  and  affectionate  I 
ever  beheld. 

Flavilla  married  Tom  Tawdry;  she  was  taken 
with  his  laced  coat  and  rich  sword-knot;  she  has 
the  mortification  to  see  Tom  despised  by  all  the 
worthy  part  of  his  own  sex.  Tom  has  nothing  to 
do  after  dinner,  but  to  determine  whether  he  will 
are  his  nails  at  St.  James’,  White’s,  or  his  own 
ouse.  He  has  said  nothing  to  Flavilla  since  they 
were  married  which  she  might  not  have  heard  as 
well  from  her  own  woman.  He  however  takes 
great  care  to  keep  up  the  saucy  ill-natured  author¬ 
ity  of  a  husband.  Whatever  Flavilla  happens  to 
assert,  Tom  immediately  contradicts  with  an  oath 
by  way  of  preface,  and,  “  My  dear,  I  must  tell  you 
you  talk  most  confoundedly  silly.”  Flavilla  had 
a  heart  naturally  as  well  disposed  for  all  the  ten¬ 
derness  of  love  as  that  of  Laetitia;  but  as  love 
seldom  continues  long  after  esteem,  it  is  difficult 
to  determine,  at  present,  whether  the  unhappy 
Flavilla  hates  or  despises  the  person  most  whom 
she  is  obliged  to  lead  her  whole  life  with. — X. 


601 

No.  507.]  Saturday,  October  11, 1712. 

Defendit  numerus,  junctaeque  umbone  phalanges. 

Juv.  Sat.  ii.  46. 

Preserv’d  from  shame  by  numbers  on  our  side. 

There  is  something  very  sublime,  though  very 
fanciful,  in  Plato’s  description  of  the  Supreme 
Being;  that  “truth  is  his  body,  and  light  his 
shadow.”  According  to  this  definition,  there  is 
nothing  so  contradictory  to  his  nature  as  error  and 
falsehood.  The  Platonists  had  so  just  a  notion 
of  the  Almighty’s  aversion  to  every^iing  which 
is  false  and  erroneous,  that  they  looked  upon  truth 
as  no  less  necessary  than  virtue  to  qualify  a  hu¬ 
man  soul  for  the  enjoyment  of  a  separate  state. 
For  this  reason,  as  they  recommended  moral  duties 
to  qualify  and  season  the  will  for  a  future  life,  so 
they  prescribed  several  contemplations  and  sci¬ 
ences  to  rectify  the  understanding.  Thus,  Plato 
has  called  mathematical  demonstrations  the  cathar¬ 
tics  or  purgatives  of  the  soul,  as  being  the  most 
proper  means  to  cleanse  it  from  error,  and  to  give 
it  a  relish  of  truth;  which  is  the  natural  food  and 
nourishment  of  the  understanding,  as  virtue  is  the 
perfection  and  happiness  of  the  will. 

There  are  many  authors  who  have  shown  wherein 
the  malignity  of  a  lie  consists,  and  set  forth  in 
proper  colors  the  heinousness  of  the  offense.  I 
shall  here  consider  one  particular  kind  of  this 
crime,  which  has  not  been  so  much  spoken  to;  I 
mean  the  abominable  practice  of  party-lying.  This 
vice  is  so  very  predominant  among  us  at  present, 
that  a  man  is  thought  of  no  principles  who  does 
not  propagate  a  certain  system  of  lies.  The  cof¬ 
fee-houses  are  supported  by  them,  the  press  is 
choked  with  them,  eminent  authors  live  upon 
them.  Our  bottle  conversation  is  so  infected  with 
them,  that  a  party -lie  is  grown  as  fashionable  an 
entertainment  as  a  lively  catch  or  merry  story. 
The  truth  of  it  is,  half  the  great  talkers  in  the  na¬ 
tion  would  be  struck  dumb  were  this  fountain  of 
discourse  dried  up.  There  is,  however,  one  ad¬ 
vantage  resulting  from  this  detestable  practice; 
the  very  appearances  of  truth  are  so  little  regarded, 
that  lies  are  at  present  discharged  in  the  air,  and 
begin  to  hurt  nobody.  When  we  hear  a  party 
story  from  a  stranger,  we  consider  w’hether  he  is  a 
whig  or  a  tory  that  relates  it,  and  immediately 
conclude  they  are  words  of  course,  in  which  the 
honest  gentleman  designs  to  recommed  his  zeal, 
without  any  concern  for  his  veracity.  A  man  is 
looked  upon  as  bereft  of  common  sense,  that  gives 
credit  to  the  relations  of  party-writers;  nay,  his 
own  friends  shake  their  hpads  at  him,  and  consider 
him  in  no  other  light  than  as  an  officious  tool,  or 
a  well  meaning  idiot.  When  it  was  formerly  the 
fashion  to  husband  a  lie,  and  trump  it  up  in  some 
extraordinary  emergency,  it  generally  did  execu¬ 
tion,  and  was  not  a  little  serviceable  to  the  faction 
that  made  use  of  it;  but  at  present  every  man  is 
upon  his  guard;  the  artifice  has  been  too  often 
repeated  to  take  effect. 

I  have  frequently  wondered  to  see  men  of  pro¬ 
bity,  who  would  scorn  to  utter  a  falsehood  for  their 
own  particular  advantage,  give  so  readily  into  a 
lie  when  it  is  become  the  voice  of  their  faction, 
notwithstanding  they  are  thoroughly  sensible  of  it 
as  such.  How  is  it  possible  for  those  who  are 
men  of  honor  in  their  persons,  thus  tp  become  no¬ 
torious  liars  in  their  party?  If  we  look  into  the 
bottom  of  this  matter,  we  may  find,  I  think,  three 
reasons  for  it,  and  at  the  same  time  discover  the 
insufficiency  of  these  reasons  to  justify  so  criminal 
a  practice. 

In  the  first  place,  men  are  apt  to  think  that  the 
guilt  of  a  lie,  and  consequently  the  punishment, 
may  be  very  much  diminished,  if  not  wholly  worn 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


602 

out,  by  the  multitudes  of  those  who  partake  in  it. 
Though  the  weight  of  a  falsehood  would  be  too 
heavy  for  one  to  bear,  it  grows  light  in  their  imag¬ 
ination  when  it  is  shared  among  many.  But  in 
this  case  a  man  very  much  deceives  himself;  guilt, 
when  it  spreads  through  numbers,  is  not  so  prop¬ 
erly  divided  as  multiplied.  Every  one  is  criminal 
in  proportion  to  the  offense  which  he  commits,  not 
to  the  number  of  those  who  are  his  companions  in 
it.  Both  the  crime  and  penalty  lie  as  heavy  upon 
every  individual  of  an  offending  multitude,  as  they 
would  upon  any  single  person,  had  none  shared 
with  him  iif  the  offense.  In  a  word,  the  division 
of  guilt  is  like  that  of  matter;  though  it  may  be 
separated  into  infinite  portions,  every  portion  shall 
have  the  whole  essence  of  matter  in  it,  and  consist 
of  as  many  parts  as  the  whole  did  before  it  was 
divided. 

But  in  the  second  place,  though  multitudes,  who 
join  in  a  lie,  cannot  exempt  themselves  from  the 
guilt,  they  may  from  the  shame  of  it.  The  scan¬ 
dal  of  a  lie  is  in  a  manner  lost  and  annihilated, 
when  diffused  among  several  thousands;  as  a  drop 
of  the  blackest  tincture  wears  away  and  vanishes, 
when  mixed  and  confused  in  a  considerable  body 
of  water;  the  blot  is  still  in  it,  but  is  not  able  to 
discover  itself.  This  is  certainly  a  very  great  mo¬ 
tive  to  several  party  offenders,  who  avoid  crimes, 
not  as  they  are  prejudicial  to  their  virtue,  but  to 
their  reputation.  It  is  enough  to  show  the  weak¬ 
ness  of  this  reason,  which  palliates  guilt  without 
removing  it,  that  every  man  who  is  influenced  by 
it  declares  himself  in  effect  an  infamous  hypo¬ 
crite,  prefers  the  appearance  of  virtue  to  its  reality, 
and  is  determined  in  his  conduct  neither  by  the 
dictates  of  his  own  conscience,  the  suggestions  of 
true  honor,  nor  the  principles  of  religion. 

The  third  and  last  great  motive  for  men’s  join¬ 
ing  in  a  popular  falsehood,  or,  as  I  have  hitherto 
called  it  a  party ;lie,  notwithstanding  they  are  con¬ 
vinced  of  it  as  such,  is  the  doing  good  to  a  cause 
which  every  party  may  be  supposed  to  look  upon 
as  the  most  meritorious.  The  unsoundness  of  this 
principle  has  been  so  often  exposed,  and  is  so  uni¬ 
versally  acknowledged,  that  a  man  must  be  an 
utter  stranger  to  the  principles  either  of  natural 
religion  or  Christianity,  who  suffers  himself  to  be 
guided  by  it.  If  a  man  might  promote  the  sup¬ 
posed  good  of  his  country  by  the  blackest  calum¬ 
nies  and  falsehoods,  our  nation  abounds  more  in 
patriots  than  any  other  of  the  Christian  world. 
When  Pompey  was  desired  not  to  sail  in  a  tempest 
that  would  hazard  his  life,  “  It  is  necessary  for 
me,”  says  he,  “  to  sail,  but  it  is  not  necessary  for 
me  to  live.”  Every  man  should  say  to  himself, 
with  the  same  spirit,  “It  is  my  duty  to  speak 
truth,  though  it  is  not  my  duty  to  be  in  an  office.” 
One  of  the  fathers  has  carried  this  point  so  high 
as  to  declare  he  would  not  tell  a  lie,  though  lie 
were  sure  to  gain  heaven  by  it.  Plowever  extrava¬ 
gant  such  a  protestation  may  appear,  every  one 
will  own  that  a  man  may  say,  very  reasonably,  he 
would  not  tell  a  lie,  if  he  were  sure  to  gain  hell 
by  it;  or,  if  you  have  a  mind  to  soften  the  expres¬ 
sion,  that  he  would  not  tell  a  lie  to  gain  any  tem¬ 
poral  reward  by  it,  when  he  should  run  the  hazard 
of  losing  much  more  than  it  was  possible  for  him 
to  gain.  _  0. 


Ho.  508.]  MONDAY,  OCTOBER  13,  1712. 

Omnes  autem  et  habentur  et  dicuntur  tyranni,  qui  potcstate 
sunt  perpetua,  in  ca  civitatequae  lifcertate  usa  est. 

♦  Corn.  Nepos  in  Milt.  c.  8. 

For  all  those  are  accounted  and  denominated  tyrants,  who  ex¬ 
ercise  a  perpetual  power  in  that  state  which  was  before  free.  ! 

The  following  letters  complain  of  what  I  have  j 
frequently  observed  with  very  much  indignation; 


therefore  shall  give  them  to  the  public  in  the  words 
with  which  my  correspondents,  who  suffer  under 
the  hardships  mentioned  in  them,  describe  them: 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“In  former  ages  all  pretensions  to  dominion 
have  been  supported  and  submitted  to,  either  upon 
account  of  inheritance,  conquest,  or  election;  and 
all  such  persons,  who  have  taken  upon  them  any 
sovereignty  over  their  fellow-creatures  upon  any 
other  account,  have  been  always  called  tyrants, 
not  so  much  because  they  were  guilty  of  any  par¬ 
ticular  barbarities,  as  because  every  attempt  to 
such  a  superiority  was  in  its  nature  tyrannical. 
But  there  is  another  sort  of  potentates,  who  may 
with  greater  propriety  be  called  tyrants  than  those 
last  mentioned,  both  as  they  assume  a  despotic  do¬ 
minion  over  those  as  free  as  themselves,  and  as 
they  support  it  by  acts  of  notable  oppression  and 
injustice;  and  these  are  the  rulers  in  all  clubs  and 
meetings.  In  other  governments,  the  punishments 
of  some  have  been  alleviated  by  the  rewards  of 
others;  but  what  makes  the  reign  of  these  poten¬ 
tates  so  particularly  grievous  is,  that  they  are  ex¬ 
quisite  in  punishing  their  subjects  at  the  same 
time  they  have  it  not  in  their  pow’er  to  reward  them. 
That  the  reader  may  the  better  comprehend  the 
nature  of  these  monarchs,  as  wrell  as  the  miserable 
state  of  those  that  are  their  vassals,  I  shall  give 
an  account  of  the  king  of  the  company  I  am  fallen 
into,  whom  for  his  particular  tyranny  I  shall  call 
Dionysius;  as  also  of  the  seeds  that  sprung  up  to 
this  odd  sort  of  empire. 

“Upon  all  meetings  at  taverns,  it  is  necessary 
some  one  of  the  company  should  take  it  upon  him 
to  get  all  things  in  such  order  and  readiness  as 
may  contribute  as  much  as  possible  to  the  felicity 
of  the  convention;  such  as  hastening  the  fire,  get¬ 
ting  a  sufficient  number  of  candles,  tasting  the 
wine  with  a  judicious  smack,  fixing  the  supper, 
and  being  brisk  for  the  dispatch  of  it.  Know, 
then,  that  Dionysius  went  through  these  offices 
with  an  air  that  seemed  to  express  a  satisfaction 
rather  in  serving  the  public  than  in  gratify¬ 
ing  any  particular  inclination  of  his  own.  We 
thought  him  a  person  of  an  exquisite  palate,  and 
therefore  by  consent  beseeched  him  to  be  always  our 
proveditor;  which  post,  after  he  had  handsomely 
denied,  he  could  do  no  otherwise  than  accept.  At 
first,  he  made  no  other  use  of  his  power  than  in 
recommending  such  and  such  things  to  the  com¬ 
pany,  ever  allowing  these  points  to  be  disputable; 
insomuch  that  I  have  often  carried  the  debate  for 
partridge,  when  his  majesty  has  given  intimation 
of  the  high  relish  of  duck,  but  at  the  same  time 
has  cheerfully  submitted,  and  devoured  his  part¬ 
ridge  with  most  gracious  resignation.  This  sub¬ 
mission  on  his  side  naturally  produced  the  like 
on  ours;  of  which  he  in  a  little  time  made  such 
barbarous  advantage,  as  in  all  those  matters,  which 
before  seemed  indifferent  to  him,  to  issue  out  cer¬ 
tain  edicts  as  uncontrollable  and  unalterable  as  the 
laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians.  He  is  by  turns 
outrageous,  peevish,  forward,  and  jovial.  He 
thinks  it  our  duty  for  the  little  offices,  as  proved¬ 
itor,  that  in  return  all  conversation  is  to  be  inter¬ 
rupted  or  promoted  by  his  inclination  for  or  against 
the  present  humor  of  the  company.  We  feel,  at 
present,  in  the  utmost  extremity,  the  insolence  of 
office;  however,  I,  being  naturally  warm,  ventured 
to  oppose  him  in  a  dispute  about  a  haunch  of 
venison.  1  was  altogether  for  roasting,  but  Diony¬ 
sius  declared  himself  for  boiling  with  so  much 
prowess  and  resolution,  that  the  cook  thought  it 
necessary  to  consult  his  own  safety,  rather  than 
the  luxury  of  my  proposition.  With  the  same 
authority  that  he  orders  what  we  shall  eat  and 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


drink,  lie  also  commands  us  where  to  do  it;  and 
we  change  our  taverns  according  as  he  suspects  any 
treasonable  practices  in  the  settling  the  bill  by  the 
master,  or  sees  any  bold  rebellion  in  point  of 
attendance  by  the  waiters.  Another  reason  for 
changing  the  seat  of  empire,  I  conceive  to  be  the 
pride  he  takes  in  the  promulgation  t>f  our  slavery, 
though  we  pay  our  club  for  our  entertainments, 
even  m  these  palaces  of  our  grand  monarch.  When 
he  has  a  mind  to  take  the  air,  a  party  of  us  are 
commanded  out  by  way  of  life-guard,  and  we 
march  under  as  great  restrictions  as  they  do.  If 
we  meet  a  neighboring  king,  we  give  or  keep  the 
wav,  according  as  we  are  outnumbered  or  not; 
and  if  the  train  of  each  is  equal  in  number,  rather 
than  give  battle,  the  superiority  is  soon  adjusted 
by  a  desertion  from  one  of  them. 

“Now  the  expulsion  of  these  unjust  rulers  out 
of  all  societies  would  gain  a  man  as  everlasting  a 
reputation  as  either  of  the  Brutuses  got  from  their 
endeavors  to  extirpate  tyranny  from  among  the 
Romans.  I  confess  myself  to  be  in  a  conspiracy 
against  the  usurper  of  our  club;  and  to  show  my 
reading  as  well  as  my  merciful  disposition,  shall 
allow  him  until  the  ides  of  March  to  dethrone 
himself.  If  he  seems  to  affect  empire  until  that 
time,  and  does  not  gradually  recede  from  the  in¬ 
cursions  he  has  made  upon  our  liberties,  he  shall 
find  a  dinner  dressed  which  he  has  no  hand  in, 
and  shall  be  treated  with  an  order,  magnificence 
and  luxury,  as  shall  break  his  proud  heart;  at  the 
same  time  that  he  shall  be  convinced  in  his  stom¬ 
ach  he  was  unfit  far  his  post,  and  a  more  mild 
and  skillful  prince  receive  the  acclamations  of 
the  people,  and  be  set  up  in  his  room;  but,  as 
Milton  says, 

• - These  thoughts 

Full  counsel  must  mature.  Peace  is  despair’d, 

And  who  can  think  submission?  War,  then,  war, 

Open  or  understood,  must  be  resolved. 

I  am,  Sir, 

“Your  most  obedient  humble  Servant.” 
‘Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  a  young  woman  at  a  gentleman’s  seat  in 
die  country,  who  is  a  particular  friend  of  my 
father’s,  and  come  hither  to  pass  away  a  month  or 
two  with  his  daughters.  I  have  been  entertained 
with  the  utmost  civility  by  the  whole  family,  and 
nothing  lias  been  omitted  which  can  make  my 
stay  easy  and  agreeable  on  the  part  of  the  family; 
but  there  is  a  gentleman  here,  a  visitant  as  I  am, 
whose  behavior  has  given  me  great  uneasiness. 
When  I  first  arrived  here,  he  used  me  with  the 
utmost  complaisance;  but,  forsooth,  that  was  not 
with  regard  to  my  sex;  and  since  he  has  no  de¬ 
signs  upon  me,  he  does  not  know  why  he  should 
distinguish  me  from  a  man  in  things  indifferent. 
He  is,  you  must  know,  one  of  those  familiar  cox¬ 
combs,  who  have  observed  some  well-bred  men 
with  a  good  grace  converse  with  women,  and  say 
no  fine  things,  but  yet  treat  them  with  that  sort 
of  respect  which  flows  from  the  li^art  and  the  un¬ 
derstanding,  but  is  exerted  in  no  professions  or 
compliments.  This  puppy,  to  imitate  this  excel¬ 
lence,  or  avoid  the  contrary  fault  of  being  trouble¬ 
some  in  complaisance,  takes  upon  him  to  try  his 
talent  upon  me,  insomuch  that  he  contradicts  me 
upon  all  occasions,  and  one  day  he  told  me  I  lied. 
If  I  had  stuck  him  with  my  bodkin,  and  behaved 
myself  like  a  man,  since  he  will  not  treat  me  as  a 
woman,  I  had,  I  think,  served  him  right.  I  wish, 
Sir,  you  would  please  to  give  him  some  maxims 
of  behavior  in  these  points,  and  resolve  me  if  all 
maids  are  not  in  point  of  conversation  to  be  treated 
by  all  bachelors  as  their  mistresses?  If  not  so, 
are  they  not  to  be  used  as  gently  as  their  sisters  ? 


603 

Is  it  sufferable  that  the  fop  of  whom  I  complain 
should  say  that  he  would  rather  have  such-a-one 
without  a  groat,  than  me  with  the  Indies  ?  What 
right  has  any  man  to  make  suppositions  of  things 
not  in  his  power,  and  then  declare  his  will  to  the  dis¬ 
like  of  one  that  has  never  offended  him?  I  assure 
you  these  are  things  worthy  your  consideration, 
and  I  hope  we  shall  have  your  thoughts  upon 
them.  1  am,  though  a  woman  justly  offended, 
ready  to  forgive  all  this,  because  I  have  no  remedy 
but  leaving  very  agreeable  company  sooner  than  I 
desire.  This  also  is  a  heinous  aggravation  of  his 
offense,  that  he  is  inflicting  banishment  upon  me. 
Your  printing  this  letter  may  perhaps  be  an  ad¬ 
monition  to  reform  him;  as  soon  as  it  appears  I 
will  write  my  name  at  the  end  of  it,  and  lay  it  in 
his  way:  the  making  which  just  reprimand,  I 
hope  you  will  put  in  the  power  of, 

“  Sir,  your  constant  Reader, 

T.  “  and  humble  Servant.” 


No.  509.]  TUESDAY,  OCTOBER  14,  1712. 

Hominis  frugi  et  temperantis  functus  officium. 

Ter.  Heaut.  act  iii.  sc.  3. 

Discharging  the  part  of  a  good  economist. 

The  useful  knowledge  in  the  following  letter 
shall  have  a  place  in  my  paper,  though  there  is 
nothing  in  it  which  immediately  regards  the  polite 
or  the  learned  world;  I  say  immediately,  for  upon 
reflection  every  man  will  find  there  is  a  remote 
influence  upon  his  own  affairs,  in  the  prosperity 
or  decay  of  the  trading  part  of  mankind.  My 
present  correspondent,  I  believe,  was  never  in 
print  before;  but  what  he  says  well  deserves  a 
general  attention,  though  delivered  in  his  own 
homely  maxims,  and  a  kind  of  proverbial  sim¬ 
plicity;  which  sort  of  learning  has  raised  more 
estates,  than  ever  were,  or  will  be,  from  attention 
to  Virgil,  Horace,  Tully,  Seneca,  Plutarch,  or  any 
of  the  rest,  whom,  I  dare  say,  this  worthy  citizen 
would  hold  to  be  indeed  ingenious,  but  unprofita¬ 
ble  writers.  But  to  the  letter: 

“  Mr.  William  Spectator. 

“Sir,  Broad-street,  Oct.  10,  1712. 

“  I  accuse  you  of  many  discourses  on  the  sub¬ 
ject  of  money,  which  you  have  heretofore  prom- 
lse.d  the  public,  but  have  not  discharged  yourself 
thereof.  But,  forasmuch  as  you  seemed  to  depend 
upon  advice  from  others  what  to  do  in  that  point, 
have  sat  down  to  write  you  the  needful  upon  that 
subject.  But,  before  I  enter  thereupon,  I  shall 
take  this  opportunity  to  observe  to  you,  that  the 
thriving  frugal  man  shows  it  in  every  part  of  his 
expense,  dress,  servants,  and  house;  and  I  must 
in  the  first  place,  complain  to  you,  as  Spectator, 
that  in  these  particulars  there  is  at  this  time, 
throughout  the  city  of  London,  a  lamentable 
change  from  that  simplicity  of  manners,  which 
is  the  true  source  of  wealth  and  prosperity.  I 
just  now  said,  the  man  of  thrift  shows  regularity 
in  everything;  but  you  may,  perhaps,  laugh  that 
I  take  notice  of  such  a  particular  as  I  am  going 
to  do,  for  an  instance  that  this  city  is  declining  if 
their  ancient  economy  is  not  restored.  The  thing 
which  gives  me  this  prospect,  and  so  much  offense, 
is  the  neglect  of  the  Royal  Exchange;  I  mean  the 
edifice  so  called,  and  the  walks  appertaining  there¬ 
unto.  The  Royal  Exchange  is  a  fabric  that  well 
deserves  to  be  so  called,  as  well  to  express  that 
our  monarch’s  highest  glory  and  advantage  con¬ 
sists  in  being  the  patron  of  trade,  as  that  it  is 
commodious  for  business,  and  an  instance  of  the 
graudeur  both  of  prince  and  people.  But,  alas! 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


604 

at  present  it  hardly  seems  to  be  set  apart  for  any 
such  use  or  purpose.  Instead  of  the  assembly  of 
honorable  merchants,  substantial  tradesmen,  and 
knowing  masters  of  ships:  the  mumpers,  the  halt, 
the  blind,  and  the  lame;  your  venders  of  trash, 
apples,  plums;  your  ragamuffins,  rakeshames,  and 
wenches;  have  jostled  the  greater  number  of  the 
former  out  of  that  place.  Thus  it  is,  especially 
on  the  evening  change;  so  that  what  with  the  din 
of  squallings,  oaths,  and  cries  of  beggars,  men  of 
the  greatest  consequence  in  our  city  absent  them¬ 
selves  from  the  place.  This  particular,  by  the 
way,  is  of  evil  consequence,  for  if  the  ’Change  be 
no  place  for  men  of  the  highest  credit  to  frequent, 
it  will  not  be  a  disgrace  for  those  of  less  abilities 
to  absent.  I  remember  the  time  when  rascally 
company  were  kept  out,  and  the  unlucky  boys 
with  toys  and  balls  were  whipped  away  by  the 
beadle.  I  have  seen  this  done  indeed  of  late,  but 
then  it  has  been  only  to  chase  the  lads  from  chuck, 
that  the  beadle  might  seize  their  copper. 

“I  must  repeat  the  abomination,  that  the  wal¬ 
nut-trade  is  carried  on  by  old  women  within  the 
walks,  which  makes  the  place  impassable  by  rea¬ 
son  of  shells  and  trash.  The  benches  around  are 
so  filthy,  that  no  one  can  sit  down,  yet  the  beadles 
and  officers  have  the  impudence  at  Christmas  to 
ask  for  their  box,  though  they  deserve  the  strapado. 
I  do  not  think  it  impertinent  to  have  mentioned 
this,  because  it  speaks  a  neglect  in  the  domestic 
care  of  the  city;  and  the  domestic  is  the  truest 
picture  of  a  man  everywhere  else. 

“But  I  designed  to  speak  on  the  business  of 
money  and  advancement  of  gain.  The  man  proper 
for  this,  speaking  in  the  general,  is  of  a  sedate, 
lain,  good  understanding,  not  apt  to  go  out  of 
is  way,  but  so  behaving  himself  at  home,  that 
business  may  come  to  him.  Sir  William  Turner, 
that  valuable  citizen,  has  left  behind  him  a  most 
excellent  rule,  and  couched  it  in  very  few  words, 
suited  to  the  meanest  capacity.  He  would  say, 
‘Keep  your  shop,  and  your  shop  will  keep  you.’* 
It  must  be  confessed,  that  if  a  man  of  a  great  genius 
could  add  steadiness  to  his  vivacities,  or  substi¬ 
tute  slower  men  of  fidelity  to  transact  the  method¬ 
ical  part  of  his  affairs,  such  a  one  would  outstrip 
the  rest  of  the  world:  but  business  and  trade  are 
not  to  be  managed  by  the  same  heads  which  write 
poetry,  and  make  plans  for  the  conduct  of  life  in 
general.  So,  though  we  are  at  this  day  beholden 
to  the  late  witty  and  inventive  Duke  of  Bucking¬ 
ham  for  the  whole  trade  and  manufacture  of  glass, 
et  I  suppose  there  is  no  one  will  aver,  that,  were 
is  grace  yet  living,  they  would  not  rather  deal 
with  my  diligent  friend  and  neighbor,  Mr.  Gum- 
ley,  for  any  goods  to  be  prepared  and  delivered 
on  such  a  day,  than  he  would  with  that  illus¬ 
trious  mechanic  above-mentioned. 

“Ho,  no,  Mr.  Spectator,  you  wits  must  not  pre¬ 
tend  to  be  rich;  and  it  is  possible  the  reason  may 
be,  in  some  measure,  because  you  despise,  or  at 
least  you  do  not  value  it  enough  to  let  it  take  up 
your  chief  attention;  which  the  trader  must  do, 
or.  lose  his  credit,  which  is  to  him  what  honor, 
reputation,  fame,  or  glory,  is  to  other  sort  of  men. 

“  I  shall  not  speak  to  the  point  of  cash  itself, 
until  I  see  how  you  approve  of  these  my  maxims 
in  general;  but  I  think  a  speculation  upon  ‘many 
a  little  makes  a  mickle,  a  penny  saved  is  a  penny 
got,  penny  wise  and  pound  foolish,  it  is  need  that 
makes  the  old  wife  trot,’  would  be  very  useful  to 
the  world;  and,  if  you  treated  them  with  know¬ 
ledge,  would  be  useful  to  yourself,  for  it  would 
make  demands  for  your  paper  among  those  who 


have  no  notion  of  it  at  present.  But  of  these 
matters  more  hereafter.  If  you  did  this,  as  you 
excel  many  writers  of  the  present  age  for  polite¬ 
ness,  so  you  would  outgo  the  author  of  the  true 
strops  of  razors  for  use. 

“I  shall  conclude  this  discourse  with  an.  ex¬ 
planation  of  a  proverb,  which  by  vulgar  error  is 
taken  and  used  when  a  man  is  reduced  to  an  ex¬ 
tremity,  whereas  the  propriety  of  the  maxim  is  to 
use  it  when  you  would  say  there  is  plenty,  but 
you  must  make  such  a  choice  as  not  to  hurt 
another  who  is  to  come  after  you. 

“Mr.  Tobias  Hobson,  from  whom  wo  have  the 
expression,  was  a  very  honorable  man,  for  I  shall 
ever  call  the  man  so  who  gets  an  estate  honestly., 
Mr.  Tobias  Hobson  was  a  carrier;  and,  being  a 
man  of  great  abilities  and  invention,  and  one  that 
saw  where  there  might  good  profit  arise,  though 
the  duller  men  overlooked  it,  this  ingenious  man 
was  the  first  in  this  island  who  let  out  hackney- 
horses.  He  lived  in  Cambridge;  and,  observing 
that  the  scholars  rid  hard,  his  manner  was  to 
keep  a  large  stable  of  horses,  with  boots,  bridles, 
and  whips,  to  furnish  the  gentleman  at  once,  with¬ 
out  going  from  college  to  college  to  borrow,  as 
they  have  done  since  the  death  of  this  worthy 
man.  I  say,  Mr.  Hobson  kept  a  stable  of  forty 
good  cattle  always  ready  and  fit  for  traveling; 
but,  when  a  man  came  for  a  horse,  he  was  led  into 
the  stable,  where  there  was  great  choice;  but  he 
obliged  him  to  take  the  horse  which  stood  next 
to  the  stable-door;  so  that  every  customer  was 
alike  well  served  according  to  his  chance,  and 
every  horse  ridden  with  the  same  justice;  from 
whence  it  became  a  proverb,  when  what  ought  to 
be  your  election  was  forced  upon  you,  to  say, 
‘Hobson’s  choice.’  This  memorable  man  stands 
drawn  in  fresco  at  an  inn  (which  he  used)  in 
Bishopsgate-street,  with  a  hundred -pound  bag 
under  his  arm,  with  this  inscription  upon  the 
said  bag: 

The  fruitful  mother  of  a  hundred  more. 

“  Whatever  tradesman  will  try  the  experiment, 
and  begin  the  day  after  you  publish  this  my  dis¬ 
course  to  treat  his  customers  all  alike,  and  all 
reasonably  and  honestly,  I  will  insure  him  the 
same  success. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  loving  Friend, 

T.  “Hezekiah  Thrift.” 


Ho.  510. J  WEDHESDAY,  OCTOBER  15,  1712. 

- Si  sapis, 

Neque,  prasterquam  quas  ipse  amor  molestias 
Habet  addas ;  et  illas  quas  habet,  recte  feras. 

Ter.  Eun.  act  i.  sc.  1. 

If  you  are  wise,  add  not  to  the  troubles  which  attend  the 
passion  of  love,  and  bear  patiently  those  which  are  insep¬ 
arable  from  it. 

I  was  the  other  day  driving  in  a  hack  through 
Gerrard-street,  when  my  eye  was  immediately 
catched  with  the  prettiest  object  imaginable — the 
face  of  a  very  fair  girl,  between  thirteen  and  four¬ 
teen,  fixed  at  the  chin  to  a  painted  sash,  and 
made  part  of  the  landscape.  It  seemed  admira¬ 
bly  done,  and,  upon  throwing  myself  eagerly  out 
of  the  coach  to  look  at  it,  it  laughed,  and  flung 
from  the  window.  This  amiable  figure  dwelt 
upon  me;  and  I  was  considering  the  vanity  of  the 
girl,  and  her  pleasant  coquetry  in  acting  a  picture 
until  she  was  taken  notice  of,  and  raised  the  ad¬ 
miration  of  her  beholders.  This  little  circum¬ 
stance  made  me  run  into  reflections  upon  the 
force  of  beauty,  and  the  wonderful  influence  the 
female  sex  has  upon  the  other  part  of  the  species. 


*Alderman  Thomas,  a  mercer,  made  this  one  of  the  mottoes 
in  his  shop  in  Paternoster-Row. 


THE  SPE 

Our  hearts  are  seized  with  their  enchantments,  and 
there  are  few  of  us,  but  brutal  men,  who  by  that 
hardness  lose  the  chief  pleasure  in  them,  can  resist 
their  insinuations,  though  never  so  much  against 
our  interest  and  opinion.  It  is  common  with  wo¬ 
men  to  destroy  the  good  effects  a  man’s  following 
his  own  way  and  inclination  might  have  upon  his 
honor  and  fortune,  by  interposlug  their  power  over 
him  in  matters  wherein  they  cannot  influence  him, 
but  to  his  loss  and  disparagement.  I  do  not  know 
therefore  a  task  so  difficult  in  human  life,  as  to  be 
proof  against  the  importunities  of  a  woman  a  man 
loves.  There  is  certainly  no  armor  against  tears, 
sullen  looks,  or  at  best  constrained  familiarities, 
in  her  whom  you  usually  meet  with  transport  and 
alacrity.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  was  quoted  in  a  let¬ 
ter  (of  a  very  ingenious  correspondent  of  mine) 
upon  this  subject.  That  author,  who  had  lived  in 
courts,  camps,  traveled  through  many  countries, 
and  seen  many  men  under  several  climates,  and  of 
as  various  complexions,  speaks  of  our  impotence 
to  resist  the  wiles  of  women  in  very  severe  terms. 
His  words  are  as  follow  : 

“What  means  did  the  devil  find  out,  or  what 
instruments  did  his  own  subtilty  present  him,  as 
fittest  and  aptest  to  work  his  mischief  by?  Even 
the  unquiet  vanity  of  the  woman;  so  as  by  Adam’s 
hearkening  to  the  voice  of  his  wife,  contrary  to 
the  express  commandment  of  the  living  God, 
mankind  by  that  her  incantation  became  the  sub¬ 
ject  of  labor,  sorrow  and  death;  the  woman  being 
given  to  man  for  a  comforter  and  companion,  but 
not  for  a  counselor.  It  is  also  to  be  noted  by 
whom  the  woman  was  tempted  :  even  by  the  most 
ugly  and  unworthy  of  all  beasts,  into  whom  the 
devil  entered  and  persuaded.  Secondly :  What 
was  the  motive  of  her  disobedience?  Even  a  de¬ 
sire  to  know  what  was  most  unfitting  her  know¬ 
ledge;  an  affection  which  has  ever  since  remained 
in  all  the  posterity  of  her  sex.  Thirdly  :  What 
was  it  that  moved  the  man  to  yield  to  her  persua¬ 
sions?  Even  the  same  cause  which  hath  moved 
all  men  since  to  the  like  consent;  namely,  an  un¬ 
willingness  to  grieve  her,  or  make  her  sad,  lest 
she  should  pine,  and  be  overcome  with  sorrow.  But 
if  Adam,  in  the  state  of  perfection,  and  Solomon, 
the  son  of  David,  God’s  chosen  servant,  and  him¬ 
self  a  man  endued  with  the  greatest  wisdom, 
did  both  of  them  disobey  their  Creator  by  the  per¬ 
suasion,  and  for  the  love  they  bare  to  a  woman,  it 
is  not  so  wonderful  as  lamentable,  that  other  men 
in  succeeding  ages  have  been  allured  to  so  many 
inconvenient  and  wicked  practices  by  the  persua¬ 
sions  of  their  wives,  or  other  beloved  darlings, 
who  cover  over  and  shadow  many  malicious  pur¬ 
poses  with  a  counterfeit  passion  of  dissimulate 
sorrow  and  unquietness.” 

The  motions  of  the  minds  of  lovers  are  nowhere 
so  well  described  as  in  the  works  of  skillful  wri¬ 
ters  for  the  stage.  The  scene  between  Fulvia  and 
Curius,  in  the  second  act  of  Johnson’s  Catiline, 
is  an  excellent  picture  of  the  power  of  a  lady  over 
her  gallant.  The  wench  plays  with  his  affections: 
and  as  a  man,  of  all  places  in  the  world,  wishes 
to  make  a  good  figure  with  his  mistress,  upon  her 
upbraiding  him  with  want  of  spirit,  he  alludes  to 
enterprises  which  he  cannot  reveal  but  with  the 
hazard  of  his  life.  When  he  is  worked  thus  far, 
with  a  little  flattery  of  her  opinion  of  his  gallantry, 
and  desire  to  know  more  of  it  out  of  her  overflow¬ 
ing  fondness  to  him,  he  brags  to  her  until  his  life 
is  in  her  disposal. 

When  a  man  is  thus  liable  to  be  vanquished  by 
the  charms  of  her  he  loves,  the  safest  way  is  to 
determine  what  is  proper  to  be  done;  but  to  avoid 
all  expostulation  with  her  before  he  executes  what 
he  has  resolved.  Women  are  ever  too  hard  for  us 


CT  AT  OR.  605 

upon  a  treaty ;  and  one  must  consider  how  sense¬ 
less  a  thing  it  is  to  argue  with  one  whose  looks 
and  gestures  are  more  prevalent  with  you,  than 
your  reason  and  arguments  can  be  with  her.  It  is 
a  most  miserable  slavery  to  submit  to  what  you 
disapprove,  and  give  up  a  truth  for  no  other  rea¬ 
son,  but  that  you  had  not  fortitude  to  support  you 
in  asserting  it.  A  man  has  enough  to  do  to  con¬ 
quer  his  own  unreasonable  wishes  and  desires; 
but  he  does  that  in  vain,  if  he  has  those  of  another 
to  gratify.  ’Let  his  pride  be  in  his  wife  and  fam¬ 
ily,  let  him  give  them  all  the  conveniences  of  life 
in  such  a  manner  as  if  he  were  proud  of  them;  but 
let  it  be  his  own  innocent  pride,  and  not  their  ex¬ 
orbitant  desires,  which  are  indulged  by  him.  In 
this  case  all  the  little  arts  imaginable  are  used  to 
soften  a  man’s  heart,  and  raise  his  passion  above 
his  understanding.  But  in  all  concessions  of  this 
kind,  a  man  should  consider  whether  the  present 
he  makes  flows  from  his  own  love,  or  the  impor¬ 
tunity  of  his  beloved.  If  from  the  latter,  he  is  her 
slave;  if  from  the  former,  her  friend.  We  laugh 
it  off,  and  do  not  weigh  this  subjection  to  women 
with  that  seriousness  which  so  important  a  circum¬ 
stance  deserves.  Why  was  courage  given  man, 
if  his  wife’s  fears  are  to  frustrate  it  ?  When  this 
is  once  indulged,  you  are  no  longer  her  guardian 
and  protector,  as  you  were  designed  by  nature; 
but,  in  compliance  to  her  weaknesses,  you  have 
disabled  yourself  from  avoiding  the  misfortunes 
into  which  they  will  lead  you  both,  and  you  are 
to  see  the  hour  in  which  you  are  to  be  reproached 
by  herself  for  that  very  complaisance  to  her.  It 
is  indeed  the  most  difficult  mastery  over  ourselves 
we  can  possibly  attain,  to  resist  the  grief  of  her 
who  charms  us;  but  let  the  heart  ache,  be  the  an¬ 
guish  never  so  quick  and  painful,  it  is  what  must 
be  suffered  and  passed  through,  if  you  think  to 
live  like  a  gentleman  or  be  conscious  to  yourself 
that  you  are  a  man  of  honesty.  The  old  argument, 
that  “you  do  not  love  me  if  you  deny  me  this,” 
which  first  was  used  to  obtain  a  trifle,  by  habitual 
success  will  oblige  the  unhappy  man  who  gives 
way  to  it  to  resign  the  cause  even  of  his  country 
and  his  honor. — T. 


Ho.  511.]  THURSDAY,  OCTOBER  16,  1712. 

Quis  non  inveniat  turba  quod  amaret  in  ilia  ? 

Ovid,  Art.  Am.  i.  175. 

- Who  could  fail  to  find,- 

In  such  a  crowd  a  mistress  to  his  mind  ? 

“Dear  Spec., 

“Finding  that  my  last  letter  took,  I  do  intend 
to  continue  my  epistolary  correspondence  with 
thee,  on  those  clear  confounded  creatures,  women. 
Thou  knowest  all  the  little  learning  I  am  master 
of  is  upon  that  subject;  I  never  looked  in  a  book 
but  for  their  sakes.  I  have  lately  met  with  two 
pure  stories  for  a  Spectator,  which  I  am  sure  will 
please  mightily,  if  they  pass  through  thy  hands. 
The  first  of  them  I  found  by  chan«e  in  an  English 
book,  called  Herodotus,  that  lay  in  my  friend  Dap- 
perwit’s  window,  as  I  visited  him  one  morning. 
It  luckily  opened  in  the  place  where  I  met  the  fol¬ 
lowing  account.  He  tells  us  that  it  was  the  man¬ 
ner  among  the  Persians  to  have  several  fairs  in  the 
kingdom,  at  which  all  the  young  unmarried  women 
were  annually  exposed  to  sale.  The  men  who 
wanted  wives  came  hither  to  provide  themselves. 
Every  woman  was  given  to  the  highest  bidder, 
and  the  money  which  she  fetched  laid  aside  for 
the  public  use,  to  be  employed  as  thou  shalt  hear 
by-and-by.  By  this  means,  the  richest  people 
had  the  choice  of  the  market,  and  culled  out  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


606 

most  extraordinary  beauties.  As  soon  as  the  fair 
was  thus  picked,  the  refuse  was  to  be  distributed 
among  the  poor,  and  among  those  who  could 
not  go  to  the  price  of  a  beauty.  Several  of  these 
married  the  agreeables,  without  paying  a  farthing 
for  them,  unless  somebody  chanced  to  think  it 
worth  his  while  to  bid  for  them,  in  which  case  the 
best  bidder  was  always  the  purchaser.  But  now 
you  must  know,  Spec.,  it  happened  in  Persia,  as  it 
does  in  our  own  country,  that  there  were  as  many 
ugly  women  as  beauties  or  agreeables*  so  that  by 
consequence,  after  the  magistrates  had  put  off  a 
great  many,  there  was  still  a  great  many  that  stuck 
upon  their  hands.  In  order  therefore  to  clear  the 
market,  the  money  which  the  beauties  had  sold  for 
was  disposed  of  among  the  ugly;  so  that  a  poor- 
man,  who  could  not  atford  to  have  a  beauty  for 
his  wife,  was  forced  to  take  up  with  a  fortune; 
the  greatest  portion  being  always  given  to  the 
most  deformed.  To  this  the  author  adds,  that 
every  poor  man  was  forced  to  live  kindly  with 
his  wife,  or,  in  case  he  repented  of  his  bargain, 
to  return  her  portion  with  her  to  the  next  public 
sale. 

“What  I  would  recommend  to  thee  on  this  occa¬ 
sion  is,  to  establish  such  an  imaginary  fair  in  Great 
Britain;  thou  couldst  make  it  very  pleasant  by 
matching  women  of  quality  with  cobblers  and  car¬ 
men,  or  describing  titles  and  garters  leading  off 
in  great  ceremony  shopkeepers’  and  farmers’ 
daughters.  Though,  to  tell  thee  the  truth,  I  am 
confoundedly  afraid,  that  as  the  love  of  money 
prevails  in  our  island  more  than  it  did  in  Persia, 
we  should  find  that  some  of  our  greatest  men 
would  choose  out  the  portions,  and  rival  one  ano¬ 
ther  for  the  richest  piece  of  deformity;  and  that, 
on  the  contrary,  the  toasts  and  belles  would  be 
bought  up  by  extravagant  heirs,  gamesters,  and 
spendthrifts.  Thou  couldst  make  very  pretty  re¬ 
flections  upon  this  occasion  in  honor  of  the  Per¬ 
sian  politicians,  who  took  care,  by  such  marriages, 
to  beautify  the  upper  part  of  the  species,  and  to 
make  the  greatest  persons  in  the  government  the 
most  graceful.  But  this  I  shall  leave  to  thy  judi¬ 
cious  pen. 

“  I  have  another  story  to  tell  thee,  which  I  like¬ 
wise  met  with  in  a  book.  It  seems  the  general  of 
the  Tartars,  after  having  laid  siege  to  a  strong 
town  in  China,  and  taken  it  by  storm,  would  set 
to  sale  all  the  women  that  were  found  in  it.  Ac¬ 
cordingly  he  put  each  of  them  into  a  sack,  and, 
after  having  thoroughly  considered  the  value  of 
the  woman  who  was  inclosed,  marked  the  price 
that  was  demanded  for  her  upon  the  sack.  There 
was  a  great  confluence  of  chapmen,  that  resorted 
from  every  part,  with  a  design  to  purchase,  which 
they  were  to  do  ‘  unsight  unseen.’  The  book  men¬ 
tions  a  merchant  in  particular,  who  observed  one 
of  the  sacks  to  be  marked  pretty  high,  bargained 
for  it,  and  carried  it  off  with  him  to  his  house. 
As  he  was  resting  with  it  upon  a  halfway  bridge, 
he  was  resolved  to  take  a  survey  of  Ids  purchase; 
upon  opening  the  sack,  a  little  old  woman  popped 
her  head  out  of  it;  at  which  the  adventurer  was 
in  so  great  a  rage,  that  he  was  going  to  shoot  her 
out  into  the  river.  The  old  lady,  however,  begged 
him  first  of  all  to  hear  her  story,  by  which  he 
learned  that  she  was  sister  to  a  great  mandarin, 
who  would  infallibly  make  the  fortune  of  his  bro¬ 
ther-in-law  as  soon  as  he  should  know  to  whose 
lot  she  fell.  Upon  which  the  merchant  again  tied 
her  up  in  his  sack,  and  carried  her  to  his  house, 
where  she  proved  an  excellent  wife,  and  procured 
him  all  the  riches  from  her  brother  that  she  had 
/promised  him. 

>  “  I  fancy,  if  I  was  disposed  to  dream  a  second 
time,  I  could  make  a  tolerable  vision  upon  this 


plan.  I  would  suppose  all  the  unmarried  women 
in  London  and  "Westminster  brought  to  market  in 
sacks,  with  their  respective  prices  on  each  sack. 
The  first  sack  that  is  sold  is  marked  with  five 
thousand  pounds.  Upon  the  opening  of  it,  I  find 
it  filled  with  an  admirable  housewife,  of  an  agree¬ 
able  countenance.  The  purchaser,  upon  hearing 
her  good  qualities,  pays  down  her  price  very  cheer¬ 
fully.  The  second  I  would  open  should  be  a  five 
hundred  pound  sack.  The  lady  in  it,  to  our  sur¬ 
prise,  has  the  face  and  person  of  a  toast.  As  we 
are  wondering  how  she  came  to  be  set  at  so  low  a 
price,  we  hear  that  she  would  have  been  valued  at 
ten  thousand  pounds,  but  that  the  public  had  made 
those  abatements  for  her  being  a  scold.  I  would 
afterward  find  some  beautiful,  modest,  and  discreet 
women,  that  should  be  the  top  of  the  market;  and 
perhaps  discover  half  a  dozen  romps  tied  up  to¬ 
gether  in  the  same  sack,  at  one  hundred  pounds  a 
head.  The  prude  and  the  coquette  should  be  val¬ 
ued  at  the  same  price,  though  the  first  should  go 
off  the  better  of  the  two.  I  fancy  thou  wouldst 
like  such  a  vision,  had  I  time  to  finish  it;  because, 
to  talk  in  thy  own  way,  there  is  a  moral  in  it. 
Whatever  thou  mayest  think  of  it,  prithee  do  not 
make  any  of  thy  queer  apologies  for  this  letter,  as 
thou  didst  for  my  last.  The  women  love  a  gay 
lively  fellow,  and  are  never  angry  at  the  railleries 
of  one  who  is  their  known  admirer.  I  am  always 
bitter  upon  them,  but  well  with  them. 

“  Thine, 

0.  “Honeycomb.” 


No.  512.]  FRIDAY,  OCTOBER  17,  1712. 

Lectorem  delectando,  pariterque  monendo. 

Hors.  Ars  Poet,  ver.  344. 

Mixing  together  profit  and  delight. 

There  is  nothing  which  we  receive  with  so  much 
reluctance  as  advice.  We  look  upon  the  man  who 
gives  it  us  as  offering  an  affront  to  our  understand¬ 
ing,  and  treating  us  like  children  or  idiots.  We 
consider  the  instruction  as  an  implicit  censure, 
and  the  zeal  which  any  one  shows  for  our  good  on 
such  an  occasion  as  a  piece  of  presumption  or  im¬ 
pertinence.  The  truth  of  it  is,  the.  person  who 
pretends  to  advise,  does,  in  that  particular,  exer¬ 
cise  a  superiority  over  us,  and  can  have  no  other 
reason  for  it,  but  that,  in  comparing  us  with  him¬ 
self,  he  thinks  us  defective  either  in  our  conduct 
or  our  understanding.  For  these  reasons,  there  is 
nothing  so  difficult  as  the  art  of  making  advice 
agreeable;  and  indeed  all  the  writers,  both  ancient 
and  modern,  have  distinguished  themselves  among 
one  another,  according  to  the  perfection  at  which 
they  have  arrived  in  this  art.  How  many  devices 
have  been  made  use  of,  to  render  this  bitter  portion 
palatable  !  Some  convey  their  instructions  to  us 
in  the  best  chosen  words,  others  in  the  most  har¬ 
monious  numbers ;  some  in  points  of  wit,  and 
others  in  short  proverbs. 

But,  among  all  the  different  ways  of  giving 
counsel,  I  think  the  finest,  and  that  which  pleases 
the  most  universally,  is  fable,  in  whatsoever  shape 
it  appears.  If  we  consider  this  way  of  instruct¬ 
ing  or  giving  advice,  it  excels  all  others,  because 
it  is  the  least  shocking,  and  the  least  subject  to 
those  exceptions  which  I  have  before  mentioned. 

This  will  appear  to  us,  if  we  reflect,  in  the  first 
place,  that  upon  the  reading  of  a  fable,  we  are 
made  to  believe  we  advise  ourselves.  We  peruse 
the  author  for  the  sake  of  the  story,  and  consider 
the  precepts  rather  as  our  own  conclusions  than 
his  instructions.  The  moral  insinuates  itself 
imperceptibly;  we  are  taught  by  surprise,  and 


THE  SPE 

become  wiser  and  better  unawares.  In  short,  by  this 
method,  a  man  is  so  far  overreached  as  to  think 
he  is  directing  himself,  while  he  is  following  the 
dictates  of  another,  and  consequently  is  not  sen¬ 
sible  of  that  which  is  the  most  unpleasing  circum¬ 
stance  in  advice. 

In  the  next  place,  if  we  look  into  human  nature, 
we  shall  find  that  the  mind  is  never  so  much 
pleased,  as  when  she  exerts  herself  in  any  action 
that  gives  her  an  idea  of  her  own  perfections  and 
abilities.  This  natural  pride  and  ambition  of  the 
soul  is  very  much  gratified  in  the  reading  of  a 
fable;  for,  in  writings  of  this  kind,  the  reader 
comes  in  for  half  of  the  performance;  everything 
appears  to  him  like  a  discovery  of  his  own;  he  is 
busied  all  the  while  in  applying  characters  and 
circumstances,  and  is  in  this  respect  both  a  reader 
and  a  composer.  It  is  no  wonder,  therefore,  that 
on  such  occasions  when  the  mind  is  thus  pleased 
with  itself,  and  amused  with  its  own  discoveries, 
that  it  is  highly  delighted  with  the  writing  which 
is  the  occasion  of  it.  For  this  reason  the  Absalom 
and  Achitophel*  was  one  of  the  most  popular 
poems  that  ever  appeared  in  English.  The  poetry 
is  indeed  very  fine;  but  had  it  been  much  finer,  it 
would  not  have  so  much  pleased,  without  a  plan 
which  gave  the  reader  an  opportunity  of  exerting 
his  own  talents. 

This  oblique  manner  of  giving  advice  is  so  inof¬ 
fensive,  that,  if  we  look  into  ancient  histories,  we 
find  the  wise  men  of  old  very  often  chose  to  give 
counsel  to  their  kings  in  fables.  To  omit  many 
•which  will  occur  to  everyone’s  memory,  there  is  a 
pretty  instance  of  this  nature  in  a  Turkish  tale, 
which  I  do  not  like  the  worse  for  that  little  oriental 
extravagance  which  is  mixed  with  it. 

We  are  told  that  the  Sultan  Mahmoud,  by  his 
perpetual  wars  abroad  and  his  tyranny  at  home, 
had  filled  his  dominions  with  ruin  and  desolation, 
and  half  unpeopled  the  Persian  empire.  The 
Vizier  to  this  great 'sultan  (whether  a  humorist  or 
an  enthusiast,  we  are  not  informed)  pretended  to 
have  learned  of  a  certain  dervise  to  understand  the 
language  of  birds,  so  that  there  was  not  a  bird  that 
could  open  his  mouth  but  the  vizier  knew  what  it 
was  he  said.  As  he  was  one  evening  with  the 
emperor,  in  their  return  from  hunting,  they  saw  a 
couple  of  owls  upon  a  tree  that  grew  near  an  old 
wall  out  of  a  heap  of  rubbish.  “1  would  fain 
know,”  says  the  sultan,  “what  those  two  owls  are 
saying  to  one  another;  listen  to  their  discourse, 
and  give  me  an  account  of  it.”  The  vizier  ap¬ 
proached  the  tree,  pretending  to  be  very  attentive 
to  the  two  owls.  Upon  his  return  to  the  sultan, 
“Sir,”  says  he,  “I  have  heard  part  of  their  con¬ 
versation,  but  dare  not  tell  you  what  it  is.”  The 
sultan  would  not  be  satisfied  with  such  an  answer, 
but  forced  him  to  repeat  word  for  word  everything 
the  owls  had  said.  “You  must  know,  then,”  said 
the  vizier,  “  that  one  of  these  owls  has  a  son,  and 
the  other  a  daughter,  between  whom  they  are  now 
upon  a  treaty  of  marriage.  The  father  of  the  son 
said  to  the  father  of  the  daughter,  in  my  hearing, 
‘Brother,  I  consent  to  this  marriage,  provided  you 
will  settle  upon  your  daughter  fifty  ruined  villages 
for  her  portion.’  To  which  the  father  of  the 
daughter  replied,  ‘  Instead  of  fifty,  I  will  give  her 
five  hundred,  if  you  please.  God  grant  a  long  life 
to  Sultan  Mahmoud!  While  he  reigns  over  us, 
we  shall  never  want  ruined  villages.’  ” 

The  story  says  the  sultan  was  so  touched  with 


*  A  memorable  satire  written  by  Dryden  against  the  faction 
which,  by  Lord  Shaftesbury’s  incitement,  set  the  Duke  of 
Monmouth  at  their  head.  Of  this  poem,  in  which  personal 
satire  is  applied  to  the  support  of  public  principles,  the  sale 
was  so  large,  that  it  is  said  not  to  have  been  equaled,  but  bv 
SachevereU’s  trial.  3 


CTATOR.  607 

the  fable,  that  he  rebuilt  the  towns  and  villages 
which  had  been  destroyed,  and  from  that  time  for 
•ward  consulted  the  good  of  his  people. 

To  fill  up  my  paper,  I  shall  add  a  most  ridicu¬ 
lous  piece  of  natural  magic,  which  was  taught  by 
no  less  a  philosopher  than  Democritus,  namely: 
that  if  the  blood  ot  certain  birds,  which  he  men¬ 
tioned,  were  mixed  together,  it  would  produce  a 
serpent  of  such  a  -wonderful  virtue,  that  whoever 
did  eat  it  should  be  skilled  in  the  language  of 
birds,  and  understand  everything  they  said  to  one 
another.  Whether  the  dervise  above-mentioned 
might  not  have  eaten  such  a  serpent,  I  shall  leave 
to  the  determination  of  the  learned. — 0. 


No  513.1  SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  18,  1712. 

- Afflata  est  numine  quando 

Jam  propiore  Dei.— Virg.  JSn.  vi.  50. 

When  all  the  god  came  rushing  on  her  soul.— Dryden. 

The  following  letter  comes  to  me  from  that  ex¬ 
cellent  man  in  holy  orders,  whom  I  have  mentioned 
more  than  once  as  one  of  that  society,  who  assists 
me  in  my  speculations.  It  is  a  thought  in  sick¬ 
ness,  and  of  a  very  serious  nature,  for  which  rea¬ 
son  I  give  it  a  place  in  the  paper  of  this  day: 

“  Sir, 

“  The  indisposition  which  has  long  hung  upon 
me  is  at  last  grown  to  such  a  head  that  it  must 
quickly  make  an  end  of  me  or  of  itself.  You  may 
imagine,  that  while  I  am  in  this  bad  state  of 
health,  there  are  none  of  your  works  which  I  read 
with  greater  pleasure  than  your  Saturday’s  papers. 
I  should  be  very  glad  if  I  could  furnish  you  with 
any  hints  for  that  day’s  entertainment.  Were  I 
able  to  dress  up  several  thoughts  of  a  serious  na¬ 
ture,  which  have  made  great  impressions  on  my 
mind  during  a  long  fit  of  sickness,  they  might  not 
be  an  improper  entertainment  for  that  occasion. 

“Among  all  the  reflections  which  usually  rise 
in  the  mind  of  a  sick  man,  who  has  time  and  in¬ 
clination  to  consider  his  approaching  end,  there  is 
none  more  natural  than  that  of  his  going  to  appear 
naked  and  unbodied  before  Him  who  made  him. 
When  a  man  considers,  that  as  soon  as  the  vital 
union  is  dissolved,  he  shall  see  that  Supreme  Be¬ 
ing  whom  he  now  contemplates  at  a  distance,  and 
only  in  his  works,  or,  to  speak  more  philosophi¬ 
cally,  when,  by  some  faculty  in  the  soul,  he  shall 
apprehend  the  Divine  Being,  and  be  more  sensible 
of  his  presence  than  we  are  now  of  the  presence 
of  any  object  which  the  eye  beholds,  a  man  must 
be  lost  in  carelessness  and  stupidity,  who  is  not 
alarmed  at  such  a  thought.  Dr.  Sherlock,  in  his 
excellent  treatise  upon  Death,  has  represented,  in 
very  strong  and  lively  colors,  the  state  of  the  soul 
in  its  first  separation  from  the  body,  with  regard 
to  that  invisible  world  which  everywhere  surrounds 
us,  though  we  are  not  able  to  discover  it  through 
this  grosser  world  of  matter,  which  is  accommo¬ 
dated  to  our  senses  in  this  life.  His  words  are  as 
follows: 

“  ‘  That  death,  which  is  our  leaving  this  world, 
is  nothing  else  but  our  putting  off  these  bodies, 
teaches  us  that  it  is  only  our  union  to  these  bodies 
which  intercepts  the  sight  of  the  other  world.  The 
other  world  is  not  at  such  a  distance  from  us  as 
we  may  imagine;  the  throne  of  God  indeed  is  at  a 
great  remove  from  this  earth,  above  the  third  heav¬ 
ens,  where  he  displays  his  glory  to  those  blessed 
spirits  which  encompass  his  throne;  but  as  soon 
as  we  step  out  of  these  bodies,  we  step  into  the 
other  world,  which  is  not  so  properly  another 
world  (for  there  is  the  same  heaven  and  earth  still) 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


608 

as  a  new  state  of  life.  To  live  in  these  bodies  is  to 
live  in  this  world;  to  live  out  of  them  is  to  remove 
into  the  next;  for  while  our  souls  are  confined  to 
these  bodies,  and  can  look  only  through  these  ma¬ 
terial  casements,  nothing  but  what  is  material  can 
affect  us;  nay,  nothing  but  what  is  so  gross  that  it 
can  reflect  light,  and  convey  the  shapes  and  colors 
of  things  with  it  to  the  eye;  so  that,  though  within 
this  visible  world  there  be  a  more  glorious  scene 
of  things  than  what  appears  to  us,  we  perceive 
nothing  at  all  of  it;  for  this  vail  of  flesh  parts  the 
visible  and  invisible  world;  but  when  we  put  off 
these  bodies  there  are  new  and  surprising  wonders 
present  themselves  to  our  view;  when  these  mate¬ 
rial  spectacles  are  taken  off,  the  soul  with  its  own 
naked  eye  sees  what  was  invisible  before;  and  then 
we  are  in  the  other  world,  when  we  can  see  it  and 
converse  with  it.  Thus  St.  Paul  tells  us,  that 
“  when  we  are  at  home  in  the  body,  we  are  absent 
from  the  Lord;  but  when  we  are  absent  from  the 
body,  we  are  present  with  the  Lord:”  2  Cor.  v.  6. 
8.  And  methinks  this  is  enough  to  cure  us  of  our 
fondness  for  these  bodies,  unless  we  think  it  more 
desirable  to  be  confined  to  a  prison,  and  look 
through  a  grate  all  our  lives,  which  gives  us  but 
a  very  narrow  prospect,  and  that  none  of  the  best 
neither,  than  to  be  set  at  liberty  to  view  all  the 
glories  of  the  world.  What  would  we  give  now 
for  the  least  glimpse  of  that  invisible  world,  which 
the  first  step  we  take  out  of  these  bodies  will  pre¬ 
sent  us  with  ?  There  are  such  things  “  as  eye  hath 
not  seen  nor  ear  heard,  neither  hath  it  entered  into 
the  heart  of  man  to  conceive.”  Death  opens  our 
eyes,  enlarges  our  prospect,  presents  us  with  a 
new  and  more  glorious  world,  which  we  can  never 
see  while  we  are  shut  up  in  flesh;  which  should 
make  us  as  willing  to  part  with  tins  vail,  as  to 
take  the  film  off  of  our  eyes,  which  hinders  our 
sight.’ 

“As  a  thinking  man  cannot  but  be  very  much 
affected  with  the  idea  of  his  appearing  in  the  pres¬ 
ence  of  that  Being  *  whom  none  can  see  and  live,’ 
he  must  be  much  more  affected  when  he  considers 
that  this  Being  whom  he  appears  before  will  ex¬ 
amine  all  the  actions  of  his  past  life,  and  reward 
and  punish  him  accordingly.  I  must  confess  that 
I  think  there  is  no  scheme  of  religion,  beside  that 
of  Christianity,  which  can  possibly  support  the 
most  virtuous  person  under  this  thought.  Let  a 
man’s  innocence  be  what  it  will,  let  his  virtues 
rise  to  the  highest  pitch  of  perfection  attainable 
in  this  life,  there  will  be  still  in  him  so  many 
secret  sins,  so  many  human  frailties,  so  many  of¬ 
fenses  of  ignorance,  passion,  and  prejudice,  so 
many  unguarded  words  and  thoughts,  and,  in  short, 
so  many  defects  in  his  best  actions,  that,  without 
the  advantages  of  such  an  expiation  and  atonement 
as  Christianity  has  revealed  to  us,  it  is  impossible 
that  he  should  be  cleared  before  his  Sovereign 
Judge,  or  that  he  should  be  able  to  'stand  in  his 
sight.’  Our  holy  religion  suggests  to  us  the  only 
means  whereby  our  guilt  may  be  taken  away,  and 
our  imperfect  obedience  accepted. 

“It  is  this  series  of  thought  that  I  have  endeav¬ 
ored  to  express  in  the  following  hymn,  which  I 
have  composed  during  this  my  sickness: 

I. 

When,  rising  from  the  bed  of  death, 

O’erwhelm’d  with  guilt  and  fear, 

I  see  my  Maker,  face  to  face, 

0  how  shall  I  appear ! 

n. 

If  yet,  while  pardon  may  he  found, 

And  mercy  may  be  sought, 

My  heart  with  inward  horror  shrinks, 

And  trembles  at  the  thought. 


III. 

When  thou,  0  Lord,  shalt  stand  disclos’d 
In  majesty  severe, 

And  sit  in  judgment  on  my  soul, 

0  how  shall  I  appear  1 

IV. 

But  thou  hast  told  the  troubled  mind 
Who  does  her  sins  lament, 

The  timely  tribute  of  her  tears 
Shall  endless  woe  prevent. 

V. 

Then  see  the  sorrows  of  my  heart, 

Ere  yet  it  be  too  late ; 

And  hear  my  Savior’s  dying  groans, 

To  give  those  sorrows  weight. 

VI. 

For  never  shall  my  soul  despair, 

Her  pardon  to  procure, 

Who  knows  thine  only  Son  has  died 
To  make  her  pardon  sure. 

“  There  is  a  noble  hymn  in  French,  which  Mon¬ 
sieur  Bayle  has  celebrated  for  a  very  fine  one,  and 
which  the  famous  author  of  the  Art  of  Speaking 
calls  an  admirable  one,  that  turns  upon  a  thought 
of  the  same  nature.  If  I  could  have  done  it  jus¬ 
tice  in  English,  I  would  have  sent  it  you  trans¬ 
lated;  it  was  written  by  Monsieur  des  Barreux, 
who  had  been  one  of  the  greatest  wits  and  liber¬ 
tines  in  France,  but  in  his  last  years  was  as 
remarkable  a  penitent. 

Grand  Dieu,  tes  jugemens  sont  remplis  d’equitfi, 

Toujours  tu  prends  plaisir  a  nous  Gtre  propice 
Mais  j’ai  tant  fait  de  mal,  que  jamais  ta  bont6 
Ne  me  pardonnera,  sans  choquer  ta  justice. 

Oui,  mon  Dieu,  la  grandeur  de  mon  impiet6 
Ne  laisse  a  ton  pouvoir  que  le  choix  du  supplice : 

Ton  interet  s’oppose  ma  a  felicite, 

Et  ta  clemence  m6me  attend  que  je  perisse. 

Contente  ton  desir,  puis  qu'il  t’est  glorieux ; 

Offense  toi  des  pleurs  qui  coulent  de  mes  yeux; 

Tonne,  frappe,  il  est  terns,  rens  moi  guerre  pour  guerre ; 

J ’adore  en  perissant  la  raison  qui  t’aigrit. 

Mais  dessus  quel  endroit  tombera  ton  tonnere, 

Qui  ne  soit  tout  couvert  du  sang  de  Jesus  Christ. 

“If  these  thoughts  may  be  serviceable  to  you,  I 
desire  you  would  place  them  in  a  proper  light,  and 
am  ever,  with  great  sincerity, 

0.  “  Sir,  yours,”  etc. 


No.  514.]  MONDAY,  OCTOBER  20,  1712. 

- Me  Parnassi  deserta  per  ardua  dulcis 

Raptat  amor :  juvat  ire  jugis,  qua  nulla  priorum 
Castalium  molli  divertitur  orbita  clivo. 

Virg.  Georg,  iii.  291. 

But  the  commanding  Muse  my  chariot  guides, 

Which  o’er  the  dubious  cliff  securely  rides : 

And  pleas’d  I  am  no  beaten  road  to  take, 

But  first  the  way  to  new  discov’ries  make. — Dryden. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  came  home  a  little  later  than  usual  the  other 
night;  and,  not  finding  myself  inclined  to  sleep,  I 
took  up  Virgil  to  divert  me  until  I  should  be  more 
disposed  to  rest.  He  is  the  author  whom  I  always 
choose  on  such  occasions;  no  one  writing  in  so 
divine,  so  harmonious,  nor  so  equal  a  strain,  which 
leaves  the  mind  composed  and  softened  into  an 
agreeable  melancholy;  the  temper  in  which,  of  all 
others,  I  choose  to  close  the  day.  The  passages  I 
turned  to  were  those  beautiful  raptures  in  his 
Georgies,  where  he  professes  himself  entirely  given 
up  to  the  Muses,  and  smit  with  the  love  of  poetry, 
passionately  wishing  to  be  transported  to  the  cool 
shades  and  retirements  of  the  mountain  Haemus. 
I  closed  the  book  and  went  to  bed.  What  I  had 
just  before  been  reading  made  so  strong  an  im¬ 
pression  on  my  mind,  that  fancy  seemed  almost  to 
fulfill  to  me  the  wish  of  Virgil,  in  presenting  to  me 
the  following  vision: 


THE  SPE 

“  Methought  I  was  on  a  sudden  placed  in  the 
plains  of  Boeotia,  where  at  the  end  of  the  horizon 
I  saw  the  mountain  Parnassus  rising  before  me. 
The  prospect  was  of  so  large  an  extent,  that  I  had 
long  wandered  about  to  find  a  path  which  should 
directly  lead  me  to  it,  had  I  not  seen  at  some  dis¬ 
tance  a  grove  of  trees,  which,  in  a  plain  that  had 
nothing  else  remarkable  enough  in  it  to  fix  my 
sight,  immediately  determined  me  to  go  thither. 
When  I  arrived  at  it,  I  found  it  parted  out  into  a 
great  number  of  walks  and  alleys,  which  often 
widened  into  beautiful  openings,  as  circles  or 
ovals,  set  round  with  yews,  and  cypresses,  with 
niches,  grottoes,  and  caves,  placed  on  the  sides, 
encompassed  with  ivy.  There  was  no  sound  to 
be  heard  in  the  whole  place,  but  only  that  of  a 
gentle  breeze  passing  over  the  leaves  of  the  forest; 
everything  beside  was  buried  in  a  profound  silence. 
I  was  captivated  with  the  beauty  and  retirement 
of  the  place,  and  never  so  much,  before  that  hour, 
was  pleased  with  the  enjoyment  of  myself.  I  in¬ 
dulged  the  humor,  and  suffered  myself  to  wander 
without  choice  or  design.  At  length,  at  the  end 
of  a  range  of  trees,  I  saw  three  figures  seated  on  a 
bank  of  moss,  with  a  silent  brook  creeping  at  their 
feet.  I  adored  them  as  the  tutelary  divinities  of 
the  place,  and  stood  still  to  take  a  particular  view 
of  each  of  them.  The  middlemost,  whose  name 
was  Solitude,  sat  with  her  arms  across  each  other, 
and  seemed  rather  pensive,  and  wholly  taken  up 
with  her  own  thoughts,  than  anyways  grieved  or 
displeased.  The  only  companions  which  she  ad¬ 
mitted  into  that  retirement  were,  the  goddess 
Silence,  who  sat  on  her  right  hand  with  her  finger 
on  her  mouth,  and  on  her  left  Contemplation, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  heavens.  Before  her 
lay  a  celestial  globe,  with  several  schemes  of  math¬ 
ematical  theorems.  She  prevented  my  speech 
with  the  greatest  affability  in  the  world.  ‘  Fear 
not/  said  she,  ‘  I  know  your  request  before  you 
speak  it;  you  would  be  led  to  the  mountain  of  the 
Muses;  the  only  way  to  it  lies  through  this  place, 
and  no  one  is  so  often  employed  in  conducting 
persons  thither  as  myself/  When  she  had  thus 
spoken,  she  rose  from  her  seat,  and  I  immediately 
placed  myself  under  her  direction  ;  but  while  I 
passed  through  the  grove  I  could  not  help  inquir¬ 
ing  of  her  who  were  the  persons  admitted  into 
that  sweet  retirement.  ‘  Surely/  said  I  ‘  there 
can  nothing  enter  here  but  virtue  and  virtuous 
thoughts;  the  whole  wood  seems  designed  for  the 
reception  and  reward  of  such  persons  as  have 
spent  their  lives  according  to  the  dictates  of  their 
conscience,  and  the  commands  of  the  gods/  ‘  You 
imagine  right/  said  she  :  ‘  assure  yourself  this 
place  was  at  first  designed  for  no  other  :  such  it 
continued  to  be  in  the  reign  of  Saturn,  when  none 
entered  here  but  holy  priests,  deliverers  of  their 
country  from  oppression  and  tyranny,  who  re¬ 
posed  themselves  here  after  their  labors,  and  those 
whom  the  study  and  love  of  wisdom  had  fitted  for 
divine  conversation.  But  now  it  is  become  no 
less  dangerous  than  it  was  before  desirable :  vice 
has  learned  so  to  mimic  virtue,  that  it  often  creeps 
in  hither  under  its  disguise.  See  there  :  just  be¬ 
fore  you,  Revenge  stalking  by,  habited  in  the  robe 
of  Honor.  Observe  not  far  from  him  Ambition 
standing  alone;  if  you  ask  him  his  name,  he  will 
tell  you  it  is  Emulation,  or  Glory.  But  the  most  fre¬ 
quent  intruder  we  have  is  Lust,  who  succeeds  now 
the  deity  to  whom  in  better  days  this  grove  was  en¬ 
tirely  devoted.  Virtuous  Love,  with  Hymen  and 
the  Graces  attending  him,  once  reigned  over  this 
happy  place;  a  wdiole  train  of  virtues  waited  on 
him,  and  no  dishonorable  thought  durst  presume 
for  admittance.  But  now,  how  is  the  whole  pros¬ 
pect  changed !  and  how  seldom  renewed  by  some 
39 


CTATOR,  0Q9 

few  who  dare  despise  sordid  wealth,  and  imagine 
themselves  fit  companions  for  so  charming:  a  di¬ 
vinity/ 

“  '1  he  goddess  had  no  sooner  said  thus,  but  we 
were  arrived  at  the  utmost  boundaries  of  the  wood, 
which  lay  contiguous  to  a  plain  that  ended  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain.  Here  I  kept  close  to  my 
guide,  being  solicited  by  several  phantoms,  who 
assured  me  they  would  show  me  a  nearer  way  to 
the  mountain  of  the  Muses.  Among  the  rest,  Van¬ 
ity  was  extremely  importunate,  having  deluded 
infinite  numbers,  whom  I  saw  wandering  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill.  I  turned  away  from  this  despic¬ 
able  tioop  with  disdain;  and,  addressing  myself 
to  my  guide,  told  her  that,  as  I  had  some  hopes  I 
should  be  able  to  reach  up  part  of  the  ascent,  so  I 
despaired  of  having  strength  enough  to  attain  the 
plain  on  the  top.  But,  being  informed  by  her 
that  it  was  impossible  to  stand  upon  the  sides, 
and  that  if  I  did  not  proceed  onward,  I  should 
irrevocably  fall  down  to  the  lowest  verge,  I  re¬ 
solved  to  hazard  any  labor  and  hardship  in  the 
attempt :  so  great  a  desire  had  I  of  enjoying  the 
satisfaction  I  hoped  to  meet  with  at  the  end  of 
my  enterprise. 

“  There  were  two  paths,  which  led  up  by  dif¬ 
ferent  ways  to  the  summit  of  the  mountain  ;  the 
one  was  guarded  by  the  genius  which  presides 
over  the  moment  of  our  births.  He  had  it  in 
charge  to  examine  the  several  pretensions  of  those 
who  desired  to  pass  that  way,  but  to  admit  none 
excepting  those  only  on  whom  Melpomene  had 
looked  with  a  propitious  eye  at  the  hour  of  their 
nativity.  The  other  way  was  guarded  by  dili¬ 
gence,  to  whom  many  of  those  persons  applied 
who  had  met  with  a  denial  the  other  way  ;  but  he 
was  so  tedious  in  granting  their  request,  and  in¬ 
deed,  after  admittance  the  way  was  so  very  intri¬ 
cate  and  laborious,  that  many,  after  they  had  made 
some  progress,  chose  rather  to  return  back  than 
proceed,  and  very  few  persisted  so  long  as  to  ar¬ 
rive  at  the  end  they  proposed.  Beside  these  two 
paths  which  at  length  severally  led  to  the  top  of 
the  mountain,  there  was  a  third  made  up  of  these 
two,  which  a  little  after  the  entrance  joined  in  one. 
This  carried  those  happy  few,  whose  good  for¬ 
tune  it  was  to  find  it,  directly  to  the  throne  of 
Apollo.  1  do  not  know  whether  I  should  even 
now  have  had  the  resolution  to  have  demanded 
entrance  at  either  of  these  doors,  had  I  not  seen  a 
peasant-like  man  (followed  by  a  numerous  and 
lovely  train  of  youth  of  both  sexes)  insist  upon 
entrance  for  all  whom  he  led  up.  He  put  me  in 
mind  of  the  country-clown  who  is  painted  in  the 
map  for  leading  prince  Eugene  over  the  Alps.  He 
had  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand;  and  produ¬ 
cing  several,  which  he  said  were  given  to  him  by 
hands  which  he  knew  Apollo  would  allow  as 
passes;  among  which,  methought  I  saw  some  of 
my  own  writing;  the  whole  assembly  was  admit¬ 
ted,  and  gave  by  their  presence  a  new  beauty  and 
pleasure  to  these  happy  mansions.  I  found  the 
man  did  not  pretend  to  enter  himself,  but  served 
as  a  kind  of  forester  in  the  lawns,  to  direct  pas¬ 
sengers,  who,  by  their  own  merit,  or  instructions 
he  procured  for  them,  had  virtue  enough  to  travel 
that  way.  I  looked  very  attentively  upon  this 
kind,  homely  benefactor  ;  and,  forgive  me,  Mr. 
Spectator,  if  I  own  to  you  I  took  him  for  yourself. 
We  were  no  sooner  entered,  but  we  were  sprinkled 
three  times  with  the  water  of  the  fountain  Aga¬ 
nippe,  which  had  power  to  deliver  us  from  all 
harms,  but  only  envy,  which  reached  even  to  the 
end  of  our  journey.  We  had  not  proceeded  far  in 
the  middle  path,  when  we  arrived  at  the  summit 
of  the  hill,  where  there  immediately  appeared  to 
us  two  figures,  which  extremely  engaged  my  atten- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


610 

tion  :  the  one  was  a  young  nymph  in  the  prime 
of  her  youth  and  beauty  ;  she  had  wings  on  her 
shoulders  and  feet,  and  was  able  to  transport  her¬ 
self  to  the  most  distant  regions  in  the  smallest 
space  of  time.  She  was  continually  varying  her 
dress,  sometimes  into  the  most  natural  and  be¬ 
coming  habits  in  the  world,  and  at  others  into  the 
most  wild  and  freakish  garb  that  can  be  imagined. 
There  stood  by  her  a  man  full-aged  and  of  great 
gravity,  who  corrected  her  inconsistencies  by  show¬ 
ing  them  in  this*  mirror,  and  still  flung  her 
affected  and  unbecoming  ornaments  down  the 
mountain,  which  fell  in  the  plain  below,  and  were 
gathered  up  and  woref;  with  great  satisfaction  by 
those  that  inhabited  it.  The  name  of  the  nymph 
was  Fancy,  the  daughter  of  Liberty,  the  most  beau¬ 
tiful  of  all  the  mountain  nymphs  :  the  other  was 
Judgment,  the  offspring  of  Time,  and  the  only 
child  he  acknowledged  to  be  his.  A  youth,  who 
sat  upon  a  throne  just  between  them,  was  their 
genuine  offspring:  his  name  was  Wit,  and  his  seat 
was  composed  of  the  works  of  the  most  celebrated 
authors.  I  could  not  but  see  with  a  secret  joy, 
that  though  the  Greeks  and  Romans  made  the 
majority,  yet  our  own  countrymen  were  the  next 
both  in  number  and  dignity.  I  was  now  at  liberty 
to  take  a  full  prospect  of  that  delightful  region. 
I  was  inspired  with  new  vigor  and  life,  and  saw 
everything  in  nobler  and  more  pleasing  view  than 
before :  I  breathed  a  purer  ether  in  a  sky  which  was 
a  continued  azure,  gilded  with  perpetual  sunshine. 
The  two  summits  of  the  mountain  rose  on  each 
side,  and  formed  in  the  midst  a  most  delicious 
vale,  the  habitation  of  the  Muses,  and  of  such 
as  had  composed  works  worthy  of  immortality. 
Apollo  was  seated  upon  a  throne  of  gold,  and  for 
a  canopy  an  aged  laurel  spread  its  boughs  and  its 
shade  over  his  head.  His  bow  and  quiver  lay  at 
his  feet.  He  held  his  harp  in  his  hand,  while  the 
Muses  round  about  him  celebrated  with  hymns  his 
victory  over  the  serpent  Python,  and  sometimes 
sang  in  softer  notes  the  loves  of  Leucothoe  and 
Daphnis.  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Milton,  were  seated 
the  next  to  them.  Behind  were  a  great  number 
of  others;  among  whom  I  was  surprised  to  see 
some  in  the  habit  of  Laplanders,  who,  notwith¬ 
standing  the  uncouthness  of  their  dress,  had 
lately  obtained  a  place  upon  the  mountain.  I 
saw  Pindar  walking  all  alone,  no  one  daring  to 
accost  him,  until  Cowley  joined  himself  to  him; 
but  growing  weary  of  one  who  almost  walked  him 
out  of  breath,  he  left  him  for  Horace  and  Anac¬ 
reon,  with  whom  he  seemed  infinitely  delighted. 

“A  little  further  I  saw  another  group  of  figures: 
I  made  up  to  them,  and  found  it  was  Socrates 
dictating  to  Xenophon,  and  the  spirit  of  Plato; 
but  most  of  all,  Musseus  had  the  greatest  audience 
about  him.  1  was  at  too  great  a  distance  to  hear 
what  he  said,  or  discover  the  faces  of  his  hearers; 
only  I  thought  I  now  perceived  Virgil,  who  had 
joined  them,  and  stood  in  a  posture  full  of  admi¬ 
ration  at  the  harmony  of  his  words. 

“  Lastly,  at  the  very  brink  of  the  hill,  I  saw 
Boccalini  sending  dispatches  to  the  world  below 
of  what  happened  upon  Parnassus;  but  I  perceived 
he  did  it  without  leave  of  the  Muses,  and  by 
stealth,  and  was  unwilling  to  have  them  revised 
by  Apollo.  I  could  now,  from  this  height  and 
serene  sky,  behold  the  infinite  cares  and  anxieties 
with  which  mortals  below  sought  out  their  way 
through  the  maze  of  life.  I  saw  the  path  of  Vir¬ 
tue  lay  straight  before  them,  while  Interest,  or 
some  malicious  demon,  still  hurried  them  out  of 
the  way.  I  was  at  once  touched  with  pleasure  at 
my  own  happiness,  and  compassion  at  the  sight 

*  “His.”  f  “Worn:”  pret.  for  participle. 


of  their  inextricable  errors.  Here  the  two  contend 
ing  passions  rose  so  high,  that  they  were  incon¬ 
sistent  with  the  sweet  repose  I  enjoyed  ;  and 
awaking  with  a  sudden  start,  the  only  consolation 
I  could  admit  of  for  my  loss,  was  the  hopes  that 
this  relation  of  my  dream  will  not  displease  you." 

T 


No.  515.]  TUESDAY,  OCTOBER  21,  1712. 

Pudet  me  et  miseret,  qui  harum  mores  contabat  mihi, 

Monuisse  frustra -  Ter.  Heaut.  act.  ii.  sc.  3. 

I  am  ashamed  and  grieved,  that  I  neglected  his  advice,  who 
gave  me  the  character  of  these  creatures. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  obliged  to  you  for  printing  the  account 
I  lately  sent  you  of  a  coquette  who  disturbed  a 
sober  congregation  in  the  city  of  London.  That 
intelligence  ended  at  her  taking  coach,  and  bid¬ 
ding  the  driver  go  where  he  knew.  I  could  not 
leave  her  so,  but  dogged  her,  as  hard  as  she 
drove,  to  St.  Paul’s  churchyard,  where  there  was 
a  stop  of  coaches,  attending  company  coming  out 
of  the  cathedral.  This  gave  me  an  opportunity 
to  hold  up  a  crown  to  her  coachman,  who  gave 
me  the  signal  that  he  would  hurry  on,  and  make 
no  haste,  as  you  know  the  way  is  when  they 
favor  a  chase.  By  his  many  kind  blunders,  dri¬ 
ving  against  other  coaches,  and  slipping  of  his 
tackle,  I  could  keep  up  with  him,  and  lodged  my 
fine  lady  in  the  parish  of  St.  James.  As  I  guessed, 
when  I  first  saw  her  at  church,  her  business  is  to 
win  hearts,  and  throw  them  away,  regarding  no¬ 
thing  but  the  triumph.  I  have  had  the  happiness, 
by  tracing  her  through  all  with  whom  I  heard  she 
was  acquainted,  to  find  one  who  was  intimate 
with  a  friend  of  mine,  and  to  be  introduced  to  her 
notice.  I  have  made  so  good  use  of  my  time,  as 
to  procure  from  that  intimate  of  hers  one  of  her 
letters,  which  she  wrote  to  her  when  in  the  country. 
This  epistle  of  her  own  may  serve  to  alarm  the 
world  against  her  in  ordinary  life,  as  mine,  I  hope, 
did  those  who  shall  behold  her  at  church.  1  he 
letter  was  written  last  winter  to  the  lady  who  gave 
it  me;  and  I  doubt  not  but  you  will  find  it  the 
soul  of  a  happy  self-loving  dame,  that  takes  all 
the  admiration  she  can  meet  with,  and  returns 
none  of  it  in  love  to  her  admirers. 

“Dear  Jenny, 

“  I  am  glad  to  find  you  are  likely  to  be  disposed 
of  in  marriage  so  much  to  your  approbation,  as 
you  tell  me.  You  say  you  are  afraid  only  of  me, 
for  I  shall  laugh  at  your  spouse’s  airs.  I  beg  of 
you  not  to  fear  it,  for  I  am  too  nice  a  discerner  to 
laugh  at  any,  but  whom  most  other  people  think 
fine-  fellows;  so  that  your  dear  may  bring  you 
hither  as  soon  as  his  horses  are  in  case  enough  to 
appear  in  town,  and  you  be  very  safe  against  any 
raillery  you  may  apprehend  from  me;  for  I  am 
surrounded  with  coxcombs  of  my  own  making, 
who  are  all  ridiculous  in  a  manner  your  good 
man,  I  presume,  cannot  exert  himself.  As  men 
who  cannot  raise  their  fortunes,  and  are  uneasy 
under  the  incapacity  of  shining  in  courts,  rail  at 
ambition ;  so  do  awkward  and  insipid  women, 
who  cannot  warm  the  hearts,  and  charm  the  eyes 
of  men,  rail  at  affectation:  but  she  that  has  the 
joy  of  seeing  a  man’s  heart  leap  into  his  eyes  at 
beholding  her,  is  in  no  pain  for  the  want  of  esteem 
among  the  crew  of  that  part  of  her  own  sex,  who 
have  no  spirit  but  that  of  envy,  and  no  language 
but  that  of  malice.  I  do  not  in  this,  I  hope, 
express  myself  insensible  of  the  merit  of  Leodacia, 
who  lowers  her  beauty  to  all  but  her  husband,  and 
never  spreads  her  charms  but  to  gladden  him  who 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


has  a  right  to  them;  I  say,  I  do  honor  to  those 
who  can  be  coquettes,  and  are  not  such;  but  I 
despise  all  Avho  would  be  so,  and,  in  despair  of 
arriving  at  it  themselves,  hate  and  vilify  all  those 
who  can.  But  be  that  as  it  will,  in  answer  to 
your  desire  of  knowing  my  history:  one  of  my 
chief  present  pleasures  is  in  country-dances;  and 
in  obedience  to  me,  as  well  as  the  pleasure  of 
coming  up  to  me  with  a  good  grace,  showing 
themselves  in  their  address  to  others  in  my  pres¬ 
ence,  and  the  like  opportunities,  they  are  all  pro¬ 
ficients  that  way:  and  I  had  the  happiness  of 
being  the  other  night  where  we  made  six  couple, 
and  everv  woman’s  partner  a  professed  lover  of 
mme.  The  wildest  imagination  cannot  form  to 
itself  on  any  occasion,  higher  delight  than  I  ac¬ 
knowledge  myself  to  have  been  in  all  that  even¬ 
ing.  I  chose  out  of  my  admirers  a  set  of  men 
who  most  love  me,  and  gave  them  partners  of  such 
of  my  own  sex  who  most  envied  me. 

“My  way  is,  when  any  man  who  is  my  admirer 
pretends  to  give  himself  airs  of  merit,  as  at  this 
time  a  certain  gentleman  you  know  did,  to  mortify 
him  by  favoring  in  his  presence  the  most  insig¬ 
nificant  creature  I  can  find.  At  this  ball  I  was 
led  into  the  company  by  pretty  Mr.  Fanfly,  who, 
you  know,  is  the  most  obsequious,  well-shaped 
well-bred  woman’s  man  in  town.  I,  at  first  en¬ 
trance  declared  him  my  partner  if  he  danced  at 
all;  which  put  the  whole  assembly  into  a  grin,  as 
forming  no  terrors  from  such  a  rival.  But  we  had 
not  been  long  in  the  room  before  I  overheard  the 
meritorious  gentleman  above-mentioned  say  with 
an  oath,  *  There  is  no  raillery  in  the  thing,  she 
certainly  loves  the  puppy.’  My  gentleman,  when 
we  were  dancing,  took  an  occasion  to  be  very  soft 
in  his  oglings  upon  a  lady  he  danced  with,  and 
whom  he  knew  of  all  women  I  loved  most  to  out¬ 
shine.  The  contest  began  who  should  plague  the 
other  most.  I,  who  do  not  care  a  farthing  for  him, 
had  no  hard  task  to  outvex  him.  I  made  Fanfly, 
with  a  very  little  encouragement,  cut  capers  couple, 
and  then  sink  with  all  the  air  and  tenderness  im¬ 
aginable.  When  he  performed  this,  I  observed 
the  gentleman  you  know  of  fall  into  the  same 
way,  and  mutate  as  well  as  he  could  the  despised 
Fanfly.  I  cannot  well  give  you,  who  are  so  grave 
a  country  lady,  the  idea  of  the  joy  we  have  when 
we  see  a  stubborn  heart  breaking,  or  a  man  of 
sense  turning  fool  for  our  sakes;  but  this  hap¬ 
pened  to  our  friend,  and  I  expect  his  attendance 
whenever  I  go  to  church,  to  court,  to  the  play,  or 
the  park.  1  his  is  a  sacrifice  due  to  us  women  of 
genius,  who  have  the  eloquence  of  beauty,  an  easy 
mien.  I  mean  by  an  easy  mien,  one  which  can  be 
on  occasion  easily  affected;  for  I  must  tell  you, 
dear  Jenny,  I  hold  one  maxim,  which  is  an  un¬ 
common  one,  to  wit,  that  pur  greatest  charms  are 
owing  to  affectation.  It  is  to  that  our  arms  can 
lodge  so  quietly  just  over  our  hips,  and  the  fan 
can  play  without  any  force  or  motion,  but  just 
of  the  wiist.  It  is  to  affectation  we  owe  the 
pensive  attention  of  Deidamia  at  a  tragedy,  the 
scornful  approbation  of  Dulciamara  at  a  com¬ 
edy,  and  the  lowly  aspect  of  Lanquicelsa  at  a 
6ermon. 

“To  tell  you  the  plain  truth,  I  know  no  pleasure 
but  in  being  admired,  and  have  yet  never  failed 
of  attaining  the  approbation  of  the  man  whose 
regard  I  had  a  mind  to.  You  see  all  the  men  who 
make  a  figure  in  the  world  (as  wise  a  look  as  they 
are  pleased  to  put  upon  the  matter)  are  moved  by 
the  same  vanity  as  I  am.  What  is  there  in  ambi¬ 
tion,  but  to  make  other  people’s  wills  depend 
upon  yours?  This  indeed  is  not  to  be  aimed  at 
by  one  who  has  a  genius  no  higher  than  to  think 
of  being  a  very  good  housewife  in  a  country  gen- 


611 


[  tleman  s  family.  The  care  of  poultry  and  pio-g 
are  great  enemies  to  the  countenance;  the  vacant 
look  of  a  fine  lady  is  not  to  be  preserved,  if  she 
admits  anything  to  take  up  her  thoughts  but  her 
ov  n  dear  person.  But  I  interrupt  you  too  long 
loin  our  cares,  and  myself  from  my  conquests. 

I  am,  Madam,  your  most  humble  Servant/’ 

“  Give  me  leave,  Mr.  Spectator,  to  add  her 
friends  answer  to  this  epistle,  who  is  a  very 
discreet,  ingenious  Avoman.”  J 

“  Dear  Gatty, 

“T  tfk.®  y°ur  raillery  in  very  good  part,  and  am 
obliged  to  you  for  the  free  air  with  which  you 
speak  of  your  own  gayeties.  But  this  is  but  a 
barren  superficial  pleasure;  for,  indeed,  Gatty,  we 
are  made  for  man;  and  in  serious  sadness  I  must 
tell  you,  whether  you  yourself  know  it.  or  no,  all 
these  gallantries  tend  to  no  other  end  but  to  be  a 
wife  and  a  mother  as  fast  as  you  can. 

“I  am,  Madam, 

“  Your  most  obedient  Servant.” 


Ho.  516.]  WEDNESDAY,  OCTOBER  22,  1712. 

Immortale  odium,  et  nuuquam  sanabile  vulnus- 
Inde  furor  vulgo,  quod  numina  vieinorum 
Odit  uterque  locus;  quum  solos  credit  habendos 
Esse  deos,  quos  ipse  colat -  Juv.  Sat.  15,  34. 

- A  grutch,  time  out  of  mind,  begun 

And  mutually  bequeath’d  from  sire  to  son; 

Religious  spite  and  pious  spleen  bred  first  ’ 

The  quarrel  which  so  long  the  bigots  nurs’d: 

Each  calls  the  other’s  god  a  senseless  stock :  ' 

His  own  divine. — Tate. 


Of  all  the  monstrous  passions  and  opinions 
which  have  crept  into  the  world,  there  is  none 
so  wonderful  as  that  those  who  profess  the  com¬ 
mon  name  of  Christians,  should  pursue  each 
other  with  rancor  and  hatred  for  differences  in 
their  Avay  of  following  the  example  of  their 
bavior.  It  seems'  so  natural  that  all  who  pursue 
the  steps  of  any  leader  should  form  themselves 
after  his  manners,  that  it  is  impossible  to  account 
for  effects  so  different  from  Avliat  we  might  expect 
from  those  who  profess  themselves  followers  of 
the  highest  pattern  of  meekness  and  charity  but 
by  ascribing  such  effects  to  the  ambition  an<l ’cor¬ 
ruption  of  those  who  are  so  audacious,  with  souls 
full  of  fury,  to  serve  at  the  altars  of  the  God  of 
Peace. 

The  massacres  to  which  the  church  of  Rome 
has  animated  the  ordinary  people,  are  dreadful 
instances  of  the  truth  of  this  observation-  and* 
whoever  reads  the  history  of  the  Irish  rebellion 
and  the  cruelties  which  ensued  thereupon,  will  be 
sufficiently  convinced  to  what  rage  poor  ignorante 
may  be  Avorkecl  up  by  those  who  profess  holiness 
and  become  incendiaries,  and,  under  the  dis¬ 
pensation  of  grace,  promote  evils  abhorrent  to 
nature. 

J  he  subject  and  catastrophe,  which  deserve  so 
well  to  be  remarked  by  the  Protestant  Avorld,  will, 

I  doubt  not,  be  considered,  by  the  reAmrend  and’ 
learned  prelate  that  preaches  to  morrow  before 
many  of  the  descendants  of  those  who  perished 
on  that  lamentable  day,  in  a  manner  suitable  to 
the  occasion,  and  worthy  his  oAvn  great  virtue  and 
eloquence. 

I  shall  not  dwell  upon  it  any  further,  but  only 
transcribe  out  of  a  little  tract,  called  the  Christian 
Hero,  published  in  1701,  what  I  find  there  in 
honor  of  the  renowned  hero,  William  IT  I,  who 
rescued  that  nation  from  a  repetition  of  the  same 
disasters.  His  late  majesty,  of  glorious  memory, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


612 

and  the  most  Christian  king,  are  considered  at 
the  conclusion  of  that  treatise  as  heads  of  the 
Protestant  and  Roman  Catholic  world  in  the  fol¬ 
lowing  manner: 

“  There  were  not  ever,  before  the  entrance  of 
the  Christian  name  into  the  world,  men  who  have 
maintained  a  more  renowned  carriage,  than  the 
two  great  rivals  who  possess  the  full  fame  of  the 
present  age,  and  will  be  the  theme  and  examina¬ 
tion  of  the  future.  They  are  exactly  formed  by 
nature  for  those  ends  to  which  Heaven  seems  to 
have  sent  them  among  us.  Both  animated  with  a 
restless  desire  of  glory,  but  pursue  it  by  different 
means,  and  with  different  motives.  To  one  it 
consists  in  an  extensive,  undisputed  empire  over 
his  subjects,  to  the  other  in  their  rational  and  vol¬ 
untary  obedience.  One’s  happiness  is  founded  in 
their  want  of  power,  the  other’s  in  their  want  of 
desire  to  oppose  him.  The  one  enjoys  the  summit 
of  fortune  with  the  luxury  of  a  Persian,  the  other 
with  the  moderation  of  a  Spartan.  One  is  made 
to  oppress,  the  other  to  relieve  the  oppressed. 
The  one  is  satisfied  with  the  pomp  and  osten¬ 
tation  of  power  to  prefer  and  debase  his  inferiors; 
the  other  delighted  only  with  the  cause  and  foun¬ 
dation  of  it  to  cherish  and  protect  them.  To  one 
therefore  religion  is  but  a  convenient  disguise,  to 
the  other  a  vigorous  motive  of  action. 

“  For,  without  such  ties  of  real  and  solid  honor, 
there  is  no  way  of  forming  a  monarch,  but  after 
the  Machiavelian  scheme,  by  which  a  prince  must 
ever  seem  to  have  all  virtues,  but  really  to  be 
master  of  none;  but  is  to  be  liberal,  merciful,  and 
just,  only  as  they  serve  his  interests;  while  with 
the  noble  art  of  hypocrisy,  empire  would  be  to  be 
extended,  and  new  conquests  be  made  by  new 
devices,  by  which  prompt  address  his  creatures 
might  insensibly  give  law  in  the  business  of  life, 
by  leading  men  in  the  entertainment  of  it. 

“  Thus,  when  words  and  show  are  apt  to  pass 
for  the  substantial  things  they  are  only  to  express, 
there  would  need  no  more  to  enslave  a  country 
but  to  adorn  a  court;  for  while  every  man’s  vanity 
makes  him  believe  himself  capable  of  becoming 
luxury,  enjoyments  are  a  ready  bait  for  sufferings, 
and  the  hopes  of  preferment  invitations  to  servi¬ 
tude;  which  slavery  would  be  colored  with  all  the 
agreements,  as  they  call  it,  imaginable.  The  no¬ 
blest  arts  and  artists,  the  finest  pens  and  most 
elegant  minds,  jointly  employed  to  set  it  off  with 
the  various  embellishments  of  sumptuous  enter¬ 
tainments,  charming  assemblies,  and  polished 
discourses,  and  those  apostate  abilities  of  men, 
the  adored  monarch  might  profusely  and  skill¬ 
fully  encourage,  while  they  flatter  his  virtue,  and 
gild  his  vice  at  so  high  a  rate,  that  he,  without 
scorn  of  the  one,  or  love  of  the  other,  would  alter¬ 
nately  and  occasionally  use  both ;  so  that  his 
bounty  should  support  him  in  his  rapines,  his 
mercy  in  his  cruelties. 

“Nor  is  it  to  give  things  a  more  severe  look 
than  is  natural,  to  suppose  such  must  be  the  con¬ 
sequences  of  a  prince’s  having  no  other  pursuit 
than  that  of  his  own  glory;  for  if  we  consider  an 
infant  born  into  the  world,  and  beholding  itself 
the  mightiest  thing  in  it,  itself  the  present  ad¬ 
miration  and  future  prospect  of  a  fawning  people, 
who  profess  themselves  great  or  mean,  according 
to  the  figure  he  is  to  make  among  them,  what 
fancy  would  not  be  debauched  to  believe  they 
were  but  what  they  professed  themselves — his 
mere  creatures,  and  use  them  as  such,  by  pur¬ 
chasing  with  their  lives  a  boundless  renown, 
which  he,  for  want  of  *  a  more  just  prospect, 
would  place  in  the  number  of  his  slaves,  and 
the  extent  of  his  territories?  Such  undoubtedly 
would  be  the  tragical  effects  of  a  prince’s  living 


with  no  religion,  which  are  not  to  be  surpassed 
but  by  his  having  a  false  one. 

“If  ambition  were  spirited  with  zeal,  what 
would  follow,  but  that  his  people  should  be  con¬ 
verted  into  an  army,  whose  swords  can  make  right 
in  power,  and  solve  controversy  in  belief?  And 
if  men  should  be  stiff-necked  to  the  doctrine  of 
that  visible  church,  let  them  be  contented  with  an 
oar  and  a  chain,  in  the  midst  of  stripes  and  an¬ 
guish,  to  contemplate  on  Him  whose  yoke  is  easy 
and  whose  burden  is  light. 

“With  a  tyranny  begun  on  his  own  subjects, 
and  indignation  that  others  draw  their  breath  in¬ 
dependent  of  his  frown  or  smile,  why  should  he 
not  proceed  to  the  seizure  of  the  world  ?  And  if 
nothing  but  the  thirst  of  sway  were  the  motive  of 
his  actions,  why  should  treaties  be  other  than 
mere  words,  or  solemn  national  compacts  be  any¬ 
thing  but  a  halt  in  the  march  of  that  army,  who 
are  never  to  lay  down  their  arms  until  all  men 
are  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  hanging  their  lives 
on  his  wayward  will;  who  might  supinely,  and  at 
leisure,  expiate  his  own  sins,  by  other  men’s  suf¬ 
ferings,  while  he  daily  meditates  new  slaughter 
and  new  conquests  ? 

“For  mere  man,  when  giddy  with  unbridled 
power,  is  an  insatiate  idol,  not  to  be  appeased  with 
myriads  offered  to  his  pride,  which  may  be  puffed 
up  by  the  adulation  of  a  base  and  prostrate  world 
into  an  opinion  that  he  is  something  more  than 
human,  by  being  something  less;  and  alas!  what 
is  there  that  mortal  man  will  not  believe  of  himself 
when  complimented  with  the  attributes  of  God  ? 
He  can  then  conceive  thoughts  of  a  power  as  om¬ 
nipresent  as  his.  But,  should  there  be  such  a  foe 
of  mankind  now  upon  earth,  have  our  sins  so  far 
provoked  Heaven,  that  we  are  left  utterly  naked  to 
his  fury  ?  Is  there  no  power,  no  leader,  no  genius, 
that  can  conduct  and  animate  us  to  our  death,  or 
our  defense?  Yes;  our  great  God  never  gave  one 
to  reign  by  his  permission,  but  he  gave  to  another 
also  to  reign  by  his  grace. 

“All  the  circumstances  of  the  illustrious  life  of 
our  prince  seem  to  have  conspired  to  make  him 
the  check  and  bridle  of  tyranny;  for  his  mind  has 
been  strengthened  and  confirmed  by  one  continued 
struggle,  and  Heaven  has  educated  him  by  adver¬ 
sity  to  a  quick  sense  of  the  distresses  and  miseries 
of  mankind,  which  he  was  born  to  redress.  In 
just  scorn  of  the  trivial  glories  and  light  ostenta¬ 
tions  of  power,  that  glorious  instrument  of  Provi¬ 
dence  moves,  like  that,  in  a  steady,  calm,  and  silent 
course,  independent  either  of  applause  or  calumny, 
which  renders  him,  if  not  in  a  political,  yet  in  a 
moral,  a  philosophic,  and  heroic,  and  a  Christian 
sense,  an  absolute  monarch;  who,  satisfied  with 
this  unchangeable,  just  and  ample  glory,  must 
needs  turn  all  his  regards  from  himself  to  the  ser¬ 
vice  of  others;  for  he  begins  his  enterprises  with 
his  own  share  in  the  success  of  them;  for  in¬ 
tegrity  bears  in  itself  its  reward,  nor  can  that 
which  depends  not  on  event  ever  know  disappoint¬ 
ment. 

“With  the  undoubted  character  of  a  glorious 
captain,  and  (what  he  much  more  values  than  the 
most  splendid  titles)  that  of  a  sincere  and  honest 
man,  he  is  the  hope  and  stay  of  Europe,  a  univer¬ 
sal  good;  not  to  be  engrossed  by  us  only,  for  dis¬ 
tant  potentates  implore  his  friendship,  and  injured 
empires  court  his  assistance.  He  rules  the  world, 
not  by  an  invasion  of  the  people  of  the  earth,  but 
the  address  of  its  princes;  and,  if  that  world 
should  be  again  roused  from  the  repose  which  his 
prevailing  arms  had  given  it,  why  should  we  not 
hope  that  there  is  an  Almighty,  by  whose  influ¬ 
ence  the  terrible  enemy  that  thinks  himself  pre¬ 
pared  for  battle,  may  find  he  is  but  ripe  for  destruc- 


613 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


tion  ?— and  that  there  may  be  in  the  womb  of  time 
gieat  incidents,  which  may  make  the  catastrophe 
of  a  prosperous  life  as  unfortunate  as  the  particular 
scenes  of  it  were  successful  ?— for  there  does  not 
want  a  skillful  eye  and  resolute  arm  to  observe  and 
grasp  the  occasion.  A  prince,  who  from— 

- Fuit  Ilium,  et  ingens 

Gloria.” -  Vmo.  A!n.  ii.  325. 

Tioy  is  no  more,  and  Ilium  was  a  town. — Dryden 

T. 


No.  517.]  THURSDAY,  OCTOBER  23,1712. 

lieu  pietas!  heu  prisca  fides ! -  Virg.  .En.  vi.  878. 

Mirror  of  ancient  faith! 

Undaunted  worth !  Inviolable  truth  .'—Dryden. 

TV  e  last  night  received  a  piece  of  ill  news  at  our 
club,  which  very  sensibly  afflicted  every  one  of  us. 
I  question  not  but  my  readers  themselves  will  be 
troubled  at  the  hearing  of  it.  To  keep  them  no 
longer  in  suspense,  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  is  dead  ! 
He  departed  this  life  at  his  house  in  the  country, 
after  a  few  weeks’  sickness.  Sir  Andrew  Freeport 
has  a  letter  from  one  of  his  correspondents  in  those 
parts,  that  informs  him  the  old  man  caught  a  cold 
at  the  county-sessions,  as  he  was  very  warmly  pro¬ 
moting  an  address  of  his  own  penning,  in  which 
he  succeeded  according  to  his  wishes.  But  this 
particular  comes  from  a  whig  justice  of  peace, 
who  was  always  Sir  Roger’s  enemy  and  antagonist. 
I  have  letters  both  from  the  chaplain  and  Captain 
Sentry,  which  mention  nothing  of  it,  but  are  filled 
with  many  particulars  to  the  honor  of  the  good  old 
man.  I  have  likewise  a  letter  from  the  butler,  who 
took  so  much  care  of  me  last  summer  when  I  was 
at  the  knight’s  house.  As  my  friend  the  butler 
mentions,  in  the  simplicity  of  his  heart,  several 
circumstances  the  others  have  passed  over  in  silence, 
I  shall  give  my  reader  a  copy  of  his  letter,  without 
any  alteration  or  diminution. 

“Honored  Sir, 

“Knowing  that  you  was  my  old  master’s  good 
friend,  I  could  not  forbear  sending  you  the  melan¬ 
choly  news  of  his  death,  which  has  afflicted  the 
whole  country,  as  well  as  his  poor  servants,  who 
loved  him,  I  may  say,  better  than  we  did  our  lives. 

I  am  afraid  he  caught  his  death  the  last  county- 
sessions,  where  he  would  go  to  see  justice  done  to 
a  poor  widow  woman,  and  her  fatherless  children, 
that  had  been  wronged  by  a  neighboring  gentle¬ 
man;  for  you  know,  Sir,  my  good  master  was 
always  the  poor  man’s  friend.  Upon  his  coming 
home,  the  first  complaint  he  made  was,  that  he 
had  lost  his  roast-beef  stomach,  not  being  able  to 
touch  a  sirloin,  which  was  served  up  according  to 
custom;  and  you  know  he  used  to  take  great  de¬ 
light  in  it.  I  rom  that  time  forward  lie  grew  worse 
and  worse,  but  still  kept  a  good  heart  to  the  last. 
Indeed  we  were  once  in  great  hopes  of  his  recov¬ 
ery,  upon  a  kind  message  that  was  sent  him  from 
the  widow  lady  whom  he  had  made  love  to  the 
forty  last  years  of  his  life;  but  this  only  proved  a 
lightning  before  death.  He  has  bequeathed  to  this 
lady,  as  a  token  of  his  love,  a  great<~pearl  necklace, 
and  a  couple  of  silver  bracelets  set  with  jewels, 
which  belonged  to  my  good  old  lady  his  mother.  He 
has  bequeathed  the  fine  white  gelding  that  he  used 
to  ride  a  hunting  upon  to  his  chaplain,  because  he 
thought  he  would  be  kind  to  him;  and  has  left  you 
all  his  books.  He  has,  moreover,  bequeathed  to 
the  chaplain  a  very  pretty  tenement  with  good 
lands  about  it.  It  being  a  very  cold  day  when  he 
made  his  will,  he  left  for  mourning  to  every  man 
in  the  parish  a  great  frieze  coat,  and  to  every  wo¬ 
man  a  black  riding-hood.  It  was  a  most  moving 


sight  to  see  him  take  leave  of  his  poor  servants 
commending  us  all  for  our  fidelity,  while  we  were 
not  able  to  speak  a  word  for  weeping.  As  we 
most  of  us  are  grown  gray-headed  in  our  dear 
master  s  service,  he  has  left  us  pensions  and  lega¬ 
cies,  which  we  may  live  very  comfortably  upon  the 
remaining  part  of  our  days.  He  has  bequeathed  a 
great  deal  more  in  charity,  which  has  not  yet  come 
to  iny  knowledge;  and  it  is  peremptorily  said  in 
the  parish,  that  he  has  left  money  to  build  a  steeple 
o  the  church;  for  he  was  heard  to  say  some  time 
ago,  that,  if  he  lived  two  years  longer,  Coverley 
church  should  have  a  steeple  to  it.  The  chaplain 
tells  everybody  that  he  made  a  very  good  end,  and 
never  speaks  of  him  without  tears.  He  was  buried, 
according  to  his  own  directions,  among  the  family 
of  the  Coverleys  on  the  left  hand  of  his  father  Sir 
Arthur.  The  coffin  was  carried  by  six  of  his  ten- 
cUits,  and  the  pall  held  up  by  six  of  the  quorum. 
1  he  whole  parish  followed  the  corpse  with  heavy 
hearts,  and  in  their  mourning  suits;  the  men  in 
nieze,  and  the  women  in  riding-hoods.  Captain 
Sentry,  my  master’s  nephew,  has  taken  possession 
ot  the  Hall-house,  and  the  whole  estate.  When 
my  old  master  saw  him  a  little  before  his  death, 
he  shook  him  by  the  hand,  and  wished  him  joy  of 
the  estate  which  was  falling  to  him,  desiring  him 
only  to  make  a  good  use  of  it,  and  to  pay  the  sev¬ 
eral  legacies,  and  the  gifts  of  charity,  which  he 
told  him  he  had  left  as  quit-rents  upon  the  estate, 
d  he  Captain  truly  seems  a  courteous  man,  though 
lie  says  but  little.  He  makes  much  of  those  whom 
my  master  loved,  and  shows  great  kindness  to  the 
old  house-dog,  that  you  know  my  poor  master  was 
so  fond  of.  It  would  have  gone  to  your  heart  to 
have  heard  the  moans  the  dumb  creature  made  on 
the  day  of  my  master’s  death.  He  has  never  en¬ 
joyed  himself  since;  no  more  has  any  of  us.  It 
was  the  melancholiest  day  for  the  poor  people  that 
ever  happened  in  Worcestershire.  This  being  all 
from,  & 

“  Honored  Sir,  your  most  sorrowful  Servant, 

“Edward  Biscuit. 

“P.  S.  My  master  desired,  some  weeks  before 
he  died,  that  a  book,  "which  comes  up  to  you  by 
the  carrier,  should  be  given  to  Sir  Andrew  Freeport 
in  his  name.” 

This  letter,  notwithstanding  the  poor  butler’s 
manner  of  writing  it,  gave  us  such  an  idea  of  our 
good  old  friend,  that  upon  the  reading  of  it  there 
was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  club.  Sir  Andrew,  open¬ 
ing  the  book,  found  it  to  be  a  collection  of  acts  of 
parliament.  There  was  in  particular  the  Act  of 
Uniformity,  with  some  passages  in  it  marked  by 
Sir  Roger’s  own  hand.  Sir  Andrew  found  that 
they  related  to  two  or  three  points  which  he  had 
disputed  with  Sir  Roger,  the  last  time  he  appeared 
at  the  club.  Sir  Andrew,  who  would  have  been 
merry  at  such  an  incident  on  another  occasion,  at 
the  sight  of  the  old  man’s  hand-writing  burst  into 
tears,  and  put  the  book  into  his  pocket.  Captain 
Sentry  informs  me  that  the  knight  has  left  rings 
and  mourning  for  every  one  in  the  club. — 0. 


No.  518.]  FRIDAY,  OCTOBER  24,  1712. 

— — Miserum  est  aliorum  incumbere  fam;e, 

Ne  eollapsa  ruant  subductis  tecta  columnis. 

Juv.  Sat.  viii.  76. 

’Tis  poor  relying  on  another’s  fame, 

For,  take  the  pillars  but  away,  and  all 

The  superstructure  must  in  ruins  fall. — Stepney. 

This  being  a  day  of  business  with  me,  I  must 
make  the  present  entertainment  like  a  treat  at  a 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


614 

house-warming,  out  of  such  presents  as  have  been 
sent  me  by  my  guests.  The  first  dish  which  I 
serve  up  is  a  letter  come  fresh  to  my  hand. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  It  is  with  inexpressible  sorrow  that  I  hear  of 
the  death  of  good  Sir  Roger,  and  do  heartily  con¬ 
dole  with  you  upon  so  melancholy  an  occasion. 

I  think  you  ought  to  have  blackened  the  edges  of 
a  paper  which  brought  us  so  ill  news,  and  to  have 
had  it  stamped  likewise  in  black.  It  is  expected 
of  you  that  you  should  write  his  epitaph,  and  if 
possible,  filfhis  place  in  the  club  with  as  worthy 
and  diverting  a  member.  I  question  not  but  you 
will  receive  many  recommendations  from  the  public 
of  such  as  will  appear  candidates  for  that  post. 

“  Since  I  am  talking  of  death,  and  have  men¬ 
tioned  an  epitaph,  I  must  tell  you,  Sir,  that  I  have 
made  discovery  of  a  churchyard  in  which  I  believe 
you  might  spend  an  afternoon  with  great  pleasure 
to  yourself  and  to  the  public.  It  belongs  to  the 
church  of  Stebon-Heatli,  commonly  called  Step¬ 
ney.  Whether  or  no  it  be  that  the  people  of  that 
parish  have,  a  particular  genius  for  an  epitaph,  or 
that  there  be  some  poet  among  them  who  under¬ 
takes  that  work  by  the  great,  I  cannot  tell;  but 
there  are  more  remarkable  inscriptions  in  that 
place  than  in  any  other  I  have  met  with;  and  I 
may  say,  without  vanity,  that  there  is  not  a  gen¬ 
tleman  in  England  better  read  in  tombstones  than 
myself,  my  studies  having  lain  very  much  in  church¬ 
yards.  I  shall  beg  leave  to  send  you  a  couple  of 
epitaphs,  for  a  sample  of  those  I  have  just  now 
mentioned.  They  are  written  in  a  different  man¬ 
ner;  the  first  being  in  a  diffused  and  luxuriant,  the 
second  in  the  close  contracted  style.  The  first  has 
much  of  the  simple  and  pathetic;  the  second  is 
something  light  but  nervous.  The  first  is  thus: 

Here  Thomas  Sapper  lies  interr’d.  Ah,  why? 

Born  in  New  England,  did  in  London  die; 

Was  the  third  son  of  eight,  begot  upon 
His  mother  Martha,  hy  his  father  John. 

Much  favor’d  hy  his  prince  he  ’gan  to  be, 

But  nipt  by  death  at  the  age  of  twenty-three. 

Fatal  to  him  was  that  we  small-pox  name, 

By  which  his  mother  and  two  brethren  came, 

Also  to  breathe  their  last,  nine  years  before, 

And  now  have  left  their  father  to  deplore 
The  loss  of  all  his  children,  with  his  wife, 

Who  was  the  joy  and  comfort  of  his  life. 

“The  second  is  as  follows: 

Here  lives  the  body  of  Daniel  Saul, 

Spitalfield’s  weaver,  and  that’s  all. 

“I  will  not  dismiss  you,  while  I  am  upon  this 
subject  without  sending  a  short  epitaph  which  I 
once  met  with,  though  I  cannot  possibly  recollect 
the  place.  The  thought  of  it  is  serious,  and  in 
my  opinion  the  finest  that  I  ever  met  with  upon 
this  occasion.  You  know,  Sir,  it  is  usual,  after 
having  told  us  the  name  of  the  person  who  lies 
interred,  to  launch  out  into  his  praises.  This  epi¬ 
taph  takes  a  quite  contrary  turn,  having  been  made 
by  the  person  himself  some  time  before  his  death. 

*  Hie  jacet  R.  C.  in  expectatione  diei  supremi. 
Qnalis  erat,  dies  iste  indicabit.’ 

‘Here  lieth  R.  C.  in  expectation  of  the  last  day. 
What  sort  of  a  man  he  was  that  day  will  discover.’ 

“I  am,  Sir,”  etc. 

The  following  letter  is  dated  from  Cambridge: 
“Sir, 

“Having  lately  read  among  your  speculations 
an  essay  upon  physiognomy,  I  cannot  but  think 
that,  if  you  made  a  visit  to  this  ancient  university, 
you  might  receive  very  considerable  lights  upon 
that  subject,  there  being  scarce  a  young  fellow  in 
it  who  does  not  give  certain  indications  of  his 
particular  humor  and  disposition,  conformable  to  I 


the  rules  of  that  art.  In  courts  and  cities  every¬ 
body  lays  a  constraint  upon  his  countenance,  and 
endeavors  to  look  like  the  rest  of  the  world;  but 
the  youth  of  this  place,  having  not  yet  formed 
themselves  by  conversation,  and  the  knowledge 
of  the  world,  give  their  limbs  and  features  their 
full  play. 

“As  you  have  considered  human  nature  in  all 
its  lights,  you  must  be  extremely  well  apprised, 
that  there  is  a  very  close  correspondence  Detween 
the  outward  and  the  inward  man;  that  scarce  the 
least  dawning,  the  least  parturiency  toward  a 
thought,  can  be  stirring  in  the  mind  of  man,  with¬ 
out  producing  a  suitable  revolution  in  his  exteriors, 
which  will  easily  discover  itself  to  an  adept  in  the 
theory  of  the  phiz.  Hence  it  is  that  the  intrinsic 
worth  and  merit  of  a  son  of  Alma  Mater  is  ordi¬ 
narily  calculated  from  the  cast  of  his  visage,  the 
contour  of  his  person,  the  mechanism  of  his  dress, 
the  disposition  of  his  limbs,  the  manner  of  his 
gait  and  air,  with  a  number  of  circumstances  of 
equal  consequence  and  information.  The  practi¬ 
tioners  in  this  art  often  make  use  of  a  gentleman’s 
eyes  to  give  them  light  into  the  posture  of  his 
brains;  take  a  handle  from  his  nose  to  judge  of  the 
size  of  his  intellects;  and  interpret  the  overmuch 
visibility  and  pertness  of  one  year  as  an  infallible 
mark  of  reprobation,  and  a  sign  the  owner  of  so 
saucy  a  member  fears  neither  God  nor  man.  In 
conformity  to  this  scheme,  a  contracted  brow,  a 
lumpish  downcast  look,  a  sober  sedate  pace,  with 
both  hands  dangling  quiet  and  steady  in  lines  ex¬ 
actly  parallel  to  each  lateral  pocket  of  the  galli¬ 
gaskins,  is  logic,  metaphysics,  and  mathematics, 
in  perfection.  So  likewise  the  belles-lettres  are 
typified  by  a  saunter  in  the  gait,  a  fall  of  one  wing 
of  the  peruke  backward,  and  insertion  of  one 
hand  in  the  fob,  and  a  negligent  swing  of  the 
other,  "with  a  pinch  of  right  fine  Barcelona  between 
finger  and  thumb,  a  due  quantity  of  the  same  upon 
the  upper  lip,  and  a  noddle-case  loaden  with  pul- 
vil.  Again,  a  grave,  solemn,  stalking  pace  is 
heroic  poetry,  and  politics;  an  unequal  one,  a  genius 
for  the  ode,  and  the  modern  ballad;  and  an  open 
breast;  with  an  audacious  display  of  the  Holland 
shirt,  is  construed  a  fatal  tendency  to  the  art  mil¬ 
itary. 

“  I  might  be  much  larger  upon  these  hints,  but 
I  know  whom  I  wrrite  to.  If  you  can  graft  any 
speculation  upon  theito,  or  turn  them  to  the  ad¬ 
vantage  of  the  persons  concerned  in  them,  you  will 
do  a  work  very  becoming  the  British  Spectator, 
and  oblige, 

“Your  very  humble  Servant, 

“  Tom  Tweer.” 


No.  519.]  SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  25,  1712. 

Inde  hominum  peeuduinque  genus,  yiteeque  volantum. 

Et  qum  marmoreo  fert  monstra  sub  eequore  pontus. 

Virg.  Ain.  vi.  728. 

Hence  men  and  beasts  the  breath  of  life  obtain, 

And  birds  of  air,  and  monsters  of  the  main. — Dryden. 

Though  there  is  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  in  con¬ 
templating  the  material  world,  by  which  I  mean. 
>  that  system  of  bodies  into  which  nature  has  so 
curiously  wrought  the  mass  of  dead  matter,  with 
the  several  relations  -which  those  bodies  bear  to 
one  another;  there  is  still,  methinks,  something 
more  wonderful  and  surprising  in  contemplations 
on  the  world  of  life,  by  wrhieh  I  mean  all  those 
animals  with  which  every  part  of  the  universe  is 
furnished.  The  material  world  is  only  the  shell 
of  the  universe;  the  world  of  life  are  its  inhab¬ 
itants. 

If  we  consider  those  parts  of  the  material  world 


615 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


which  lie  the  nearest  to  us,  and  are  therefore  subject 
to  our  observations  and  inquiries,  it  is  amazing  to 
consider  the  infinity  of  animals  with  which  it  is 
stocked.  Every  part  of  matter  is  peopled;  every 
green  leaf  swarms  with  inhabitants.  There  is 
scarce  a  single  humor  in  the  body  of  man,  or  of 
any  other  animal,  in  which  our  glasses  do  not  dis¬ 
cover  myriads  of  living  creatures.  The  surface  of 
animals  is  also  covered  with  other  animals,  which 
are  in  the  same  manner  the  basis  of  other  animals 
that  live  upon  it;  nay,  we  find  in  the  most  solid 
bodies,  as  m  marble  itself,  innumerable  cells  and 
cavities  that  are  crowded  with  such  imperceptible 
inhabitants  as  are  too  little  for  the  naked  eye  to 
discover.  On  the  other  hand,  if  we  look  into  the 
more  bulky  parts  of  nature,  wTe  see  the  seas,  lakes, 
and  rivers,  teeming  with  numberless  kinds  of 
living  creatures.  We  find  every  mountain  and 
marsh,  wilderness  and  wood,  plentifully  stocked 
with  birds  and  beasts;  and  every  part  of  matter 
affording  proper  necessaries  and  conveniences  for 
the  livelihood  of  multitudes  which  inhabit  it. 

The  author*  of  the  Plurality  of  Worlds  draws  a 
very  good  argument  from  this  consideration  for 
the  peopling  of  every  planet;  as  indeed  it  seems 
very  probable,  from  the  analogy  of  reason,  that  if 
no  part  of  matter  which  we  are  acquainted  with, 
lies  waste  and  useless,  those  great  bodies,  which 
are  at  such  a  distance  from  us,  should  not  be 
desert  and  unpeopled,  but  rather  that  they  should 
be  furnished  with  beings  adapted  to  their  respec¬ 
tive  situations. 

Existence  is  a  blessing  to  those  beings  only 
which  are  endowed  with  perception;  and  is  in  a 
manner  thrown  away  upon  dead  matter,  any  fur¬ 
ther  than  as  it  is  subservient  to  beings  which  are 
conscious  of  their  existence.  Accordingly,  we 
find,  from  the  bodies  which  lie  under  our  observa¬ 
tion,  that  matter  is  only  made  as  the  basis  and 
support  of  animals,  and  that  there  is  no  mors  of 
the  one  than  what  is  necessary  for  the  existence 
of  the  other. 

Infinite  goodness  is  of  so  communicative  a  na¬ 
ture,  that  it  seems  to  delight  in  the  conferring  of 
existence  upon  every  degree  of  perceptive  being. 
As  this  is  a  speculation  which  I  have  often  pur¬ 
sued  with  great  pleasure  to  myself,  I  shall  enlarge 
further  upon  it,  by  considering  that  part  of  the 
scale  of  beings  which  comes  within  our  know¬ 
ledge. 

There  are  some  living  creatures  which  are  raised 
but  just  above  dead  matter.  To  mention  only 
that  species  of  shell-fish,  which  are  formed  in  the 
fashion  of  a  cone,  that  grow  to  the  surface  of  sev¬ 
eral  rocks,  and  immediately  die  upon  their  being 
severed  from  the  place  where  they  grow.  There 
are  many  other  creatures  but  one  remove  from 
these,  which  have  no  other  sense  beside  that  of 
feeling  and  taste.  Others  have  still  an  additional 
one  of  hearing;  others  of  smell,  and  others  of  sight. 
It  is  wonderful  to  observe  by  what  a  gradual  pro¬ 
gress  the  world  of  life  advances  through  a  prodi¬ 
gious  variety  of  species,  before  a  creature  is  formed 
that  is  complete  in  all  its  senses;  and  even  among 
these  there  is  such  a  different  degree  of  perfection 
in  the  sense  which  one  animal  enjoys  beyond  what 
appears  in  another,  that  though  the  sense  in  dif¬ 
ferent  animals  be  distinguished  by  the  same  com¬ 
mon  denomination,  it  seems  almost  of  a  different 
nature.  If  after  this  we  look  into  the  several  in¬ 
ward  perfections  of  cunning  and  sagacity,  or  what 
we  generally  call  instinct,  we  find  them  rising 
after  the  same  manner  imperceptibly  one  above 
another,  and  receiving  additional  improvements. 


!  Fontenelle. — This  book  was  published  in  1686,  and  is 
founded  ou  the  chimerical  Vortices  of  Descartes. 


according  to  the  species  in  which  they  are  im¬ 
planted.  This  progress  in  nature  is  so  very  grad¬ 
ual,  that  the  most  perfect  of  an  inferior  species 
comes  very  near  to  the  most  imperfect  of  that  which 
is  immediately  above  it. 

I  he  exuberant  and  overflowing  goodness  of  the 
Supreme  Being,  whose  mercy  extends  to  all  his 
works,  is  plainly  seen,  as  I  have  before  hinted, 
from  his  having  made  so  very  little  matter,  at 
least  what  falls  within  our  knowledge,  that  does 
not  swarm  with  life.  Nor  is  his  goodness  less 
seen  in  the  diversity,  than  in  the  multitude  of 
living  creatures.  Had  he  only  made  one  species 
of  animals,  none  of  the  rest  would  have  enjoyed 
the  happiness  of  existence  :  he  has,  therefore,  spe¬ 
cified  in  his  creation  every  degree  of  life,  every 
capacity  of  being.  The  whole  chasm  in  nature, 
from  a  plant  to  a  man,  is  filled  up  with  divers 
kinds  of  creatures,  rising  one  over  another,  by 
such  a  gentle  and  easy  ascent,  that  the  little  trail 
sitions  and  deviations  from  one  species  to  another 
are  almost  insensible.  The  intermediate  space  is 
so  well  husbanded  and  managed,  that  there  is 
scarcely  a  degree  of  perception  which  does  not  ap¬ 
pear  in  some  one  part  of  the  world  of  life.  Is  the 
goodness  or  the  wisdom  of  the  Divine  Being  more 
manifested  in  this  his  proceeding? 

There  is  a  consequence,  beside  those  I  have 
already  mentioned,  which  seems  very  naturally 
deducible  from  the  foregoing  considerations.  If 
the  scale  of  being  rises  by  such  a  regular  progress 
so  high  as  man,  we  may,  by  a  parity  of  reason, 
suppose  that  it  still  proceeds  gradually  through 
those  beings  which  are  of  a  superior  nature  to 
him:  since  there  is  an  infinitely  greater  space  and 
room  for  different  degrees  of  perfection  between 
the  Supreme  Being  and  man,  than  between  man 
and  the  most  despicable  insect.  This  consequence 
of  so  great  a  variety  of  beings  which  are  superior 
to  us,  from  that  variety  which  is  inferior  to  us,  is 
made  by  Mr.  Locke,  in  a  passage  which  I  shall 
here  set  down,  after  having  premised,  that  not¬ 
withstanding  there  is  such  infinite  room  between 
man  and  his  Maker  for  the  creative  power  to  ex¬ 
ert  itself  in,  it  is  impossible  that  it  should  ever  be 
filled  up,  since  there  will  be  still  an  infinite  gap  or 
distance  between  the  highest  created  being  and 
the  Power  which  produced  him. 

“  That  there  should  be  more  species  of  intelli 
gent  creatures  above  us,  than  there  are  of  sensible 
and  material  below  us,  is  probable  to  me  froir 
hence:  that  in  all  the  visible  corporeal  world  we 
see  no  chasms,  or  no  gaps.  All  quite  down  from 
us  the  descent  is  by  easy  steps,  and  a  continued 
series  of  things,  that  in  each  remove  differ  very 
little  one  from  the  other.  There  are  fishes  that 
have  wings,  and  are  not  strangers  to  the  airy  re¬ 
gion;  and  there  are  some  birds  that  are  inhabitants 
of  the  water,  whose  blood  is  cold  as  fishes,  and 
their  flesh  so  like  in  taste,  that  the  scrupulous  are 
allowed  them  on  fish-days.  There  are  animals  so 
near  of  kin  both  to  birds  and  beasts,  that  they  are 
the  middle  between  both.  Amphibious  animals 
link  the  terrestrial  and  aquatic  together.  Seals 
live  at  land  and  at  sea,  and  porpoises  have  the 
warm  blood  and  entrails  of  a  hog;  not  to  mention 
what  is  confidently  reported  of  mermaids,  or  sea¬ 
men,  there  are  some  brutes  that  seem  to  have  as 
much  knowledge  and  reason  as  some  that  are 
called  men;  and  the  animal  and  vegetable  king- 
!  doms  are  so  nearly  joined,  that  if  you  will  take 
j  the  lowest  of  one,  and  the  highest  of  the  other, 

I  there  will  scarce  be  perceived  any  great  difference 
:  between  them:  and  so  on,  until  we  come  to  the 
j  lowest  and  the  most  inorganical  parts  of  matter, 

;  we  shall  find  everywhere  that  the  several  species 
are  linked  together,  and  differ  but  in  almost  in- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


616 

sensible  degrees.  And,  when  we  consider  the  i 
infinite  power  and  wisdom  of  the  Maker,  we  have  I 
reason  to  think  that  it  is  suitable  to  the  magnifi¬ 
cent  harmony  of  the  universe,  and  the  great  de¬ 
sign  and  infinite  goodness  of  the  Architect,  that 
the  species  of  creatures  should  also  by  gentle  de¬ 
grees  ascend  upward  from  us  toward  his  infinite 
perfection,  as  we  see  they  gradually  descend  from 
us  downward  :  which  if  it  be  probable,  we  have 
reason  then  to  be  persuaded  that  there  are  far 
more  species  of  creatures  above  us  than  there  are 
beneath;  we  being  in  degrees  of  perfection  much 
more  remote  from  the  infinite  being  of  God,  than 
we  are  from  the  lowest  state  of  being,  and  that 
which  approaches  nearest  to  nothing.  And  yet 
of  all  those  distinct  species  we  have  no  clear  dis¬ 
tinct  ideas.” 

In  this  system  of  being,  there  is  no  creature  so 
wonderful  in  its  nature,  and  which  so  much  de¬ 
serves  our  particular  attention,  as  man,  who  fills 
up  the  middle  space  between  the  animal  and  intel¬ 
lectual  nature,  the  visible  and  invisible  world, 
and  is  that  link  in  the  chain  of  beings  which  has 
been  often  termed  the  nexus  utriusque  mundi.  So 
that  he  who,  in  one  respect,  is  associated  with 
angels  and  archangels,  may  look  upon  a  Being 
of  infinite  perfection  as  his  father,  and  the  highest 
order  of  spirits  as  his  brethren,  may,  in  another 
respect,  say  to  corruption,  “  Thou  art  my  father  ; 
and  to  the  worm,  Thou  art  my  mother  and  my 
sister.” — 0. 


Ho.  520.]  MONDAY,  OCTOBER  27,  1712. 

Quis  desiderio  sit  pudor  aut  modus 

Tam  chari  capitis. — Hor.  1  Od.  xxiv.  1. 

And  who  can  grieve  too  much?  What  time  shall  end 

Our  mourning  for  so  dear  a  friend  ? — Creech. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  just  value  you  have  expressed  for  the 
matrimonial  state  is  the  reason  that  I  now  venture 
to  write  to  you,  without  the  fear  of  being  ridicu¬ 
lous  :  and  confess  to  you  that  though  it  is  three 
months  since  I  lost  a  very  agreeable  woman,  who 
was  my  wife,  my  sorrow  is  still  fresh;  and  I  am 
often,  in  the  midst  of  company,  upon  any  circum¬ 
stance  that  revives  her  memory,  with  a  reflection 
what  she  should  say  or  do  on  such  an  occasion  : 
I  say,  upon  any  occurrence  of  that  nature,  which 
I  can  give  you  a  sense  of,  though  I  cannot  express 
it  wholly,  I  am  all  over  softness,  and  am  obliged 
to  retire  and  give  way  to  a  few  sighs  and  tears  be¬ 
fore  I  can  be  easy.  I  cannot  but  recommend  the 
subject  of  male  widowhood  to  you,  and  beg  you  to 
touch  upon  it  by  the  first  opportunity.  To  those 
who  have  not  lived  like  husbands  during  the  lives 
of  their  spouses,  this  would  be  a  tasteless  jumble 
of  words;  but  to  such  (of  whom  there  are  not  a 
few)  who  have  enjoyed  that  state  with  the  senti¬ 
ments  proper  for  it,  you  will  have  every  line, 
which  hits  the  sorrow,  attended  with  a  tear  of 
pity  and  consolation;  for  I  know  not  by  what 
goodness  of  Providence  it  is  that  every  gush  of 
passion  is  a  step  toward  the  relief  of  it;  and  there 
is  a  certain  comfort  in  the  very  act  of  sorrowing, 
which,  I  suppose,  arises  from  a  secret  conscious¬ 
ness  in  the  mind,  that  the  affliction  it  is  under 
flows  from  a  virtuous  cause.  My  concern  is  not 
indeed  so  outrageous  as  at  the  first  transport;  for 
I  think  it  has  subsided  rather  into  a  soberer  state 
of  mind  than  any  actual  perturbation  of  spirit. 
There  might  be  rules  formed  for  men’s  behavior 
on  this  great  incident  to  bring  them  from  that 
misfortune  into  the  condition  I  am  at  present ; 
which  is,  I  think,  that  my  sorrow  has  converted 


all  roughness  of  temper  into  meekness,  good  na¬ 
ture,  and  complacency.  But  indeed,  when  in  a 
serious  and  lonely  hour  I  present  my  departed 
consort  to  my  imagination,  with  that  air  of  per¬ 
suasion  in  her  countenance  when  I  have  been  in 
passion,  that  sweet  affability  when  I  have  been  in 
good-humor,  that  tender  compassion  when  I  have 
had  anything  which  gave  me  uneasiness;  I  con¬ 
fess  to  you  I  am  inconsolable,  and  my  eyes  gush 
with  grief,  as  if  I  had  seen  her  but  just  then  ex¬ 
pire.  In  this  condition  I  am  broken  in  upon  by 
a  charming  young  woman,  my  daughter,  who  is 
the  picture  of  what  her  mother  was  on  her  wed¬ 
ding  day.  The  good  girl  strives  to  comfort  me; 
but  how  shall  I  let  you  know  that  all  the  comfort 
she  gives  me  is  to  make  my  tears  flow  more  easily  ? 
The  child  knows  she  quickens  my  sorrows,  and 
rejoices  my  heart  at  the  same  time.  Oh,  ye  learned  ! 
tell  me  by  what  word  to  speak  a  motion  of  the 
soul  for  which  there  is  no  name.  When  she  kneels, 
and  bids  me  be  comforted,  she  is  my  child  :  when 
I  take  her  in  my  arms,  and  bid  her  say  no  more, 
she  is  my  very  wife,  and  is  the  very  comforter  I 
lament  the  loss  of.  I  banish  her  the  room,  and 
weep  aloud  that  I  have  lost  her  mother,  and  that 
I  have  her. 

“  Mr.  Spectator,  I  wish  it  were  possible  for  you 
to  have  a  sense  of  these  pleasing  perplexities;  you 
might  communicate  to  the  guilty  part  of  mankind 
that  they  are  incapable  of  the  happiness  which  is 
in  the  very  sorrows  of  the  virtuous. 

“  But  pray  spare  me  a  little  longer;  give  me  leave 
to  tell  you  the  manner  of  her  death.  She  took  leave 
of  all  her  family,  and  bore  the  vain  application 
of  medicines  with  the  greatest  patience  imagina¬ 
ble.  When  the  physician  told  her  she  must  cer¬ 
tainly  die,  she  desired  as  well  as  she  could  that 
all  who  were  present,  except  myself,  might  depart 
the  room.  She  said  she  had  nothing  to  say,  for 
she  was  resigned,  and  I  knew  all  she  knew  that 
concerned  us  in  this  world;  but  she  desired  to  be 
alone,  that  in  the  presence  of  God  only  she  might, 
without  interruption,  do  her  last  duty  to  me,  of 
thanking  me  for  all  my  kindness  to  her :  adding, 
that  she  hoped  in  my  last  moments  I  should  feel 
the  same  comfort  for  my  goodness  to  her,  as  she 
did  in  that  she  had  acquitted  herself  with  honor, 
truth,  and  virtue  to  me. 

“  I  curb  myself,  and  will  not  tell  you  that  this 
kindness  cut  my  heart  in  twain,  when  I  expected 
an  accusation  for  some  passionate  starts  of  mine, 
in  some  parts  of  our  time  together,  to  say  nothing 
but  thank  me  for  the  good,  if  there  was  any  good 
suitable  to  her  own  excellence !  All  that  I  had 
ever  said  to  her,  all  the  circumstances  of  sorrow 
and  joy  between  us,  crowded  upon  my  mind  in 
the  same  instant :  and  when,  immediately  after,  I 
saw  the  pangs  of  death  come  upon  that  dear  body 
which  I  had  often  embraced  with  transport ;  when 
I  saw  those  cherishing  eyes  begin  to  be  ghastly, 
and  their  last  struggle  to  be  to  fix  themselves  on 
me,  how  did  I  lose  all  patience!  She  expired  in 
my  arms,  and  in  my  distraction  I  thought  I  saw 
her  bosom  still  heave.  There  was  certainly  life  yet 
still  left.  I  cried,  she  just  now  spoke  to  me.  But, 
alas!  I  grew  giddy,  and  all  things  moved  about 
me,  from  the  distemper  of  my  own  head;  for  the 
best  of  women  was  breathless  and  gone  forever. 

“Now  the  doctrine  I  would,  methinks,  have  you 
raise  from  this  account  1  have  given  you  is,  that 
there  is  a  certain  equanimity  in  those  who  are  good 
and  just,  which  runs  into  their  very  sorrow,  and 
disappoints  the  force  of  it.  Though  they  must 
pass  through  afflictions  in  common  with  all  who 
are  in  human  nature,  yet  their  conscious  integrity 
shall  undermine  their  affliction ;  nay,  that  very 
affliction  shall  add  force  to  their  integrity,  from  a 


THE  SPECTATOR 


reflection  of  the  use  of  virtue  in  the  hour  of  afflic¬ 
tion.  I  sat  down  with  a  design  to  put  you  upon 
giving  us  rules  how  to  overcome  such  griefs  as 
these,  but  I  should  rather  advise  you  to  teach  men 
to  be  capable  of  them. 

“  men  of  letters  have  what  you  call  the  fine 
taste  in  your  apprehensions  of  what  is  properly 
done  or  said.  1  here  is  something  like  this  deeply 
grafted  in  the  soul  of  him  who  is  honest  and  faith- 
tul  m  all  lus  thoughts  and  actions.  Everything 
which  is  false,  vicious,  or  unworthy,  is  despicable 
to  him,  though  all  the  world  should  approve  it. 
At  the  same  time  he  has  the  most  lively  sensibility 
in  all  enjoyments  and  sufferings  which  it  is  proper 
for  him  to  have  where  any  duty  of  life  is  con¬ 
cerned.  1  o  want  sorrow  wnen  you  in  decency 
and  truth  should  be  afflicted,  is,  I  should  think,  a 
greater  instance  of  a  man’s  being  a  blockhead 
than  not  to  know  the  beauty  of  any  passage  in 
V  irgil.  Y  ou  have  not  yet  observed,  Mr.  Spectator, 
that  the  fine  gentlemen  of  this  age  set  up  for  hard¬ 
ness  of  heart;  and  humanity  has  very  little  share 
in  their  pretenses.  He  is  a  brave  fellow  who  is 
always  ready  to  kill  a  man  he  hates,  but  he  does 
not  stand  in  the  same  degree  of  esteem  who  la¬ 
ments  for  the  woman  he  loves.  I  should  fancv 
you  might  work  up  a  thousand  pretty  thoughts, 
by  reflecting  upon  the  persons  most  susceptible  of 
the  sort  of  sorrow  I  have  spoken  of;  and  I  dare 
say  you  will  find  upon  examination  that  they  are 
the  Avisest  and  the  bravest  of  mankind  who  are 
most  capable  of  it. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 
Norwich,  7°  Octobris,  1712.  “ p\  J” 


617 


Ho.  521.]  TUESDAY,  OCTOBER  28,  1712. 

Vera  redit  facies,  dissimulata  perit.— P.  Arc. 

The  real  face  returns,  the  counterfeit  is  lost. 

4  Mr.  Spectator, 

•'I  have  been  for  many  years  loud  in  this  asser¬ 
tion,  that  there  are  very  few  that  can  see  or  hear; 
I  mean,  that  can  report  what  they  have  seen  or 
heard;  and  this  through  incapacity  or  prejudice, 
one  of  which  disables  almost  every  man  who  talks 
t°  you  from  representing  things  as  he  ought.  For 
which  reason  I  am  come  to  a  resolution  of  believ¬ 
ing  nothing  I  hear;  and  I  contemn  the  man  given 
to  narration  under  the  appellation  of  ‘a  matter-of 
fact  man  and,  according  to  me,  a  matter-of-fact 
man  is  one  whose  life  and  conversation  is  spent  in 
the  report  of  what  is  not  matter-of-fact. 

“I  remember  when  Prince  Eugene  was  here 
there  was  no  knowing  his  height  or  figure,  until 
you,  Mr.  Spectator,  gave  the  public  satisfaction  in 
that  matter.  In  relations,  the  force  of  the  expres¬ 
sion  lies  very  often  more  in  the  look,  the  tone  of 
voice  or  the  gesture,  than  the  words  themselves* 
which,  being  repeated  in  any  other  manner  by  the 
undiscermng,  bear  a  very  different  interpretation 
from  their  original  meaning.  I  must  confess  I 
formerly  have  turned  this  humor  of  mine  to  very 
good  account;  for  whenever  I  heard  any  narration 
uttered  with  extraordinary  vehemence,  and  ground¬ 
ed  upon  considerable  authority,  I  was  always  ready 
to  lay  any  wager  that  it  was  not  so.  Indeed  I 
never  pretended  to  be  so  rash  as  to  fix  the  matter 
any  particular  way  in  opposition  to  theirs;  but  as 
there  are  a  hundred  ways  of  anything  happening 
beside  that  it  lias  happened,  I  only  controverted 
its  falling  out  in  that  one  manner  as  they  settled 
it,  and  left  it  to  the  ninety-nine  other  ways,  and 
consequently  had  more  probability  of  success.  I 
had  arrived  at  a  particular  skill  in  warming  a  man 
so  far  in  his  narration  as  to  make  him  throw  in  a 


little  of  the  marvelous,  and  then,  if  he  has  much 
fire,  the  next  degree  is  the  impossible.  How  this 
is  always  the  time  for  fixing  the  wager.  But  this 
requires  the  nicest  management,  otherwise  very 
probably  the  dispute  may  arise  to  the  old  determi¬ 
nation  by  battle.  In  these  conceits  I  have  been 
very  fortunate,  and  have  won  some  wagers  of  those 
who  have  professedly  valued  themselves  upon  in¬ 
telligence,  and  have  put  themselves  to  great  charge 
and  expense  to  be  misinformed  considerably  sooner 
than  the  rest  of  the  world.  J 

“Having  got  a  comfortable  sum  by  this  my  op¬ 
position  to  public  report,  I  have  broughf  myself 
now  to  so  great  a  perfection  in  inattention,  more 
especially  to  party  relations,  that  at  the  same  time 
I  seem  with  greedy  ears  to  devour  up  the  discourse, 
I  certainly  do  not  know  one  word  of  it,  but  pursue 
my  own  course  of  thought,  whether  upon  business 
oi  amusement, with  much  tranquillity;  I  say  inat¬ 
tention  because  a  late  act  of  parliament*  has  se¬ 
cured  all  party  liars  from  the  penalty  of  a  wao-er 
and  consequently  made  it  unprofitable  to  attend  to 
them  However,  good  breeding  obliges  a  man  to 
maintain  the  figure  of  the  keenest  attention,  the 
true  posture  of  which  in  a  coffee-house  I  take  to 
consist  in  leaning  over  a  table  with  the  edge  of 
it  pressing  hard  upon  your  stomach  :  for  the  more 
pain  the  narration  is  received  with,  the  more  gra- 
cious  is  your  bending  over;  beside  that  the  nar¬ 
rator  thinks  you  forget  your  pain  by  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  him. 

“Fort  Knock  has  occasioned  several  very  per¬ 
plexed  and  inelegant  heats  and  animosities;  and 
there  w  as  one  the  other  day,  in  a  coffee-house  where 
I  was,  that  took  upon  him  to  clear  that  business 
to  me,  for  he  said  he  was  there.  I  knew  him  to 
be  that  sort  of  man  that  had  not  strength  of  ca¬ 
pacity  to  be  informed  of  anything  that  depended 
merely  upon  his  being  an  eye-witness,  and  there¬ 
fore  was  fully  satisfied  he  could  give  me  no  infor- 
mation  for  the  very  same  reason  he  believed  he 
could,  for  he  was  there.  However,  I  heard  him 
with  the  same  greediness  as  Shakspeare  describes 
in  the  following  lines : 


I  saw  a  smith  stand  with  his  hammer,  thus 
ith  open  mouth,  swallowing  a  tailor’s  news. 


I  confess  of  late  I  have  not  been  so  much 
amazed  at  the  declaimers  in  coffee-houses  as  I  for¬ 
merly  was,  being  satisfied  that  they  expect  to  be 
rewarded  for  their  vociferations.  Of  these  liars 
here  are  two  sorts :  the  genius  of  the  first  consists 
in  much  impudence,  and  a  strong  memory;  the 
others  have  added  to  these  qualifications  a  good 
understanding  and  smooth  language.  These  therp- 
fore,  have  only  certain  heads,  which  they  ’are  as 
eloquent  upon  as  they  can,  and  may  be  called 
embellishers ;’  the  others  repeat  only  what  they 
hear  from  others  as  literally  as  their  parts  or  zeal 
will  permit,  and  are  called  ‘reciters.’  Here  was  a 
fellow  in  town  some  years  ago,  who  used  to  divert 
himself  by  telling  a  lie  at  Charing-cross  in  the 
morning  at  eight  o’clock,  and  then  following  it 
through  all  parts  of  the  town  until  eight  at  night* 
at  which  time  he  came  to  a  club  of  his  friends' 
and  diverted  them  with  an  account  what  censure 
it  had  at  "Will  s  in  Co  vent-garden,  how  dangerous 
it  was  believed  to  be  at  Child’s,  and  what  inference 
they  drew  from  it  with  relation  to  stocks  at  Jona¬ 
than  s.  I  have  had  the  honor  to  travel  with  this 
gentleman  I  speak  of  in  search  of  one  of  his  false¬ 
hoods;  and  have  been  present  when  they  have  de¬ 
scribed  the  very  man  they  have  spoken  to,  as  him 
who  first  reported  it,  tall  or  short,  black  or  fair,  a 


.  *  Stat.  7  Anne,  cap.  17. — By  it  all  wagers  laid  upon  a  con¬ 
tingency  relating  to  the  war  with  France  were  declared  to  be 
void. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


618 

gentleman  or  a  ragamuffin,  according  as  they  liked 
the  intelligence.  I  have  heard  one  of  our  inge¬ 
nious  writers  of  news  say,  that,  when  he  has  had 
a  customer  come  with  an  advertisement  of  an  ap¬ 
prentice  or  a  wife  run  away,  he  has  desired  the 
advertiser  to  compose  himself  a  little  before  he 
dictated  the  description  of  the  offender :  for  when 
a  person  is  put  into  a  public  paper  by  a  man  who 
is  angry  with  him,  the  real  description  of  such 
person  is  hid  in  the  deformity  with  which  the 
angry  man  describes  him ;  therefore,  this  fellow 
always  made  his  customers  describe  him  as  he 
would  the  day  before  he  offended,  or  else  he  was 
sure  he  would  never  find  him  out.  These  and 
many  other  hints  I  could  suggest  to  you  for  the  elu¬ 
cidation  of  all  fictions;  but  I  leave  it  to  your  own 
sagacity  to  improve  or  neglect  this  speculation. 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  most  obedient, 

T.  “Humble  Servant/’ 


No.  522.]  WEDNESDAY,  OCT.  29,  1712. 

- Adjuro  nunquam  earn  me  deserturum ; 

Non,  si  capiundos  mihi  sciam  esse  inimicos  omnes  homines. 
Hanc  mihi  expetivi,  contigit,  conveniunt  mores :  valeant, 

Qui  inter  nos  discidium  volunt :  hanc,  nisi  mors,  mi  adimet 
nemo.  Tee.  Adr.  act.  iv.  sc.  2. 

I  swear  never  to  forsake  her;  no,  though  I  were  sure  to  make 

all  men  my  enemies.  Her  I  desired;  her  I  have  obtained; 

our  humors  agree.  Perish  all  those  who  would  separate 

us !  Death  alone  shall  deprive  me  of  her !  . 

I  should  esteem  myself  a  very  happy  man  if  my 
speculations  could  in  the  least  contribute  to  the 
rectifying  the  conduct  of  my  readers  in  one  of  the 
most  important  affairs  of  life,  to  wit,  their  choice 
in  marriage.  This  state  is  the  foundation  of  com¬ 
munity,  and  the  chief  band  of  society;  and  I  do 
not  think  I  can  be  too  frequent  on  subjects  which 
may  give  light  to  my  unmarried  readers  in  a  par¬ 
ticular  which  is  so  essential  to  their  following 
happiness  or  misery.  A  virtuous  disposition,  a 
good  understanding,  an  agreeable  person,  and  an 
easy  fortune,  are  the  things  which  should  be  chiefly 
regarded  on  this  occasion.  Because  my  present 
view  is  to  direct  a  young  lady,  who  I  think  is  now 
in  doubt  whom  to  take  of  many  lovers,  I  shall 
talk  at  this  time  to  my  female  readers.  The  ad¬ 
vantages,  as  I  was  going  to  say,  of  sense,  beauty, 
and  riches,  are  what  are  certainly  the  chief  motives 
to  a  prudent  young  woman  of  fortune  for  changing 
her  condition;  but,  as  she  is  to  have  her  eye  upon 
each  of  these,  she  is  to  ask  herself,  whether  the 
man  who  has  most  of  these  recommendations  in 
the  lump  is  not  the  most  desirable.  He  that  has 
excellent  talents,  with  a  moderate  estate,  and  an 
agreeable  person,  is  preferable  to  him  who  is  only 
rich,  if  it  were  only  that  good  faculties  may  pur¬ 
chase  riches,  but  riches  cannot  purchase  worthy 
endowments.  I  do  not  mean  that  wit,  and  a  ca¬ 
pacity  to  entertain,  is  what  should  be  highly  val¬ 
ued,  except  it  is  founded  on  good  nature  and  hu¬ 
manity.  There  are  many  ingenious  men,  whose 
abilities  do  little  else  but  make  themselves  and 
those  about  them  uneasy.  Such  are  those  who  are 
far  gone  in  the  pleasures  of  the  town,  who  cannot 
support  life  without  quick  sensations  and  gay  re¬ 
flections,  and  are  strangers  to  tranquillity,  to  right 
reason,  and  a  calm  motion  of  spirits,  without 
transport  or  dejection.  These  ingenious  men,  of 
all  men  living,  are  most  to  be  avoided  by  her  who 
would  be  happy  in  a  husband.  They  are  imme¬ 
diately  sated  with  possession,  and  must  neces¬ 
sarily  fly  to  new  acquisitions  of  beauty  to  pass 
away  the  wiling  moments  and  intervals  of  life; 
for  with  them  every  hour  is  heavy  that  is  not  joy¬ 
ful.  But  there  is  a  sort  of  man  of  wit  and  sense, 


that  can  reflect  upon  his  own  make,  and  that  of  his 
partner,  with  eyes  of  reason  and  honor,  and  who 
believes  he  offends  against  both  these,  if  he  does 
not  look  upon  the  woman  who  chose  him  to  be 
under  his  protection  in  sickness  and  health  with 
the  utmost  gratitude,  whether  from  that  moment 
she  is  shining  or  defective  in  person  or  mind;  I 
say  there  are  those  who  think  themselves  bound 
to  supply  with  good  nature  the  failings  of  those 
who  love  them,  and  who  always  think  those  the 
objects  of  love  and  pity  who  came  to  their  arms 
the  objects  of  joy  and  admiration. 

Of  this  latter  sort  is  Lysander,  a  man  of  wit, 
learning,  sobriety,  and  good  nature;  of  birth  and 
estate  below  no  woman  to  accept;  and  of  whom  it 
might  be  said,  should  he  succeed  in  his  present 
wishes,  his  mistress  raised  his  fortune,  but  not 
that  she  made  it.  When  a  woman  is  deliberating 
with  herself  whom  she  shall  choose  of  many  near 
each  other  in  other  pretensions,  certainly  he  of 
best  understanding  is  to  be  preferred.  Life  hangs 
heavily  in  the  repeated  conversation  of  one  who 
has  no  imagination  to  be  fired  at  the  several  occa¬ 
sions  and  objects  which  come  before  him,  or  who 
cannot  strike  out  of  his  reflections  new  paths  of 
pleasing  discourse.  Honest  Will  Thrash  and  his 
wife,  though  not  married  above  four  months,  have 
scarce  had  a  word  to  say  to  each  other  this  six 
weeks;  and  one  cannot  form  to  one’s  self  a  sillier 
picture  than  these  two  creatures,  in  solemn  pomp 
and  plenty,  unable  to  enjoy  their  fortunes,  and  at 
a  full  stop  among  a  crowd  of  servants,  to  whose 
taste  of  life  they  are  beholden  for  the  little  satis¬ 
factions  by  which  they  can  be  understood  to  be  so 
much  as  barely  in  being.  The  hours  of  the  day, 
the  distinctions  of  noon  and  night,  dinner  and 
supper,  are  the  greatest  notices  they  are  capable  of. 
This  is  perhaps  representing  the  life  of  a  very 
modest  women,  joined  to  a  dull  fellow,  more  insi¬ 
pid  than  it  really  deserves;  but  I  am  sure  it  is  not 
to  exalt  the  commerce  with  an  ingenious  compa¬ 
nion  too  high,  to  say  that  every  new  accident  or 
object,  which  comes  into  such  a  gentleman’s  way, 
gives  his  wife  new  pleasures  and  satisfactions. 
The  approbation  of  his  words  and  actions  is  a 
continual  new  feast  to  her;  nor  can  she  enough 
applaud  her  good  fortune  in  having  her  life  varied 
every  hour,  her  mind  more  improved,  and  her  heart 
more  glad,  from  every  circumstance  which  they 
meet  with.  He  will  lay  out  his  invention  in 
forming  new  pleasures  and  amusements,  and  make 
the  fortune  she  has  brought  him  subservient  to  the 
honor  and  reputation  of  her  and  hers.  A  man  of 
sense,  who  is  thus  obliged,  is  ever  contriving  the 
happiness  of  her  who  did  him  so  great  a  distinc¬ 
tion;  while  the  fool  is  ungrateful  without  vice,  and 
never  returns  a  favor  because  he  is  not  sensible  of 
it.  I  would,  methinks,  have  so  much  to  say  for 
myself,  that,  if  I  fell  into  the  hands  of  him  who 
treated  me  ill,  he  should  be  sensible  when  he  did 
so.  His  conscience  should  be  of  my  side,  what¬ 
ever  became  of  his  inclination.  I  do  not  know 
but  it  is  the  insipid  choice  which  has  been  made 
by  those  who  have  the  care  of  young  women,  that 
the  marriage  state  itself  lias  been  liable  to  so  much 
ridicule.  But  a  well-chosen  love,  moved  by  pas¬ 
sion  on  both  sides,  and  perfected  by  the  generosity 
of  one  party,  must  be  adorned  with  so  many  hand¬ 
some  incidents  on  the  other  side,  that  every  partic¬ 
ular  couple  would  be  an  example  in  many  circum¬ 
stances  to  all  the  rest  of  the  species.  I  shall  end 
the  chat  upon  this  subject  with  a  couple  of  letters; 
one  from  a  lover,  who  is  very  well  acquainted  with 
the  way  of  bargaining  on  these  occasions;  and  the 
other  from  his  rival,  who  has  a  less  estate,  but 
great  gallantry  of  temper.  As  for  my  man  of 
prudence  he  makes  love,  as  he  says,  as  if  he  were 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


already  a  father,  and,  laying  aside  the  passion, 
conies  to  the  reason  of  the  thing. 

“Madam, 

“My  counsel  has  perused  the  inventory  of  your 
estate,  and  considered  what  estate  you  have,  which 
it  seems  is  only  yours,  and  to  the  male  heirs  of 
your  body;  but,  in  default  of  such  issue,  to  the 
right  heirs  of  your  uncle  Edward  forever.  Thus, 
Madam,  I  am  advised  you  cannot  (the  remainder 
not  being  in  you)  dock  the  entail;  by  which  means 
my  estate,  which  is  fee  simple,  will  come  by  the 
settlement  proposed  to  your  children  begotten  by 
me,  whether  they  are  males  or  females;  but  my 
children  begotten  upon  you  w7ill  not  inherit  your 
lands,  except  I  beget  a  son.  Now,  Madam,  since 
things  are  so,  you  are  a  woman  of  that  prudence, 
and  understand  the  world  so  well,  as  not  to  expect 
I  should  give  you  more  than  you  can  give  me. 

“I  am.  Madam  (with  great  respect), 

“  Your  most  obedient  humble  Servant, 

“T.  W.” 

The  other  lover’s  estate  is  less  than  this  gentle¬ 
man’s,  but  he  expressed  himself  as  follows: 

“Madam, 

“I  have  given  in  my  estate  to  your  counsel,  and 
desired  my  own  lawyer  to  insist  upon  no  terms 
which  your  friends  can  propose  for  your  certain 
ease  and  advantage;  for  indeed  I  have  no  notion  of 
making  difficulties  of  presenting  you  with  what 
cannot  make  me  happy  without  you. 

“I  am,  Madam, 

“Your  most  devoted  humble  Servant, 

“B.  T.” 

\  ou  must  know  the  relations  have  met  upon 
this;  and  the  girl  being  mightily  taken  with  the 
latter  epistle,  she  is  laughed  at,  and  uncle  Edward 
is  to  be  dealt  with  to  make  her  a  suitable  match  to 
the  worthy  gentleman  who  has  told  her  he  does 
not  care  a  farthing  for  her.  All  I  hope  for  is,  that 
the  fair  lady  will  make  use  of  the  first  light  night 
to  show  B.  T.  she  understands  a  marriage  is  not 
to  be  considered  as  a  common  bargain. — T, 


No.  523.]  THURSDAY,  OCTOBER  30, 1712. 

- - - Nunc  augur  Apollo, 

Nunc  LycicE  sortes,  nunc  et  Jove  missus  ab  ipso 
Interpres  divum  fert  horrida  jussa  per  auras. 

Scilicet  is  superis  labor - Virg.  ^En.  iv.  376. 

Now  Lycian  lots,  and  now  the  Delian  god, 

Now  Hermes  is  employed  from  Jove’s  abode, 

To  warn  him  hence,  as  if  the  peaceful  state 
Of  heavenly  powers  were  touch’d  with  human  fate! 

Dryden. 

I  am  always  highly  delighted  with  the  discovery 
of  any  rising  genius  among  my  countrymen.  For 
this  reason,  I  have  read  over,  with  great  pleasure, 
the.  late  miscellany  published  by  Mr.  Pope,  in 
which  there  are  many  excellent  compositions’  of 
that  ingenious  gentleman.  I  have  had  a  pleasure 
of  the  same  kind  in  perusing  a  poem  that  is  just 
published,  On  the  Prospect  of  Peace;*  and  which, 
I  hope,  will  meet  with  such  a  reward  from  its  pat¬ 
rons  as  so  noble  a  performance  deserves.  I  was 
particularly  well  pleased  to  find  that  the  author 
had  not  amused  himself  with  fables  out  of  the 
pagan  theology,  and  that  when  he  hints  at  any¬ 
thing  of  this  nature  he  alludes  to  it  only  as  to  a 
fable. 

Many  of  our  modern  authors,  whose  learning 
very  often  extends  no  further  than  Ovid’s  Meta¬ 
morphoses,  do  not  know  how  to  celebrate  a  great 


i  *By  Mr.  Thomas  Tickell. 


619 

man,  without  mixing  a  parcel  of  school-boy  tales 
"  ^  1  recital  of  his  actions.  If  you  read  a 
poem  on  a  fine  woman  among  the  authors  of  this 
class,  you  shall  see  that  it  turns  more  upon  Venus 
oi  Helen  than  on  the  party  concerned.  I  have 
known  a  copy  of  verses  on  a  great  hero  highly 
commended;  but  upon  asking  to  hear  some  of  the 
beautiful  passages,  the  admirer  of  it  has  repeated 
i111^  a  sPeech  Apollo,  or  a  description  of 
olypheme.  At  other  times,  when  1  have  searched 
lor  the  actions  of  a  great  man,  who  gave  a  subject 
to  the  writer,  I  have  been  entertained  with  the  ex¬ 
ploits  of  a  river-god,  or  have  been  forced  to  attend 
a  b  ury  in  her  mischievous  progress,  from  one  end 
ot  the  poem  to  the  other.  When  we  are  at  school 
it  is  necessary  for  us  to  be  acquainted  with  the 
system  of  pagan  theology;  and  we  may  be  allowed 
to  enliven  a  theme,  or  point  an  epigram,  with  a 
heathen  god;  but  when  we  would  write  a  manly 
panegyric7  that  should  carry  in  it  all  the  colors  of 
truth,  nothing  can  be  more  ridiculous  than  to  have 
recourse  to  our  Jupiters  and  Junos. 

No  thought  is  beautiful  which  is  not  just;  and 
no  thought  can  be  just  which  is  not  founded  in 
truth,  or  at  least  in  that  which  passes  for  such. 

In  mock  heroic  poems  the  use  of  tlie  heathen 
mythology  is  not  only  excusable,  but  graceful,  be¬ 
cause  it  is  the  design  of  such  compositions  to 
divert  by  adapting  the  fabulous  machines  of  the 
ancients  to  low  subjects,  and  at  the  same  time  by 
ridiculing  such  kinds  of  machinery  in  modern 
writers.  If  any  are  of  opinion  that  there  is  a 
necessity  of  admitting  these  classical  legends  into 
our  serious  compositions,  in  order  to  give  them  a 
more  poetical  turn,  I  would  recommend  to  their 
consideration  the  pastorals  of  Mr.  Phillips.  One 
would  have  thought  it  impossible  for  this  kind  of 
poetry  to  have  subsisted  without  fawns  and  satyrs, 
wood-nymphs,  and  water-nymphs,  with  all  the 
tribe  of  ruial  deities.  But  we  see  he  has  given,  a 
new  life  and  a  more  natural  beauty  to  this  way  of 
writing,  by  substituting  in  the  place  of  these  anti¬ 
quated  fables  the  superstitious  mythology  which 
prevails  among  the  shepherds  of  our  own  country. 

Virgil  and  Homer  might  compliment  their  he¬ 
roes,  by  interweaving  the  actions  of  deities  with 
their  achievements;  but  for  a  Christian  author  to 
write  in  the  pagan  creed,  to  make  Prince  Eugene  a 
favorite  of  Mars,  or  to  carry  cff¥*-a  correspondence 
between  Bellona  and  the  Marshal  de  Villars,  would  ♦ 
be  down-right  puerility,  and  unpardonable  in  a 
poet  that  is  past  sixteen.  It  is  want  of  sufficient 
elevation  in  a  genius  to  describe  realities,  and  place 
them  in  a  shining  light,  that  makes  him  have  re¬ 
course  to  such  trifling  antiquated  fables;  as  a  man 
may  write  a  fine  description  of  Bacchus  or  Apollo, 
that  does  not  know  how  to  draw  the  character  of 
any  of  his  cotemporaries. 

In  order  therefore  to  put  a  stop  to  this  absurd 
practice,  I  shall  publish  the  following  edict,  by 
virtue. of  that  spectatorial  authority  with  which  I 
stand  invested. 

“Whereas  the  time  of  a  general  peace  is,  in  all 
appearance,  drawing  near,  being  informed  that 
there  are  several  ingenious  persons  who  intend  to 
show  their  talents  on  so  happy  an  occasion;  and 
being  willing,  as  much  as  in  me  lies,  to  prevent 
that  effusion  of  nonsense  which  we  have,  good 
cause  to  apprehend;  I  do  hereby  strictly  require 
every  person  who  shall  write  on  this  subject,  to 
remember  that  he  is  a  Christian,  and  not  to  sacri¬ 
fice  his  catechism  to  his  poetry.  In  order  to  it,  I 
do  expect  of  him  in  the  first  place  to  make  his 
own  poem,  without  depending  upon  Phoebus  for 
any  part  of  it,  or  calling  out  for  aid  upon  any  one 
of  the  Muses  by  name.  I  do  likewise  positively 
forbid  the  sending  of  Mercury  with  any  particular 


620 


THE  SPE 

message  or  dispatcli  relating  to  the  peace,  and  shall 
by  no  means  suffer  Minerva  to  take  upon  her  the 
shape  of  any  plenipotentiary  concerned  in  this 
great  work.  1  do  further  declare,  that  I  shall  not 
allow  the  Destinies  to  have  had  a  hand  in  the 
deaths  of  the  several  thousands  who  have  been 
slain  in  the  late  war,  being  of  opinion  that  all 
such  deaths  may  be  very  well  accounted  for  by  the 
Christian  system  of  powder  and  ball.  1  do  there¬ 
fore  strictly  forbid  the  Fates  to  cut  the  thread  of 
man’s  life  upon  any  pretense  whatsoever,  unless 
it  be  for  the  sake  of  the  rhyme.  And  whereas  I 
have  good  reason  to  fear  that  Neptune  will  have  a 
great  deal  of  business  on  his  hands,  in  several 
poems  which  we  may  now  suppose  are  upon  the 
anvil,  I  do  also  prohibit  his  appearance,  unless  it 
be  done  in  metaphor,  simile,  or  any  very  short 
allusion;  and  that  even  here  he  be  not  permitted 
to  enter  but  with  great  caution  and  circumspection. 
I  desire  that  the  same  rule  may  be  extended  to  his 
whole  fraternity  of  heathen  gods;  it  being  my  de¬ 
sign  to  condemn  every  poem  to  the  flames  in  which 
Jupiter  thunders,  or  exercises  any  other  act  of  au¬ 
thority  which  does  not  belong  to  him;  in  short,  I 
expect  that  no  pagan  agent  shall  be  introduced,  or 
any  fact  related,  which  a  man  cannot  give  credit 
to  with  a  good  conscience.  Provided  always,  that 
nothing  herein  contained  shall  extend,  or  be  con¬ 
strued  to  extend,  to  several  of  the  female  poets  in 
this  nation,  who  shall  be  still  left  in  full  possession 
of  their  gods  and  goddesses,  in  the  same  manner 
as  if  this  paper  had  never  been  written.”  0. 


No.  524.]  FRIDAY,  OCTOBER  31,  1712. 

Nos  populo  damus -  Sen. 

As  the  world  leads,  we  follow. 

"When  I  first  of  all  took  it  into  my  head  to  write 
dreams  and  visions,  I  determined  to  print  nothing 
of  that  nature  which  was  not  of  my  own  inven¬ 
tion.  But  several  laborious  dreamers  have  of  late 
communicated  to  me  works  of  this  nature,  which, 
for  their  reputations  and  mv  own,  I  have  hitherto 
suppressed.  Had  I  printed  every  one  that  came 
to  my  hands,  my  book  of  speculations  would  have 
been  little  else  but  a  book  of  visions.  Some  of  my 
correspondents  have  indeed  been  so  very  modest 
as  to  offer  an  excuse  for  their  not  being  in  a  capa¬ 
city  to  dream  better.  I  have  by  me,  for  example, 
the  dream  of  a  young  gentleman  not  past  fifteen; 
I  have  likewise  by  me  the  dream  of  a  person  of  qual¬ 
ity,  and  another  called  The  Lady’s  Dream.  In 
these,  and  other  pieces  of  the  same  nature,  it  is 
supposed  the  usual  allowances  will  be  made  to  the 
age,  condition,  and  sex,  of  the  dreamer.  To  pre¬ 
vent  this  inundation  of  dreams,  which  daily  flows 
in  upon  me,  I  shall  apply  to  all  dreamers  of  dreams 
the  advice  which  Epictetus  has  couched  after  this 
manner,  in  a  very  simple  and  concise  precept. 
“Never  tell  thy  dreams,”  says  that  philosopher; 
“  for  though  thou  thyself  mayest  take  a  pleasure 
in  telling  thy  dream,  another  will  take  no  pleasure 
in  hearing  it.”  After  this  short  preface,  I  must 
do  justice  to  two  or  three  visions  which  I  have 
lately  published,  and  which  I  have  owned  to  have 
been  written  by  other  hands.  I  shall  add  a  dream 
to  these  which  comes  to  me  from  Scotland,  by  one 
who  declares  himself  of  that  country,  and,  for  all 
I  know,  may  be  second-sighted.  There  is,  indeed, 
something  in  it  of  the  spirit  of  John  Bunyan;  but 
at  the  same  time  a  certain  sublime  which  that  au¬ 
thor  was  never  master  of.  I  shall  publish  it,  be¬ 
cause  I  question  not  but  it  will  fall  in  with  the 
taste  of  all  my  popular  readers,  and  amuse  the 
imaginations  of  those  who  are  more  profound;  de- 


0T ATOR. 

daring,  at  the  same  time,  that,  this  is  the  last 
dream  which  I  intend  to  publish  this  season. 

“Sir, 

“I  was  last  Sunday  in  the  evening  led  into  a 
serious  reflection  on  the  reasonableness  of  virtue, 
and  great  folly  of  vice,  from  an  excellent  sermon 
I  had  heard  that  afternoon  in  my  parish  church. 
Among  other  observations  the  preacher  showed  us, 
that  the  temptations  which  the  tempter  proposed 
were  all  on  a  supposition  that  we  are  either  mad¬ 
men  or  fools,  or  with  an  intention  to  render  us 
such;  that  in  no  other  affair  we  would  suffer  our¬ 
selves  to  be  thus  imposed  upon,  in  a  case  so  plainly 
and  clearly  against  our  visible  interest.  His  illus¬ 
trations  and  arguments  carried  so  much  persua¬ 
sion  and  conviction  with  them,  that  they  remained 
a  considerable  while  fresh,  and  working  in  my 
memory;  until  at  last  the  mind,  fatigued  with 
thought,  gave  way  to  the  forcible  oppressions  of 
slumber  and  sleep;  while  fancy,  unwilling  yet  to 
drop  the  subject,  presented  me  with  the  following 
vision: 

“Methought  I  was  just  awoke  out  of  a  sleep 
that  I  could  never  remember  the  beginning  of;  the 
place  where  I  found  myself  to  be  was  a  wide  and 
spacious  plain,  full  of  people  that  wandered  up 
and  down  through  several  beaten  paths,  whereof 
some  few  were  straight,  and  in  direct  lines,  but 
most  of  them  winding  and  turning  like  a  laby¬ 
rinth;  but  yet  it  appeared  to  me  afterward  that 
these  last  all  met  in  one  issue,  so  that  many  that 
seemed  to  steer  quite  contrary  courses,  did  at  length 
meet  and  face  one  another,  to  the  no  little  amaze¬ 
ment  of  many  of  them. 

“In  the  midst  of  the  plain  there  was  a  great 
fountain;  they  called  it  the  spring  of  Self-love: 
out  of  it  issued  two  rivulets  to  the  eastward  and 
westward:  the  name  of  the  first  was  Heavenly- 
Wisdom;  its  water  was  wonderfully  clear,  but  of 
a  yet  more  wonderful  effect:  the  other’s  name  was 
Worldly- Wisdom;  its  water  was  thick,  and  yet 
far  from  being  dormant  or  stagnating,  for  it  was 
in  a  continual  violent  agitation;  which  kept  the 
travelers,  whom  I  shall  mention  by-and-by,  from 
being  sensible  of  the  foulness  ana  thickness  of 
the  water;  which  had  this  effect,  that  it  intoxi¬ 
cated  those  who  drank  it,  and  made  them  mistake 
every  object  that  lay  before  them.  Both  nvulets 
were  parted  near  their  springs  into  so  many  others, 
as  there  were  straight  and  crooked  paths,  which 
they  attended  all  along  to  their  respective  issues. 

“  I  observed  from  the  several  paths  many  now 
and  then  diverting,  to  refresh  and  otherwise  qualify 
themselves  for  their  journey,  to  the  respective  riv¬ 
ulets  that  ran  near  them:  they  contracted  a  very 
observable  courage  and  steadiness  in  what  they 
were  about  by  drinking  these  waters.  At  the  end 
of  the  perspective  of  every  straight  path,  all  which 
did  end  in  one  issue  and  point,  appeared  a  high 
pillar,  all  of  diamond,  casting  rays  as  bright  as 
those  of  the  sun  into  the  paths;  which  rays  had 
also  certain  sympathizing  and  alluring  virtues  in 
them,  so  that  whosoever  had  made  some  consider¬ 
able  progress  in  his  journey  onward  toward  the 
pillar,  by  the  repeated  impressions  of  these  rays 
upon  him,  was  wrought  into  an  habitual  inclina¬ 
tion  and  conversion  of  his  sight  toward  it,  so  that 
it  grew  at  last  in  a  manner  natural  to  him  to  look 
and  gaze  upon  it,  whereby  he  was  kept  steady  in 
the  straight  paths,  which  alone  led  to  that  radiant 
body,  the  beholding  of  which  was  now  grown  a 
gratification  to  his  nature. 

“  At  the  issue  of  the  crooked  paths  there  was  a 
great  black  tower,  out  of  the  center  of  which 
streamed  a  long  succession  of  flames,  which  did 
rise  even  above  the  clouds;  it  gave  a  very  great 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


light  to  the  whole  plain,  which  dicl  sometimes 
outshine  the  light,  and  oppressed  the  beams,  of 
the  adamantine  pillar;  though  by  the  observation 
I  made  afterward,  it  appeared  that  it  was  not  from 
any  diminution  of  light,  but  that  this  lay  in  the 
travelers,  who  would  sometimes  step  out  of  the 
straight  paths,  where  they  lost  the  full  prospect 
of  the  radiant  pillar,  and  saw  it  but  sideways: 
but  the  great  light  from  the  black  tower,  which 
was  somewhat  particularly  scorching  to  them, 
would  generally  light  and  hasten  them  to  their 
proper  climate  again. 

“  Round  about  the  black  tower  there  were,  me- 
thought,  many  thousands  of  huge,  misshapen, 
ugly  monsters;  these  had  great  nets,  which  they 
were  perpetually  plying  and  casting  toward  the 
crooked  paths,  and  they  would  now  and  then 
catch  up  those  that  were  nearest  to  them;  these 
they  took  up  straight,  and  whirled  over  the  walls 
into  the  flaming  tower,  and  they  were  no  more 
seen  nor  heard  of. 

“  They  would  sometimes  cast  their  nets  toward 
the  right  paths  to  catch  the  stragglers,  whose  eyes, 
for  want  of  frequent  drinking  at  the  brook  that 
ran  by  them,  grew  dim,  whereby  they  lost  their 
way:  these  would  sometimes  very  narrowly  miss 
being  catched  away,  but  I  could  not  hear  whether 
any  of  these  had  ever  been  so  unfortunate,  that 
had  been  before  very  hearty  in  the  straight  paths. 

“  I  considered  all  these  strange  sights  with  great 
attention,  until  at  last  I  was  interrupted  by  a  clus-  ' 
ter  of  the  travelers  in  the  crooked  paths,  who  came 
up  to  me,  bid  me  go  along  with  them,  and  pres¬ 
ently  fell  to  singing  and  dancing:  they  took  me  by 
the  hand,  and  so  carried  me  away  along  with 
them.  After  I  had  followed  them  a  considerable 
while,  I  perceived  I  had  lost  the  black  tower  of 
light,  at  which  I  greatly  wondered;  but  as  I  looked 
and  gazed  round  about  me,  and  saw  nothing,  I 
began  to  fancy  my  first  vision  had  been  but  a 
dream,  and  there  was  no  such  thing  in  reality; 
but  then  I  considered  that  if  I  could  fancy  to  see’ 
what  was  not,  I  might  as  well  have  an  illusion 
wrought  on  me  at  present,  and  not  see  what  was 
really  before  me.  I  was  very  much  confirmed  in 
this  thought,  by  the  effect  I  then  just  observed  the 
water  of  Worldly -Wisdom  had  upon  me;  for  as  I 
had  drank  a  little  of  it  again,  I  felt  a  very  sensi¬ 
ble  effect  in  my  head:  methought  it  distracted  and 
disordered  all  there;  this  made  me  stop  of  a  sud¬ 
den,  suspecting  some  charm  or  enchantment.  As 
I  was  casting  about  within  myself  what  I  should 
do,  and  whom  to  apply  to  in  this  case,  I  spied  at 
some  distance  off  me  a  man  beckoning,  and  making 
signs  to  me  to  come  over  to  him.  I  cried  to  him, 

I  did  not  know  the  way.  He  then  called  to  me 
audibly,  to  step  at  least  out  of  the  path  I  was  in; 
for  if  I  stayed  there  any  longer  I  was  in  danger 
to  be  catched  in  a  great  net  that  was  just  hanging 
over  me,  and'Yeady  to  catch  me  up;  that  he  won- 
dered  I  was  so  blind,  or  so  distracted,  as  not  to 
see  so  imminent  and  visible  a  danger;  assuring  me, 
that  as  soon  as  I  was  out  of  that  way,  he  would 
come  to  me  to  lead  me  into  a  more  secure  path. 
This  I  did,  and  he  brought  me  his  palm  full  of 
Jhe  water  of  Heavenly-Wisdom,  which  was  of 
very  great  use  to  me,  for  my  eyes  were  straight 
cleared,  and  I  saw  the  great  black  tower  just  be¬ 
fore  me:  but  the  great  net  which  I  spied  so  near 
me  cast  me  in  such  a  terror,  that  I  ran  back  as  far 
as  I  could  in  one  breath,  without  looking  behind 
me.  Then  my  benefactor  thus  bespoke  me:  ‘  You 
have  made  the  wonderfulest  escape  in  the  world; 
the  water  you  used  to  drink  is  of  a  bewitching 
nature,  you  would  else  have  been  mightily  shocked 
at  the  deformities  and  meanness  of  the  place;  for 
beside  the  set  of  blind  fools  in  whose  company 


621 

you  were,  you  may  now  behold  many  others  who 
are  only  bewitched  after  another  no  less  dangerous 
manner.  Look  a  little  that  way,  there  goes  a 
crowd  of'  passengers;  they  have  indeed  so  good  a 
head  as  not  to  suffer  themselves  to  be  blinded  by 
this  bewitching  water;  the  black  tower  is  not  van- 
ished  out  of  their  sight,  they  see  it  whenever  they 
look  up  to  it:  but  see  how  they  go  sideways,  and 
with  their  eyes  downward,  as  if  they  were  mad, 
that  they  may  thus  rush  into  the  net,  without 
being  beforehand  troubled  at  the  thought  of  so 
miserable  a  destruction.  Their  wills  are  so  per¬ 
verse  and  their  hearts  so  fond  of  the  pleasures  of 
the  place,  that  rather  than  forego  them  they  will 
inn  all  hazards,  and  venture  upon  all  the  miseries 
and  woes  before  them. 

“  ‘See  there  that  other  company;  though  they 
should  drink  none  of  the  bewitching  water,  yet 
they  take  a  course  bewitching  and  deluding.  See 
how  they  choose  the  crookedest  paths,  whereby 
they  have  often  the  black  tower  behind  them,  and 
sometimes  seethe  radiant  column  sideways,  which 
gives  them  some  weak  glimpse  of  it !  These  fools 
content  themselves  with  that,  not  knowing  whether 
any  other  have  any  more  of  its  influence  and  light 
than  themselves;  this  road  is  called  that  of  Super¬ 
stition,  or  Human  Invention:  they  grossly  over¬ 
look  that  which  the  rules  and  laws  of  the  place 
prescribe  to  them,  and  contrive  some  other  scheme, 
and  set  of  directions  and  prescriptions  for  them¬ 
selves,  which  they  hope  will  serve  their  turn.’ 
He  showed  me  many  other  kind  of  fools,  which 
put  me  quite  out  of  humor  with  the  place.  At 
last  he  carried  me  to  the  right  paths,  where  I 
found  true  and  solid  pleasure,  which  entertained 
me  all  the  way,  until  we  came  in  closer  sight  of 
the  pillar,  where  the  satisfaction  increased  to  that 
measure,  that  my  faculties  were  not  able  to  con¬ 
tain  it:  in  the  straining  of  them  I  was  violently 
waked,  not  a  little  grieved  at  the  vanishing  of  so 
pleasing  a  dream. 

“Glasgow,  Sept.  29.” 


No.  525.]  SATURDAY,  NOVEMBER  1,  1712. 

That  love  alone,  which  virtue’s  laws  control, 
Deserves  reception  in  the  human  soul. 

It  is  my  custom  to  take  frequent  opportunities 
of  inquiring  from  time  to  time  what  success  my 
speculations  meet  with  in  the  town.  I  am  glad 
to  find,  in  particular,  that  my  discourses  on  mar¬ 
riage  have  been  well  received.  A  friend  of  mine 
gives  me  to  understand,  from  Doctors’  Commons, 
that  more  licenses  have  been  taken  out  there  of 
late  than  usual.  I  am  likewise  informed  of  several 
pretty  fellows,  who  have  resolved  to  commence 
heads  of  families  by  the  first  favorable  opportu¬ 
nity.  One  of  them  writes  me  word  that  he  is  ready 
;o  enter  into  the  bond  of  matrimony,  provided  I  will 
give  it  him  under  my  hand  (as  I  now  do),  that  a 
man  may  show  his  face  in  good  company  after  he 
is  married,  and  that  he  need  not  be  ashamed  to 
treat  a  woman  with  kindness  who  puts  herself 
into  his  power  for  life. 

I  have  other  letters  on  this  subject,  which  say 
that  I  am  attempting  to  make  a  revolution  in  the 
world  of  gallantry,  and  that  the  consequence  of  it 
will  be  that  a  great  deal  of  the  sprightliest  wit 
and  satire  of  the  last  age  will  be  lost;  that  a  bash¬ 
ful  fellow  upon  changing  his  condition,  will  be 
no  longer  puzzled  how  to  stand  the  raillery  of  his 
facetious  companions;  that  he  need  not  own  he 
married  only  to  plunder  an  heiress  of  her  fortune, 
nor  pretend  that  he  uses  her  ill,  to  avoid  the 
ridiculous  name  of  a  fond  husband. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


622 


Indeed,  if  I  may  speak  my  opinion  of  great 
part  of  the  writings  which  once  prevailed  among 
us  under  the  notion  of  humor,  they  are  such  as 
would  tempt  one  to  think  there  had  been  an  asso¬ 
ciation  among  the  wits  of  those  times  to  rally 
legitimacy  out  of  our  island.  A  state  of  wedlock 
was  the  common  mark  of  all  the  adventurers  in  a 
farce  or  comedy,  as  well  as  the  essay ers  in  lam¬ 
poon  and  satire,  to  shoot  at;  and  nothing  was  a 
more  standing  jest,  in  all  clubs  of  fashionable 
mirth  and  gay  conversation.  It  was  determined 
among  those  airy  critics,  that  the  appellation  of  a 
sober  man  should  signify  a  spiritless  fellow.  And 
I  am  apt  to  think  it  was  about  the  same  time  that 
good-nature,  a  word  so  peculiarly  elegant  in  our 
language,  that  some  have  affirmed  it  cannot  well 
be  expressed  in  any  other,  came  first  to  be  ren¬ 
dered  suspicious,  and  in  danger  of  being  trans¬ 
ferred  from  its  original  sense  to  so  distant  an  idea 
as  that  of  folly. 

I  must  confess  it  has  been  my  ambition,  in  the 
course  of  my  writings,  to  restore,  as  well  as  I  was 
able,  the  proper  ideas  of  things.  And  as  I  have 
attempted  this  already  on  the  subject  of  marriage 
in  several  papers,  I  shall  here  add  some  further 
observations  which  occur  to  me  on  the  same  head. 

Nothing  seems  to  be  thought,  by  our  fine  gen¬ 
tlemen,  so  indispensable  an  ornament  in  fashion¬ 
able  life,  as  love.  “A  knight-errant,”  says  Don 
Quixote,  “without  a  mistress,  is  like  a  tree  with¬ 
out  leaves;”  and  a  man  of  mode  among  us,  who 
has  not  some  fair  one  to  sigh  for,  might  as  well 
pretend  to  appear  dressed  without  his  periwig. 
We  have  lovers  in  prose  innumerable.  All  our 
pretenders  to  rhyme  are  professed  inamoratos ; 
and  there  is  scarce  a  poet,  good  or  bad,  to  be 
heard  of,  who  has  not  some  real  or  supposed  Sac- 
charissa  to  improve  his  vein. 

If  love  be  any  refinement,  conjugal  love  must 
be  certainly  so  in  a  much  higher  degree.  There 
is  no  comparison  between  the  frivolous  affectations 
of  attracting  the  eyes  of  women  with  whom  you 
are  only  captivated  by  way  of  amusement,  and  of 
whom  perhaps  you  know  nothing  more  than  their 
features,  and  a  regular  and  uniform  endeavor  to 
make  yourself  valuable,  both  as  a  friend  and  lover, 
to  one  whom  you  have  chosen  to  be  the  companion 
of  your  life.  The  first  is  a  spring  of  a  thousand 
fopperies,  silly  artifices,  falsehoods,  and  perhaps 
barbarities,  or  at  best  rises  no  higher  than  to  a 
kind  of  dancing-school  breeding,  to  give  the  per¬ 
son  a  more  sparkling  air.  The  latter  is  the  parent 
of  substantial  virtues  and  agreeable  qualities,  and 
cultivates  the  mind  while  it  improves  the  behavior. 
The  passion  of  love  to  a  mistress,  even  where  it  is 
most  sincere,  resembles  too  much  the  flame  of  a 
fever:  that  to  a  wife  is  like  the  vital  heat. 

I  have  often  thought,  if  the  letters  written  by 
men  of  good-nature  to  their  wives  were  to  be  com¬ 
pared  with  those  written  by  men  of  gallantry  to 
their  mistresses,  the.  former,  notwithstanding  any 
inequality  of  style,  would  appear  to  have  the  ad¬ 
vantage.  Friendship,  tenderness,  and  constancy, 
dressed  in  a  simplicity  of  expression,  recommend 
themselves  by  a  more  native  elegance,  than  pas¬ 
sionate  raptures,  extravagant  encomiums,  and 
slavish  adoration.  If  -we  were  admitted  to  search 
the  cabinet  of  the  beautiful  Narcissa,  among  heaps 
of  epistles  from  several  admirers,  which  are  there 
preserved  with  equal  care,  how  few  should  we 
find  but  would  make  any  one  sick  in  the  reading, 
except  her  who  is  flattered  by  them?  But  in  how 
different  a  style  must  the  wise  Benevolus,  who 
converses  with  that  good  sense  and  good-humor 
among  all  his  friends,  write  to  a  wife  wdio  is  the 
■worthy  object  of  his  utmost  affection  ?  Benevolus, 
both  in  public  and  private,  and  all  occasions  of 


life,  appears  to  have  every  good  quality  and  desir 
able  ornament.  Abroad,  he  is  reverenced  and  es¬ 
teemed;  at  home,  beloved  and  happy.  The  satis¬ 
faction  he  enjoj's  there  settles  into  an  habitual 
complacency,  which  shines  in  his  countenance, 
enlivens  his  wit,  and  seasons  his  conversation. 
Even  those  of  his  acquaintance,  who  have  never 
seen  him  in  his  retirement,  are  sharers  in  the  hap- 
iness  of  it;  and  it  is  very  much  owing  to  his 
eing  the  best,  and  best  beloved  of  husbands,  that 
he  is  the  most  steadfast  of  friends,  and  the  most 
agreeable  of  companions. 

There  is  a  sensible  pleasure  in  contemplating 
such  beautiful  instances  of  domestic  life.  The 
happiness  of  the  conjugal  state  appears  heightened 
to  the  highest  degree  it  is  capable  of  when  we  see 
tvro  persons  of  accomplished  minds  not  only  united 
in  the  same  interests  and  affections,  but  in  their 
taste  of  the  same  improvements,  pleasures,  and 
diversions.  Pliny,  one  of  the  finest  gentlemen 
and  politest  writers  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived, 
has  left  us,  in  his  letter  to  Hispulla,  his  wife’s 
aunt,  one  of  the  most  agreeable  family  pieces  of 
this  kind  I  have  ever  met  with.  I  shall  end  this 
discourse  with  a  translation  of  it;  and  I  believe 
the  reader  will  be  of  my  opinion,  that  conjugal 
love  is  drawn  in  it  with  a  delicacy  which  makes 
it  appear  to  be,  as  1  have  represented  it,  an  orna¬ 
ment  as  well  as  a  virtue. 

“  PLINY  TO  HISPULLA. 

“  As  I  remember  that  great  affection  which  was 
between  you  and  your  excellent  brother,  and  know 
you  love  his  daughter  as  your  own,  so  as  not  only 
to  express  the  tenderness  of  the  best  of  aunts,  but 
even  to  supply  that  of  the  best  of  fathers;  I  am 
sure  it  Avill  be  a  pleasure  to  you  to  hear  that  she 
proves  worthy  of  her  father,  worthy  of  you,  and 
of  your  and  her  ancestors.  Her  ingenuity  is  ad¬ 
mirable;  her  frugality  extraordinary.  She  loves 
me,  the  surest  pledge  of  her  virtue;  and  adds  to 
this  a  wonderful  disposition  to  learning,  which 
she  has  acquired  from  her  affection  to  me.  She 
reads  my  writings,  studies  them,  and  even  gets 
them  by  heart.  You  would  smile  to  see  the  con¬ 
cern  she  is  in  when  I  have  a  cause  to  plead,  and 
the  joy  she  shows  when  it  is  over.  She  finds 
means  to  have  the  first  news  brought  her  of  the 
success  I  meet  with  in  court,  how  I  am  heard,  and 
what  decree  is  made.  If  I  recite  anything  in  pub¬ 
lic,  she  cannot  refrain  from  placing  herself  pri¬ 
vately  in  some  corner  to  hear,  where  with  the 
utmost  delight,  she  feasts  on  my  applauses.  Some¬ 
times  she  sings  my  verses,  and  accompanies  them 
with  the  lute,  without  any  master  except  love,  the 
best  of  instructors.  From  these  instances,  I  take 
the  most  certain  omens  of  our  perpetual  and  in¬ 
creasing  happiness ;  since  her  affection  is  not 
founded  on  my  youth  and  person,  which  must 
gradually  decay,  but  she  is  in  love  with  the  im¬ 
mortal  part  of  me,  my  glory  and  reputation.  Nor 
indeed  could  less  be  expected  from  one  who  had 
the  happiness  to  receive  her  education  from  you, 
who  in  your  house  was  accustomed  to  everything 
that  was  virtuous  and  decent,  and  even  began  to 
love  me  by  your  recommendation.  For,  as  you 
had  always  the  greatest  respect  for  my  mother, 
you  were  pleased  from  my  infancy  to  form  me,  to 
commend  me,  and  kindly  to  presage  I  should  be 
one  day  what  my  wife  fancies  I  am.  Accept, 
therefore,  our  united  thanks  :  mine,  that  you  have 
bestowed  her  on  me  ;  and  hers,  that  you  have 
given  me  to  her,  as  a  mutual  grant  of  joy  and 
felicity.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


623 


No.  526.]  MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  3,  1712. 

- Fortius  utere  loris. — Ovid.  Met.  ii.  127. 

Keep  a  stiff  reign. — Addison. 

I  am  very  loth  to  come  to  extremities  with  the 
young  gentlemen  mentioned  in  the  following  let¬ 
ter,  and  do  not  care  to  chastise  them  with  my  own 
hand,  until  I  am  forced  by  provocations  too  great 
to  be  suffered  without  the  absolute  destruction  of 
my  spectatorial  dignity.  The  crimes  of  these 
offenders  aie  placed  under  the  observation  of  one 
of  my  chief  officers  who  is  posted  just  at  the  en¬ 
trance  of  the  pass  between  London  and  Westmin¬ 
ster.  As  1  have  great  confidence  in  the  capacity, 
resolution,  and  integrity,  of  the  person  deputed  by 
me  to  give  an  account  of  enormities,  I  doubt  not 
but  I  shall  soon  have  before  me  all  proper  notices 
which  are  requisite  for  the  amendment  of  man¬ 
ners  in  public,  and  the  instruction  of  each  indi¬ 
vidual  of  the  human  species  in  what  is  due  from 
him  in  respect  to  the  whole  body  of  mankind. 
The  present  paper  shall  consist  only  of  the  above- 
mentioned  letter,  and  the  copy  of  a  deputation 
which  I  have  given  to  my  trusty  friend,  Mr.  John 
Sly;  wherein  he  is  charged  to  notify  to  me  all 
that  is  necessary  for  my  animadversion  upon  the 
delinquents  mentioned  by  my  correspondent,  as 
well  as  all  others  described  in  the  said  deputation. 

“TO  THE  SPECTATOR-GENERAL  OF  GREAT  BRITAIN. 

“I  grant  it  does  look  a  little  familiar,  but  I 
must  call  you 

“Dear  Dumb, 

“  Being  got  again  to  the  further  end  of  the  Wi¬ 
dow’s  coffee-house,  I  shall  from  hence  give  you 
some  account  of  the  behavior  of  our  hackney- 
coachman  since  my  last.  Those  indefatigable  gen¬ 
tlemen,  without  the  least  design,  I  dare  say,  of 
self-interest  or  advantage  to  themselves,  do  still 
ply  as  volunteers  day  and  night  for  the  good  of 
their  country.  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  enu¬ 
merating  many  particulars,  but  I  must  by  no 
means  omit  to  inform  you  of  an  infant  about  six 
foot*  high,  and  between  twenty  and  thirty  years 
of  age,  who  was  seen  in  the  arms  of  a  hackney- 
coachman,  driving  by  Will’s  coffee-house  in  Co- 
yent-Garden,  between  the  hours  of  four  and  five 
in  the  afternoon  of  that  very  day  wherein  you  pub¬ 
lished  a  memorial  against  them.  This  impudent 
young  cur,  though  he  could  not  sit  inf  a  coach¬ 
box  without  holding,  yet  would  he  venture  his 
neck  to  bid  defiance  to  your  spectatorial  authority, 
or  to  anything  you  countenanced.  Who  he  was  I 
kno^\  not,  but  I  heard  this  relation  this  morning 
from  a  gentleman  who  was  an  eye- witness  of  this 
his  impudence;  and  I  was  willing  to  take  the  first 
opportunity  to  inform  you  of  him,  as  holding  it 
extremely  requisite  that  you  should  nip  him  in 
the  bud.  But  I  am  myself  most  concerned  for  my 
fellow-templars,  fellow-students,  and  fellow-labor¬ 
ers  in  the  law,  I  mean  such  of  them  as  are  digni¬ 
fied  and  distinguished  under  the  denomination  of 
hackney-coachmen.  Such  aspiring  minds  have 
these  ambitious  young  men,  that  they  cannot  en¬ 
joy  themselves  out$  of  a  coach-box.  It  is,  how- 
evei ,  an  unspeakable  comfort  to  me  that  I  can  now 
tell  you  that  some  of  them  are  grown  so  bashful 
as  to  study  only  in  the  night-time  or  in  the  coun¬ 
try.  The  other  night  I  spied  one  of  our  youn°- 
gentlemen  very  diligent  at  his  lucubrations  in 
Fleet  street;  and  by  the  way,  I  should  be  under 
some  concern  lest  this  hard  student  should  one 
time  or  other  crack  his  brain  with  studying,  but 
that  I  am  in  hopes  nature  has  taken  care  to  fortify 


him  in  proportion  to  the  undertakings  he  was  de¬ 
signed  for.  Another  of  my  fellow-templars  on 
T  hursday  last  was  getting  up  into  his  study  at 
tiie  bottom  of  Gray’s-inn-lane,  in  order,  I  suppose 
to  contemplate  in  the  fresh  air.  Now,  Sir,  my  re¬ 
quest  is,  that  the  great  modesty  of  these  two  gen¬ 
tlemen  may  be  recorded  as  a  pattern  to  the  rest, 
and  if  you  would  but  give  them  two  or  three 
touches  with  your  own  pen,  though  you  might  not 
perhaps  prevail  with  them  to  desist  entirely  from 
their  meditations,  yet  I  doubt  not  but  you  would 
at  least  preserve  them  from  being  public  specta¬ 
cles  of  folly  in  our  streets.  I  say,  two  or  three 
touches  with  your  own  pen;  for  I  have  really  ob- 
served,  Mr.  Spec.,  that  those  Spectators  which  are 
so  prettily  laced  down  the  sides  with  little  c’s, 
how  instructive  soever  they  may  be,  do  not  carry 
with  them  that  authority  as  the  others.  I  do 
again,  therefore,  desire,  that,  for  the  sake  of  their 
dear  necks,  you  would  bestow  one  penful  of  your 
own  ink  upon  them.  I  know  you  are  loth  to  ex¬ 
pose  them;  and  it  is,  I  must  confess,  a  thousand 
pities  that  any  young  gentleman,  who  is  come  of 
honest  persons,  should  be  brought  to  public  shame. 
And  indeed  I  should  be  glad  to  have  them  han- 
died  a  little  tenderly  at  the  first;  but  if  fair  means 
will  not  prevail,  there  is  then  no  other  way  to  re¬ 
claim  them  but  by  making  use  of  some  wholesome 
severities;  and  I  think  it  is  better  that  a  dozen  or 
two  of  such  good-for-nothing  fellows  should  be 
made  examples  of,  than  that  the  reputation  of  some 
hundreds  of  as  hopeful  young  gentlemen  as  my¬ 
self  should  suffer  through  their  folly.  It  is  not, 
however,  for  me  to  direct  you  what  to  do;  but,  in 
short,  if  our  coachmen  will  drive  on  this  trade, 
the  very  first  of  them  that  I  do  find  meditating  in 
the  street,  I  shall  make  bold  to  ‘take  the  number 
of  his  chambers,’*  together  with  a  note  of  his 
name,  and  dispatch  them  to  you,  that  you  may 
chastise  him  at  your  own  discretion. 

“  I  am,  dear  Spec.,  forever  yours, 

“  Moses  Greenbag, 

“Esq.,  if  you  please. 

“P.  S.  Tom  Hammercloth,  one  of  our  coach¬ 
men,  is  now  pleading  at  the  bar  at  the  other  end 
of  the  loom,  but  has  a  little  too  much  vehemence, 
and  throws  out  his  arms  too  much  to  take  his  au¬ 
dience  with  a  good  grace.” 

T°  my  loving  and  well-beloved  John  Sly,  haberdasher 
o  f  hats,  and  tobacconist,  between  the  cities  of  Lon¬ 
don  and  Westminster. 

.  Whereas  frequent  disorders,  affronts,  indigni¬ 
ties,  omissions,  and  trespasses,  for  which  there  are 
no  remedies  by  any  form  of  law,  but  which  ap¬ 
parently  disturb  and  disquiet  the  minds  of  men, 
happen  near  the  place  of  your  residence;  and  that 
you  are,  as  well  by  your  commodious  situation, 
as  the  good  parts  with  whicli  you  are  endowed, 
properly  qualified  for  the  observation  of  the  said* 
offenses;  I  do  hereby  authorize  and  depute  you, 
from  the  hours  of  nine  in  the  morning  until  four 
in  the  afternoon,  to  keep  a  strict  eye  upon  all 
persons  and  things  that  are  conveyed  in  coaches, 
cat >ied  in  carts,  or  walk  on  foot  from  the  city  of 
London  to  the  city  of  Westminster,  or  from  the 
city  of  Westminster  to  the  city  of  London,  within 
the  said  hours.  You  are,  therefore  not  to  depart 
from  your  observatory  at  the  end  of  Devereux- 
court  during  the  said  space  of  each  day,  but  to  ob¬ 
serve  the  behavior  of  all  persons  who  are  suddenly 
transported  from  stamping  on  pebbles  to  sit  at  ease 
in  chariots,  what  notice  they  take  of  their  foot  ac¬ 
quaintance,  and  send  me  the  speediest  advice, 


*  Feet,  f  Intended,  it  seems,  for  on.  J  See  preceding  note. 


*  An  allusion  to  the  usual  and  prudent  precaution  of  ta¬ 
king  the  number  of  a  hackney-coach  before  entrance. 


024  THE  SPE  < 

when  they  are  guilty  of  overlooking,  turning  from, 
or  appearing  grave  and  distant  to,  their  old  friends. 
When  man'and  wife  are  in  the  same  coach,  you 
are  to  see  whether  they  appear  pleased  or  tired 
with  each  other,  and  whether  they  carry  the  due 
mean  in  the  eye  of  the  world,  between  fondness 
and  coldness.  You  are  carefully  to  behold  all 
such  as  shall  have  addition  of  honor  or  riches, 
and  report  whether  they  preserve  the  countenance 
they  had  before  such  addition.  As  to  persons  on 
foot,  you  are  to  be  attentive  whether  they  are 
pleased  with  their  condition,  and  are  dressed  suit¬ 
able  to  it;  but  especially  to  distinguish  such  as 
appear  discreet,  by  a  low-heel  shoe,  with  the  de¬ 
cent  ornament  of  a  leather  garter  ;*  to  write  down 
the  names  of  such  country  gentlemen  as,  upon  the 
approach  of  peace,  have  left  the  hunting  for  the 
military  cock  of  the  hat ;  of  all  who  strut,  make  a 
noise,  and  swear  at  the  drivers  of  coaches  to  make 
haste,  wThen  they  see  it  is  impossible  they  should 
pass;  of  all  young  gentlemen  in  coach-boxes,  who 
labor  at  a  perfection  in  what  they  are  sure  to  be 
excelled  by  the  meanest  of  the  people.  You  are 
to  do  all  that  in  you  lies  that  coaches  and  passen¬ 
gers  give  way  according  to  the  course  of  business, 
all  the  morning  in  term-time  toward  Westminster, 
the  rest  of  the  year  toward  the  Exchange.  Upon 
these  directions,  together  with  other  secret  articles 
herein  inclosed,  you  are  to  govern  yourself,  and 
give  advertisement  thereof  to  me,  at  all  conveni¬ 
ent  and  spectatorial  hours,  when  men  of  business 
are  to  be  seen.  Hereof  you  are  not  to  fail.  Given 
under  my  seal  of  office. 

T.  The  Spectator. 


Ho.  527.]  TUESDAY,  NOVEMBER  4,  1712. 

Facile  invenies  et  pejorem,  et  pejus  moratam ; 

Meliorem  Deque  tu  reperies,  ncque  sol  videt. 

Plautus  in  Stiolior. 

You  will  easily  find  a  worse  woman ;  a  better  the  sun  never 
shone  upon. 

I  am  so  tender  of  my  women-readers,  that  T  can¬ 
not  defer  the  publication  of  anything  which  con¬ 
cerns  their  happiness  or  quiet.  The  repose  of  a 
married  woman  is  consulted  in  the  first  of  the 
following  letters,  and  the  felicity  of  a  maiden  lady 
in  the  second.  I  call  it  a  felicity  to  have  the  ad¬ 
dresses  of  an  agreeable  man.  And  I  think  I  have 
not  anywhere  seen  a  prettier  application  of  a  po¬ 
etical  story  than  that  of  his,  in  making  the  tale  of 
Cephalus  and  Procris  the  history  picture  of  a  fan 
in  so  gallant  a  manner  as  he  addresses  it.  But 
see  the  letters  : — 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  It  is  now  almost  three  months  since  I  was  in 
town  about  some  business;  and  the  hurry  of  it 
being  over,  I  took  coach  one  afternoon,  and  drove 
to  see  a  relation,  who  married  about  six  years  ago 
a  wealthy  citizen.  I  found  her  at  home,  but  her 
husband  gone  to  the  Exchange,  and  expected  back 
within  an  hour  at  the  furthest.  After  the  usual 
salutations  of  kindness,  and  a  hundred  questions 
about  friends  in  the  country,  we  sat  down  to  piquet, 
played  two  or  three  games,  and  drank  tea.  I 
should  have  told  you  that  this  was  my  second 
time  of  seeing  her  since  her  marriage;  but  before, 
she  lived  at  the  same  town  where  I  went  to  school; 
so  that  the  plea  of  a  relation,  added  to  the  inno¬ 


*  It  has  been  said  that  there  is  an  allusion  here  to  a  very 
worthy  gentleman  of  fortune,  bred  to  the  law,  who  had  cham¬ 
bers  in  Lincoln’ s-inn.  His  name  was  Richard  Warner,  the 
younger  son  of  a  banker,  who,  though  he  always  wore  leather 
garters,  in  no  other  instance  affected  singularity.  For  a  more 
particular  account  of  him,  see  Anecdotes  of  W.  Bowyer,  4to, 
p.  409. 


IT  ATOR. 

cence  of  my  youth,  prevailed  upon  her  good  hu¬ 
mor  to  indulge  me  in  a  freedom  of  conversation, 
as  often,  and  oftener,  than  the  strict  discipline  of 
the  school  would  allow  of.  You  may  easily  imag¬ 
ine,  after  such  an  acquaintance,  we  might  be  ex¬ 
ceeding  merry  without  any  offense,  as  in  calling 
to  mind  how  many  inventions  I  have  been  put  to 
in  deluding  the  master;  how  many  hands  forged 
for  excuses,  how  many  times  been  sick  in  perfect 
health;  for  I  was  then  never  sick  but  at  school, 
and  only  then  because  out  of  her  company.  We 
had  wiled  away  three  hours  after  this  manner, 
when  I  found  it  past  five;  and,  not  expecting  her 
husband  wrould  return  until  late,  rose  up  and  told 
her  I  should  go  early  next  morning  for  the  coun¬ 
try.  She  kindly  answered  she  was  afraid  it  would 
be  long  before  she  saw  me  again;  so  I  took  my 
leave,  and  parted.  How,  Sir,  I  had  not  been  got 
home  a  fortnight,  when  I  received  a  letter  from  a 
neighbor  of  theirs,  that  ever  since  that  fatal  after¬ 
noon  the  lady  had  been  most  inhumanly  treated, 
and  the  husband  publicly  stormed  that  he  was 
made  a  member  of  too  numerous  a  society.  He 
had,  it  seems,  listened  most  of  the  time  my  cousin 
and  I  were  together.  As  jealous  ears  always  hear 
double,  so  he  heard  enough  to  make  him  mad; 
and  as  jealous  eyes  always  see  through  magnifying 
glasses,  so  he  was  certain  it  could  not  be  I  whom 
he  had  seen,  a  beardless  stripling,  but  fancied  he 
saw  a  gay  gentleman  of  the  Temple,  ten  years 
older  than  myself ;  and  for  that  reason,  I  presume, 
durst  not  come  in,  nor  take  any  notice  when  I 
went  out.  He  is  perpetually  asking  his  wife  if 
she  does  not  think  the  time  long  (as  she  said  she 
should)  until  she  see  her  cousin  again.  Pray,  Sir, 
what  can  be  done  in  this  case  ?  I  have  written  to 
him  to  assure  him  I  was  at  his  house  all  that  after¬ 
noon  expecting  to  see  him.  His  answer  is,  it  is 
only  a  trick  of  hers,  and  that  he  neither  can  or 
will  believe  me.  The  parting  kiss  I  find  mightily 
nettles  him;  and  confirms  him  in  all  his  errors. 
Ben  Jonson,  as  I  remember,  makes  a  foreigner,  in 
one  of  his  comedies,  ‘  admire  the  desperate  valor 
of  the  bold  English,  who  let  out  their  wives  to 
all  encounters.’  The  general  custom  of  salutation 
should  excuse  the  favor  done  me,  or  you  should 
lay  down  rules  when  such  distinctions  are  to  be 
given  or  omitted.  You  cannot  imagine,  Sir,  how 
troubled  I  am  for  this  unhappy  lady’s  misfortune, 
and  beg  you  would  insert  this  letter,  that  the 
husband  may  reflect  upon  this  accident  coolly. 
It  is  no  small  matter,  the  ease  of  a  virtuous  wo¬ 
man  for  her  wdiole  life.  1  know  she  wil]  conform 
to  any  regularities  (though  more  strict  than  the 
common  rules  of  our  country  require)  to  which 
his  particular  temper  shall  incline  him  to  oblige 
her.  This  accident  puts  me  in  mind  how  gener¬ 
ously  Pisistratus,  the  Athenian  tyrant,  behaved 
himself  on  a  like  occasion,  when  he  was  instiga¬ 
ted  by  his  wife  to  put  to  death  a  young  gentle¬ 
man,  because,  being  passionately  fond  of  his 
daughter,  he  had  kissed  her  in  public,  as  he  met 
her  in  the  street.  ‘What,’  said  he,  ‘shall  we  do 
to  those  who  are  our  enemies,  if  we  do  thus  to 
those  who  are  our  friends?’  I  will  not  trouble 
you  much  longer,  but  am  exceedingly  concerned 
lest  this  accident  may  cause  a  virtuous  lady  to 
lead  a  miserable  life  with  a  husband  who  has  no 
grounds  for  his  jealousy  but  what  I  have  faithfully 
related,  and  ought  to  be  reckoned  none.  It  is  to 
be  feared,  too,  if  at  last  he  sees  his  mistake,  yet 
people  will  be  as  slow  and  unwilling  in  disbeliev¬ 
ing  scandal,  as  they  are  quick  and  forward  in  be¬ 
lieving  it.  I  shall  endeavor  to  enliven  this  plain 
honest  letter  with  Ovid’s  relation  about  Cybele’s 
image.  The  ship  wherein  it  was  aboard  was 
stranded  at  the  mouth  of  the  Tiber,  and  the  men 


THE  SPECTATOR, 


were  unable  to  move  it,  until  Claudia,  a  virgin,  but 
suspected  of  unchastity,  by  a  slight  pull  hauled 
it  in.  The  story  is  told  in  the  fourth  book  of  the 
.Fasti: 


625 


‘  Parent  of  Gods,’  began  the  weeping  fair, 

‘Reward  or  punish,  but  ohl  hear  my  prayer. 

If  lewdness  e’er  defil'd  my  virgin  bloom, 

From  heaven  with  justice  I  receive  my  doom: 

But  if  my  honor  yet  has  known  no  stain, 

Thou,  goddess,  thou  my  innocence  maintain : 

Thou,  whom  the  nicest  rules  of  goodness  sway’d 
Vouchsafe  to  follow  an  unblemish’d  maid.’  ’ 

She  spoke,  and  touch’d  the  chord  with  glad  surprise, 
(The  truth  was  witness’d  by  ten  thousand  eyes) 

The  pitying  goddess  easily  compli’d, 

Follow’d  in  triumph,  and  adorn'd  her  guide  : 

While  Claudia,  blushing  still  for  past  disgrace, 

March’d  silent  on,  with  a  slow  solemn  pace : 

Nor  yet  from  some  was  all  distrust  remov’d 
Though  heaven  such  virtue  by  such  wonders  prov’d. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  very  humble  Servant, 

“Philagnotes.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  1  ou  will  oblige  a  languishinglover  if  you  will 
please  to  print  the  inclosed  verses  in  your  next 
paper.  If  you  remember  the  Metamorphoses,  vou 
know’  Procris,  the  fond  wife  of  Cephalus  is  saiS  to 
have  made  her  husband,  who  delighted  in  the 
sports  of  the  wood,  a  present  of  an  unerring  jav¬ 
elin.  In  process  of  time  he  was  so  much  in  the 
foiest,  that  his  lady  suspected  he  was  pursuing 
some  nymph,  under  the  pretense  of  following  a 
chase  more  innocent.  Under  this  suspicion,  she 
hid  herself  among  the  trees,  to  observe  his  mo¬ 
tions.  While  she  lay  concealed,  her  husband, 
tired  with  the  labor  ot  hunting,  came  within  her 
hearing.  As  he  was  fainting  with  heat,  he  cried 
out,  ‘  Aura  veni  !’  ‘Oh  J  charming  air,  approach  !’ 

“  The  unfortunate  wife,  taking  the  word  air  to 
be  the  name  of  a  woman,  began  to  move  among 
the  bushes;  and  the  husband,  believing  it  a  deer, 
threw  his  javelin  and  killed  her.  This  history’ 
painted  on  a  fan,  which  I  presented  to  a  lady,  gave 
occasion  to  my  growing  poetical. 

‘Come,  gentle  air!’  the  Alolian  shepherd  said, 

While  Procris  panted  in  the  secret  shade : 

‘  Come,  gentle  air,’  the  fairer  Delia  cries, 

While  at  her  feet  her  swain  expiring  lies. 

Lo!  the  glad  gales  o'er  all  her  beauties  stray, 

Breathe  on  her  lips,  and  in  her  bosom  play 
In  Delia’s  hand  this  toy  is  fatal  found, 

Nor  did  that  fabled  dart  more  surely  wound. 

Both  gifts  destructive  to  the  givers  prove, 

Alike  both  lovers  full  by  those  they  love : 

Yet  guiltless,  too,  this  bright  destroyer  lives, 

At  random  wounds,  nor  knows  the  wounds  she  gives* 

She  views  the  story  with  attentive  eyes, 

And  pities  Procris,  while  her  lover  dies.” 


No.  528.]  WEDNESDAY,  NOV.  5,  1712. 

Dum  potuit,  solita  gemitum  virtute  repressit. 

Ovid,  Met.  ix.  165. 

With  wonted  fortitude  she  bore  the  smart, 

And  not  a  groan  confess’d  her  burning  heart.— Gay. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

/‘I  who  now  write  to  you  am  a  woman  loaded 
with  injuries,  and  the  aggravation  of  my  misfor¬ 
tune  is,  that  they  are  such  which  are  overlooked  by 
the  geneiality  of  mankind;  and,  though  the  most 
afflicting  imaginable,  not  regarded  as  such  in  the 
general  sense  of  the  world.  I  have  hid  my  vexa¬ 
tion  from  all  mankind;  but  having  now  taken  pen, 
ink,  and  paper,  am  resolved  to  unbosom  myself  to 
you,  and  lay  before  you  what  grieves  me  and  all 
the  sex.  ^  ou  have  very  often  mentioned  particu¬ 
lar  hardships  done  to  this  or  that  lady;  but  me- 
thinks  you  have  not,  in  any  one  speculation, 
directly  pointed  at  the  partial  freedom  men  take 
40 


the  unreasonable  confinement  women  are  obliged 
to,  in  the  only  circumstance  in  which  we  are  ne¬ 
cessarily  to  have  a  commerce  with  them,  that  of 
love,  1  he  case  of  celibacy  is  the  great  evil  of  our 
nation;  and  the  indulgence  of  the  vicious  conduct 
of  men  in  that  state,  with  the  ridicule  to  which 
women  are  exposed,  though  never  so  virtuous,  if 
long  unmarried,  is  the  root  of  the  greatest  irregu¬ 
larities  of  this  nation.  To  show  you,  Sir,  that 
(though  you  never  have  given  us  the  catalogue  of 
a  lady’s  library,  as  you  promised)  we  read  good 
books  of  our  own  choosing,  I  shall  insert  on  this 
occasion  a  paragraph  or  two  out  of  Echard’s  Ro- 
man  History.  In  the  44th  page  of  the  second  vol¬ 
ume,  the  author  observes  that  Augustus,  upon  his 
return  to  Rome  at  the  end  of  the  war,  received 
complaints  that  too  great  a  number  of  the  young 
men  of  quality  were  unmarried.  The  emperor 
thereupon  assembled  the  whole  equestrian  order* 
and  having  separated  the  married  from  the  single’ 
did  particular  honors  to  the  former;  but  he  told  the 
latter  that  is  to  say,  Mr.  Spectator,  he  told  the 
bachelors  that  their  lives  and  actions  had  been  so 
peculiar,  that  he  knew  not  by  what  name  to  call 
them,  not  by  that  of  men,  for  they  performed 
nothing  that  vas  manly;  not  by  that  of  citizens, 
for  the  city  might  perish  notwithstanding  their 
care;  nor  by  that  of  Romans,  for  they  designed  to 
extirpate  the  Roman  name.  Then,  proceeding  to 
show  his  tender  care  and  hearty  affection  for  his 
people,  he  farther  told  them,  that  their  course  of 
life  was  of  such  pernicious  consequence  to  the 
glory  and  grandeur  of  the  Roman  nation,  that  he 
could  not  choose  but  tell  them,  that  all  other  crimes 
put  together  could  not  equalize  theirs,  for  they 
were  guilty  of  murder  in  not  suffering  those  to  be 
born  which  should  proceed  from  them;  of  impiety, 
in  causing  the  names  and  honors  of  their  ancestors 
to  cease;  and  of  sacrilege,  in  destroying  their  kind 
which  pioceed  from  the  immortal  gods,  and  human 
nature,  the  principal  thing  consecrated  to  them; 
therefore,  in  this  respect,  they  dissolved  the  gov¬ 
ernment  in  disobeying  its  laws;  betrayed  their 
country  by  making  it  barren  and  waste;  nay,  and 
demolished  their  city,  in  depriving  it  of  inhabit¬ 
ants.  And  he  was  sensible  that  all  this  proceeded 
not  from  any  kind  of  virtue  or  abstinence,  but 
from  a  looseness  and  wantonness  which  ought 
never  to  be  encouraged  in  any  civil  government. 
There  are  no  particulars  dwelt  upon  that  lets  us 
into  the  conduct  of  these  young  worthies,  whom 
this  great  emperor  treated  with  so  much  justice 
and  indignation;  but  any  one  who  observes  what 
passes  in  this  town  may  very  well  frame  to  him¬ 
self  a  notion  of  their  riots  and  debaucheries  all 
night,  and  their  apparent  preparations  for  them  all 
day.  It  is  not  to  be  doubted  but  these  Romans 
never  passed  any  of  their  time  innocently  but  when 
they  were  asleep,  and  never  slept  but  when  they 
were  weary  and  heavy  with  excesses,  and  slept  only 
to  prepare  themselves  for  the  repetition  of  them. 
If  you  did  your  duty  as  a  Spectator,  you  would 
carefully  examine  into  the  number  of  births,  mar- 
liages,  and  buiials;  and  when  you  have  deducted 
out  of  your  deaths  all  such  as  went  out  of  the 
world  without  marrying,  then  cast  up  the  number 
of  both  sexes  born  within  such  a  term  of  years  last 
past;  you  might,  from  the  single  people  departed, 
make  some  useful  inferences  or  guesses  liow  many 
there  are  left  unmarried,  and  raise  some  useful 
scheme  for  the  amendment  of  the  age  in  that  par¬ 
ticular.  I  have  not  patience  to  proceed  gravely  on 
this  abominable  libertinism;  for  I  cannot  but  re¬ 
flect,  as  I  am  writing  to  you,  upon  a  certain  las¬ 
civious  manner  which  all  our  young  gentlemen 
use  in  public,  and  examine  our  eyes  with  a  petu- 
lancy  in  their  own  which  is  a  downright  affront  to 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


626 

modesty.  A  disdainful  look  on  such  an  occasion 
is  returned  with  a  countenance  rebuked  but  by 
averting  their  eyes  from  the  woman  of  honor  and 
decency,  to  some  flippant  creature  who  will,  as  the 
phrase  is,  be  kinder.  I  must  set  down  things  as 
they  come  into  my  head,  without  standing  upon 
order.  Ten  thousand  to  one  but  the  gay  gentleman 
who  stared,  at  the  same  time  is  a  housekeeper;  for 
you  must  know  they  have  got  into  a  humor  of  late 
of  being  very  regular  in  their  sins;  and  a  young 
fellow  shall  keep  his  four  maids  and  three  footmen 
with  the  greatest  gravity  imaginable.  There  are 
no  less  than  six  of  these  venerable  housekeepers 
of  my  acquaintance.  This  humor  among  young 
men  of  condition  is  imitated  by  all  the  world  be¬ 
low  them,  and  a  general  dissolution*  of  manners 
arises  from  this  one  source  of  libertinism,  without 
shame  or  reprehension  in  the  male  youth.  It  is 
from  this  one  fountain  that  so  many  beautiful 
helpless  young  women  are  sacrificed  and  given  up 
to  lewdness,  shame,  poverty  and  disease.  It  is  to 
this  also  that  so  many  excellent  young  women, 
who  might  be  patterns  of  conjugal  affection,  and 
parents  of  a  worthy  race,  pine  under  unhappy 
passions  for  such  as  have  not  attention  enough 
to  observe,  or  virtue  enough  to  prefer,  them  to  their 
common  wenches.  Now,  Mr.  Spectator,  I  must  be 
free  to  own  to  you,  that  I  myself  suffer  a  tasteless 
insipid  being,  from  a  consideration  I  have  for  a 
man  who  would  not,  as  he  has  said  in  my  hearing, 
resign  his  liberty,  as  he  calls  it,  for  all  the  beauty 
and  wealth  the  whole  sex  is  possessed  of.  Such 
calamities  as  these  would  not  happen,  if  it  could 
possibly  be  brought  about,  that  by  fining  bachelors 
as  Papists  convict,  or  the  like,  they  were  distin¬ 
guished  to  their  disadvantage  from  the  rest  of  the 
world,  who  fall  in  with  the  measures  of  civil  soci¬ 
ety.  Lest  you  should  think  I  speak  this  as  being, 
according  to  the  senseless  rude  phrase,  a  malicious 
old  maid,  I  shall  acquaint  you  I  am  a  woman  of 
condition,  not  nowthree-and-twenty,  and  have  had 
proposals  from  at  least  ten  different  men,  and  the 
greater  number  of  them  have  upon  the  upshot  re¬ 
fused  me.  Something  or  other  is  always  amiss 
when  the  lover  takes  to  some  new  wench.  A  set¬ 
tlement  is  easily  excepted  against,  and  there  is 
very  little  recourse  to  avoid  the  vicious  part  of  our 
youth,  but  throwing  one’s  self  away  upon  some 
lifeless  blockhead,  who.  though  he  is  without  vice, 
is  also  without  virtue.  Now-a-days  we  must  be 
contented  if  we  can  get  creatures  which  are  not 
bad;  good  are  not  to  be  expected.  Mr.  Spectator, 
I  sat  near  you  the  other  day,  and  think  I  did  not 
displease  your  spectatorial  eye-sight;  which  I 
shall  be  a  better  judge  of  when  I  see  whether  you 
take  notice  of  these  evils  your  own  way,  or  print 
this  memorial  dictated  from  the  disdainful  heavy 
heart  of, 

“  Sir,  your  most  obedient  humble  Servant, 

T.-  “  Rachel  Welladay.” 


No.  529.]  THURSDAY,  NOVEMBER  6,  1712. 

Singula  quaeque  locum  teneant  sortita  decenter. 

ITor.  Ars.  Poet.  92. 

Let  everything  have  its  due  place. — Roscommon. 

Upon  the  hearing  of  several  late  disputes  con¬ 
cerning  rank  and  precedence,  I  could  not  forbear 
amusing  myself  with  some  observations  which  I 
have  made  upon  the  learned  world,  as  to  this  great 
particular.  By  the  learned  world  I  here  mean  at 
large  all  those  who  are  anyway  concerned  in  works 


of  literature,  whether  in  the  writing,  printing,  or 
repeating  part.  To  begin  with  the  writers.  I  have 
observed  that  the  author  of  a  folio,  in  all  compa¬ 
nies  and  conversations,  sets  himself  above  the  au¬ 
thor  of  a  quarto;  the  author  of  a  quarto  above  the 
author  of  an  octavo;  and  so  on,  by  a  gradual  de¬ 
scent  and  subordination,  to  an  author  in  twenty- 
fours.  This  distinction  is  so  well  observed,  that 
in  an  assembly  of  the  learned,  I  have  seen  a  folio 
writer  place  himself  in  an  elbow-chair,  when  the 
author  of  a  duodecimo  has,  out  of  a  just  deference 
to  his  superior  quality,  seated  himself  upon  a 
squab.  In  a  word,  authors  are  usually  ranged  in 
company  after  the  same  manner  as  their  works  are 
upon  a  shelf. 

The  most  minute  pocket  author  hath  beneath 
him  the  writers  of  all  pamphlets,  or  works  that 
are  only  stitched.  As  for  the  pamphleteer,  he  takes 
place  of  none  but  the  authors  of  single  sheets,  and 
of  that  fraternity  who  publish  their  labors  on  cer¬ 
tain  days,  or  on  every  day  of  the  week.  I  do  not 
find  that  the  precedency  among  the  individuals  in 
this  latter  class  of  writers  is  yet  settled. 

For  my  own  part,  I  have  had  so  strict  a  regard 
to  the  ceremonial  which  prevails  in  the  learned 
world,  that  I  never  presumed  to  take  place  of  a 
pamphleteer,  until  my  daily  papers  were  gathered 
into  those  two  first  volumes  which  have  already 
appeared.  After  which,  I  naturally  jumped  over 
the  heads  not  only  of  the  pamphleteers,  but  of 
every  octavo  writer  in  Great  Britain  that  had  writ¬ 
ten  but  one  book.  I  am  also  informed  by  my 
bookseller,  that  six  octavos  have  at  all  times  been 
looked  upon  as  an  equivalent  to  a  folio;  which  I 
take  notice  of  the  rather,  because  I  would  not  have 
the  learned  world  surprised  if,  after  the  publication 
of  half  a  dozen  volumes,  I  take  my  place  accord¬ 
ingly.  When  my  scattered  forces  are  thus  rallied, 
and  reduced  into  regular  bodies,  I  flatter  myself 
that  I  shall  make  no  despicable  figure  at  the  head 
of  them. 

Whether  these  rules,  which  have  been  received 
time  out  of  mind  in  the  commonwealth  of  letters, 
were  not  originally  established  with  an  eye  to  our 
paper  manufacture,  I  shall  leave  to  the  discussion 
of  others;  and  shall  only  remark  further  in  this 
place,  that  all  printers  and  booksellers  take  the 
wall  of  one  another  according  to  the  above-men¬ 
tioned  merits  of  the  authors  to  whom  they  respec¬ 
tively  belong. 

I  come  now  to  that  point  of  precedency  which  is 
settled  among  the  three  learned  professions  by  the 
wisdom  of  our  laws.  I  need  not  here  take  notice 
of  the  rank  which  is  allotted  to  every  doctor  in 
each  of  these  professions,  who  are  all  of  them, 
though  not  so  high  as  knights,  yet  a  degree  above 
’squires:  this  last  order  of  men,  being  the  illiter¬ 
ate  body  of  the  nation,  are  consequently  thrown 
together  into  a  class  below  the  three  learned  pro¬ 
fessions.*  I  mention  this  for  the  sake  of  several 
rural  ’squires,  whose  reading  does  not  rise  so  high 
as  to  The  present  State  of  England,  and  who  are 
often  apt  to  usurp  that  precedency  which  by  the 
laws  of  their  country  is  not  due  to  them.  Their 
want  of  learning,  which  has  planted  them  in  this 
station,  may  in  some  measure  extenuate  their  mis¬ 
demeanor;  and  our  professors  ought  to  pardon 
them  when  they  offend  in  this  particular,  consid¬ 
ering  that  they  are  in  a  state  of  ignorance,  or,  as 
we  usually  say,  do  not  know  their  right  hand  from 
their  left. 

There  is  another  tribe  of  persons  who  are  retain¬ 
ers  to  the  learned  world,  and  who  regulate  them¬ 
selves  upon  all  occasions  by  several  laws  peculiar 


*  Dissoluteness, 


*  In  some  Universities,  that  of  Dublin  in  particular,  they 
have  doctors  of  music,  who  take  rank  after  the  doctors  of  the 
three  learned  professions,  and  above  esquires. 


THE  SPECTATOR 


to  their  body;  I  mean  the  players  or  actors  of  botli 
sexes.  Among  these  it  is  a  standing  and  uncon¬ 
troverted  principle,  that  a  tragedian  always  takes 
place  of  a  comedian;  and  it  is  very  well  known 
the  meny  drolls  who  make  us  laugh  are  always 
placed  at  the  lower  end  of  the  table,  and  in  every 
entertainment  give  way  to  the  dignity  of  the  bus- 
inn.  It  is  a  stage  maxim,  “Once  a  king,  and  al 


627 


ways  a  king.”  For  this  reason  it  wouldbe  thought 
absurd  in  Mr.  Bullock,  notwithstanding  the 


very 


height  and  gracefulness  of  his  person,  to  sit  at  the 
right  hand  of  a  hero,  though  he  were  but  five  foot 

Ti!  i  ,  •  he  Pa”ie  distinction  is  observed  among 
the  Indies  of  the  theater.  Queens  and  heroines 
preserve  their  rank  in  private  conversation,  while 
those  who  are  waiting  women  and  maids  of  honor 

upon  the  stage,  keep  their  distance  also  behind 
the  scenes. 

I  shall  only  add  that,  by  a  parity  of  reason,  all 
writers  of  tragedy  look  upon  it  as  their  due  to  be 
seated,  served,  or  saluted,  before  comic  writers- 
those  who  deal  in  tragi-comedy  usually  taking 
their  seats  between  the  x  authors  of  either  side. 
1  here  has  been  a  long*  dispute  for  precedency  be¬ 
tween  the  tragic  and  heroic  poets.  Aristotle  would 
have  the  latter  yield  the  pas  to  the  former;  but 
Mr.  Fry  den,  and  many  others,  would  never  submit 
to  this  decision.  Burlesque  writers  pay  the  same 
deference  to  the  heroic,  as  comic  writers  to  their 
serious  brothers  in  the  drama. 

By  this  short  table  of  laws  order  is  kept  up,  and 
distinction  preserved,  in  the  wdiole  republic  of 


No.  530.]  FRIDAY,  NOVEMBER  7,  1712. 


Sic  visum  Veneri ;  cui  placet  imparos 
Formas  atque  animos  sub  juga  ahenea 
Saevo  mittere  cum  joco.— IIor.  1  Od.  xxxiii.  10. 

Thus  Venus  sports;  the  rich,  the  base, 

Unlike  in  fortune  and  in  face, 

To  disagreeing  love  provokes ; 

When  cruelly  jocose, 

She  ties  the  fatal  noose, 

And  binds  unequals  to  the  brazen  yokes. 

Creech. 

It  is  v ery  usual  for  those  who  have  been  severe 
upon  marriage,  in  some  part  or  other  of  their  lives 
to  enter  into  the  fraternity  which  they  have  ridi¬ 
culed,  and  to  see  their  raillery  return  upon  their 
own  heads.  I  scarce  ever  knew  a  woman-hater 
that  did  not,  sooner  or  later,  pay  for  it.  Marriage 
which  is  a  blessing  to  another  man,  falls  upon 
such  a  one  as  a  judgment.  Mr.  Congreve’s  Old 
Bachelor  is  set  forth  to  us  with  much  wit  and  hu¬ 
mor,  as  an  example  of  this  kind.  In  short,  those 
who  have  most  distinguished  themselves  by  rail¬ 
ing  at  the  sex  in  general,  very  often  make  an  hon¬ 
orable  amends,  by  choosing  one  of  the  most  worth¬ 
less  persons  of  it  for  a  companion  and  yokefellow. 
Hymen  takes  his  revenge  in  kind  on  those  wdio 
turn  his  mysteries  into  ridicule. 

friend  Will  Honeycomb,  who  was  so  unmer¬ 
cifully  witty  upon  the  women,  in  a  couple  of  let¬ 
ters  which  I  lately  communicated  to  the  public 
has  given  the  ladies  ample  satisfaction  by  marry¬ 
ing  a  farmer’s  daughter;  a  piece  of  news  which 
came  to  qur  club  by  the  last  post.  The  templar  is 
very  positive  that  he  has  married  a  dairy-maid- 
but  Will  in  his  letter  to  me  on  this  occasion,  sets 
the  best  face  upon  the  matter  that  he  can,  and 
gives  a  more  tolerable  account  of  his  spouse.  I 
must  confess  I  suspected  something  more  than 
J,rd]ni!7;  when„  upon  opening  the  letter  I  found 
that  Will  was  fallen  off  from  his  former  gayetv 
having  changed  “Dear  Spec.,”  which  was  Ins 


usual  salute  at  the  beginning  of  the  letter,  into 
My  worthy  Friend,”  and  subscribed  himself,  at  the 


latter  end  of  it,  at  full  length,  William  Honeycomb 
In  short  the  gay,  the  loud,  the  vain  Will  Honey- 
coiijib,  who  had  made  love  to  every  great  fortune 
that  has  appeared  in  town  for  about  thirty  years 
ogi  t  lei,  and  boasted  of  favors  from  ladies  whom 
iie  had  never  seen,  is  at  length  wedded  to  a  plain 
country  girl.  ^ 

vniHiS  lemier  giT0S  us  the  Picture  of  a  converted 
s?ber  character  of  the  husband  is 
i  ^  ^  ,.^be  man  cl"  the  town,  and  enlivened 

Can^  Phrascs'  whicb  bave  made 
y  fi  lend  \\  ill  often  thought  very  pretty  company. 
But  let  us  hear  what  he  says  for  himself : 

“  My  worthy  Friend, 

I  question  not  but  you,  and  the  rest  of  my  ac 
quamtance,  wonder  that  I,  who  have  lived  in  the 
smoke  and  ga  lantries  of  the  town  for  thirty  years 
ogether ,  should  all  on  a  sudden  grow  fond  of  a 
country  life  Had  not  my  dog  of  a  steward  run 
f  W  as,  be  did,  without  making  up  his  accounts,  I 
had  still  been  immersed  in  sin  and  sea-coal.  But 
since  my  late  forced  visit  to  my  estate,  I  am  so 
pleased  with  it,  that  I  am  resolved  to  live  and  die 
upon  it.  I  am  every  day  abroad  among  my  acres, 
and  can  scarce  forbear  filling  my  letter  with  breezes 
shades,  flowers,  meadows,  and  purling  streams. 

I  he  simplicity  of  manners,  which  I  have  heard 
}  on  so. often  speak  of,  and  which  appears  here  in 
perfection,  charms  me  wonderfully.  As  an  in¬ 
stance  of  it  I  must  acquaint  you,  and  by  your 
means  the  whole  club,  that  I  have  lately  married 
one  of  my  tenant’s  daughters.  She  is  born  of 
honest  parents;  and  though  she  has  no  portion 
she  has  a  great  deal  of  virtue.  The  natural  sweet¬ 
ness  and  innocence  of  her  behavior,  the  freshness 
of  her  complexion,  the  unaffected  turn  of  her  shape 
and  person,  shot  me  through  and  through  every 
time  that  I  saw  her,  and  did  more  execution  upon 
me  in  grqgram  than  the  greatest  beauty  in  town 
or  court  had  ever  done  in  brocade.  In  short,  she 
is  such  a  one  as  promises  me  a  good  heir  to  my 
estate:  and  if  by  her  means  I  cannot  leave  to  my 
children  what  are  falsely  called  the  gifts  of  birth, 
high  titles,  and  alliances,  I  hope  to  convey  to  them 
the  more  real  and  valuable  gifts  of  birth — strong 
bodies  and  healthy  constitutions.  As  for  your 
fine  women,  I  need  not  tell  thee  that  I  know  them. 

I  have  had  my  share  in  their  graces;  but  no  more 
of  that.  It  shall  be  my  business  hereafter  to  live 
the  life  of  an  honest  man,  and  to  act  as  becomes 
the  master  of  a  family.  I  question  not  but  I  shall 
draw  upon  me  the  raillery  of  the  town,  and  be 
treated  to  the  tune  of,  ‘  Marriage-hater  Matched-’ 
but  I  am  prepared  for  it.  I  have  been  as  witty 
upon  others  in  my  time.  To  tell  thee  truly,  I  saw 
such  a  tribe  of  fashionable  young  fluttering  cox¬ 
combs  shot  up,  that  I  did  not  think  my  post  of  an 
hoimne  de  ruelle  any  longer  tenable.  I  felt  a  certain 
stiffness  m  my  limbs,  which  entirely  destroyed 
the  jauntiness  of  air  I  was  master  of.  Beside  for 
I  may  now  confess  my  age  to  thee,  I  have  been 
eight- and -forty  above  these  twelve  years.  Since 
my  retirement  into  the  country  will  make  a  va¬ 
cancy  in  the  club,  I  could  wish  you  would  fill  up 
my  place  with  my  friend  Tom  Dapperwit.  He 
lias  an  infinite  deal  of  fire,  and  knows  tlie  town. 
Foi  my  own.  part,  as  I  have  said  before,  I  shall 
endea\or  to  live  hereafter  suitable  to  a.  man  in  my 
station,  as  a  prudent  head  of  a  family,  a  good 
husband,  a  careful  father  (when  it  shall  so  hap¬ 
pen),  and  as 

“  Your  most  sincere  Friend, 

“and  humble  Servant, 

“William  Honeycomb.”’ 


628  THE  SPE 

No.  531.]  SATURDAY,  NOVEMBER  8,  1712. 

Qui  mare  et  terras,  variisque  mundurn 
Temperat  horis ; 

Unde  nil  majus  generatur  ipso ; 

Nec  yiget  quicquam  simile,  aut  secundum. 

Hon.  1  Od.  xii.  15. 

Who  guides  below,  and  rules  above, 

The  great  Disposer,  and  the  mighty  King : 

Than  he  none  greater,  like  him  none 
That  can  be,  is,  or  was ; 

Supreme  he  singly  fills  the  throne. — Creech. 

Simonides  being  asked  by  Dionysius  the  tyrant 
what  God  was,  desired  a  day’s  time  to  consider  of 
it  before  he  made  his  reply.  When  the  day  was 
expired  he  desired  two  days;  and  afterward,  in¬ 
stead  of  returning  his  answer,  demanded  still  dou¬ 
ble  the  time  to  consider  of  it.  This  great  poet 
and  philosopher,  the  more  he  contemplated  the 
nature  of  the  Deity,  found  that  he  waded  but  the 
more  out  of  his  depth;  and  that  he  lost  himself  in 
the  thought,  instead  of  finding  an  end  to  it. 

If  we  consider  the  idea  which  wise  men,  by  the 
light  of  reason,  have  framed  of  the  Divine  Being, 
it  amounts  to  this;  that  he  has  in  him  all  the  per¬ 
fection  of  a  spiritual  nature.  And,  since  we  have 
no  notion  of  any  kind  of  spiritual  perfection  but 
what  we  discover  in  our  own  souls,  we  join  infini¬ 
tude  to  each  kind  of  these  perfections,  and  what  is 
a  faculty  in  a  human  soul  becomes  an  attribute  in 
God.  We  exist  in  place  and  time;  the  Divine  Be¬ 
ing  fills  the  immensity  of  space  with  his  presence, 
and  inhabits  eternity.  We  are  possessed  of  a 
little  power  and  a  little  knowledge  :  The  Divine 
Being  is  almighty  and  omniscient.  In  short,  by 
adding  infinity  to  any  kind  of  perfection  we  enjoy, 
and  by  joining  all  these  different  kinds  of  perfec¬ 
tion  in  one  being,  we  form  our  idea  of  the  great 
Sovereign  of  nature. 

Though  every  one  who  thinks  must  have  made 
this  observation,  I  shall  produce  Mr.  Locke’s  au¬ 
thority  to  the  same  purpose,  out  of  his  Essay  on 
Human  Understanding:  “If  we  examine  the  idea 
we  have  of  the  incomprehensible  Supreme  Being, 
we  shall  find  that  we  come  by  it  the  same  way; 
and  that  the  complex  ideas  we  have  both  of  God 
and  separate  spirits,  are  made  up  of  the  simple 
ideas  we  receive  from  reflection ;  v.  g.,  having,  from 
what  we  experience  in  ourselves,  got  the  ideas  of 
existence  and  duration,  of  knowledge  and  power, 
of  pleasure  and  happiness,  and  of  several  other 
qualities  and  powers  which  it  is  better  to  have 
than  to  be  without;  when  we  would  frame  an  idea 
the  most  suitable  we  can  to  the  Supreme  Being, 
we  enlarge  every  ofie  of  these  with  our  own  idea 
of  infinity;  and  so  putting  them  together  make 
our  complex  idea  of  God.” 

It  is  not  impossible  that  there  may  be  many 
kinds  of  spiritual  perfection,  beside  those  which 
are  lodged  in  a  human  soul;  but  it  is  impossible 
that  we  should  have  ideas  of  any  kinds  of  perfec¬ 
tion,  except  those  of  which  we  have  some  small 
rays  and  short  imperfect  strokes  in  ourselves.  It 
would  therefore  be  a  very  high  presumption  to  de¬ 
termine  whether  the  Supreme  Being  has  not  many 
more  attributes  than  those  which  enter  into  our 
conceptions  of  him.  This  is  certain,  that  if  there 
be  any  kind  of  spiritual  perfection  which  is  not 
marked  out  in  the  human  soul,  it  belongs  in  its 
fullness  to  the  divine  nature. 

Several  eminent  philosophers  have  imagined 
that  the  soul,  in  her  separate  state,  may  have 
new  faculties  springing  up  in  her,  which  she  is 
not  capable  of  exerting  during  her  present  union 
with  the  body;  and  whether  these  faculties  may 
not  correspond  with  other  attributes  in  the  divine 
nature,  and  open  to  us  hereafter  new  matter  of 
wonder  and  adoration,  we  are  altogether  ignorant. 


HATOR. 

This,  as  I  have  said  before,  we  ought  to  acquiesce 
in,  that  the  Sovereign  Being,  the  gre£t  Author  of 
Nature,  has  in  him  all  possible  perfections,  as 
well  in  kind  as  in  degree:  to  speak  according  to 
our  methods  of  conceiving,  I  shall  only  add  under 
this  head,  that  when  we  have  raised  our  notion  of 
this  infinite  Being  as  high  as  it  is  possible  for  the 
mind  of  man  to  go,  it  will  fall  infinitely  short  of 
what  he  really  is.  “  There  is  no  end  of  his  great¬ 
ness.”  The  most  exalted  creature  he  has  made  is 
only  capable  of  adoring  it;  none  but  himself  can 
comprehend  it. 

The  advice  of  the  son  of  Siracli  is  very  just  and 
sublime  in  this  light.  “  By  his  word  all  things 
consist.  We  may  speak  much,  and  yet  come 
short:  wherefore  in  sum  he  is  all.  How  shall  we 
be  able  to  magnify  him  ?  for  he  is  great  above  all 
his  works.  The  Lord  is  terrible  and  very  great; 
and  marvelous  is  his  power.  When  you  glorify 
the  Lord,  exalt  him  as  much  as  you  can:  for  even 
yet  will  he  far  exceed.  And  when  you  exalt  him, 
put  forth  all  your  strength,  and  be  not  weary;  for 
you  can  never  go  far  enough.  Who  hath  seen 
him,  that  he  might  tell  us^  and  who  can  magnify 
him  as  he  is  ?  There  are  yet  hid  greater  things 
than  these  be,  for  we  have  seen  but  a  few  of  his 
works.” 

I  have  here  only  considered  the  Supreme  Being 
by  the  light  of  reason  and  philosophy.  If  we 
would  see  him  in  all  the  wonders  of  his  mercy,  we 
must  have  recourse  to  revelation,  which  represents 
him  to  us  not  only  as  infinitely  great  and  glorious, 
but  as  infinitely  good  and  just  in  his  dispensa¬ 
tions  toward  man.  But  as  this  is  a  theory  which 
falls  under  every  one’s  consideration,  though  in¬ 
deed  it  can  never  be  sufficiently  considered,  I 
shall  here  only  take  notice  of  that  habitual  wor¬ 
ship  and  veneration  which  we  ought  to  pay  to 
this  Almighty  Being.  We  should  often  refresh 
our  minds  with  the  thought  of  him,  and  annihi¬ 
late  ourselves  before  him,  in  the  contemplation  of 
our  own  worthlessness,  and  of  his  transcendent 
excellency  and  perfection.  This  would  imprint 
in  our  minds  such  a  constant  and  uninterrupted 
awe  and  veneration  as  that  which  I  am  here 
recommending,  and  which  is  in  reality  a  kind 
of  incessant  prayer,  and  reasonable  humiliation 
of  the  soul  before  him  who  made  it. 

This  would  effectually  kill  in  us  all  the  little 
seeds  of  pride,  vanity,  and  self-conceit,  which  are 
apt  to  shoot  up  in  the  minds  of  such  whose 
thoughts  turn  more  on  those  comparative  advan¬ 
tages  which  they  enjoy  over  some  of  their  fellow- 
creatures,  than  on  that  infinite  distance  which  is 
placed  between  them  and  the  supreme  model  of 
all  perfection.  It  would  likewise  quicken  our 
desires  and  endeavors  of  uniting  ourselves  to  him 
by  all  the  acts  of  religion  and  virtue. 

Such  an  habitual  homage  to  the  Supreme  Being 
would,  in  a  particular  manner,  banish  from  among 
us  that  prevailing  impiety  of  using  his  name  on 
the  most  trivial  occasions. 

I  find  the  following  passage  in  an  excellent  ser¬ 
mon,  preached  at  the  funeral  of  a  gentleman,* 
who  was  an  honor  to  his  country,  and  a  more 
diligent  as  well  as  successful  inquirer  into  the 
works  of  nature  than  any  other  our  nation  has 
ever  produced.  “  He  had  the  profoundest  venera¬ 
tion  for  the  great  God  of  heaven  and  earth  that  I 
have  ever  observed  in  any  person.  The  very 
name  of  God  was  never  mentioned  by  him  with¬ 
out  a  pause  and  a  visible  stop  in  his  discourse;  in 
which  one  that  knew  him  most  particularly  above 
twenty  years,  has  told  me  that  he  was  so  exact, 


*  See  Bishop  Burnet’s  sermon,  preached  at  the  funeral  of 
the  Honorable  Robert  Boyle. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


that  he  does  not  remember  to  have  observed  him 
once  to  fail  in  it.” 

Every  one  knows  the  veneration  which  was  paid 
by  the  Jews  to  a  name  so  great,  wonderful,  and 
holy.  They  would  not  let  it  enter  even  into  their 
religious  discourses.  What  can  we  then  think  of 
those  who  make  use  ot  so  tremendous  a  name  in 
the  ordinary  expressions  of  their  anger,  mirth, 
and  most  impertinent  passions?  of  those  who 
admit  it  into  the  most  familiar  questions  and 
assertions,  ludicrous  phrases,  and  works  of  hu¬ 
mor  l  not  to  mention  those  who  violate  it  by 
solemn  perjuries!  It  would  be  an  affront  to 
reason  to  endeavor  to  set  forth  the  horror  and 
profaneness  of  such  a  practice.  The  very  men¬ 
tion  of  it  exposes  it  sufficiently  to  those  in  whom 
the  light  of  nature,  not  to  say  religion,  is  not 
utterly  extinguished. — 0. 


No.  532.]  MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  10,  1712. 

- Fungor  vice  cotis,  acutum 

Reddere  quaj  ferrum  valet,  exsors  ipsa  secandi. 

Hor.  Ars  Poet.  ver.  305. 

I  play  the  whetstone;  useless,  and  unfit 
To  cut  myself,  I  sharpen  others’  wit. — Creech. 

It  is  a  very  honest  action  to  be  studious  to  pro¬ 
duce  other  men’s  merit;  and  I  make  no  scruple  of 
saying,  I  have  as  much  of  this  temper  as  any  man 
in  the  world.  It  would  not  be  a  thing  to  be 
bragged  of,  but  that  it  is  what  any  man  may  be 
master  of,  who  will  take  pains  enough  for  it. 
Much  observation  of  the  unworthiness  in  being 
pained  at  the  excellence  of  another,  will  bring 
you  to  a  scorn  of  yourself  for  that  unwillingness; 
and  when  you  have  got  so  far,  you  will  find  it  a 
greater  pleasure  than  you  ever  before  knew  to  be 
zealous  in  promoting  the  fame  and  welfare  of  the 
praiseworthy.  I  do  not  speak  this  as  pretending 
to  be  a  mortified,  self-denying  man,  but  as  one 
who  has  turned  his  ambition  into  a  right  channel. 
I  claim  to  myself  the  merit  of  having  extorted 
excellent  productions  from  a  person  of  the  greatest 
abilities,  who  would  not  have  let  them  appeared 
by  any  other  means;*  to  have  animated  a  few 
young  gentlemen  into  worthy  pursuits,  who  will 
be  a  glory  to  our  age;  and  at  all  times,  and  by  all 
possible  means  in  my  power,  undermined  the  in¬ 
terest  of  ignorance,  vice,  and  folly,  and  attempted 
to  substitute  in  their  stead  learning,  piety,  and 
ood  sense.  It  is  from  this  honest  heart  that  I 
nd  myself  honored  as  a  gentleman-usher  to  the 
arts  and  sciences.  Mr.  Tickell  and  Mr.  Pope  have, 
it  seems,  this  idea  of  me.  The  former  has  written 
me  an  excellent  paper  of  verses,  in  praise,  for¬ 
sooth,  of  myself;  and  the  other  inclosed  for  my 
perusal  an  admirable  poem,f  which  I  hope  will 
shortly  see  the  light.  In  the  meantime  I  cannot 
suppress  any  thought  of  his,  but  insert  this  senti¬ 
ment  about  the  dying  words  of  Adrian.  I  will 
not  determine  in  the  case  he  mentions;  but  have 
thus  much  to  say  in  favor  of  his  argument,  that 
many  of  his  own  works,  which  I  have  seen,  con¬ 
vince  me  that  very  pretty  and  very  sublime  senti¬ 
ments  may  be  lodged  in  the  same  bosom  without 
diminution  to  its  greatness. 

“Me,  Spectator, 

“I  was  the  other  day  in  company  with  five  or 
six  men  of  some  learning;  where,  chancing  to 
mention  the  famous  verses  which  the  Emperor 
Adrian  spoke  on  his  death-bed,  they  were  all 
agreed  that  it  was  a  piece  of  gayety  unworthy 


*  Addison.  fThe  Temple  of  Fame. 


629 

that  prince  in  those  circumstances.  I  could  not 
but  dissent  from  this  opinion.  Methinks  it  was 
by  no  means  a  gay  but  a  very  serious  soliloquy  to 
Ins  soul  at  the  point  of  his  departure;  in  which 
sense  I  naturally  took  the  verses  at  my  first  read¬ 
ing  them,  when  I  was  very  young,  and  before  I 
knew  what  interpretation  the  world  generally  put 
upon  them.  J  r 

Animula  vagula,  blandula, 

Ilospes  comesque  corporis, 

Qua;  nunc  abibis  in  loca? 

I’allidula,  rigida,  nudula, 

Nec  (ut  soles)  dabis  joca! 

f  my  soul;  thou  pleasing  companion  of 
this  body,  thou  fleeting  thing  that  art  now  desert- 
mg  it,  whither  art  thou  flying  ?  to  what  unknown 
legion  ?  Thou  art  all  trembling,  fearful,  arid  pen¬ 
sive.  Now  what  is  become  of  thy  former  wit  and 
kumoi  ?  Thou  slialt  jest  and  be  gay  no  more.’ 

“  I  confess  I  cannot  apprehend  where  lies  the 
trifling  in  all  this;  it  is  the  most  natural  and  ob- 
vious  reflection  imaginable  to  a  dying  man;  and, 
if  we  consider  the  emperor  was  a  heathen,  that 
doubt  concerning  the  future  fate  of  his  soul  will 
seem  so  far  from  being  the  effect  of  want  of 
thought,  that  it  was  scarce  reasonable  he  should 
think  otherwise:  not  to  mention  that  here  is  a 
plain  confession  included  of  his  belief  in  its  im¬ 
mortality.  The  diminutive  epithets  of  vagula, 
blandula,  and  the  rest,  appear  not  to  me  as  ex¬ 
pressions  of  levity,  but  rather  of  endearment  and 
concern:  such  as  we  find  in  Catullus,  and  the  au¬ 
thors  of  Hendecasyllabi  after  him,  where  they  are 
used  to  express  the  utmost  love  and  tenderness 
for  their  mistresses.  If  you  think  me  right  in  my 
notion  of  the  last  words  of  Adrian,  be  pleased  to 
insert  this  in  the  Spectator;  if  not,  to  suppress  it. 

“I  am,”  etc. 

“To  THE  SUPPOSED  AUTHOR  OF  THE  SPECTATOR. 

“  In  courts  licentious,  and  a  shameless  stage, 

How  long  the  war  shall  wit  with  virtue  wage  ? 

Enchanted  by  this  prostituted  fair, 

Our  youth  run  headlong  in  the  fatal  snare ; 

In  height  of  rapture  clasp  unheeded  pains, 

And  suck  pollution  through  their  tingling  veins . 

“Thy  spotless  thoughts  unshocked  the  priest  may  hear, 
And  the  pure  vestal  in  her  bosom  wear. 

To  conscious  blushes  and  diminished  pride 

Thy  glass  betrays  what  treach’rous  love  would  hide; 

Nor  harsh  thy  precepts,  but,  infus’d  by  stealth, 

Please  while  they  cure,  and  cheat  us  into  health. 

Thy  works  in  Chloe’s  toilet  gain  a  part, 

And  with  his  tailor  share  the  fopling’s  heart : 

Lash’d  in  thy  satire  the  penurious  cit 
Laughs  at  himself,  and  finds  no  harm  in  wit ; 

From  felon  gamesters  the  raw  ’squire  is  free, 

And  Britain  owes  her  rescu’d  oaks  to  thee* 

His  miss  the  frolic  viscount  f  dreads  to  toast, 

Or  his  third  cure  the  shallow  templar  boast : 

And  the  rash  fool  who  scorn’d  the  beaten  road, 

Hares  quake  at  thunder,  and  confess  his  God. 

“The  brainless  stripling,  who,  expelled  to  town, 

Damn’d  the  stiff  college  and  pedantic  gown, 

Aw’d  by  the  name  is  dumb,  and  thrice  a  week 
Spells  uncouth  Latin,  and  pretends  to  Greek. 

A  saunt’ring  tribe!  such,  born  to  wide  estates, 

With  ‘yea’  and  ‘no’  in  senates  hold  debates: 

At  length  despis’d,  each  to  his  fields  retires, 

First  with  the  dogs,  and  king  amidst  the  ’squires, 

From  pert  to  stupid  sinks  supinely  down, 

In  youth  a  coxcomb,  and  in  age  a  clown. 

“  Such  readers  scorn’d,  thou  wing’st  thy  daring  flight 
Above  the  stars,  and  tread’st  the  fields  of  light; 

Fame,  heaven,  and  hell,  are  thy  exalted  theme, 

And  visions  such  as  Jove  himself  might  dream; 

Man  sunk  to  slav’ry,  though  to  glory  born ; 

Heaven’s  pride,  when  upright;  and  deprav’d,  his  scorn. 


*  Mr.  Tickell  here  alludes  to  Steele’s  papers  against  the 
sharpers,  etc.,  in  the  Tatler,  and  particularly  to  a  letter  in 
Tat.  No.  73,  signed  Will  Trusty,  and  written  by  Mr.  John 
Hughes. 

f  Viscount  Bolingbroke. 


630 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


“  Such  hints  alone  could  British  Virgil*  lend, 

And  thou  alone  deserve  from  such  a  friend : 

A  debt  so  borrow’d  is  illustrious  shame, 

And  fame  when  shar’d  with  him  is  double  fame, 

So  flush’d  with  sweets,  by  beauty’s  queen  bestow’d, 

With  more  than  mortal  charms  iEneas  glow’d : 

Such  gen’rous  strifes  Eugene  and  Marlbro’  try, 

And,  as  in  glory,  so  in  friendship  vie. 

“  Permit  these  lines  by  thee  to  live — nor  blame 
A  muse  that  pants  and  languishes  for  fame ; 

That  fears  to  sink  when  humbler  themes  she  sings, 

Lost  in  the  mass  of  mean  forgotten  things. 

Receiv’d  by  thee,  I  prophesy  my  rhymes 
The  praise  of  virgins  in  succeeding  times ; 

Mix’d  with  thy  works,  their  life  no  bounds  shall  see, 

But  stand  protected  as  inspir’d  by  thee. 

“  So  some  weak  shoot,  which  else  would  poorly  rise, 
Jove’s  tree  adopts,  and  lifts  him  to  the  skies ; 

Through  the  new  pupil  fost’ring  juices  flow, 

Thrust  forth  the  gems,  and  give  the  flowers  to  blow 
Aloft,  immortal  reigns  the  plant  unknown, 

With  borrow’d  life,  and  vigor  not  his  own.”f 

“To  the  Spectator- General. 

“Mr.  John  Sly  humbly  showeth, 

“  That  upon  reading  the  deputation  given  to 
the  said  Mr.  John  Sly,  all  persons  passing  by  his 
observatory,  behaved  themselves  with  the  same 
decorum  as  if  your  honor  yourself  had  been 
present. 

“  That  your  said  officer  is  preparing,  according 
to  your  honor’s  secret  instructions,  hats  for  the 
several  kinds  of  heads  that  make  figures  in  the 
realms  of  Great  Britain,  with  cocks  significant  of 
their  powers  and  faculties. 

“  That  your  said  officer  has  taken  due  notice  of 
your  instructions  and  admonitions  concerning  the 
internals  of  the  head  from  the  outward  form  of 
the  same.  His  hats  for  men  of  the  faculties  of  law 
and  physic  do  but  just  turn  up,  to  give  a  little  life 
to  their  sagacity;  his  military  hats  glare  full  in 
the  face;  and  he  has  prepared  a  familiar  easy  cock 
for  all  good  companions  between  the  above-men¬ 
tioned  extremes.  For  this  end  he  has  consulted 
the  most  learned  of  his  acquaintance  for  the 
true  form  and  dimensions  of  the  lepidum  caput, 
and  made  a  hat  fit  for  it. 

“Your  said  officer  does  further  represent,  that 
the  young  divines  about  town  are  many  of  them 
got  into  the  cock  military,  and  desires  your  in¬ 
structions  therein. 

“  That  the  town  has  been  for  several  days  very 
well  behaved,  and  further  your  said  officer  saith 
not.”  T. 


Ho.  533.]  TUESDAY,  NOVEMBER  11,  1712. 

Immo  duas  dabo,  inquit  ille,  unum  si  parum  est; 

Et  si  duarum  pamitebi,  addenter  duas. — Plaut. 

Nay,  says  be,  if  one  is  too  little,  I  will  give  you  two ; 

And  if  two  will  not  satisfy  you,  I  will  add  two  more. 

“To  the  Spectator. 

“  Sir, 

“You  have  often  given  us  very  excellent  dis¬ 
courses  against  that  unnatural  custom  of  parents, 
in  forcing  their  children  to  marry  contrary  to  their 
inclinations.  My  own  case,  without  further  pre¬ 
face,  I  will  lay  before  you,  and  leave  you  to  judge 
of  it.  My  father  and  mother  both  being  in  de¬ 
clining  years,  would  fain  see  me,  their  eldest  son, 
as  they  call  it,  settled.  I  am  as  much  for  that  as 
they  can  be:  but  I  must  be  settled,  it  seems,  not 
according  to  my  own,  but  their,  liking.  Upon 
this  account  I  am  teased  every  day,  because  I 
have  not  yet  fallen  in  love,  in  spite  of  nature, 


with  one  of  a  neighboring  gentleman’s  daughters; 
for,  out  of  their  abundant  generosity,  they  give 
me  the  choice  of  four.  ‘Jack,’  begins  my  father, 
‘Mrs.  Catharine  is  a  fine  woman.’ — ‘Yes,  Sir,  but 
she  is  rather  too  old.’ — ‘  She  will  make  the  more 
discreet  manager,  boy.’  Then  my  mother  plays 
her  part.  ‘Is  not  Mrs.  Betty  exceeding  fair?’ — 
‘Yes,  Madam,  but  she  is  of  no  conversation;  she 
has  no  fire,  no  agreeable  vivacity ;  she  neither 
speaks  nor  looks  with  spirit.’ — ‘True,  son,  but 
for  those  very  reasons  she  will  be  an  easy,  soft, 
obliging,  tractable  creature.’ — ‘After  all,’  cries  an 
old  aunt  (who  belongs  to  the  class  of  those  who 
read  plays  with  spectacles  on),  ‘what  think  you, 
nephew,  of  proper  Mrs.  Dorothy?’ — ‘What  do  I 
think?  why,  I  think  she  cannot  be  above  six  foot* 
two  inches  high.’ — ‘Well,  well,  you  may  banter  as 
long  as  you  please,  but  height  of  stature  is  com¬ 
manding  and  majestic.’ — ‘  Come,  come,’  says  a 
cousin  of  mine  in  the  family,  ‘I  will  fit  him: 
Fidelia  is  yet  behind — pretty  Miss  Fiddy  must 
please  you.’ — ‘Oh!  your  very  humble  servant, 
dear  coz,  she  is  as  much  too  young  as  her  eldest 
sister  is  too  old.’ — ‘Is  it  so  indeed,’  quoth  she, 
‘good  Mr.  Pert?  You  who  are  but  barely  turned 
of  twenty-two,  and  Miss  Fiddy  in  half  a  year’s 
time  will  be  in  her  teens,  and  she  is  capable  of 
learning  anything.  Then  she  will  be  so  observ¬ 
ant;  she  will  cry  perhaps  now  and  then,  but 
never  be  angry.’  Thus  they  will  think  for  me 
in  this  matter,  wherein  I  am  more  particularly 
concerned  than  anybody  else.  If  I  name  .any 
woman  in  the  world,  one  of  these  daughters  has 
certainly  the  same  qualities.  You  see  by  these 
few  hints,  Mr.  Spectator,  what  a  comfortable  life 
I  lead.  To  be  still  more  open  and  free  with  you, 
I  have  been  passionately  fond  of  a  young  lady 
(whom  give  me  leave  to  call  Miranda)  now  for 
these  three  years.  I  have  often  urged  the  matter 
home  to  my  parents  with  all  the  submission  of  a 
son,  but  the  impatience  of  a  lover.  Pray,  Sir, 
think  of  three  years;  what  inexpressible  scenes  of 
inquietude,  what  variety  of  misery  must  I  have 
gone  through  in  three  long  whole  years !  Miran¬ 
da’s  fortune  is  equal  to  those  I  have  mentioned; 
but  her  relations  are  not  intimates  with  mine.  Ah ! 
there’s  the  rub!  Miranda’s  person,  wit,  and  hu¬ 
mor,  are  what  the  nicest  fancy  could  imagine;  and, 
though  we  know  you  to  be  so  elegant  a  judge  of 
beauty,  yet  there  is  none  among  all  your  various 
characters  of  fine  women  preferable  to  Miranda. 
In  a  word,  she  is  never  guilty  of  doing  anything 
but  one  amiss  (if  she  can  be  thought  to  do  amiss 
by  me),  in  being  as  blind  to  my  faults  as  she  is  to 
her  own  perfections. 

“  I  am.  Sir,  - 

“Your  very  humble  obedient  Servant, 

“  Dustererastus.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“When  you  spent  so  much  time  as  you  did 
lately  in  censuring  the  ambitious  young  gentlemen 
who  ride  in  triumph  through  town  and  country  on 
coach-boxes,  I  wished  you  had  employed  those 
moments  in  consideration  of  what  passes  some¬ 
times  within-side  of  those  vehicles.  I  am  sure  I 
suffered  sufficiently  by  the  insolence  and  ill-breed¬ 
ing  of  some  persons  who  traveled  lately  with 
me  in  a  stage-coach  out  of  Essex  to  London.  I 
am  sure,  when  you  have  heard  what  I  have  to 
say,  you  will  think  there  are  persons  under  the 
character  of  gentlemen,  that  are  fit  to  be  nowhere 
else  but  in  the  coach-box.  Sir,  I  am  a  young  wo¬ 
man  of  a  sober  and  religious  education,  and  have 
preserved  that  character;  but  on  Monday  was  fort- 


*  A  compliment  to  Addison,  f  By  Mr.  Thomas  Tickell. 


*  Eeet. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


night  it  was  my  misfortune  to  come  to  London.  I 
was  no  sooner  clapped  in  the  coach,  but,  to  my 
great  surprise,  two  persons  in  the  habit  of  gentle¬ 
men  attacked  me  with  such  indecent  discourse  as 
I  cannot  repeat  to  you,  so  you  may  conclude  not 
fit  for  me  to  hear.  1  had  no  relief  but  the  hopes 
of  a  speedy  end  of  my  short  journey.  Sir,  form 
to  yourself  what  a  persecution  this  must  needs  be 
to  a  virtuous  and  chaste  mind;  and,  in  order  to 
your  proper  handling  such  a  subject,  fancy  your 
wife  or  daughter,  if  you  had  any,  in  such  circum¬ 
stances,  and  what  treatment  you  would  then  think 
due  to  such  dragoons.  One  of  them  was  called  a 
captain,  and  entertained  us  with  nothing  but  filthy 
stupid  questions,  or  lewd  songs,  all  the  way. 
Ready  to  burst  with  shame  and  indignation,  I  re¬ 
pined  that  nature  had  not  allowed  us  as  easily  to 
shut  our  ears  as  our  eyes.  But  was  not  this  a  kind 
of  rape  ?  Why  should  not  every  contributor  to  the 
abuse  of  chastity  suffer  death  ?  I  am  sure  these 
shameless  hell-hounds  deserved  it  highly.  Can 
you  exert  yourself  better  than  on  such  an  occasion  ? 
If  you  do  not  do  it  effectually,  I  will  read  no  more 
of  your  papers.  Has  every  impertinent  fellow  a 
privilege  to  torment  me,  who  pay  my  coach-hire 
as  well  as  he  ?  Sir,  pray  consider  us  in  this  re¬ 
spect  as  the  weakest  sex,  who  have  nothing  to 
defend  ourselves;  and  I  think  it  as  gentleman-like 
to  challenge  a  woman  to  fight  as  to  talk  obscenely 
in  her  company,  especially  when  she  has  not  power 
to  stir.  Pray  let  me  tell  you  a  story  which  you 
can  make  fit  for  public  view.  I  knew  a  gentleman, 
who  having  a  very  good  opinion  of  the  gentlemen 
of  the  army,  invited  ten  or  twelve  of  them  to  sup 
with  him;  and  at  the  same  time  invited  two  or 
three  friends  who  were  very  severe  against  the 
manners  and  morals  of  the  gentlemen  of  that  pro¬ 
fession.  It  happened  one  of  them  brought  two 
captains  of  his  regiment  newly  come  into  the  army, 
who  at  first  onset  engaged  the  company  with  very 
lewd  healths  and  suitable  discourse.  You  may 
easily  imagine  the  confusion  of  the  entertainer, 
who  finding  some  of  his  friends  very  uneasy,  de¬ 
sired  to  tell  them  the  story  of  a  great  man,  one 
Mr.  Locke  (whom  I  find  you  frequently  mention), 
that  having  been  invited  to  dine  with  the  then 
Lords  Halifax,  Anglesey,  and  Shaftesbury,  immedi¬ 
ately  after  dinner,  instead  of  conversation,  the 
cards  were  called  for,  where  the  bad  or  good  suc¬ 
cess  produced  the  usual  passions  of  gaming.  Mr. 
Locke  retiring  to  a  window,  and  writing,  my  Lord 
Anglesey  desired  to  know  what  he  was  writing: 
‘Why,  my  lords,’  answered  he,  ‘I  could  not  sleep 
last  night  for  the  pleasure  and  improvement  I  ex¬ 
pected  from  the  conversation  of  the  greatest  men 
of  the  age.’  This  so  sensibly  stung  them,  that 
they  gladly  compounded  to  throw  their  cards  in 
the  fire,  if  he  would  his  paper,  and  so  a  conversa¬ 
tion  ensued  fit  for  such  persons.  This  story 
pressed  so  hard  upon  the  young  captains,  together 
with  the  concurrence  of  their  superior  officers,  that 
the  young  fellows  left  the  company  in  confusion. 
Sir,  I  know  you  hate  long  things;  but  if  you  like 
it,  you  may  contract  it,  or  how  you  will;  but  I 
think  it  has  a  moral  in  it. 

“But,  Sir, I  am  told  you  are  a  famous  mechanic 
as  well  as  a  looker-on,  and  therefore  humbly  pro¬ 
pose  you  would  invent  some  padlock,  with  full 
power  under  your  hand  and  seal,  for  all  modest 
persons,  either  men  or  women,  to  clap  upon  the 
mouths  of  all  such  impertinent  impudent  fellows; 
and  I  wish  you  would  publish  a  proclamation  that 
no  modest  person,  who  has  a  value  for  her  coun¬ 
tenance,  and  consequently  would  not  be  put  out 
of  it,  presume  to  travel  after  such  a  day  without 
one  of  them  in  their  pockets.  I  fancy  a  smart 
Spectator  upon  this  subject  would  serve  for  such  a 


631 

padlock;  and  that  public  notice  maybe  given  in 
your  paper  Avhere  they  may  be  had,  with  directions, 
price  two-pence;  and  that  part  of  the  directions 
may  be,  wiien  any  person  presumes  to  be  guilty 
of  the  above-mentioned  crime,  the  party  aggrieved 
may  produce  it  to  his  face,  "with  a  request  to  read 
it  to  the  company.  He  must  be  very  much  har¬ 
dened  that  could  outface  that  rebuke;  and  his 
further  punishment  I  leave  you  to  prescribe. 

“Your  humble  Servant, 

T.  “Penance  Cruel.” 


No.  534.]  WEDNESDAY,  NOY.  12,  1712. 

Rarus  enim  ferme  sensus  communis  in  ilia. 

Fortuna -  Juv,  Sat.  viii.  73. 

- We  seldom  find 

Much  sense  with  an  exalted  fortune  join’d. — Stepney. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  a  young  woman  of  nineteen,  the  only 
daughter  of  very  wealthy  parents,  and"  have  my 
whole  life  been  used  with  a  tenderness  which  did 
me  no  great  service  in  my  education.  I  have  per¬ 
haps  an  uncommon  desire  for  knowledge  of  what 
is  suitable  to  my  sex  and  quality;  but  as  far  as  I 
can  remember,  the  whole  dispute  about  me  has 
been- whether  such  a  thing  was  proper  for  the  child 
to  do,  or  not  ?  or  whether  such  a  food  was  the 
more  wholesome  for  the  young  lady  to  eat?  This 
was  ill  for  my  shape,  that  for  my  complexion,  and 
the  other  for  my  eyes.  I  am  not  extravagant  when 
I  tell  you  I  do  not  know  that  I  have  trod  upon  the 
very  earth  ever  since  I  was  ten  years  old.  A 
coach  or  chair  I  am  obliged  to  for  all  my  motions 
from  one  place  to  another  ever  since  I  can  remem¬ 
ber.  All  who  had  to  do  to  instruct  me,  have  ever 
been  bringing  stories  of  the  notable  things  I  have 
said,  and  the  womanly  manner  of  my  behaving 
myself  upon  such  and  such  an  occasion.  This  has 
been  my  state  until  I  came  toward  years  of  wo¬ 
manhood;  and  ever  since  I  grew  toward  the  age 
of  fifteen  I  have  been  abused  after  another  manner. 
Now,  forsooth,  I  am  so  killing,  no  one  can  safely 
speak  to  me.  Our  house  is  frequented  by  men  of 
sense,  and  I  love  to  ask  questions  when  I  fall  into 
such  conversation;  but  I  am  cut  short  with  some¬ 
thing  or  other  about  my  bright  eyes.  There  is, 
Sir,  a  language  particular  for  talking  to  women  in; 
and  none  but  those  of  the  very  first  good-breeding 
(who  are  very  few,  and  who  seldom  come  into  my 
way)  can  speak  to  us  without  regard  to  our  sex. 
Among  the  generality  of  those  they  call  gentlemen, 
it  is  impossible  for  me  to  speak  upon  any  subject 
whatsoever,  without  provoking  somebody  to  say, 

‘  Oh !  to  be  sure,  fine  Mrs.  Such-a-one  must  be  very 
particularly  acquainted  with  all  that;  all  the  world 
would  contribute  to  her  entertainment  and  infor¬ 
mation.’  Thus,  Sir,  I  am  so  handsome  that  I 
murder  all  who  approach  me;  so  wise  that  I  want 
no  new  notices;  and  so  well-bred  that  I  am  treated 
by  all  that  know  me  like  a  fool,  for  no  one  will 
answer  as  if  I  were  their  friend  or  companion. 
Pray,  Sir,  be  pleased  to  take  the  part  of  us  beauties 
and  fortunes  into  your  consideration,  and  do  not 
let  us  be  thus  flattered  out  of  our  senses.  I  have 
got  a  hussy  of  a  maid  who  is  most  craftily  given 
to  this  ill  quality.  I  was  at  first  diverted  with  a 
certain  absurdity  the  creature  was  guilty  of  in 
everything  she  said.  She  is  a  country  girl;  and, 
in  the  dialect  of  the  shire  she  was  born  in,  would 
tell  me  that  everybody  reckoned  her  lady  had  the 
purest  red  andwThite  in  the  world;  then  would  tell 
me  I  was  the  most  like  one  Sisly  Dobson  in  their 
town,  who  made  the  miller  make  away  with  him¬ 
self,  and  walked  afterward  in  the  corn-field  where 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


632 


they  used  to  meet.  With  all  this,  this  cunning 
hussy  can  lay  letters  in  my  way,  and  put  a  billet 
in  my  gloves,  and  then  stand  in  it  she  knows  noth¬ 
ing  of  it.  I  do  not  know,  from  my  birth  to  this 
day,  that  I  have  been  ever  treated  by  any  one  as  I 
ought;  and  if  it  were  not  for  a  few  books,  which  I 
delight  in,  I  should  be  at  this  hour  a  novice  to  all 
common  sense.  Would  it  not  be  worth  your  while 
to  lay  down  rules  for  behavior  in  this  case,  and 
tell  people,  that  we  fair  ones  expect  honest  plain 
answers  as  well  as  other  people  ?  Why  must  I, 
good  Sir,  because  I  have  a  good  air,  a  fine  com¬ 
plexion,  and  am  in  the  bloom  of  my  years,  be 
misled  in  all  my  actions;  and  have  the  notions  of 
good  and  ill  confounded  in  my  mind,  for  no  other 
offense,  but  because  I  have  the  advantages  of 
beauty  and  fortune  ?  Indeed,  Sir,  what  with  the 
silly  homage  which  is  paid  us  by  the  sort  of  peo¬ 
ple  I  have  spoken  of,  and  the  utter  negligence 
which  others  have  for  us,  the  conversation  of  us 
young  women  of  condition  is  no  other  than  what 
must  expose  us  to  ignorance  and  vanity,  if  not 
vice.  All  this  is  humbly  submitted  to  your  spec- 
tatorial  wisdom,  by  Sir, 

“Your  humble  Servant, 

“Sharlot  Wealthy.” 

“Mr.  Spectator,  Will’s  Coffee-house. 

“  Pray,  Sir,  it  will  serve  to  fill  up  a  paper  if  you 
put  in  this:  which  is  only  to  ask,  whether  that 
copy  of  verses  which  is  a  paraphrase  of  Isaiah,  in 
one  of  your  speculations,  is  not  written  by  Mr. 
Pope?  Then  you  get  on  another  line,  by  putting 
in,  with  proper  distances,  as  at  the  end  of  a  letter. 
“I  am.  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

“Abraham  Dapperwit.” 

“Mr.  Dapperwit, 

“I  am  glad  to  get  another  line  forward,  by  say¬ 
ing  that  excellent  piece  is  Mr.  Pope’s;  and  so, 
with  proper  distances, 

“I  am.  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

“The  Spectator.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  was  a  wealthy  grocer  in  the  city,  and  as  for¬ 
tunate  as  diligent;  but  I  was  a  single  man,  and 
you  know  there  are  women.  One  in  particular 
came  to  my  shop,  who  I  wished  might,  but  was 
afraid  never  would,  make  a  grocer’s  wife.  I 
thought,  however,  to  take  an  effectual  way  of 
courting,  and  sold  to  her  at  less  price  than  I 
bought,  that  I  might  buy  at  less  price  than  I  sold. 
She,  you  may  be  sure,  often  came  and  helped  me 
to  many  customers  at  the  same  rate,  fancying  I  was 
obliged  to  her.  You  must  needs  think  this  was 
a  good  living  trade,  and  my  riches  must  be  vastly 
i  mproved.  In  fine,  I  was  nigh  being  declared  bank¬ 
rupt,  when  I  declared  myself  her  lover,  and  she 
herself  married.  I  was  just  in  a  condition  to  sup¬ 
port  myself  and  am  now  in  hopes  of  growing  rich 
by  losing  my  customers. 

“Yours, 

“Jeremy  Comfit.” 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  in  the  condition  of  the  idol  you  was  once 
pleased  to  mention,  and  barkeeper  of  a  coffee¬ 
house.  I  believe  it  is  needless  to  tell  you  the  op¬ 
portunities  I  must  give,  and  the  importunities  I 
suffer.  But  there  is  one  gentleman  who  besieges 
me  as  close  as  the  French  did  Bouchain.  His 
gravity  makes  him  work  cautious,  and  his  regular 
approaches  denote  a  good  engineer.  You  need 
not  doubt  of  his  oratory,  as  he  is  a  lawyer;  and 
especially  since  he  has  had  so  little  use  of  it  at 
Westminster,  lie  may  spare  the  more  for  me. 


PWhat  then  can  weak  woman  do?  I  am  willing 
to  surrender,  but  he  would  have  it  at  discretion, 
and  I  with  discretion.  In  the  meantime,  while 
we  parley,  our  several  interests  are  neglected.  As 
his  siege  grows  stronger,  my  tea  grows  weaker: 
and  while  he  pleads  at  my  bar,  none  come  to  him 
for  counsel  but  in  forma  pauperis .  Dear  Mr.  Spec¬ 
tator,  advise  him  not  to  insist  upon  hard  articles, 
nor  by  his  irregular  desires  ‘contradict  the  well- 
meaning  lines  of  his  countenance.  If  we  were 
agreed,  we  might  settle  to  something,  as  soon  as  we 
could  determine  where  we  should  get  most  by  the 
law — at  the  coffee-house  or  at  Westminster. 

“Your  humble  Servant, 

“  Lucinda  Parley.” 

A  Minute  from  Mr.  John  Sly. 

“  The  world  is  pretty  regular  for  about  forty  rod 
east  and  ten  west  of  the  observatory  of  the  said 
Mr.  Sly;  but  he  is  credibly  informed,  that  when 
they  are  got  beyond  the  pass  into  the  Strand,  or 
those  who  move  city- ward  are  got  within  Temple- 
bar,  they  are  just  as  they  were  before.  It  is  there¬ 
fore  humbly  proposed,  that  moving  sentries  may 
be  appointed  all  the  busy  hours  of  the  day  be¬ 
tween  the  Exchange  and  Westminster,  and  report 
what  passes  to  your  honor,  or  your  subordinate 
officers,  from  time  to  time.” 

Ordered, 

That  Mr.  Sly  name  the  said  officers,  provided  he 
will  answer  for  their  principles  and  morals. — T. 


Ho.  535.]  THURSDAY,  NOVEMBER  13,  1712. 

Spem  longam  reseces. -  Hor.  1  Od.  xi.  7. 

Cut  short  Tain  hope. 

My  four -hundred -and -seventy-first  speculation 
turned  upon  the  subject  of  hope  in  general.  I  de¬ 
sign  this  paper  as  a  speculation  upon  that  vain 
and  foolish  hope,  which  is  misemployed  on  tem¬ 
poral  objects,  and  produces  many  sorrows  and  ca¬ 
lamities  in  human  life. 

It  is  a  precept  several  times  inculcated  by  Ho¬ 
race,  that  we  should  not  entertain  a  hope  of  any¬ 
thing  in  life  which  lies  at  a  great  distance  from  us. 
The  shortness  and  uncertainty  of  our  time  here 
make  such  a  kind  of  hope  unreasonable  and  ab¬ 
surd.  The  grave  lies  unseen  between  us  and  the 
object  which  we  reach  after.  Where  one  man  lives 
to  enjoy  the  good  he  has  in  view,  ten  thousand  are 
cut  off  in  the  pursuit  of  it. 

It  happens  likewise  unluckily,  that  one  hope  no 
sooner  dies  in  us  but  another  rises  up  in  its  stead. 
We  are  apt  to  fancy  that  we  shall  be  happy  and 
satisfied  if  we  possess  ourselves  of  such  and  such 
particular  enjoyments;  but  either  by  reason  of 
their  emptiness,  or  the  natural  inquietude  of  the 
mind,  we  have  no  sooner  gained  one  point,  but  we 
extend  our  hopes  to  another.  We  still  find  new 
inviting  scenes  and  landscapes  lying  behind  those 
which  at  a  distance  terminated  our  view. 

The  natural  consequences  of  such  reflections  are 
these  :  that  we  should  take  care  not  to  let  our  hopes 
run  out  into  too  great  a  length;  that  we  should 
sufficiently  weigh  the  objects  of  our  hope,  whether 
they  be  such  as  we  may  reasonably  expect  from 
them  what  we  propose  in  their  fruition,  and  whether 
they  are  such  as  we  are  pretty  sure  of  attaining, 
in  case  our  life  extend  itself  so  far.  If  we  hope 
for  things  which  are  at  too  great  a  distance  from 
us,  it  is  possible  that  we  may  be  intercepted  by 
death  in  our  progress  toward  them.  If  we  hope 
for  things  of  which  we  have  not  thoroughly  con¬ 
sidered  the  value  of,  our  disappointment  will  be 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


greater  than  our  pleasure  in  the  fruition  of  them. 
If  we  hope  for  what  we  are  not  likely  to  possess, 
we  act  and  think  in  vain,  and  make  life  a  greater 
dream  and  shadow  than  it  really  is. 

Many  of  the  miseries  and  misfortunes  of  life 
proceed  from  our  want  of  consideration,  in  one  or 
all  of  these  particulars.  They  are  the  rocks  on 
which  the  sanguine  tribe  of  lovers  split,  and  on 
which  the  bankrupt,  the  politician,  the  alchemist, 
and  projector,  are  cast  away  in  every  age.  Men 
ot  warm  imaginations  and  towering  thoughts  are 
apt  to  overlook  the  goods  of  fortune  which  are 
near  them,  for  something  that  glitters  in  the  sight 
at  a  distance;  to  neglect  solid  and  substantial 
happiness,  for  what  is  showy  and  superficial;  and 
to  contemn  that  good  which  lies  within  their  reach, 
for  that  which  they  are  not  capable  of  attaining. 
Hope  calculates  its  schemes  for  a  long  and  durable 
life;  presses  forward  to  imaginary  points  of  bliss; 
grasps  at  impossibilities;  and  consequently  very 
often  ensnares  men  into  beggary,  ruin,  and  dis¬ 
honor. 

What  I  have  here  said  may  serve  as  a  model  to 
an  Arabian  fable,  which  I  find  translated  into 
French  by  Monsieur  Galland.  The  fable  has  in 
it  such  a  wild  but  natural  simplicity  that  I  ques¬ 
tion  not  but  my  reader  will  be  as  much  pleased 
with  it  as  1  have  been,  and  that  he  will  consider 
himself,  if  he  reflects  on  the  several  amusements 
of  hope  which  have  sometimes  passed  in  his  mind, 
as  a  near  relation  to  the  Persian  glassman. 

Alnaschar,  says  the  fable,  was  a  very  idle  fellow 
that  never  would  set  his  hand  to  any  business  du¬ 
ring  his  father’s  life.  When  his  father  died,  he 
left  him  to  the  value  of  a  hundred  drachmas  in 
Persian,  money.  Alnaschar,  in  order  to  make  the 
best  of  it,  laid  it  out  in  glasses,  bottles,  and  the 
finest  earthenware.  These  he  piled  up  in  a  large 
open  basket,  and,  having  made  choice  of  a  very 
little  shop,  placed  the  basket  at  his  feet;  and  leaned 
his  back  upon  the  wall  in  expectation  of  custo¬ 
mers.  As  he  sat  in  this  posture,  wTith  his  eyes 
upon  the  basket,  he  fell  into  a  most  amusing  train 
of  thought,  and  was  overheard  by  one  of  his 
neighbors,  as  he  talked  to  himself  in  the  following 
manner  :  “This  basket,”  says  he,  “cost  me  at  the 
wholesale  merchant’s  a  hundred  drachmas,  which 
is  all  I  have  in  the  world.  I  shall  quickly  make 
two  hundred  of  it  by  selling  it  in  retail.  These 
two  hundred  drachmas  will  in  a  very  little  while 
rise  to  four  hundred,  which  of  course  will  amount 
in  time  to  four  thousand.  Four  thousand  drachmas 
cannot  fail  of  making  eight  thousand.  As  soon 
as  by  this  means  I  am  master  of  ten  thousand,  I 
will  lay  aside  my  trade  of  a  glassman,  and  turn 
jeweler.  I  shall  then  deal  in  diamonds,  pearls, 
and  all  sorts  of  rich  stones.  When  1  have  got  to¬ 
gether  as  much  wealth  as  I  well  can  desire,  I  will 
make  a  purchase  of  the  finest  house  I  can  find, 
with  lands,  slaves,  eunuchs,  and  horses.  I  shall 
then  begin  to  enjoy  myself,  and  make  a  noise  in 
the  world.  I  will  not  however  stop  there,  but 
still  continue  my  traffic,  until  I  have  got  together 
a  hundred  thousand  drachmas.  When  I  have 
thus  made  myself  master  of  a  hundred  thousand 
drachmas,  I  shall  naturally  set  myself  on  the  foot 
of  a  prince,  and  will  demand  the  grand  vizier’s 
daughter  in  marriage,  after  having  represented  to 
that  minister  the  information  which  I  have  received 
of  the  beauty,  writ,  discretion,  and  other  high 
qualities  which  his  daughter  possesses.  I  will  let 
him  know,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  is  my  intention 
to  make  him  a  present  of  a  thousand  pieces  of  gold 
on  our  marriage  night.  As  soon  as  I  have  mar¬ 
ried  the  grand  vizier’s  daughter,  I  will  buy  her 
ten  black  eunuchs,  the  youngest  and  the  best  that 
can  be  got  for  money.  I  must  afterward  make 


633 

my  father-in-law  a  visit,  with  a  great  train  and 
equipage.  And  when  I  am  placed  at  his  right 
hand,  which  he  will  do  of  course,  if  it  be  only  to 
honor  his  daughter,  I  will  give  him  the  thousand 
pieces  of  gold  which  I  promised  him;  and  after- 
v  ard,  to  his  great  surprise  will  present  him  another 
purse  of  the  same  value,  with  some  short  speech : 
as,  ‘Sir,  you  see  I  am  a  man  of  my  word:  I  al¬ 
ways  give  more  than  I  promise.” 

When  I  have  brought  the  princess  to  my  house, 
I  shall  take  particular  care  to  breed  in  her  a  due 
respect  for  me  before  I  give  the  reins  to  love  and 
dalliance.  1  o  this  end,  I  shall  confine  her  to  her 
own  apartment,  make  a  short  visit,  and  talk  but 
little  to  her.  Her  women  will  represent  to  me, 
that  she  is  inconsolable  by  reason  of  my  unkind¬ 
ness,  and  beg  me  with  tears  to  caress  her,  and  let 
her  sit  down  by  me;  but  I  shall  still  remain  inex¬ 
orable,  and  will  turn  my  back  upon  her  all  the 
first  night.  Her  mother  will  then  come  and  bring 
her  daughter  to  me,  as  I  am  seated  upon  my  sofa, 
d  he  daughter,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  will  fling 
herself  at  my  feet,  and  beg  of  me  to  receive  her 
into  my  favor.  Then  will  I,  to  imprint  in  her  a 
thorough  veneration  for  my  person,  draw  up  my 
legs  and  spurn  her  from  me  with  my  foot,  in  such 
a  manner  that  she  shall  fall  down  several  paces 
from  the  sofa.” 

Alnaschar  was  entirely  swallowed  up  in  this  chi¬ 
merical  vision,  and  could  not  forbear  acting  with 
his  foot  what  he  had  in  his  thoughts;  so  that  un¬ 
luckily  striking  his  basket  of  brittle  ware,  which 
was  the  foundation  of  all  his  grandeur,  he  kicked 
his  glasses  to  a  great  distance  from  him  into  the 
street,  and  broke  them  into  a  thousand  pieces. 


Ho.  536.]  FRIDAY,  NOVEMBER  14,  1712. 

0  verae  Phrygian,  ncque  enim  Phryges !— Yirg.  ^En.  ix.  617. 

0!  less  than  women  in  the  shapes  of  men. — Dryden. 

As  I  was  the  other  day  standing  in  my  book¬ 
seller’s  shop,  a  pretty  young  thing  about  eigh¬ 
teen  years  of  age  stepped  out  of  her  coach,  and 
brushing  by  me,  beckoned  the  man  of  the  shop 
to  the  further  end  of  his  counter,  where  she  whis¬ 
pered  something  to  him,  with  an  attentive  look, 
and  at  the  same  time  presented  him  a  letter : 
after  which,  pressing  the  end  of  her  fan  upon  his 
hand,  she  delivered  the  remaining  part  of  her  mes¬ 
sage,  and  withdrew.  I  observed,  in  the  midst  of 
her  discourse,  that  she  flushed  and  cast  an  eye 
upon  me  over  her  shoulder,  having  been  informed 
by  my  bookseller  that  I  was  the  man  of  the  short 
face  whom  she  had  so  often  read  of.  Upon  her 
passing  by  me,  the  pretty  blooming  creature  smiled 
in  my  face,  and  dropped  me  a  courtsey.  She  scarce 
gave  me  time  to  return  her  salute,  before  she  quitted 
the  shop  with  an  easy  skuttle,  and  stepped  again 
into  her  coach,  giving  the  footman  directions  to 
drive  where  they  were  bid.  Upon  her  departure 
my  bookseller  gave  me  a  letter  superscribed  “To 
the  ingenious  Spectator,”  which  the  young  lady 
had  desired  him  to  deliver  into  my  own  hands,  and 
to  tell  me  that  the  speedy  publication  of  it  would 
not  only  oblige  herself,  but  a  whole  tea-table  of  my 
friends.  I  opened  it  therefore  with  a  resolution 
to  publish  it,  whatever  it  should  contain,  and  am 
sure  if  any  of  my  male  readers  will  be  so  severely 
critical  as  not  to  like  it,  they  would  have  been  as 
well  pleased  with  it  as  myself,  had  they  seen  the 
face  of  the  pretty  scribe. 

“Mr.  Spectator,  London,  Nov.,  1712. 

“You  are  always  ready  to  receive  any  useful 
hint  or  proposal,  and  such,  I  believe,  you  will 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


634 

think  one  that  may  put  you  in  a  way  to  employ 
the  most  idle  part  of  the  kingdom:  I  mean  that 
part  of  mankind  who  are  known  by  the  name  of 
the  women’s  men,  or  beaux,  etc.  Mr.  Spectator, 
you  are  sensible  these  pretty  gentlemen  are  not 
made  for  manly  employments,  and  for  want  of 
business  are  often  as  much  in  the  vapors  as  the 
ladies.  Now  what  I  propose  is  this,  that  since 
knitting  is  again  in  fashion,  which  has  been  found 
a  very  pretty  amusement,  that  you  will  recommend 
it  to  these  gentlemen  as  something  that  may  make 
them  useful  to  the  ladies  they  admire.  And  since 
it  is  not  inconsistent  with  any  game,  or  other  di¬ 
version,  for  it  may  be  done  in  the  playhouse,  in 
their  coaches,  at  the  tea-table,  and  in  short  in  all 
places  where  they  come  for  the  sake  of  the  ladies 
(except  at  church;  be  pleased  to  forbid  it  there,  to 
prevent  mistakes),  it  will  be  easily  complied  with. 
It  is,  beside,  an  employment  that  allows,  as  we 
see  by  the  fair  sex,  of  many  graces,  which  will 
make  the  beaux  more  readily  come  into  it :  it  shows 
a  white  hand  and  a  diamond  ring  to  great  advant¬ 
age;  it  leaves  the  eyes  at  full  liberty  to  be  employed 
as  before,  as  also  the  thoughts  and  the  tongue.  In 
short,  it  seems  in  every  respect  so  proper,  that  it 
is  needless  to  urge  it  further,  by  speaking  of  the 
satisfaction  these  male  knitters  will  find,  when 
they  see  their  work  mixed  up  in  a  fringe,  and  worn 
by  the  fair  lady  for  whom  and  with  whom  it  was 
done.  Truly,  Mr.  Spectator,  I  cannot  but  be 
pleased  I  have  hit  upon  something  that  these  gen¬ 
tlemen  are  capable  of;  for  it  is  sad  so  considerable 
a  part  of  the  kingdom  (I  mean  for  numbers)  should 
be  of  no  manner  of  use.  I  shall  not  trouble  you 
further  at  this  time,  but  only  to  say,  that  I  am 
always  your  reader,  and  generally  your  admirer. 

“  C.  B. 

“  P.  S.  The  sooner  these  fine  gentlemen  are  set 
to  work  the  better;  there  being  at  this  time  several 
fine  fringes  that  stay  only  for  more  hands.” 

I  shall  in  the  next  place  present  my  reader  with 
the  description  of  a  set  of  men  who  are  common 
enough  in  the  world,  though  I  do  not  remember 
that  I  have  yet  taken  notice  of  them,  as  they  are 
drawn  in  the  following  letter: 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“Since  you  have  lately,  to  so  good  purpose  en¬ 
larged  upon  conjugal  love,  it  is  to  be  hoped  you 
will  discourage  every  practice  that  rather  proceeds 
from  a  regard  to  interest  than  to  happiness.  Now 
you  cannot  but  observe,  that  most  of  our  fine 
young  ladies  readily  fall  in  with  the  direction  of 
the  graver  sort,  to  retain  in  their  service  by  some 
small  encouragement  as  great  a  number  as  they 
can  of  supernumerary  and  insignificant  fellows, 
which  they  use  like  whiffiers,  and  commonly  call 
‘shoeing  horns.’  These  are  never  designed  to 
know  the  length  of  the  foot,  but  only,  when  a 
good  offer  comes,  to  whet  and  spur  him  up  to  the 
point.  Nay,  it  is  the  opinion  of  that  grave  lady, 
Madam  Matchwell,  that  it  is  absolutely  convenient 
for  every  prudent  family  to  have  several  of  these 
implements  about  the  house  to  clap  on  as  occasion 
serves;  and  that  every  spark  ought  to  produce  a 
certificate  of  his  being  a  shoeing  horn  before  he  be 
admitted  as  a  shoe.  A  certain  lady  whom  I  could 
name,  if  it  was  necessary,  has  at  present  more 
shoeing  horns  of  all  sizes,  countries,  and  colors, 
in  her  service,  than  ever  she  had  new  shoes  in  her 
life.  I  have  known  a  woman  make  use  of  a  shoe¬ 
ing  horn  for  several  years,  and,  finding  him  un¬ 
successful  in  that  function,  convert  him  at  length 
into  a  shoe.  I  am  mistaken  if  your  friend,  Mr. 
William  Honeycomb,  was  not  a  cast  shoeing  horn 
before  his  late  marriage.  As  for  myself,  I  must 


frankly  declare  to  you,  that  I  have  been  an  errant 
shoeing  horn  for  above  these  twenty  years.  I 
served  my  first  mistress  in  that  capacity  above  five 
of  the  number,  before  she  was  shod.  I  confess, 
though  she  had  many  who  made  their  applications 
to  her,  I  always  thought  myself  the  best  shoe  in 
her  shop;  and  it  was  not  until  a  month  before  her 
marriage  that  I  discovered  what  I  was. 

This  had  like  to  have  broke  my  heart,  and  raised 
such  suspicions  in  me,  that  I  told  the  next  I  made 
love  to,  upon  receiving  some  unkind  usage  from 
her,  that  I  began  to  look  upon  myself  as  no  more 
than  her  shoeing  horn.  Upon  which,  my  dear, 
wrlio  was  a  coquette  in  her  nature,  told  me  I  was 
hypochondriacal,  and  that  I  might  as  well  look 
upon  myself  to  be  an  egg,  or  a  pipkin.  But  in  a 
very  short  time  after  she  gave  me  to  know  that  I 
was  not  mistaken  in  myself.  It  would  be  tedious 
to  you  to  recount  the  life  of  an  unfortunate  shoe¬ 
ing  horn,  or  I  might  entertain  you  with  a  very  long 
and  melancholy  relation  of  my  sufferings.  Upon 
the  whole,  I  think  Sir,  it  would  very  well  become 
a  man  in  your  post,  to  determine  in  what  cases  a 
woman  may  be  allowed  with  honor  to  make  use 
of  a  shoeing  horn,  as  also  to  declare,  whether  a 
maid  on  this  side  five-and-twenty,  or  a  widow  who 
has  not  been  three  years  in  that  state,  may  be 
granted  such  a  privilege,  with  other  difficulties 
which  will  naturally  occur  to  you  upon  that  sub¬ 
ject.  “  I  am,  Sir, 

“  With  the  most  profound  veneration, 

0.  “Yours,”  etc. 


No  537.1  SATURDAY,  NOVEMBER  15,  1712. 

For  we  are  his  offspring. — Acts  xvii.  28. 

“  To  the  Spectator. 

“  Sir, 

“It  has  been  usual  to  remind  persons  of  rank, 
on  great  occasions  in  life,  of  their  race  and  quality, 
and  to  what  expectations  they  were  born;  that  by 
considering  what  is  worthy  of  them,  they  may  be 
withdrawn  from  mean  pursuits,  and  encouraged  to 
laudable  undertakings.  This  is  turning  nobility 
into  a  principle  of  virtue,  and  making  it  productive 
of  merit,  as  it  is  understood  to  have  been  originally 
a  reward  of  it. 

“It  is  for  the  like  reason,  I  imagine,  that  you 
have  in  some  of  your  speculations  asserted  to  your 
readers  the  dignity  of  human  nature.  But  you 
cannot  be  insensible  that  this  is  a  controverted 
doctrine;  there  are  authors  who  consider  human 
nature  in  a  very  different  view,  and  books  of 
maxims  have  been  written  to  show  the  falsity  of 
all  human  virtues.*  The  reflections  which  are 
made  on  the  subject  usually  take  some  tincture 
from  the  tempers  and  characters  of  those  that  make 
them.  Politicians  can  resolve  the  most  shining 
actions  among  men  into  artifice  and  design;  others, 
who  are  soured  by  discontent,  repulses,  or  ill-usage, 
are  apt  to  mistake  their  spleen  for  philosophy; 
men  of  profligate  lives,  and  such  as  find  themselves 
incapable  of  rising  to  any  distinction  among  their 
fellow-creatures,  are  for  pulling  down  all  appear¬ 
ances  of  merit  which  seem  to  upbraid  them;  and 
satirists  describe  nothing  but  deformity.  'From  all 
these  hands,  we  have  such  draughts  of  mankind 
as  are  represented  in  those  burlesque  pictures 
which  the  Italians  call  caricaturas;  where  the  art 
consists  in  preserving,  amidst  distorted  proportions 


*  An  allusion  to  the  following  book,  Reflections  et  Maximes 
Morales  cle  M.  le  Due  de  la  Kochefoucault,. — Mad.  L’Enclos 
says  of  him,  that  he  had  no  more  belief  in  virtues  than  he  had 
in  ghosts. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


and  aggravated  features,  some  distinguishing  like¬ 
ness  ot  the  person,  but  in  sucli  a  manner  as  to 
transform  the  most  agreeable  beauty  into  the  most 
odious  monster. 

“  It  is  very  disingenuous  to  level  the  best  of  man¬ 
kind  with  the  worst,  and  for  the  faults  of  particu¬ 
lars  to  degrade  the  whole  species.  Such  methods 
tend  not  only  to  remove  a  man’s  good  opinion  of 
others,  but  to  destroy  that  reverence  for  himself, 
which  is  a  great  guard  of  innocence,  and  a  spring 
of  virtue. 

“It  is  true,  indeed,  that  there  are  surprising 
mixtures  of  beauty  and  deformity,  of  wisdom  ana 
folly,  virtue  and  vice,  in  the  human  make;  such  a 
disparity  is  found  among  numbers  of  the  same 
kind;  and  every  individual  in  some  instances,  or 
at  some  times,  is  so  unequal  to  himself,  that  man 
seems  to  be  the  most  wavering  and  inconsistent 
beiug  in  the  whole  creation.  So  that  the  question 
in  morality  concerning  the  dignity  of  our  nature 
may  at  first  sight  appear  like  some  difficult  ques¬ 
tions  in  natural  philosophy,  in  which  the  argu¬ 
ments  on  both  sides  seem  to  be  of  equal  strength. 
But,  as  I  began  with  considering  this  point  as  it 
relates  to  action,  I  shall  here  borrow  an  admirable 
reflection  from  Monsieur  Pascal,  which  I  think  sets 
it  in  its  proper  light. 

‘“It  is  of  dangerous  consequence/  says  he,  ‘to 
represent  to  man  how  near  he  is  to  the  level  of 
beasts,  without  showing  him  at  the  same  time  his 
greatness.  It  is  likewise  dangerous  to  let  him  see 
his  greatness  'without  his  meanness.  It  is  more 
dangerous  yet  to  leave  him  ignorant  of  either;  but 
very  beneficial  that  he  should  be  made  sensible  of 
both.’  Whatever  imperfections  we  may  have  in 
our  nature,  it  is  the  business  of  religion  and  virtue 
to  rectify  them,  as  far  as  is  consistent  with  our 
present  state.  In  the  meantime,  it  is  no  small 
encouragement  to  generous  minds  to  consider,  that 
we  shall  put  them  all  off  with  our  mortality.  That 
sublime  manner  of  salutation  with  which  the 
Jews  approach  their  kings, 

0  king,  live  forever ! 

may  be  addressed  to  the  lowest  and  most  despised 
mortal  among  us,  under  all  the  infirmities  and 
distresses  with  which  we  see  him  surrounded. 
And  whoever  believes  in  the  immortality  of  the 
soul,  will  not  need  a  better  argument  for  the  dig¬ 
nity  of  his  nature,  nor  a  stronger  incitement  to 
actions  suitable  to  it. 

“I  am  naturally  led  by  this  reflection  to  a  sub¬ 
ject  I  have  already  touched  upon  in  a  former  letter, 
and  cannot  without  pleasure  call  to  mind  the 
thoughts  of  Cicero  to  this  purpose,  in  the  close  of 
his  book  concerning  old  age.  Every  one  who  is 
acquainted  with  his  writings  will  remember,  that 
the  elder  Cato  is  introduced  in  that  discourse  as 
the  speaker,  and  Scipio  and  Laslius  as  his  auditors. 
This  venerable  person  is  represented  looking  for¬ 
ward  as  it  were  from  the  verge  of  extreme  old  age 
into  a  future  state,  and  rising  into  a  contemplation 
on  the  unperishable  part  of  his  nature,  and  its  ex¬ 
istence  after  death.  I  shall  collect  part  of  his  dis¬ 
course.  And  as  you  have  formerly  offered  some 
arguments  for  the  soul’s  immortality,  agreeable 
both  to  reason  and  the  Christian  doctrine,  1  believe 
your  readers  will  not  be  displeased  to  see  how  the 
same  great  truth  shines  in  the  pomp  of  Roman 
eloquence. 

<  “‘This,’  says  Cato,  ‘is  my  firm  persuasion,  that 
since  the  human  soul  exerts  itself  with  so  great 
activity;  since  it  has  sucli  a  remembrance  of  the 
past,  such  a  concern  for  the  future;  since  it  is  en¬ 
riched  with  so  many  arts,  sciences,  and  discoveries; 
it  is  impossible  but  the  Being  which  contains  all 
these  must  be  immortal.’ 


635 

“The  elder  Cyrus,  just  before  his  death,  is  rep¬ 
resented  by  Xenophon  speaking  after  this  manner: 
‘  Think  not,  my  dearest  children,  that  when  I  de¬ 
part  from  you  I  shall  be  no  more;  but  remember, 
that  my  soul,  even  while  I  lived  among  you,  was 
invisible  to  you;  yet  by  my  actions  you  were  sen¬ 
sible  it  existed  in  this  body.  Believe  it  therefore 
existing  still,  though  it  be  still  unseen.  How 
quickly  would  the  honors  of  illustrious  men  perish 
after  death,  if  their  souls  performed  nothing  to 
preserve  their  fame!  For  my  own  part,  I  never 
could  think  that  the  soul  while  in  a  mortal  body 
lives,  but  when  departed  out  of  it,  it  dies;  or  that 
its  consciousness  is  lost  when  it  is  discharged  out 
of  an  unconscious  habitation.  But  when  it  is 
freed  from  all  corporeal  alliance,  then  it  truly  ex¬ 
ists.  Further,  since  the  human  frame  is  broken  by 
death,  tell  us  what  becomes  of  its  parts  ?  It  is 
visible  whither  the  materials  of  other  beings  are 
translated,  namely:  to  the  source  from  whence 
they  had  their  birth.  The  soul  alone,  neither  pre¬ 
sent  nor  departed,  is  the  object  of  our  eyes.’ 

“Thus  Cyrus.  But  to  proceed:  ‘Ho  one  shall 
persuade  me,  Scipio,  that  your  worthy  father,  or 
your  grandfathers  Paulus  and  Africanus,  or  Afri- 
canus  his  father  or  uncle,  or  many  other  excellent 
men  whom  I  need  not  name,  performed  so  many 
actions  to  be  remembered  by  posterity,  with  be¬ 
ing  sensible  that  futurity  was  their  right.  And, 
if  I  may  be  allowed  an  old  man’s  privilege  to 
speak  of  myself,  do  you  think  I  would  have  en¬ 
dured  the  fatigue  of  so  many  wearisome  days  and 
nights,  both  at  home  and  abroad,  if  I  imagined 
that  the  same  boundary  which  is  set  to  my  life 
must  terminate  my  glory?  Were  it  not  more  de¬ 
sirable  to  have  worn  out  my  days  in  ease  and 
tranquillity,  free  from  labor,  and  without  emula¬ 
tion?  But,  I  know  not  how,  my  soul  has  always 
raised  itself,  and  looked  forward  on  futurity,  in 
this  view  and  expectation,  that  when  it  shall  de¬ 
part  out  of  life  it  shall  then  live  forever;  and  if 
this  were  not  true,  that  the  mind  is  immortal,  the 
souls  of  the  most  worthy  would  not,  above  all 
others,  have  the  strongest  impulse  to  glory. 

“  ‘  What  beside  this  is  the  cause  that  the  wisest 
men  die  with  the  greatest  equanimity,  the  ignorant 
with  the  greatest  concern  ?  Does  it  not  seem  that 
tl\ose  minds  which  have  the  most  extensive  views 
foresee  they  are  removing  to  a  happier  condition, 
which  those  of  a  narrow  sight  do  not  perceive  ?  I, 
for  my  part,  am  transported  with  the  hope  of  see¬ 
ing  your  ancestors,  whom  I  have  honored  and 
loved;  and  am  earnestly  desirous  of  meeting  not 
only  those  excellent  persons  whom  I  have  known, 
but  those,  too,  of  whom  I  have  heard  and  read, 
and  of  whom  I  myself  have  written;  nor  would  I 
be  detained  from  so  pleasing  a  journey.  0  happy 
day,  when  I  shall  escape  from  this  crowd,  this 
heap  of  pollution,  and  be  admitted  to  that  divine 
assembly  of  exalted  spirits !  when  I  shall  go  not 
only  to  those  great  persons  I  have  named,  but  to 
my  Cato,  my  son,  than  whom  a  better  man  was 
never  born,  and  whose  funeral  rites  I  myself  per¬ 
formed,  whereas  he  ought  rather  to  have  attended 
mine.  Yet  has  not  his  soul  deserted  me,  but, 
seeming  to  cast  back  a  look  on  me,  is  gone  before 
to  those  habitations  to  which  it  was  sensible  I 
should  follow  him.  And  though  I  might  appear 
to  have  borne  my  loss  with  courage,  I  was  not  un¬ 
affected  with  it;  but  I  comforted  myself  in  the 
assurance,  that  it  would  not  be  long  before  we 
should  meet  again,  and  be  divorced  no  more.’ 

“I  am.  Sir,”  etc. 


THE  SPECTATOR . 


636 

No.  538.]  MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  17,  1712. 

- -  Ultra 

Fincm  tendere  opus. -  Hoe.  2  Sat.  i.  1. 

To  launch  beyond  all  bounds. 

Surprise  is  not  so  much  the  life  of  stories,  that 
every  one  aims  at  it  who  endeavors  to  please  by 
telling  them.  Smooth  delivery,  an  elegant  choice 
of  words,  and  a  sweet  arrangement,  are  all  beauti- 
fying  graces,  but  not  the  particulars  in  this  point 
of  conversation  which  either  long  command  the 
attention,  or  strike  with  the  violence  of  a  sudden 
passion,  or  occasion  the  burst  of  laughter  which 
accompanies  humor.  I  have  sometimes  fancied 
that  the  mind  is  in  this  case  like  a  traveler  who 
sees  a  fine  seat  in  haste;  he  acknowledges  the 
delightfulness  of  a  walk  set  with  regularity,  but 
would  be  uneasy  if  he  were  obliged  to  pace  it  over, 
when  the  first  view  had  let  him  into  all  its  beau¬ 
ties  from  one  end  to  the  other. 

However,  a  knowledge  of  the  success  which 
stories  will  have  when  they  are  attended  with  a 
turn  of  surprise,  as  it  has  happily  made  the  char¬ 
acters  of  some,  so  has  it  also  been  the  ruin  of  the 
characters  of  others.  There  is  a  set  of  men  who 
outrage  truth,  instead  of  affecting  us  with  a  man¬ 
ner  in  telling  it;  who  overleap  the  line  of  proba¬ 
bility,  that  they  may  be  seen  to  move  out  of  the 
common  road;  and  endeavor  only  to  make  their 
hearers  stare  by  imposing  upon  them  with  a  kind 
of  nonsense  against  the  philosophy  of  nature,  or 
such  a  heap  of  wonders  told  upon  their  own 
knowledge,  as  it  is  not  likely  one  man  should  have 
ever  met  with. 

I  have  been  led  to  this  observation  by  a  company 
into  which  I  fell  accidentally.  The  subject  of  an¬ 
tipathies  was  a  proper  field  wherein  such  false 
surprises  might  expatiate,  and  there  were  those 
present  who  appeared  very  fond  to  show  it  in  its 
full  extent  of  traditional  history.  Some  of  them, 
in  a  learned  manner,  offered  to  our  consideration 
the  miraculous  powers  which  the  effluviums  of 
cheese  have  over  bodies  whose  pores  are  disposed 
to  receive  them  in  a  noxious  manner;  others  gave 
an  account  of  such  who  could  indeed  bear  the  sight 
of  cheese,  but  not  the  taste;  for  which  they  brought 
a  reason  from  the  milk  of  their  nurses.  Others 
again  discoursed,  without  endeavoring  at  reasons, 
concerning  an  unconquerable  aversion  which  some 
stomachs  have  against  a  joint  of  meat  when  it  is 
whole,  and  the  eager  inclination  they  have  for  it 
when,  by  its  being  cut  up,  the  shape  which  had 
affected  them  is  altered.  From  hence  they  passed 
to  eels,  then  to  parsnips,  and  so  from  one  aversion 
to  another,  until  we  had  worked  up  ourselves  to 
such  a  pitch  of  complaisance,  that  when  the  din¬ 
ner  wras  to  come  in  we  inquired  the  name  of  every 
dish,  and  hoped  it  would  be  no  offense  to  any 
company,  before  it  was  admitted.  When  we  had 
sat  down,  this  civility  among  us  turned  the  dis¬ 
course  from  eatables  to  other  sorts  of  aversions; 
and  the  eternal  cat,  which  plagues  every  conversa¬ 
tion  of  this  nature,  began  then  to  engross  the  sub¬ 
ject.  One  had  sweated  at  the  sight  of  it,  another 
had  smelled  it  out  as  it  lay  concealed  in  a  very 
distant  cupboard;  and  he  who  crowned  the  whole 
set  of  these  stories,  reckoned  up  the  number  of 
times  in  which  it  had  occasioned  him  to  swoon 
away.  “At  last/’  says  he,  “that  you  may  all  be 
satisfied  of  my  invincible  aversion  to  a  cat,  I  shall 
give  an  unanswerable  instance.  As  I  was  going 
through  a  street  of  London,  where  I  had  never 
been  until  then,  I  felt  a  general  damp  and  faintness 
all  over  me,  which  I  could  not  tell  how  to  account 
for,  Until  I  chanced  to  cast  my  eyes  upward,  and 
found  that  I  was  passing  under  a  sign  post  on 
which  the  picture  of  a  cat  was  hung.” 


The  extravagance  of  this  turn  in  the  way  of  sur¬ 
prise  gave  a  stop  to  the  talk  we  had  been  carrying 
on.  Some  were  silent  because  they  doubted,  ana 
others,  because  they  were  conquered  in  their  own 
way;  so  that  the  gentleman  had  an  opportunity 
to  press  the  belief  of  it  upon  us,  and  let  us  see 
that  he  was  rather  exposing  himself  than  ridicul¬ 
ing  others.  « 

I  must  freely  own  that  I  did  not  all  this  while 
disbelieve  everything  that  was  said;  but  yet  I 
thought  some  in  the  company  had  been  endeav¬ 
oring  who  should  pitch  the  bar  furthest;  that  it 
had  for  some  been  a  measuring  cast,  and  at  last 
my  friend  of  the  cat  and  sign -post  had  thrown  be¬ 
yond  them  all. 

I  then  considered  the  manner  in  which  this 
story  had  been  received,  and  the  possibility  that 
it  might  have  passed  for  a  jest  upon  others,  if  he 
had  not  labored  against  himself.  From  hence, 
thought  I,  there  are  two  ways  which  the  well-bred 
world  generally  takes  to  correct  such  a  practice, 
when  they  do  not  think  fit  to  contradict  it  flatly. 

The  first  of  these  is  a  general  silence,  which  I 
would  not  advise  any  one  to  interpret  in  his  own 
behalf.  It  is  often  the  effect  of  prudence  in  avoid¬ 
ing  a  quarrel,  when  they  see  another  drive  so  fast 
that  there  is  no  stopping  him  without  being  run 
against;  and  but  very  seldom  the  effect  of  weak¬ 
ness  in  believing  suddenly.  The  generality  of 
mankind  are  not  so  grossly  ignorant,  as  some 
overbearing  spirits  would  persuade  themselves; 
and  if  the  authority  of  a  character  or  a  caution 
against  danger  makes  us  suppress  our  opinions, 
yet  neither  of  these  are  of  force  enough  to  sup¬ 
press  our  thoughts  of  them.  If  a  man  who  has 
endeavored  to  amuse  his  company  with  improba¬ 
bilities  could  but  look  into  their  minds,  he  would 
find  that  they  imagine  he  lightly  esteems  of  their 
sense  when  he  thinks  to  impose  upon  them,  and 
that  he  is  less  esteemed  by  them  in  his  attempt  in 
doing  so.  His  endeavor  to  glory  at  their  expense 
becomes  a  ground  of  quarrel,  and  the  scorn  and 
indifference  with  which  they  entertain  it  begins 
the  immediate  punishment :  and  indeed  (if  we 
should  even  go  no  further)  silence,  or  a  negligent 
indifference,  has  a  deeper  way  of  wounding  than 
opposition,  because  opposition  proceeds  from  an 
anger  that  has  a  sort  of  generous  sentiment  for  the 
adversary  mingling  along  with  it,  while  it  shows 
that  there  is  some  esteem  in  your  mind  for  him : 
in  short,  that  you  think  him  worth  wdiile  to  con¬ 
test  with.  But  silence,  or  negligent  indifference, 
proceeds  from  anger,  mixed  with  a  scorn  that 
shows  another  that  he  is  thought  by  you  too  con¬ 
temptible  to  be  regarded. 

The  other  method  which  the  world  has  taken 
for  correcting  this  practice  of  false  surprise,  is  to 
overshoot  such  talkers  in  their  own  bow,  or  to 
raise  the  story  with  further  degrees  of  impossi¬ 
bility,  and  set  up  for  a  voucher  to  them  in  such  a 
manner  as  must  let  them  see  they  stand  detected. 
Thus  I  have  heard  a  discourse  was  once  managed 
upon  the  effects  of  fear.  One  of  the  company  had 
given  an  account  how  it  had  turned  his  friend's 
hair  gray  in  a  night,  while  the  terrors  of  a  ship¬ 
wreck  encompassed  him.  Another,  taking  the 
hint  from  hence,  began  upon  his  own  knowledge 
to  enlarge  his  instances  of  the  like  nature  to  such 
a  number,  that  it  was  not  probable  he  could  evei 
have  met  with  them  :  and  as  he  still  grounded 
these  upon  different  causes  for  the  sake  of  variety, 
it  might  seem  at  last,  from  his  share  of  the  con¬ 
versation,  almost  impossible  that  any  one  who  can 
feel  the  passion  of  fear  should  all  his  life  escape  so 
common  an  effect  of  it.  By  this  time  some  of  the 
company  grew  negligent,  or  desirous  to  contradict 
him  :  but  one  rebuked  the  rest  with  an  appearance 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


of  severity,  and,  with  the  known  old  story  in  his 
head,  assured  them  they  need  not  scruple  to  be¬ 
lieve  that  the  fear  of  anything  can  make  a  man’s 
hair  gray,  since  he  knew  one  whose  periwig  had 
suffered  so  by  it.  Thus  he  stopped  the  talk,  and 
made  them  easy.  Tlius  is  the  same  method  taken 
to  bring  us  to  shame,  which  we  fondly  take  to  in¬ 
crease  our  character.  It  is  indeed  a  kind  of  mim¬ 
icry,  by  which  another  puts  on  our  air  of  conver¬ 
sation  to  show  us  to  ourselves.  He  seems  to  look 
ridiculous  before,  that  you  may  remember  how 
near  a  resemblance  you  bear  to  him,  or  that  you 
may  know  he  will  not  lie  under  the  imputation  of 
believing  you.  Then  it  is  that  you  are  struck 
dumb  immediately  with  a  conscientious  shame  for 
what  you  have  been  saying.  Then  it  is  that  you 
are  inwardly  grieved  at  the  sentiments  which  you 
cannot  but  perceive  others  entertain  concerning 
rou.  In  short,  you  are  against  yourself;  the 
augh  of  the  company  runs  against  you ;  the  cen¬ 
suring  world  is  obliged  to  you  for  that  triumph 
which  you  have  allowed  them  at  your  own  expense; 
and  truth,  which  you  have  injured,  has  a  near  way 
of  being  revenged  on  you,  when  by  the  bare  repe¬ 
tition  of  your  story  you  become  a  frequent  diver¬ 
sion  for  the  public. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“The  other  day,  walking  in  Pancras  church¬ 
yard,  I  thought  of  your  paper  wherein  you  men¬ 
tion  epitaphs,  and  am  of  opinion  this  has  a  thought 
in  it  worth  being  communicated  to  your  readers  : 

Here  innocence  and  beauty  lies,  whose  breath 
Was  snatch’d  by  early,  not  untimely,  death. 

Hence  she  did  go,  just  as  she  did  begin 
Sorrow  to  know,  before  she  knew  to  sin. 

Death,  that  does  sin  and  sorrow  thus  prevent, 

Is  the  next  blessing  to  a  life  well  spent. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  your  Servant.” 


No.  539.]  TUESDAY,  NOVEMBER,  18,  1712. 

Ileteroclita  sunto. — Qua:  Genus. 

Be  they  heteroclites. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  am  a  young  widow  of  a  good  fortune  and 
family,  and  just  come  to  town  ;  where  I  find  I 
have  clusters  of  pretty  fellows  come  already  to 
visit  me,  some  dying  with  hopes,  others  with 
fears,  though  they  never  saw  me.  Now,  what  I 
would  beg  of  you  would  be  to  know  whether  I 
may  venture  to  use  these  pert  fellows  with  the 
same,  freedom  as  I  did  my  country  acquaintance. 
I  desire  your  leave  to  use  them  as  to  me  shall  seem 
meet,  without  imputation  of  a  jilt :  for  since  I 
make  declaration  that  not  one  of  them  shall  have 
me,  I  think  I  ought  to  be  allowed  the  liberty  of 
insulting  those  who  have  the  vanity  to  believe  it 
is  in  their  power  to  make  me  break  that  resolu¬ 
tion.  There  are  schools  for  learning  to  use  foils, 
frequented  by  those  who  never  design  to  fight; 
and  this  useless  way  of  aiming  at  the  heart,  with¬ 
out  design  to  -wound  it  on  either  side,  is  the  play 
with  which  I  am  resolved  to  divert  myself.  The 
man  who  pretends  to  win,  I  shall  use  like  him 
who  comes  into  a  fencing-school  to  pick  a  quarrel. 
I  hope  upon  this  foundation  you  will  give  me  the 
free  use  of  the  natural  and  artificial  force  of  my 
eyes,  looks,  and  gestures.  As  for  verbal  promises, 
I  will  make  none,  but  shall  have  no  mercy  on  the 
conceited  interpreters  of  glances  and  motions.  I 
am  particularly  skilled  in  the  downcast  eye,  and 
the  recovery  into  a  sudden  full  aspect  and  away 
again,  as  you  may  have  -seen  sometimes  practiced 
by  us  country  beauties  beyond  all  that  you  have 
observed  in  courts  and  cities.  Add  to  this  Sir,  that 


637 

I  have  a  ruddy,  heedless  look,  which  covers  arti¬ 
fice  the  best  of  anything.  Though  I  can  dance 
very  well,  I  affect  a  tottering  untaught  way  of 
walking,  by  which  I  appear  an  easy  prey  :  and 
never  exert  my  instructed  charms,  until  I  find  I 
have  engaged  a  pursuer.  Be  pleased,  Sir,  to  print 
tins  letter,  which  will  certainly  begin  the  chase  of 
a  rich  widow.  The  many  foldings,  escapes,  re¬ 
turns,  and  doublings,  which  I  make,  I  shall  from 
time  to  time  communicate  to  you,  for  the  better 
instruction  of  all  females,  who  set  up,  like  me,  for 
reducing  the  present  exorbitant  power  and  inso¬ 
lence  of  man. 

“I  am,  Sir, 

“Your  faithful  Correspondent, 

“Relicta  Lovely.” 

“  Dear  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  depend  upon  your  professed  respect  for  vir¬ 
tuous  love  for  your  immediately  answering  the 
design  of  this  letter;  which  is  no  other  than  to  lay 
before  the  world  the  severity  of  certain  parents, 
who  desire  to  suspend  the  marriage  of  -a  discreet 
young  woman  of  eighteen  three  years  longer,  for 
no  other  leason  but  that  of  her  being  too  young  to 
enter  into  that  state.  As  to  the  consideration  of 
riches,  my  circumstances  are  such,  that  I  cannot 
be  suspected  to  make  my  addresses  to  her  on 
such  low  motives  as  avarice  or  ambition.  If  ever 
innocence,  wit,  and  beauty,  united  their  utmost 
.charms,  they  have  in  her.  I  wish  you  would  ex¬ 
patiate  a  little  on  this  subject,  and  admonish  her 
parents  that  it  may  be  from  the  very  imperfection 
of  human  nature  itself,  and  not  any  personal  frail¬ 
ty  of  her  or  me,  that  our  inclinations,  baffled  at 
piesent,  may  alter;  and  while  we  are  arguing  with 
ourselves  to  put  off  the  enjoyment  of  our  present 
passions,  our  affections  may  change  their  objects 
in  the  operation.  It  is  a  very  delicate  subject  to 
talk  upon;  but  if  it  were  but  hinted,  I  am  in  hopes 
it  would  give  the  parties  concerned  some  reflec¬ 
tion  that,  might  expedite  our  happiness.  There 
is  a  possibility,  and  I  hope  I  may  say  it  without 
imputation  of  immodesty  to  her  I  love  with  the 
highest  honor :  I  say  there  is  a  possibility  this  de¬ 
lay  may  be  as  painful  to  her  as  it  is  to  me;  if  it  be 
as  much,  it  must  be  more,  by  reason  of  the  severe 
rules  the  sex  are  under,  in  being  denied  even  the 
relief  of  complaint.  If  you  oblige  me  in  this,  and 
I  succeed,  I  promise  you  a  place  at  my  wedding, 
and  a  treatment  suitable  to  your  spectatorial  dig 
nity. 

“Your  most  humble  Servant, 

“  Eustace.” 

“  Sir, 

“I  yesterday  heard  a  young  gentleman,  that 
looked  as  if  he  was  just  come  to  the  gown  and  a 
scarf,  upon  evil  speaking :  which  subject,  you 
know  Archbishop  Tillotson  has  so  nobly  handled 
in  a  sermon  in  his  folio.  As  soon  as  ever  he  had 
named  his  text,  and  had  opened  a  little  the  drift 
of  his  discourse,  I  was  in  great  hopes  he  had  been 
one  of  Sir  Roger’s  chaplains.  I  have  conceived 
so  great  an  idea  of  the  charming  discourse  above, 
that  I  should  have  thought  one  part  of  my  Sab¬ 
bath  very  well  spent  in  hearing  a  repetition  of  it. 
But,  alas !  Mr.  Spectator,  this  reverend  divine 
gave  us  his  grace’s  sermon,  and  yet  I  do  not  know 
how ;  even  I,  that  I  am  sure  have  read  it  at  least 
twenty  times,  could  not  tell  what  to  make  of  it, 
and  was  at  a  loss  sometimes  to  guess  what  the 
man  aimed  at.  He  was  so  just,  indeed,  as  to  give 
us  all  the  heads  and  the  subdivisions  of  the  ser¬ 
mon,  and  further  I  think  there  was  not  one  beau¬ 
tiful  thought  in  it  but  what  we  had.  But  then,  Sir, 
this  gentleman  made  so  many  pretty  additions;  and 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


G38 

he  could  never  give  us  a  paragraph  of  the  sermon, 
but  he  introduced  it  with  something  which,  me- 
thought,  looked  more  like  a  design  to  show  his 
own  ingenuity,  than  to  instruct  the  people.  In 
short,  he  added  and  curtailed  in  such  a  manner, 
that  he  vexed  me  ;  insomuch  that  I  could  not  for 
bear  thinking  (what  I  confess  I  ought  not  to  have 
thought  of  in  so  holy  a  place),  that  this  young 
spark  was  as  justly  blamable  as  Bullock  or  Pen- 
kethman,  when  they  mend  a  noble  play  of  Shak- 
speare  or  Jonson.  Pray,  Sir,  take  this  into  your 
consideration  ;  and,  if  we  must  be  entertained 
with  the  works  of  any  of  those  great  men,  desire 
these  gentlemen  to  give  them  us  as  they  find  them, 
that  so  when  we  read  them  to  our  families  at  home, 
they  may  the  better  remember  that  they  have  heard 
them  at  church. 

“  Sir,  your  humble  Servant.” 


No.  540.]  WEDNESDAY,  NOY.  19,  1712. 

- Non  deficit  alter. — Yirg.  iEn.  vi.  143. 

A  second  is  not  wanting. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  There  is  no  part  of  your  writings  which  I 
have  in  more  esteem  than  your  criticism  upon 
Milton.  It  is  an  honorable  and  candid  endeavor 
to  set  the  works  of  our  noble  writers  in  the  grace¬ 
ful  light  which  they  deserve.  You  will  lose  much 
of  my  kind  inclination  toward  you,  if  you  do  not 
attempt  the  encomium  of  Spenser  also,  or  at  least 
indulge  my  passion  for  that  charming  author  so 
far  as  to  print  the  loose  hints  I  now  give  you  on 
that  subject. 

“  Spenser’s  general  plan  is  the  representation  of 
six  virtues — holiness,  temperance,  chastity  friend¬ 
ship,  justice,  and  courtesy — in  six  legends  by  six 
personages,  these  personages  are  supposed,  under 
proper  allegories  suitable  to  their  respective  char¬ 
acters,  to  do  all  that  is  necessary  for  the  full  man¬ 
ifestation  of  the  respective  virtues  which  they  are 
to  exert. 

“  These  one  might  undertake  to  show  under  the 
several  heads  are  admirably  drawn;  no  images 
improper,  and  most  surprisingly  beautiful.  The 
Redcross  Knight  runs  through  the  whole  steps  of 
the  Christian  life;  G-uyon  does  all  that  temperance 
can  possibly  require;  Britomartis  (a  woman)  ob¬ 
serves  the  true  rules  of  unaffected  chastity;  Arthe- 
gal  is  in  every  respect  of  life  strictly  and  wisely 
just;  Calidore  is  rightly  courteous. 

“In  short,  in  Fairyland,  where  knights-errant 
have  a  full  scope  to  range,  and  to  do  even  what 
Ariostos  or  Orlandos  could  not  do  in  the  world 
withoutbreaking  into  credibility,  Spenser’s  knights 
have,  under  those  six  heads,  a  full  and  truly  poet¬ 
ical  system  of  Christian,  public,  and  low  life. 

“  His  legend  of  friendship  is  more  diffuse,  and 
yet  even  there  the  allegory  is  finely  drawn,  only 
the  heads  various:  one  knight  could  not  there  sup¬ 
port  all  the  parts. 

“  To  do  honor  to  his  country,  Prince  Arthur  is 
a  universal  hero;  in  holiness,  temperance,  chas¬ 
tity,  and  justice,  superexcellent.  For  the  same 
reason,  and  to  compliment  Queen  Elizabeth,  Glo- 
riana,  queen  of  fairies,  whose  court  was  the  asy¬ 
lum  of  the  oppressed,  represents  that  glorious 
queen.  At  her  commands  all  these  knights  set 
forth,  and  only  at  hers  the  Redcross  Knight  de¬ 
stroys  the  dragon,  Guy  on  overturns  the  Bower  of 
Bliss,  Arthegal  (i.  e.  Justice)  beats  down  Geryoneo 
(i.  e.  Philip  II,  king  of  Spain)  to  rescue  Beige 
(i.  e.  Holland),  and  he  beats  the  Grantorto  (the 
same  Philip  in  another  light)  to  restore  Irena  (i.  e. 
Peace  to  Europe). 


“  Chastity  being  the  first  female  virtue,  Brito 
martis  is  a  Briton;  her  part  is  fine,  though  it  re¬ 
quires  explication.  His  stjle  is  very  poetical;  no 
puns,  affectations  of  wit,  forced  antitheses,  or  any 
of  that  low  tribe.  • 

“  His  old  words  are  all  true  English,  and  num¬ 
bers  exquisite;  and  since  of  words  there  is  the 
multa  renascentur,  since  they  are  all  proper,  such 
a  poem  should  not  (any  more  than  Milton’s)  con¬ 
sist  all  of  it  of  common  ordinary  words.  See  in¬ 
stances  of  descriptions. 

Causeless  jealousy  in  Britomartis,  v.  6,  14,  in  its 
restlessness. 

Like  as  a  wayward  child,  whose  sounder  sleep 
Is  broken  with  some  fearful  dream’s  affright, 

With  froward  will  doth  set  himself  to  weep, 

Ne  can  be  still’d  for  all  his  nurse’s  might, 

But  kicks  and  squalls,  and  shrieks  for  fell  despite; 

Now  scratching  her,  and  her  loose  locks  misusing, 

Now  seeking  darkness,  and  now  seeking  light; 

Then  craving  suck,  and  then  the  suck  refusing : 

Such  was  this  lady’s  fit  in  her  love’s  fond  accusing. 

Curiosity  occasioned  by  jealousy,  upon  occasion  of  her 
lover's  absence.  Ibid.  Stan,  8,  9. 

Then  as  she  look’d  long,  at  last  she  spy’d 
One  coming  toward  her  with  hasty  speed : 

Well  ween’d  she  then,  ere  him  she  plain  descry’d, 

That  it  was  one  sent  from  her  love  indeed : 

Whereat  her  heart  was  fill’d  with  hope  and  dread, 

Ne  would  she  stay  till  he  in  place  could  come, 

But  ran  to  meet  him  forth  to  know  his  tiding’s  somme : 

Even  in  the  door  him  meeting,  she  begun. 

‘And  where  is  he,  thy  lord,  and  how  far  hence? 

Declare  at  once ;  and  hath  he  lost  or  won  ?  ’ 

Care  and  his  house  are  described  thus,  iv.  6,  33 — 35. 

Not  far  away,  nor  meet  for  any  guest, 

They  spy’d  a  little  cottage,  like  some  poor  man’s  nest. 

34. 

There  entering  in,  they  found  the  good  man's  self, 

Full  busily  unto  his  work  ybent, 

Who  was  so  weel  a  wretched  wearish  elf, 

With  hollow  eyes  and  rawbone  cheeks  far  spent, 

As  if  he  had  in  prison  long  been  pent. 

Full  black  and  griesly  did  his  face  appear, 

Besmear’d  with  smoke  that  near  his  eye-sight  blent, 
With  rugged  beard,  and  hoary  shaggy  heare, 

The  which  he  never  wont  to  comb,  or  comely  sheer. 

35. 

Rude  was  his  garment,  and  to  rags  all  rent; 

No  better  had  he,  ne  for  better  car’d: 

Ilis  blistered  hands  among  the  cinders  brent, 

And  fingers  filthy  with  long  nails  prepared, 

Right  fit  to  rend  the  food  on  which  he  fared. 

Ilis  name  was  Care;  a  blacksmith  by  his  trade, 

That  neither  day  nor  night  from  working  spared, 

But  to  small  purpose  iron  wedges  made: 

These  be  unquiet  thoughts  that  careful  minds  invade. 

“  Homer’s  epithets  were  much  admired  by  an¬ 
tiquity:  see  what  great  justness  and  variety  there 
are  in  these  epithets  of  the  trees  in  the  forest, 
where  _  the  Redcross  Knight  lost  Truth.  B.  i, 
Cant,  i,  Stan.  8,  9. 

The  sailing  pine,  the  cedar  proud  and  tall, 

The  vine-prop  elm,  the  poplar  never  dry, 

The  builder-oak,  sole  king  of  forests  all, 

The  aspine  good  for  staves,  the  cypress  funeral. 

9. 

The  laurel,  meed  of  mighty  conquerors, 

And  poets  sage:  the  fir  that  weepeth  still, 

The  willow  worn  of  forlorn  paramours, 

The  yew  obedient  to  the  bender’s  will, 

The  birch  for  shafts,  the  sallow  for  the  mill : 

The  myrrlie  sweet,  bleeding  in  the  bitter  wound, 

The  war-like  beech,  the  ash,  for  nothing  ill, 

The  fruitful  olive,  and  the  plantane  round, 

The  carver  holm,  the  maple  seldom  inward  sound. 

“I  shall  trouble  you  no  more,  but  desire  you  to 
let  me  conclude  with  these  verses,  though  I  think 
they  have  already  been  quoted  by  you.  They 
are  directions  to  young  ladies  oppressed  with 
calumny,  vi.  6,  14. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Tlio  best  (said  he)  that  I  can  you  advise 
Is  to  avoid  the  occasion  of  the  ill : 

For  when  the  cause  whence  evil  doth  arise 
Removed  is,  the  effect  surceaseth  still. 

Abstain  from  pleasure  and  restrain  your  will 
Subdue  desire  and  bridle  loose  delight 
Use  scanted  diet  and  forbear  your  fill 
Shun  secrecy,  and  talk  in  open  sight;’ 

So  shall  you  soon  repair  your  present  evil  plight.” 


639 


T. 


No.  541.]  THURSDAY,  NOVEMBER  20,  1712. 

Format  enim  natura  prius  nos  intus  ad  omnem 
Fortunarum  habitum:  juvat,  aut  impcllit  ad  iram, 

Aut  ad  humum,  mserore  gravi  deducit,  et  angit: 

Fost  effert  animi  motus  interprete  lingua. 


ing  to  the  various  touches  which  raise  them,  form 
lemselves  into  an  acute  or  grave,  quick  or  slow, 
oud  or  soft,  tone.  These,  too,  may  be  subdivided 
into  various  kinds  of  tones,  as  the  gentle,  the 
roug  i  the  contracted,  the  diffuse,  the  continued, 
ic  intermitted,  the  broken,  abrupt,  winding,  soft- 
’  j11"  e. levated.  Every  one  of  these  may  be  em- 
p  oyed  with  art  and  judgment;  and  all  supply  the 

variet  &S  C°  °rS  ^le  Pa^nter,  with  an  expressive 

Anger  exerts  its  peculiar  voice  in  an  acute, 
raised,  and  hurrying  sound.  The  passionate  char- 
ac  er  ot  King  Lear,  as  it  is  admirably  drawn  by 

lakspeare  abounds  with  the  strongest  instances 
ot  this  kind. 


IIor.  Ars  Poet.  v.  108. 

For  nature  forms  and  softens  us  within, 

And  writes  our  fortune’s  changes  in  our  face : 

Pleasure  enchants,  impetuous  rage  transports, 

And  grief  dejects,  and  wrings  the  tortur'd  soul : 

And  these  are  all  interpreted  by  speech.— Roscommon. 

My  friend  the  Templar,  whom  I  have  so  often 
mentioned  in  these  writings,  having  determined 
to  lay  aside  his  poetical  studies,  in  order  to  a 
closer  pursuit  of  the  law,  has  put  together,  as  a 
larewell  essay,  some  thoughts  concerning  pronun¬ 
ciation  and  action,  which  he  has  given  me  leave 
to  communicate  to  the  public.  They  are  chiefly 
collected  from  his  favorite  author,  Cicero,  who  is 
known  to  have  been  an  intimate  friend  of  Roscius 
the  actor,  and  a  good  judge  of  dramatic  perform¬ 
ances,  as  well  as  the  most  eloquent  pleader  of  the 
time  in  which  he  lived. 

Cicero  concludes  his  celebrated  books  De  Ora- 
tore  with  some  precepts  for  pronunciation  and 
action,  without  which  part  he  affirms  that  the 
best  orator  in  the  world  can  never  succeed:  and 
an  indifferent  one,  who  is  master  of  this,  shall  gain 
much  greater  applause.  “What  could  make  a 
stronger  impression/’  says  he,  “than  those  ex¬ 
clamations  of  Gracchus?  Whither  shall  I  turn? 
Wretch  that  I  am !  to  what  place  betake  myself  ? 
fehall  I  go  to  the  Capitol  ?  Alas !  it  is  overflowed 
with  my  brother’s  blood.  Or  shall  I  return  to  my 
house  ?  let  there  I  behold  my  mother  plunged 
in  misery,  weeping  and  despairing!”  These 
breaks  and  turns  of  passion,  it  seems,  were  so 
enforced  by  the  eyes,  voice,  and  gesture,  of  the 
speaker,  that  his  very  enemies  could  not  refrain 
from  tears.  “I  insist,”  says  Tully,  “upon  this 
the  rathei  because  our  orators,  who  are  as  it  were 
actois  of  the  truth  itself,  have  quitted  this  manner 
of  speaking;  and  the  players,  who  are  but  the 
imitators  of  truth,  have  taken  it  up.” 

I  shall  therefore  pursue  the  hint  he  has  here 
given  me,  and  for  the  service  of  the  British  stage 
I  shall  copy  some  of  the  rules  which  this  great 
Roman  master  has  laid  down;  yet  without  con¬ 
fining  myself  wholly  to  his  thoughts  or  words: 
and  to  adapt  this  essay  the  more  to  the  purpose 
ioi  which  I  intend  it,  instead  of  the  examples  he 
has  inserted  in  this  discourse  out  of  the  ancient 
tragedies,  I  shall  make  use  of  parallel  passages 
out  of  the  most  celebrated  of  our  own. 

The  design  of  art  is  to  assist  action  as  much  as 
possible  in  the  representation  of  nature;  for  the 
appearance  of  reality  is  that  which  moves  us  in 
all  representations,  and  these  have  always  the 
greater  force  the  nearer  they  approach  to  nature 
and  the  less  they  show  of  imitation. 

Nature  herself  has  assigned  to  every  motion  of 
soul  its  peculiar  cast  of  the  countenance,  tone  of 
voice,  and  manner  of  gesture  through  the  whole 
person;  all  the  features  of  the  face  and  tones  of 
the  voice  answer,  like  strings  upon  musical  in¬ 
struments,  to  the  impressions  made  on  them  by 
the  mind.  1  hus  the  sounds  of  the  voice,  accord¬ 


- - -Death I  confusion! 

Fiery!  what  quality?— why  Gloster!  Gloster! 

Id  speak  with  the  Duke  of  Cornwall  and  his  wife; 

Are  they  informed  of  this?  my  breath  and  blood! 

Fiery!  the  fiery  duke! - -etc. 

Sorrow  and  complaint  demand  a  voice  quite 
different;  flexible,  slow,  interrupted,  and  modu¬ 
lated  in  a  mournful  tone:  as  in  that  pathetic 
soliloquy  of  Cardinal  Wolsey  on  his  fall: 

Farewell !  a  long  farewell  to  all  my  greatness ! 

This  is  the  state  of  man! - to-day  he  puts  forth 

The  tender  leaves  of  hope;  to-morrow  blossoms, 

And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him ; 

Ihe  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost, 

And  when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a  ripening,  nips  his  root, 

And  then  he  falls  as  I  do. 

We  have  likewise  a  fine  example  of  this  in  the 
whole  part  of  Andromache  in  the  Distrest  Mother, 
particularly  in  these  lines — 

I’ll  go,  and  in  the  anguish  of  my  heart 

Weep  o’er  my  child - If  he  must  die,  my  life 

Is  wrapt  in  his,  I  shall  not  long  survive. 

’Tis  for  his  sake  that  I  have  suffer’d  life, 

Groan’d  in  captivity,  and  outliv’d  Hector. 

Yes,  my  Astyanax,  we’ll  go  together! 

Together  to  the  realms  of  night  we’ll  go  : 

There  to  thy  ravish’d  eyes  thy  sire  I’ll  show, 

And  point  him  out  among  the  shades  below. 

Fear  expresses  itself  in  a  low,  hesitating,  and 
cioject  sound.  If  tlie  reader  considers  tlie  follow- 
ing  speech  of  Lady  Macbeth,  while  her  husband 
is  about  the  murder  of  Duncan  and  his  grooms,  he 
will  imagine  her  even  affrighted  with  the  sound 
of  her  own  voice  while  she  is  speaking  it: 

Alas!  I  am  afraid  they  have  awak’d, 

And  ’tis  not  done:  th’  attempt,  and  not  the  deed, 
Confounds  us — Hark! — I  laid  the  daggers  ready, 

He  could  not  miss  them.  Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  I  had  done  it. 

Courage  assumes  a  louder  tone,  as  in  that  speech 
of  Don  Sebastian: 

Here  satiate  all  your  fury ; 

Let  Fortune  empty  her  whole  quiver  on  me ; 

I  have  a  soul  that  like  an  ample  shield 
Can  take  in  all,  and  verge  enough  for  more. 

Pleasure  dissolves  into  a  luxurious,  mild,  ten¬ 
der,  and  joyous  modulation;  as  in  the  following 
lines  in  Caius  Marius: 

Lavinia!  0  there’s  music  in  the  name, 

That  softening  me  to  infant  tenderness, 

Makes  my  heart  spring  like  the  first  leap  of  life. 

And  perplexity  is  different  from  all  these;  grave 
but  not  bemoaning,  with  an  earnest,  uniform  sound 
of  voice;  as  in  that  celebrated  speech  of  Hamlet 

To  be,  or  not  to  be ! - that  is  the  question  : 

Whether  ’tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune; 

Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 

And  by  opposing  end  them  ?  To  die,  to  sleep ; 

No  more;  and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache,  and  a  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to :  ’tis  a  consummation 

Devoutly  to  be  wish’d!  To  die,  to  sleep! - 

To  sleep;  perchance  to  dream!  Ay,  there’s  the  rub; 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


640 

For,  in  that  sleep  of  death,  what- dreams  may  come, 

When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 

Must  give  us  pause - There’s  the  respect 

That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life; 

For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 

TIT  oppressor’s  wrongs,  the  proud  man’s  contumely, 

The  pangs  of  despis’d  love,  the  law’s  delay, 

The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 

When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin  ?  Who  would  fardels  bear, 

To  groan  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life, 

But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, 

The  undiscover’d  country,  from  whose  bourne 
No  traveler  returns,  puzzles  the  will, 

And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of. 

As  all  these  varieties  of  voice  are  to  be  directed 
by  the  sense,  so  the  action  is  to  be  directed  by  the 
voice,  and  with  a  beautiful  propriety,  as  it  were, 
to  enforce  it.  The  arm,  which  by  a  strong  figure 
Tully  calls  the  orator’s  weapon,  is  to  be  sometimes 
raised  and  extended;  and  the  hand,  by  its  motion, 
sometimes  to  lead,  and  sometimes  to  follow,  the 
words  as  they  are  uttered.  The  stamping  of  the 
foot,  too,  has  its  proper  expression  in  contention, 
anger,  or  absolute  command.  But  the  face  is  the 
epitome  of  the  whole  man,  and  the  eyes  are  as  it 
were  the  epitome  of  the  face;  for  which  reason,  he 
says,  the  best  judges  among  the  Romans  were  not 
extremely  pleased  even  with  Roscius  himself  in 
his  mask.  No  part  of  the  body,  beside  the  face, 
is  capable  of  as  many  changes  as  there  are  differ¬ 
ent  emotions  in  the  mind,  and  of  expressing  them 
all  by  those  changes.  Nor  is  this  to  be  done  with¬ 
out  the  freedom  of  the  eyes;  therefore  Theophras¬ 
tus  called  one,  who  barely  rehearsed  his  speech 
with  his  eyes  fixed,  an  “  absent  actor.” 

As  the  countenance  admits  of  so  great  variety, 
it  requires  also  great  judgment  to  govern  it.  Not 
that  the  form  of  the  face  is  to  be  shifted  on  every 
occasion,  lest  it  turn  to  farce  and  buffoonery;  but  it 
is  certain  that  the  eyes  have  a  wonderful  power 
of  marking  the  emotions  of  the  mind;  sometimes 
by  a  steadfast  look,  sometimes  by  a  careless  one — 
now  by  a  sudden  regard,  then  by  a  joyful  spark¬ 
ling,  as  the  sense  of  the  words  is  diversified;  for 
action  is,  as  it  were,  the  speech  of  the  features  and 
limbs,  and  must  therefore  conform  itself  always  to 
the  sentiments  of  the  soul.  And  it  may  be  ob¬ 
served,  that  in  all  which  relates  to  the  gesture  there 
is  a  wonderful  force  implanted  by  nature;  since 
the  vulgar,  the  unskillful,  and  even  the  most  bar¬ 
barous,  are  chiefly  affected  by  this.  None  are 
moved  by  the  sound  of  words  but  those  who  un¬ 
derstand  the  language;  and  the  sense  of  many 
things  is  lost  upon  men  of  a  dull  apprehension; 
but  action  is  a  kind  of  universal  tongue;  all  men 
are  subject  to  the  same  passions,  and  consequently 
know  the  same  marks  of  them  in  others,  by  which 
they  themselves  express  them. 

Perhaps  some  of  my  readers  may  be  of  opinion 
that  the  hints  I  have  here  made  use  of  out  of  Cicero 
are  somewhat  too  refined  for  the  players  on  our 
theater;  in  answer  to  which  I  venture  to  lay  it 
down  as  a  maxim,  that  without  good  sense  no  one 
can  be  a  good  player,  and  that  he  is  very  unfit  to 
personate  the  dignity  of  a  Roman  hero  who  can¬ 
not  enter  into  the  rules  for  pronunciation  and  ges¬ 
ture  delivered  by  a  Roman  orator. 

There  is  another  thing  which  my  author  does 
not  think  too  minute  to  insist  on,  though  it  is 
purely  mechanical;  and  that  is  the  right  pitching 
of  the  voice.  Oil  this  occasion  he  tells  the  story 
of  Gracchus,  who  employed  a  servant  with  a  little 
ivory  pipe  to  stand  behind  him,  and  give  him  the 
right  pitch,  as  often  as  he  wandered  too  far  from 
the  proper  modulation.  “  Every  voice,”  says 
Tully,  “has  its  peculiar  medium  and  compass, 
and  the  sweetness  of  speech  consists  in  leading  it 


|  through  all  the  variety  of  tones  naturally,  and 
j  without  touching  any  extreme.  Therefore,”  says 
he,  “leave  the  pipe  at  home,  but  carry  the  sense 
of  this  custom  with  you.” 


No.  542.]  FRIDAY,  NOVEMBER  21,  1712. 

Et  sibi  prseferri  se  gaudet -  Ovid,  Met.  ii.  430. 

- He  heard, 

Well  pleas’d,  himself  before  himself  preferr’d. — Addison. 

"When  I  have  been  present  in  assemblies,  where 
my  paper  has  been  talked  of,  I  have  been  very 
well  pleased  to  hear  those  who  would  detract  from 
the  author  of  it  observe,  that  the  letters  which 
are  sent  to  the  Spectator  are  as  good,  if  not  better, 
than  any  of  his  works.  Upon  this  occasion  many 
letters  of  mirth  are  usually  mentioned,  which  some 
think  the  Spectator  wrote  to  himself,  and  which 
others  commend  because  they  fancy  he  received 
them  from  his  correspondents.  Such  are  those 
from  the  valetudinarian;  the  inspector  of  the  sign¬ 
posts;  the  master  of  the  fan  exercise;  with  that 
of  the  hooped  petticoat;  that  of  Nicholas  Hart 
the  annual  sleeper;  that  from  Sir  John  Envil;  that 
upon  the  London  Cries;  with  multitudes  of  the 
same  nature.  As  I  love  nothing  more  than  to 
mortify  the  ill-natured,  that  I  may  do  it  effectually, 
I  must  acquaint  them  they  have  very  often  praised 
me  when  they  did  not  design  it,  and  that  they 
have  approved  my  writings  when  they  thought 
they  had  derogated  from  them.  I  have  heard  sev¬ 
eral  of  these  unhappy  gentlemen  proving,  by  un¬ 
deniable  arguments,  that  I  was  not  able  to  pen  a 
letter  which  I  had  written  the  day  before.  Nay,  I 
have  heard  some  of  them  throwing  out  ambiguous 
expressions,  and  giving  the  company  reason  to 
suspect  that  they  themselves  did  me  the  honor  to 
send  me  such  and  such  a  particular  epistle,  which 
happened  to  be  talked  of  with  the  esteem  or  ap¬ 
probation  of  those  who  were  present.  These  rigid 
critics  are  so  afraid  of  allowing  me  anything  which 
does  not  belong  to  me,  that  they  will  not  be  posi¬ 
tive  whether  the  lion,  the  wild  boar,  and  the  flower¬ 
pots  in  the  play-house,  did  not  actually  write 
those  letters  which  came  to  me  in  their  names.  I 
must  therefore  inform  these  gentlemen,  that  I  often 
choose  this  way  of  casting  my  thoughts  into  a 
letter,  for  the  following  reasons;  First,  out  of  the 
policy  of  those  who  try  their  jest  upon  another, 
before  they  own  it  themselves.  Secondly,  because 
I  would  extort  a  little  praise  from  such  who  will 
never  applaud  anything  whose  author  is  known 
and  certain.  Thirdly,  because  it  gave  me  an  op¬ 
portunity  of  introducing  a  great  variety  of  char¬ 
acters  into  my  work,  which  could  not  have  been 
done  had  I  always  wu'itten  in  the  person  of  the 
Spectator.  Fourthly,  because  the  dignity  specta- 
torial  would  have  suffered  had  I  published  as  from 
myself  those  several  ludicrous  compositions  which 
I  have  ascribed  to  fictitious  names  and  characters. 
And  lastly,  because  they  often  serve  to  bring  in 
more  naturally  such  additional  reflections  as  have 
been  placed  at  the  end  of  them. 

There  are  others  who  have  likewise  done  me  a 
very  particular  honor,  though  undesignedly.  These 
are  sucli  who  will  needs  have  it  that  I  have  trans¬ 
lated  or  borrowed  many  of  my  thoughts  out  of 
books  which  are  written  in  other  languages.  I 
have  heard  of  a  person,  who  is  more  famous  for 
his  library  than  his  learning,  that  has  asserted  this 
more  than  once  in  his  private  conversation.*  Were 


*  The  person  here  alluded  to  was  most  probably  Mr.  Tho¬ 
mas  Kawlison,  ridiculed  by  Addison  under  the  name  of  Tom 
Folio,  in  the  Tatler,  No.  158. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


it  true,  I  am  sure  he  could  not  speak  it  from  his  own 
knowledge;  but,  had  he  read  the  books  which  he 
has  collected,  he  would  find  his  accusation  to  be 
wholly  groundless.  Those  who  are  truly  learned 
will  acquit  me  in  this  point,  in  which  I  have  been 
so  far  from  offending,  tliat  I  have  been  scrupulous, 
perhaps  to  a  fault,  in  quoting  the  authors  of  sev¬ 
eral  passages  which  I  might  have  made  my  own. 
But,  as  this  assertion  is  in  reality  an  encomium  on 
what  I  have  published,  I  ought  rather  to  glory  in 
it  than  endeavor  to  confute  it. 

Some  are  so  very  willing  to  alienate  from  me 
that  small  reputation  which  might  accrue  to  me 
from  any  of  these  my  speculations,  that  they  at¬ 
tribute  some  of  the  best  of  them  to  those  imaginary 
manuscripts  with  which  I  have  introduced  them. 
There  are  others,  I  must  confess,  whose  objections 
have  given  me  a  greater  concern,  as  they  seem  to 
reflect,  under  this  head,  rather  on  my  morality 
than  on  my  invention.  These  are  they  who  say 
an  author  is  guilty  of  falsehood,  when  he  talks  to 
the  public  of  manuscripts  which  he  never  saw,  or 
describes  scenes  of  action  or  discourse  in  which  he 
was  never  engaged.  But  these  gentlemen  would 
do  well  to  consider,  there  is  not  a  fable  or  parable, 
which  ever  was  made  use  of,  that  is  not  liable  to 
this  exception;  since  nothing,  according  to  this 
notion,  can  be  related  innocently,  which  was  not 
once  matter  of  fact.  Beside,  I  think  the  most  or¬ 
dinary  reader  may  be  able  to  discover,  by  my  way 
of  writing,  what  I  deliver  in  these  occurrences  as 
truth,  and  what  as  fiction. 

Since  I  am  unawares  engaged  in  answering  the 
several  objections  which  have  been  made  against 
these  my  works,  I  must  take  notice  that  there  are 
some  who  affirm  a  paper  of  this  nature  should 
always  turn  upon  diverting  subjects,  and  others 
who  find  fault  with  every  one  of  them  that  hath 
not  an  immediate  tendency  to  the  advancement 
of  religion  or  learning.  I  shall  leave  these  gen¬ 
tlemen  to  dispute  it  among  themselves;  since  I  see 
one  half  my  conduct  patronized  by  each  side. 
Were  I  serious  on  an  improper  subject,  or  trifling 
in  a  serious  one,  I  should  deservedly  draw  upon 
me  the  censure  of  my  readers;  or,  were  I  conscious 
of  anything  in  my  writings  that  is  not  innocent  at 
least,  or  that  the  greatest  part  of  them  were  not 
sincerely  designed  to  discountenance  vice  and  igno¬ 
rance,  and  support  the  interest  of  truth,  wisdom, 
and  virtue,  I  should  be  more  severe  upon  myself 
than  the  public  is  disposed  to  be.  In  the  mean¬ 
while  I  desire  my  reader  to  consider  every  partic¬ 
ular  paper  or  discourse  as  a  distinct  tract  by  itself, 
and  independent  of  everything  that  goes  before  or 
after  it. 

I  shall  end  this  paper  with  the  following  letter, 
which  was  really  sent  me,  as  some  others  have 
been  which  I  have  published,  and  for  which  I  must 
own  myself  indebted  to  their  respective  writers; 

“Sir, 

“I  was  this  morning  in  a  company  of  your  well- 
wishers,  when  we  read  over,  with  great  satisfac¬ 
tion,  Tully’s  observation  on  action  adapted  to  the 
British  theater;  though,  by  the  way,  we  were  very 
iorry  to  find  that  you  have  disposed  of  another 
member  of  your  club.  Poor  Sir  Roger  is  dead, 
and  the  worthy  clergyman  dying;  Captain  Sentry 
has  taken  possession  of  a  good  estate;  Will  Hon¬ 
eycomb  has  married  a  farmer's  daughter;  and  the 
Templar  withdraws  himself  into  the  business  of 
his  own  profession.  What  will  all  this  end  in  ? 
We  are  afraid  it  portends  no  good  to  the  public. 
Unless  you  very  speedily  fix  the  day  for  the  elec¬ 
tion  of  new  members,  we  are  under  apprehensions 
of  losing  the  British  Spectator.  I  hear  of  a  party 
of  ladies  who  intend  to  address  you  on  this  sub- 
41 


641 

ject;  and  question  not,  if  you  do  not  give  us  the 
slip  very  suddenly,  that  you  will  receive  addresses 
from  all  parts  of  the  kingdom  to  continue  so  use- 
iul  a  work.  Pray  deliver  us  out  of  this  perplexity; 
and,  among  the  multitude  of  your  readers,  you 
will  particularly  oblige 

“Your  most  sincere  Friend  and  Servant, 

O*  “Philo-Spec.” 


No.  543.]  SATURDAY,  NOVEMBER  22,  1712. 

- —  Facies  non  omnibus  una, 

Nec  di versa  tamen -  Ovid,  Met.  ii.  12. 

Similar,  though  not  the  same. - 

Those  who  were  skillful  in  anatomy,  among  the 
ancients,  concluded,  from  the  outward  and  inward 
make  of  a  human  body,  that  it  was  the  work  of  a 
Being  transcendently  wise  and  powerful.  As  the 
world  grew  more  enlightened  in  this  art,  their 
discoveries  gave  them  fresh  opportunities  of  ad¬ 
miring  the  conduct  of  Providence  in  the  formation 
of  a  human  body.  Galen  was  converted  by  his 
dissections,  and  could  not  but  own  a  Supreme  Be¬ 
ing  upon  a  survey  of  this  his  handy- work.  There 
were,  indeed,  many  parts,  of  which  the  old  anato¬ 
mists  did  not  know  the  certain  use;  but,  as  they 
saw  that  most  of  these  which  they  examined  were 
adapted  with  admirable  art  to  their  several  func¬ 
tions,  they  did  not  question  but  those,  whose  use 
they  could  not  determine,  were  contrived  with  the 
same  wisdom  for  respective  ends  and  purposes. 
Since  the  circulation  of  the  blood  has  been  found 
out,  and  many  other  great  discoveries  have  been 
made  by  our  modern  anatomists,  we  see  new  won¬ 
ders  in  the  human  frame,  and  discern  several  im¬ 
portant  uses  for  those  parts,  which  uses  the  ancients 
knew  nothing  of.  In  short,  the  body  of  man  is 
such  a  subject  as  stands  the  utmost  test  of  exam¬ 
ination.  though  it  appears  formed  with  the  nicest 
wisdom,  upon  the  most  superficial  survey  of  it,  it 
still  mends  upon  the  search,  and  produces  our  sur¬ 
prise  and  amazement  in  proportion  as  we  pry  into 
it.  What  I  have  here  said  of  a  human  body  may 
be  applied  to  the  body  of  every  animal  which  has 
been  the  subject  of  anatomical  observations. 

The  body  of  an  animal  is  an  object  adequate  to 
our  senses.  It  is  a  particular  system  of  Provi¬ 
dence  that  lies  in  a  narrow  compass.  The  eye  is 
able  to  command  it,  and  by  successive  inquiries 
can  search  into  all  its  parts.  Could  the  body  of  the 
whole  earth,  or  indeed  the  whole  universe,  be  thus 
submitted  to  the  examination  of  our  senses,  were 
it  not  too  big  and  disproportioned  for  our  inquiries, 
too  unwieldy  for  the  management  of  the  eye  and 
hand,  there  is  no  question  but  it  would  appear  to 
us  as  curious  and  well  contrived  a  frame  as  that 
of  a  human  body.  We  should  see  the  same  con¬ 
catenation  and  subserviency,  the  same  necessity 
and  usefulness,  the  same  beauty  and  harmony,  in 
all  and  eveiy  of  its  parts,  as  what  we  discover 
in  the  body  of  every  single  animal. 

The  more  extended  our  reason  is,  and  the  more 
able  to  grapple  with  immense  objects,  the  greater 
still  are  those  discoveries  which  it  makes  of  wis¬ 
dom  and  providence  in  the  works  of  the  creation. 
A  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  who  stands  up  as  the  miracle 
of  the  present  age,  can  look  through  a  whole  plan¬ 
etary  system;  consider  it  in  its  weight,  number, 
and  measure;  and  draw  from  it  as  many  demon¬ 
strations  of  infinite  power  and  wisdom,  as  a  more 
confined  understanding  is  able  to  deduce  from  the 
system  of  a  human  body. 

But  to  return  to  our  speculations  on  anatomy,  I 
shall  here  consider  the  fabric  and  texture  of  the 
bodies  of  animals  in  one  particular  view;  which, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


642 

in  my  opinion,  shows  the  hand  of  a  thinking  and 
all-wise  Being  in  their  formation,  with  the  evidence 
of  a  thousand  demonstrations.  I  think  we  may 
lay  this  down  as  an  incontested  principle,  that 
chance  never  acts  in  a  perpetual  uniformity  and 
consistency  with  itself.  If  one  should  always  fling 
the  same  number  with  ten  thousand  dice,  or  see 
every  throw  just  five  times  less,  or  five  times  more 
in  number,  than  the  throw  which  immediately 
preceded  it,  who  would  not  imagine  there  is  some 
invisible  power  which  directs  the  cast  ?  This  is 
the  proceeding  which  we  find  in  the  operations  of 
nature.  Every  kind  of  animal  is  diversified  by 
different  magnitudes,  each  of  which  give  rise  to  a 
different  species.  Let  a  man  trace  the  dog  or  lion 
kind,  and  he  will  observe  how  many  of  the  works 
of  nature  are  published,  if  I  may  use  the  expres¬ 
sion,  in  a  variety  of  editions.  If  we  look  into  the 
reptile  world,  or  into  those  different  kinds  of  ani¬ 
mals  that  fill  the  element  of  water,  we  meet  with  the 
same  repetitions  among  several  species,  that  differ 
very  little  from  one  another,  but  in  size  and  bulk. 
You  find  the  same  creature  that  is  drawn  at  large 
copied  out  in  several  proportions  and  ending  in 
miniature.  It  would  be  tedious  to  produce  in¬ 
stances  of  this  regular  conduct  in  Providence,  as 
it  would  be  superfluous  to  those  who  are  versed 
in  the  natural  history  of  animals.  The  magnifi¬ 
cent  harmony  of  the  universe  is  such,  that  we  may 
observe  innumerable  divisions  running  upon  the 
same  ground.  I  might  also  extend  this  specula¬ 
tion  to  the  dead  parts  of  nature,  in  which  we  may 
find  matter  disposed  into  many  similar  systems, 
as  well  in  our  survey  of  stars  and  planets,  as  of 
stones,  vegetables,  and'other  sublunary  parts  of  the 
creation.  In  a  word.  Providence  has  shown  the 
richness  of  its  goodness  and  wisdom,  not  only  in 
the  production  of  many  original  species,  but  in  the 
multiplicity  of  descants*  which  it  has  made  on 
every  original  species  in  particular. 

But  to  pursue  this  thought  still  further.  Every 
living  creature  considered  in  itself  has  many  very 
complicated  parts  that  are  exact  copies  of  some 
other  parts  which  it  possesses,  and  which  are 
complicated  in  the  same  manner.  One  eye  would 
have  been  sufficient  for  the  subsistence  and  preser¬ 
vation  of  an  animal ;  but  in  order  to  better  his 
condition  we  see  another  placed  with  a  mathemat¬ 
ical  exactness  in  the  same  most  advantageous  sit¬ 
uation,  and  in  every  particular  of  the  same  size 
and  texture.  Is  it  possible  for  chance  to  be  thus 
delicate  and  uniform  in  her  operations  ?  Should 
a  million  of  dice  turn  up  twice  together  the  same 
number,  the  wonder  would  be  nothing  in  compari¬ 
son  with  this.  But  when  we  see  this  similitude 
and  resemblance  in  the  arm,  the  hand,  the  fingers; 
when  we  see  one  half  of  the  body  entirely  corre¬ 
spond  with  the  other  in  all  those  minute  strokes, 
without  which  a  man  might  have  very  well  sub¬ 
sisted;  nay,  when  we  often  see  a  single  part  re¬ 
peated  a  hundred  times  in  the  same  body  notwith¬ 
standing  it  consists  of  the  most  intricate  weaving 
of  numberless  fibers,  and  these  parts  differing 
still  in  magnitude,  as  the  convenience  of  their  par¬ 
ticular  situation  requires;  sure  a  man  must  have 
a  strange  cast  of  understanding,  who  does  not  dis¬ 
cover  the  finger  of  God  in  so  wonderful  a  work. 
These  duplicates  in  those  parts  of  the  body,  with¬ 
out  which  a  man  might  have  very  well  subsisted, 
though  not  so  w7ell  as  with  them,  are  a  plain  de¬ 
monstration  of  an  all-wise  Contriver,  as  those 
more  numerous  copyings  which  are  found  among 
the  vessels  of  the  same  body,  are  evident  demon¬ 
strations  that  they  could  not  be  the  work  of  chance. 


*  Meant  perhaps  for  “  descents,”  i.  e.,  progress  downward. — 
Johnson. 


This  argument  receives  additional  strength,  if  we 
apply  it  to  every  animal  and  insect  within  our 
knowledge,  as  well  as  to  those  numberless  living 
creatures  that  are  objects  too  minute  for  a  human 
eye :  and  if  we  consider  how  the  several  species 
in  this  whole  world  of  life  resemble  one  ano¬ 
ther  in  very  many  particulars,  so  far  as  is  con¬ 
venient  for  their  respective  states  of  existence,  it 
is  much  more  probable  that  a  hundred  millions  of 
dice  should  be  casually  thrown  a  hundred  mil¬ 
lions  of  times  in  the  same  number,  than  that  the 
body  of  any  single  animal  should  be  produced  by 
the  fortuitous  concourse  of  matter.  And  that  the 
like  chance  should  arise  in  innumerable  instan¬ 
ces,  requires  a  degree  of  credulity  that  is  not  un¬ 
der  the  direction  of  common  sense.  We  may 
carry  this  consideration  yet  further,  if  we  reflect 
on  the  two  sexes  in  every  living  species,  with 
their  resemblances  to  each  other,  ana  those  par¬ 
ticular  distinctions  that  were  necessary  for  the 
keeping  up  of  this  great  world  of  life. 

There  are  many  more  demonstrations  of  a  Su¬ 
preme  Being,  and  of  his  transcendent  wisdom, 
power,  and  goodness,  in  the  formation  of  the  body 
of  a  living  creature,  for  which  I  refer  my  reader 
to  other  writings,  particularly  to  the  sixth  book 
of  the  poem  entitled  Creation,*  where  the  anato¬ 
my  of  the  human  body  is  described  with  great 
perspicuity  and  elegance.  I  have  been  particular 
on  the  thought  which  runs  through  this  specula¬ 
tion,  because  I  have  not  seen  it  enlarged  upon  by 
others. — 0. 


Ho.  544.]  MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  24,  1712. 

Nunquam  ita  quisquam  bene  subducta  ratione  ad  vitam  fuit, 
Quin  res,  setas,  usus  semper  aliquid  apportet  novi, 

Aliquid  moneat :  ut  ilia,  qua3  te  scire  credas,  nescias ; 

Et,  quae  tibi  putaris  prima,  in  experiendo  ut  repudies. 

Ter.  Adelph.  act  y.  sc.  4. 

No  man  was  ever  so  completely  skilled  in  the  conduct  of  life, 
as  not  to  receive  new  information  from  age  and  experience ; 
insomuch  that  we  find  ourselves  really  ignorant  of  what  we 
thought  we  understood,  and  see  cause  to  reject  what  we  fan¬ 
cied  our  truest  interest. 

There  are,  I  think,  sentiments  in  the  following 
letter  from  my  friend  Captain  Sentry,  which  dis¬ 
cover  a  rational  and  equal  frame  of  mind,  as  well 
prepared  for  an  advantageous  as  an  unfortunate 
change  of  condition  : — 

“  Coverley-hall,  Nov.  15, 

“Sir,  Worcestershire. 

“I  am  come  to  the  succession  of  the  estate  of 
my  honored  kinsman,  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley;  and 
I  assure  you  I  find  it  no  easy  task  to  keep  up  the 
figure  of  master  of  the  fortune  which  was  so  hand¬ 
somely  enjoyed  by  that  honest,  plain  man.  I  can¬ 
not  (with  respect  to  the  great  obligations  I  have, 
be  it  spoken)  reflect  upon  his  character,  but  I  am 
confirmed  in  the  truth  which  I  have,  I  think, 
heard  spoken  at  the  club;  to  wit,  that  a  man  of  a 
warm  and  well-disposed  heart,  with  a  very  small 
capacity,  is  highly  superior  in  human  society  to 
him  who  with  the  greatest  talents,  is  cold  and 
languid  in  his  affections.  But  alas !  why  do  1 
make  a  difficulty  in  speaking  of  my  worthy  ances¬ 
tor’s  failings  ?  His  little  absurdities  and  incapa¬ 
city  for  the  conversation  of  the  politest  men  are 
dead  with  him,  and  his  greater  qualities  are  even 
now  useful  to  him.  I  know  not  whether  by  naming 
those  disabilities  I  do  not  enhance  his  merit,  since 
he  has  left  behind  him  a  reputation  in  his  coun¬ 
try,  which  would  be  worth  the  pains  of  the  wisest 


*  Creation.  A  poem  by  Sir  Packard  Blackmore. 


THE  SPE 

man’s  whole  life  to  arrive  at.  By  the  way,  I  must 
observe  to  you,  that  many  of  your  readers  have 
mistook  that  passage  in  your  writings,  wherein 
Sir  Roger  is  reported  to  have  inquired  into  the 
pri '  ate  character  of  the  jmung  woman  at  the  tav¬ 
ern.  I  know  you  mentioned  that  circumstance 
as  an  instance  of  the  simplicity  and  innocence 
of  his  mind,  which  made  him  imagine  it  a  very 
easy  thing  to  reclaim  one  of  those  criminals,  and 
not  as  an  inclination  in  him  to  be  guilty  with  her. 
The  less  discerning  of  your  readers  cannot  enter 
into  that  delicacy  of  description  in  the  character  : 
but  indeed  my  chief  business  at  this  time  is  to 
represent  to.  you  my  present  state  of  mind,  and 
the  satisfaction  I  promise  to  myself  in  the  posses¬ 
sion  of  my  new  fortune.  I  have  continued  all  Sir 
Roger’s  servants,  except  such  as  it  was  a  relief  to 
dismiss  into  little  beings  within  my  manor.  Those 
who  are  in  a  list  of  the  good  knight’s  own  hand 
to  be  taken  care  of  by  me,  I  have  quartered  upon 
such  as  have  taken  uew  leases  of  me,  and  added 
so  many  advantages  during  the  lives  of  the  per¬ 
sons  so  quartered,  that  it  is  the  interest  of  those 
whom  they  are  joined  with  to  cherish  and  befriend 
them  upon  all  occasions.  I  find  a  considerable 
sum  of  ready  money,  which  I  am  laying  out  among 
my  dependents  at  the  common  'interest,  but  with 
a  design  to  lend  it  according  to  their  merit,  rather 
than  according  to  their  ability.  I  shall  lay  a  tax 
upon  such  as  I  have  highly  obliged,  to  become 
security  to  me  for  such  of  their  own  poor  youth, 
whether  male  or  female,  as  want  help  toward  get¬ 
ting  into  some  being  in  the  world.  I  hope  I  shall 
be  able  to  manage  my  affairs  so  as  to  improve  my 
fortune  every  year  by  doing  acts  of  kindness.  I 
will  lend  my  money  to  the  use  of  none  but  indi¬ 
gent  men,  secured  by  such  as  have  ceased  to  be 
indigent  by  the  favor  of  my  family  or  myself. 
What  makes  this  the  more  practicable  is,  that  if 
they  will  do  any  one  good  with  my  money,  they  are 
welcome  to  it  upon  their  own  security  :  and  I 
make  no  exception  against  it,  because  the  persons 
who  enter  into  the  obligations  do  it  for  their  own 
family.  I  have  laid  out  four  thousand  pounds 
this  way,  and  it  is  not  to  be  imagined  what  a 
crowd  of  people  are  obliged  by  it.  In  cases  where 
Sir  Roger  has  recommended,  I  have  lent  money 
to  put  out  children,  with  a  clause  which  makes 
void  the  obligation  in  case  the  infant  dies  before 
he  is  out  of  his  apprenticeship;  by  which  means 
the  kindred  and  masters  are  extremely  careful  of 
breeding  him  to  industry,  that  he  may  repay  it 
himself  by  his  labor  in  three  years’  journey-work 
after  his  time  is  out,  for  the  use  of  his  securities. 
Opportunities  of  this  kind  are  all  that  have  occur- 
ea  since  I  came  to  my  estate :  but  I  assure  you  I 
will  preserve  a  constant  disposition' to  catch  at  all 
the  occasions  I  can  to  promote  the  good  and  hap¬ 
piness  of  my  neighborhood. 

“  But  give  me  leave  to  lay  before  you  a  little 
establishment  which  has  grown  out  of  my  past 
life,  that  I  doubt  not  will  administer  great  satis¬ 
faction  to  me  in  that  part  of  it,  whatever  that  is, 
which  is  to  come. 

“  There  is  a  prejudice  in  favor  of  the  way  of 
life  to  which  a  man  has  been  educated,  which  I 
know  not  whether  it  would  not  be  faulty  to  over¬ 
come.  It  is  like  a  partiality  to  the  interest  of  one’s 
own  country  before  that  of  any  other  nation.  It 
is  from  a  habit  of  thinking,  grown  upon  me  from 
my  youth  spent  in  arms,  that  I  have  ever  held 
gentlemen,  who  have  preserved  modesty,  good-na¬ 
ture,  justice  and  humanity,  in  a  soldier’s  life,  to 
be  the  most  valuable  and  worthy  persons  of  the  ■ 
human  race.  To  pass  through  imminent  dangers,  ! 
suffer  painful  watchings,  frightful  alarms,  and 
laborious  marches,  for  the  greater  part  of  a  man’s 


otator.  643 

time,  and  pass  the  rest  in  sobriety  conformable  to 
the  rules  of  the  most  virtuous  civil  life,  is  a  merit 
too  great  to  deserve  the  treatment  it  usually  meets 
with  among  the  other  part  of  the  world.  But  I 
assure  you,  Sir,  were  there  not  very  many  who 
ha\e  this  worth,  we  could  never  have  seen  the 
glorious  events  which  we  have  in  our  days.  I 
need  not  say  more  to  illustrate  the  character  of  a 
soldier  than  to  tell  you  he  is  the  very  contrary  to 
him  you  observe  loud,  saucy,  and  overbearing,  in 
a  led  coat  about  town.  But  I  was  going  to  tell 
you  that,  in  honor  of  the  profession  of  arms,  I 
ha\  e  set  apart  a  certain  sum  of  money  for  a  table  for 
such  gentlemen  as  have  served  their  country  in 
the  army,  and  wrill  please  from  time  to  time  to  so¬ 
il011!11  all,  or  any  part  of  the  year,  at  Coverley. 
Such  of  them  as  will  do  me  that  honor  shall  find 
horses,  servants,  and  all  things  necessary  for 
their  accommodation  and  enjoyment  of  all  the 
conveniences  of  life  in  a  pleasant  various  country. 
If  Colonel  Camperfelt*  be  in  town,  and  his  abili¬ 
ties  are  not  employed  another  way  in  the  service, 
there  is  no  man  would  be  more  welcome  here. 
That  gentleman’s  thorough  knowdedge  in  his  pro¬ 
fession,  together  with  the  simplicity  of  his  man¬ 
ners  and  goodness  of  his  heart"  would  induce  oth¬ 
ers  like  him  to  honor  my  abode;  and  I  should  be 
glad  my  acquaintance  would  take  themselves  to 
be  invited  or  not,  as  their  characters  have  an  af¬ 
finity  to  his. 

“  I  would  have  all  my  friends  know  that  they 
need  not  fear  (though  I  am  become  a  country  gen¬ 
tleman)  I  will  trespass  against  their  temperance 
and  sobriety.  Ho,  Sir,  I  shall  retain  so  much  of 
the  good  s.entiments  for  the  conduct  of  life,  which 
we  cultivated  in  each  other  at  our  club,  as  to  con¬ 
temn  all  inordinate  pleasures,  but  particularly 
remember,  with  our  beloved  Tully,  that  the  delight 
in  food  consists  in  desire,  not  satiety.  They  who 
most  passionately  pursue  pleasure  seldomest  ar¬ 
rive  at  it.  How  I  am  waiting  to  a  philosopher  I 
cannot  forbear  mentioning  the  satisfaction  I  took 
in  the  passage  I  read  yesterday  in  the  same  Tully. 
A  nobleman  of  Athens  made  a  compliment  to  Plato 
the  morning  after  he  had  supped  at  his  house : 
‘Your  entertainments  do  not  only  please  when 
you  give  them,  but  also  the  day  after.’ 

“  I  am,  my  worthy  Friend, 

“Your  most  obedient  humble  Servant, 

T.  “William  Sentry.” 


Ho.  545.]  TUESDAY,  HOVEMBER  25,  1712. 

Quin  potius  pacem  aeternam  pactosque  hymen  seos 
Exercemus - 1  Vmc.  iEn.  iv.  99. 

Let  us  in  bonds  of  lasting  peace  unite, 

And  celebrate  the  hymeneal  rite. 

I  cannot  but  think  the  following  letter  from  the 
Emperor  of  China  to  the  Pope  of  Rome,  proposing 
a  coalition  of  the  Chinese  and  Roman  churches, 
will  be  acceptable  to  the  curious.  I  must  confess, 
I  myself  being  of  opinion  that  the  Emperor  has  as 
much  authority  to  be  interpreter  to  him  he  pre¬ 
tends  to  expound,  as  the  Pope  has  to  be  vicar  of 
the  sacred  person  he  takes  upon  him  to  represent, 
I  was  not  a  little  pleased  wTith  their  treaty  of  alli¬ 
ance.  What  progress  the  negotiation  between  his 
majesty  of  Rome  and  his  holiness  of  China  makes 
(as  we  daily  writers  say  upon  subjects  where  we 
are  at  a  loss)  time  will  let  us  know.  In.  the  mean 


*  Colonel  Camperfelt.  Spect.  in  folio.  A  fine  compliment 
to  the  father  of  the  l#te  worthy  Admiral  Kempenfelt,  who 
was  drowned  in  the  Royal  George  at  Spithead,  Aug.  29,  1782. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


644 

time,  since  they  agree  in  the  fundamentals  of  power 
and  authority,  and  differ  only  in  matters  of  faith, 
we  may  expect  the  matter  will  go  on  without 
difficulty. 

Copia  di  lettera  del  re  della  China  al  Papa,  inter- 

pretata  dal  padre  segretario  dell’  India  della 

compagna  di  Giesu. 

“  A  voi  benedetto  sopra  i  benedetti  P.  P.  et  impera- 

dore  grande  de  pontijicie  pastore  Xmo,  dispensatore 

del  oglio  de  ire  d’  Europa,  Clemente  XI. 

“II  favorito  amico  di  Dio  Gionata  7°,  potentis- 
simo  sopra  tutti  i  potentissimi  della  terra,  altissi- 
mo  s6pra  tutti  gl’  altissimi  sotto  il  sole  e  la  luna 
che  sede  nella  sede  di  smeraldo  della  China  s6pra 
cento  scalini  d’  oro,  ad  interpretare  la  lingua  di 
Dio  a  tutti  i  descendenti  fedeli  d’  Abramo,  chi  da 
la  vita  e  la  morte  a  cento  quindici  regni,  ed  a  cento 
settante  isole,  scrive  con  la  penna  dello  struzzo 
vergine,  e  man  da  salute  ed  accresimento  di  vec- 
ehiezza. 

“  Essendo  arrivato  il  tempo  in  cui  il  fiore  della 
reale  nostra  gioventu  deve  maturare  i  frutti  della 
nostra  vecchiezza,  e  confortare  con  quell’  i  desid- 
erii  dei  populi  nostri  divoti,  e  propagare  il  seme 
di  quella  pianta  che  deve  proteggerli,  habbiamo 
stabillito  d’  accompagnarci  con  una  vergine  eccelsa 
ed  amorosa  allattata  alia  mamella  della  leonessa 
forte  e  dell’  agnella  mansueta.  Percio  essendoci 
stato  figurato  sempre  il  vostro  populo  Europeo 
Romano  per  paese  di  donne  invitte,  e  forte,  e  caste; 
allongiamo  la  nostra  mano  potente,  a  stringere  una 
di  loro,  e  questa  sark  una  vostra  nipote,  o  nipote 
di  qualche  altro  gran  sacerdote  Latino,  che  sia 
guardata  dall’  occhio  dritto  di  Dio,  sarir  seminata 
in  lei  1’  autorita  di  Sarra,  la  fedelta  d’  Esther,  e  la 
sapienza  di  Abba;  la  vogliamo  con  1’  occhio  della 
colomba  che  guarda  il  cielo,  e  la  terra,  e  con  la 
bocca  della  conchiglia  che  si  pasce  della  ruggiada 
del  matino.  La  sua  eta  non  passi  ducento  corsi 
della  luna,  la  sua  statura  sia  alta  quanto  la  spicca 
dritta  del  grano  verde,  e  la  sua  grossezza  quanto 
un  manipolo  di  grano  secco.  Noi  lamandaremmo 
a  vestire  per  li  nostri  mandatici  ambasciadori,  e 
chi  la  coriduranno  a  noi,  e  noi  incontraremmo  alia 
riva  del  fiume  grande  facendola  salire  su  nostro 
cocchio.  Ella  potra  adorare  appresso  di  noi  il 
suo  Dio,  con  venti  quattro  altre  vergini  a  sua  ellez- 
zione  e  potra  cantare  con  loro,  come  la  tottora  alia 
primavera. 

“  Sodisfando  0  padre  e  amico  nostro  questa 
nostra  brama,  sarete  caggione  di  unire  in  perpetua 
amicitia  cotesti  vostri  regni  d’  Europa  al  nostro 
dominante  imperio,  e  si  abbracciranno  le  vostri 
leggi  come  1’  edera  abbraccia  la  pianta;  e  noi  med- 
esemi  spargeremo  del  nostro  seme  reale  in  coteste 
provinci,  riscaldando  i  letti  di  vostri  principi  con 
il  fuoco  amoroso  delle  nostre  amazoni,  d’  alcune 
idelle  quali  i  nostri  mandatici  ambasciadori  vi 
jporteranno  le  somiglianze  dipinte. 

“Vi  confirmiamo  di  tenere  in  pace  le  due  buone 
religiose  famiglie  delli  missionarii  gli’  figlioli  d’ 
Ignazio,  e  li  bianchi  e  neri  figlioli  di  Dominico,  il 
^eui  consiglio  degl’  uni  e  degl’  altri  ci  serve  di 
scorta  nel  nostro  regimento  e  di  lume  ad  interpre¬ 
tare  le  divine  legge,  come  appuncto  fadume  1’  oglio 
che  si  getta  in  mare. 

“In  tanto  alzandoci  dal  nostro  trono  per  abbrac- 
ciarvi,  vi  dichiariamo  nostro  congiunto  e  confeder¬ 
ate,  ed  ordiniarao  che  questo  foglio  sia  segnato 
col  nostro  segno  imperial  della  nostra  citta,  capo 
del  mondo,  il  quinto  giorno  della  terza  lunatione 
T  anno  quarto  del  nostro  imperio. 

“  Sigillo  £  un  sole  nella  cui  faccia  6  anche  quella 
della  luna  ed  intorno  tra  i  raggi  vi  sono  traposte 
.alcune  spade. 


“  Dico  il  traduttore  che  secondo  il  ceremonial  di 
questo  lettere  e  recedentissimo  specialmente  fessere 
scritto  con  la  penna  della  struzzo-vergine  con  la 
quella  non  soglionsi  scrivere  quei  re  che  le  pregiere 
a  Dio  e  scrivendo  a  qualche  altro  principe  del 
mondo,  la  maggior  finezza  che  usino,  e  scnvergli 
con  la  penna  del  pavone.” 

A  letter  from  the  Emperor  of  China  to  the  Pope, 
interpreted  by  a  father  Jesuit,  secretary  of  the 
Indies. 

“  To  you  blessed  above  the  blessed,  great  emperor  of 
bishops  and  pastor  of  Christians,  dispenser  of  the 
oil  of  the  kings  of  Europe,  Clement  XI. 

“  The  favorite  friend  of  God,  Gionetta  the  VHth, 
the  most  powerful  above  the  most  powerful  of  the 
earth,  highest  above  the  highest  under  the  sun  and 
moon,  who  sits  on  a  throne  of  emerald  of  China 
above  one  hundred  steps  of  gold,  to  interpret  the 
language  of  God  to  the  faithful,  and  who  gives 
life  and  death  to  one  hundred  and  fifteen  king¬ 
doms,  and  one  hundred  and  seventy  islands;  he 
writes  with  the  quill  of  a  virgin  ostrich,  and  sends 
health  and  increase  of  old  age. 

“  Being  arrived  at  the  time  of  our  age,  in  which 
the  flower  of  our  royal  youth  ought  to  ripen  into 
fruit  toward  old  age,  to  comfort  therewith  the  de¬ 
sire  of  our  devoted  people,  and  to  propagate  the 
seed  of  that  plant  which  must  protect  them  :  we 
have  determined  to  accompany  ourselves  with  a 
high  amorous  virgin,  suckled  at  the  breast  of  a 
wild  lioness,  and  a  meek  lamb;  and,  imagining 
with  ourselves  that  your  European  Roman  people 
is  the  father  of  many  unconquerable  and  chaste 
ladies,  we  stretch  out  our  powerful  arm  to  embrace 
one  of  them,  and  she  shall  be  one  of  your  nieces, 
or  the  niece  of  some  other  great  Latin  priest,  the 
darling  of  God’s  right  eye.  Let  the  authority  of 
Sarah  be  sown  in  her,  the  fidelity  of  Esther,  and 
the  wisdom  of  Abba.  We  would  have  her  eye 
like  that  of  a  dove,  which  may  look  upon  heaven 
and  earth,  with  the  mouth  of  a  shell-fish  to  feed 
upon  the  dew  of  the  morning;  her  age  must  not 
exceed  two  hundred  courses  of  the  moon;  let  her 
stature  be  equal  to  that  of  an  ear  of  green  corn, 
and  her  girth  a  handful. 

“We  will  send  our  mandarines  ambassadors  to 
clothe  her,  and  to  conduct  her  to  us,  and  we  will 
meet  her  on  the  bank  of  the  great  river,  making 
her  to  leap  up  into  our  chariot.  She  may  with  us 
worship  her  own  God,  together  with  twenty-four 
virgins  of  her  own  choosing;  and  she  may  sing 
with  them  as  the  turtle  in  the  spring. 

“You,  0  father  and  friend,  complying  with  this 
our  desire,  may  be  an  occasion  of  uniting  in  per¬ 
petual  friendship  our  high  empire  with  your  Eu¬ 
ropean  kingdoms,  and  we  may  embrace  your  laws 
as  the  ivy  embraces  the  tree;  and  we  ourselves 
may  scatter  our  royal  blood  into  your  provinces, 
warming  the  chief  of  your  princes  with  the  amor¬ 
ous  fire  of  our  amazons,  the  resembling  pictures 
of  some  of  which  our  said  mandarines  ambassa¬ 
dors  shall  convey  to  you. 

_  “  We  exhort  you  to  keep  in  peace  two  good  reli¬ 
gious  families  of  missionaries,  the  black  sons  of 
Ignatius,  and  the  white  and  black  sons  of  Domin- 
icus ;  that  the  counsel,  both  of  the  one  and  the 
other,  may  serve  as  a  guide  to  us  in  our  govern¬ 
ment,  and  a  light  to  interpret  the  divine  law,  as 
the  oil  cast  into  the  sea  produces  light. 

“  To  conclude,  we  rising  up  in  our  throne  to 
embrace  you,  we  declare  you  our  ally  and  confed¬ 
erate;  and  have  ordered  this  leaf  to  be  sealed  with 
our  imperial  signet,  in  our  royal  city  the  head  of 
the  world,  the  eighth  day  of  the  third  lunation, 
and  the  fourth  year  of  our  reign.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Letters  from  Rome  say,  the  whole  conversation 
both  among  gentlemen  and  ladies  has  turned  upon 
uie  subject  of  this  epistle,  ever  since  it  arrived. 
The  Jesuit  who  translated  it  says,  it  loses  much 
of  the  majesty  of  the  original  in  the  Italian.  It 
seems  there  was  an  offer  of  the  same  nature  made 

v^rTT  trTcessor  °f  the  present  Emperor  to  Lewis 
XIII,  of  France;  but  no  lady  of  that  court  would 
take  the  voyage,  that  sex  not  being  at  that  time 
so  much  used  in  politic  negotiations.  The  man¬ 
ner  of  treating  the  Pope  is,  according  to  the  Chi¬ 
nese  ceremonial,  very  respectful,  for  the  Emperor 
writes  to  him  with  the  quill  of  a  virgin  ostrich, 
which  was  never  used  before  but  in  writing  prayers. 
Instructions  are  preparing  for  the  lady  who  shall 
have  so  much  zeal  as  to  undertake  this  pilgrimage 
and  be  an  empress  for  the  sake  of  her  religion. 
The  principal  of  the  Indian  missionaries  has  given 
m  a  list  of  the  reigning  sins  in  China,  in  order  to 
prepare  the  indulgences  necessary  to  this  lady  and 
her  retinue,  in  advancing  the  interests  of  the  Ro¬ 
man  Catholic  religion  in  those  kingdoms. 

“To  THE  SPECTATOR-GrENERAL. 

“  May  it  please  your  honor, 

I  have  of  late  seen  French  hats  of  a  prodigious 
magnitude  pass  by  my  observatory. 

“John  Sly,” 


645 


No.  546.]  WEDNESDAY,  NOV.  26,  1712. 

Omnia  patefacienda  ut  ne  quid  omnino,  quod  venditor  norit 
emptor  ignoret. — Tull.  ’ 

Everything  should  be  fairly  told,  that  the  buyer  may  not  be 
ignorant  of  anything  which  the  seller  knows. 

It  gives  me  very  great  scandal  to  observe 
wherever  I  go,  how  much  skill,  in  buying  all  man¬ 
ner  of  goods,  there  is  necessary  to  defend  yourself 
from  being  cheated  in  whatever  you  see  exposed 
to  sale.  My  reading  makes  such  a  strong  impres¬ 
sion  upon  me,  that  I  should  think  myself  a  cheat 
in  my  way,  if  I  should  translate  anything  from 
another  tongue,  and  not  acknowledge  it  to  my 
readers.  I  understood  from  common  report,  that 
Mr.  Cibber  was  introducing  a  French  play  upon 
our  stage,  and  thought  myself  concerned  to  let 
the  town  know  what  was  his,  and  what  was  for¬ 
eign*  When  I  came  to  the  rehearsal,  I  found  the 
house  so  partial  to  one  of  their  own  fraternity,  that 
they  gave  everything  which  was  said  such  grace, 
emphasis,  and  force,  in  their  action,  that  it  was  no 
easy  matter  to  make  any  judgment  of  the  perform¬ 
ance.  Mrs.  Oldfield,  who,  it  seems,  is  the  heroic 
daughter,  had  so  just  a  conception  of  her  part, 
that  her  action  made  what  she  spoke  appear  de¬ 
cent,  just  and  noble.  The  passions  of  terror  and 
compassion  they  made  me  believe  were  very  art¬ 
fully  raised,  and  the  whole  conduct  of  the  play 
artful  and  surprising.  We  authors  do  not  much 
relish  the  endeavors  of  players  in  this  kind,  but 
have  the  same  disdain  as  physicians  and  lawyers 
have  when  attorneys  and  apothecaries  give  advice 
Cibber  himself  took  the  liberty  to  tell  me,  that  he 
expected  I  would  do  him  justice,  and  allow  the 
play  well  prepared  for  his  spectators,  whatever  it 
was  for  his  readers.  He  adaed  very  many  partic¬ 
ulars  not  incurious  concerning  the  manner  of 
taking  an  audience,  and  laying  wait  not  only  for 
their  superficial  applause,  but  also  for  insinuating 
into  their  affections  and  passions,  by  the  artful 
management  of  the  look,  voice,  and  gesture,  of 
the  speaker.  I  could  not  but  consent  that  The 
Heroic  Daughter  appeared  in  the  rehearsal  a  mov¬ 
ing  entertainment  wrought  out  of  a  great  and  ex¬ 
emplary  virtue. 


The  advantages  of  action,  show,  and  dress,  on 
these  occasions,  are  allowable,  because  the  merit 
consists  in  being  capable  of  imposing  upon  us  to 
our  advantage  and  entertainment.  All  that  I  was 
going  to  say  about  the  honesty  of  an  author  in  the 
sale  of  his  ware  was,  that  he  ought  to  own  all  that 
he  had  borrowed  from  others,  and  lay  in  a  clear 
light  all  that  he  gives  his  spectators  for  their  mo- 
ney,  with  an  account  of  the  first  manufacturers. 
J^ut  1  intended  to  give  the  lecture  of  this  day  upon 
the  common  and  prostituted  behavior  of  traders 
in  ordinary  commerce.  The  philosopher  made  it 
a  rule  of  trade,  that  your  profit  ought  to  be  the 
common  profit;  and  it  is  unjust  to  make  any  step 
toward  gam,  wherein  the  gain  of  even  those  to 
whom  you  sell  is  not  also  consulted.  A  man 
may  deceive  himself  if  he  thinks  fit,  but  he  is  no 
better  than  a  cheat  who  sells  anything  without 
telling  the  exceptions  against  it,  as  well  as  what 
is  to  be  said  to  its  advantage.  The  scandalous 
abuse  of  language  and  hardening  of  conscience, 
which  may  be  observed  every  day  in  going  from 
one  place  to  another,  is  what  makes  a  whole  city 
to  an  unprejudiced  eye  a  den  of  thieves.  It  was 
no  small  pleasure  to  me  for  this  reason  to  remark, 
as  I  passed  by  Cornhill,  that  the  shop  of  that 
worthy,  honest,  though  lately  unfortunate  citizen, 
Mr.  John  Morton,  so  well  known  in  the  linen 
trade,  is  fitting  up  anew.  Since  a  man  has  been 
in  a  distressed  condition,  it  ought  to  be  a  great 
satisfaction  to  have  passed  through  it  in  such  a 
manner  as  not  to  have  lost  the  friendship  of  those 
who  suffered  with  him,  but  to  receive  an  honorable 
acknowledgment  of  his  honesty  from  those  very 
persons  to  whom  the  law  had  consigned  his  estate. 

The  misfortune  of  this  citizen  is  like  to  prove 
of  a  very  general  advantage  to  those  who  shall 
deal  with  him  hereafter;  for  the  stock  with  which 
he  now  sets  up  being  the  loan  of  his  friends,  he 
cannot  expose  that  to  the  hazard  of  giving  credit, 
but  enteis  into  a  ready-money  trade,  by  which 
means  he  will  both  buy  and  sell  the  best  and 
cheapest.  He  imposes  upon  himself  a  rule  of 
affixing  the  value  of  each  piece  he  sells,  to  the 
P*®??  Rself;  so  that  the  most  ignorant  servant  or 
child  will  be  as  good  a  buyer  at  his  shop  as  the 
most  skillful  in  the  trade.  For  all  which,  you 
have  all  his  hopes  and  fortune  for  your  security. 
To  encourage  dealing  after  this  way,  there  is  not 
only  the  avoiding  the  most  infamous  guilt  in  ordi¬ 
nary  bartering;  but  this  observation,  that  he  who 
buys  with  ready  money  saves  as  much  to  his  fcm- 
ily  as  the  state  exacts  out  of  his  land  for  the  secu¬ 
rity  and  service  of  his  country;  that  is  to  say,  in 
plain  English,  sixteen  will  do  as  much  as  twenty 
shillings.  J 


*  “  Ximena,”  or,  “The  Heroic  Daughter;”  a  tragedy  taken 
from  the  “  Cid  ”  of  Racine,  by  C.  Cibber. 


“Mr.  Spectator, 

“My  heart  is  so  swelled  with  grateful  sentiments 
on  account  of  some  favors  which  I  have  lately  re¬ 
ceived,  that  I  must  beg  leave  to  give  them  utter¬ 
ance  among  the  crowd  of  other  anonymous  cor¬ 
respondents;  and  writing,  I  hope,  will  be  as  great 
a  relief  to  my  forced  silence,  as  it  is  to  your  natu¬ 
ral  taciturnity.  My  generous  benefactor  will  not 
suffer  me  to  speak  to  him  in  any  terms  of  acknow- 
ledgment,  but  ever  treats  me  as  if  he  had  the 
greatest  obligations,  and  uses  me  with  a  distinc¬ 
tion  that  is  not  to  be  expected  from  one  so  much 
my  superior  in  fortune,  years,  and  understanding. 
He  insinuates,  as  if  I  had  a  certain  right  to  his 
favors  from  some  merit,  which  his  particular  in¬ 
dulgence  to  me  has  discovered;  but  that  is  only  a 
beautiful  artifice  to  lessen  the  pain  an  honest  mind 
feels  in  receiving  obligations  when  there  is  no 
probability  of  returning  them. 

“A  gift  is  doubled  when  accompanied  with  such 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


646 

a  delicacy  of  address;  but  what  to  me  gives  it  an 
inexpressible  value,  is  its  coming  from  the  man  I 
most  esteem  in  the  world.  It  pleases  me  indeed, 
as  it  is  an  advantage  and  addition  to  my  fortune; 
but  when  I  consider  it  as  an  instance  of  that  good 
man’s  friendship,  it  overjoys,  it  transports  me;  I 
look  on  it  with  a  lover’s  eye,  and  no  longer  regard 
the  gift,  but  the  hand  that  gave  it.  For  my  friend¬ 
ship  is  so  entirely  void  of  any  gainful  views,  that 
it  often  gives  me  pain  to  think  it  should  have  been 
chargeable  to  him;  and  I  cannot  at  some  melan¬ 
choly  hours  help  doing  his  generosity  the  injury 
of  fearing  it  should  cool  on  this  account,  and  that 
the  last  favor  might  be  a  sort  of  legacy  of  a  de¬ 
parting  friendship. 

“I  confess  these  fears  seem  very  groundless  and 
unjust,  but  you  must  forgive  them  to  the  appre¬ 
hension  of  one  possessed  of  a  great  treasure,  who 
is  frighted  at  the  most  distant  shadow  of  danger. 

“Since  I  have  thus  far  opened  my  heart  to  you, 
I  will  not  conceal  the  secret  satisfaction  I  feel 
there,  of  knowing  the  goodness  of  my  friend  will 
not  be  unrewarded.  I  am  pleased  with  thinking 
the  providence  of  the  Almighty  hath  sufficient 
blessings  in  store  for  him,  and  will  certainly  dis¬ 
charge  the  debt,  though  I  am  not  made  the  happy 
instrument  of  doing  it. 

“  However,  nothing  in  my  power  shall  be  want¬ 
ing  to  show  my  gratitude;  I  will  make  it  the  busi¬ 
ness  of  my  life  to  thank  him;  and  shall  esteem 
(next  to  him)  those  my  best  friends,  who  give  me 
the  greatest  assistance  in  this  good  work.  Print¬ 
ing  this  letter  would  be  some  little  instance  of  my 
gratitude;  and  your  favor  herein  will  very  much 
oblige,  “Your  most  humble  Servant,  etc. 
“Nov.  24.  "W.  C.” 

T. 


No.  547.]  THURSDAY,  NOVEMBER  27,  1712. 

Si  vulnus  tibi,  monstrata  radice  vel  lierba, 

Non  fieret  levius,  fugeres  radice  vel  herba 
Proficiente  nihil  curarier. — Hor.  2  Ep.ii  149. 

Suppose  you  had  a  wound,  and  one  that  show’d, 

An  herb,  which  you  appli’d,but  found  no  good; 

Would  you  be  fond  of  this,  increase  your  pain, 

And  use  the  fruitless  remedy  again? — Creech. 

It  is  very  difficult  to  praise  a  man  without  put¬ 
ting  him  out  of  countenance.  My  following  cor¬ 
respondent  has  found  out  this  uncommon  art,  and, 
together  with  his  friends,  has  celebrated  some  of 
my  speculations  after  such  a  concealed  but  divert¬ 
ing  manner,  that  if  any  of  my  readers  think  I 
am  to  blame  in  publishing  my  own  commenda¬ 
tions,  they  will  allow  I  should  have  deserved  their 
censure  as  much,  had  I  suppressed  the  humor  in 
which  they  are  conveyed  to  me. 

“Sir, 

“  I  am  often  in  a  private  assembly  of  wits  of  both 
sexes,  where  we  generally  descant  upon  your  spec¬ 
ulations,  or  upon  the  subjects  on  which  you  have 
treated.  We  were  last  Tuesday  talking  of  those 
two  volumes  which  you  have  lately  published. 
Some  were  commending  one  of  your  papers,  and 
some  another;  and  there  was  scarce  a  single  person 
in  the  company  that  had  not  a  favorite  speculation. 
Upon  this  a  man  of  wit  and  learning  told  us,  he 
thought  it  would  not  be  amiss  if  we  paid  the  Spec¬ 
tator  the  same  compliment  that  is  often  made  in 
our  public  prints  to  Sir  William  Read,  Dr.  Grant, 
Mr.  Moor  the  apothecary,  and  other  eminent  phy¬ 
sicians,  where  it  is  usual  for  the  patients  to  publish 
the  cures  which  have  been  made  upon  them,  and 
the  several  distempers  under  which  they  labored. 
The  proposal  took;  and  the  lady  where  we  visited 
having  the  two  last  volumes  in  large  paper  inter¬ 


leaved  for  her  j>wn  private  use,  ordered  them  to  be 
brought  down,  and  laid  in  the  window,  whither 
every  one  in  the  company  retired,  and  wrote  down 
a  particular  advertisement  in  the  style  and  phrase 
of  the  like  ingenious  compositions  which  we  fre¬ 
quently  meet  with  at  the  end  of  our  newspapers. 
When  we  had  finished  our  work,  we  read  them 
with 'a  great  deal  of  mirth  at  the  fire-side,  and 
agreed,  nemine  contradicente,  to  get  them  transcribed 
and  sent  to  the  Spectator.  The  gentleman  who 
made  the  proposal  entered  the  following  advertise¬ 
ment  before  the  title-page,  after  which  the  rest 
succeeded  in  order: 

“  Remedium  efjicax  et  universum;  or  an  effectual 
remedy  adapted  to  all  capacities;  showing  how 
any  person  may  cure  himself  of  ill-nature,  pride, 
party  spleen,  or  any  other  distempter  incident  to 
the  human  system,  with  an  easy  way  to  know 
when  the  infection  is  upon  him.  This  panacea  is 
as  innocent  as  bread,  agreeable  to  the  taste,  and 
requires  no  confinement.  It  has  not  its  equal  in 
the  universe,  as  abundance  of  the  nobility  and 
gentry  throughout  the  kingdom  have  experienced. 

“N.  B.  No  family  ought  to  be  without  it.” 

Over  the  two  Spectators  on  Jealousy,  being  the  two 
Jirst  in  the  third  volume.  Nos.  170, 171. 

“I,  William  Crazy,  aged  threescore-and-seven, 
having  been  for  several  years  afflicted  with  uneasy 
doubts,  fears,  and  vapors,  occasioned  by  the  youtn 
and  beauty  of  Mary  my  wife,  aged  twenty-five,  do 
hereby,  for  the  benefit  of  the  public,  give  notice, 
that  1  have  found  great  relief  from  the  two  follow¬ 
ing  doses,  having  taken  them  two  mornings  to¬ 
gether  with  a  dish  of  chocolate.  Witness  my 
hand,”  etc. 

For  the  Benefit  of  the  Poor, 

“  In  charity  to  such  as  are  troubled  with  the 
disease  of  levee-hunting,  and  are  forced  to  seek 
their  bread  every  morning  at  the  chamber-doors  of 
great  men,  I,  A.  B.,  do  testify,  that  for  many  years 
ast  I  labored  under  this  fashionable  distemper, 
ut  was  cured  of  it  by  a  remedy  which  I  bought 
of  Mrs.  Baldwin,  contained  in  a  half  sheet  of  paper, 
marked  No.  193,  where  any  one  may  be  provided 
with  the  same  remedy  at  the  price  of  a  single 
penny. 

“An  infallible  cure  for  hypochondriac  melan¬ 
choly,  Nos.  173,  184,  191,  203,  209,  221,  233,  235, 
239,  245,  247,  251. 

“ Probatum  est.  “Charles  Easy.” 

“I,  Christopher  Query,  having  been  troubled 
with  a  certain  distemper  in  my  tongue,  which 
showed  itself  in  impertinent  and  superfluous  in¬ 
terrogatories,  have  not  asked  one  unnecessary  ques¬ 
tion  since  my  perusal  of  the  prescription  marked 
No.  228. 

“  The  Britannic  Beautifier;*  being  an  essay  on 
modesty,  No.  231,  which  gives  such  a  delightful 
blushing  color  to  the  cheeks  of  those  that  are 
white  or  pale,  that  it  is  not  to  be  distinguished 
from  a  natural  fine  complexion,  nor  perceived  to 
be  artificial  by  the  nearest  friend,  is  nothing  of 
paint,  or  in  the  least  hurtful.  It  renders  the  face 
delightfully  handsome;  is  not  subject  to  be  rubbed 
off,  and  cannot  be  paralleled  by  either  wash,  pow¬ 
der,  cosmetic,  etc.  It  is  certainly  the  best  beautifier 
in  the  world.  “  Martha  Glowworm.” 

“I,  Samuel  Self,  of  the  parish  of  St.  James, 
having  a  constitution  which  naturally  abounds 
with  acids,  made  use  of  a  paper  of  directions 
marked  No.  177,  recommending  a  healthful  exercise 


*  Translated  from  the  advertisement  of  the  Red  Bavarian 
Liquor.  Spect.  in  folio,  No.  545. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


called  good-nature,  and  have  found  it  a  most  ex¬ 
cellent  sweetener  of  the  blood.” 

“Whereas  I,  Elizabeth  Rainbow,  was  troubled 
with  that  distemper  in  my  head,  which  about  a 
year  ago  was  pretty  epidemical  among  the  ladies, 
and  discovered  itself  in  the  color  of  their  hoods; 
having  made  use  of  the  doctor’s  cephalic  tincture, 
which  he  exhibited  to  the  public  in  one  of  his  last 
year’s  papers,  I  recovered  in  a  very  few  days.” 

“I,  George  Gloom,  having  for  a  long  time  been 
troubled  with  the  spleen,  and  being  advised  by  my 
friends  to  put  myself  into  a  course  of  Steele,  did 
for  that  end  make  use  of  remedies  conveyed  to  me 
several  mornings,  in  short  letters,  from  the  hands 
of  the  invisible  doctor.  They  were  marked  at  the 
bottom  Nathaniel  Henroost,  Alice  Threadneedle, 
Rebecca  Nettletop,  Tom  Loveless,  Mary  Meanwell, 
Thomas  Smo^ky,  Anthony  Freeman,  Tom  Meg- 
got,  Rustick  Sprightly,  etc.,  which  have  had  so 
good  an  effect  upon  me,  that  I  now  find  myself 
cheerful,  lightsome,  and  easy;  and  therefore  do 
recommend  them  to  all  such  as  labor  under  the 
same  distemper.” 

Not  having  room  to  insert  all  the  advertisements 
which  were  sent  me,  I  have  only  picked  out  some 
few  from  the  third  volume,  reserving  the  fourth  for 
another  opportunity. — 0. 


No.  548.]  FRIDAY,  NOVEMBER  28,  1712. 

- Vitiis  nemo  sine  nascitur ;  optimus  ille 

Qui  minimis  urgetur. — Hor.  1  Sat.  iii.  68. 

There’s  none  but  has  some  fault,  and  he’s  the  best, 

Most  virtuous  he,  that’s  spotted  with  the  least.— Creech. 

“  Mr.  Spectator,  Nov.  27,  1712. 

“I  have  read  this  day’s  paper  with  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure,  and  could  send  you  an  account  of  sev¬ 
eral  elixirs  and  antidotes  in  your  third  volume, 
which  your  correspondents  have  not  taken  notice 
of  in  their  advertisements;  and  at  the  same  time 
must  own  to  you,  that  I  have  seldom  seen  a  shop 
furnished  with  such  a  variety  of  medicaments,  and 
in  which  there  are  fewer  soporifics.  The  several 
vehicles  you  have  invented  for  conveying  your 
unacceptable  truths  to  us,  are  what  I  most  partic¬ 
ularly  admire,  as  I  am  afraid  they  are  secrets 
which  will  die  with  you.  I  do  not  find  that  any 
of  your  critical  essays  are  taken  notice  of  in  this 
paper,  notwithstanding  I  look  upon  them  to  be 
excellent  cleansers  of  the  brain,  and  could  venture 
to  superscribe  them  with  an  advertisement  which  I 
have  lately  seen  in  one  of  our  newspapers,  wherein 
there  is  an  account  given  of  a  sovereign  remedy 
for  restoring  the  taste  to  all  such  persons  whose 
palates  have  been  vitiated  by  distempers,  unwhole¬ 
some  food,  or  any  the  like  occasions.  But  to  let 
fall  the  allusion,  notwithstanding  your  criticisms, 
and  particularly  the  candor  which  you  have  dis¬ 
covered  in  them,  are  not  the  least  taking  part  of 
your  works,  I  find  your  opinion  concerning  poeti¬ 
cal  justice,  as  it  is  expressed  in  the  first  part  of 
your  fortieth  Spectator,  is  controverted  by  some 
eminent  critics;  and  as  you  seem,  to  our  grief  of 
heart,  to  be  winding  up  your  bottoms,  I  hoped  you 
would  have  enlarged  a  little  upon  that  subject.  It 
is  indeed  but  a  single  paragraph  in  your  works, 
and  I  believe  those  who  have  read  it  with  the  same 
attention  I  have  done,  will  think  there  is  nothing 
to  be  objected  against  it.  I  have  however  drawn 
up  some  additional  arguments  to  strengthen  the 
opinion  which  you  have  there  delivered,  having 
endeavored  to  go  to  the  bottom  of  that  matter, 
which  you  may  either  publish  or  suppress  as  you 
think  fit. 


(347 

“  Horace,  in  my  motto,  says,  that  all  men  are 
vicious,  and  that  they  differ  from  one  another  only 
as  they  are  more  or  less  so.  Boileau  has  given  the 
same  account  of  our  wisdom,  as  Horace  has  of  our 
virtue. 

Tous  les  homines  sont  fous,  et  inalgre  tous  leurs  soins. 

Ne  difforente  entre  eux,  que  du  plus  et  du  moins. 

‘  All  men,’  says  he,  ‘are  fools,  and,  in  spite  of  their 
endeavors  to  the  contrary,  differ  from  one  another 
only  as  they  are  more  or  less  so.’ 

“  Two  or  three  of  the  old  Greek  poets  have  given 
the  same  turn  to  a  sentence  which  describes  the 
happiness  of  man  in  this  life: 

‘  That  man  is  most  happy  who  is  the  least  miserable.’ 

It  will  not  perhaps  be  unentertaining  to  the  polite 
reader  to  observe  how  these  three  beautiful  sen¬ 
tences  are  formed  upon  different  subjects  by  the 
same  way  of  thinking;  but  I  shall  return  to  the 
first  of  them. 

“Our  goodness  being  of  a  comparative  and  not 
an  absolute  nature,  there  is  none  who  in  strictness 
can  be  called  a  virtuous  man.  Every  one  has  in 
him  a  natural  alloy,  though  one  may  be  fuller  of 
dross  than  another;  for  this  reason  I  cannot  think 
it  right  to  introduce  a  perfect  or  a  faultless  man 
upon  the  stage;  not  only  because  such  a  character 
is  improper  to  move  compassion,  but  because  there 
is  no  such  thing  in  nature.  This  might  probably 
be  one  reason  why  the  Spectator  in  one  of  his 
papers  took  notice  of  that  late  invented  term  called 
poetical  justice,  and  the  wrong  notions  into  which 
it  has  led  some  tragic  writers.  The  most  perfect 
man  has  vices  enough  to  draw  down  punishments 
upon  his  head,  and,  to  justify  Providence  in  re¬ 
gard  to  any  miseries  that  may  befall  him.  For 
this  reason,  I  cannot  think  but  that  the  instruction 
and  moral  are  much  finer,  where  a  man  who  is 
virtuous  in  the  main  of  his  character  falls  into 
distress,  and  sinks  under  the  blows  of  fortune  at 
the  end  of  a  tragedy,  than  when  he  is  represented 
as  happy  and  triumphant.  Such  an  example  cor¬ 
rects  the  insolence  of  human  nature,  softens  the 
mind  of  the  beholder  with  sentiments  of  pity  and 
compassion,  comforts  him  under  his  own  private 
affliction,  and  teaches  him  not  to  judge  of  men’s 
virtues  by  their  successes.  I  cannot  think  of  one 
real  hero  in  all  antiquity  so  far  raised  above  hu¬ 
man  infirmities,  that  he  might  not  be  very  natu¬ 
rally  represented  in  a  tragedy  as  plunged  in  mis¬ 
fortunes  and  calamities.  The  poet  may  still  find 
out  some  prevailing  passion  or  indiscretion  in  his 
character,  and  show  it  in  such  a  manner,  as  will 
sufficiently  acquit  the  gods  of  any  injustice  in  his 
sufferings.  For,  as  Horace  observes  in  my  text, 
the  best  man  is  faulty,  though  not  in  so  great  a  de¬ 
gree  as  those  whom  we  generally  call  vicious  men. 

“If  such  a  strict  poetical  justice  as  some  gen¬ 
tlemen  insist  upon  were  to  be  observed  in  this  art, 
there  is  no  manner  of  reason  why  it  should  not 
extend  to  heroic  poetry  as  well  as  tragedy.  But 
we  find  it  so  little  observed  in  Homer,  that  his 
Achilles  is  placed  in  the  greatest  point  of  glory 
and  success,  though  his  character  is  morally  vi¬ 
cious,  and  only  poetically  good,  if  I  may  use  the 
phrase  of  our  modern  critics.  The  JEneid  is  filled 
with  innocent,  unhappy  persons.  Nisus  and  Eu- 
ryalus,  Lausus  and  Pallas,  come  all  to  unfortunate 
ends.  The  poet  takes  notice  in  particular,  that, 
in  the  sacking  of  Troy,  Ripheus  fell,  who  was  the 
most  just  man  among  the  Trojans. 

— - — Cadit  et  Ripheus  justissimus  unus, 

Qui  fuit  in  Teucris,  et  servantissimus  £equi: 

Diis  aliter  visum  est -  xEn.  ii,  427. 

And  that  Pantheus  could  neither  be  preserved  by 
his  transcendent  piety,  nor  by  the  holy  fillets  of 
Apollo,  whose  priest  he  was. 


648 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


- Nec  te  tua  plurima,  Pantheu, 

Labentem  pietas,  nec  Apollinis  infula  texit. 

Ibid.  t.  129. 

I  might  here  mention  the  practice  of  ancient  tragic 
poets,  both  Greek  and  Latin;  but  as  this  particu¬ 
lar  is  touched  upon  in  the  paper  above-mentioned, 
I  shall  pass  it  over  in  silence.  I  could  produce 
passages  out  of  Aristotle  in  favor  of  my  opinion; 
and  if  in  one  place  he  says  that  an  absolutely  vir¬ 
tuous  man  should  not  be  represented  as  unhappy, 
this  does  not  justify  any  one  who  shall  think  fit 
to  bring  in  an  absolutely  virtuous  man  upon  the 
stage.  Those  who  are  acquainted  with  that  au¬ 
thor’s  way  of  writing  know  very  well  that,  to  take 
the  whole  extent  of  his  subject  into  his  divisions 
of  it,  he  often  makes  use  of  such  cases  as  are 
imaginary,  and  not  reducible  to  practice.  He 
himself  declares  that  such  tragedies  as  ended 
unhappily  bore  away.the  prize  in  theatrical  con¬ 
tentions,  from  those  which  ended  happily;  and 
for  the  fortieth  speculation,  which  I  am  now  con¬ 
sidering,  as  it  has  given  reasons  why  these  are 
more  apt  to  please  an  audience,  so  it  only  proves 
that  these  are  generally  preferable  to  the  other, 
though  at  the  same  time  it  affirms  that  many  ex¬ 
cellent  tragedies  have  and  may  be  written  in  both 
kinds. 

“  I  shall  conclude  with  observing,  that  though 
the  Spectator  above-mentioned  is  so  far  against 
the  rule  of  poetical  justice,  as  to  affirm  that  good 
men  may  meet  with  an  unhappy  catastrophe  in 
tragedy,  it  does  not  say  that  ill  men  may  go  off 
unpunished.  The  reason  for  this  distinction  is 
very  plain,  namely,  because  the  best  of  men  are 
vicious  enough  to  justify  Providence  for  any  mis¬ 
fortunes  and  afflictions  which  may  befall  them, 
but  there  are  many  men  so  criminal  that  they  can 
have  no  claim  or  pretense  to  happiness.  The  best 
of  men  may  deserve  punishment,  but  the  worst  of 
men  cannot  deserve  happiness.” 


Ho.  549.]  SATURDAY,  NOVEMBER  29,  1712. 

Quamvis  digressu  veteris  confusus  amici, 

Laudo  tamen. — Juv.  Sat.  iii.  1. 

Tho’  griev’d  at  the  departure  of  my  friend, 

His  purpose  of  retiring  I  commend. 

I  believe  most  people  begin  the  world  with  a 
resolution  to  withdraw  from  it  into  a  serious  kind 
of  solitude  or  retirement  when  they  have  made 
themselves  easy  in  it.  Our  unhappiness  is,  that 
we  find  out  some  excuse  or  other  for  deferring 
such  our  good  resolutions  until  our  intended  re¬ 
treat  is  cut  off  by  death.  But  among  all  kinds  of 
people  there  are  none  who  are  so  hard  to  part 
with  the  world  as  those  who  are  grown  old  in  the 
heaping  up  of  riches.  Their  minds  are  so  warped 
with  their  constant  attention  to  gain,  that  it  is 
very  difficult  for  them  to  give  their  souls  another 
bent,  and  convert  them  toward  those  objects,  which 
though  they  are  proper  for  every  stage  of  life,  are 
so  more  especially  for  the  last.  Horace  describes 
an  old  usurer  as  so  charmed  with  the  pleasure  of 
a  country  life,  that  in  order  to  make  a  purchase  he 
called  in  all  his  money;  but  what  was  the  event 
of  it?  Why,  in  a  very  few  days  after  he  put  it 
out  again.  I  am  engaged  in  this  series  of  thought 
by  a  discourse  which  I  had  last  week  with  my 
worthy  friend  Sir  Andrew  Freeport,  a  man  of  so 
much  natural  eloquence,  good  sense,  and  probity 
of  mind,  that  I  always  hear  him  with  particular 
pleasure.  As  we  were  sitting  together,  being  the 
sole  remaining  members  of  our  club.  Sir  Andrew 
gave  me  an  account  of  the  many  busy  scenes  of 
life  in  which  he  had  been  engaged,  and  at  the 
same  time  reckoned  up  to  me  abundance  of  those 


lucky  hits,  which  at  another  time  he  would  have 
called  pieces  of  good  fortune;  but  in  the  temper 
of  mind  he  was  then,  he  termed  them  mercies, 
favors  of  Providence,  and  blessings  upon  an 
honest  industry.  “Now,”  says  he,  “you  must 
know,  my  good  friend,  I  am  so  used  to  consider 
myself  as  creditor  and  debtor,  that  I  often  state 
my  accounts  after  the  same  manner  with  regard  to 
heaven  and  my  own  soul.  In  this  case,  when  I 
look  upon  the  debtor  side,  I  find  such  innumera¬ 
ble  articles,  that  I  want  arithmetic  to  cast  them 
up;  but  when  I  look  upon  the  creditor  side,  I  find 
little  more  than  blank  paper.  Now,  though  I  am 
very  well  satisfied  that  it  is  not  in  my  power  to 
balance  accounts  with  my  Maker,  I  am  resolved 
however  to  turn  all  my  future  endeavors  that  way. 
You  must  not  therefore  be  surprised,  my  friend, 
if  you  hear  that  I  am  betaking  myself  to  a  more 
thoughtful  kind  of  life,  and  if  1  meet  you  no  more 
in  this  place.” 

I  could  not  but  approve  so  good  a  resolution, 
notwithstanding  the  loss  I  shall  suffer  by  it.  Sir 
Andrew  has  since  explained  himself  to  me  more 
at  large  in  the  following  letter,  which  has  just 
come  to  my  hands: 

“  Good  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Notwithstanding  my  friends  at  the  club  have 
always  rallied  me,  when  I  have  talked  of  retiring 
from  business,  and  repeated  to  me  one  of  my  own 
sayings,  that  ‘  a  merchant  has  never  enough  until 
he  has  got  a  little  more;’  I  can  now  inform  you, 
that  there  is  one  in  the  world  who  thinks  he  has 
enough,  and  is  determined  to  pass  the  remainder 
of  his  life  in  the  enjoyment  of  what  he  has.  You 
know  me  so  well,  that  I  need  not  tell  you  I  mean, 
by  the  enjoyment  of  my  possessions,  the  making 
of  them  useful  to  the  public.  As  the  greatest  part 
of  my  estate  has  been  hitherto  of  an  unsteady  and 
volatile  nature,  either  tost  upon  seas  or  fluctu¬ 
ating  in  funds,  it  is  now  fixed  and  settled  in  sub¬ 
stantial  acres  and  tenements.  I  have  removed  it 
from  the  uncertainty  of  stocks,  winds,  and  waves, 
and  disposed  of  it  in  a  considerable  purchase. 
This  will  give  me  great  opportunity  of  being 
charitable  in  my  way,  that  is,  in  setting  my  poor 
neighbors  to  work,  and  giving  them  a  comfortable 
subsistence  out  of  their  own  industry.  My  gar¬ 
dens,  my  fish-ponds,  my  arable  and  pasture- 
grounds,  shall  be  my  several  hospitals,  or  rather 
work-houses,  in  which  I  propose  to  maintain  a 
great  many  indigent  persons,  who  are  now  starv¬ 
ing  in  my  neighborhood.  I  have  got  a  fine  spread 
of  improvable  lands,  and  in  my  own  thoughts 
am  already  plowing  up  some  of  them,  fencing 
others ;  planting  woods,  and  draining  marshes. 
In  fine,  as  I  have  my  share  in  the  surface  of  this 
island,  I  am  resolved  to  make  it  as  beautiful  a 
spot  as  any  in  her  majesty’s  dominions;  at  least 
there  is  not  an  inch  of  it  which  shall  not  be  culti¬ 
vated  to  the  best  advantage,  and  do  its  utmost  for 
its  owner.  As  in  my  mercantile  employment  I  so 
disposed  of  my  affairs,  that,  from  whatever  corner 
of  the  compass  the  wind  blew,  it  was  bringing 
home  one  or  other  of  my  ships;  I  hope  as  a  hus¬ 
bandman  to  contrive  it  so,  that  not  a  shower  of 
rain  or  a  glimpse  of  sunshine  shall  fall  upon  my 
estate  without  bettering  some  part  of  it,  and  con¬ 
tributing  to  the  products  of  the  season.  You 
know  it  has  been  hitherto  my  opinion  of  life, 
that  it  is  thrown  away  when  it  is  not  some  way 
useful  to  others.  But  when  I  am  riding  out  by 
myself,  in  the  fresh  air  on  the  open  heath  that 
lies  by  my  house,  I  find  several  other  thoughts 
growing  up  in  me.  I  am  now  of  opinion,  that  a 
man  of  my  age  may  find  business  enough  on  him¬ 
self,  by  setting  his  mind  in  order,  preparing  it  for 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


another  world,  and  reconciling  it  to  the  thoughts 
of  death.  I  must  therefore  acquaint  you,  that  be¬ 
side  those  usual  methods  of  charity,  of  which  I 
have  before  spoken,  I  am  at  this  very  instant  find¬ 
ing  out  a  convenient  place  where  I  may  build  an 
almshouse,  which  I  intend  to  endow  very  hand¬ 
somely  for  a  dozen  superannuated  husbandmen. 
It  will  be  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  say  my  prayers 
twice  a  day  with  men  of  my  own  .years*  who  all 
of  them,  as  well  as  myself,  may  have  their  thoughts 
taken  up  how  they  shall  die,  rather  than  how  they 
shall  live.  I  remember  an  excellent  saying  that  I 
learned  at  school,  Finis  coronat  opus.  You  know 
best  whether  it  be  in  Virgil  or  in  Horace;  it  is  my 
business  to  apply  it.  If  your  affairs  will  permit 
you  to  take  the  country  air  with  me  sometimes, 
jou  shall  find  an  apartment  fitted  up  for  you,  and 
shall  be  every  day  entertained  with  beef  or  mutton 
of  my  own  feeding;  fish  out  of  my  own  ponds; 
and  fruit  out  of  my  own  gardens.  You  shall  have 
free  egress  and  regress  about  my  house,  without 
having  any  questions  asked  you;  and,  in  a  word, 
such  a  hearty  welcome  as  you  may  expect  from 
“  \  our  most  sincere  Friend 

“and  humble  Servant, 

“Andrew  Freeport.” 

The  club  of  which  I  am  a  member  being  en¬ 
tirely  dispersed,  I  shall  consult  my  reader  next 
week  upon  a  project  relating  to  the  institution  of 
a  new  one. — 0. 


No.  550.]  MONDAY,  DECEMBER  1,  1712. 

Quid  dignurn  tanto  feret  hie  promissor  hiatu  ? 

Hor.  Ars  Poet.  ver.  138. 

In  what  will  all  this  ostentation  end? — Roscommon. 

Since  the  late  dissolution  of  the  club,  whereof 
I  have  often  declared  myself  a  member,  there  are 
very  many  persons  who,  by  letters,  petitions,  and 
recommendations,  put  up  for  the  next  election. 
At  the  same  time  I  must  complain,  that  several 
indirect  and  underhand  practices  have  been  made 
use  of  upon  this  occasion.  A  certain  country  gen¬ 
tleman  began  to  tap  upon  the  first  information  he 
received  of  Sir  Roger’s  death;  when  he  sent  me 
up  word  that  if  I  would  get  him  chosen  in  the 
place  of  the  deceased,  he  would  present  me  with 
a  barrel  of  the  best  October  I  had  ever  tasted  in 
my  life.  The  ladies  are  in  great  pain  to  know 
whom  I  intend  to  elect  in  the  room  of  Will  Honey¬ 
comb.  Some  of  them  indeed  are  of  opinion  that 
Mr.  Honeycomb  did  not  take  sufficient  care  of 
their  interests  in  the  club,  and  are  therefore  de¬ 
sirous  of  having  in  it  hereafter  a  representative  of 
their  own  sex.  A  citizen  who  subscribes  himself 
Y.  Z .,  tells  me  that  he  has  one-and-twenty  shares 
in  the  African  company,  and  offers  to  bribe  me 
with  the  odd  one  in  case  he  may  succeed  Sir  An¬ 
drew  Freeport,  which  he  thinks  would  raise  the 
credit  of  that  fund.  I  have  several  letters  dated 
from  Jenny  Mann’s,  by  gentlemen  who  are  can¬ 
didates  for  Captain  Sentry’s  place;  and  as  many 
from  a  coffee-house  in  Paul’s  churchyard  of  such 
who  would  fill  up  the  vacancy  occasioned  by  the 
death  of  my  worthy  friend  the  clergyman,  whom 
I  can  never  mention  but  with  a  particular  respect. 

;  Having  maturely  weighed  these  several  par¬ 
ticulars,  with  the  many  remonstrances  that  have 
been  made  to  me  on  this  subject,  and  considering 
how  invidious  an  office  I  shall  take  upon  me  if  I 
make  the  whole  election  depend  upon  my  single 
voice,  and  being  unwilling  to  expose  myself°to 
those  clamors,  which  on  such  an  occasion  will  not 
fail  to  be  raised  against  me  for  partiality,  injustice, 


649 

cJ’rruPtion’  and  other  qualities,  which  my  nature 
abhors,  I  have  formed  to  myself  the  project  of  a 
club  as  follows : 

I  have  thoughts  of  issuing  out  writs  to  all  and 
every  of  the  clubs  that  are  established  in  the  cities 
or  London  and  Westminster,  requiring  them  to 
choose  out  of  their  respective  bodies  a  person  of 
the  greatest  merit,  and  to  return  his  name  to  me 
before  Lady-day,  at  which  time  I  intend  to  sit 
upon  business. 

By  this  means,  I  may  have  reason  to  hope,  that 
the  club  over  which  I  shall  preside  will  be  the 
very  flower  and  quintessence  of  all  other  clubs. 
1  have  communicated  this  my  project  to  none  but 
a  particular  friend  of  mine,  whom  I  have  cele¬ 
brated  twice  or  thrice  for  his  happiness  in  that 
kind  of  wflt  which  is  commonly  known  by  the 
name  of  a  pun.  The  only  objection  he  makes  to 
it  is,  that  I  shall  raise  up  enemies  to  myself  if  I 
act  with  so  regal  an  air,  and  that  my  detractors, 
instead  of  giving  me  the  usual  title  of  Spectator, 
will  be  apt  to  call  me  the  King  of  Clubs. 

But  to  proceed  on  my  intended  project;  it  is 
very  well  known  that  I  at  first  set  forth  in  this 
work  with  the  character  of  a  silent  man;  and  I 
think  I  have  so  well  preserved  my  taciturnity, 
that  I  do  not  remember  to  have  violated  it  with 
three  sentences  in  the  space  of  almost  two  years. 
As  a  monosyllable  is  my  delight,  I  have  made 
very  few  excursions,  in  the  conversations  which  I 
have  related,  beyond  a  Yes  or  a  No.  By  this 
means,  my  readers  have  lost  many  good  things 
which  I  have  had  in  my  heart,  though  I  did  not 
care  for  uttering  them. 

Now  in  order  to  diversify  my  character,  and  to 
show  the  world  how  well  I  can  talk  if  I  have  a 
mind,  I  have  thoughts  of  being  very  loquacious 
in  the  club  which  I  have  now  under  consideration. 
But  that  I  may  proceed  the  more  regularly  in  this 
affair,  I  design,  upon  the  first  meeting  of  the  said 
club,  to  have  my  mouth  opened  in  form;  intend¬ 
ing  to  regulate  myself  in  this  particular  by  a  cer¬ 
tain  ritual  which  I  have  by  me,  that  contains  all 
the  ceremonies  which  are  practiced  at  the  opening 
of  the  mouth  of  a  cardinal.  I  have  likewise  ex¬ 
amined  the  forms  which  were  used  of  old  by 
Pythagoras,  when  any  of  his  scholars,  after  an 
apprenticeship  of  silence,  was  made  free  of  his 
speech.  In  the  meantime,  as  I  have  of  late  found 
my  name  in  foreign  gazettes  upon  less  occasions, 

I  question  not  but  in  their  next  articles  from 
Great  Britain  they  will  inform  the  world,  that 
the  “Spectator’s  mouth  is  to  be  opened  on  the 
twenty-fifth  of  March  next.”  I  may  perhaps  pub¬ 
lish  a  very  useful  paper  at  that  time  of  the  pro¬ 
ceedings  in  that  solemnity,  and  of  the  persons 
who  shall  assist  at  it.  But  of  this  more  hereafter. 
0. 


No.  551.]  TUESDAY,  DECEMBER  2,  1712. 

Sic  honor  et  nomen  divinis  vatibus  atque 

Carminibus  venit - Hor.  Ars  Poet.  ver.  400. 

So  ancient  is  the  pedigree  of  verse, 

And  so  divine  a  poet’s  function. — Roscommon. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

When  men  of  worthy  and  excelling  geniuses 
have  obliged  the  world  with  beautiful  and  instruc¬ 
tive  writings,  it  is  in  the  nature  of  gratitude  that 
praise  should  be  returned  them,  as  one  proper 
consequent  reward  of  their  performances.  Nor 
has  mankind  ever  been  so  degenerately  sunk  but 
they  have  made  this  return,  and  even  when  they 
have  not  been  wrought  up  by  the  generous  en¬ 
deavor  so  as  to  receive  the  advantages  designed  by 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


C50 

it.  This  praise,  which  arises  first  in  the  mouth 
of  particular  persons,  spreads  and  lasts  according 
to  the  merit  of  authors  ;  and  when  it  thus  meets 
with  a  full  success  changes  its  denomination  and 
is  called  fame.  They  who  have  happily  arrived 
at  this,  are,  even  while  they  live,  inflamed  by  the 
acknowledgments  of  others,  and  spurred  on  to  new 
undertakings  for  the  benefit  of  mankind,  notwith¬ 
standing  the  detraction  which  some  abject  tempers 
would  cast  upon  them  :  but  when  they  decease, 
their  characters  being  free  from  the  shadow  which 
envy  laid  them  under,  begin  to  shine  out  with  the 
greater  splendor;  their  spirits  survive  in  their 
works  ;  they  are  admitted  into  the  highest  com¬ 
panies,  and  they  continue  pleasing  and  instructing 
posterity  from  age  to  age.  Some  of  the  best  gain 
a  character  by  being  able  to  show  that  they  are 
no  strangers  to  them :  and  others  obtain  a  new 
warmth  to  labor  for  the  happiness  and  ease  of 
mankind,  from  'a  reflection  upon  those  honors 
which  are  paid  to  their  memories. 

“  The  thought  of  this  took  me  up  as  I  turned 
over  those  epigrams  which  are  the  remains  of  sev¬ 
eral  of  the  wits  of  Greece,  and  perceived  many 
dedicated  to  the  fame  of  those  who  had  excelled  in 
beautiful  poetic  performances.  Wherefore,  in  pur¬ 
suance  to  my  thought;  I  concluded  to  do  some¬ 
thing  along  with  them  to  bring  their  praises  into 
a  new  light  and  language,  for  the  encouragement 
of  those  whose  modest  tempers  may  be  deterred 
by  the  fear  of  envy  or  detraction  from  fair  attempts, 
to  which  their  parts  might  render  them  equal.  Y ou 
will  perceive  them,  as  they  follow,  to  be  conceived 
in  the  form  of  epitaphs,  a  sort  of  writing  which 
is  wholly  set  apart  for  a  short-pointed  method 
of  praise. 

ON  ORPHEUS,  WRITTEN  BY  ANTIPATER. 

No  longer,  Orpheus,  shall  thy  sacred  strains 
Lead  stones,  and  trees,  and  beasts  along  the  plains : 

No  longer  soothe  the  boisterous  winds  to  sleep, 

Or  still  the  billows  of  the  raging  deep, 

Eor  thou  art  gone.  The  Muses  mourn  thy  fall 
In  solemn  strains,  thy  mother  most  of  all. 

Ye  mortals,  idly  for  your  sons  ye  moan, 

If  thus  a  goddess  could  not  save  her  own. 

“Observe  here,  that  if  we  take  the  fable  for 
granted,  as  it  was  believed  to  be  in  that  age  when 
the  epigram  was  written,  the  turn  appears  to  have 
piety  to  the  gods,  and  a  resigning  spirit  in  its  ap¬ 
plication.  But  if  we  consider  the  point  with 
respect  to  our  present  knowledge,  it  will  be  less 
esteemed;  though  the  author  himself,  because  he 
believed  it,  may  still  be  more  valued  than  any  one 
who  should  now  write  with  a  point  of  the  same 
nature. 

ON  HOMER,  BY  ALPHEUS  OF  MYTILENE. 

Still  in  our  ears  Andromache  complains, 

And  still  in  sight  the  fate  of  Troy  remains : 

Still  Ajax  fights,  still  Hector’s  dragg’d  along : 

Such  strange  enchantment  dwells  in  Homer’s  song ; 
Whose  birth  could  more  than  one  poor  realm  adorn, 

For  all  the  world  is  proud  that  he  was  horn. 

“  The  thought  in  the  first  part  of  this  is  natural, 
and  depending  upon  poesy;  in  the  latter  part  it 
looks  as  if  it  would  aim  at  the  history  of  seven 
towns  contending  for  the  honor  of  Homer’s  birth¬ 
place  ;  but  when  you  expect  to  meet  with  that 
common  story  the  poet  slides  by,  and  raises  the 
whole  world  for  a  kind  of  arbiter,  which  is  to  end 
the  contention  among  its  several  parts. 

ON  ANACREON,  BY  ANTIPATER. 

This  tomb  be  thine,  Anacreon !  All  around 
Let  ivy  wreathe,  let  flow’rets  deck  the  ground ; 

And  from  its  earth,  enrich’d  by  such  a  prize, 

Let  wells  of  milk  and  streams  of  wine  arise : 

So  will  thine  ashes  yet  a  pleasure  know, 

If  any  pleasure  reach  the  shades  below. 


“  The  poet  here  written  upon  is  an  easy,  gay 
author,  and  he  who  writes  upon  him  has  filled  his 
own  head  with  the  character  of  his  subject.  He 
seems  to  love  his  theme  so  much  that  he  thinks 
of  nothing  but  pleasing  him  as  if  he  were  still 
alive,  by  entering  into  his  libertine  spirit;  so  that 
the  humor  is  easy  and  gay,  resembling  Anacreon 
in  its  air,  raised  by  such  images,  and  pointed  with 
such  a  turn  as,  he  might  have  used.  I  give  it  a 
place  here  because  the  author  may  have  designed 
it  for  his  honor  ;  and  I  take  an  opportunity  from 
it  to  advise  others,  that  when  they  would  praise 
they  cautiously  avoid  every  looser  qualification, 
and  fix  only  where  there  is  a  real  foundation  in 
merit. 

ON  EURIPIDES,  BY  ION. 

Divine  Euripides,  this  tomb  we  see,' 

So  fair,  is  not  a  monument  for  thee, 

So  much  as  thou  for  it,  since  all  will  own 
Thy  name  and  lasting  praise  adorn  the  stone. 

“  The  thought  here  is  fine,  but  its  fault  is,  that 
it  is  general,  that  it  may  belong  to  any  great  man, 
because  it  points  out  no  particular  character.  It 
would  be  better  if,  when  we  light  upon  such  a  turn, 
we  join  it  with  something  that  circumscribes  and 
bounds  it  to  the  qualities  of  our  subject.  He  who 
gives  his  praise  in  gross,  will  often  appear  either 
to  have  been  a  stranger  to  those  he  writes  upon,  or 
not  to  have  found  anything  in  them  which  is 
praiseworthy. 

ON  SOPHOCLES,  BY  SIMONIDES. 

Wind,  gentle  evergreen,  to  form  a  shade 
Around  the  tomb  where  Sophocles  is  laid, 

Sweet  ivy,  wind  thy  boughs,  and  intertwine 
With  blushing  roses  and  the  clustering  vine. 

Thus  will  thy  lasting  leaves,  with  beauties  hung, 

Prove  grateful  emblems  of  the  lays  he  sung, 

Whose  soul,  exalted  like  a  God  of  wit, 

Among  the  Muses  and  the  Graces  writ: 

“  This  epigram  I  have  opened  more  than  any  of 
the  former :  the  thought  toward  the  latter  end 
seemed  closer  couched,  so  as  to  require  an  expli¬ 
cation.  I  fancied  the  poet  aimed  at  the  picture 
which  is  generally  made  of  Apollo  and  the  Muses, 
he  sitting  with  his  harp  in  the  middle,  and  they 
around  him.  This  looked  beautiful  to  my  thought; 
and  because  the  image  arose  before  me  out  of  the 
words  of  the  original  as  I  was  reading  it,  I  ven¬ 
tured  to  explain  them  so. 

ON  MENANDER,  THE  AUTHOR  UNNAMED. 

The  very  bees,  0  sweet  Menander,  hung 
To  taste  the  Muses’  spring  upon  thy  tongue, 

The  very  Graces  made  the  scenes  you  writ 
Their  happy  point  of  fine  expression  hit. 

Thus  still  you  live,  you  make  your  Athens  shine, 

And  raise  its  glory  to  the  skies  in  thine. 

“This  epigram  has  a  respect  to  the  character  of 
its  subject;  for  Menander  wrote  remarkably  with  a 
justness  and  purity  of  language.  It  has  also  told 
the  country  he  was  born  in,  without  either  a  set  or  a 
hidden  manner,  while  it  twists  together  the  glory 
of  the  poet  and  his  nation,  so  as  to  make  the  na¬ 
tion  depend  upon  his  for  an  increase  of  its  own. 

“I  will  offer  no  more  instances  at  present  to 
show,  that  they  who  deserve  praise  have  it  re¬ 
turned  them  from  different  ages;  let  these  which 
have  been  laid  down  show  men  that  envy  will  not 
always  prevail.  And  to  the  end  that  writers  may 
more  successfully  enliven  the  endeavors  of  one 
another,  let  them  consider,  in  some  such  manner 
as  I  have  attempted,  what  may  be  the  justest 
spirit  and  art  of  praise.  It  is  indeed  very  hard  to 
come  up  to  it.  Our  praise  is  trifling  when  it  de¬ 
pends  upon  fable :  it  is  false  when  it  depends 
upon  wrong  qualification's;  it  means  nothing  when 
it  is  general;  it  is  extremely  difficult  tc  hit  when 


651 


THE  S PE i 

wo  propose  to  raise  characters  high,  while  we 
keep  to  them  justly.  I  shall  end  this  with  tran¬ 
scribing  that  excellent  epitaph  of  Mr.  Cowley, 
wherein,  with  a  kind  of  grave  and  philosophic 
humor,  he  very  beautifully  speaks  of  himself 
(withdrawn  from  the  "world  and  dead  to  all  the 
interests  of  it)  as  of  a  man  really  deceased.  At 
the  same  time  it  is  an  instruction  how  to  leave  the 
public  with  a  good  grace. 

EPITAPHIUM  YIVI  AUTHOlilS. 

Hie,  0  viator,  sub  lare  parvulo 
Couleius  hie  est  conditus,  hie  jacet 
Defunctus  humani  laboris 
Sorte,  supervacuaque  vita, 

Non  indecora  pauperie  nitens, 

Et  non  inerti  nobilis  otio, 

Yanoque  dilectis  popello 
Divitiis  animosus  hostis. 

Possis  ut  ilium  dicere  mortuum, 

En  terra  jam  nunc  quantula  sufficit! 

Exempta  sit  curis,  viator, 

•  Terra  sit  ilia  levis,  precare. 

[i  Hie  sparge  flores,  sparge  breves  rosas, 

Nam  vita  gaudet  mortua  floribus, 

Herbisque  odoratis  corona 
Vatis  adhuc  cinerem  calentem. 

THE  LIVING  AUTHOR’S  EPITAPH. 

From  life’s  superfluous  cares  enlarg’d, 

His  debt  of  human  toil  discharg’d, 

Here  Cowley  lies,  beneath  this  shed, 

To  ev’ry  worldly  interest  dead : 

>  With  decent  poverty  content ; 

*  His  hours  of  ease  not  idly  spent ; 

To  fortune’s  goods  a  foe  profess’d, 

;  And  hating  wealth,  by  all  caress’d. 

’Tis  sure,  he’s  dead;  for  lo  1  how  small 
A  spot  of  earth  is  now  his  all ! 

0 !  wish  that  earth  may  lightly  lay, 

And  ev’ry  care  be  far  away ! 

Bring  flow’rs,  the  short-liv’d  roses  bring, 

To  life  deceas’d  fit  offering ! 

And  sweets  around  the  poet  strow, 

While  yet  with  life  his  ashes  glow.” 

The  publication  of  these  criticisms  having  pro¬ 
cured  me  the  following  letter  from  a  very  ingeni¬ 
ous  gentleman,  I  cannot  forbear  inserting  it  in  the 
volume,*  though  it  did  not  come  soon  enough  to 
have  a  place  in  any  of  my  single  papers. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Having  read  over  in  your  paper,  No.  551,  some 
of  the  epigrams  made  by  the  Grecian  wits,  in  com¬ 
mendation  of  their  celebrated  poets,  I  could  not 
forbear  sending  you  another,  out  of  the  same  col¬ 
lection;  which  I  take  to  be  as  great  a  compliment 
to  Homer  as  any  that  has  yet  been  paid  him. 

Who  first  transcribed  the  famous  Trojan  war, 

And  wise  Ulysses’  acts,  0  Jove,  make  known, 

For  since  ’tis  certain  thine  those  poems  are, 

No  more  let  Homer  boast  they  are  his  own. 

“  If  y°u  think  it  worthy  of  a  place  in  your  spec¬ 
ulations,  for  aught  I  know  (by  that  means)  it  may 
in  time  be  printed  as  often  in  English  as  it  has 
already  been  in  Greek. 

“I  am  (like  the  rest  of  the  world), 

“  Sir,  your  great  Admirer, 

“4th  Dec.  “  q. 

The  reader  may  observe  that  the  beauty  of  this 
epigram  is  different  from  that  of  any  in  the  fore¬ 
going.  _  An  irony  is  looked  upon  as  the  finest 
palliative  of  praise;  and  very  often  conveys  the 
noblest  panegyric  under  the  appearance  of  satire. 
Homer  is  here  seemingly  accused  and  treated  as  a 
plagiary;  but  what  is  drawn  up  in  the  form  of  an 
accusation  is  certainly,  as  my  correspondent  ob¬ 
serves,  the  greatest  compliment  that  could  have 
been  paid  to  that  divine  poet. 


*  The  translation  of  Cowley’s  epitaph,  and  all  that  follows, 
except  the  concluding  letter  signed  Pliilonicus,  was  not  printed 
in  the  Spect.  in  folio,  but  added  in  the  8vo  edition  of  1712. 


tator. 

“  Dear  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  a  gentleman  of  pretty  good  fortune,  and 
of  a.  temper  impatient  of  anything  which  I  think 
an  injury.  However,  I  always  quarreled  accord¬ 
ing  to  law,  and  instead  of  attacking  my  adversary 
by  the  dangerous  method  of  sword  and  pistol,  I 
made  my  assaults  by  that  more  secure  one  of  writ 
or  warrant..  I  cannot  help  telling  you,  that  either 
by  justice  of  my  causes  or  the  superiority  of 
my  counsel,  I  have  been  generally  successful ; 
and  to  my  great  satisafetion  I  can  say  it,  that  by 
three  actions  of  slander,  and  half-a-dozen  tres¬ 
passes,  I  have  for  several  years  enjoyed  a  perfect 
tranquillity^in  my  reputation  and  estate:  by  these 
means,  also,  I  have  been  made  known  to  the  judges; 
the  sergeants  of  our  circuit  are  my  intimate  friends; 
and  the  ornamental  counsel  pay  a  very  profound 
respect  to  one  who  has  made  so  great  a  figure  in 
the  law.  Affairs  of  consequence  having  brought 
me  to  town,  I  had  the  curiositv  the  other  day  to 
visit  Westminster-hall;  and,  having  placed  myself 
in  one  of  the  courts,  expected  to  be  most  agreeably 
enteitained.  After  the  court  and  counsel  were 
with  due  ceremony  seated,  up  stands  a  learned 
gentleman  and  began,  When  this  matter  was  last 
“  stirred”  before  your  Lordships;  the  next  hum¬ 
bly  moved  to  “  quash  ”  an  indictment ;  another 
complained  that  his  adversary  had  “  snapped  ”  a 
judgment ;  the  next  informed  the  court  that  his 
client  was  stripped  of  his  possession  ;  another 
begged  leave  to  acquaint  his  lordship  they  had 
been  “saddled”  with  costs.  At  last  up  got  a 
grave  sergeant,  and  told  us  his  client  had  been 
“hung  up”  a  whole  term  by  a  writ  of  error.  At 
this  I  could  bear  it  no  longer,  but  came  hither, 
and  resolved  to  apply  myself  to  your  honor  to  in¬ 
terpose  with  these  gentlemen,  that  they  would 
leave  ofPsuch  low  and  unnatural  expressions  :  for 
surely  though  the  lawyers  subscribe  to  hideous 
French  and  false  Latin,  yet  they  should  let  their 
clients  have  a  little  decent  and  proper  English  for 
their  money.  What  man  that  has  a  value  for  a 
good  name  would  like  to  have  it  said  in  a  public 
court,  that  Mr.  Such-a-one  was  stript,  saddled,  or 
hung-up  ?  This  being  what  has  escaped  your 
spectatorial  observation,  be  pleased  to  correct  such 
an  illiberal  cant  among  professed  speakers,  and 
you  will  infinitely  oblige, 

“Your  humble  Servant, 

“  Philonicus.”* 

“Joe’s  Coffee-house,  Nov.  28.” 


No.  552.]  WEDNESDAY,  DECEMBEK  3,  1712. 

Qui  praegravat  artes 

Infra  se  positas,  extinctus  amabitur  idem. — Hor.  2  Ep.  i.  13. 

For  those  are  hated  that  excel  the  rest, 

Although,  when  dead,  they  are  belov’d  and  blest.— Creecii 

As  I  was  tumbling  about  the  town  the  other  day 
in  a  hackney-coach,  and  delighting  myself  with 
busy  scenes  in  the  shops  on  each  side  of  me,  it 
came  into  my  head,  with  no  small  remorse,  that  I 
had  not  been  frequent  enough  in  the  mention  and 
recommendation  of  the  industrious  part  of  man¬ 
kind.  It  very  naturally  upon  this  occasion  touched 
my  conscience  in  particular,  that  I  had  not  acquit¬ 
ted  myself  to  my  friend  Mr.  Peter  Motteux.  That 
industrious  man  of  trade,  and  formerly  brother  of 
the  quill,  has  dedicated  to  me  a  poem  upon  tea. 
It  would  injure  him,  as  a  man  of  business,  if  I 
did  not  let  the  world  know  that  the  author  of  so 
good  verses  wrote  them  before  he  was  concerned  in 


*  No.  551  is  not  lettered  in  the  Spect.  in  folio,  nor  has  it  any 
signature  in  the  8vo  or  12mo  editions  of  1712. 


THE  SPECTATOR . 


652 


traffic.  In  order  to  expiate  my  negligence  toward 
him,  I  immediately  resolved  to  make  him  a  visit. 
I  found  his  spacious  warehouses  filled  and  adorned 
with  tea,  China,  and  India-ware.  I  could  observe 
a  beautiful  ordonnance  of  the  whole;  and  such 
different  and  considerable  branches  of  trade  car¬ 
ried  on  in  the  same  house,  I  exulted  in  seeing  dis¬ 
posed  by  a  poetical  head.  In  one  place  were 
exposed  to  view  silks  of  various  shades  and  colors, 
rich  brocades,  and  the  wealthiest  product  of  foreign 
looms.  Here  you  might  see  the  finest  laces  held 
up  by  the  fairest  hands;  and  there,  examined  by 
the  beauteous  eyes  of  the  buyers,  the  most  delicate 
cambrics,  muslins,  and  linens.  I  could  not  but 
congratulate  my  friend  on  the  humble,  but  I  hope 
beneficial,  use  he  had  made  of  his  talents,  and 
wished  I  could  be  a  patron  to  his  trade,  as  he  had 
been  pleased  to  make  me  of  his  poetry.  The  hon¬ 
est  man  has,  I  know,  that  modest  desire  of  gain 
which  is  peculiar  to  those  who  understand  better 
things  than  riches;  and  I  dare  say  he  would  be 
contented  with  much  less  than  what  is  called 
wealth  in  that  quarter  of  the  town  which  he  in¬ 
habits,  and  will  oblige  all  his  customers  with  de¬ 
mands  agreeable  to  the  moderation  of  his  desires. 

Among  other  omissions  of  which  I  have  been 
also  guilty,  with  relation  to  men  of  industry  of  a 
superior  order,  I  must  acknowledge  my  silence  to¬ 
ward  a  proposal  frequently  inclosed  to  me  by  Mr. 
Renatus  Harris,  organ-builder.  The  ambition  of 
this  artificer  is  to  erect  an  organ  in  St.  Paul’s  ca¬ 
thedral,  over  the  west  door,  at  the  entrance  into  the 
body  of  the  church,  which  in  art  and  magnificence 
shall  transcend  any  work  of  that  kind  ever  before 
invented.  The  proposal  in  perspicuous  language 
sets  forth  the  honor  and  advantage  such  a  perform¬ 
ance  would  be  to  the  British  name,  as  well  as  that 
it  would  apply  the  power  of  sounds  in  a  manner 
more  amazingly  forcible  than  pei’haps  has  yet  been 
known,  and  I  am  sure  to  an  end  much  more  worthy. 
Had  the  vast  sums  which  have  been  laid  out  upon 
operas  without  skill  or  conduct,  and  to  no  other 
purpose  but  to  suspend  or  vitiate  our  understand¬ 
ings,  been  disposed  this  way,  we  should  now  per¬ 
haps  have  had  an  engine  so  formed  as  to  strike  the 
minds  of  half  a  people  at  once  in  a  place  of  wor¬ 
ship,  with  a  forgetfulness  of  present  care  and 
calamity,  and  a  hope  of  endless  rapture,  joy,  and 
hallelujah  hereafter. 

When  I  am  doing  this  justice,  I  am  not  to  forget 
the  best  mechanic  of  my  acquaintance,  that  useful 
servant  to  sciences  and  knowledge,  Mr.  John  Row- 
ley;  but  I  think  I  lay  a  great  obligation  on  the 
public,  by  acquainting  them  with  his  proposals 
for  a  pair  of  new  globes.  After  this  preamble,  he 
promises  in  the  said  proposals  that, 

IN  THE  CELESTIAL  GLOBE, 

“  Care  shall  be  taken  that  the  fixed  stars  be 
placed  according  to  their  true  longitude  and  lati¬ 
tude,  from  the  many  and  correct  observations  of 
Hevelius,  Cassini,  Mr.  Flamstead,  reg.  astronomer; 
Dr.  Halley,  Savilian  professor  in  geometry  in  Oxon; 
and  from  whatever  else  can  be  procured  to  render 
the  globe  more  exact,  instructive,  and  useful. 

“That  all  the  constellations  be  drawn  in  a  curi¬ 
ous,  new,  and  particular  manner;  each  star  in  so 
just,  distinct,  and  conspicuous  a  proportion,  that 
its  true  magnitude  may  be  readily  known  by  bare 
inspection,  according  to  the  different  light  and 
sizes  of  the  stars.  That  the  track  or  way  of  such 
comets  as  have  been  well  observed,  but  not  hitherto 
expressed  in  any  globe,  be  carefully  delineated  in 
this.” 

IN  THE  TERRESTRIAL  GLOBE, 

“  That  by  reason  the  descriptions  formerly  made, 
both  in  the  English  and  Dutch  great  globes,  are 


erroneous,  Asia,  Africa,  and  America,  be  drawn  in 
a  manner  wholly  new;  by  which  means  it  is  to  be 
noted  that  the  undertakers  will  be  obliged  to  alter 
the  latitude  of  some  places  in  ten  degrees,  the  lon¬ 
gitude  of  others  in  twenty  degrees;  beside  which 
great  and  necessary  alterations,  there  be  many  re¬ 
markable  countries,  cities,  towns,  rivers,  and  lakes, 
omitted  in  other  globes,  inserted  here  according  to 
the  best  discoveries  made  by  our  late  navigators. 
Lastly,  that  the  course  of  the  trade-winds,  the 
monsoons,  and  other  winds  periodically  shifting 
between  the  tropics,  be  visibly  expressed. 

“Now,  in  regard  that  this  undertaking  is  of  so 
universal  use,  as  the  advancement  of  the  most  ne¬ 
cessary  parts  of  the  mathematics,  as  well  as  tend¬ 
ing  to  the  honor  of  the  British  nation,  and  that  the 
charge  of  carrying  it  on  is  very  expensive,  it  is 
desired  that  all  gentlemen  who  are  willing  to  pro¬ 
mote  so  great  a  work  will  be  pleased  to  subscribe 
on  the  following  conditions: 

“I.  The  undertakers  engage  to  furnish  each 
subscriber  with  a  celestial  and  terrestrial  globe, 
each  of  thirty  inches  diameter,  in  all  respects  curi¬ 
ously  adorned,  the  stars  gilded,  the  capital  cities 
plainly  distinguished,  the  frames,  meridians,  hori¬ 
zons,  hour  circles,  and  indexes,  so  exactly  finished 
up,  and  accurately  divided,  that  a  pair  of  these 
globes  will  really  appear,  in  the  judgment  of  any 
disinterested  and  intelligent  person,  worth  fifteen 
pounds  more  than  will  be  demanded  for  them  by 
the  undertakers. 

“II.  Whosoever  will  be  pleased  to  subscribe 
and  pay  twenty-five  pounds  in  the  manner  follow¬ 
ing  for  a  pair  of  the  globes,  either  for  their  own 
use,  or  to  present  them  to  any  college  in  the  uni¬ 
versities,  or  any  public  library  or  schools,  shall 
have  his  coat  of  arms,  name,  title,  seat,  or  place  of 
residence,  etc.,  inserted  in  some  convenient  place 
of  the  globe. 

“III.  That  every  subscriber  do  at  first  pay  down 
the  sum  of  ten  pounds,  and  fifteen  pounds  more 
upon  the  delivery  of  each  pair  of  globes  perfectly 
fitted  up.  And  that  the  said  globes  be  delivered 
within  twelve  months  after  the  number  of  thirty 
subscribers 'be  completed;  and  that  the  subscribers 
be  served  with  globes  in  the  order  in  which  they 
subscribed. 

“IV.  That  a  pair  of  these  globes  shall  not  here¬ 
after  be  sold  to  any  person  but  the  subscribers 
under  thirty  pounds. 

“V.  That,  if  there  be  not  thirty  subscribers 
within  four  months  after  the  first  of  December, 
1712,  the  money  paid  shall  be  returned  on  demand 
by  Mr.  John  Warner,  goldsmith,  near  Temple-bar, 
who  shall  receive  and  pay  the  same  according  to 
the  above-mentioned  articles.” — T. 


No.  553.]  THURSDAY,  DECEMBER  4, 1712. 

Nec  lusisse  pudet,  sed  non  incidere  ludum. 

Hor.  1  Ep.  xiv.  35. 

Once  to  be  wild  is  no  such  foul  disgrace, 

But  ’tis  so  still  to  run  the  frantic  race. — Creech. 

The  project  which  I  published  on  Monday  last 
has  brought  me  in  several  packets  of  letters. 
Among  the  rest,  I  have  received  one  from  a  certain 
projector,  wherein,  after  having  represented,  that 
in  all  probability  the  solemnity  of  opening  my 
mouth  will  draw  together  a  great  confluence  of 
beholders,  he  proposes  to  me  the  hiring  of  Station- 
ers’-hall  for  the  more  convenient  exhibition  of  that 
public  ceremony.  He  undertakes  to  be  at  the 
charge  of  it  himself,  provided  he  may  have  the 
erecting  of  galleries  on  every  side,  and  the  letting 
of  them  out  upon  that  occasion.  I  have  a  letter 


THE  SPE 

also  from  a  bookseller,  petitioning  me  in  a  very 
humble  manner  that  lie  may  have  the  printing  of 
the  speech  which  I  shall  make  to  the  assembly 
upon  the  first  opening  of  my  mouth.  I  am  in¬ 
formed  from  all  parts  that  there  are  great  canvass¬ 
ings  in  the  several  clubs  about  town,  upon  the 
choosing  of  a  proper  person  to  sit  with  me  on 
those  arduous  aliairs  to  which  I  have  summoned 
them.  Three  clubs  have  already  proceeded  to 
election,  whereof  one  has  made  a  double  return. 
If  I  find  that  my  enemies  shall  take  advantage  of 
mv  silence  to  begin  hostilities  upon  me,  or  if  any 
other  exigency  of  affairs  may  so  require,  since  I 
see  elections  in  so  great  a  forwardness,  we  may 
possibly  meet  before  the  day  appointed;  or,  if  mat¬ 
ters  go  on  to  my  satisfaction,  I  may  perhaps  put 
off  the  meeting  to  a  further  day;  but  of  this  public 
notice  shall  be  given. 

In  the  meantime,  I  must  confess  that  I  am  not 
a  little  gratified  and  obliged  by  that  concern  which 
appears  in  this  great  city  upon  my  present  design 
of  laying  down  this  paper.  It  is  likewise  with 
much  satisfaction  that  I  find  some  of  the  most 
outlying  parts  of  the  kingdom  alarmed  upon  this 
occasion,  having  received  letters  to  expostulate 
with  me  about  it  from  several  of  my  readers  of  the 
romotest  boroughs  of  Great  Britain."  Among  these 
I  am  very  well  pleased  with  a  letter  dated  at  Ber¬ 
wick-upon-Tweed,  wherein  my  correspondent  com- 
paies  the  office,  which  I  have  for  some  time 
executed  in  these  realms,  to  the  weeding  of  a 
great  garden;  “  which,”  says  he,  “it  is  not  suffi¬ 
cient  to  weed  once  for  all,  and  afterward  to  give 
over,  but  that  the  work  must  be  continued  daily, 
or  the  same  spots  of  ground  which  are  cleared  for 
a  while  will  in  a  little  time  be  overrun  as  much  as 
ever.  Another  gentleman  lays  before  me  several 
enormities  that  are  already  sprouting,  and  which 
he  believes  will  discover  themselves  in  their 
full  growth  immediately  after  my  disappearance. 
“There  is  no  doubt,”  says  he,  “but  the  ladies’ 
heads  will  shoot  up  as  soon  as  they  know  they 
are  no  longer  under  the  Spectator’s  eye;  and  I 
have  already  seen  such  monstrous  broad-brimmed 
hats  under  the  arms  of  foreigners,  that  I  question 
not  but  they  will  overshadow  the  island  within 
a  month  or  two  after  the  dropping  of  your  paper.” 
But,  among  all  the  letters  which  are  come  to  my 
hands,  there  is  none  so  handsomely  written  as  the 
following  one,  which  I  am  the  more  pleased  with 
as  it  is  sent  me  from  gentlemen  who  belong  to  a 
body  which  I  shall  always  honor,  and  where  (I 
cannot  speak  it  without  a  secret  pride)  my  specu¬ 
lations  have  met  with  a  very  kind  reception.  It 
is  usual  for  poets,  upon  the  publishing  of  their 
works,  to  print  before  them  such  copies  of  verses 
as  have  been  made  in  their  praise.  !NTot  that  you 
must  imagine  they  are  pleased  with  their  own 
commendation,  but  because  the  elegant  composi¬ 
tions  of  their  friends  should  not  be  lost.  I  must 
make  the  same  apology  for  the  publication  of  the 
ensuing  letter,  in  which  I  have  suppressed  no  part 
of  those  praises  that  are  given  my  speculations 
with  too  lavish  and  good-natured  a  hand;  though 
my  correspondents  can  witness  for  me,  that  at 
other  times  I  have  generally  blotted  out  those 
parts  in  the  letters  which  I  have  received  from 
them.  n 


“Mr.  Spectator, 

“In  spite  of  your  invincible  silence  you  have 
found  out  the  method  of  being  the  most  agreeable 
companion  in  the  world;  that  kind  of  conversation 
which  you  hold  with  the  town  has  the  good  for¬ 
tune  of  being  always  pleasing  to  the  men  of  taste 
and  leisure,  and  never  offensive  to  those  of  hurry 


3T  ATOR.  653 

and  business.  You  are  never  heard  but  at  what 
Horace  calls  dextro  tempore,  and  have  the  happiness 
to  observe  the  politic  rule  which  the  same  dis¬ 
cerning  author  gave  his  friend,  when  he  enjoined 
him  to  deliver  his  book  to  Augustus: 

Si  validus,  si  laetus  erit,  si  denique  poscet. — 1  Ep.  xiii.  3. 

— — - When  vexing  cares  are  fled, 

VV  hen  well,  when  merry,  when  he  asks  to  read.— Creech. 

You  never  begin  to  talk  but  when  people  are  desi¬ 
rous  to  hear  you;  and  I  defy  any  one  to  be  out  of 
humor  until  you  leave  off.  But  I  am  led  unawares 
into  reflections  foreign  to  the  original  design  of 
this  epistle;  which  was  to  let  you  know,  that  some 
unieigned  admirers  of  your  inimitable  papers,  who 
could,  without  any  flattery,  greet  you  with  the 
salutation  used  to  the  eastern  monarchs,  viz:  ‘0 
Spec.,  live  forever,’  have  lately  been  under'  the 
same  apprehensions  with  Mr.  Philo-Spec.;  that  the 
haste  you  have  made  to  dispatch  your  best  friends 
portends  no  long  duration  to  your  own  short  vis¬ 
age.  We  could  not,  indeed,  find  any  just  grounds 
tor  complaint  in  the  method  you  took  to  dissolve 
that  venerable  body  ;  no,  the  world  was  not  worthy 
ot  your  divine.  Will  Honeycomb  could  not,  with 
any  reputation,  live  single  any  longer.  It  was  high 
time  for  the  Templar  to  turn  himself  to  Coke;  and 
Sir  Roger’s  dying  was  the  wisest  thing  he  ever  did 
in  his  life.  It  was,  however,  matter  of  great  grief 
to  us,  to  think  that  we  were  in  danger  of  losing 
so  elegant  and  valuable  an  entertainment.  And 
we  could  not,  without  sorrow,  reflect  that  we  were 
likely  to  have  nothing  to  interrupt  our  sips  in  the 
morning,  and  to  suspend  our  coffee  in  mid-air,  be¬ 
tween  our  lips  and  right  ear,  but  the  ordinary  trash 
of  newspapers.  We  resolved,  therefore,  not  to  part 
with  you  so.  But  since,  to  make  use  of  your  own 
allusion,  the  cherries  began  now  to  crowd  the 
market,  and  their  season  was  almost  over,  we  con¬ 
sulted  our  future  enjoyments,  and  endeavored  to 
make  the  exquisite  pleasure  that  delicious  fruit 
gave  oui  taste  as  lasting  as  we  could,  and  by  dry¬ 
ing  them,  protract  their  stay  beyond  its  natural 
date.  We  own  that  thus  they  have  not  a  flavor 
equal  to  their  juicy  bloom;  but  yet,  under  this  dis¬ 
advantage,  they  pique  the  palate,  and  become  a 
salver  better  than  any  other  fruit  at  its  first  ap¬ 
peal  ance.  To  speak  plain,  there  are  a  number  of 
us  who  have  begun  your  works  afresh,  and  meet 
two  nights  in  the  week  in  order  to  give  you  a  re¬ 
hearing.  We  never  come  together  without  drink- 

)  tmr  health,  and  as  seldom  part  without  general 
expressions  of  thanks  to  you  for  our  night’s  im- 
piovement.  This  we  conceive  to  be  a  more  useful 
institution  than  any  other  club  whatever,  not  ex¬ 
cepting  even  that  of  Ugly  Faces.  We  have  one 
manifest  advantage  over  that  renowned  Society, 
with  respect  to  Mr.  Spectator’s  company.  For 
though  they  may  brag  that  you  sometimes  make 
your  personal  appearance  among  them,  it  is  impos¬ 
sible  they  should  ever  get  a  word  from  you,  whereas 
you  are  with  us  the  reverse  of  what  Phaedria  wrould 
have  his  mistress  be  in  his  rival’s  company,  ‘  pre¬ 
sent  in  your  absence.’  We  make  you  talk  as  much 
and  as  long  as  we  please;  and,  let  me  tell  you, 
you  seldom  hold  your  tongue  for  the  whole  even- 
ing.  I  promise  myself  you  will  look  with  an  eye 
of  favor  upon  a  meeting  which  owes  its  original 
to  a  mutual  emulation  among  its  members,  who 
shall  show  the  most  profound  respect  for  your 
paper;  not  but  we  have  a  very  great  value  for  your 
person;  and  I  dare  say  you  can  nowhere  find  four 
more  sincere  Admirers,  and  humble  Servants,  than 

“T.  F.  G.  S.  J.  T.  E.  F.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


654 

No.  554.]  FRIDAY,  DECEMBER  5,  1712. 

- Tentanda  via  est,  qua  me  quoque  possirn 

Tollere  liumo,  vietorque  virum  volitare  per  ora. 

Virg.  Georg,  iii.  9. 

New  ways  I  must  attempt,  my  groveling  name 

To  raise  aloft,  and  wing  my  flight  to  fame. — Dryden. 

I  am  obliged  for  the  following  essay,  as  well  for 
that  which  lays  down  rules  out  of  rI  ully  for  pro¬ 
nunciation  and  action,  to  the  ingenious  author  of 
a  poem  just  published,  entitled  An  Ode  to  the 
Creator  of  the  World,  occasioned  by  the  Fragments 
of  Orpheus. 

“  It  is  a  remark,  made  as  I  remember  by  a  cele¬ 
brated  French  author,  that  no  man  ever  pushed  his 
capacity  as  far  as  it  was  able  to  extend.  I  shall 
not  inquire  whether  this  assertion  be  strictly  true. 
It  may  suffice  to  say,  that  men  of  the  greatest  ap¬ 
plication  and  acquirements  can  look  back  upon 
many  vacant  spaces,  and  neglected  parts  of  time, 
which  have  slipped  away  from  them  unemployed; 
and  there  is  hardly  any  one  considering  person  in 
the  world  but  is  apt  to  fancy  with  himself,  at  some 
time  or  other,  that  if  his  life  were  to  begin  again 
he  could  fill  it  up  better. 

“  The  mind  is  most  provoked  to  cast  on  itself 
this  ingenious  reproach,  when  the  examples  of 
such  men  are  presented  to  it  as  have  far  outshot 
the  generality  of  their  species  in  learning,  arts,  or 
any  valuable  improvements. 

“  One  of  the  most  extensive  and  unproved  geni¬ 
uses  we  have  had  any  instance  of  in  our  own  na¬ 
tion,  or  in  any  other,  was  that  of  Sir  Francis  Bacon, 
Lord  Yerulam.  This  great  man,  by  an  extraordi¬ 
nary  force  of  nature,  compass  of  thought,  and  in¬ 
defatigable  study,  had  amassed  to  himself  such 
stores  of  knowledge  as  we  cannot  look  upon  with¬ 
out  amazement.  His  capacity  seemed  to  have 
grasped  all  that  was  revealed  in  books  before  his 
time;  and,  not  satisfied  with  that,  he  began  to 
strike  out  new  tracts  of  science,  too  many  to  be 
traveled  over  by  any  one  man  in  the  compass  of 
the  longest  life.  These,  therefore,  he  could  only 
mark  down,  like  imperfect  coastings  in  maps,  on 
supposed  points  of  land,  to  be  further  discovered 
and  ascertained  by  the  industry  of  after  ages,  who 
should  proceed  upon  his  notices  or  conjectures. 

“  The  excellent  Mr.  Boyle  was  the  person  who 
seems  to  have  been  designed  by  nature  to  succeed 
to  the  labors  and  inquiries  of  that  extraordinary 
genius  I  have  just  mentioned.  By  innumerable 
experiments,  he  in  a  great  measure  filled  up  those 
plans  and  outlines  of  science,  which  his  predeces¬ 
sor  had  sketched  out.  His  life  was  spent  in  the 
pursuit  of  nature  through  a  great  variety  of  forms 
and  changes,  and-  in  the  most  rational  as  well  as 
devout  adoration  of  its  divine  Author. 

“  It  would  be  impossible  to  name  many  persons 
who  have  extended  their  capacities  so  far  as  these 
two,  in  the  studies  they  pursued;  but  my  learned 
readers  on  this  occasion  Avill  naturally  turn  their 
thoughts  to  a  third,*  who  is  yet  living,  and  is 
likewise  the  glory  of  our  own  nation.  The  im¬ 
provements  which  others  had  made  in  natural  and 
mathematical  knowledge  has  so  vastly  increased 
in  his  hands,  as  to  afford  at  once  a  wonderful  in¬ 
stance  how  great  the  capacity  is  of  a  human  soul, 
and  how  inexhaustible  the  subject  of  its  inquiries; 
so  true  is  that  remark  in  holy  writ,  that  ‘  though 
a  wise  man  seek  to  find  out  the  works  of  God 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end,  yet  shall  he  not  be 
able  to  do  it/ 

“  I  cannot  help  mentioning  here  one  character 
more  of  a  different  kind  indeed  from  these,  yet 
such  a  one  as  may  serve  to  show  the  wonderful 
force  of  nature  and  of  application,  and  is  the  most 


singular  instance  of  a  universal  genius  I  have 
ever  met  with.  The  person  I  mean  is  Leonardo 
de  Vinci,  an  Italian  painter,  descended  from  a 
noble  family  in  Tuscany,  about  the  beginning  of 
the  sixteenth*  century.  In  his  profession  of  his¬ 
tory  painting  he  was  so  great  a  master,  that  some 
have  affirmed  he  excelled  all  who  went  before  him. 
It  is  certain  that  he  raised  the  envy  of  Michael 
Angelo,  who  was  his  cotemporary,  and  that  from 
the  study  of  his  works  Raphael  himself  learned 
his  best  manner  of  designing.  He  was  a  master 
too  in  sculpture  and  architecture,  and  skillful  in 
anatomy,  mathematics,  and  mechanics.  The  aque¬ 
duct  from  the  river  Adda  to  Milan  is  mentioned 
as  a  work  of  his  contrivance.  He  had  learned 
several  languages,  and  was  acquainted  with  the 
studies  of  history,  philosophy,  poetry,  and  music. 
Though  it  is  not  necessary  to  my  present  purpose, 

I  cannot  but  take  notice,  that  all  who  have  written 
of  him  mention  likewise  his  perfection  of  body. 
The  instances  of  his  strength  are  almost  incredi¬ 
ble.  He  is  described  to  have  been  of  a  well  formed 
person,  and  a  master  of  all  genteel  exercises. 
And,  lastly,  we  are  told  that  his  moral  qualities 
were  agreeable  to  his  natural  and  intellectual  en¬ 
dowments,  and  that  he  was  of  an  honest  and  gen¬ 
erous  mind,  adorned  with  great  sweetness  of  man¬ 
ners.  I  might  break  off  the  account  of  him  here, 
but  I  imagine  it  will  be  an  entertainment  to  the 
curiosity  of  my  readers,  to  find  so  remarkable,  a 
character  distinguished  by  as  remarkable  a  cir¬ 
cumstance  at  his  death.  The  fame  of  his  works 
having  gained  him  a  universal  esteem,  he  was  in¬ 
vited  to  the  court  of  France,  where,  after  some 
time,  he  fell  sick;  and  Francis  the  First  coming 
to  see  him,  he  raised  himself  in  his  bed  to  acknow¬ 
ledge  the  honor  which  was  done  him  by  that  visit. 
The  king  embraced  him,  and  Leonardo,  fainting 
in  the  same  instant,  expired  in  the  arms  of  that 
great  monarch. 

“It  is  impossible  to  attend  to  such  instances  as 
these  without  being  raised  into  a  contemplation 
on  the  wonderful  nature  of  a  human  mind,  which 
is  capable  of  such  progressions  in  knowledge,  and 
can  contain  such  a  variety  of  ideas  without  per¬ 
plexity  or  confusion.  How  reasonable  is  it  from 
hence  to  infer  its  divine  original  !  And  while  we 
find  unthinking  matter  endued  with  a  natural 
power  to  last  forever,  unless  annihilated  by  Om¬ 
nipotence,  how  absurd  would  it  be  to  imagine 
that  a  being  so  much  superior  to  it  should  not 
have  the  same  privilege  ! 

“  At  the  same  time  it  is  very  surprising,  when 
we  remove  our  thoughts  from  such  instances  as  I 
have  mentioned,  to  consider  those  we  so  frequently 
meet  with  in  the  accounts  of  barbarous  nations 
among  the  Indians;  where  we  find  numbers  of 
people  who  scarce  show  the  first  glimmerings  of 
reason,  and  seem  to  have  few  ideas  above  those 
of  sense  and  appetite.  These,  methinks,  appear 
like  large  wilds,  or  vast  uncultivated  tracts  of  hu¬ 
man  nature :  and,  when  we  compare  them  with 
men  of  the  most  exalted  characters  in  arts  and 
learning,  we  find  it  difficult  to  believe  that  they 
are  creatures  of  the  same  species. 

“  Some  are  of  opinion  that  the  souls  of  men  are 
all  naturally  equal,  and  that  the  great  disparity 
we  so  often  observe  arises  from  the  different  organ¬ 
ization  or  structure  of  the  bodies  to  which  they 
are  united.  But,  whatever  constitutes  this  first 
disparity,  the  next  great  difference  which  we  find 
between  men  in  their  several  acquirements  is 
owing  to  accidental  differences  in  their  education, 
fortunes,  or  course  of  life.  The  soul  is  a  kind  of 
rough  diamond,  which  requires  art,  labor,  and 


*  He  was  born  in  1445,  and  died  in  1520. 


*  Sir  Isaac  Newton. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


time,  to  polish  it.  For  want  of  which  many  a 
pood  natural  genius  is  lost,  or  lies  unfashioned, 
like  a  jewel  in  the  mine. 

“  One  of  the  strongest  incitements  to  excel  in 
such  arts  and  accomplishments  as  are  in  the  high¬ 
est  esteem  among  men,  is  the  natural  passion  which 
the  mind  of  man  has  for  glory;  which,  though  it 
may  be  faulty  in  the  excess  of  it,  ought  by  no 
means  to  be  discouraged.  Perhaps  some  moralists 
are  too  severe  in  beating  down  this  principle, 
which  seems  to  be  a  spring  implanted  by  nature 
to  give  motion  to  all  the  latent  powers  of  the  soul, 
and  is  always  observed  to  exert  itself  with  the 
greatest  force  in  the  most  generous  dispositions. 
The  men  whose  characters  have  shone  the  brightest 
among  the  ancient  Romans,  appear  to  have  been 
strongly  animated  by  this  passion.  Cicero,  whose 
learning  and  services  to  his  country  are  so  well 
known,  was  inflamed  by  it  to  an  extravagant  de¬ 
gree,  and  warmly  presses  Lucceius,  who  was  com¬ 
posing  a  history  of  those  times,  to  be  very  par¬ 
ticular  and  zeaious  in  relating  the  story  of  his 
consulship ;  and  to  execute  it  speedily,  that  he 
might  have  the  pleasure  of  enjoying  in  his  life¬ 
time  some  part  of  the  honor  which  he  foresaw 
would  be  paid  to  his  memory.  This  was  the  am¬ 
bition  of  a  great  mind;  but  he  is  faulty  in  the  de- 
ree  of  it,  and  cannot  refrain  from  soliciting  the 
istorian  upon  this  occasion  to  neglect  the  strict 
laws  of  history,  and,  in  praising  him,  even  to  ex¬ 
ceed  the  bounds  of  truth.  The  younger  Pliny 
appears  to  have  had  the  same  passion  for  fame, 
but  accompanied  with  greater  chasteness  and  mo¬ 
desty.  His  ingenious  manner  of  owning  it  to  a 
friend,  who  had  prompted  him  to  undertake  some 
great  work,  is  exquisitely  beautiful,  and  raises  him 
to  a  certain  grandeur  above  the  imputation  of  van¬ 
ity.  ‘I  must  confess/  says  he,  ‘that  nothing  em¬ 
ploys  my  thoughts  more  than  the  desire  I  have  of 
perpetuating  my  name;  which,  in  my  opinion,  is  a 
design  worthy  of  a  man,  at  least  of  such  a  one, 
who,  being  conscious  of  no  guilt,  is  not  afraid  to 
be  remembered  by  posterity.’ 

“  I  think  I  ought  not  to  conclude  without  inter¬ 
esting  all  my  readers  in  the  subject  of  this  dis¬ 
course;  I  shall,  therefore,  lay  it  down  as  a  maxim, 
that  though  all  are  not  capable  of  shining  in  learn¬ 
ing  or  the  politer  arts,  yet  every  one  is  capable  of 
excelling  in  something.  The  soul  has  in  this  re¬ 
spect  a  certain  vegetative  power  which  cannot  lie 
wholly  idle.  If  it  is  not  laid  out  and  cultivated 
into  a  regular  and  beautiful  garden,  it  will  of  itself 
shoot  up  in  weeds  or  flowers  of  a  wilder  growth.” 


No.  555.]  SATURDAY,  DECEMBER  6,  1712. 

Respue  quod  non  es -  Pers.  Sat.  iv.  51. 

Lay  the  fictitious  character  aside. 

All  the  members  of  the  imaginary  society,  which 
were  described  in  my  first  papers,  having  disap¬ 
eared  one  after  another,  it  is  high  time  for  the 
pectator  himself  to  go  off  the  stage.  But  now  I 
am  to  take  my  leave,  I  am  under  much  greater 
anxiety  than  I  have  known  for  the  work  of  any 
day  since  I  undertook  this  province.  It  is  much 
more  difficult  to  converse  with  the  world  in  a  real 
than  a  personated  character.  That  might  pass 
for  humor  in  the  Spectator,  which  would  look  like 
arrogance  in  a  writer  who  sets  his  name  to  his 
work.  The  fictitious  person  might  condemn  those 
who  disapproved  him,  and  extol  his  own  perform¬ 
ances  without  giving  offense.  He  might  assume 
a  mock  authority,  without  being  looked  upon  as 
vain  and  conceited.  The  praises  or  censures  of 


655 

himself  fall  only  upon  the  creature  of  his  imagin¬ 
ation;  and,  if  any  one  finds  fault  with  him,Sthe 
author  may  reply  with  the  philosopher  of  old, 
“Thou  dost  but  beat  the  case  of  Anaxarchus.” 
When  I  speak  in  my  own  private  sentiments,  I 
cannot  but  address  myself  to  my  readers  in  a 
more  submissive  manner,  and  with  a  just  gratitude 
for  the  kind  reception  which  they  have  given  to 
these  daily  papers,  which  have  been  published  for 
almost  the  space  of  two  years  last  past. 

I  hope  the  apology  I  have  made,  as  to  the 
license  allowable  to  a  feigned  character  may  ex- 
cuse  anything  which  has  been  said  in  these  dis¬ 
courses  of  the  Spectator  and  his  works;  but  the 
imputation  of  the  grossest  vanity  would  still  dwell 
upon  me  if  I  did  not  give  some  account  by  what 
means  I  was  enabled  to  keep  up  the  spirit  of  so 
long  and  approved  a  performance.  All  the  papers 
marked  with  a  0,  an  L,  an  I,  or  an  0,  that  is  to 
say,  all  the  papers  which  I  have  distinguished  by 
any  letter  in  the  name  of  the  muse  Clio,  were 
given  me  by  the  gentleman  of  whose  assistance 
I  formally  boasted  in  the  preface  and  concluding 
leaf  of  my  Tatlers.*  I  am  indeed  much  more 
proud  of  his  long-continued  friendship,  than  I 
should  be  of  the  fame  of  being  thought  the  au¬ 
thor  of  any  writings  which  he  himself  is  capable 
of  producing.  I  remember  when  I  finished  The 
Tender  Husband,  I  told  him  there  was  nothing  I 
so  ardently  wished,  as  that  we  might  some  time 
or  other  publish  a  work,  written  by  us  both,  which 
should  bear  the  name  of  The  Monument,  in  mem¬ 
ory  of  our  friendship.  I  heartily  wish  what  I 
have  done  here  were  as  honorary  to  that  sacred 
name,  as  learning,  wit,  and  humanity,  render  those 
pieces  which  I  have  taught  the  reader  how  to  dis¬ 
tinguish  for  his.  When  the  play  above-mentioned 
was  last  acted,  there  were  so  many  applauded 
strokes  in  it  which  I  had  from  the  same  hand, 
that  I  thought  very  meanly  of  myself  that  I  have 
never  publicly  acknowledged  them.  After  I  have 
put  other  friends  upon  importuning  him  to  pub¬ 
lish  dramatic  as  well  as  other  writings  he  has  by 
him,  I  shall  end  what  I  think  I  am  obliged  to  say 
on  this  head,  by  giving  my  reader  this  hint  for 
the  better  judging  of  my  productions — that  the 
best  comment  upon  them  would  be  an  account 
when  the  patron  to  The  Tender  Husband  was  in 
England  or  abroad. 

The  reader  will  also  find  some  papers  which  are 
marked  with  the  letter  X,  for  which  he  is  obliged 
to  the  ingenious  gentleman  who  diverted  the  town 
with  the  epilogue  to  The  Distressed  Mother.  I 
might  have  owned  these  several  papers  with  the 
free  consent  of  these  gentlemen,  who  did  not  write 
them  with  a  design  of  being  known  for  the  au¬ 
thors.  But,  as  a  candid  and  sincere  behavior 
ought  to  be  preferred  to  all  other  considerations, 

I  would  not  let  my  heart  reproach  me  with  a  con¬ 
sciousness  of  having  acquired  a  praise  which  is 
not  my  right. 

The  other  assistances  which  I  have  had  have 
been  conveyed  by  letter,  sometimes  by  whole 
papers,  and  other  times  by  short  hints  from  un¬ 
known  hands.  I  have  not  been  able  to  trace 
favors  of  this  kind  with  any  certainty,  but  to 
the  following  names,  which  I  place  in  the  order 
wherein  !  received  the  obligation,  though  the  first 
I  am  going  to  name  can  hardly  be  mentioned  in  a 
list  wherein  he  would  not  deserve  the  precedence. 
The  persons  to  whom  I  am  to  make  these  acknow¬ 
ledgments  are,  Mr.  Henry  Martyn,  Mr.  Pope,  Mr. 
Hughes,  Mr.  Carey  of  New-College  in  Oxford, 
Mr.  Tickell  of  Queen’s  in  the  same  university, 
Mr.  Parnell  and  Mr.  Eusden  of  Trinity  in  Cam* 


*  Addison. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


656 


bridge.  Thus,  to  speak  in  the  language  of  my 
late  friend,  Sir  Andrew  Freeport,  I  have  balanced 
my  accounts  with  all  my  creditors  for  wit  and 
learning.  But  as  these  excellent  performances 
would  not  have  seen  the  light  without  the  means 
of  this  paper,  I  may  still  arrogate  to  myself 
the  merit  of  their  being  communicated  to  the 
public. 

I  have  nothing  more  to  add,  but  having  swelled 
this  work  to  five  hundred  and  fifty-five  papers,  thev 
will  be  disposed  into  seven  volumes,  four  of  which 
are  already  published,  and  the  three  others  in  the 
press.  It  will  not  be  demanded  of  me  why  I  now 
leave  off,  though  I  must  own  myself  obliged  to 
give  an  account  to  the  town  of  my  time  hereafter; 
since  I  retire  when  their  partiality  to  me  is  so 
reat,  that  an  edition  of  the  former  volumes  of 
pectators  of  above  nine  thousand  each  book,  is 
already  sold  off,  and  the  tax  on  each  half-sheet 
has  brought  into  the  stamp-office,  one  week  with 
another,  above  20 1.  a- week  arising  from  the  single 
paper,  notwithstanding  it  at  first  reduced  it  to  less 
than  half  the  number  that  was  usually  printed 
before  the  tax  was  laid. 

I  humbly  beseech  the  continuance  of  this  in¬ 
clination  to  favor  what  I  may  hereafter  produce, 
and  hope  I  have  in  many  occurrences  of  my  life 
tasted  so  deeply  of  pain  and  sorrow,  that  I  am 
proof  against  much  more  prosperous  circum¬ 
stances  than  any  advantages  to  which  my  own 
industry  can  possibly  exalt  me. 

I  am,  my  good-natured  Reader, 

Your  most  obedient, 

Most  obliged  humble  Servant, 

Richard  Steele. 

Vos  valete  et  plaudite.  Ter. 

The  following  letter  regards  an  ingenious  set  of 
gentlemen,  who  have  done  me  the  honor  to  make 
me  one  of  their  society: 

“Mr.  Spectator,  Dec.  4,  1712. 

“  The  academy  of  painting,  lately  established 
in  London,  having  done  you  and  themselves  the 
honor  to  choose  you  one  of  their  directors;  that 
noble  and  lively  art,  which  before  was  entitled  to 
your  regard  as  a  Spectator,  has  an  additional 
claim  to  you,  and  you  seem  to  be  under  a  double 
obligation  to  take  some  care  of  her  interests. 

“  The  honor  of  our  country  is  also  concerned  in 
the  matter  I  am  going  to  lay  before  you.  We 
(and  perhaps  other  nations  as  well  as  we)  have  a 
national  false  humility  as  well  as  a  national  vain¬ 
glory;  and,  though  we  boast  ourselves  to  excel 
all  the  world  in  things  wherein  we  are  outdone 
abroad,  in  other  things  we  attribute  to  others  a 
superiority  which  we  ourselves  possess.  This  is 
what  is  done,  particularly  in  the  art  of  portrait  or 
face-painting. 

“Painting  is  an  art  of  avast  extent,  too  great 
by  much  for  any  mortal  man  to  be  in  full  posses¬ 
sion  of  in  all  its  parts;  it  is  enough  if  any  one 
succeed  in  painting  faces,  history,  battles,  land¬ 
scapes,  sea-pieces,  fruit,  flowers,  or  drolls,  etc. 
Hay,  no  man  ever  was  excellent  in  all  the 
branches  (though  many  in  number)  of  these  sev¬ 
eral  arts,  for  a  distinct  part  I  take  upon  me  to 
call  every  one  of  those  several  kinds  of  painting. 

“And  as  one  man  may  be  a  good  landscape- 
painter,  but  unable  to  paint  a  face  or  a  history 
tolerably  well,  and  so  of  the  rest;  one  nation  may 
excel  in  some  kinds  of  painting,  and  other  kinds 
may  thrive  better  in  other  climates. 

“Italy  may  have  the  preference  of  all  other  na¬ 
tions  for  history-painting;  Holland  for  drolls,  and 
a  neat,  finished  manner  of  working;  France  for 
gay,  janty,  fluttering  pictures;  and  England  for 


portraits:  but  to  give  the  honor  of  every  one  of 
these  kinds  of  painting  to  any  one  of  those  na¬ 
tions  on  account  of  their  excellence  in  any  of  these 
parts  of  it,  is  like  adjudging  the  prize  of  heroic, 
dramatic,  lyric,  or  burlesque  poetry,  to  him  who 
has  done  well  in  any  one  of  them. 

“Where  there  are  the  greatest  geniuses,  and 
most  helps  and  encouragements,  it  is  reasonable 
to  suppose  an  art  will  arrive  to  the  greatest  per¬ 
fection:  by  this  rule  let  us  consider  our  own  coun¬ 
try  with  respect  to  face-painting.  Ho  nation  in 
the  world  delights  so  much  in  having  their  own, 
or  friends’,  or  relations’  pictures;  whether  from 
their  national  good-nature,  or  having  a  love  to 
painting,  and  not  being  encouraged  in  that  great 
article  of  religious  pictures,  which  the  purity  of 
our  worship  refuses  the  free  use  of,  or  from  wliat- 
ever  other  cause.  Our  helps  are  not  inferior  to 
those  of  any  other  people,  but  rather  they  are 
greater;  for  what  the  antique  statues  and  bas- 
reliefs  which  Italy  enjoys  are  to  the  history- 
painters,  the  beautiful  and  noble  faces  with  which 
England  is  confessed  to  abound  are  to  face-paint¬ 
ers;  and,  beside,  we  have  the  greatest  number  of 
the  works  of  the  best  masters,  in  that  kind,  of 
any  people,  not  without  a  competent  number  of 
those  of  the  most  excellent  in  every  other  part  of 
painting.  And  for  encouragement,  the  wealth  and 
generosity  of  the  English  nation  affords  that  in 
such  a  degree  as  artists  have  no  reason  to  com¬ 
plain. 

“And  accordingly,  in  fact,  face-painting  is  no¬ 
where  so  well  performed  as  in  England:  I  know 
not  whether  it  has  lain  in  your  way  to  observe  it, 
but  I  have,  and  pretend  to  be  a  tolerable  judge. 
I  have  seen  what  is  done  abroad;  and  can  assure 
you  that  the  honor  of  that  branch  of  painting  is 
justly  due  to  us.  I  appeal  to  the  judicious  ob¬ 
servers  for  the  truth  of  what  I  assert.  If  foreigners 
have  oftentimes,  or  even  for  the  most  part,  excelled 
our  natives,  it  ought  to  be  imputed  to  the  advan¬ 
tages  they  hare  met  with  here,  joined  to  their  own 
ingenuity  and  industry;  nor  has  any  one  nation 
distinguished  themselves  so  as  to  raise  an  argu¬ 
ment  in  favor  of  their  country:  but  it  is  to  be  ob¬ 
served  that  neither  French  nor  Italians,  nor  any 
one  of  either  nation,  notwithstanding  all  our 
prejudices  in  their  favor,  have,  or  ever  had,  for 
any  considerable  time,  any  character  among  us  as 
face-painters. 

“  This  honor  is  due  to  our  own  country,  and 
has  been  so  for  near  an  age:  so  that,  instead  of 
going  to  Italy,  or  elsewhere,  one  that  designs  for 
portrait-painting,  ought  to  study  in  England. 
Hither  such  should  come  from  Holland,  France, 
Italy,  Germany,  etc.,  as  he  that  intends  to  prac¬ 
tice  any  other  kinds  of  painting  should  go  to 
those  parts  where  it  is  in  the  greatest  perfection. 
It  is  said  the  blessed  virgin  descended  from  heaven 
to  sit  to  St.  Luke.  I  dare  venture  to  affirm  that, 
if  she  should  desire  another  Madonna  to  be  painted 
by  the  life,  she  would  come  to  England;  and  am 
of  opinion  that  our  present  president.  Sir  Godfrey 
Kneller,  from  his  improvement  since  he  arrived  in 
this  kingdom,  would  perform  that  office  better 
than  any  foreigner  living. 

“  I  am,  with  all  possible  respect, 

“  Sir,  your  most  humble  and 

“  most  obedient  Servant,”  etc. 

***The  ingenious  letter  signed  The  Weather- 
Glass,  with  several  others,  were  received,  but  came 
too  late. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

It  had  not  come  to  my  knowledge,  when  I  left 
off  the  Spectator,  that  I  owe  several  excellent 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


sentiments  and  agreeable  pieces  in  this  work 
to  Mr.  Ince,  of  Gray’s  Inn.* 

“  R.  Steele.” 


No.  556.]  FRIDAY,  JUNE  18,  1714. 

Qualis  ubi  in  lucem  coluber,  mala  gramina  pastus, 

Frig  id  a  sub  terra  tumidum  quem  bruma  tegebat, 

Nunc  positis  novus  exuviis,  nitidusque  juventa, 

Lubrica  convolvit  sublato  pectore  terga 
Arduus  ad  solem,  et  linguis  rnicat  ore  trisulcis. 

Virg.  Ain.  ii.  471. 

So  shines,  renew’d  in  youth,  the  crested  snake, 

Who  slept  the  winter  in  a  thorny  brake; 

And,  casting  off  his  slough  when  spring  returns, 

Now  looks  aloft,  and  with  new  glory  burns : 

Restor’d  with  pois’nous  herbs,  his  ardent  sides 
Reflect  the  sun,  and  rais’d  on  spires  he  rides; 

High  o’er  the  grass  hissing  he  rolls  along, 

And  braudishes  by  fits  his  forky  tongue. — Dryden. 

Upon  laying  down  the  office  of  Spectator,  I  ac¬ 
quainted  the  world  with  my  design  of  electing  a 
new  club,  and  of  opening  my  mouth  in  it  after  a 
most  solemn  manner.  Both  the  election  and  the 
ceremony  are  now  past;  but  not  finding  it  so  easy, 
as  I  at  first  imagined,  to  break  through  a  fifty 
years’  silence,  I  would  not  venture  into  the  world 
under  the  character  of  a  man  who  pretends  to 
talk  like  other  people,  until  I  had  arrived  at  a 
full  freedom  of  speech. 

I  shall  reserve  for  another  time  the  history  of 
such  club  or  clubs  of  which  I  am  now  a  talkative 
but  unworthy  member;  and  shall  here  give  an  ac¬ 
count  of  this  surprising  change  which  has  been 
produced  in  me,  and  which  I  look  upon  to  be  as 
remarkable  an  accident  as  any  recorded  in  history, 
since  that  which  happened  to  the  son  of  Croesus, 
after  having  been  many  years  as  much  tongue- 
tied  as  myself. 

Upon  the  first  opening  of  my  mouth  I  made  a 
speech,  consisting  of  about  half  a  dozen  well- 
turned  periods;  but  grew  so  very  hoarse  upon  it, 
that  for  three  days  together,  instead  of  finding  the 
use  of  my  tongue,  I  was  afraid  that  I  had  quite 
lost  it.  Beside,  the  unusual  extension  of  my  mus¬ 
cles  on  this  occasion  made  my  face  ache  on  both 
sides,  to  such  a  degree  that  nothing  but  an  in- 
,  vincible  resolution  and  perseverance  could  have 
prevented  me  from  falling  back  to  my  monosyl¬ 
lables. 

I  afterward  made  several  essays  toward  speak¬ 
ing;  and  that  I  might  not  be  startled  at  my  own 
voice,  which  has  happened  to  me  more  than  once, 
I  used  to  read  aloud  in  my  chamber,  and  have 
often  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  street  to  call 
a  coach,  where  I  knew  there  was  none  within 
hearing. 

When  I  was  thus  grown  pretty  well  acquainted 
with  my  own  voice,  I  laid  hold  of  all  opportuni¬ 
ties  to  exert  it.  Not  caring  however  to  speak 
much  by  myself,  and  to  draw  upon  me  the  whole 
attention  of  those  I  conversed  with,  I  used  for 
some  time  to  walk  every  morning  in  the  Mall, 
and  talk  in  chorus  with  a  parcel  of  Frenchmen. 
I  found  my  modesty  greatly  relieved  by  the  com¬ 
municative  temper  of  this  nation,  who  are  so  very 
sociable  as  to  think  they  are  never  better  com¬ 
pany  than  when  they  are  all  opening  at  the  same 
time. 

I  then  fancied  I  might  receive  great  benefit  from 
female  conversation,  and  that  I  should  have  a  con¬ 
venience  of  talking  with  the  greater  freedom  when 
I  was  not  under  any  impediment  of  thinking;  I 
therefore  threw  myself  into  an  assembly  of  ladies, 


*This  was  the  conclusion  of  the  seventh  volume  of  the 
Spectator,  as  originally  published.  The  intermediate  time 
was  filled  up  by  our  authors  with  the  Guardian. 

42 


657 

but  could  not  for  my  life  get  in  a  word  among 
them;  and  found  that  if  I  did  not  change  my  com¬ 
pany  1  was  in  danger  of  being  reduced  to  my 
primitive  taciturnity. 

The  coffee-houses  have  ever  since  been  my  chief 
places  of  resort,  where  I  have  made  the  greatest 
improvements;  in  order  to  which  I  have  taken  a 
particular  care  never  to  be  of  the  same  opinion 
with  the  man  I  conversed  with.  I  was  a  tory  at 
Button’s,  and  a  whig  at  Child’s,  a  friend  to  the 
Englishman,  or  an  advocate  for  the  Examiner,  as 
it  best  served  my  turn;  some  fancy  me  a  great  en¬ 
emy  to  the  French  king,  though  in  reality  I  only 
make  use  of  him  for  a  help  to  discourse.  In  short, 
I  wrangle  and  dispute  for  exercise;  and  have  car¬ 
ried  this  point  so  far,  that  I  was  once  like  to  have 
been  run  through  the  body  for  making  a  little  too 
free  with  my  betters.  * 

In  a  word,  I  am  quite  another  man  to  what  I 
was. 

- —Nil  fuit  unquam 

Tam  dispar  sibi. — -  Hor.  1  Sat.  iii.  18. 

Nothing  was  ever  so  unlike  itself. 

My  old  acquaintance  scarce  knew  me,  nay,  I 
was  asked  the  other  day  by  a  Jew  at  Jonathan’s, 
whether  I  was  not  related  to  a  dumb  gentleman, 
who  used  to  come  to  that  coffee-house?  But  I 
think  I  never  was  better  pleased  in  my  life  than 
about  a  week  ago,  when,  as  I  was  battling  it  across 
the  table  with  a  young  Templar,  his  companion 
gave  him  a  pull  by  the  sleeve,  begging  him  to 
come  away,  for  that  the  old  prig  would  talk  him 
to  death. 

Being  now  a  very  good  proficient  in  discourse, 
I  shall  appear  in  the  world  with  this  addition  to 
my  character,  that  my  countrymen  may  reap  the 
fruits  of  my  newdy-acquired  loquacity. 

Those  who  have  been  present  at  public  disputes 
in  the  university  know  that  it  is  usual  to  maintain 
heresies  for  argument’s  sake.  I  have  heard  a  man 
a  most  impudent  Socinian  for  half  an  hour,  who 
has  been  an  orthodox  divine  all  his  life  after.  I 
have  taken  the  same  method  to  accomplish  myself 
in  the  gift  of  utterance,  having  talked  above  a 
twelvemonth,  not  so  much  for  the  benefit  of  my 
hearers,  as  of  myself.  But,  since  I  have  now 
gained  the  faculty  I  have  been  so  long  endeavoring 
after,  I  intend  to  make  a  right  use  of  it,  and  shall 
think  myself  obliged  for  the  future  to  speak  always 
in  truth  and  sincerity  of  heart.  While  a  man  is 
learning  to  fence,  he  practices  both  on  friend  and 
foe;  but  when  he  is  a  master  in  the  art,  he  never 
exerts  it  but  on  what  bethinks  the  right  side. 

That  this  last  allusion  may  not  give  my  reader 
a  wrong  idea  of  my  design  in  this  paper,  I  must 
here  inform  him,  that  the  author  of  it  is  of  no  fac¬ 
tion;  that  he  is  a  friend  to  no  interests  but  those 
of  truth  and  virtue;  nor  a  foe  to  any  but  those  of 
vice  and  folly.  Though  I  make  more  noise  in  the 
world  than  I  used  to  do,  I  am  still  resolved  to  act 
in  it  as  an  indifferent  spectator.  It  is  not  my  am¬ 
bition  to  increase  the  number  either  of  whigs  or 
tories,  but  of  wise  and  good  men;  and  I  could 
heartily  wish  there  were  not  faults  common  to  both 
parties,  which  afford  me  sufficient  matter  to  work 
upon,  without  descending  to  those  which  are  pecu¬ 
liar  to  either. 

If  in  a  multitude  of  counselors  th&re  is  safety, 
we  ought  to  think  ourselves  the  securest  nation  m 
the  world.  Most  of  our  garrets  are  inhabited  by 
statesmen,  who  watch  over  the  liberties  of  their 
country,  and  make  a  shift  to  keep  themselves  from 
starving  by  taking  into  their  care  the  properties  of 
their  fellow-subject. 

As  these  politicians  of  both  sides  have  already 
worked  the  nation  into  a  most  unnatural  ferment, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


658 

I  shall  be  so  far  from  endeavoring  to  raise  it  to  a 
greater  height,  that,  on  the  contrary,  it  shall  be  the 
chief  tendency  of  my  papers  to  inspire  my  coun¬ 
trymen  with  a  mutual  good-will  ana  benevolence. 
Whatever  faults  either  party  may  be  guilty  of, 
they  are  rather  inflamed  than  cured  by  those  re¬ 
proaches  which  they  cast  upon  one  another.  The 
most  likely  method  of  rectifying  any  man’s  con¬ 
duct  is  by  recommending  to  him  the  principles  of 
truth  and  honor,  religion  and  virtue;  and  so  long 
as  he  acts  with  an  eye  to  these  principles,  whatever 
party  he  is  of,  he  cannot  fail  of  being  a  good  Eng¬ 
lishman,  and  a  lover  of  his  country. 

As  for  the  persons  concerned  in  this  work,  the 
names  of  all  of  them,  or  at  least  of  such  as  desire 
it,  shall  be  published  hereafter;  until  which  time 
I  must  entreat  the  courteous  reader  to  suspend  his 
curiosity,  and  rather  to  consider  what  is  written 
than  who  they  are  that  write  it. 

Having  thus  adjusted  all  necessary  preliminaries 
with  my  reader,  1  shall  not  trouble  him  with  any 
more  prefatory  discourses,  but  proceed  in  my  old 
method,  and  entertain  him  with  speculations  on 
every  useful  subject  that  falls  in  my  way. 


No.  557.]  MONDAY,  JUNE  21,  1714. 

Quippe  domum  timet  ambiguam,  Tyriosque  bilingues. 

ViEG.iEn.  i.  665. 

He  fears  the  ambiguous  race,  and  Tyrians  double-tongued. 

“There  is  nothing,”  says  Plato,  “so  delightful 
as  the  hearing  or  the  speaking  of  truth.”  For  this 
reason  there  is  no  conversation  so  agreeable  as  that 
of  the  man  of  integrity,  who  hears  without  any 
intention  to  betray,  and  speaks  without  any  inten¬ 
tion  to  deceive. 

Among  all  the  accounts  which  are  given  of  Cato, 
I  do  not  remember  one  that  more  redounds  to  his 
honor  than  the  following  passage  related  by  Plu¬ 
tarch.  As  an  advocate  was  pleading  the  cause  of 
his  client  before  one  of  the  praetors,  he  could  only 
produce  a  single  witness  in  a  point  where  the  law 
required  the  testimony  of  two  persons;  upon  which 
the  advocate  insisted  on  the  integrity  of  that  per¬ 
son  whom  he  had  produced;  but  the  praetor  told 
him,  that  where  the  law  required  two  witnesses  he 
would  not  accept  of  one,  though  it  were  Cato  him¬ 
self.  Such  a  speech  from  a  person  who  sat  at  the 
head  of  a  court  of  justice,  while  Cato  was  still  liv¬ 
ing,  shows  us,  more  than  a  thousand  examples, 
the  high  reputation  this  man  had  gained  among 
his  cotemporaries  upon  the  account  of  his  sin¬ 
cerity. 

When  such  an  inflexible  integrity  is  a  little  soft¬ 
ened  and  qualified  by  the  rules  of  conversation  and 
good-breeding,  there  is  not  a  more  shining  virtue 
in  the  whole  catalogue  of  social  duties.  A  man, 
however,  ought  to  take  great  care  not  to  polish 
himself  out  of  his  veracity,  nor  to  refine  his  be¬ 
havior  to  the  prejudice  of  his  virtue. 

This  subject  is  exquisitely  treated  in  the  most 
elegant  sermon  of  the  great  British  preacher.*  I 
shall  beg  leave  to  transcribe  out  of  it  two  or  three 
sentences  as  a  proper  introduction  to  a  very  curi¬ 
ous  letter,  which  I  shall  make  the  chief  entertain¬ 
ment  of  this  speculation. 

“  The  old  English  plainness  and  sincerity,  that 
generous  integrity  of  nature,  and  honesty  of  dis¬ 
position,  which  always  argues  true  greatness  of 
mind,  and  is  usually  accompanied  with  undaunted 
courage  and  resolution,  is  in  a  great  measure  lost 
among  us. 

“  The  dialect  of  conversation  is  now-a-days  so 


swelled  with  vanity  and  compliment,  and  so  sur¬ 
feited  (as  I  may  say)  of  expressions  of  kindness 
and  respect,  that  if  a  man  that  lived  an  age  or  two 
ago  should  return  into  the  world  again,  he  would 
really  want  a  dictionary  to  help  him  to  understand 
his  own  language,  and  to  know  the  true  intrinsic 
value  of  the  phrase  in  fashion;  and  would  hardly 
at  first  believe  at  what  a  low  rate  the  highest  strains 
and  expressions  of  kindness  imaginable  do  com¬ 
monly  pass  in  current  payment;  and  when  he 
should  come  to  understand  it,  it  would  be  a  great 
while  before  he  could  bring  himself  with  a  good 
countenance,  and  a  good  conscience,  to  converse 
with  men  upon  equal  terms  and  in  their  own  way.” 

I  have  by  me  a  letter  which  I  look  upon  as  a 
great  curiosity,  and  which  may  serve  as  an  exem¬ 
plification  to  the  foregoing  passage,  cited  out  of 
this  most  excellent  prelate.  It  is  said  to  have  been 
written  in  King  Charles  the  Second’s  reign  by  the 
ambassador  of  Bantam,*  a  little  after  his  arrival 
in  England. 

“  Master, 

“  The  people  where  I  now  am  have  tongues  fur¬ 
ther  from  their  hearts  than  from  London  to  Bantam, 
and  thou  knowest  the  inhabitants  of  one  of  these 
places  do  not  know  what  is  done  in  the  other. 
They  call  thee  and  thy  subjects  barbarians,  be¬ 
cause  we  speak  what  we  mean;  and  account  them¬ 
selves  a  civilized  people,  because  they  speak  one 
thing  and  mean  another;  truth  they  call  barbarity, 
and  falsehood  politeness.  Upon  my  first  landing, 
one,  who  was  sent  by  the  king  of  this  place  to 
meet  me,  told  me  that  he  was  extremely  sorry  for 
the  storm  I  had  met  with  just  before  my  arrival. 
I  was  troubled  to  hear  him  grieve  and  afflict  him¬ 
self  on  my  account;  but  in  less  than  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  he  smiled,  and  was  as  merry  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  Another  who  came  with  him  told 
me,  by  my  interpreter,  he  should  be  glad  to  do  me 
any  service  that  lay  in  his  power.  Upon  which  I 
desired  him  to  carry  one  of  my  portmanteaus  for 
me;  but,  instead  of  serving  me  according  to  his 
promise,  he  laughed,  and  bid  another  do  it.  I 
lodged  the  first  week  at  the  hoi>se  of  one  who  de¬ 
sired  me  to  think  myself  at  home,  and  to  consider 
his  house  as  my  own.  Accordingly  I  the  next 
morning  began  to  knock  down  one  of  the  walls  of 
it,  in  order  to  let  in  the  fresh  air,  and  had  packed 
up  some  of  the  household  goods,  of  which  I  in¬ 
tended  to  have  made  thee  a  present;  but  the  false 
varlet  no  sooner  saw  me  falling  to  work,  but  he 
sent  word  to  desire  me  to  give  over,  for  that  he 
would  have  no  such  doings  in  his  house.  I  had 
not  being  long  in  this  nation,  before  I  was  told  by 
one,  for  whom  I  had  asked  a  certain  favor  from 
the  chief  of  the  king’s  servants,  whom  they  here 
call  the  lord-treasurer,  that  I  had  eternally  obliged 
him.  I  was  so  surprised  at  his  gratitude,  that  I 
could  not  forbear  saying,  ‘What  service  is  there 
which  one  man  can  do  for  another,  that  can 
oblige  him  to  all  eternity  ?’  However,  I  only  asked 
him,  for  my  reward,  that  he  would  lend  me  his 
eldest  daughter  during  my  stay  in  this  country; 
but  I  quickly  found  that  he  was  as  treacherous  as 
the  rest  of  his  countrymen. 

“At  my  first  going  to  court,  one  of  the  grea) 
men  almost  put  me  out  of  countenance,  by  askinj 
ten  thousand  pardons  of  me  for  only  treading  by 
accident  upon  my  toe.  They  call  this  kind  of  lie 
a  compliment;  for,  when  they  are  civil  to  a  great 
man,  they  tell  him  untruths,  for  which  thou  wouldst 
order  any  of  thy  officers  of  state  to  receive  a  hun¬ 
dred  blows  upon  his  foot.  I  do  not  know  how  I 
shall  negotiate  anything  with  this  people,  since 


*  In  16S2. 


*  Archbishop  Tillotson,  vol.  ii,  sermon  i,  p.  7,  edit,  in  folio. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


there  is  no  little  credit  to  be  given  to  them.  When 
I  go  to  see  the  king’s  scribe,  I  am  generally  told 
that  he  is  not  at  home,  though  perhaps  I  saw  him 

fo  into  his  house  almost  the  very  moment  before. 

hou  wouldst  fancy  that  the  whole  nation  are 
physicians,  for  the  nrst  question  they  always  ask 
me  is,  how  I  do;  I  have  this  question  put  to  me 
above  a  hundred  times  a-day,  nay,  they  are  not  only 
thus  inquisitive  after  my  health,  but  wish  it  in  a 
more  solemn  manner,  with  a  full  glass  in  their 
hands,  every  time  I  sit  with  them  at  table,  though 
at  the  same  time  they  would  persuade  me  to  drink 
their  liquors  in  such  quantities  as  I  have  found  by 
experience  will  make  me  sick.  They  often  pre¬ 
tend  to  pray  for  thy  health  also  in  the  same  man¬ 
ner;  but  I  have  more  reason  to  expect  it  from  the 
goodness  of  thy  constitution  than  the  sincerity  of 
their  wishes.  May  thy  slave  escape  in  safety  from 
this  double-tongued  race  of  men,  and  live  to  lay 
himself  once  more  at  thy  feet  in  the  royal  city  of 
Bantam !” 


No.  558.]  WEDNESDAY,  JUNE  23,  1714. 

Qui  fit,  Maecenas,  ut  nemo,  quam  sibi  sortem 
Seu  ratio  dederit,  seu  fors  objecerit,  ilia 
Contentus  vivat :  laudet  diversa  sequentes  ? 

0  fbrtunati  mercatores,  gravis  annis 

Miles  ait,  multo  jam  fractus  membra  labore!  * 

Contra  mercator,  navem  jactantibus  austris, 

Militia  est-portior.  Quidenim?  concurritur;  boras 
Momento  cita  mors  venit,  aut  victoria  laeta. 

Agricolam  laudat  jures  legumque  peritus, 

Sub  galli  cantum  consultor  ubi  ostia  pulsat. 

Ille,  datis  vadibus,  qui  rure  extractus  in  urbem  est, 
Solos  felices  viventes  clamat  in  urbe. 

Caetera  de  genere  hoc  (adeo  sunt  multa)  loquacem 
Delassare  valent  Fabium.  Ne  te  morer,  audi 
Quo  rem  deducam.  Si  quis  Deus,  en  ego,  dicat, 

Jam  faciam  quod  vultis ;  eris  tu,  qui  modo  miles, 
Mercator ;  tu  consultus  modo  rusticus.  Hinc  vos, 

Vos  hinc  mutatis  discedite  partibus.  Eja, 

Quid  statist  Nolint.  Atqui  licet  esse  beatis. 

Hor.  1.  sat.  i.  1. 

Whence  is’t,  Maecenas,  that  so  few  approve 
The  state  they’re  plac’d  in,  and  incline  to  rove ; 

Whether  against  their  will  by  fate  impos’d, 

Or  by  consent  and  prudent  choice  espous’d  ? 

Happy  the  merchant !  the  old  soldier  cries, 

Broke  with  fatigues  and  warlike  enterprise. 

The  merchant,  when  the  dreaded  hurricane 
Tosses  his  wealthy  cargo  on  the  main, 

Applauds  the  wars  and  toils  of  a  campaign; 

There  an  engagement  soon  decides  your  doom, 

Bravely  to  die,  or  come  victorious  home. 

The  lawyer  vows  the  farmer’s  life  is  best, 

When  at  the  dawn  the  clients  break  his  rest. 

The  farmer,  having  put  in  bail  t’  appear, 

And  forc’d  to  town,  cries  they  are  happiest  there ; 

With  thousands  more  of  this  inconstant  race, 

Would  tire  e’en  Fabius  to  relate  each  case. 

Not  to  detain  you  longer,  pray  attend, 

The  issue  of  all  this :  Should  Jove  descend, 

And  grant  to  every  man  his  rash  demand, 

To  run  his  lengths  with  a  neglectful  hand ; 

First,  grant  the  harass’d  warrior  a  release, 

Bid  him  to  trade,  and  try  the  faithless  seas, 

To  purchase  treasure  and  declining  ease : 

Next,  call  the  pleader  from  his  learned  strife, 

To  the  calm  blessings  of  a  country  life ; 

And  with  these  separate  demands  dismiss 
Each  suppliant  to  enjoy  the  promis’d  bliss : 

Don’t  you  believe  they’d  run?  Not  one  will  move, 
Though  proffer’d  to  be  happy  from  above. — Horneck. 

It  is  a  celebrated  thought  of  Socrates,  that  if  all 
the  misfortunes  of  mankind  were  cast  into  a  public 
stock,  in  order  to  be  equally  distributed  among  the 
whole  species,  those  who  now  think  themselves 
the  most  unhappy  would  prefer  the  share  they  are 
already  possessed  of  before  that  which  would  fall 
to  them  by  such  a  division.  Horace  has  carried 
this  thought  a  great  deal  further  in  the  motto  of 
my  paper,  which  implies,  that  the  hardships  or 
misfortunes  we  lie  under  are  more  easy  to  us  than 


659 

those  of  any  other  person  would  be,  in  case  we 
could  change  conditions  with  him. 

As  I  was  ruminating  upon  these  two  remarks, 
and  seated  in  my  elbow-chair,  I  insensibly  fell 
asleep;  when  on  a  sudden  methought  there  was  a 
proclamation  made  by  Jupiter,  that  every  mortal 
should  bring  in  his  griefs  and  calamities,  and  throw 
them  together  in  a  heap.  There  was  a  large  plain 
appointed  for  this  purpose.  I  took  my  stand  in 
the  center  of  it,  and  saw  with  a  great  deal  of  pleas¬ 
ure  the  whole  human  species  marching  one  after 
another,  and  throwing  down  their  several  loads, 
which  immediately  grew  up  into  a  prodigious 
mountain,  that  seemed  to  rise  above  the  clouds. 

There  was  a  certain  lady  of  a  thin  airy  shape, 
who  was  very  active  in  this  solemnity.  She  carried 
a  magnifying  glass  in  one  of  her  hands,  and  was 
clothed  in  a  loose  flowing  robe,  embroidered  with 
several  figures  of  fiends  and  specters,  that  discov¬ 
ered  themselves  in  a  thousand  chimerical  shapes 
as  her  garment  hovered  in  the  wind.  There  was 
something  wild  and  distracted  in  her  looks.  Her 
name  was  Fancy.  She  led  up  every  mortal  to  the 
appointed  place,  after  having  very  officiously  as¬ 
sisted  him  in  making  up  his  pack,  and  laying  it 
upon  his  shoulders.  My  heart  melted  within  me 
to  see  my  fellow-creatures  groaning  under  their 
respective  burdens,  and  to  consider  that  prodigious 
bulk  of  human  calamities  which  lay  before  me. 

There  were,  however,  several  persons  who  gave 
me  great  diversion  upon  this  occasion.  I  observed 
one  bringing  in  a  fardel  very  carefully  concealed 
under  an  old  embroidered  cloak,  which,  upon  his 
throwing  it  into  the  heap,  I  discovered  to  be  Pov¬ 
erty.  Another,  after  a  great  deal  of  puffing,  threw 
down  his  luggage,  which,  upon  examining,  I  found 
to  be  his  wife. 

There  were  multitudes  of  lovers  saddled  with 
very  whimsical  burdens  composed  of  darts  and 
flames  ;  but,  what  was  very  odd,  though  they 
sighed  as  if  their  hearts  would  break  under  these 
bundles  of  calamities,  they  could  not  persuade 
themselves  to  cast  them  into  the  heap,  when  they 
came  up  to  it;  but  after  a  few  faint  efforts,  shook 
their  heads,  and  marched  away  as  heavy  laden  as 
they  came.  I  saw  multitudes  of  old  women  throw 
down  their  wrinkles,  and  several  young  ones  who 
stripped  themselves  of  a  tawny  skin.  There  were 
very  great  heaps  of  red  noses,  large  lips,  and  rusty 
teeth.  The  truth  of  it  is,  I  was  surprised  to  see 
the  greatest  part  of  the  mountain  made  up  of  bo¬ 
dily  deformities.  Observing  one  advancing  to¬ 
ward  the  heap  with  a  larger  cargo  than  ordinary 
upon  his  back,  I  found  upon  his  near  approach 
that  it  was  only  a  natural  hump,  which  he  dis¬ 
posed  of  with  great  joy  of  heart  among  this  collec¬ 
tion  of  human  miseries.  There  were  likewise 
distempers  of  all  sorts;  though  I  could  not  but  ob¬ 
serve,  that  there  were  many  more  imaginary  than 
real.  One  little  packet  I  could  not  but  take  no¬ 
tice  of,  which  was  a  complication  of  all  the  dis¬ 
eases  incident  to  human  nature,  and  was  in  the 
hand  of  a  great  many  fine  people  ;  this  was  called 
the  spleen.  But  what  most  of  all  surprised  me, 
was  a  remark  I  made,  that  there  was  not  a  single 
vice  or  folly  thrown  into  the  whole  heap;  at 
which  I  was  very  much  astonished,  having  con¬ 
cluded  within  myself,  that  every  one  would  take 
this  opportunity  of  getting  rid  of  his  passions, 
prejudices  and  frailties. 

1  took  notice  in  particular  of  a  very  profligate 
fellow,  who  I  did  not  question  came  laden  with 
his  crimes  ;  but  upon  searching  into  his  bundle  I 
found  that  instead  of  throwing  his  guilt  from  him, 
he  had  only  laid  down  his  memory.  He  was  fol¬ 
lowed  by  another  worthless  rogue,  who  flung 
away  his  modesty  instead  of  his  ignorance. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


C60 

When  the  whole  race  of  mankind  had  thus  cast 
their  burdens,  the  phantom  which  had  been  so 
busy  on  this  occasion,  seeing  me  an  idle  Spectator 
of  what  passed,  approached  toward  me.  I  grew 
uneasy  at  her  presence,  when  of  a  sudden  she  held 
her  magnifying-glass  full  before  my  eyes.  I  no 
sooner  saw  my  face  in  it,  but  was  startled  at  the 
shortness  of  it,  which  now  appeared  to  me  in  its 
utmost  aggravation.  The  immoderate  breadth  of 
the  features  made  me  very  much  out  of  humor  with 
my  own  countenance,  upon  which  I  threw  it  from 
me  like  a  mask.  It  happened  very  luckily  that 
one  who  stood  by  me  had  just  before  thrown  down 
his  visage,  which  it  seems  was  too  long  for  him. 
It  was  indeed  extended  to  a  most  shameful  length  ; 
I  believe  the  very  chin  was,  modestly  speaking, 
as  long  as  my  whole  face.  We  had  both  of  us  an 
opportunity  of  mending  ourselves;  and  all  the 
contributions  being  now  brought  in,  every  man 
was  at  liberty  to  exchange  his  misfortunes  for 
those  of  another  person.  But  as  there  arose  many 
new  incidents  in  the  sequel  of  my  vision,  I  shall 
reserve  them  for  the  subject  of  my  next  paper. 


No.  559.]  FRIDAY,  JUNE  25,  1714. 

Quid  causae  est.  merito  quin  illis  Jupiter  ambas 
Iratus  buccas  inflot,  neque  se  fore  posthac 
Tam  facilem  dicat,  votis  ut  prcebeat  aurem? 

Hor.  1.  Sat.  i.  20. 

Were  it  not  just  that  Jove,  provok’d  to  heat, 

Should  drive  these  triflcrs  from  the  hallow’d  seat, 

And  unrelenting  stand  when  they  entreat? — IIorneck. 

In  my  last  paper  I  gave  my  reader  a  sight  of 
that  mountain  of  miseries  which  was  made  up  of 
those  several  calamities  that  afflict  the  minds  of 
men.  I  saw  with  unspeakable  pleasure  the  whole 
species  thus  delivered  from  its  sorrows;  though  at 
the  same  time,  as  we  stood  round  the  heap,  and 
surveyed  the  several  materials  of  which  it  was 
composed,  there  was  scarcely  a  mortal  in  this  vast 
multitude,  who  did  not  discover  what  he  thought 
pleasures  and  blessings  of  life,  and  wondered  how 
the  owners  of  them  ever  came  to  look  upon  them 
as  burdens  and  grievances. 

As  we  were  regarding  very  attentively  this  con¬ 
fusion  of  miseries,  this  chaos  of  calamity,  Jupiter 
issued  out  a  second  proclamation,  that  every  one 
was  now  at  liberty  to  exchange  his  affliction,  and 
to  return  to  his  habitation  with  any  such  other 
bundle  as  should  be  delivered  to  him. 

Upon  this,  Fancy  began  again  to  bestir  her¬ 
self,  and,  parcelihg  out  the  whole  heap  with  in¬ 
credible  activity,  recommended  to  every  one  his 
particular  packet.  The  hurry  and  confusion  at 
this  time  was  not  to  be  expressed.  Some  observa¬ 
tions  which  I  made  upon  the  occasion  I  shall  com¬ 
municate  to  the  public.  A  venerable,  gray-headed 
man,  who  had  laid  down  the  colic,  and  who  I 
found  wanted  an  heir  to  his  estate,  snatched  up  an 
undutiful  son  that  had  been  thrown  into  the  heap 
by  his  angry  father.  The  graceless  youth,  in 
less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  pulled  the  old 
gentleman  by  the  beard,  and  had  liked  to  have 
knocked  his  brains  out;  so  that  meeting  the  true 
father,  who  came  toward  him  with  a  fit  of  the 
gripes,  he  begged  him  to  take  his  son  again,  and 
give  him  back  his  colic;  but  they  were  incapable 
either  of  them  to  recede  from  the  choice  they  had 
made.  A  poor  galley-slave  who  had  thrown  down 
his  chains,  took  up  the  gout  in  their  stead,  but 
made  such  wry  faces,  that  one  might  easily  per¬ 
ceive  he  was  no  great  gainer  by  the  bargain.  It 
was  pleasant  enough  to  see  the  several  exchanges 
vhat  were  made,  for  sickness  against  poverty,  hun¬ 


ger  against  want  of  appetite,  and  care  against 
pain. 

The  female  world  were  very  busy  among  them¬ 
selves  in  bartering  for  features;  one  was  trucking 
a  lock  of  gray  hairs  for  a  carbuncle,  another  was 
making  over  a  short  waist  for  a  pair  of  round 
shoulders,  and  a  third  cheapening  a  bad  face  for 
a  lost  reputation  :  but  on  all  these  occasions  there 
was  not  one  of  them  who  did  not  think  the  new 
blemish,  as  soon  as  she  had  got  it  into  her  pos¬ 
session,  much  more  disagreeable  than  the  old  one. 

I  made  the  same  observation  on  every  other  mis¬ 
fortune  or  calamity  which  every  one  in  the  assem¬ 
bly  brought  upon  himself  in  lieu  of  what  he  had 
parted  with :  wdiether  it  be  that  all  the  evils 
which  befall  us  are  in  some  measure  suited  and 
proportioned  to  our  strength,  or  that  every  evil 
becomes  more  supportable  by  our  being  accustom¬ 
ed  to  it,  I  shall  not,  determine. 

I  could  not  from  my  heart  forbear  pitying  the 
poor  humpbacked  gentleman  mentioned  in  the 
former  paper,  who  went  off  a  very  well-shaped 
person  with  a  stone  in  his  bladder  ;  nor  the  fine 
gentleman  who  had  struck  up  this  bargain  with 
him,  that  limped  through  a  whole  assembly’  of 
ladies,  who  used  to  admire  him,  with  a  pair  of 
shoulders  peeping  over  his  head. 

I  must  not  omit  my  own  particular  adventure. 
My  friend  with  a  long  visage  had  no  sooner  taken 
upon  him  my  short  face,-  but  he  made  such  a  gro¬ 
tesque  figure  in  it,  that  as  I  looked  upon  him  I 
could  not  forbear  laughing  at  myself,  insomuch 
that  I  put  my  own  face  out  of  countenance.  The 
poor  gentleman  was  so  sensible  of  the  ridicule, 
that  I  found  he  was  ashamed  of  what  he  had  done; 
on  the  other  side,  I  found  that  I  myself  had  no 
great  reason  to  triumph,  for  as  I  went  to  touch  my 
forehead,  I  missed  the  place,  and  clapped  my  fin¬ 
ger  upon  my  upper  lip.  Beside,  as  my  nose  was 
exceeding  prominent,  I  gave  it  two  or  three  un¬ 
lucky  knocks  as  I  was  playing  my  hand  about  my 
face,  and  aiming  at  some  other  part  of  it.  I  saw 
two  other  gentlemen  by  me  who  were  in  the  same 
ridiculous  circumstances.  These  had  made  a  fool¬ 
ish  swop  between  a  couple  of  thick  bandy  legs 
and  two  trapsticks  that  had  no  calves  to  them. 
One  of  these  looked  like  a  man  walking  upon 
stilts,  and  was  so  lifted  up  into  the  air,  above  his 
ordinary  height,  that  his  head  turned  round  with 
it;  while  the  other  made  such  awkward  circles,  as 
he  attempted  to  walk,  that  he  scarcely  knew  how 
to  move  forward  upon  his  new  supporters.  Ob¬ 
serving  him  to  be  a  pleasant  kind  of  fellow,  I 
stuck  my  cane  in  the  ground,  and  told  him  I 
would  lay  him  a  bottle  of  wine  that  he  did  not 
march  up  to  it  on  a  line  that  I  drew  from  him  ,in 
a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

The  heap  was  at  last  distributed  among  the  two 
sexes,  who  made  a  most  piteous  sight,  as  they 
wandered  up  and  down  under  the  pressure  of 
their  several  burdens.  The  whole  plain  was  filled 
with  murmurs  and  complaints,  groans  and  lamen¬ 
tations.  Jupiter  at  length  taking  compassion  on 
the  poor  mortals,  ordered  them  a  second  time  to 
lay  down  their  loads,  with  a  design  to  give  every 
one  his  own  again.  They  discharged  themselves 
with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure:  after  which,  the 
phantom  who  had  led  them  into  such  gross  delu¬ 
sions  was  commanded  to  disappear.  There  was 
sent  in  her  stead  a  goddess  of  a  quite  different 
figure  ;  her  .  motions  were  steady  and  composed, 
and  her  aspect  serious  but  cheerful.  She  every 
now  and  then  cast  her  eyes  toward  heaven,  and 
fixed  them  upon  Jupiter  :  her  name  was  Patience. 
She  had  no  sooner  placed  herself  by  the  Mount  of 
Sorrows,  but,  what  I  thought  very  remarkable, 
the  whole  heap  sunk  to  such  a  degree,  that  it  did 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


not  appear  a  third  part  so  big  as  it  was  before. 
She  afterward  returned  every  man  his  own  proper 
calamity,  and  'teaching  him  how  to  bear  it  in  the 
most  commodious  manner,  he  marched  off  with  it 
contentedly,  being  very  well  pleased  that  he  had 
not  been  left  to  his  own  choice  as  to  the  kind  of 
evils  which  fell  to  his  lot. 

Beside  the  several  pieces  of  morality  to  be 
drawn  out  of  this  vision,  1  learnt  from  it  never  to 
repine  at  my  own  misfortunes,  or  to  envy  the  hap¬ 
piness  of  another,  since  it  is  impossible  for  any 
maR  f°  a  right  judgment  of  his  neighbor’s 
sufferings  ;  for  which  reason  also  I  have  deter¬ 
mined  never  to  think  too  lightly  of  another’s  com¬ 
plaints,  but.  to  regard  the  sorrows  of  my  fellow- 
ci  eatures  with  sentiments  of  humanity  and  com¬ 
passion. 


061 


No.  560.]  MONDAY,  JUNE,  28,  1714. 

- Vorba  intermissa  retentat.— Ovid,  Met.  i.  747. 

Ho  tries  his  tongue,  his  silence  softly  breaks. — Bryden. 

Every  one  has  heard  of  the  famous  conjurer 
who,  according  to  the  opinion  o£,  the  vulgar,  has 
studied  himself  dumb;  for  which  reason,  as  it  is 
believed,  he  delivers  out  his  oracles  in  writing.  Be 
that  as  it  will,  the  blind  Teresias  was  not  more 
famous  in  Greece  than  this  dumb  artist  has  been 
for  some  years  past  in  the  cities  of  London  and 
Westminster.  Thus  much  for  the  profound  gen¬ 
tleman  who  honors  me  with  the  following  epistle  : 


“Dear  Mr.  Prate-a-pace,  June  23,  1714. 

1  am  a  member  of  a  female  society  who  call 
ourselves  the  Chit-chat  Club,  and  am  ordered  by 
the  whole  sisterhood  to  congratulate  you  upon  the 
use  of  your  tongue.  We  have  all  of  us  a  mighty 
mind  to  hear  you  talk;  and  if  you  will  take  your 
place  among  us  for  an  evening,  we  have  unani¬ 
mously  agreed  to  allow  you  one  minute  in  ten, 
without  interruption. 

“I  am.  Sir,  your  humble  Servant,  S.  T." 

m  ^ ou  .??ay  us  at  my  Lady  Betty 

Clack  s,  who  will  leave  orders  with  her  porter, 
that  if  an  elderly  gentleman,  with  a  short  face, 
inquires  for  her,  he  shall  be  admitted,  and  no 
questions  asked.” 


As  this  particular  paper  shall  consist  wholly  of 
what  I  have  received  from  my  correspondents,  I 
shall  fall  up  the  remaining  part  of  it  with  other 
congratulatory  letters  of  the  same  nature. 


Sir, 


'From  my  Cell,  June  24,  1714. 


“Being  informed  that  you  have  lately  got  the 
use  of  your  tongue,  I  have  some  thoughts  of  fol¬ 
lowing  your  example,  that  I  may  be  a  fortune¬ 
teller  properly  speaking.  I  am  grown  weary  of  my 
taciturnity,  and  having  served  mv  country  many 
years  under  the  title  of  the  *  dumb"  doctor,’  I  shall 
now  prophesy  by  word  of  mouth,  and  (as  Mr.  Lee 
says  of  the  magpie,  who  you  know  was  a  great 
.  fortune-teller  among  the  ancients)  chatter  futurity. 
I  have  hitherto  chosen  to  receive  questions  and 
return  answers  in  writing,  that  I  might  avoid  the 
tediousness  and  trouble  of  debates,  my  querists 
being  generally  of  a  humor  to  think  that  they  have 
never  predictions  enough  for  their  money.  In 
short,  Sir,  my  case  has  been  something  like  that 
of  those  discreet  animals  the  monkeys,  who,  as 
the  Indians  tell  us,  can  speak  if  they  would,  but 
purposely  avoid  it,  that  they  may  not  be  made  to 
work.  I  have  hitherto  gained  a  livelihood  by 
holding  my  tongue,  but  shall  now  open  my  mouth 
in  order  to  fill  it.  If  I  appear  a  little  word-bound 
in  my  first  solutions  and  responses,  I  hope  it  will 
not  be  imputed  to  any  want  of  foresight,  but  to 
the  long  disuse  of  speech.  I  doubt  not  by  this  in¬ 
vention  to  have  all  my  former  customers  over 
again,  for  if  I  have  promised  any  of  them  lovers 
or  husbands,  riches  or  good-luck,  it  is  my  design 
to  confirm  to  them,  viva  voce,  what  I  have  already 
given  them  under  my  hand.  If  you  will  honor 
me  with  a  visit,  I  will  compliment  you  with  the 
first  opening  of  my  mouth:  and  if  you  please, 
you  may  inake  an  entertaining  dialogue  out  of  the 
conversation  of  two  dumb  men.  Excuse  this 
trouble,  worthy  sir,  from  one  who  has  been  a  Iona- 
time  5 

"  Your  silent  Admirer, 

“  Cornelius  Agrippa.” 


^IR>  Oxford,  June  25,  1714. 

“We  are  here  wonderfully  pleased  with  the 
opening  of  your  mouth,  and  very  frequently  open 
ours  m  approbation  of  your  design;  especially 
since  we  find  you  are  resolved  to  preserve  your 
taciturnity  as  to  all  party  matters.  We  do  not 
question  but  you  are  as  great  an  orator  as  Sir  Hu- 
dibras,  of  whom  the  poet  sweetly  sings, 


-He  could  not  ope 


I  have  received  the  following  letter,  or  rather 
billet-doux,  from  a  pert  young  baggage,  who  con- 
giatulates  with  me  upon  the  same  occasion  : — 


Ilis  mouth,  but  out  there  flew  a  trope. 

If  you  will  send  us  down  the  half  dozen  well- 
turned  periods  that  produced  such  dismal  effects 
in  your  muscles,  we  will  deposit  them  near  an  old 
manuscript  of  Tully’s  orations,  among  the  archives 
ot  the  university;  for  we  all  agree  with  you,  that 
there  is  not  a,  more  remarkable  accident  "recorded 
in  history,  since  that  which  happened  to  the  son 
of  Croesus;  nay,  I  believe  you  might  have  gone 
higher,  and  have  added  Balaam’s  ass.  We  are 
impatient  to  see  more  of  your  productions-  and 
expect  what  words  will  next  fall  from  you  with 
as  much  attention  as  those  who  were  set  to  watch 
the  speaking  head  which  Friar  Bacon  formerly 
erected  in  this  place.  J 

“We  are,  worthy  Sir, 

“Your  most  humble  Servants, 

“B.  R.  T.  D.,”  etc. 
“Honest  Spec.,  Middle  Temple,  June  24. 

“  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  thou  beginnest  to 
prate;  and  find,  by  thy  yesterday’s  vision,  thou 
art  so  used  to  it  that  thou  canst  not  forbear  talking 
in  thy  sleep.  Let  me  only  advise  thee  to  speak 
like  other  men;  for  I  am  afraid  thou  wilt  be  very 
queer  if  thou  dost  not  intend  to  use  the  phrases 
in  fashion,  as  thou  callest  them  in  thy  second  pa¬ 
per.  Hast  thou  a  mind  to  pass  for  a  Bantamite, 
or  to  make  us  all  quakers  ?  1  do  assure  thee,  dear 
Spec.,  I  am  not  polished  out  of  my  veracity,  when 
I  subscribe  myself 

“  Thy  constant  Admirer,  and  humble  Servant, 

“Frank  Townly.” 


No.  561.]  WEDNESDAY,  JUNE  30,  1714. 


-Paulatim  abolere  Sichaeum 


Incipit,  et  vivo  tentat  praavertere  amove 
Jampridem  resides  animos  desuetaque  corda. 

Virg.  iEn.  i.  724. 

-But  he 


Works  in  the  pliant  bosom  of  the  fair, 

And  moulds  her  heart  anew,  and  blots  her  former  care. 
The  dead  is  to  the  living  love  resign’d, 

And  all  iEneas  enters  in  her  mind. — Dryden. 


'Sir, 


“  I  am  a  tall,  broad-shouldered,  impudent,  black’ 
fellow,  and,  as  I  thought,  every  way  qualified  for 


G62 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


a  rich  widow ;  but  after  having  tried  my  fortune 
for  abve  three  years  together,  I  have  not  been  able 
to  "et  one  single  relict  in  the  mind.  My  first  at¬ 
tacks  were  generally  successful,  but  always  bioke 
off  as  soon  as  they  came  to  the  word  settlement. 
Though  I  have  not  improved  my  fortune  this  way, 

I  have  my  experience,  and  have  learnt  several  se¬ 
crets  which  may  be  of  use  to  those  unhappy  gen¬ 
tlemen,  who  are  commonly  distinguished  by  the 
name  of  widow-hunters,  and  who  do  not  know 
that  this  tribe  of  women  are,  generally  speaking, 
as  much  upon  the  catch  as  themselves.  I  shall 
here  communicate  to  you  the  mysteries  of  a  certain 
female  cabal  of  this  order,  who  call  themselves 
the  Widow  Club.  This  club  consists  of  nine  ex¬ 
perienced  dames,  who  take  their  places  once  a 
week  round  a  large  oval  table. 

“I.  Mrs.  President  is  a  person  who  has  disposed 
of  six  husbands,  and  is  now  determined  to  take  a 
seventh;  being  of  opinion  that  there  is  as  much 
virtue  in  the  touch  of  a  seventh  husband  as  of  a 
seventh  son.  Her  comrades  are  as  follows  : 

“  II.  Mrs.  Snap,  who  has  four  jointures,  by  four 
different  bedfellows,  of  four  different  shires.  .  She 
is  at  present  upon  the  point  of  marriage  with  a 
Middlesex  man,  and  is  said  to  have  an  ambition 
of  extending  her  possessions  through  all  the  coun¬ 
ties  in  England  on  this  side  the  Trent. 

“  III.  Mrs.  Medlar,  who,  after  two  husbands  and 
a  gallant,  is  now  wedded  to  an  old  gentleman  of 
sixty.  Upon  her  making  her  report  to  the  club 
after  a  week’s  cohabitation,  she  is  still  allowed  to 
sit  as  a  widow,  and  accordingly  takes  her  place  at 
the  board. 

“  IV.  The  widow  Quick,  married  within  a  fort¬ 
night  after  the  death  of  her  last  husband.  Her 
weeds  have  served  her  thrice,  and  are  still  as  good 
as  new. 

“V.  Lady  Catharine  Swallow.  She  was  a 
widow  at  eighteen,  and  has  since  buried  a  second 
husband  and  two  coachmen. 

“VI.  The  Lady  Waddle.  She  was  married  m 
the  15th  year  of  her  age  to  Sir  Simon  Waddle, 
knight,  aged  threescore  and  twelve,  by  whom  she 
had  twins  nine  months  after  his  decease.  In  the 
55th  year  of  her  age  she  was  married  to  James 
Spindle,  Esq.,  a  youth  of  one-and-twenty,  who  did 
not  outlive  the  honeymoon. 

“VII.  Deborah  Conquest.  The  case  of  this 
lady  is  somewhat  particular.  She  is  the  relict  of 
Sir  Sampson  Conquest,  some  time  justice  of  the 
quorum.  Sir  Sampson  was  seven  feet  high,  and 
two  feet  in  breadth  from  the  tip  of  one  shoulder 
to  the  other.  He  had  married  three  wives,  who 
all  of  them  died  in  childbed.  This  terrified  the 
whole  sex,  who  none  of  them  durst  venture  on  Sir 
Sampson.  At  length  Mrs.  Deborah  undertook 
him,  and  gave  so  good  an  account  of  him,  that  in 
three  years’  time  she  very  fairly  laid  him  out,  and 
measured  his  length  upon  the  ground.  This  ex¬ 
ploit  has  gained  her  so  great  a  reputation  in  the 
club,  that  they  have  added  Sir  Sampson’s  three 
victories  to  hers,  and  given  her  the  merit  of  a 
fourth  widowhood;  and  she  takes  her  place  ac¬ 
cordingly. 

“VIII.  The  widow  Wildfire,  relict  of  Mr.  John 
Wildfire,  fox-hunter,  who  broke  his  neck  over  a 
six-bar  gate.  She  took  his  death  so  much  at  heart 
that  it  was  thought  it  would  have  put  an  end  to 
her  life,  had  she  not  diverted  her  sorrows  bjr  re¬ 
ceiving  the  addresses  of  a  gentleman  in  the  neigh¬ 
borhood,  who  made  love  to  her  in  the  second 
month  of  her  widowhood.  This  gentleman  was 
discarded  in  a  fortnight  for  the  sake  of  a  young 
Templar,  who  had  the  possession  of  her  for  six 
weeks  after,  till  he  was  beaten  out  by  a  broken 
officer,  who  likewise  gave  up  his  place  to  a  gen¬ 


tleman  at  court.  The  courtier  was  as  shortlived 
a  favorite  as  his  predecessors,  but  had  the  pleasure 
to  see  himself  succeeded  by  a  long  series  of  lovers, 
who  followed  the  widow  Wildfire  to  the  37th  year 
of  her  age,  at  which  time  there  ensued  a  cessation 
of  ten  years,  when  John  Felt,  haberdasher,  took 
it  in  his  head  to  be  in  love  with  her,  and  it  is 
thought  will  very  suddenly  carry  her  off. 

“IX.  The  last  is  pretty  Mrs.  Runnet,  who  broke 
her  first  husband’s  heart  before  she  was  sixteen,  at 
which  time  she  was  entered  of  the  club,  but  soon 
after  left  it  upon  account  of  a  second,  whom  she 
made  so  quick  a  dispatch  of,  that  she  returned  to 
her  seat  in  less  than  a  twelvemonth.  This  young 
matron  is  looked  upon  as  the  most  rising  member 
of  the  society,  and  will  probably  be  in  the  presi¬ 
dent’s  chair  before  she  dies.  _ 

“  These  ladies,  upon  their  first  institution,  re¬ 
solved  to  give  the  pictures  of  their  deceased  hus¬ 
bands  to  the  club-room;  but  two  of  them  bringing 
in  their  dead  at  full  length,  they  covered  all  the 
walls.  Upon  which  they  came  to  a  second  reso¬ 
lution,  that  every  matron  should  give  her  own 
picture,  and  set  it  round  with  her  husbands  in 
miniature. 

“  As  they  have  most  of  them  the  misfortune  to 
be  troubled  with  the  colic,  they  have  a  noble 
cellar  of  cordials  and  strong  waters.  When  they 
grow  maudlin,  they  are  very  apt  to  commemorate 
their  former  partners  with  a  tear.  But  ask  them 
which  of  their  husbands  they  condole,  they  are 
not  able  to  tell  you,  and  discover  plainly  that  they 
do  not  weep  so  much  for  the  loss  of  a  husband  as 
for  the  want  of  one. 

“  The  principal  rule  by  which  the  whole  society 
are  to  govern  themselves  is  this,  to  cry  up  the 
pleasures  of  a  single  life  upon  all  occasions,  in 
order  to  deter  the  rest  of  their  sex  from  mar¬ 
riage,  and  engross  the  whole  male  world  to  them¬ 
selves. 

“  They  are  obliged,  when  any  one  makes  love  to 
a  member  of  the  society,  to  communicate  his  name, 
at  which  time  the  whole  assembly  sit  upon  his 
reputation,  person,  fortune,  and  good-humor;  and 
if  they  find  him  qualified  for  a  sister  of  the  club, 
they  lay  their  heads  together  how  to  make  him 
sure.  By  this  means,  they  are  acquainted  with 
all  the  widow-hunters  about  town,  wTho  often  afford 
them  great  diversion.  There  is  an  honest  Irish 
gentleman,  it  seems,  who  knows  nothing  of  this 
society,  but  at  different  times  has  made  love  to 
the  whole  club. 

“  Their  conversation  often  turns  upon  their  for¬ 
mer  husbands,  and  it  is  very  diverting  to  hear 
them  relate  their  several  arts  and  stratagems  with 
which  they  amused  the  jealous,  pacified  the  cho¬ 
leric,  or  wheedled  the  good-natured  man,  till  at 
last,  to  use  the  club-phrase,  ‘  they  sent  him  out  of 
the  house  with  his  heels  foremost.’ 

“The  politics  which  are  most  cultivated  by  this 
society  of  She-Machiavels,  relate  chiefly  to  these 
two  points,  how  to  treat  a  lover,  and  how  to  man¬ 
age  a  husband.  As  for  the  first  set  of  artifices, 
they  are  too  numerous  to  come  within  the  compass 
of  your  paper,  and  shall  therefore.be  reserved  for 
a  second  letter. 

“  The  management  of  a  husband  is.  built  upoD 
the  following  doctrines,  which  are  universally  as¬ 
sented  to  by  the  whole  club  :  Not  to  give  him  his 
head  at  first.  Not  to  allow  him  too  great  free¬ 
doms  and  familiarities.  Not  to  be  treated  by  him 
like  a  raw  girl,  but  as  a  woman  that  knows  the 
world.  Not  to  lessen  anything  of  her  former 
figure.  To  celebrate  the  generosity,  or  any  other 
virtue  of  a  deceased  husband,  which  she  would 
recommend  to  his  successor.  To  turn  away  all 
his  old  friends  and  servants,  that  she  may  have 


THE  SPECTATOR 


663 


the  dear  man  to  herself.  To  make  him  disinherit 
the  undutiful  children  of  any  former  wife.  Never 
to  be  thoroughly  convinced  of  his  affection,  until 
he  has  made  over  to  her  all  his  goods  and  chattels. 

‘  After  so  long  a  letter,  I  am, 

“  Without  more  ceremony, 

“  Your  humble  Servant,”  etc. 


No.  562.]  FRIDAY,  JULY  2, 1714. 

- Praesens,  absens  ut  sies. — Ter.  Eun.  act  1.  sc.  2. 

Be  present  as  if  absent. 

“It  is  a  hard  and  nice  subject  for  a  man  to  speak 
of  himself,”  says  Cowley;  “  it  grates  his  own  heart 
to  say  anything  of  disparagement,  and  the  reader’s 
ears  to  hear  anything  of  praise  from  him.”  Let 
the  tenor  of  his  discourse  be  what  it  will  upon 
this  subject,  it  generally  proceeds  from  vanity. 
An  ostentatious  man  will  rather  relate  a  blunder 
or  an  absurdity  he  has  committed,  than  be  debarred 
from  talking  of  his  own  dear  person. 

Some  very  great  writers  have  been  guilty  of  this 
fault.  It  is  observed  of  Tully  in  particular,  that 
his  works  run  very  much  in  the  first  person,  and 
that  he  takes  all  occasions  of  doing  himself  jus¬ 
tice.  “Does  he  think,”  says  Brutus,  “that  his 
consulship  deserves  more  applause  than  my  put¬ 
ting  Caesar  to  death,  because  I  am  not  perpetually 
talking  of  the  ides  of  March,  as  he  is  of  the  nones 
of  December  ?  ”  I  need  not  acquaint  mv  learned 
reader,  that  in  the  ides  of  March  Brutus  destroyed 
Caesar,  and  that  Cicero  quashed  the  conspiracy  of 
Catiline  in  the  calends  of  December.  How  shock¬ 
ing  soever  this  great  man’s  talking  of  himself 
might  have  been  to  his  cotemporaries,  I  must 
confess  I  am  never  better  pleased  than  when  he  is 
on  this  subject.  Such  openings  of  the  heart  give 
a  man  a  thorough  insight  into  his  personal  char¬ 
acter,  and  illustrate  several  passages  in  the  history 
of  his  life :  beside  that,  there  is  some  little  plea¬ 
sure  in  discovering  the  infirmity  of  a  great  man, 
and  seeing  how  the  opinion  he  has  of  himself 
agrees  with  what  the  world  entertains  of  him. 

“  The  gentlemen  of  Port  Royal,  who  were  more 
eminent  for  their  learning  and  humility  than  any 
other  in  France,  banished  the  way  of  speaking  in 
the  first  person  out  of  all  their  works,  as  arising 
from  vainglory  and  self-conceit.  To  show  their 
particular  aversion  to  it,  they  branded  this  form 
of  writing  with  the  name  of  an  egotism;  a  figure 
not  to  be  found  among  the  ancient  rhetoricians. 

The  most  violent  egotism  which  I  have  met  with 
in  the  course  of  my  reading,  is  that  of  Cardinal 
Wolsey,  Ego  et  rex  meus,  “I  and  my  king;”  as 
perhaps  the  most  eminent  egotist  that  ever  ap¬ 
peared  in  the  world  was  Montaigne,  the  author  of 
the  celebrated  Essays.  This  lively  old  Gascon 
has  woven  all  his  bodily  infirmities  into  his  works; 
and,  after  having  spoken  of  the  faults  or  virtues 
of  any  other  man,  immediately  publishes  to  the 
world  how  it  stands  with  himself  in  that  particu¬ 
lar.  Had  he  kept  his  own  counsel,  he  might  have 
passed  for  a  much  better  man,  though  perhaps  he 
would  not  have  been  so  diverting  an  author.  The 
title  of  an  Essay  promises  perhaps  a  discourse  upon 
Virgil,  or  Julius  Cmsar;  but,  when  you  look  into 
it,  you  are  sure  to  meet  with  more  upon  Monsieur 
Montaigne  than  of  either  of  them.  The  younger 
Scaliger,  who  seems  to  have  been  no  great  friend 
to  this  author,  after  having  acquainted  the  world 
that  his  father  sold  herrings,  adds  these  words  : 
La  grande  fadaise  de  Montaigne,  qui  a  ecrit  qu’il 

aimoit  mieux  le  vin  blanc -  Que  diable  a  ton  a 

faire  de  sgavoir  ce  qu’il  aime?  “For  my  part,” 


says  Montaigne,  “  I  am  a  great  lover  of  your  white 
wines.” — “What  the  devil  signifies  it  to  the  pub¬ 
lic,”  says  Scaliger,  “whether  he  is  a  lover  of  white 
wines  or  of  red  wines  ?  ” 

I  cannot  here  forbear  mentioning  a  tribe  of  ego¬ 
tists,  for  whom  I  always  had  a  mortal  aversion — I 
mean  the  authors  of  memoirs,  who  are  never  men¬ 
tioned  in  any  works  but  their  own,  and  who  raise  all 
their  productions  out  of  this  single  figure  of  speech. 

Most  of  our  modern  prefaces  savor  very  strongly 
of  the  egotism.  Every  insignificant  author  fancies 
it  of  importance  to  the  world  to  know  that  he 
wrote  his  book  in  the  country,  that  he  did  it  to 
oass  away  some  of  his  idle  hours,  that  it  was 
Dublished  at  the  importunity  of  friends,  or  that 
lis  natural  temper,  studies,  or  conversations,  di¬ 
rected  him  to  the  choice  of  his  subject. 

- Id  populus  curat  scilicet. 

Such  informations  cannot  but  be  highly  gratifying 
to  the  reader. 

In  the  works  of  humor  especially,  wThen  a  man 
writes  under  a  fictitious  personage,  the  talking  of 
one’s  self  may  give  some  diversion  to  the  public; 
but  I  would  advise  every  other  writer  never  to 
speak  of  himself,  unless  there  be  something  very 
considerable  in  his  character;  though  I  am  sensible 
this  rule  will  be  of  little  use  in  the  world,  because 
there  is  no  man  who  fancies  his  thoughts  worth 
publishing  that  does  not  look  upon  himself  as  a 
considerable  person. 

I  shall  close  this  paper  with  a  remark  upon  such 
as  are  egotists  in  conversation;  these  are  generally 
the  vain  or  shallow  part  of  mankind,  people  being 
naturally  full  of  themselves  when  they  have  noth¬ 
ing  else  in  them.  There  is  one  kina  of  egotists 
which  is  very  common  in  the  world,  though  I  do 
not  remember  that  any  writer  has  taken  notice  of 
them;  I  mean  those  empty  conceited  fellows  who 
repeat,  as  sayings  of  their  own  or  some  of  their 
particular  friends,  several  jests  which  were  made 
before  they  were  born,  and  which  every  one  who 
has  conversed  in  the  world  has  heard  a  hundred 
times  over.  A  forward  young  fellow  of  my  ac¬ 
quaintance  was  very  guilty  of  this  absurdity;  he 
would  be  always  laying  a  new  scene  for  some  old 
piece  of  wit,  and  telling  us,  that,  as  he  and  Jack 
Such-a-one  were  together,  one  or  t’other  of  them 
had  such  a  conceit  on  such  an  occasion;  upon 
which  he  would  laugh  very  heartily,  and  wonder 
the  company  did  not  join  with  him.  When  his 
mirth  was  over,  I  have  often  reprehended  him  out 
of  Terence,  Tuumne,  obsecro  te,  hoc  dictum  erat  ? 
vetus  credidi.  But  finding  him  still  incorrigible, 
and  having  a  kindness  for  the  young  coxcomb, 
who  was  otherwise  a  good-natured  fellow,  I  re¬ 
commended  to  his  perusal  the  Oxford  and  Cam¬ 
bridge  jests,  with  several  little  pieces  of  pleasantry 
of  the  same  nature.  Upon  the  reading  of  them  he 
was  under  no  small  confusion  to  find  that  all  his 
jokes  had  passed  through  several  editions,  and  that 
what  he  thought  was  a  new  conceit,  and  had  ap¬ 
propriated  to  liis  own  use,  had  appeared  in  print 
before  he  or  his  ingenious  friends  were  ever  heard 
of.  This  had  so  good  an  effect  upon  him,  that  he 
is  content  at  present  to  pass  for  a  man  of  plaiu 
sense  in  his  ordinary  conversation,  and  is  never 
facetious  but  when  he  knows  his  company. 


No.  563.]  MONDAY,  JULY  5,  1714. 

- Magni  nominis  umbra. — Lucan,  i.  135. 


The  shadow  of  a  mighty  name. 

I  shall  entertain  my  reader  with  two  very  curi¬ 
ous  letters.  The  first  of  them  comes  from  a  chi- 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


664 

merical  person,  who  I  believe  never  wrote  to  any¬ 
body  before. 

“Sir, 

“l  am  descended  from  the  ancient  family  of  the 
Blanks,  a  name  well  known  to  all  men  of  business. 
It  is  always  read  in  those  little  white  spaces  of 
writing  which  want  to  be  filled  up,  and  which  for 
that  reason  are  called  blank  spaces,  as  of  right  s 
appertaining  to  our  family;  for  I  consider  myself 
as  the  lord  of  a  manor,  who  lays  his  claim  to  all 
wastes  or  spots  of  ground  that  are  unappropriated. 

I  am  a  near  kinsman  to  John  a  Styles  and  John  a 
Nokes;  and  they,  I  am  told,  came  in  with  the  Con¬ 
queror.  I  am  mentioned  oftener  in  both  houses 
of  Parliament  than  any  other  person  in  Great  Bri¬ 
tain.  My  name  is  written,  or,  more  properly 
speaking,  not  written,  thus:  I  am  one  that 

can  turn  my  hand  to  everything,  and  appear  under 
any  shape  whatever.  I  can  make  myself  man, 
woman,  or  child.  I  am  sometimes  metamorphosed 
into  a  year  of  our  Lord,  a  day  of  the  month,  or  an 
hour  of  the  day.  I  very  often  represent  a  sum  of 
money,  and  am  generally  the  first  subsidy  that  is 
granted  to  the  crown.  I  have  now  and  then  sup¬ 
plied  the  place  of  several  thousands  of  land-sold¬ 
iers,  and  have  as  frequently  been  employed  in  the 
sea-service. 

“Now,  Sir,  my  complaint  is  this,  that  I  am  only 
made  use  of  to  serve  a  turn,  being  always  discarded 
as  soon  as  a  proper  person  is  found  out  to  fill  up 
my  place. 

“If  you  have  ever  been  in  the  playhouse  before 
the  curtain  rises,  you  see  most  of  the  front-boxes 
filled  with  men  of  my  family,  who  forthwith  turn 
out  and  resign  their  stations  upon  the  appearance 
of  those  for  whom  they  are  retained. 

“  But  the  most  illustrious  .branch  of  the  Blanks 
are  those  who  are  planted  in  high  posts,  till  such 
time  as  persons  of  greater  consequence  can  be 
found  out  to  supply  them.  One  of  these  Blanks 
is  equally  qualified  for  all  offices;  he  can  serve  in 
time  of  need  for  a  soldier,  a  politician,  a  lawyer, 
or  what  you  please.  I  have  known  in  my  time 
many  a  brother  Blank,  that  has  been  born  under  a 
lucky  planet,  heap  up  great  riches,  and  swell  into 
a  man  of  figure  and  importance,  before  the  gran¬ 
dees  of  his  party  could  agree  among  themselves 
which  of  them  should  step  into  his  place.  Nay,  I 
have  known  a  Blank  continue  so  long  in  one  of 
these  vacant  posts  (for  such  it  is  to  be  reckoned  all 
the  time  a  Blank  is  in  it),  that  he  has  grown  too 
formidable  and  dangerous  to  be  removed. 

“  But  to  return  to  myself.  Since  I  am  so  very 
commodious  a  person,  and  so  very  necessary  in  all 
well-regulated  governments,  I  desire  you  will  take 
my  case  into  consideration,  that  I  may  be  no  longer 
made  a  tool  of,  and  only  employed  to  stop  a  gap. 
Such  usage,  without  a  pun,  makes  me  look  very 
blank.  For  all  which  reasons  I  humbly  recom¬ 
mend  myself  to  your  protection,  and  am 
“Your  most  obedient  Servant, 

“Blank.” 

“  P.  S.  I  herewith  send  you  a  paper  drawn  up 
by  a  country  attorney,  employed  by  two  gentlemen, 
whose  names  he  was  not  acquainted  with,  and  who 
did  not  think  fit  to  let  him  into  the  secret  which 
they  were  transacting.  I  heard  him  call  it  f  a 
blank  instrument,’  and  read  it  after  the  following 
manner.  You  may  see  by  this  single  instance  of 
what  use  I  am  to  the  busy  world: 

“I,  T.  Blank,  Esquire,  of  Blank  town,  in  the 
county  of  Blank,  do  own  myself  indebted  in  the 
sum  of  Blank,  to  Goodman  Blank,  for  the  service 
he  did  me  in  procuring  for  me  the  goods  following; 
Blank:  and  I  do  hereby  promise  the  said  Blank  to 


pay  unto  him  the  said  sum  of  Blank,  on  the  Blank 
day  of  the  month  of  Blank  next  ensuing,  under 
the  penalty  and  forfeiture  of  Blank.” 

I  shall  take  time  to  consider  the  case  of  this  my 
imaginary  correspondent,  and  in  the  meanwhile 
shall  present  my  reader  with  a  letter  which  seems 
to  come  from  a  person  that  is  made  up  of  flesh  and 
blood. 

“Good  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  married  to  a  very  honest  gentleman  that 
is  exceedingly  good-natured,  and  at  the  same  time 
very  choleric.  There  is  no  standing  before  him 
when  he  is  in  a  passion;  but  as  soon  as  it  is  over 
he  is  the  best-liumored  creature  in  the  world. 
When  he  is  angry,  he  breaks  all  my  china-ware 
that  chances  to  lie  in  his  way,  and  the  next  morn¬ 
ing  sends  me  in  twice  as  much  as  he  broke  the  day 
before.  I  may  positively  say  that  he  has  broke 
me  a  child’s  fortune  since  we  were  first  married  to¬ 
gether. 

“  As  soon  as  he  begins  to  fret,  down  goes  every¬ 
thing  that  is  within  reach  of  his  cane.  I  once 
prevailed  upon  him  never  to  carry  a  stick  in  his 
hand,  but  this  saved  me  nothing;  for  upon  seeing 
me  do  something  that  did  not  please  him,  he  kicked 
down  a  great  jar  that  cost  him  above  ten  pounds 
but  the  week  before.  I  then  laid  the  fragments 
together  in  a  heap,  and  gave  him  his  cane  again, 
desiring  him,  that  if  he  chanced  to  be  in  anger,  he 
would  spend  his  passion  upon  the  china  that  was 
broke  to  his  hand;  but  the  very  next  day,  upon 
my  giving  a  wrong  message  to  one  of  the  servants, 
he  flew  into  such  a  rage,  that  he  swept  down  a 
dozen  tea-dishes,  which,  to  my  misfortune,  stood 
very  convenient  for  a  sideblow. 

“I  then  removed  all  my  china  into  a  room  which 
he  never  frequents;  but  I  got  nothing  by  this  nei¬ 
ther,  for  my  looking-glasses  immediately  went  to 
rack. 

“In  short,  Sir,  whenever  he  is  in  a  passion,  he 
is  angry  at  everything  that  is  brittle:  and  if  on 
such  occasions  he  has  nothing  to  vent  his  rage 
upon,  I  do  not  know  whether  my  bones  would  be 
in  safety.  Let  me  beg  of  you,  Sir,  to  let  me  know 
whether  there  be  any  cure  for  his  unaccountable 
distemper;  or  if  not,  that  you  will  be  pleased  to 
publish  this  letter.  For  my  husband  having  a  great 
veneration  for  your  writings,  will  by  that  means 
know  you  do  not  approve  of  his  conduct. 

“  I  am,  your  most  humble  Servant,”  etc. 


No.  564.]  WEDNESDAY,  JULY  7,  1714. 

- Adsit 

Regula,  peccatis  qua3  poenas  irroget  asquas 
No  scutica  dignum  horribili  sectere  flagello. 

Hor.  1  Sat.  iii.  117. 

Let  rules  be  fixed  that  may  our  rage  contain, 

And  punisb  faults  with  a  proportion’d  pain; 

And  do  not  flay  him  who  deserves  alone 
A  whipping  for  the  fault  that  he  hath  done. — Creech. 

It  is  the  work  of  a  philosopher  to  be  every  day 
subduing  his  passions,  and  laying  aside  his  pre¬ 
judices.  I  endeavor  at  least  to  look  upon  men  and 
their  actions  only  as  an  impartial  Spectator,  with¬ 
out  any  regard  to  them  as  they  happen  to  advance 
or  cross  my  own  private  interest.  But  while  I  am 
thus  employed  myself,  I  cannot  help  observing 
how  those  about  me  suffer  themselves  to  be  blinded 
by  prejudice  and  inclination,  how  readily  they 
pronounce  on  every  man’s  character,  which  they 
can  give  in  two  words,  and  make  him  either  good 
for  nothing,  or  qualified  for  everything.  On  tho 
contrary,  those  who  search  thoroughly  into  human 
nature  will  find  it  much  more  difficult  to  determine 


THE  SPE 

the  value  of  their  fellow-creatures,  and  that  men’s 
characters  are  not  thus  to  be  given  in  general 
words.  There  is  indeed  no  such  thing  as  a  person 
entirely  good  or  bad;  virtue  and  vice  are  blended 
and  mixed  together,  in  a  greater  or  less  propor¬ 
tion,  in  every  one;  and  if  you  would  search  for 
some  particular  good  quality  in  its  most  eminent 
degree  of  perfection,  you  will  often  find  it  in  a 
mind  where  it  is  darkened  and  eclipsed  by  a  hun¬ 
dred  other  irregular  passions. 

Men  have  either  no  character  at  all,  says  a  cele¬ 
brated  author,  or  it  is  that  of  being  inconsistent 
with  themselves.  They  find  it  easier  to  join  ex¬ 
tremities  than  to  be  uniform  and  of  apiece.  This 
is  finely  illustrated  in  Xenophon’s  Life  of  Cyrus 
the  Great.  That  author  tells  us,  that  Cyrus  liav- 
ing  taken  a  most  beautiful  lady  named  Panthea, 
the  wife  of  Abradatas,  committed  her  to  the  cus¬ 
tody  of  Araspas,  a  young  Persian  nobleman,  who 
had  a  little  before  maintained  in  discourse  that  a 
mind  truly  virtuous  was  incapable  of  entertaining 
an  unlawful  passion.  The  young  gentleman  had 
not  long  been  in  the  possession  of  his  fair  captive, 
when  a  complaint  was  made  to  Cyrus,  that  he  not 
only  solicited  the  lady  Panthea  to  receive  him  in 
the  room  of  her  absent  husband,  but  that,  finding 
his  entreaties  had  no  effect,  he  was  preparing  to 
make  use  of  force.  Cyrus,  who  loved  the  young 
man,  immediately  sent  for  him,  and  in  a  gentle 
manner  representing  to  him  his  fault,  and  put¬ 
ting  him  in  mind  of  his  former  assertion,  the  un- 
happy  youth,  confounded  with  a  quick  sense  of 
his  guilt  and  shame,  burst  out  into  aflood  of  tears, 
and  spoke  as  follows: 

“  0  Cyrus,  I  am  convinced  that  I  have  two  souls. 
Love  has  taught  me  this  piece  of  philosophy.  If 
I  had  but  one  soul,  it  could  not  at  the  same  time 
pant  after  virtue  and  vice,  wish  and  abhor  at  the 
same  thing.  It  is  certain  therefore  we  have  two 
souls;  when  the  good  soul  rules  I  undertake  noble 
and  virtuous  actions;  but  when  the  bad  soul  pre¬ 
dominates  I  am  forced  to  do  evil.  All  I  can  say 
at  present  is,  that  I  find  my  good  soul,  encouraged 
by  your  presence,  has  got  the  better  of  my  bad.” 

I  know  not  whether  my  readers  will  allow  of 
this  piece  of  philosophy  ;  but  if  they  will  not,  they 
must  confess  we  meet  with  as  different  passions  in 
one  and  the  same  soul  as  can  be  supposed  in  two. 
We  can  hardly  read  the  life  of  a  great  man  who 
lived  in  former  ages,  or  converse  with  any  who  is 
eminent  among  our  cotemporaries,  that  is  not  an 
instance  of  what  I  am  saying. 

But  as  I  have  hitherto  only  argued  against  the 
partiality  and  injustice  of  giving  our  judgment 
upon  men  in  gross,  who  are  such  a  composition  of 
virtues  and  vices,  of  good  and  evil,  I  might  carry 
this  reflection  still  further,  and  make  it  extend  to 
most  of  their  actions.  If  on  the  one  hand,  we 
fairly  weighed  every  circumstance,  we  should  fre- 
uently  find  them  obliged  to  do  that  action  we  at 
rst  sight  condemn,  in  order  to  avoid  another  we 
should  have  been  much  more  displeased  with.  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  wre  nicely  examined  such  actions 
as  appear  most  dazzling  to  the  eye,  we  should  find 
most  of  them  either  deficient  and  lame  in  several 
parts,  produced  by  a  bad  ambition,  or  directed  to 
an  ill  end.  The  very  same  action  may  sometimes 
be  so  oddly  circumstanced,  that  it  is  difficult  to 
determine  whether  it  ought  to  be  rewarded  or  pun¬ 
ished.  Those  who  compiled  the  laws  of  England 
were  so  sensible  of  this,  that  they  have  laid  it 
down  as  one  of  their  first  maxims,  “It  is  better 
suffering  a  mischief  than  an  inconvenience;”  which 
is  as  much  as  to  say  in  other  words,  that,  since  no 
law  can  take  in  or  provide  for  all  cases,  it  is  better 
private  men  should  have  some  injustice  done  them 
than  that  a  public  grievance  should  not  be  redressed. 


CTATOR.  665 

This  is  usually  pleaded  in  defense  of  all  those 
hardships  which  fall  on  particular  persons  in  par¬ 
ticular  occasions,  which  could  not  be  foreseen 
when  a  law  was  made.  To  remedy  this,  how¬ 
ever,  as  much  as  possible,  the  court  of  chancery 
was  erected,  which  frequently  mitigates  and  breaks 
the  teeth  of  the  common  law,  in  cases  of  men’s 
properties,  while  in  criminal  cases  there  is  a  power 
of  pardoning  still  lodged  in  the  crown. 

.  Notwithstanding  this,  it  is  perhaps  impossible 
in  a  large  government  to  distribute  rewards  and 
punishments  strictly  proportioned  to  the  merits 
of  every  action.  The  Spartan  commonwealth  was 
indeed  wonderfully  exact  in  this  particular;  and  I 
do  not  remember  in  all  my  reading  to  Jiave  met 
with  so  nice  an  example  of  justice  as  that  recorded 
by  Plutarch,  with  which  1  shall  close  my  paper 
for  this  day. 

The  city  of  Sparta,  being  unexpectedly  attacked 
by  a  powerful  army  of  Thebans,  was  in  very  great 
danger  of  falling  into  the  hands  of  their  enemies. 
The  citizens  suddenly  gathering  themselves  into 
a  body,  fought  with  a  resolution  equal  to  the  ne¬ 
cessity  of  their  affairs,  yet  no  one  so  remarkably 
distinguished  himself  on  this  occasion,  to  the 
amazement  of  both  armies,  as  Isidas,  the  son  of 
Phcebidas,  who  was  at  that  time  in  the  bloom  of 
his  youth,  and  very  remarkable  for  the  comeliness 
of  his  person.  He  was  coming  out  of  the  bath 
when  the  alarm  was  given,  so  that  he  had  not 
time  to  put  on  his  clothes,  much  less  his  armor; 
however,  transported  with  a  desire  to  serve  his 
country  in  so  great  an  exigency,  snatched  up  a 
spear  in  one  hand  and  a  sword  in  the  other,  he 
flung  himself  into  the  thickest  ranks  of  his  ene¬ 
mies.  Nothing  could  withstand  his  fury;  in  what 
part  soever  he  fought  he  put  the  enemies  to  flight 
without  receiving  a  single  wound.  Whether,  says 
Plutarch,  he  was  the  particular  care  of  some  god, 
who  rewarded  his  valor  that  day  with  an  extraor¬ 
dinary  protection,  or  that  his  enemies,  struck  with 
the  unusualness  of  his  dress,  and  beauty  of  his 
shape,  supposed  him  something  more  than  man,  I 
shall  not  determine. 

The  gallantry  of  this  action  was  judged  so  great 
by  the  Spartans,  that  the  ephori,  or  chief  magis¬ 
trates,  decreed  he  should  be  presented  with  a  gar¬ 
land,  but,  as  soon  as  they  had  done  so,  fined  him 
a  thousand  drachmas  for  going  out  to  the  battle 
unarmed. 


No.  565.]  FRIDAY,  JULY  9,  1714. 

- ■ - Deum  namque  ire  per  omnes 

Terrasque,  tractusque  maris,  coelumque  profundum. 

ViRGf.  Georg,  iv.  221. 

For  God  the  whole  created  mass  inspires, 

Through  heaven  and  earth,  and  ocean’s  depths :  he  throws 
His  influence  round,  and  kindles  as  he  goes. — Dryden. 

I  was  yesterday  about  sunset  walking  in  the 
open  fields,  until  the  night  insensibly  fell  upon 
me.  I  at  first  amused  myself  with  all  the  richness 
and  variety  of  colors  which  appeared  in  the  west¬ 
ern  parts  of  heaven;  in  proportion  as  they  faded 
away  and  went  out,  several  stars  and  planets  ap¬ 
peared  one  after  another,  until  the  whole  firma¬ 
ment  was  in  a  glow.  The.  blueness  of  the  ether 
was  exceedingly  heightened  and  enlivened  by  the 
season  of  the  year,  and  by  the  rays  of  all  those 
luminaries  that  passed  through  it.  The  galaxy 
appeared  in  its  most  beautiful  white.  To  com¬ 
plete  the  scene,  the  full  moon  rose  at  length  in 
that  clouded  majesty  which  Milton  takes  notice 
of,  and  opened  to  the  eye  a  new  picture  of  nature, 
which  was  more  finely  shaded  and  disposed  among 
softer  lights  than  that  which  the  sun  had  before 
discovered  to  us. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


666 

As  I  was  surveying  the  moon  walking  in  her 
brightness,  and  taking  her  progress  among  the 
constellations,  a  thought  rose  in  me  which  I  be¬ 
lieve  very  often  perplexes  and  disturbs  men  of 
serious  and  contemplative  natures.  David  him¬ 
self  fell  into  it  in  that  reflection,  “  When  I  con¬ 
sider  the  heavens,  the  work  of  thy  fingers,  the 
moon  and  the  stars,  which  thou  hast  ordained; 
what  is  man,  that  thou  art  mindful  of  him?  and 
the  son  of  man,  that  thou  regardest  him?”  In 
the  same  manner  when  I  considered  that  infinite 
host  of  stars,  or,  to  speak  more  philosophically, 
of  suns  which  were  then  shining  upon  me,  with 
those  innumerable  sets  of  planets  or  worlds  which 
were  moving  round  their  respective  suns;  when 
I  still  enlarged  the  idea,  and  supposed  another 
heaven  of  suns  and  worlds  rising  still  above  this 
which  we  discovered,  and  these  still  enlightened 
by  a  superior  firmament  of  luminaries,  which  are 
planted  at  so  great  a  distance,  that  they  may  ap¬ 
pear  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  former  as  the  stars 
do  to  us;  in  short,  while  I  pursued  this  thought, 
I  could  not  but  reflect  on  that  little,  insignificant 
figure  which  I  myself  bore  amidst  the  immensity 
of  God’s  works. 

Were  the  sun,  which  enlightens  this  part  of  the 
creation,  with  all  the  host  of  planetary  worlds  that 
move  about  him,  utterly  extinguished  and  annihi¬ 
lated,  they  would  not  be  missed  more  than  a  grain 
of  sand  upon  the  sea-shore.  The  space  they  pos¬ 
sess  is  so  exceedingly  little  in  comparison  of  the 
whole,  that  it  would  scarce  make  a  blank  in  the 
creation.  The  chasm  would  be  imperceptible  to 
an  eye  that  could  take  in  the  whole  compass  of 
nature,  and  pass  from  one  end  of  the  creation  to 
the  other;  as  it  is  possible  there  may  be  such  a 
sense  in  ourselves  hereafter,  or  in  creatures  which 
are  at  present  more  exalted  than  ourselves.  We 
see  many  stars  by  the  help  of  glasses,  which  we 
do  not  discover  with  our  naked  eyes ;  and  the 
finer  our  telescopes  are,  the  more  still  are  our  dis¬ 
coveries.  Huygenius  carries  this  thought  so  far, 
that  he  does  not  think  it  impossible  there  may  be 
stars  whose  light  is  not  yet  traveled  down  to  us, 
since  their  first  creation.  There  is  no  question 
but  the  universe  has  certain  bounds  set  to  it:  but 
when  we  consider  that  it  is  the  work  of  an  infi¬ 
nite  power,  prompted  by  infinite  goodness,  with 
an  infinite  space  to  exert  itself  in,  how  can  our 
imagination  set  any  bounds  to  it? 

To  return,  therefore,  to  my  first  thought.  I 
could  not  but  look  upon  myself  with  secret  hor¬ 
ror,  as  a  being  that  was  not  worth  the  smallest 
regard  of  One  who  had  so  great  a  work  under  his 
care  and  superintendency.  I  was  afraid  of  being 
overlooked  amidst  the  immensity  of  nature,  and 
lost  among  that  infinite  variety  of  creatures,  which 
in  all  probability  swarm  through  all  these  im¬ 
measurable  regions  of  matter. 

In  order  to  recover  myself  from  this  mortifying 
thought,  I  considered  that  it  took  its  rise  from 
those  narrow  conceptions  which  we  are  apt  to  en¬ 
tertain  of  the  Divine  nature.  We  ourselves  can¬ 
not  attend  to  many  different  objects  at  the  same 
time.  If  we  are  careful  to  inspect  some  things, 
we  must  of  course  neglect  others.  This  imper¬ 
fection,  which  we  observe  in  ourselves,  is  an  im¬ 
perfection  that  cleaves  in  some  degree  to  creatures 
of  the  highest  capacities,  as  they  are  creatures, 
that  is,  beings  of  finite  and  limited  natures.  The 
presence  of  every  created  being  is  confined  to  a 
certain  measure  of  space,  and  consequently  his 
observation  is  stinted  to  a  certain  number  of  ob¬ 
jects.  The  sphere  in  which  we  move,  and  act, 
and  understand,  is  a  wider  circumference  to  one 
creature  than  another,  according  as  we  rise  one 
above  another  in  the  scale  of  existence.  But  the 


widest  of  these  our  spheres  has  its  circumference. 
When,  therefore,  we  reflect  on  the  Divine  nature, 
we  are  so  used  and  accustomed  to  this  imperfec¬ 
tion  in  ourselves,  that  we  cannot  forbear  in  some 
measure  ascribing  it  to  Him  in  whom  there  is  no 
shadow  of  imperfection.  Our  reason  indeed  as¬ 
sures  us  that  liis  attributes  are  infinite;  but  the 
poorness  of  our  conceptions  is  such,  that  it  can¬ 
not  forbear  setting  bounds  to  everything  it  con¬ 
templates,  until  our  reason  comes  again  to  our 
succor,  and  throws  down  all  those  little  prejudices 
which  rise  in  us  unawares,  and  are  natural  to  the 
mind  of  man. 

We  shall  therefore  utterly  extinguish  this  melan¬ 
choly  thought,  of  our  being  overlooked  by  our 
Maker  in  the  multiplicity  of  his  works,  and  the 
infinity  of  those  objects  among  which  he  seems  to 
be  incessantly  employed,  if  we  consider,  in  the 
first  place,  that  he  is  omnipresent;  and,  in  the 
second,  that  he  is  omniscient. 

If  we  consider  him  in  his  omnipresence,  his 
being  passes  through,  actuates,  and  supports,  the 
whole  frame  of  nature.  His  creation,  and  every 
art  of  it,  is  full  of  him.  There  is  nothing  he 
as  made  that  is  either  so  distant,  so  little,  or  so 
inconsiderable,  which  he  does  not  essentially  in¬ 
habit.  His  substance  is  within  the  substance  of 
every  being,  whether  material,  or  immaterial,  and 
as  intimately  present  to  it  as  that  being  is  to 
itself.  It  would  be  an  imperfection  in  him  were 
he  able  to  remove  out  of  one  place  into  another, 
or  to  withdraw  himself  from  anything  he  has 
created,  or  from  any  part  of  that  space  which  is 
diffused  and  spread  abroad  to  infinity.  In  short, 
to  speak  of  him,  in  the  language  of  the  old  philoso¬ 
pher,  he  is  a  Being  whose  center  is  everywhere, 
and  his  circumference  nowhere. 

In  the  second  place,  he  is  omniscient  as  well  as 
omnipresent.  His  omniscience  indeed  necessarily 
and  naturally  flows  from  his  omnipresence;  he 
cannot  but  be  conscious  of  every  motion  that 
arises  in  the  whole  material  world,  which  he  thus 
essentially  pervades,  and  of  every  thought  that  is 
stirring  in  the  intellectual  world,  to  every  part  of 
which  he  is  thus  intimately  united.  Several  mor¬ 
alists  have  considered  the  creation  as  the  temple 
of  God,  which  he  has  built  with  his  own  hands, 
and  which  is  filled  with  his  presence.  Others 
have  considered  infinite  space  as  the  receptacle, 
or  rather  the  habitation,  of  the  Almighty;  but  the 
noblest  and  most  exalted  wray  of  considering  this 
infinite  space  is  that  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  who 
calls  it  the  sensorium  of  the  Godhead.  Brutes 
and  men  have  their  sensoriola,  or  little  senso- 
riums,  by  which  they  apprehend  the  presence  and 
perceive  the  actions  of  a  few  objects  that  lie  con¬ 
tiguous  to  them.  Their  knowledge  and  observa¬ 
tion  turn  within  a  very  narrow  circle.  But  as 
God  Almighty  cannot  but  perceive  and  know 
everything  in  which  he  resides,  infinite  space 
gives  room  to  infinite  knowledge,  and  is,  as  it 
were,  an  organ  to  omniscience. 

Were  the  soul  separate  from  the  body,  and  with 
one  glaftce  of  thought  should  start  beyond  the 
bounds  of  the  creation,  should  it  for  millions  of 
years  continue  its  progress  through  infinite  space 
with  the  same  activity,  it  would  still  find  itself 
within  the  embrace  of  its  Creator,  and  encom¬ 
passed  round  with  the  immensity  of  the  God¬ 
head.  While  we  are  in  the  body  he  is  not  less 
present  with  us  because  he  is  concealed  from  us. 
“0  that  I  knew  where  I  might  find  him!”  says 
Job.  “Behold  I  go  forward,  but  he  is  not  there/ 
and  backward,  but  I  cannot  perceive  him:  on  the 
left  hand  where  he  does  work,  but  I  cannot  be¬ 
hold  him:  he  hideth  himself  on  the  right  hand 
that  I  cannot  see  him.”  In  short,  reason  as  well 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


as  revelation  assures  us,  that  he  cannot  be  absent 
from  us,  notwithstanding  he  is  undiscovered  by  us. 

In  this  consideration  of  God  Almighty’s  omni¬ 
presence  and  omniscience  every  uncomfortable 
thought  vanishes.  He  cannot  but  regard  every¬ 
thing  that  has  being,  especially  such  of  his  crea¬ 
tures  who  fear  they  are  not  regarded  by  him.  He 
is  privy  to  all  their  thoughts,  and  to  that  anxiety 
of  heart  in  particular,  which  is  apt  to  trouble 
them  on  this  occasion;  for,  as  it  is  impossible  he 
should  overlook  any  of  his  creatures,  so  we  may 
be  confident  that  he  regards,  with  an  eye  of 
mercy,  those  who  endeavor  to  recommend  them¬ 
selves  to  his  notice,  and  in  an  unfeigned  humility 
of  heart  think  themselves  unworthy  that  he  should 
be  mindful  of  them. 


Ho.  566.]  MONDAY,  JULY  12,  1714. 

Militia}  species  amor  est. — Ovid,  Ars  Am.  ii.  233. 

Love  is  a  kind  of  warfare. 

As  my  correspondents  begin  to  grow  pretty  nu¬ 
merous,*  I  think  myself  obliged  to  take  some  no¬ 
tice  of  them,  and  shall  therefore  make  this  paper 
a  miscellany  of  letters.  I  have  since  my  re-as¬ 
suming  the  office  of  Spectator,  received  abundance 
of  epistles  from  gentlemen  of  the  blade,  who  I 
find  have  been  so  used  to  action  that  they  know 
not  how  to  lie  still.  They  seem  generally  to  be 
of  opinion  that  the  fair  at  home  ought  to  reward 
them  for  their  services  abroad,  and  that,  until  the 
cause  of  their  country  calls  them  again  into  the 
field,  they  have  a  sort  of  right  to  quarter  them¬ 
selves  upon  the  ladies.  In  order  to  favor  their 
approaches,  I  am  desired  by  some  to  enlarge  upon 
the  accomplishments  of  their  profession,  and  by 
others  to  give  them  my  advice  in  the  carrying  on 
their  attacks.  But  let  us  hear  what  the  gentle¬ 
men  say  for  themselves: 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Though  it  may  look  somewhat  perverse  amidst 
the  arts  of  peace  to  talk  too  much  of  war,  it  is  but 
gratitude  to  pay  the  last  office  to  its  manes,  since 
even  peace  itself  is,  in  some  measure,  obliged  to 
it  for  its  being. 

“You  have,  in  your  former  papers,  always 
recommended  the  accomplished  to  the  favor  of 
the  fair;  and  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  repre¬ 
sent  some  part  of  a  military  life  not  altogether 
unnecessary  to  the  forming  a  gentleman.  I  need 
not  tell  you  that  in  France,  whose  fashions  we 
have  been  formerly  so  fond  of,  almost  every  one 
derives  his  pretenses  to  merit  from  the  sword; 
and  that  a  man  has  scarce  the  face  to  make  his 
court  to  a  lady,  without  some  credentials  from 
the  service  to  recommend  him.  As  the  profession 
is  very  ancient,  we  have  reason  to  think  some  of 
the  greatest  men  among  the  old  Romans  derived 
many  of  their  virtues  from  it,  their  commanders 
being  frequently  in  other  respects  some  of  the 
most  shining  characters  of  the  age. 

“  The  army  not  only  gives  a  man  opportunities 
of  exercising  these  two  great  virtues,  patience  and 
courage,  but  often  produces  them  in  minds  where 
they  had  scarce  any  footing  before.  I  must  add, 
that  it  is  one  of  the  best  schools  in  the  world  to 
receive  a  general  notion  of  mankind  in,  and  a  cer¬ 
tain  freedom  of  behavior,  which  is  not  so  easily 
acquired  in  any  other  place.  At  the  same  time,  I 
must  own  that  some  military  airs  are  pretty  extra¬ 
ordinary,  and  that  a  man  who  goes  into  the  army 
a  coxcomb  will  come  out  of  it  a  sort  of  public 
nuisance:  but  a  man  of  sense,  or  one  who  before 


667 

had  not  been  sufficiently  used  to  a  mixed  con¬ 
versation,  generally  takes  the  true  turn.  The 
court  has  in  all  ages  been  allowed  to  be  the  stand¬ 
ard  of  good  breeding ;  and  I  believe  there  is  not  a 
juster  observation  in  Monsieur  Rochefoucault, 
than  that  “  a  man  who  has  been  bred  up  wholly 
to  business  can  never  get  the  air  of  a  courtier  at 
court,  but  will  immediately  catch  it  in  the  camp.” 
The  reason  of  this  most  certainly  is,  that  the  very 
essence  of  good-breeding  and  politeness  consists 
in  several  niceties,  which  are  so  minute  that  they 
escape  his  observation,  and  he  falls  short  of  the 
original  he  would  copy  after;  but  when  he  sees  the 
same  things  charged  and  aggravated  to  a  fault,  he 
no  sooner  endeavors  to  come  up  to  the  pattern 
which  is  set  before  him,  than,  though  he  stops 
somewhat  short  of  that,  he  naturally  rests  where 
in  reality  he  ought.  I  was,  two  or  three  days  ago, 
mightily  pleased  with  the  observation  of  a  humor¬ 
ous  gentleman  upon  one  of  his  friends,  who  was 
in  other  respects  every  way  an  accomplished  per¬ 
son,  that  he  wanted  nothing  but  a  dash  of  the  cox¬ 
comb  in  him,  by  which  he  understood  a  little  of 
that  alertness  and  unconcern  in  the  common  ac¬ 
tions  of  life,  which  is  usually  so  visible  among 
gentlemen  of  the  army,  and  which  a  campaign  or 
two  would  infallibly  have  given  him. 

“You  will  easily  guess,  Sir,  by  this  my  pane¬ 
gyric  upon  a  military  education,  that  I  am  myself 
a  soldier;  and  indeed  I  am  so.  I  remember,  with¬ 
in  three  years  after  I  had  been  in  the  army,  I  was 
ordered  into  the  country  a  recruiting.  I  had  very 
particular  success  in  this  part  of  the  service,  and 
was  over  and  above  assured,  at  my  going  away, 
that  I  might  have  taken  a  young  lady,  who  was 
the  most  considerable  fortune  in  the  country,  along 
with  me.  I  preferred  the  pursuit  of  fame  at  that 
time  to  all  other  considerations;  and  though  I  was 
not  absolutely  bent  on  a  wooden  leg,  resolved  at 
least  to  get  a  scar  or  two  for  the  good  of  Europe. 
I  have  at  present  as  much  as  I  desire  of  this  sort 
of  honor;  and  if  you  could  recommend  me  effectu¬ 
ally,  should  be  well  enough  contented  to  pass  the 
remainder  of  my  days  in  the  arms  of  some  dear 
kind  creature,  and  upon  a  pretty  estate  in  the 
country.  This,  as  I  take  it,  would  be  following 
the  example  of  Lucius  Cincinnatus,  the  old  Ro¬ 
man  dictator,  who  at  the  end  of  a  war,  left  the 
camp  to  follow  the  plow.  I  am,  Sir,  with  all 
imaginable  respect, 

“Your  most  obedient,  humble  Servant, 

“  Will  Warley.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  am  a  half-pay  officer,  and  am  at  present  with 
a  friend  in  the  country.  Here  is  a  rich  widow  in 
the  neighborhood,  who  has  made  fools  of  all  the 
fox-hunters  within  fifty  miles  of  her.  She  de¬ 
clares  she  intends  to  marry,  but  has  not  yet  been 
asked  by  the  man  she  could  like.  She  usually 
admits  her  humble  admirers  to  an  audience  or  two; 
but  after  she  has  once  given  them  denial,  will 
never  see  them  more.  I  am  assured  by  a  female 
relation  that  I  shall  have  fair  play  at  her ;  but  as 
my  whole  success  depends  on  my  first  approaches, 
I  desire  your  advice,  whether  I  had  best  storm, 

or  proceed  by  way  of  sap. 

“I  am,  Sir,  yours,  etc. 

“P.  S.  I  had  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  have 
already  carried  one  of  her  outworks,  that  is,  se¬ 
cured  her  maid.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  have  assisted  in  several  sieges  in  the  Low 
Countries,  and  being  still  willing  to  employ  my 
talents  as  a  soldier  and  engineer,  lay  down  this 
morning  at  seven  o’clock  before  the  door  ot  an 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


668 

obstinate  female,  who  had  for  some  time  refused  me  j 
admittance.  I  made  a  lodgment  in  an  outer  par¬ 
lor  about  twelve  :  the  enemy  retired  to  her  bed-  j 
chamber,  yet  I  still  pursued,  and  about  two  o’clock 
this  afternoon  she  thought  fit  to  capitulate.  Her 
demands  are  indeed  somewhat  high,  in  relation  to 
the  settlement  of  her  fortune.  But,  being  in  pos¬ 
session  of  the  house,  I  intend  to  insist  upon  carte 
blanche,  and  am  in  hopes,  by  keeping  off  all  other 
pretenders  for  the  space  of  twenty -four  hours,  to 
starve  her  into  a  compliance.  I  beg  your  speedy 
advice,  and  am, 

“  Sir,  yours, 

“  Peter  Push. 

“  From  my  camp  in  Red-lion-square,  Saturday, 
four  in  the  afternoon.” 


No.  567.]  WEDNESDAY,  JULY  14,  1714. 

- Inceptus  clamor  frustratur  hiantes 

Virg.  2En.  vi  493. 

- The  weak  voice  deceives  their  gasping  throats. 

Dryden. 

I  have  received  private  advice  from  some  of  my 
correspondents,  that  if  I  would  give  my  paper  a 
general  run,  I  should  take  care  to  season  it  with 
scandal.  I  have  indeed  observed  of  late,  that  few 
writings  sell  which  are  not  filled  with  great  names 
and  illustrious  titles.  The  reader  generally  casts 
his  eye  upon  a  new  book,  and  if  he  finds  several 
letters  separated  from  one  another  by  a  dash,  he 
buys  it  up  and  peruses  it  with  great  satisfaction. 
An  M  and  an  h,  a  T  and  an  r,*  with  a  short  line 
between  them,  has  sold  many  an  insipid  pamphlet. 
Nay,  I  have  known  a  whole  edition  go  off  by  vir¬ 
tue  of  two  or  three  well-written  Sfcs. 

A  sprinkling  of  the  words  “faction,  Frenchman, 
papist,  plunderer,”  and  the  like  significant  terms, 
m  an  italic  character,  have  also  a  very  good  effect 
upon  the  eye  of  the  purchaser  ;  not  to  mention 
“  scribbler,  liar,  rogue,  rascal,  knave,  and  villain,” 
without  which  it  is  impossible  to  carry  on  a  mod¬ 
ern  controversy. 

Our  party  writers  are  so  sensible  of  the  secret  vir¬ 
tue  of  an  inuendo  to  recommend  their  productions, 

that  of  late  they  never  mention  the  Q - n  or 

P - 1  at  length,  though  they  speak  of  them  with 

honor,  and  with  that  deference  which  is  due  to 
them  from  every  private  person.  It  gives  a  secret 
satisfaction  to  a  peruser  of  these  mysterious  works, 
that  he  is  able  to  decipher  them  without  help,  and, 
by  the  strength  of  his  own  natural  parts,  to  fill  up 
a  blank  space,  or  make  out  a  word  that  has  only 
the  first  or  last  letter  to  it. 

Some  of  our  authors  indeed,  when  they  would 
be  more  satirical  than  ordinary,  omit  only  the 
vowels  of  a  great  man’s  name,  and  fall  most  un¬ 
mercifully  on  all  the  consonants.  This  way  of 
writing  was  first  of  all  introduced  by  T — m 
Br — wn,f  of  facetious  memory,  who,  after  having 
gutted  a  proper  name  of  all  its  intermediate  vowels, 
used  to  plant  it  in  his  works,  and  make  as  free 
with  it  as  he  pleased,  without  any  danger  of  the 
statute. 

That  I  may  imitate  these  celebrated  authors, 
and  publish  a  paper  which  shall  be  more  taking 
than  ordinary,  1  have  here  drawn  up  a  very  curi¬ 
ous  libel,  in  which  a  reader  of  penetration  will 
find  a  great  deal  of  concealed  satire,  and  if  he  be 
acquainted  with  the  present  posture  of  atfairs,  will 
easily  discover  the  meaning  of  it. 


*  M  and  h  mean  Marlborough,  and  T  and  r  mean  Treasurer, 
t  Tom  Brown. 


“If  there  are  four  persons  in  the  nation  who  en¬ 
deavor  to  bring  all  things  into  confusion,  and  ruin 
their  native  country,  I  think  every  honest  Engl-sh- 
m-n  ought  to  be  upon  his  guard.  That  there  are 
such,  every  one  will  agree  with  me  who  hears 
me  name*** with  his  first  friend  and  favorite*** 
not  to  mention***nor***.  These  people  may  cry 
ch-rch,  ch-rch,  as  long  as  they  please;  but  to 
make  use  of  a  homely  proverb,  ‘  the  proof  of  the 
pdd-ing  is  in  the  eating.’ — This  I  am  sure  of, 
that  if  a  certain  prince  should  concur  with  a  cer¬ 
tain  prelate  (and  we  have  Monsieur  Z - n’s  word 

for  it),  our  posterity  would  be  in  a  sweet  p-ckle. 
Must  the  British  nation  suffer,  forsooth,  because 
my  lady  Q-p-t-s  has  been  disobliged?  Or  is  it 
reasonable  that  our  English  fleet,  which  used  to 
be  the  terror  of  the  ocean,  should  lie  wind-bound 
for  the  sake  of  a - ?  I  love  to  speak  out,  and  de¬ 

clare  my  mind  clearly,  when  I  am  talking  for  the 
good  of  my  country.  I  will  not  make  my  court  to 

an  ill  man,  though  he  were  a  B - y  or  a  T - 1. 

Nay,  I  would  not  stick  to  call  so  wretched  a  poli¬ 
tician  a  traitor,  an  enemy  to  his  country,  and  a 
Bl-nd-rb-ss,”  etc.,  etc. 

The  remaining  part  of  this  political  treatise, 
which  is  written  after  the  manner  of  the  most  cele¬ 
brated  authors  in  Great  Britain,  I  may  communi¬ 
cate  to  the  public  at  a  more  convenient  season. 
In  the  meanwhile  I  shall  leave  this  with  my  curi¬ 
ous  reader,  as  some  ingenious  writers  do  their 
enigmas :  and  if  any  sagacious  person  can  fairly 
unriddle  it,  I  will  print  his  explanation,  and,  if  he 
pleases,  acquaint  the  world  with  his  name. 

I  hope  this  short  essay  will  convince  my  read¬ 
ers  it  is  not  for  want  of  abilities  that  I  avoid  state 
tracts,  and  that,  if  I  would  apply  my  mind  to  it, 
I  might  in  a  little  time  be  as  great  a  master  of  the 
political  scratch  as  any  the  most  eminent  writer 
of  the  age.  I  shall  only  add,  that  in  order  to  out¬ 
shine  all  the  most  modern  race  of  syncopists,  and 
thoroughly  to  content  my  English  readers,  I  in¬ 
tend  shortly  to  publish  a  Spectator  that  shall  not 
have  a  single  vowel  in  it. 


No.  568.]  FRIDAY,  JULY  16,  1714. 

- Cum  recitas,  incipit  esse  tuus.— Mart.  Epig.  i.  39. 

Reciting  makes  it  thine. 

I  was  yesterday  in  a  coffee-house  not  far  from 
the  Royal  Exchange,  where  I  observed  three  per¬ 
sons  in  close  conference  over  a  pipe  of  tobacco ; 
upon  which,  having  filled  one  for  my  own  use,  I 
lighted  it  at  the  little  wax  candle  that  stood  before 
them;  and,  after  having  thrown  in  two  or  three 
whiffs  among  them,  sat  down  and  made  one  of 
the  company.  I  need  not  tell  my  reader  that 
lighting  a  man’s  pipe  at  the  same  candle  is  looked 
upon  among  brother  smokers  as  an  overture  to 
conversation  and  friendship.  As  we  here  laid  our 
heads  together  in  a  very  amicable  manner,  being 
intrenched  under  a  cloud  of  our  own  raising,  I 
took  up  the  last  Spectator,  and  casting  my  eye 
over  it,  “The  Spectator,”  says  I,  “is  very  witty 
to-day  upon  which  a  lusty  lethargic  old  gentle¬ 
man,  who  sat  at  the  upper  end  of  the  table,  having 
gradually  blown  out  of  his  mouth  a  great  deal  of 
smoke,  which  he  had  been  collecting  for  some 
time  before,  “Ay,”  says  he,  “more  witty  than 
wise,  I  am  afraid.”  His  neighbor,  who  sat  at  his 
right  hand,  immediately  colored,  and,  being  an 
angry  politician,  laid  down  his  pipe  with  so  much 
wrath  that  he  broke  it  in  the  middle,  and  by  that 
means  furnished  me  with  a  tobacco-stopper.  I 
took  it  up  very  sedately,  and,  looking  him  full  in 
the  face,  made  use  of  it  from  time  to  time  all  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


while  lie  was  speaking  :  “  This  fellow,”  says  he, 
“cannot  for  his  life  keep  out  of  politics.  Do  you 
see  how  he  abuses  four  great  men  here  ?”  I  fixed 
my  eye  very  attentively  on  the  paper,  and  asked 
him  if  he  meant  those  who  were  represented  by 
Asterisks.  “  Asterisks,”  says  he,  “  do  you  call 
them  '!  they  are  all  of  them  stars — he  might  as 
well  have  put  garters  to  them.  Then  pray  do  but 
mind  the  two  or  three  next  lines.  Cli-rch  and 
p-dd-ng  in  the  same  sentence!  Our  clergy  are 

very  much  beholden  to  him!”  Upon  this  the 

third  gentleman,  who  was  of  a  mild  disposition, 
and,  as  I  found,  a  whig  in  his  heart,  desired  him 
not  to  be  too  severe  upon  the  Spectator  neither  ; 
“for,”  says  he,  “  you  find  he  is  very  cautious  of 
giving  offense,  and  has  therefore  put  two  dashes 
into  his  pudding.” — “A  fig  for  his  dash,”  says 
the  angry  politician  ;  “  in  his  next  sentence  he 
gives  a  plain  inuendo  that  our  posterity  will  be  in 
a  sweet  p-ckle.  What  does  the  fool  mean  by  his 
ickle  ?  Why  does  he  not  write  it  at  length,  if 
e  means  honestly  ?” — “  I  have  read  over  the 
whole  sentence,”  says  I  ;  “but  I  look  upon  the 
parenthesis  in  the  belly  of  it  to  be  the  most  dan¬ 
gerous  part,  and  as  full  of  insinuations  as  it  can 
hold.  But  who,”  says  I,  “is  my  Lady  Q-p-t-s  ?” 
“  Ay,  answer  that  if  you  can.  Sir,”  says  the  furious 
statesman  to  the  poor  whig  that  sat  over  against 
him.  But  without  giving  him  time  to  reply,  “  I 
do  assure  you,”  says  he,  “  were  I  my  Lady  Q-p-t-s, 
I  would  sue  him  for  scandalmn  magnatum.  What 
is  the  world  come  to  ?  Must  everybody  be  al¬ 
lowed  to” - ?  He  had  by  this  time  filled  a  new 

pipe,  and  applying  it  to  his  lips,  when  we  expected 
the  last  word  of  his  sentence,  put  us  off  with  a 
whiff  of  tobacco  ;  which  he  redoubled  with  so 
much  rage  and  trepidation,  that  he  almost  stifled 
the  whole  company.  After  a  short  pause,  I  owned 
that  I  thought  the  Spectator  had  gone  too  far  in 
writing  so  many  letters  of  my  Lady  Q-p-t-s’  name; 
“but,  however,”  says  I,  “he  has  made  a  little 
amends  for  it  in  his  next  sentence,  where  he  leaves 
blank  space  without  so  much  as  a  consonant  to  di¬ 
rect  us.  I  mean,”  says  I,  “after  those  words,  ‘the 
fleetthat  used  to  be  the  terror  of  the  ocean,  should 

be  wind-bound  for  the  sake  of  a - ;’  after  which 

ensues  a  chasm,  that,  in  my  opinion,  looks  modest 
enough.” — “Sir,”  says  my  antagonist,  “you  may 
easily  know  his  meaning  by  his  gaping  :  I  sup- 
ose  he  designs  his  chasm,  as  you  call  it,  for  a 
ole  to  creep  out  at,  but  I  believe  it  will  hardly 
serve  his  turn.  Who  can  endure  to  see  the  great 
officers  of  state,  the  B — y’s  and  T — t’s  treated  after 
so  scurrilous  a  manner  — “  I  can’t  for  my  life,” 
says  I,  “imagine  who  they  are  the  Spectator 
means.” — “No !”  says  he  :  “Your  humble  servant, 
Sir !”  Upon  which  he  flung  himself  back  in  his 
chair  after  a  contemptuous  manner,  and  smiled 
upon  the  old  lethargic  gentleman  on  his  left  hand, 
who  I  found  was  his  great  admirer.  The  whig 
however  had  begun  to  conceive  a  good-will  to¬ 
ward  me,  and,  seeing  my  pipe  out,  very  gener¬ 
ously  offered  me  the  use  of  his  box ;  but  I  de¬ 
clined  it  with  great  civility,  being  obliged  to  meet 
a  friend  about  that  time  in  another  quarter  of  the 
citv. 

%J 

At  my  leaving  the  coffee-house,  I  could  not  for¬ 
bear  reflecting  with  myself  upon  that  gross  tribe 
of  fools  who  may  be  termed  the  over- wise,  and 
upon  the  difficulty  of  writing  anything  in  this 
censorious  age  which  a  weak  head  may  not  con¬ 
strue  into  private  satire  and  personal  reflection. 

A  man  who  has  a  good  nose  at  an  inuendo 
smells  treason  and  sedition  in  the  most  innocent 
words  that  can  be  put  together,  and  never  sees  a 
vice  or  folly  stigmatized  but  finds  out  one  or  other 
of  his  acquaintance  pointed  at  by  the  writer.  I 


619 

remember  an  empty  pragmatical  fellow  in  the 
country,  who,  upon  reading  over  “The  Whole 
Duty  of  Man,”  had  written  the  names  of  several 
persons  in  the  village  at  the  side  of  every  sin 
which  is  mentioned  by  that  excellent  author;  so 
that  he  had  converted  one  of  the  best  books  in  the 
world  into  a  libel  against  the  ’squire,  church¬ 
wardens,  overseers  of  the  poor,  and  all  the  most 
considerable  persons  in  the  parish.  This  book, 
with  these  extraordinary  marginal  notes,  fell  acci¬ 
dentally  into  the  hands  of  one  who  had  never  seen 
it  before ;  upon  which  there  arose  a  current  report 
that  somebody  had  written  a  book  against  the 
’squire  and  the  whole  parish.  The  minister  of 
the  place,  having  at  that  time  a  controversy  with 
some  of  his  congregation  upon  the  account  of  his 
tithes,  was  under  some  suspicion  of  being  the 
author,  until  the  good  man  set  his  people  right,  by 
showing  them  that  the  satirical  passages  might  be 
applied  to  several  others  of  two  or  three  neighbor¬ 
ing  villages,  and  that  the  book  was  written  against 
all  the  sinners  in  England. 


No.  569.]  MONDAY,  JULY  19,  1814. 

Reges  dicuntur  multis  urgere  culullis, 

Et  torquere  mero,  quem  perspexisse  laborent, 

An  sit  amicitia  dignus. - IIor.  Ars  Poet.  ver.  434. 

Wise  were  the  kings  who  never  chose  a  friend 

Till  with  full  cups  they  had  unmask’d  his  soul, 

And  seen  the  bottom  of  his  deepest  thoughts. — Roscommon. 

No  vices  are  so  incurable  as  those  which  men 
are  apt  to  glory  in.  One  would  wonder  how 
drunkenness  should  have  the  good  luck  to  be  of 
this  number.  Anacharsis,  being  invited  to  a 
match  of  drinking  at  Corinth,  demanded  the  prize 
very  humorously,  because  he  was  drunk  before 
any  of  the  rest  of  the  company;  “for,”  says  he, 
“when  we  run  a  race,  he  who  arrives  at  the  goal 
first  is  entitled  to  the  reward  ;”  on  the  contrary,  in 
this  thirsty  generation,  the  honor  falls  upon  him 
who  carries  off  the  greatest  quantity  of  liquor,  and 
knocks  down  the  rest  of  the  company.  I  was  the 
other  day  with  honest  Will  Funnel,  the  West 
Saxon,  who  was  reckoning  up  how  much  liquor  had 
passed  through  him  in  the  last  twenty  years  of  his 
life,  which,  according  to  his  computation,  amount¬ 
ed  to  twenty-three  hogsheads  of  October,  four  tons 
of  port,  half  a  kilderkin  of  small  beer,  nineteen 
barrels  of  cider,  and  three  glasses  of  champagne; 
beside  which  he  had  assisted  at  four  hundred 
bowls  of  punch,  not  to  mention  sips,  drams,  and 
whets  without  number.  I  question  not  but  every 
reader’s  memory  will  suggest  to  him  several  ambi¬ 
tious  young  men  who  are  as  vain  in  this  particular 
as  Will  Funnel,  and  can  boast  of  as  glorious  ex¬ 
ploits. 

Our  modern  philosophers  observe,  that  there  is 
a  general  decay  of  moisture  in  the  globe  of  the 
earth.  This  they  chiefly  ascribe  to  the  growth  of 
vegetables,  which  incorporate  into  their  own  sub¬ 
stance  many  fluid  bodies  that  never  return  again 
to  their  former  nature;  but  with  submission,  they 
ought  to  throw  into  their  own  account  those  innu¬ 
merable  rational  beings  which  fetch  their  nourish¬ 
ment  chiefly  out  of  liquids;  especially  when  we 
consider  that  men,  compared  with  their  fellow- 
creatures,  drink  much  more  than  comes  to  their 
share. 

But,  however  highly  this  tribe  of  people  may 
think  of  themselves,  a  drunken  man  is  a  greater 
monster  than  any  that  is  to  be  found  among  all  the 
creatures  which  God  has  made;  as  indeed  there  is 
no  character  which  appears  more  despicable  and 
deformed,  in  the  eyes  of  all  reasonable  persons, 
than  that  of  a  drunkard.  Bonosus,  one  of  our  own 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


670 

countrymen,  who  was  addicted  to  this  vice,  having 
set  up  "for  a  share  in  the  Roman  empire,  and  being 
defeated  in  a  great  battle,  hanged  himself.  When 
he  was  seen  by  the  army  in  this  melancholy  situ¬ 
ation,  notwithstanding  he  had  behaved  himself 
very  bravely,  the  common  jest  was,  that  the  thing 
they  saw  hanging  upon  the  tree  before  them  was 
not  a  man,  but  a  bottle. 

This  vice  has  very  fatal  effects  on  the  mind,  the 
body,  and  fortune,  of  the  person  who  is  devoted 
to  it. 

In  regard  to  the  mind,  it  first  of  all  discovers 
every  flaw  in  it.  The  sober  man,  by  the  strength 
of  reason,  may  keep  under  and  subdue  every  vice 
or  folly  to  which  he  is  most  inclined;  but  wine 
makes  every  latent  seed  sprout  up  in  the  soul,  and 
show  itself;  it  gives  fury  to  the  passions,  and  force 
to  those  objects  which  are  apt  to  produce  them. 
When  a  young  fellow  complained  to  an  old  philo¬ 
sopher  that  his  wife  was  not  handsome,  “  Put  less 
water  in  your  wine,”  says  the  philosopher,  “and 
you  will  quickly  make  her  so.”  Wine  heightens 
indifference  into  love,  love  into  jealousy,  and  jeal¬ 
ousy  into  madness.  It  often  turns  the  good-natured 
man  into  an  idiot,  and  the  choleric  into  an  assas¬ 
sin.  It  gives  bitterness  to  resentment,  it  makes 
vanity  insupportable,  and  displays  every  little  spot 
of  the  soul  in  its  utmost  deformity. 

Nor  does  this  vice  only  betray  the  hidden  faults 
of  a  man,  and  show  them  in  the  most  odious  colors, 
but  often  occasions  faults  to  which  he  is  not  natu¬ 
rally  subject.  There  is  more  of  turn  than  of  truth 
in  a  saying  of  Seneca,  that  drunkenness  does  not 
produce  but  discover  faults.  Common  experience 
teaches  us  the  contrary.  Wine  throws  a  man  out 
of  himself,  and  infuses  qualities  into  the  mind 
which  she  is  a  stranger  to  in  her  sober  moments. 
The  person  you  converse  with  after  the  third  bot¬ 
tle,  is  not  the  same  man  who  at  first  sat  down  at 
table  with  you.  Upon  this  maxim  is  founded  one 
of  the  prettiest  sayings  I  ever  met  with,  which  is 
ascribed  to  Publius  Syrus,  “  Qui,  ebrium  ludijicat, 
ladit  absentem.”  “  He  who  jests  upon  the  man 
that  is  drunk,  injures  the  absent.” 

Thus  does  drunkenness  act  in  direct  contradic¬ 
tion  to  reason,  whose  business  it  is  to  clear  the 
mind  of  every  vice  which  is  crept  into  it,  and  to 
guard  it  against  all  the  approaches  of  any  that  en¬ 
deavors  to  make  its  entrance.  But  beside  these  ill 
effects  which  this  vice  produces  in  the  person  who 
is  actually  under  its  dominion,  it  has  also  a  bad 
influence  on  the  mind  even  in  its  sober  moments, 
as  it  insensibly  weakens  the  understanding, .  im¬ 
pairs  the  memory,  and  makes  those  faults  habitual 
which  are  produced  by  frequent  excesses. 

I  should  now  proceed  to  show  the  ill  effects 
which  this  vice  has  on  the  bodies  and  fortunes  of 
men;  but  these  I  shall  reserve  for  the  subject  of 
some  future  paper. 


No.  570.]  WEDNESDAY,  JULY  21,  1714. 

- - Nugseque  canons. — Hor.  Ars  Poet,  ver.  322. 

Chiming  trifles. — Roscommon. 

There  is  scarcely  a  man  living  who  is  not  ac¬ 
tuated  by  ambition.  When  this  principle  meets 
with  an  honest  mind  and  great  abilities,  it  does 
infinite  service  to  the  world;  on  the  contrary,  when 
a  man  only  thinks  of  distinguishing  himself  with¬ 
out  being  thus  qualified  for  it,  he  becomes  a  very 
pernicious  or  a  very  ridiculous  creature.  I  shall 
here  confine  myself  to  that  petty  kind  of  ambi¬ 
tion,  by  which  some  men  grow  eminent  for  odd 
accomplishments  and  trivial  performances.  How 
many  are  there  whose  whole  reputation  depends 


upon  a  pun  or  a  quibble?  You  may  often  see  an 
artist  in  the  streets  gain  a  circle  of  admirers  by 
carrying  a  long  pole  upon  his  chin  or  forehead  in 
a  perpendicular  posture.  Ambition  has  taught 
some  to  write  with  their  feet,  and  others  to  walk 
upon  their  hands.  Some  tumble  into  fama,  others 
grow  immortal  by  throwing  themselves  through  a 
hoop. 

Caetera  de  genere  hoc  (adeo  sunt  multa),  loquaccm 

Delassare  valent  Fabium. -  Hor.  1  Sat.  i.  13. 

With  thousands  more  of  this  ambitious  race 

Would  tire  ev’n  Fabius  to  relate  each  case. — Horneck. 

I  am  led  into  this  train  of  thought  by  an  ad¬ 
venture  I  lately  met  with. 

I  was  the  other  day  at  a  tavern,  where  the  mas¬ 
ter  of  the  house*  accommodating  us  himself  with 
everything  we  wanted,  I  accidentally  fell  into  a 
discourse  with  him;  and  talking  of  a  certain  great 
man,  who  shall  be  nameless,  he  told  me  that  he 
had  sometimes  the  honor  to  treat  him  with  a 
whistle;  adding  (By  the  way  of  parenthesis),  “  for 
you  must  know,  gentlemen,  that  I  whistle  the  best 
of  any  man  in  Europe.”  This  naturally  put  me 
upon  desiring  him  to  give  us  a  sample  of  his  art; 
upon  which  he  called  for  a  case-knife,  and  applying 
the  edge  of  it  to  his  mouth,  converted  it  into  a 
musical  instrument,  and  entertained  me  with  an 
Italian  solo.  Upon  laying  down  the  knife,  he  took 
a  pair  of  clean  tobacco-pipes;  and  after  having  slid 
the  small  end  of  them  over  the  table  in  a  most  me¬ 
lodious  trill,  he  fetched  a  tune  out  of  them,  whist¬ 
ling  to  them  at  the  same  time  in  concert.  In  short, 
the  tobacco-pipes  became  musical  pipes  in  the 
hands  of  our  virtuoso,  who  confessed  to  me,  in¬ 
genuously,  he  had  broken  such  quantities  of  them, 
that  he  had  almost  broke  himself  before  he  had 
brought  this  piece  of  music  to  any  tolerable  per¬ 
fection.  I  then  told  him  I  would  bring  a  company 
of  friends  to  dine  with  him  the  next  week,  as  an 
encouragement  to  his  ingenuity;  upon  which  he 
thanked  me,  saying  that  he  would  provide  himself 
with  a  new  frying-pan  against  that  day.  I  re¬ 
plied,  that  it  was  no  matter;  rqast  and  boiled 
would  serve  our  turn.  He  smiled  at  my  simpli¬ 
city,  and  told  me  that  it  was  his  design  to  give  us 
a  tune  upon  it.  As  I  was  surprised  at  such  a  pro¬ 
mise,  he  sent  for  an  old  frying-pan,  and  grating  it 
upon  the  board,  whistled  to  it  in  such  a  melodious 
manner,  that  you  could  scarcely  distinguish  it 
from  a  bass-viol.  He  then  took  his  seat  with  usat 
the  table,  and  hearing  my  friend  that  was  with 
me  hum  over  a  tune  to  himself,  he  told  me  if  he 
would  sing  out,  he  would  accompany  his  voice 
with  a  tobacco-pipe  As  my  friend  has  an  agreea¬ 
ble  bass,  he  chose  rather  to  sing  to  the  frying-pan, 
and  indeed  between  them  they  made  a  most  extra¬ 
ordinary  concert.  Finding  our  landlord  so  great 
a  proficient  in  kitchen  music,  I  asked  him  if  he 
was  master  of  the  tongs  and  key.  He  told  me  that 
he  had  laid  it  down  some  years  since  as  a  little 
unfashionable;  but  that,  if  I  pleased,  he  would 
give  me  a  lesson  upon  the  gridiron.  He  then  in¬ 
formed  me,  that  he  had  added  two  bars  to  the  grid¬ 
iron,  in  order  to  give  it  a  greater  compass  of  sound; 
and  I  perceived  he  was  as  well  pleased  with  the 
invention,  as  Sappho  could  have  been  upon  adding 
two  strings  to  the  lute.  To  be  short,  I  found  that 
his  whole  kitchen  was  furnished  with  musical  in¬ 
struments;  and  could  not  but  look  upon  this  artist 
as  a  kind  of  burlesque  musician. 

He  afterward,  of  his  own  accord,  fell  into  the 
imitation  of  several  singing-birds..  My  friend  and 
I  toasted  our  mistresses  to  the  nightingale,  when 


*  This  man’s  name  was  Daintry.  He  was  in  the  trained 
bands  and  commonly  known  by  the  name  of  Captain  Daintry. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


all  of  a  sudden  we  were  surprised  with  the  music 
of  the  thrush.  He  next  proceeded  to  the  sky- lark, 
mounting  up  by  a  proper  scale  of  notes,  and  after¬ 
ward  tailing  to  the  ground  with  a  very  easy  and 
regular  descent.  He  then  contracted  his  whistle 
to  the  voice  of  several  birds  of  the  smallest  size. 
As  he  is  a  man  of  a  larger  bulk  and  higher  stature 
than  ordinary,  you  would  fancy  him  a  giant  when 
you  looked  upon  him,  and  a  tom-tit  when  you  shut 
your  eyes.  I  must  not  omit  acquainting  my  reader 
that  this  accomplished  person  was  formerly  the 
master  of  a  toy-shop  near  Temple-bar;  and  that 
the  famous  Charles  Mathers  was  bred  up  under 
him.  I  am  told  that  the  misfortunes  which  he  has 
met  with  in  the  world  are  chiefly  owing  to  his 
great  application  to  his  music;  and  therefore  can¬ 
not  but  recommend  him  to  my  readers  as  one  who 
deserves  their  favor,  and  may  afford  them  great 
diversion  over  a  bottle  of  wine,  which  he  sells  at 
the  Queen’s  Arms,  near  the  end  of  the  little  piazza 
in  Covent-gardeu. 


Ho.  571.]  FRIDAY,  JULY  23,  1714. 

- Coelum  quid  quaerimus  ultra  ? — Luc. 

What  seek  we  beyond  heaven  ? 

As  the  work  I  have  engaged  in  will  not  only 
consist  of  papers  of  humor  and  learning,  but  of 
several  essays  moral  and  divine,  I  shall  publish 
the  following  one  which  is  founded  on  a  former 
Spectator,  and  sent  me  by  a  particular  friend, 
not  questioning  but  it  will  please  such  of  my 
readers  as  think  it  no  disparagement  to  their  un¬ 
derstandings  to  give  way  sometimes  to  a  serious 
thought. 

“  Sir, 

"  In  your  paper  of  Friday  the  ninth  instant,  you 
had  occasion  to  consider  the  ubiquity  of  the  God¬ 
head,  and  at  the  same  time  to  show,  that,  as  he  is 
present  to  everything,  he  cannot  but  be  attentive 
to  everything,  and  privy  to  all  the  modes  and  parts 
of  its  existence;  or,  in  other  words,  that  his  om¬ 
niscience  and  omnipresence  are  co-existent,  and 
run  together  through  the  whole  infinitude  of  space. 
3  his  consideration  might  furnish  us  with  many 
incentives  to  devotion,  and  motives  to  morality; 
but,  as  this  subject  has  been  handled  by  several 
excellent  writers,  I  shall  consider  it  in  a  light 
wherein  I  have  not  seen  it  placed  by  others. 

“  First,  How  disconsolate  is  the  condition  of  an 
intellectual  being,  who  is  thus  present  with  his 
Maker,  but  at  the  same  time  receives  no  extraor¬ 
dinary  benefit  or  advantage  from  this  his  pres¬ 
ence  ! 

“  Secondly,  How  deplorable  is  the  condition  of 
an  intellectual  being,  who  feels  no  other  effects 
from  this  his  presence,  but  such  as  proceed  from 
divine  wrath  and  indignation! 

“  Thirdly,  How  happy  is  the  condition  of  that 
intellectual  being,  who  is  sensible  of  his  Maker’s 
presence,  from  the  secret  effects  of  his  mercy  and 
loving-kindness ! 

“First,  How  disconsolate  is  the  condition  of  an 
intellectual  being,  who  is  thus  present  with  his 
Maker,  but  at  the  same  time  receives  no  extraordi¬ 
nary  benefit  or  advantage  from  this  his  presence  ! 
Every  particle  of  matter  is  actuated  by  this  Al¬ 
mighty  Being  which  passes  through  it.  The  hea¬ 
vens  and  the  earth,  the  stars  and  planets,  move 
and  gravitate  by  virtue  of  this  great  principle 
within  them.  All  the  dead  parts  of  nature  are 
invigorated  by  the  presence  of  their  Creator,  and 
made  capable  of  exerting  their  respective  qualities. 
The  several  instincts,  in  the  brute  creation,  do 


G71 

likewise  operate  and  work  toward  the  several  ends 
which  are  agreeable  to  them  by  the  divine  energy. 
Man  only,  who  does  not  co-operate  with  this  Holy 
Spirit,  and  is  inattentive  to  his  presence,  receives 
none  of  those  advantages  from  it,  which  are  per¬ 
fective  of  his  nature,  and  necessary  to  his  well¬ 
being.  The  Divinity  is  with  him,  and  in  him,  and 
everywhere  about  him,  but  of  no  advantage  to  him. 
It  is  the  same  thing  to  a  man  without  religion,  as 
if  there  were  no  God  in  the  world.  It  is  indeed 
impossible  for  an  Infinite  Being  to  remove  himself 
from  any  of  his  creatures;  but  though  he  cannot 
withdraw  his  essence  from  us,  which  would  argue 
an  imperfection  in  him,  he  can  withdraw  from  us 
all  the  joys  and  consolations  of  it.  His  presence 
may  perhaps  be  necessary  to  support  us  in  our  ex¬ 
istence;  _  but  he  may  leave  this  our  existence  to 
itself,  with  regard  to  its  happiness  or  misery.  For 
in  this  sense  he  may  cast  us  away  from  his  pres¬ 
ence,  and  take  his  Holy  Spirit  from  us.  This  sin¬ 
gle  consideration  one  would  think  sufficient  to 
make  us  open  our  hearts  to  all  those  infusions  of 
joy  and  gladness  which  are  so  near  at  hand,  and 
ready  to  be  poured  in  upon  us;  especially  when 
we  consider,  secondly,  the  deplorable  condition  of 
an  intellectual  being,  who  feels  no  other  effects 
from  his  Maker’s  presence,  but  such  as  proceed 
from  divine  wrath  and  indignation. 

“We  may  assure  ourselves  that  the  great  Author 
of  nature  will  not  always  be  as  one  who  is  indif¬ 
ferent  to  any  of  his  creatures.  Those  who  will  not 
feel  him  in  his  love,  will  be  sure  at  length  to  feel 
him  in  his  displeasure.  And  how  dreadful  is  the 
condition  of  that  creature,  who  is  only  sensible  of 
the  being  of  his  Creator  by  what  he  suffers  from 
him  !  He  is  as  essentially  present  in  hell  as  in 
heaven;  but  the  inhabitants  of  the  former  behold 
him  only  in  his  wrath,  and  shrink  within  the  flames 
to  conceal  themselves  from  him.  It  is  not  in  the 
power  of  imagination  to  conceive  the  fearful  effects 
of  Omnipotence  incensed. 

“  But  I  shall  only  consider  the  wretchedness  of 
an  intellectual  being,  who  in  this  life  lies  under  the 
displeasure  of  Him,  that  at  all  times  and  in  all 
places  is  intimately  united  with  him.  He  is  able 
to  disquiet  the  soul,  and  vex  it  in  all  its  faculties. 
He  can  hinder  any  of  the  greatest  comforts  of  life 
from  refreshing  us,  and  give  an  edge  to  every  one 
of  its  slightest  calamities.  Who  then  can  bear  the 
thought  of  being  an  outcast  from  his  presence,  that 
is,  from  the  comforts  of  it,  or  of  feeling  it  only  in 
its  terrors  ?  ^  How  pathetic  is  that  expostulation  of 
Job,  when  for  the  trial  of  his  patience  he  was  made 
to  look  upon  himself  in  this  deplorable  condition ! 
‘Why  hast  thou  set  me  as  a  mark  against  thee,  so 
that  I  am  become  a  burden  to  myself?’  But  thirdly, 
how  happy  is  the  condition  of  that  intellectual 
being,  who  is  sensible  of  his  Maker’s  presence 
from  the  secret  effects  of  his  mercy  and  loving¬ 
kindness! 

“  The  blessed  in  heaven  behold  him  face  to  face, 
that  is,  are  as  sensible  of  his  presence  as  we  are 
of  the  presence  of  any  person  whom  we  look  upon 
with  our  eyes.  There  is,  doubtless,  a  faculty  in 
spirits  by  which  they  apprehend  one  another  as 
our  senses  do  material  objects;  and  there  is  no 
question  but  our  souls,  when  they  are  disembod¬ 
ied,  or  placed  in  glorified  bodies,  will  by  this  fac¬ 
ulty,  in  whatever  part  of  space  they  reside,  be 
always  sensible  of  the  Divine  presence.  We,  who 
have  this  vail  of  flesh  standing  between  us  and  the 
world  of  spirits,  must  be  content  to  know  that  the 
Spirit  of  God  is  present  with  us,  by  the  effects 
which  he  produces  in  us.  Our  outward  senses  are 
too  gross  to  comprehend  him;  we  may,  however, 
taste  and  see  how  gracious  he  is,  by  his  influence 
upon  our  minds,  by  those  virtuous  thoughts  which 


G72 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


he  awakens  in  us,  by  those  secret  comforts  and  re¬ 
freshments  which  he  conveys  into  our  souls,  and 
bv  those  ravishing  joys  and  inward  satisfactions 
which  are  perpetually  springing  up  and  diffusing 
themselves  among  all  the  thoughts  of  good  men. 
He  is  lodged  in  our  very  essence,  and  is  as  a  soul 
within  the  soul  to  irradiate  its  understanding,  rec¬ 
tify  its  will,  purify  its  passions,  and  enliven  all 
the  powers  of  man.  How  happy  therefore  is  an 
intellectual  being,  who,  by  prayer  and  meditation, 
by  virtue  and  good  works,  opens  this  communica¬ 
tion  between  God  and  his  own  soul!  Though  the 
whole  creation  frowns  upon  him,  and  all  nature 
looks  black  about  him,  he  has  his  light  and  sup¬ 
port  within  him,  that  are  able  to  cheer  his  mind, 
and  bear  him  up  in  the  midst  of  all  those  horrors 
which  encompass  him.  He  knows  that  his  helper 
is  at  hand,  and  is  always  nearer  to  him  than  any¬ 
thing  else  can  be,  which  is  capable  of  annoying 
or  terrifying  him.  In  the  midst  of  calumny  or 
contempt  he  attends  to  that  Being  who  whispers 
better  things  to  his  soul,  whom  he  looks  upon  as 
his  defender,  his  glory,  and  the  lifter-up  of  his 
head.  In  his  deepest  solitude  and  retirement  he 
knows  that  he  is  in  company  with  the  greatest  of 
beings;  and  perceives  within  himself  such  real 
sensations  of  his  presence,  as  are  more  delightful 
than  anything  that  can  be  met  with  in  the  conver¬ 
sation  of  his  creatures.  Even  in  the  hour  of  death 
he  considers  the  pains  of  his  dissolution  to  be 
nothing  else  but  the  breaking  down  of  that  parti¬ 
tion,  which  stands  betwixt  his  soul  and  the  sight 
of  that  Being  who  is  always  present  with  him, 
and  is  about  to  manifest  itself  to  him  in  fullness  of 
joy. 

“  If  he  would  be  thus  happy,  and  thus  sensible 
of  our  Maker’s  presence,  from  the  secret  effects  of 
his  mercy  and  goodness,  we  must  keep  such  a 
watch  over  all  our  thoughts,  that,  in  the  language 
of  the  Scripture,  his  soul  may  have  pleasure  in 
us.  We  must  take  care  ,  not  to  grieve  liis  Holy 
Spirit,  and  endeavor  to  make  the  meditations  of 
our  hearts  always  acceptable  in  his  sight,  that  he 
may  delight  thus  to  reside  and  dwell  in  us.  The 
light  of  nature  could  direct  Seneca  to  this  doctrine, 
in  a  very  remarkable  passage  among  his  epistles: 
‘  Sacer  inest  in  nobis  spiritus  bonorum  malorumque 
custos,  et  observator,  et  quemadmodurn  nos  ilium  trac- 
tamus,  ita  et  ille  nos .’  ‘  There  is  a  holy  spirit  re¬ 

siding  in  us,  who  watches  and  observes  both  good 
and  evil  men,  and  will  treat  us  after  the  same  man¬ 
ner  that  we  treat  him.’  But  I  shall  conclude  this 
discourse  with  those  more  emphatical  words  in 
divine  revelation.  ‘If  a  man  love  me  he  will 
keep  my  word;  and  my  Father  will  love  him,  and 
we  will  come  unto  him,  and  make  our  abode  with 
him.’  ” 


Ho.  572.]  MONDAY,  JUNE  26,  1714. 


- Quod  medicoruxn  est, 

Promittunt  medici - 


Hon.  1.  Ep.  ii.  115. 


Physicians  only  boast  the  healing  art. 


I  am  the  more  pleased  with  those  my  papers, 
since  I  find  they  have  encouraged  several  men  of 
learning  and  wit  to  become  my  correspondents  : 
I  yesterday  received  the  following  essay  against 
quacks,  which  I  shall  here  communicate  to  my 
leaders  for  the  good  of  the  public,  begging  the 
writer’s  pardon  for  those  additions  and  retrench¬ 
ments  which  I  have  made  in  it. 

“The  desire  of  life  is  so  natural  and  strong  a 
passion,  that  I  have  long  since  ceased  to  wonder 
at  the  great  encouragement  which  the  practice  of 
physic  finds  among  us.  Well-constitutioned  gov¬ 


ernments  have  always  made  the  profession  of  a 
physician  both  honorable  and  advantageous.  Ho¬ 
mer’s  Macliaon  and  Virgil’s  lapis  were  men  of 
renown,  heroes  in  war,  and  made  at  least  as  much 
havoc  among  their  enemies  as  among  their  friends. 
Those  who  have  little  or  no  faith  in  the  abilities 
of  a  quack  will  apply  themselves  to  him,  either 
because  he  is  willing  to  sell  health  at  a  reasonable 
profit,  or  because  the  patient,  like  a  drowning  man, 
catches  at  every  twig,  and  hopes  for  relief  from 
the  most  ignorant,  when  the  most  able  physicians 
give  him  none.  Though  impudence  and  many 
words  are  as  necessary  to  these  itinerary  Galens, 
as  a  laced  hat  to  a  merry-andrew,  yet  they  would 
turn  very  little  to  the  advantage  of  the  owner,  if 
there  were  not  some  inward  disposition  in  the  sick 
man  to  favor  the  pretensions  of  the  mountebank. 
Love  of  life  in  the  one,  and  of  money  in  the  other, 
creates  a  good  correspondence  between  them. 

“There  is  scarcely  a  city  in  Great  Britain  but 
has  one  of  this  tribe  who  takes  it  into  his  protec¬ 
tion,  and  on  the  market-day  harangues  the  good 
people  of  the  place  with  aphorisms  and  receipts. 
You  may  depend  upon  it  he  comes  not  there  for 
his  own  private  interest,  but  out  of  a  particular 
affection  to  the  town.  I  remember  one  of  these 
public-spirited  artists  at  Hammersmith,  who  told 
his  audience,  that  he  had  been  born  and  bred  there, 
and  that,  having  a  special  regard  for  the  place  of 
his  nativity,  he  was  determined  to  make  a  present 
of  five  shillings  to  as  many  as  would  accept  of  it. 
The  whole  crowd  stood  agape,  and  ready  to  take 
the  doctor  at  his  word;  when  putting  his  hand  into 
a  long  bag,  as  every  one  was  expecting  his  crown- 
piece,  he  drew  out  a  handful  of  little  packets,  each 
of  which  he  informed  the  spectators  was  constantly 
sold  at  five  shillings  and  six-pence,  but  that  he 
would  bate  the  odd  five  shillings  to  every  inhabit¬ 
ant  of  that  place:  the  whole  assembly  immediately- 
closed  with  this  generous  offer,  and  took  off  all 
his  physic,  after  the  doctor  had  made  them  vouch 
for  one  another,  that  there  were  no  foreigners 
among  them,  but  that  they  were  all  Hammersmith 
men.  . 

“There  is  another  branch  of  pretenders  to  this 
art,  who,  without  either  horse  or  pickle -herring,  lie 
snug  in  a  garret,  and  send  down  notice  to  the 
world  of  their  extraordinary  parts  and  abilities  by 
printed  bills  and  advertisements.  These  seem,  to 
have  derived  their  custom  from  an  eastern  nation 
which  Herodotus  speaks  of,  among  whom  it  was  a 
law,  that  whenever  any  cure  was  performed,  both 
the  method  of  the  cure,  and  an  account  of  the  dis¬ 
temper,  should  be  fixed  in  some  public  place;  but, 
as  customs  will  corrupt,  these  our  moderns  provide 
themselves  of  persons  to  attest  the  cure  before  they 
publish  or  make  an  experiment  of  the  prescription. 
I  have  heard  of  a  porter,  who  serves  as  a  knight 
of  the  post  under  one  of  these  operators,  and 
though  he  was  never  sick  in  his  life,  has  been  cured 
of  all  the  diseases  in  the  dispensary.  These  are 
the  men  whose  sagacity  has  invented  elixirs  of  all 
sorts,  pills,  and  lozenges,  and  take  it  as  an  affront 
if  you  come  to  them  before  you  are  given  over  by 
everybody  else.  Their  medicines  are  infallible, 
and  never  fail  of  success — that  is,  of  enriching 
the  doctor,  and  setting  the  patient  effectually  at 
rest. 

“I  lately  dropped  into  a  coffee-house  at  West¬ 
minster,  where  I  found  the  room  hung  round  with 
ornaments  of  this  nature.  There  were  elixirs, 
tinctures,  the  Anodyne  Fotus,  English  pills,  elec¬ 
tuaries,  and  in  short  more  remedies  than  I  believe 
there  are  diseases.  At  the  sight  of  so  many  in¬ 
ventions,  I  could  not  but  imagine  myself  in  a  kind 
of  arsenal  or  magazine  where  store  of  arms  was 
reposited  against  any  sudden  invasion.  Should 


673 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


you  be  attacked  by  the  enemy  sideways,  here  was 
an  infallible  piece  of  defensive  armor  to  cure  the 
pleurisy;  should  a  distemper  beat  up  your  head¬ 
quarters,  here  you  might  purchase  an  impenetrable 
helmet,  or,  in  the  language  of  the  artist,  a  cephalic 
tincture;  if  your  main  body  be  assaulted,  here  are 
various  kinds  of  armor  in  cases  of  various  onsets. 
I  began  to  congratulate  the  present  age  upon  the 
happiness  men  might  reasonably  hope  for  in  life, 
when  death  was  thus  in  a  manner  defeated,  and 
when  pain  itself  would  be  of  so  short  a  duration, 
that  it  would  just  serve  to  enhance  the  value  of 
pleasure.  While  I  was  in  these  thoughts,  I  un¬ 
luckily  called  to  mind  a  story  of  an  ingenious 
gentleman  of  the  last  age,  who  lying  violently  af¬ 
flicted  with  the  gout,  a.  person  came  and  offered 
his  services  to  cure  him  by  a  method  which  he 
assured  him  was  infallible;  the  servant  who  re¬ 
ceived  the  message  carried  it  up  to  his  master,  who 
inquiring  whether  the  person  came  on  foot  or  in  a 
chariot,  and  being  informed  that  he  was  on  foot; 
'Go/  says  he,  ‘send  the  knave  about  his  business; 
was  his  method  as  infallible  as  he  pretends,  he 
would  long  before  now  have  been  in  his  coach  and 
six.’  In  like  manner,  I  concluded  that  had  all 
these  advertisers  arrived  to  that  skill  they  pretend 
to,  they  would  have  had  no  need  for  so  many  years 
successively  to  publish  to  the  world  the  place  of 
their  abode  and  the  virtues  of  their  medicines. 
One  of  these  gentlemen  indeed  pretends  to  an 
effectual  cure  for  leanness;  what  effects  it  may 
have  upon  those  who  have  tried  it,  I  cannot  tell; 
but  I  am  credibly  informed  that  the  call  for  it  has 
been  so  great,  that  it  has  effectually  cured  the  doc¬ 
tor  himself  of  the  distemper.  Could  each  of  them 
produce  so  good  an  instance  of  the  success  of  his 
medicines,  they  might  soon  persuade  the  world 
into  an  opinion  of  them. 

“  I  observe  that  most  of  the  bills  agree  in  one 
expression,  viz:  that  'with  God’s  blessing’  they 
perform  such  and  such  cures;  this  expression  is 
certainly  very  proper  and  emphatical,  for  that  is 
all  they  have  for  it.  And  if  ever  a  cure  is  per¬ 
formed  on  a  patient  where  they  are  concerned, 
they  can  claim  no  greater  share  in  it  than  Virgil’s 
lapis  in  the  curing  of  ./Eneas;  he  tried  his  skill, 
was  very  assiduous  about  the  wound;  and  indeed 
was  the  only  visible  means  that  relieved  the  hero; 
but  the  poet  assures  us  it  was  the  particular  assist¬ 
ance  of  a  deity  that  speeded  the  operation.  An 
English  reader  may  see  the  whole  story  in  Mr. 
Dry  den’s  translation: 


Ihe  steel,  but  scarcely  touch’d  with  tender  hands, 

.uotcs  up  and  follows  of  its  own  accord ; 

And  health  and  vigor  are  at  once  restored, 
lapis  first  perceiv’d  the  closing  wound ! 

And  first  the  footsteps  of  a  god  he  found : 

Arms,  arms!”  he  cries:  “the  sword  and  shield  prepare. 
And  send  the  willing  chief,  renew’d,  to  war. 
inis  is  no  mortal  work,  no  cure  of  mine, 

Is  or  art’s  effect,  but  done  by  hands  divine.” 

Virg.  iEn.  lib.  xii.  391,  etc. 


No.  573.]  WEDNESDAY,  JULY  28,  1714. 

- Castigata  remordent. — Juv.  Sat.  ii.  35. 

Chastised,  the  accusation  they  retort. 

My  paper  on  the  club  of  widows  has  brought 
me  in  several  letters  and  among  the  rest,  a  long 
one  from  Mrs.  President,  as  follows  :■ — 


Propp’d  on  his  lance  the  pensive  hero  stood, 

And  heard  and  saw,  unmov’d,  the  mourning  crowd. 

The  fam’d  physician  tucks  his  robes  around, 

With  ready  hands,  and  hastens  to  the  wound. 

With  gentle  touches  he  performs  his  part, 

This  way  and  that,  soliciting  the  dart, 

And  exercises  all  his  heavenly  art. 

All  soft’ning  simples,  known  of  sov’reign  use, 

He  presses  out,  and  pours  their  noble  juice : 

These  first  infus’d  to  lenify  the  pain, 

He  tugs  with  pincers,  but  he  tugs  in  vain. 

Then  to  the  patron  of  his  art  he  pray’d ; 

The  patron  of  his  art  refused  his  aid. 

But  now  the  goddess  mother,  mov’d  with  grief, 

And  pierc’d  with  pity,  hastens  her  relief. 

A  branch  of  healing  dittany  she  brought, 

'  Which  in  the  Cretan  fields  with  care  she  sought : 

Rough  is  the  stem,  which  woolly  leaves  surround ; 

The  leaves  with  flowers,  the  flowers  with  purple  crown’d; 
Well  known  to  wounded  goats:  a  sure  relief 
To  draw  the  pointed  steel  and  ease  the  grief. 

This  Venus  brings,  in  clouds  involved:  and  brews 
Th’  extracted  liquor  with  ambrosiap  dews, 

And  od’rous  panacea :  unseen  she  stands, 

Temp’ring  the  mixture  with  her  heav’nly  hands; 

Apd  pours  it  in  a  bowl  already  crown’d 

With  juice  of  med’cinal  herbs,  prepared  to  bathe  the  wound. 

The  leech,  unknowing  of  superior  art, 

Which  aids  the  cure,  with  this  foments  the  part. 

And  in  a  moment  ceas'd  the  raging  smart. 

Stanch’d  is  the  blood,  and  in  the  bottom  stands 

43 


"Smart  Sir, 

. “You  are  pleased  to  be  very  merry,  as  you  ima¬ 
gine,  with  us  widows:  and  you  seem  to  ground 
your  satire  on  our  receiving  consolation  so  soon 
after  the  death  of  our  dears,  and  the  number  we 
are  pleased  to  admit  for  companions ;  but  you 
never  reflect  what  husbands  we  have  buried,  and 
how  short  a  sorrow  the  loss  of  them  was  capable 
of  occasioning.  For  my  own  part,  Mrs.  President, 
as  you  call  me,  my  first  husband  I  was  married  to 
at  fourteen  by  my  uncle  and  guardian  (as  I  after¬ 
ward  discovered)  by  way  of  sale,  for  the  third 
part  ot  my  fortune.  This  fellow  looked  upon  me 
as  a  mere  child  he  might  breed  up  after  his  own 
fancy;  if  he  kissed  my  chambermaid  before  my 
face,  I  was  supposed  so  ignorant  how  could  I 
think  there  was  any  hurt  in  it  ?  When  he  came 
home  roaring  drunk  at  five  in  the  morning,  it  was 
the  custom  of  all  men  that  live  in  the  world.  I 
was  not  to  see  a  penny  of  money,  for,  poor  thing, 
how  could  I  manage  it?  He  took  a  handsome 
cousin  of  his  into  the  house  (as  he  said)  to  be  my 
housekeeper,  and  to  govern  my  servants;  for  how 
should  I  know  how  to  rule  a  family  ?  While  she 
had  what  money  she  pleased,  which  was  but  rea¬ 
sonable  for  the  trouble  she  was  at  for  my  good,  I 
was  not  to  be  so  censorious  as  to  dislike  familiarity 
and  kindness  between  near  relations.  I  was  too 
gieat  a  coward  to  contend,  but  not  so  ignorant  a 
child  to  be  thus  imposed  upon.  I  resented  this 
contempt  as  I  ought  to  do,  and  as  most  poor,  pas¬ 
sive,  blinded  wives  do,  until  it  pleased  Heaven  to 
take  away  my  tyrant,  who  left  me  free  possession 
of  my  own  land,  and  a  large  jointure.  My  youth 
and  money  brought  me  many  lovers,  and"  several 
endeavored  to  establish  an  interest  in  my  heart, 
while  my  husband  was  in  his  last  sickness  :  the 
Honorable  Edward  Waitfort  was  one  of  the  first 
who  addressed  me,  advised  to  it  by  a  cousin  of 
his  that  was  my  intimate  friend,  and  knew  to  a 
penny  what  I  was  worth.  Mr.  Waitfort  is  a  very 
agreeable  man,  and  everybody  would  like  him  as 
well  as  he  does  himself,  if  they  did  not  plainly  see 
that  his  esteem  and  love  is  all  taken  up,  and  hv 
Such  an  object  as  it  is  impossible  to  get  the  better 
of ;  I  mean  himself.  He  made  no  doubt  of  marry¬ 
ing  me  within  four  or  five  months,  and  began  to 
proceed  with  such  an  assured  easy  air,  that  piqued 
my  pride  not  to  banish  him;  quite  contrary,  out 
of  pure  malice,  I  heard  his  first  declaration  with 
so  much  innocent  surprise,  and  blushed  so  pret¬ 
tily,  I  perceived  it  touched  his  very  heart,  and  he 
thought  me  the  best-natured,  silly,  poor  tiling  on 
earth.  When  a  man  has  such  a  notion  of  a  wo¬ 
man,  he  loves  her  better  than  he  thinks  he  does. 

I  was  overjoyed  to  be  thus  reVenged  on  him  for 
designing  on  my  fortune;  and  finding  it  was  in 
my  power  to  make  his  heart  ache,  I  resolved  to 
complete  my  conquest,  and  entertained  several 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


other  pretenders.  The  first  impression  of  my  un¬ 
designing  innocence  was  so  strong  in  his  head,  he 
attributed  all  my  followers  to  the  inevitable  force 
of  my  charms :  and,  from  several  blushes  and  side 
glances,  concluded  himself  the  favorite ;  and  when 
1  used  him  like  a  dog  for  my  diversion,  he  thought 
it  was  all  prudence  and  fear  ;  and  pitied  the 
violence  I  did  my  own  inclinations  to  comply  with 
my  friends,  when  I  married  Sir  Nicholas  Fribble 
of  sixty  years  of  age.  You  know,  Sir,  the  case 
of  Mrs.  Medlar.  I  hope  you  would  not  have  had 
me  cry  out  my  eyes  for  such  a  husband.  I  shed 
tears  enough  for  my  widowhood  a  week  after  my 
marriage:  and  when  he  was  put  in  his  grave,  reck¬ 
oning  he  had  been  two  years  dead,  and  myself  a 
widow  of  that  standing,  I  married  three  weeks 
afterward  John  Sturdy,  Esq.,  his  next  heir.  1  had 
indeed  some  thoughts  of  taking  Mr.  Waitfort,  but 
I  found  he  could  stay;  and  beside,  he  thought  it 
indecent  to  ask  me  to  marry  again  until  my  year 
was  out;  so,  privately  resolving  him  for  my  fourth, 

I  took  Mr.  Sturdy  for  the  present.  Would  you 
believe  it,  Sir,  Mr.  Sturdy  was  just  five-and-twenty, 
about  six  feet  high,  and  the  stoutest  fox-hunter  in 
the  country,  and  I  believe  I  wished  ten  thousand 
times  for  my  old  Fribble  again;  he  was  following 
his  dogs  all  the  day,  and  all  the  night  keeping 
them  up  at  table  with  him  and  his  companions; 
however,  I  think  myself  obliged  to  them  for  lead¬ 
ing  him  a  chase  that  broke  his  neck.  Mr.  Waitfort 
began  his  addresses  anew;  and  I  verily  believe  I 
had  married  him  now,  but  there  was  a  young  offi¬ 
cer  in  the  guards  that  had  debauched  two  or  three 
of  my  acquaintance,  and  I  could  not  forbear  being 
a  little  vain  of  his  courtship.  Mr.  Waitfort  heard 
of  it,  and  read  me  such  an  insolent  lecture  upon 
the  conduct  of  women,  I  married  the  officer  that 
very  day,  out  of  pure  spite  to  him.  Half  an  hour 
after  I  was  married  I  received  a  penitential  letter 
from  the  Honorable  Mr.  Edward  Waitfort,  in  which 
he  begged  pardon  for  his  passion,  as  proceeding 
from  the  violence  of  his  love.  I  triumphed  when 
I  i*ead  it,  and  could  not  help,  out  of  the  pride  of 
my  heart,  showing  it  to  my  new  spouse;  and  we 
were  very  merry  together  upon  it.  Alas  !  my 
mirth  lasted  a  short  time;  my  young  husband  was 
very  much  in  debt  when  I  married  him,  and  his 
first  action  afterward  was  to  set  up  a  gilt  chariot 
and  six  in  fine  trappings  before  and  behind.  I 
had  married  so  hastily,  1  had  not  the  prudence  to 
reserve  my  estate  in  my  own  hands;  my  ready 
money  was  lost  in  two  nights  at  the  Groom-por¬ 
ter’s;  and  my  diamond  necklace,  which  was  stole 
I  did  not  know  how,  I  met  in  the  street  upon  Jenny 
Wheedle’s  neck.  My  plate  vanished  piece  by 
piece  :  and  I  had  been  reduced  to  downright  pew¬ 
ter,  if  my  officer  had  not  been  deliciously  killed 
in  a  duel,  by  a  fellow  that  had  cheated  him  of 
five  hundred  pounds,  and  afterward,  at  his  own 
request,  satisfied  him  and  me  too,  by  running  him 
through  the  body.  Mr.  Waitfort  was  still  in  love, 
and  told  me  so  again;  and,  to  prevent  all  fear  of 
ill  usage,  he  desired  me  to  reserve  everything  in 
my  own  hands;  but  now  my  acquaintance  began 
to  wish  me  joy  of  his  constancy,  my  charms  were 
declining,  and  I  could  not  resist  the  delight  I  took 
in  showing  the  young  flirts  about  town  it  was  yet 
in  my  power  to  give  pain  to  a  man  of  sense;  this,- 
and  some  private  hopes  he  would  hang  himself, 
and  what  a  glory  it  would  be  for  me,  and  how  I 
should  be  envied,  made  me  accept  of  being  third 
wife  to  my  Lord  Friday.  I  proposed,  from  my 
rank  and  his  estate,  to  live  in  all  the  joys  of  pride; 
but  how  was  I  mistaken  !  he  was  neither  extrava¬ 
gant,  nor  ill-natured,  nor  debauched.  I  suffered, 
however,  more  with  him  than  with  all  my  others. 
He  was  splenetic.  I  was  forced  to  sit  whole  days 


hearkening  to  his  imaginary  ails  ;  it  was  impossi¬ 
ble  to  tell  what  would  please  him;  what  he  liked 
when  the  sun  shined  made  him  sick  when  it  rained; 
he  had  no  distemper,  but  lived  in  constant  fear  of 
them  all;  my  good  genius  dictated  to  me  to  bring 
him  acquainted  with  Dr.  Gruel :  from  that  day  he 
was  always  contented,  because  he  had  names  for 
all  his  complaints;  the  good  doctor  furnished  him 
with  reasons  for  all  his  pains,  and  prescriptions 
for  every  fancy  that  troubled  him;  in  hot  weather 
he  lived  upon  juleps,  and  let  blood  to  prevent  fe¬ 
vers;  when  it  grew  cloudy  he  generally  appre¬ 
hended  a  consumption;  to  shorten  the  history  of 
this  wretched  part  of  my  life,  he  ruined  a  good 
constitution  by  endeavoring  to  mend  it;  and  took 
several  medicines,  which  ended  in  taking  the 
grand  remedy,  which  cured  both  him  and  me  of 
all  our  uneasiness.  After  his  death  I  did  not  ex¬ 
pect  to  hear  any  more  of  Mr.  Waitfort.  I  knew 
he  had  renounced  me  to  all  his  friends,  and  been 
very  witty  upon  my  choice,  which  he  affected  to 
talk  of  with  great  indifferency.  I  gave  over  think¬ 
ing  of  him,  being  told  that  he  was  engaged  with  a 
pretty  woman  and  a  great  fortune;  it  vexed  me  a 
little,  but  not  enough  to  make  me  neglect  the  ad¬ 
vice  of  my  cousin  Wishwell,  that  came  to  see  me 
the  day  my  lord  went  into  the  country  with  Rus¬ 
sell;  she  told  me  experimentally,  nothing  put  an 
unfaithful  lover  and  a  dear  husband  so  soon  put 
of  one’s  head  as  a  new  one,  and  at  the  same  time 
proposed  to  me  a  kinsman  of  hers.  ‘You  under¬ 
stand  enough  of  the  world/  said  she,  ‘to  know 
money  is  the  most  valuable  consideration :  he  is 
very  rich,  and  I  am  sure  he  cannot  live  long;  he 
has  a  cough  that  must  cany  him  off  soon.’  I  knew 
afterward  she  had  given  the  selfsame  character  of 
me  to  him;  but,  however,  I  was  so  much  persua¬ 
ded  by  her,  I  hastened  on  the  match  for  fear  he 
should  die  before  the  time  came;  he  had  the  same 
fears,  and  was  so  pressing,  I  married  him  in  a 
fortnight,  resolving  to  keep  it  private  a  fortnight 
longer.  During  this  fortnight  Mr.  Waitfort  came 
to  make  me  a  visit;  he  told  me  he  had  waited  on  me 
sooner,  but  had  that  respect  for  me,  he  would  not 
interrupt  me  in  the  first  day  of  my  affliction  for 
my  dear  lord;  that  as  soon  as  he  heard  I  was  at 
liberty  to  make  another  choice,  he  had  broke  off  a 
match  very  advantageous  for  his  fortune,  just  upon 
the  point  of  conclusion,  and  was  forty  times  more 
in  love  with  me  than  ever.  I  never  received  more 
pleasure  in  my  life  than  from  this  declaration;  but 
I  composed  my  face  to  a  grave  air,  and  said  the 
news  of  his  engagement  had  touched  me  to  the 
heart,  that  in  a  rash  jealous  fit  I  had  married  a 
man  I  never  could  have  thought  on,  if  I  had  not 
lost  all  hopes  of  him.  Good-natured  Mr.  Waitfort 
had  liked  to  have  dropped  down  dead  at  hearing 
this,  but  went  from  me  with  such  an  air  as  plainly 
showed  me  he  had  laid  all  the  blame  upon  himself, 
and  hated  those  friends  that  had  advised  him  to 
the  fatal  application;. he  seemed  as  much  touched 
by  my  misfortune  as  his  own,  for  he  had  not 
the  least  doubt  I  was  still  passionately  in  love 
with  him.  The  truth  of  the  story  is,  my  ne_w 
husband  gave  me  reason  to  repent  I  had  not  staid 
for  him;  he  had  married  me  for  my  money,  and 
I  soon  found  he  loved  money  to  distraction;  there 
was  nothing  he  would  not  do  to  get  it;  nothing 
he  would  not  suffer  to  preserve  it;  the  smallest 
expense  kept  him  awake  whole  nights;  and  when 
he  paid  a  bill,  it  was  with  as  many  sighs,  and 
after  as  many  delays,  as  a  man  that  endures  the 
loss  of  a  limb.  I  heard  nothing  but  reproofs  for 
extravagancy,  whatever  I  did.  I  saw  very  well 
that  he  would  have  starved  me,  but  for  losing  my 
jointures;  and  he  suffered  agonies  between  the 
grief  of  seeing  me  have  so  good  a  stomach,  and 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


the  fear  that  if  he  had  made  me  fast,  it  might 
prejudice  my  health.  I  did  not  doubt  he  would 
have  broken  my  heart,  if  I  did  not  break  his, 
which  was  allowable  by  the  law  of  self-defense. 
The  way  was  very  easy.  I  resolved  to  spend  as 
much  money  as  I  could;  and,  before  he  was  aware 
of  the  stroke,  appeared  before  him  in  a  two  thou¬ 
sand  pound  diamond  necklace:  he  said  nothing, 
but  went  quietly  to  his  chamber,  and,  as  it  is 
thought,  composed  himself  with  a  dose  of  opium. 
I  behaved  myself  so  well  upon  the  occasion,  that 
to  this  day  I  believe  he  died  of  an  apoplexy.  Mr. 
Waitfort  was  resolved  not  to  be  too  late  this  time, 
and  I  heard  from  him  in  two  days.  I  am  almost 
out  of  my  weeds  at  this  present  writing,  and  very 
doubtful  whether  I  will  marry  him  or  no.  I  do  not 
think  of  a  seventh  for  the  ridiculous  reason  you 
mention,  but  out  of  pure  morality  that  I  think  so 
much  constancy  should  be  rewarded,  though  I 
may  not  do  it  after  all,  perhaps.  I  do  not  believe 
all  the  unreasonable  malice  of  mankind  can  give 
a  pretense  why  I  should  have  been  constant  to  the 
memory  of  any  of  the  deceased,  or  have  spent 
much  time  in  grieving  for  an  insolent,  insignifi¬ 
cant,  negligent,  extravagant,  splenetic,  or  covetous 
husband;' — my  first  insulted  me,  my  second  was 
nothing  to  me,  my  third  disgusted  me,  the  fourth 
would  have  ruined  me,  the  fifth  tormented  me, 
and  the  sixth  would  have  starved  me.  If  the 
other  ladies  you  name  would  thus  give  in  their 
husbands’  pictures  at  length,  you  would  see  they 
have  had  as  little  reason  as  myself  to  lose  their 
hours  in  weeping  aud  wailing.” 


675 


a  man  s 


Ho.  574.]  FRIDAY,  JULY  30,  1714. 


Non  possidentem  multa  vocaveris 
Itecte  beatum.  Rectius  occupat 
Nomen  beati,  qui  Deorum 
Muneribus  sapienter  uti. 

Duramque  callet  pauperiem  pati. 

Hor.  4  Od.  ix.  45. 

Believe  not  those  that  lands  possess, 

And  shining  heaps  of  useless  ore, 

The  only  lords  of  happiness ; 

But  rather  those  that  know 
For  what  kind  fates  bestow, 

And  have  the  heart  to  use  the  store, 

That  have  the  generous  skill  to  bear 
The  hated  weight  of  poverty. — Creech. 

I  was  once  engaged  in  discourse  with  a  Rosi- 
crucian  about  “the  great  secret.”  As  this  kind 
of  men  (I  mean  those  of  them  who  are  not  pro¬ 
fessed  cheats)  are  overrun  with  enthusiasm  and 
philosophy,  it  was  very  amusing  to  hear  this  reli¬ 
gious  adept  descanting  on  his  pretended  discovery. 
He  talked  of  the  secret  as  of  a  spirit  which  lived 
within  an  emerald,  and  converted  everything  that 
was  near  it  to  the  highest  perfection  it  is  capable 
of.  “It  gives  a  luster,”  says  he,  “to  the  sun,  and 
water  to  the  diamond.  It  irradiates  every  metal, 
and  enriches  lead  with  all  the  properties  of  gold! 
It  heightens  smoke  into  flame,  flame  into  light, 
and  light  into  glory.”  He  further  added,  “  that  a 
single  ray  of  it  dissipates  pain,  and  care,  and 
melancholy,  from  the  person  on  whom  it  falls. 
In  short,”  says  he,  “its  presence  naturally  changes 
every  place  into  a  kind  of  heaven.”  After  he  had 
gone  on  for  some  time  in  this  unintelligible  cant, 
I  found  that  he  jumbled  natural  and  moral  ideas 
together  in  the  same  discourse,  and  that  his  great 
secret  was  nothing  else  but  content. 

This  virtue  does  indeed  produce,  in  some  mea¬ 
sure,  all  those  effects  which  the  alchemist  usually 
ascribes  to  what  he  calls  the  philosopher’s  stone; 
and  if  it  does  not  bring  riches,  it  does  the  same 
thing,  by  banishing  the  desire  of  them.  If  it 
cannot  remove  the  disquietudes  arising  out  of 


mind,  body,  or  fortune,  it  makes  him 
easy  under  them.  It  has  indeed  a  kindly  influ¬ 
ence  on  the  soul  of  man,  in  respect  of  every  bping 
to  whom  he  "  stands  related.  It  extinguishes  all 
murmur,  repining,  and  ingratitude,  toward  that 
Being  who  has  allotted  him  his  part  to  act  in  this 
world.  It  destroys  all  inordinate  ambition,  and 
every  tendency  to  corruption,  with  regard  to  the 
community  wherein  he  is  placed.  It  gives  sweet¬ 
ness  to  his  conversation,  and  a  perpetual  serenity 
to  all  his  thoughts. 

Among  the  many  methods  which  might  be 
made  use  of  for  the  acquiring  of  this  virtue,  I  shall 
only  mention  the  two  following.  First  of  all,  a 
man  should  always  consider  how  much  he  has 
more  than  he  wants:  and  secondly,  how  much 
more  unhappy  he  might  be  than  he  really  is. 

First  of  all,  a  man  should  always  consider  how 
much  he  has  more  than  he  wants.  I  am  wonder¬ 
fully  pleased  with  the  reply  which  Aristippus 
made  to  one  who  condoled  him  upon  the  loss  of 
a  farm:  “Why,”  said  he,  “I  have  three  farms 
still,  and  you  have  but  one;  so  that  I  ought  rather 
to  be  afflicted  for  you  than  you  for  me.”  On  the 
contrary,  foolish  men  are  more  apt  to  consider 
what  they  have  lost  than  what  they  possess;  and  to 
fix  their  eyes  upon  those  who  are  richer  than  them¬ 
selves,  rather  than  on  those  who  are  under  greater 
difficulties.  .  All  the  real  pleasures  and  conve¬ 
niences  of  life  lie  in  a  narrow  compass;  but  it  is 
the  humor  of  mankind  to  be  always  looking  for¬ 
ward  and  straining  after  one  who  has  got  the 
start  of  them  in  wealth  and  honor.  For  this  rea¬ 
son,  as  there  are  none  can  be  properly  called  rich 
who  have  not  more  than  they  want,  there  are  few 
rich  men  in  any  of  the  politer  nations,  but  among 
the  middle  sort  of  people,  who  keep  their  wishes 
within  their  fortunes,  and  have  more  wealth  than 
they  know  how  to  enjoy.  Persons  of  a  higher 
rank  live  in  a  kind  of  splendid  poverty,  and  are 
perpetually  wanting,  because,  instead  of  acquies¬ 
cing  in  the  solid  pleasures  of  life,  they  endeavor 
to  outvie  one  another  in  shadows  and  appearances. 
Men  of  sense  have  at  all  times  beheld,  with  a  great 
deal  of  mirth,  this  silly  game  that  is  playing  over 
their  heads,  and,  by  contracting  their  desires,  enjoy 
all  that  secret  satisfaction  which  others  are  always 
in  quest  of.  The  truth  is,  this  ridiculous  chase 
after  imaginary  pleasures  cannot  be  sufficiently 
exposed,  as  it  is  the  great  source  of  those  evils 
which  generally  undo  a  nation.  Let  a  man’s 
estate  be  what  it  will,  he  is  a  poor  man  if  he 
does  not  live  within  it,  and  naturally  sets  himself 
to  sale  to  any  one  that  can  give  him  his  price. 
When  Pittacus,  after  the  death  of  his  brother,  who 
had  left  him  a  good  estate,  was  offered  a  great  sum 
of  money  by  the  King  of  Lydia,  he  thanked  him 
for  his  kindness,  but  told  him  he  had  already 
more  by  half  than  he  knew  what  to  do  with.  In. 
short,  content  is  equivalent  to  wealth,  and  luxury 
to  poverty;  or,  to  give  the  thought  a  more  agree¬ 
able  turn,  “  Content  is  natural  wealth,”  says 
Socrates;  to  which  I  shall  add,  “Luxury  is  arti¬ 
ficial  poverty.”  I  shall  therefore  recommend  to* 
the  consideration  of  those  who  are  always  aiming 
after  superfluous  and  imaginary  enjoyments,  and 
will  not  be  at  the  trouble  of  contracting  their  de¬ 
sires,  an  excellent  saying  of  Bion,  the  philoso¬ 
pher;  namely,  that  “no  man  has  so  much  care  as 
lie  who  endeavors  after  the  most  happiness.” 

In  the  second  place,  every  one  ought  to  reflect 
how  much  more  unhappy  he  might  be  than  he 
really  is.  The  former  consideration  took  in  all 
those  who  are  sufficiently  provided  with  the 


means  to  make  themselves  easy ;  this  regards 


-  J  r  O - 

such  as  actually  lie  under  some  pressure  or  mis¬ 
fortune.  These  may  receive  great  elevation  from  > 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


676 

such  a  comparison  as  the  unhappy  person  may 
make  between  himself  and  others,  or  between  the 
misfortune  which  he  suffers,  and  greater  misfor¬ 
tunes  which  might  have  befallen  him. 

I  like  the  story  of  the  honest  Dutchman,  who, 
upon  breaking  his  leg  by  a  fall  from  the  main¬ 
mast,  told  the  standers-by,  it  was  a  great  mercy 
that  it  was  not  his  neck.  To  which,  since  I  am 
got  into  quotations,  give  me  leave  to  add  the  say¬ 
ing  of  an  old  philosopher,  who,  after  haying  in¬ 
vited  some  of  his  friends  to  dine  with  him,  was 
ruffled  by  his  wife,  that  came  into  the  room  in  a 
passion,  and  threw  down  the  table  that  stood 
before  them:,  “Every  one,”  says  he,  “has  his 
calamity,  and  he  is  a  happy  man  that  has  no 
greater  than  this.”  We  find  an  instance  to  the 
same  purpose  in  the  Life  of  Doctor  Hammond, 
written  by  Bishop  Fell.  As  this  good  man  was 
troubled  with  a  complication  of  distempers,  when 
he  had  the  gout  upon  him  he  used  to  thank  God 
that  it  was  not  the  stone;  and  when  he  had  the 
stone,  that  he  had  not  both  these  distempers  on 
him  at  the  same  time. 

I  cannot  conclude  this  essay,  without  observing 
that  there  was  never  any  system  beside  that  of 
Christianity  which  could  effectually  produce  in 
the  mind  of  man  the  virtue  I  have  hitherto  been 
speaking  of.  In  order  to  make  us  content  with 
our  present  condition,  many  of  the  ancient  phi¬ 
losophers  tell  us  that  our  discontent  only  hurts 
ourselves,  without  being  able  to  make  any  altera¬ 
tion  in  our  circumstances;  others,  that  whatever 
evil  befalls  us  is  derived  to  us  by  fatal_  necessity, 
to  which  the  gods  themselves  are  subject;  while 
others  very  gravely  tell  the  man  who  is  miserable, 
that  it  is  necessary  he  should  be  so  to  keep  up  the 
harmony  of  the  universe,  and  that  the  scheme  of 
Providence  would  be  troubled  and  perverted  were 
he  otherwise.  These,  and  the  like  considerations, 
rather  silence  than  satisfy  a  man.  They  may 
show  him  that  his  discontent  is  unreasonable,  but 
are  by  no  means  sufficient  to  relieve  it.  They 
rather  give  despair  than  consolation.  In  a  word, 
a  man  might  reply  to  one  of  these  comforters,  as 
Augustus  did  to  his  friend  who  advised  him  not 
to  grieve  for  the  death  of  a  person  whom  he  loved, 
because  his  grief  could  not  fetch  him  again:  “It 
is  for  that  very  reason,”  said  the  emperor,  “that  I 
grieve.” 

On  the  contrary,  religion  bears  a  more  tender 
regard  to  human  nature.  It  prescribes  to  every 
miserable  man  the  mfeans  of  bettering  his  condi¬ 
tion;  nay,  it  shows  him  that  the  bearing  of  his 
afflictions  as  he  ought  to  do,  will  naturally  end  in 
the  removal  of  them;  it  makes  him  easy  here, 
because  it  can  make  him  happy  hereafter. 

Upon  the  whole,  a  contented  mind  is  the  great¬ 
est  blessing  a  man  can  enjoy  in  this  world;  and  if 
in  the  present  life  his  happiness  arises  from  the 
subduing  of  his  desires,  it  will  arise  in  the  next 
from  the  gratification  of  them. 


No.  575.]  MONDAY,  AUGUST  2,  1714. 

- Nec  morti  esse  locum - 

Yirg.  Georg,  iv.  223. 

No  room  is  left  for  death. — Drtden. 

A  lewd  young  fellow  seeing  an  aged  hermit  go 
by  him  barefoot,  “  Father,”  says  lie,  “  you  are  in 
a  very  miserable  condition  if  there  is  not  another 
world.” — “  True,  son,”  said  the  hermit,  “but  what 
is  thy  condition  if  there  is  ?  ”*  Man  is  a  creature 


designed  for  two  different  states  of  being,  or 
rather  for  two  different  lives.  His  first  life  is 
short  and  transient;  his  second  permanent  and 
lasting.  The  question  we  are  all  concerned  in 
is  this,  in  which  of  these  two  lives  it  is  our  chief 
interest  to  make  ourselves  happy?  Or,  in  other 
words,  whether  we  should  endeavor  to  secure  to 
ourselves  the  pleasures  and  gratifications  of  a  life 
which  is  uncertain  and  precarious,  and  at  its  ut¬ 
most  length  of  a  very  inconsiderable  duration:  or 
to  secure  to  ourselves  the  pleasures  of  a  life  which 
is  fixed  and  settled,  and  will  never  end  ?  Every 
man  upon  the  first  hearing  of  this  question,  knows 
very  well  which  side  of  it  he  ought  to  close  with. 
But  however  right  we  are  in  theory,  it  is  plain 
that  in  practice  we  adhere  to  the  wrong  side  of 
the  question.  We  make  provisions  for  this  life 
as  though  it  were  never  to  have  an  end,  and  for 
the  other  life  as  though  it  were  never  to  have  a 
beginning. 

Should  a  spirit  of  superior  rank,  who  is  a 
stranger  to  human  nature,  accidentally  alight 
upon  the  earth,  and  take  a  survey  of  its  inhab¬ 
itants,  what  would  his  notions  of  us  be?  Would 
not  he  think  that  we  were  a  species  of  beings 
made  for  quite  different  ends  and  purposes  than 
what  we  really  are?  Must  not  he  imagine  that 
we  were  placed  in  this  world  to  get  riches  and 
honors?  Would  not  he  think  that  it  was  our 
duty  to  toil  after  wealth,  and  station,  and  title? 
Nay,  would  not  he  believe  we  were  forbidden 
poverty  by  threats  of  eternal  punishment,  and  en¬ 
joined  to  pursue  our  pleasures  under  pain  of  dam¬ 
nation  ?  He  would  certainly  imagine  that  we  were 
influenced  by  a  scheme  of  duties  quite  opposite  to 
those  which  are  indeed  prescribed  to  us.  And 
truly,  according  to  such  an  imagination,  he  must 
conclude  that  we  are  a  species  of  the  most  obe¬ 
dient  creatures  in  the  universe;  that  we  are  con¬ 
stant  to  our  duty  ;  and  that  we  keep  a  steady  eye 
on  the  end  for  which  we  were  sent  hither. 

But  how  great  would  be  his  astonishment  when 
he  learned  that  we  were  beings  not  designed  to 
exist  in  this  world  above  threescore  and  ten  years, 
and  that  the  greatest  part  of  this  busy  species  fall 
short  even  of  that  age?  How  would  he  be  lost  in 
horror  and  admiration,  when  he  should  know  that 
this  set  of  creatures,  who  lay  out  all  their  en¬ 
deavors  for  this  life,  which  scarce  deserves  the 
name  of  existence — when,  I  say,  he  should  know 
that  this  set  of  creatures  are  to  exist  to  all  eter¬ 
nity  in  another  life,  for  which  they  make  no 
preparations?  Nothing  can  be  a  greater  disgrace 
to  reason,  than  that  men,  who  are  persuaded  of 
these  two  different  states  of  being,  should  be  per¬ 
petually  employed  in  providing  for  a  life  of  three¬ 
score  and  ten  years,  and  neglecting  to  make  pro¬ 
vision  for  that,  which  after  many  myriads  of  years 
will  be  still  new,  and  still  beginning;  especially 
when  we  consider  that  our  endeavors  for  making 
ourselves  great,  or  rich,  or  honorable,  or  whatever 
else  we  place  our  happiness  in,  may  after  all  prove 
unsuccessful:  whereas,  if  we  constantly  and  sin¬ 
cerely  endeavor  to  make  ourselves  happy  in  the 
other  life,  we  are  sure  that  our  endeavors  will  suc¬ 
ceed,  and  that  we  shall  not  be  disappointed  of 
our  hope. 

The  following  question  is  started  by  one  of  the 
schoolmen:  Supposing  the  whole  body  of  the  earth 
were  a  great  ball  or  mass  of  the  finest  sand,  and 
that  a  single  grain  or  particle  of  this  sand  should 
be  annihilated  every  thousand  years:  supposing 
then  that  you  had  it  in  your  choice  to  be  happy 
all  the  while  this  prodigious  mass  of  sand  was 
consuming  by  this  slow  method,  until  there  was 
not  a  grain  of  it  left,  on  condition  you  were  to 
be  miserable  forever  after?  Or,  supposing  that 


*  The  indicative  for  the  potential  mood. 


677 


THE  SPE 

you  might  be  happy  forever  after  on  condition 
that  you  would  be  miserable  until  the  whole  mass 
of  sand  were  thus  annihilated  at  the  rate  of  one 
sand  in  a  thousand  years  : — which  of  these  two 
cases  would  you  make  your  choice  ? 

It  must  be  confessed  in  this  case,  so  many  thou¬ 
sands  of  years  are  to  the  imagination  as  a  kind 
of  eternity,  though  in  reality  they  do  not  bear  so 
great  a  proportion  to  that  duration  which  is  to 
follow  them  as  a  unit  does  to  the  greatest  number 
which  you  can  put  together  in  figures,  or  as  one 
of  those  sands  to  the  supposed  heap.  Reason 
therefore  tells  us,  without  any  manner  of  hesita¬ 
tion,  which  would  be  the  better  part  in  this  choice. 
However,  as  I  have  before  intimated,  our  reason 
might  in  such  case  be  so  overset  by  the  imagina¬ 
tion,  as  to  dispose  some  persons  to  sink  under 
the  consideration  of  the  great  length  of  the  first 
part  of  this  duration,  and  of  the  great  distance  of 
that  second  duration  which  is  to  succeed  it.  The 
mind,  I  say,  might  give  itself  up  to  that  happi¬ 
ness  which  is  at  hand,  considering  that  it  is  so 
veiy  near,  and  that  it  would  last  so  very  long. 
But  when  the  choice  we  actually  have  before  us  is 
this,  whether  we  will  choose  to  be  happy  for  the 
space  of  only  threescore  and  ten,  nay,  perhaps  of 
only  twenty  or  ten  years,  I  might  say  of  only  a 
day  or  an  hour,  and  miserable  to  all  eternity  ;  or, 
on  the  contrary,  miserable  for  this  short  term  of 
years,  and  happy  for  a  whole  eternity :  what 
words  are  sufficient  to  express  that  folly  and  want 
of  consideration  which  m  such  a  case  makes  a 
wrong  choice  ? 

I  here  put  the  case  even  at  the  worst,  by  sup¬ 
posing.  what  seldom  happens,  that  a  course  of  vir¬ 
tue  makes  us  miserable  in  this  life  :  but  if  we  sup¬ 
pose,  as  it  generally  happens,  that  virtue  would 
make  us  more  happy  even  in  this  life  than  a  con¬ 
trary  course  of  vice,  how  can  we  sufficiently  ad¬ 
mire  the  stupidity  or  madness  of  those  persons 
who  are  capable  of  making  so  absurd  a  choice? 

Every  wise  man,  therefore,  will  consider  this 
life  only  as  it  may  conduce  to  the  happiness  of 
the  other,  and  cheerfully  sacrifice  the  pleasures  of 
a  few  years  to  those  of  an  eternity. 


No.  576.]  WEDNESDAY,  AUGUST  4,  1714. 

Nitor  in  adversum :  nec  me,  qui  caetera,  vincit 
Impetus ;  et  rapido  contrarius  evehor  orbi. 

Ovid,  Met.  ii.  72. 

I  steer  against  their  motions,  nor  am  I 

Borne  back  by  all  the  current  of  the  sky. — Addison. 

I  remember  a  young  man  of  very  lively  parts, 
and  of  a  sprightly  turn  in  conversation,  who  had 
only  one  fault,  which  was  an  inordinate  desire  of 
appearing  fashionable.  This  ran  him  into  many 
amours,  and  consequently  into  many  distempers. 
He  never  went  to  bed  until  two  o’clock  in  the 
morning,  because  he  would  not  be  a  queer  fellow  ; 
and  was  every  now  and  then  knocked  down  by 
a  constable  to  signalize  his  vivacity.  He  was  ini¬ 
tiated  into  half  a  dozen  clubs  before  he  was  one- 
and-twenty ;  and  so  improved  in  them  his  natural 
gayety  of  temper,  that  you  might  frequently  trace 
him  to  his  lodgings  by  a  range  of  broken  windows, 
and  other  the  like  monuments  of  wit  and  gallan¬ 
try.  To  be  short,  after  having  fully  established 
his  reputation  of  being  a  very  agreeable  rake,  he 
died  of  old  age  at  five-and-twenty. 

There  is  indeed  nothing  which  betrays  a  man 
into  so  many  errors  and  inconveniences  as  the  de¬ 
sire  of  not  appearing  singular  ;  for  which  reason 
it  is  very  necessary  to  form  a  right  idea  of  singu¬ 
larity,  that  we  may  know  when  it  is  laudable,  and 


3TAT0R. 

when  it  is  vicious.  In  the  first  place,  eveiy  man 
of  sense  will  agree  with  me,  that  singularity  is 
laudable  when,  in  contradiction  to  a  multitude,  it 
adheres  to  the  dictates  of  conscience,  morality,  and 
honor.  In  these  cases  we  ought  to  consider  that 
it  is  not  custom,  but  duty,  which  is  the  rule  of  ac¬ 
tion  ;  and  that  we  should  be  only  so  far  sociable, 
as  we  are  reasonable  creatures.  Truth  is  never¬ 
theless  so  far  not  being  attended  to  :  and  it  is  the 
nature  of  actions,  not  the  number  of  actors,  by 
which  we  ought  to  regulate  our  behavior.  Singu¬ 
larity  in  concerns  of  this  kind  is  to  be  looked 
upon  as  heroic  bravery,  in  which  a  man  leaves 
the  species  only  as  he  soars  above  it.  What  greater 
instance  can  there  be  of  a  weak  and  pusillanimous 
temper,  than  for  a  man  to  pass  his  whole  life  in 
opposition  to  his  own  sentiments  ?  or  not  dare  to 
be  what  he  thinks  he  ought  to  be  ? 

Singularity,  therefore,  is  only  vicious  when  it 
makes  men  act  contrary  to  reason,  or  when  it  puts 
them  upon  distinguishing  themselves  by  trifles. 
As  for  the  first  of  these,  who  are  singular  in  any¬ 
thing  that  is  irreligious,  immoral,  or  dishonorable, 
I  believe  every  one  will  easily  give  them  up.  I 
shall  therefore  speak  of  those  only  who  are  re¬ 
markable  for  their  singularity  in  things  of  no  im¬ 
portance  ;  as  in  dress,  behavior,  conversation,  and 
all  the  little  intercourses  of  life.  In  these  cases 
there,  is  a  certain  deference  due  to  custom  ;  and 
notwithstanding  there  may  be  a  color  of  reason  to 
deviate  from  the  multitude  in  some  particulars,  a 
man  ought  to  sacrifice  his  private  inclinations  and 
opinions  to  the  practice  of  the  public.  It  must  be 
confessed  that  good  sense  often  makes  a  humorist  ; 
but  then  it  unqualifies  him  from  being  of  any  mo¬ 
ment  in  the  world,  and  renders  him  ridiculous  to 
persons  of  a  much  inferior  understanding. 

I  have  heard  of  a  gentleman  in  the  north  of 
England,  who  was  a  remarkable  instance  of  this 
foolish  singularity.  He  had  laid  it  down  as  a  rule 
within  himself,  to  act  in  the  most  indifferent  parts 
of  life  according  to  the  most  abstracted  notions  of 
reason  and  good  sense,  without  any  regard  to 
fashion  or  example.  This  humor  broke  out  at 
first  in  many  little  oddnesses  :  he  had  never  any 
stated  hours  for  his  dinner,  supper,  or  sleep  ;  be¬ 
cause,  said  he,  we  ought  to  attend  the  calls  of  na¬ 
ture,  and  not  set  our  appetites  to  our  meals,  but 
bring  our  meals  to  our  appetites.  In  his  conver¬ 
sation  with  country  gentlemen  he  would  not  make 
use  of  a  phrase  that  was  not  strictly  true  :  he 
never  told  any  of  them  that  he  was  his  humble 
servant,  but  that  he  was  his  well-wisher ;  and' 
would  rather  be  thought  a  malcontent  than  drink 
the  king’s  health  when  he  was  not  dry.  He  would 
thrust  his  head  out  of  his  chamber-window  every 
morning,  and  after  having  gaped  for  fresh  air 
about  half  an  hour,  repeat  fifty  verses  as  loud  as 
he  could  bawl  them,  for  the  benefit  of  his  lungs  : 
to  which  end  he  generally  took  them  out  of  Ho¬ 
mer — the  Greek  tongue,  especially  in  that  author, 
being  more  deep  and  sonorous,  and  more  condu¬ 
cive  to  expectoration  than  any  other.  He  had 
many  other  particularities,  for  which  he  gave 
sound  and  philosophical  reasons.  As  this  humor 
still  grew  upon  him,  he  chose  to  wear  a  turban  in¬ 
stead  of  a  periwig ;  concluding  very  justly  that  a 
bandage  of  clean  linen  about  his  head  was  much 
more  wholesome,  as  well  as  cleanly,  than  the  caul 
of  a  whig,  which  is  soiled  by  frequent  perspira¬ 
tions.  He  afterward  judiciously  observed,  that 
the  many  ligatures  in  our  English  dress  must  nat¬ 
urally  check  the  circulation  of  the  blood;  for  which 
reason  he  made  his  breeches  and  his  doublet  of 
one  continued  piece  of  cloth,  after  the  manner  of 
the  hussars.  In  short,  by  following  the  pure  dic¬ 
tates  of  reason,  he  at  length  departed  so  much 


X  THE  SPECTATOR. 


678 

from  the  rest  of  his  countrymen,  and  indeed  from 
his  whole  species,  that  his  friends  would  have 
clapped  him  into  Bedlam,  and  have  begged  his 
estate :  but  the  judge  being  informed  that  he  did 
no  harm,  contented  himself  with  issuing  out  a 
commission  of  lunacy  against  him,  and  putting 
his  estate  into  the  hands  of  proper  guardians. 

The  fate  of  this  philosopher  puts  me  in  mind  of 
a  remark  in  Monsieur  Fontenelle’s  “Dialogues  of 
the  Dead.”  “  The  ambitious  and  the  covetous,” 
says  he  “  are  madmen  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
as  much  as  those  who  are  shut  up  in  dark  rooms  ; 
but  they  have  the  good  luck  to  have  numbers  on 
their  side  ;  whereas  the  frenzy  of  one  who  is  given 
up  for  a  lunatic  is  a  frenzy  hors  d’oeuvre  that  is, 
in  other  words,  something  which  is  singular  in  its 
kind,  and  does  not  fall  in  with  the  madness  of  a 
multitude. 

The  subject  of  this  essay  was  occasioned  by  a 
letter  which  I  received  not  long  since,  and  which, 
for  want  of  room  at  present,  I  shall  insert  in  my 
next  paper. 


Ho.  577.]  FRIDAY,  AUGUST  6,  1714. 

- Hoc  tolerabile,  si  non 

Et  furore  incipias -  Juv.  Sat,  vi.  613. 

This  might  he  borne  with,  if  you  did  not  rave. 

The  letter  mentioned  in  my  last  paper  is  as 
follows :  — 

“  Sir, 

“You  have  so  lately  decried  that  custom,  too 
much  in  use  among  most  people,  of  making  them¬ 
selves  the  subjects  of  their  writings  and  conversa¬ 
tion,  that  I  had  some  difficulty  to  persuade  myself 
to  give  you  this  trouble,  until  I  had  considered 
that  though  I  should  speak  in  the  first  person,  yet 
I  could  not  be  justly  charged  with  vanity,  since  I 
shall  not  add  my  name :  as  also,  because  what  I 
shall  write  will  not,  to  say  the  best,  redound  to 
my  praise,  but  is  only  designed  to  remove  a  pre¬ 
judice  conceived  against  me,  as  I  hope,  with  very 
little  foundation.  My  short  history  is  this  : — 

“  I  have  lived  for  some  years  last  past  altogether 
in  London,  until  about  a  month  ago,  an  acquaint¬ 
ance  of  mine,  for  whom  I  have  done  some  small 
services  in  town,  invited  me  to  pass  part  of  the 
summer  with  him  at  his  house  in  the  country.  I 
accepted  his  invitation,  and  found  a  very  hearty 
welcome.  My  friend,  an  honest  plain  man,  not 
being  qualified  to  pass  away  his  time  without  the 
reliefs  of  business,  has  grafted  the  farmer  upon 
the  gentleman,  and  brought  himself  to  submit 
even  to  the  servile  parts  of  that  employment,  such 
as  inspecting  his  plow  and  the  like.  This  ne¬ 
cessarily  takes  up  some  of  his  hours  every  day  ; 
and,  as  I  have  no  relish  for  such  diversions,  I 
used  at  these  times  to  retire  either  to  my  chamber 
or  a  shady  walk  near  the  house,  and  entertain  my¬ 
self  with  some  agreeable  author.  How,  you  must 
know,  Mr.  Spectator,  that  when  I  read,  especially 
if  it  be  poetry,  it  is  very  usual  with  me,  when  I 
meet  with  any  passage  or  expression  which  strikes 
me  much,  to  pronounce  it  aloud,  with  that  tone  of 
the  voice  which  I  think  agreeable  to  the  senti¬ 
ments  there  expressed  ;  and  to  this  I  generally 
add  some  mhtion  or  action  of  the  body.  It  was 
not  long  before  I  was  observed  by  some  of  the 
family  in  one  of  these  heroic  fits,  who  thereupon 
received  impressions  very  much  to  my  disadvan¬ 
tage.  This,  however,  I  did  not  soon  discover,  nor 
should  have  done  probably,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  following  accident.  I  had  one  day  shut  my¬ 
self  up  in  my  chamber,  and  was  very  deeply  en¬ 


gaged  in  the  second  book  of  Milton’s  Paradise 
Lost.  I  walked  to  and  fro  with  the  book  in  my 
hand;  and,  to  speak  the  truth,  I  fear  I  made  no 
little  noise ;  when,  presently  coming  to  the  fol¬ 
lowing  lines  : — 

- On  a  sudden  open  fly, 

With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  sound, 

Th’  infernal  doors,  and  on  their  hinges  grate 
Harsh  thunder,  etc. 

I  in  great  transport  threw  open  the  door  of  my 
chamber,  and  found  the  greatest  part  of  the  family 
standing  on  the  outside  in  a  very  great  consterna¬ 
tion.  I  was  in  no  less  confusion,  and  begged  par¬ 
don  for  having  disturbed  them  ;  addressing  my¬ 
self  particularly  to  comfort  one  of  the  children  who 
received  an  unlucky  fall  in  this  action,  while  he 
was  too  intently  surveying  my  meditations  through 
the  keyhole.  To  be  short,  after  this  adventure  I 
easily  observed  that  great  part  of  the  family^espe- 
cially  the  women  and  children,  looked  upon  me 
with  some  apprehensions  of  fear  ;  and  my  friend 
himself,  though  he  still  continued  his  civilities  to 
me,  did  not  seem  altogether  easy:  I  took  notice 
that  the  butler  was  never  after  this  accident  or¬ 
dered  to  leave  the  bottle  upon  the  table  after  din¬ 
ner.  Add  to  this,  that  I  frequently  overheard  the 
servants  mention  me  by  the  name  of  *  the  crazed 
gentleman,  the  gentleman  a  little  touched,  the  mad 
Londoner,’  and  the  like.  This  made  me  think  it 
high  time  for  me  to  shift  my  quarters,  which  I  re¬ 
solved  to  do  the  first  handsome  opportunity  ;  and 
was  confirmed  in  this  resolution  by  a  young  lady 
in  the  neighborhood  who  frequently  visited  us, 
and  who  one  day,  after  having  heard  all  the  fine 
things  I  was  able  to  say  ,  was  pleased  with  a  scorn¬ 
ful  smile  to  bid  me  ‘go  to  sleep.’ 

“  The  first  minute  I  got  to  my  lodgings  in  town, 
I  set  pen  to  paper  to  desire  your  opinion,  whether, 
upon  the  evidence  before  you,  I  am  mad  or  not.  I 
can  bring  certificates  that  I  behave  myself  soberly 
before  company,  and  I  hope  there  is  at  least  some 
merit  in  withdrawing  to  be  mad.  Look  you,  Sir, 
I  am  contented  to  be  esteemed  a  little  touched  as 
they  phrase  it,  but  should  be  sorry  to  be  madder 
than  my  neighbors  ;  therefore,  pray  let  me  be  as 
much  in  my  senses  as  you  can  afford.  I  know  I 
could  bring  yourself  as  an  instance  of  a  man  who 
has  confessed  talking  to  himself;  but  yours  is  a 
particular  case,  and  cannot  justify  me,  who  have 
not  kept  silence  any  part  of  my  life.  What  if  I 
should  own  myself  in  love?  You  know  lovers 

are  always  allowed  the  comfort  of  soliloquy - 

But  I  will  say  no  more  upon  this  subject,  because 
I  have  long  since  observed  the  ready  way  to  be 
thought  mad  is  to  contend  that  you  are  not  so  ; 
as  we  generally  conclude  that  man  drunk  who 
takes  pains  to  be  thought  sober.  I  will  therefore 
leave  myself  to  your  determination  ;  but  am  the 
more  desirous  to  be  thought  in  my  senses,  that 
it  may  be  no  discredit  to  you  when  I  assure  you 
that  I  have  always  been  very  much 

“Your  Admirer. 

“  P.  S.  If  I  must  be  mad,  I  desire  the  young 
lady  may  believe  it  is  for  her.” 

“  The  humble  Petition  of  John  a  NoJces  and 
John  a  Styles, 

“  Showetli, 

“  That  your  petitioners  have  had  causes  de¬ 
pending  in  Westminster-hall  above  five  hundred 
years,  and  that  we  despair  of  ever  seeing  them 
brought  to  an  issue  ;  that  your  petitioners  have 
not  been  involved  in  these  lawsuits  out  of  any 
litigious  temper  of  their  own,  but  by  the  instiga¬ 
tion  of  contentious  persons  ;  that  the  young  laAV- 
yers  in  our  inns  of  court  are  continually  setting 


THE  STECTATOR. 


us  together  by  the  ears,  and  think  they  do  us  no 
hurt,  because  they  plead  for  us  without  a  fee;  that 
many  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  robe  have  no  other 
clients  in  the  world  beside  us  two ;  that  when 
they  have  nothing  else  to  do,  they  make  us  plain¬ 
tiffs  and  defendants,  though  they  were  never  re¬ 
tained  by  either  of  us;  that  they  traduce,  con¬ 
demn,  or  acquit  us,  without  any  manner  of  regard 
to  our  reputations  and  good  names  in  the  world. 
Your  petitioners,  therefore,  being  thereunto  en¬ 
couraged  by  the  favorable  reception  which  you 
lately  gave  to  our  kinsman  Blank,  do  humbly 
pray  that  you  will  put  an  end  to  the  controversies 
which  have  been  so  long  depending  between  us 
your  said  petitioners,  and  that  our  enmity  may 
not  endure  from  generation  to  generation;  it  being 
our  resolution  to  live  hereafter  as  it  becometh  men 
of  peaceable  dispositions. 

“And  your  petitioners,  as  in  duty  bound,  shall 
ever  pray,”  etc. 


Ho.  578.]  MONDAY,  AUGUST  9,  1714. 

- Eque  feris  humana  in  corpora  transit. 

Inque  feras  noster. -  Ovid,  Met.  xv.  167. 

- Th’  unbodied  spirit  flies — 

And  lodges  where  it  lights  in  man  or  beast.  — Deyden. 

There  has  been  very  great  reason,  on  several 
accounts,  for  the  learned  world  to  endeavor  at  set¬ 
tling  what  it  was  that  might  be  said  to  compose 
personal  identity. 

'  Mr.  Locke,  after  having  premised  that  the  word 
erson  properly  signifies  a  thinking  intelligent 
eing  that  has  reason  and  reflection,  and  can  con¬ 
sider  itself  as  itself,  concludes,  that  it  is  conscious¬ 
ness  alone,  and  not  an  identity  of  substance,  which 
makes  this  personal  identity  of  sameness.  “  Had 
I  the  same  consciousness,”  says  that  author,  “  that 
I  saw  the  ark  and  Noah’s  flood,  as  that  I  saw  an 
overflowing  of  the  Thames  last  winter;  or  as  that 
I  now  write;  I  could  no  more  doubt  that  I  who 
write  this  now,  that  saw  the  Thames  overflow  last 
winter,  and  that  viewed  the  flood  at  the  general 
deluge,  was  the  same  self,  place  that  self  in  what 
substance  you  please,  than  that  I  who  write  this 
am  the  same  myself  now  while  I  write,  whether  I 
consist  of  all  the  same  substance,  material  or  im¬ 
material,  or  no,  that  I  was  yesterday;  for  as  to  this 
point  of  being  the  same  self,  it  matters  not  whether 
this  present  self  be  made  up  of  the  same  or  other 
substances.” 

I  was  mightily  pleased  with  a  story  in  some 
measure  applicable  to  this  piece  of  philosophy, 
which  I  read  the  other  day  in  the  Persian  Tales, 
as  they  are  lately  very  well  translated  by  Mr.  Phil¬ 
lips;  and  with  an  abridgment  whereof  I  shall  here 
present  my  readers. 

I  shall  only  premise  that  these  stories  are  writ¬ 
ten  after  the  eastern  manner,  but  somewhat  more 
correct. 

“Fadlallali,  a  prince  of  great  virtue,  succeeded 
his  father  Bin  Ortoc  in  the  kingdom  of  Mousel. 
He  reigned  over  his  faithful  subjects  for  some  time, 
and  lived  in  great  happiness  with  his  beauteous 
consort  Queen  Zemroude,  when  there  appeared  at 
his  court  a  young  dervise  of  so  lively  and  entertain¬ 
ing  a  turn  of  wit,  as  won  upon  the  affections  of 
every  one  he  conversed  with.  His  reputation  grew 
so  fast  every  day,  that  it  at  last  raised  a  curiosity 
in  the  prince  himself  to  see  and  talk  with  him. 
He  did  so;  and,  far  from  finding  that  common  fame 
had  flattered  him,  he  was  soon  convinced  that 
everything  he  had  heard  of  him  fell  short  of  the 
truth 

“  Fadlallah  immediately  lost  all  manner  of  relish 


679 

for  the  conversation  of  other  men;  and,  as  he  was 
every  day  more  and  more  satisfied  of  the  abilities 
of  this  stranger,  offered  him  the  first  posts  in  his 
kingdom.  The  young  dervise,  after  having  thanked 
him  with  a  very  singular  modesty,  desired  to  be 
excused,  as  having  made  a  vow  never  to  accept  of 
any  employment,  and  preferring  a  free  and  inde¬ 
pendent  state  of  life  to  all  other  conditions. 

“  The  king  was  infinitely  charmed  with  so  great 
an  example  of  moderation;  and  though  he  could 
not  get  him  to  engage  in  a  life  of  business,  made 
him  however  his  chief  companion  and  first  fa¬ 
vorite. 

“As  they  were  one  day  hunting  together  and 
happened  to  be  separated  from  the  rest  of  the  com¬ 
pany,  the  dervise  entertained  Fadlallah  with  an 
account  of  his  travels  and  adventures.  After  hav¬ 
ing  related  to  him  several  curiosities  which  he  had 
seen  in  the  Indies,  ‘It  was  in  this  place,’  says  he, 
‘  that  I  contracted  an  acquaintance  with  an  old 
brachman,  who  was  skilled  in  the  most  hidden 
powers  of  nature;  he  died  within  my  arms,  and 
with  his  parting  breath  communicated  to  me  one 
of  the  most  valuable  of  his  secrets,  on  condition  I 
should  never  reveal  it  to  any  man.’  The  king  im¬ 
mediately,  reflecting  on  his  young  favorite’s  hav¬ 
ing  refused  the  late  offers  of  greatness  he  had 
made  him,  told  him  he  presumed  it  was  the  power 
of  making  gold.  ‘No,  Sir,’  says  the  dervise,  ‘it 
is  somewhat  more  wonderful  than  that;  it  is  the 
power  of  reanimating  a  dead  body,  by  flinging 
my  own  soul  into  it.’, 

“While  he  was  yet  speaking,  a  doe  came  bound¬ 
ing  by  them,  and  the  king,  who  had  his  bow  ready, 
shot  her  through  the  heart;  telling  the  dervise,  that 
a  fair  opportunity  now  offered  for  him  to  show  his 
art.  The  young  man  immediately  left  his  own 
body  breathless  on  the  ground,  while  at  the  same 
instant  that  of  the  doe  was  reanimated.  She  came 
to  the  king,  fawned  upon  him,  and,  after  having- 
played  several  wanton  tricks  fell  again  upon  the 
grass;  at  the  same  instant  the  body  of  the  dervise 
recovered  its  life.  The  king  was  infinitely  pleased 
at  so  uncommon  an  operation,  and  conjured  his 
friend  by  everything  that  was  sacred  to  communi¬ 
cate  it  to  him.  The  dervise  at  first  made  some 
scruple  of  violating  his  promise  to  the  dying 
brachman;  but  told  him  at  last  that  he  found  he 
could  conceal  nothing  from  so  excellent  a  prince; 
after  having  obliged  him  therefore  by  an  oath  to 
secrecy,  he  taught  him  to  repeat  two  cabalistic 
words,  in  pronouncing  of  which  the  whole  secret 
consisted.  The  king,  impatient  to  try  the  experi¬ 
ment,  immediately  repeated  them  as  he  had  been 
taught,  and  in  an  instant  found  himself  in  the 
body  of  the  doe.  He  had  but  little  time  to  con¬ 
template  himself  in  this  new  being;  for  the  treach¬ 
erous  dervise,  shooting  his  own  soul  into  the  royal 
corpse,  and  bending  the  prince’s  own  bow  against 
him,  had  laid  him  dead  on  the  spot,  had  not  the 
king,  who  perceived  his  intent,  fled  swiftly  to  the 
woods. 

“  The  dervise,  now  triumphant  in  his  villany, 
returned  to  Mousel,  and  filled  the  throne  and  bed 
of  the  unhappy  Fadlallah. 

“  The  first  thing  he  took  care  of,  in  order  to  se¬ 
cure  himself  in  the  possession  of  his  new-acquired 
kingdom,  was  to  issue  out  a  proclamation,  order¬ 
ing  his  subjects  to  destroy  all  the  deer  in  the  realm. 
The  king  had  perished  among  the  rest,  had  he  not 
avoided  his  pursuers  by  reanimating  the  body  of 
a  nightingale,  which  he  saw  lie  dead  at  the  foot  of 
a  tree.  In  this  new  shape  he  winged  his  way  in 
safety  to  the  palace;  where,  perching  on  a  tree 
which  stood  near  his  queen’s  apartment,  he  filled 
the  whole  place  with  so  many  melodious  and  mel¬ 
ancholy  notes  as  drew  her  to  the  window.  He  had 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


030 

the  mortification  to  see  that,  instead  of  being 
pitied,  he  only  moved  the  mirth  of  his  princess, 
and  of  a  young  female  slave  'who  was  with  her. 
He  continued  however  to  serenade  her  every  morn¬ 
ing,  until  at  last  the  queen,  charmed  with  liis  har¬ 
mony,  sent  for  the  bird-catchers,  and  ordered  them 
to  employ  their  utmost  skill  to  put  that  little 
creature  into  her  possession.  The  king,  pleased 
with  an  opportunity  of  being  once  more  near  his 
beloved  consort,  easily  suffered  himself  to  be  taken; 
and  when  he  was  presented  to  her,  though  he 
showed  a  fearfulness  to  be  touched  by  any  of  the 
other  ladies,  flew  of  his  own  accord  and  hid  him¬ 
self  in  the  queen’s  bosom.  Zemroude  was  highly 
pleased  at  the  unexpected  fondness  of  her  new 
favorite,  and  ordered  him  to  be  kept  in  an  open 
cage  in  her  own  apartment.  He  had  there  an  op¬ 
portunity  of  making  his  court  to  her  every  morn¬ 
ing,  by  a  thousand  little  actions,  which  his  shape 
allowed  him.  The  queen  passed  away  whole  hours 
every  day  in  hearing  and  playing  with  him.  Fad- 
lallah  could  even  have  thought  himself  happy  in 
this  state  of  life,  had  he  not  frequently  endured 
the  inexpressible  torment  of  seeing  the  dervise 
enter  the  apartment  and  caress  his  queen  even  in 
his  presence. 

“The  usurper,  amidst  his  toying  with  the  prin¬ 
cess,  would  often  endeavor  to  ingratiate  himself 
with  her  nightingale  :  and  while  the  enraged  Fad- 
lallah  pecked  at  him  with  his  bill,  beat  his  wings, 
and  showed  all  the  marks  of  an  impotent  rage,  it 
only  afforded  his  rival  and  the  queen  new  matter 
for  their  diversion. 

“Zemroude  was  likewise  fond  of  a  little  lapdog 
which  she  kept  in  her  apartment,  and  which  one 
night  happened  to  die. 

“The  king  immediately  found  himself  inclined 
to  quit  the  shape  of  a  nightingale,  and  enliven 
this  new  body.  He  did  so,  and  the  next  morning 
Zemroude  saw  her  favorite  bird  lie  dead  in  the 
cage.  It  is  impossible  to  express  her  grief  on  this 
occasion;  and  when  she  called  to  mind  all  its 
little  actions,  which  even  appeared  to  have  some¬ 
what  in  them  like  reason,  she  was  inconsolable 
for  her  loss. 

“  Her  women  immediately  sent  for  the  dervise 
to  come  and  comfort  her;  who,  after  having  in  vain 
represented  to  her  the  weakness  of  being  grieved 
at  such  an  accident,  touched  at  last  by  her  repeated 
complaints,  ‘Well,  Madam,’  says  he,  ‘I  will  exert 
the  utmost  of  my  art  to  please  you.  Your  night¬ 
ingale  shall  again  revive  every  morning,  and  sere¬ 
nade  you  as  before.’  The  queen  beheld  him  with 
a  look  which  easily  showed  she  did  not  believe 
him,  when,  laying  himself  down  on  a  sofa,  he 
shot  his  soul  into  the  nightingale,  and  Zemroude 
was  amazed  to  see  her  bird  revive. 

“  The  king,  who  was  a  spectator  of  all  that 
passed,  lying  under  the  shape  of  a  lapdog  in  one 
corner  of  the  room,  immediately  recovered  his  own 
body,  and,  running  to  the  cage,  with  the  utmost 
indignation,  twisted  off  the  neck  of  the  false 
nightingale. 

“Zemroude  was  more  than  ever  amazed  and 
concerned  at  this  second  accident,  until  the  king, 
entreating  her  to  hear  him,  related  to  her  his  whole 
adventure. 

“  The  body  of  the  dervise  which  was  found  dead 
in  the  wood,  and  his  edict  for  killing  all  the  deer, 
left  her  no  room  to  doubt  the  truth  of  it;  but  the 
story  adds,  that  out  of  an  extreme  delicacy,  pecu¬ 
liar  to  the  oriental  ladies,  she  was  so  highly 
afflicted  at  the  innocent  adultery  in  which  she  had 
for  some  time  lived  with  the  dervise,  that  no  argu¬ 
ments,  even  from  Fadlallah  himself,  could  compose 
her  mind.  She  shortly  after  died  with  grief,  beg¬ 
ging  his  pardon  with  her  latest  breath  for  what 


the  most  rigid  justice  could  not  have  interpreted 
as  a  crime. 

“  The  king  was  so  afflicted  with  her  death,  that 
he  left  his  kingdom  to  one  of  his  nearest  relations, 
and  passed  the  rest  of  his  days  in  solitude  and 
retirement.” 


No.  579.]  WEDNESDAY,  AUGUST  11, 1714. 

- Odora  canum  vis. — Vmo.  2En.  iv.  132. 

Sagacious  hounds, 

In  the  reign  of  King  Charles  the  First,  the  Com¬ 
pany  of  Stationers,  into  whose  hands  the  printing 
of  the  Bible  is  committed  by  patent,  made  a  very 
remarkable  erratum  or  blunder  in  one  of  their  edi¬ 
tions  :  for  instead  of  “  Thou  shalt  not  commit 
adultery,”  they  printed  off  several  thousands  of 
copies  with,  “Thou  shalt  commit  adultery.” 
Archbishop  Laud,  to  punish  this  negligence,  laid 
a  considerable  fine  upon  that  company  in  the  star- 
chamber. 

By  the  practice  of  the  world,  which  prevails  in 
this  degenerate  age,  I  am  afraid  that  very  many 
young  profligates  of  both  sexes  are  possessed  of 
this  spurious  edition  of  the  Bible,  and  observe  the 
commandment  according  to  that  faulty  reading. 

Adulterers  in  the  first  ages  of  the  Church  were 
excommunicated  forever,  and  unqualified  all  their 
lives  from  bearing  a  part  in  Christian  assemblies, 
notwithstanding  they  might  seek  it  with  tears, 
and  all  the  appearances  of  the  most  unfeigned  re¬ 
pentance. 

I  might  here  mention  some  ancient  laws  among 
the  heathens,  which  punished  this  crime  with 
death;  and  others  of  the  same  kind,  which  are 
now  in  force  among  several  governments  that  have 
embraced  the  reformed  religion.  But,  because  a 
subject  of  this  nature  may  be  too  serious  for  my 
ordinary  readers,  who  are  very  apt  to  throw  by 
my  papers  when  they  are  not  enlivened  with  some¬ 
thing  that  is  diverting  or  uncommon,  I  shall  here 
publish  the  contents  of  a  little  manuscript  lately 
fallen  into  my  hands,  and  which  pretends  to  great 
antiquity;  though  by  reason  of  some  modem 
phrases,  and  other  particulars  in  it,  I  can  by  no 
means  allow  it  to  be  genuine,  but  rather  the  pro¬ 
duction  of  a  modern  sophist. 

It  is  well  known  by  the  learned,  that  there  was 
a  temple  upon  mount  JEtna  dedicated  to  Vulcan, 
which  was  guarded  by  dogs  of  so  exquisite  a  smell, 
say  the  historians,  that  they  could  discern  whether 
the  persons  who  came  thither  were  chaste  or  oth¬ 
erwise.  They  used  to  meet  and  fawn  upon  such 
as  were  chaste,  caressing  them  as  the  friends  of 
their  master  Vulcan;  but  flew  at  those  who  were 
polluted,  and  never  ceased  barking  at  them  till 
they  had  driven  them  from  the  temple. 

My  manuscript  gives  the  following  account  of 
these  dogs,  and  was  probably  designed  as  a  com¬ 
ment  upon  this  story  : — 

“  These  dogs  were  given  to  Vulcan  by  his  sister 
Diana,  the  goddess  of  hunting  and  of  chastity, 
having  bred  them  out  of  some  of  her  hounds,  in 
which  she  had  observed  this  natural  instinct  and 
sagacity.  It  was  thought  she  did  it  in  spite  to 
Venus,  who,  upon  her  return  home,  always  found 
her  husband  in  a  good  or  bad  humor,  according 
to  the  reception  which  she  met  with  from  his  dogs. 
They  lived  in  the  temple  several  years,  but  were 
such  snappish  curs,  that  they  frightened  away  most 
of  the  votaries.  The  women  of  Sicily  made  a 
solemn  deputation  to  the  priest,  by  which  they 
acquainted  him,  that  they  would  not  come  up  to 
the  temple  with  their  annual  offerings  unless  he 
muzzled  his  mastiffs;  and  at  last  compromised  the 
matter  with  him,  that  the  offering  should  always 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


be  brought  by  a  chorus  of  young  girls,  who  were 
none  of  them  above  seven  years  old.  It  was  won¬ 
derful,  says  the  author,  to  see  how  different  the 
treatment  was  which  the  dogs  gave  to  these  little 
misses,  from  that  which  they  had  shown  to  their 
mothers.  It  is  said  that  the  prince  of  Syracuse, 
having  married  a  young  lady,  and  being  naturally 
of  a  jealous  temper,  made  such  an  interest  with  the 

firiests  of  this  temple,  that  he  procured  a  whelp 
rom  them  of  this  famous  breed.  The  young 
puppy  was  very  troublesome  to  the  fair  lady  at 
first,  insomuch  that  she  solicited  her  husband  to 
send  him  away;  but  the  good  man  cut  her  short 
with  the  old  Sicilian  proverb,  “Love  me,  love  my 
dog;’  from  which  time  she  lived  very  peaceably 
with  both  of  them.  The  ladies  of  Syracuse  were 
very  much  annoyed  with  him,  and  several  of  very 
good  reputation  refused  to  come  to  court  until  he 
was  discarded.  There  were  indeed  some  of  them 
that  defied  his  sagacity ;  but  it  was  observed, 
though  he  did  not  actually  bite  them,  he  would 
growl  at  them  most  confoundedly.  To  return  to 
the  dogs  of  the  temple;  after  they  had  lived  here 
in  great  repute  for  several  years,  it  so  happened, 
that  as  one  of  the  priests,  who  had  been  making  a 
charitable  visit  to  a  widow  who  lived  on  the  pro¬ 
montory  of  Lilybeum,  returned  home  pretty  late 
in  the  evening,  the  dogs  flew  at  him  with  so  much 
fury,  that  they  would  have  worried  him  if  his 
brethren  had  not  come  to  his  assistance;  upon 
which,  says  my  author,  the  dogs  were  all  of  them 
hanged,  as  having  lost  their  original  instinct.” 

I  cannot  conclude  this  paper  without  wishing 
that  we  had  some  of  this  breed  of  dogs  in  Great 
Britain,  which  would  certainly  do  justice,  I  should 
say  honor,  to  the  ladies  of  our  country,  and  show 
the  world  the  difference  between  pagan  women 
and  those  who  are  instructed  in  sounder  princi¬ 
ples  of  virtue  and  religion. 


Ho.  580. J  FRIDAY,  AUGUST  13,  1714. 

- Si  verbis  audacia  detur, 

Haud  timeam  magni  dixisse  palatia  coeli. 

Ovid,  Met.  i.  175. 

This  place,  the  brightest  mansion  of  the  sky, 

I’ll  call  the  palace  ot  the  Deity. — Dryden. 

“  Sir, 

“  I  considered  in  my  two  last  letters  that  awful 
and  tremendous  subject,  the  ubiquity  or  omnipre¬ 
sence  of  the  Divine  Being.  I  have  shown  that  he 
is  equally  present  in  all  places  throughout  the 
whole  extent  of  infinite  space.  This  doctrine  is 
so  agreeable  to  reason,  that  we  meet  with  it  in  the 
writings  of  the  enlightened  heathens,  as  I  might 
show  at  large,  were  it  not  already  done  by  other 
hands.  But  though  the  Deity  be  thus  essentially 
present  through  all  the  immensity  of  space,  there  is 
one  part  of  it  in  which  he  discovers  himself  in  a 
most  transcendent  and  visible  glory  ;  this  is  that 
place  which  is  marked  out  in  Scripture  under  the 
different  appellations  of  ‘paradise,  the  third  heaven, 
the  throne  of  God,  and  the  habitation  of  his  glory.’ 
It  is  here  where  the  glorified  body  of  our  Savior 
resides,  and  where  all  the  celestial  hierarchies,  and 
the  innumerable  hosts  of  angels,  are  represented 
as  perpetually  surrounding  the  seat  of  God  with 
hallelujahs  and  hymns  of  praise.  This  is  that 
presence  of  God  which  some  of  the  divines  call  his 
glorious,  and  others  his  majestic  presence.  He  is 
indeed  as  essentially  present  in  all  other  places  as 
in  this  ;  but  it  is  here  where  He  resides  in  a  sensi¬ 
ble  magnificence,  and  in  the  midst  of  all  those 
splendors  which  can  affect  the  imagination  of 
created  beings. 


681 

“It  is  very  remarkable  that  this  opinion  of  God 
Almighty’s  presence  in  heaven,  whether  discover¬ 
ed  by  the  light  of  nature,  or  by  a  general  tradition 
from  our  first  parents,  prevails  among  all  the 
nations  of  the  world,  whatsoever  different  notions 
they  entertain  of  the  Godhead.  If  you  look  into 
Homer,  that  is,  the  most  ancient  of  the  Greek 
writers,  you  see  the  supreme  power  seated  in  the 
heavens,  and  encompassed  with  inferior  deities, 
among  whom  the  Muses  are  represented  as  sing¬ 
ing  incessantly  about  his  throne.  Who  does  not 
here  see  thy  main  strokes  and  outlines  of  this 
great  truth  we  are  speaking  of?  The  same  doc¬ 
trine  is  shadowed  out  in  many  other  heathen 
authors,  though  at  the  same  time,  like  several 
other  revealed  truths,  dashed  and  adulterated 
with  a  mixture  of  fables  and  human  inventions. — 
But  to  pass  over  the  notions  of  the  Greeks  and 
Romans,  those  more  enlightened  parts  of  the 
pagan  world,  we  find  there  is  scarce  a  people 
among  the  late  discovered  nations  who  are  not 
trained  up  in  an  opinion  that  heaven  is  the  habi¬ 
tation  of  the  divinity  whom  they  worship. 

“As  in  Solomon’s  temple  there  was  the  Sanctum 
Sanctorum,  in  which  a  visible  glory  appeared 
among  the  figures  of  the  cherubim,  and  into  which 
none  but  the  high-priest  himself  was  permitted  to 
enter,  after  having  made  an  atonement  for  the  sins 
of  the  people :  so  if  we  consider  the  whole  crea¬ 
tion  as  one  great  temple,  there  is  in  it  this  Holy 
of  Holies,  into  which  the  High-priest  of  our  sal¬ 
vation  entered,  and  took  his  place  among  angels 
and  archangels,  after  having  made  a  propitiation 
for  the  sins  of  mankind. 

“With  how  much  skill  must  the  throne  of  God 
be  erected!  With  what  glorious  designs  is  that 
habitation  beautified,  which  is  contrived  and  built 
by  Him  who  inspired  Hiram  with  wisdom !  How 
great  must  be  the  majesty  of  that  place,  where  the 
whole  art  of  creation  has  been  employed,  and 
where  God  has  chosen  to  show  himself  in  the 
most  magnificent  manner?  What  must  be  the 
architecture  of  infinite  power  under  the  direction 
of  infinite  wisdom  ?  A  spirit  cannot  but  be  trans¬ 
ported  after  an  ineffable  manner,  with  the  sight  of 
those  objects,  which  were  made  to  affect  him  by 
that  Being  who  knows  the  inward  frame  of  a  soul, 
and  how  to  please  and  ravish  it  in  all  its  most 
secret  powers  and  faculties.  It  is  to  this  majestic 
presence  of  God  we  may  apply  those  beautiful  ex¬ 
pressions  in  holy  writ:  ‘Behold  even  to  the  moon, 
and  it  shineth  not :  yea  the  stars  are  not  pure  in 
his  sight.’  The  light  of  the  sun,  and  all  the 
glories  of  the  world  in  which  we  live,  are  but  as 
weak  and  sickly  glimmerings,  or  rather  darkness 
itself,  in  comparison  of  those  splendors  which  en¬ 
compass  the  throne  of  God. 

“As  the  glory  of  this  place  is  transcendent  be¬ 
yond  imagination,  so  probably  is  the  extent  of  it. 
There  is  light  behind  light,  and  glory  within  glory. 
How  far  that  space  may  reach,  in  which'  God  thus 
appears  in  perfect  majesty,  we  cannot  possibly 
conceive.  Though  it  is  not  infinite,  it  may  be  in¬ 
definite;  and,  though  not  immeasurable  in  itself, 
it  may  be  so  with  regard  to  any  created  eye  or 
imagination.  If  he  has  made  these  lower  regions 
of  matter  so  inconceivably  wide  and  magnificent 
for  the  habitation'of  mortal  and  perishable  beings, 
how  great  may  we  suppose  the  courts  of  his  house 
to  be,  where  he  makes  his  residence  in  a  more 
especial  manner,  and  displays  himself  in  the  full¬ 
ness  of  his  glory,  among  an  innumerable  com¬ 
pany  of  angels  and  spirits  of  just  men  made  per¬ 
fect  ? 

“  This  is  certain,  that  our  imaginations  cannot 
be  raised  too  high  when  we  think  on  a  place  where 
omnipotence  and  omniscience  have  so  signally 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


682 


exerted  themselves,  because  that  they  are  able  to 
produce  a  scene  infinitely  more  great  and  glorious 
than  what  we  are  able  to  imagine.  It  is  not  im¬ 
possible  but  at  the  consummation  of  all  things 
these  outward  apartments  of  nature,  which  are  now 
suited  to  those  beings  who  inhabit  them,  may  be 
taken  in  and  added  to  that  glorious  place  of  which 
I  am  here  speaking,  and  by  that  means  made  a 
proper  habitation  for  beings  who  are  exempt  from 
mortality,  and  cleared  of  their  imperfections  :  for 
so  the  Scripture  seems  to  intimate  when  it  speaks 
of  ‘new  heavens  and  of  a  new  earth,  wherein 
dwelleth  righteousness.’ 

“I  have  only  considered  this  glorious  place 
with  regard  to  the  sight  and  imagination  ;  though 
it  is  highly  probable  that  our  other  senses  may 
here  likewise  enjoy  their  highest  gratifications. 
There  is  nothing  which  more  ravishes  and  trans¬ 
ports  the  soul  than  harmony;  and  we  have  great 
reason  to  believe,  from  the  description  of  this 
place  in  Holy  Scripture,  that  this  is  one  of  the 
entertainments  of  it.  And  if  the  soul  of  man  can 
be  so  wonderfully  affected  with  those  strains  of 
music  which  human  art  is  capable  of  producing, 
how  much  more  will  it  be  raised  and  elevated  by 
those  in  which  is  exerted  the  whole  power  of 
harmony !  The  senses  are  faculties  of  the  human 
soul,  though  they  cannot  be  employed,  during  this 
our  vital  union,  without  proper  instruments  in  the 
body.  Why,  therefore,  should  we  exclude  the 
satisfaction  of  these  faculties,  which  we  find  by 
experience  are  inlets  of  great  pleasure  to  the  soul, 
from  among  those  entertainments  which  are  to 
make  up  our  happiness  hereafter  ?  Why  should 
we  suppose  that  our  hearing  and  seeing  will  not 
be  gratified  with  those  objects  which  are  most 
agreeable  to  them,  and  which  they  cannot  meet 
with  in  these  lower  regions  of  nature:  objects, 
‘  which  neither  eye  hath  seen,  nor  ear  heard,  nor 
can  it  enter  into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive  ?  I 
knew  a  man  in  Christ  (says  St.  Paul,  speaking  of 
himself)  above  fourteen  years  ago  (whether  in  the 
body,  I  cannot  tell;  or  whether  out  of  the  body,  I 
cannot  tell;  God  knoweth),  such  a  one  caught  up 
to  the  third  heaven.  And  I  knew  such  a  man 
(whether  in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body,  I  can¬ 
not  tell,  God  knoweth),  how  that  he  was  caught 
up  into  paradise,  and  heard  unspeakable  words, 
which  it  is  not  possible  for  man  to  utter.’  By 
this  is  meant,  that  what  he  heard  is  so  infinitely 
different  from  anything  which  he  had  heard  in 
this  world,  that  it  was  impossible  to  express  it  in 
such  words  as  might  convey  a  notion  of  it  to  his 
hearers. 

“  It  is  very  natural  for  us  to  take  delight  in  in¬ 
quiries  concerning  any  foreign  country,  where  we 
are  sometime  or  other  to  make  our  abode;  and  as 
we.  all  hope  to  be  admitted  into  this  glorious  place, 
it  is  both  a  laudable  and  useful  curiosity  to  get 
what  informations  we  can  of  it,  while  we  make 
use  of  revelatiofi  for  our  guide.  When  these  ever¬ 
lasting  doors  shall  be  opened  to  us,  we  may  be 
sure  that  the  pleasures  and  beauties  of  this  place 
will  infinitely  transcend  our  present  hopes  and 
expectations,  and  that  the  glorious  appearance  of 
the  throne  of  God  will  rise  infinitely  beyond  what¬ 
ever  we  are  able  to  conceive  of  it.  IVe  might  here 
entertain  ourselves  with  many  other  speculations  on 
this  subject,  from  those  several  hints  which  we  find 
of  it  in  the  holy  scriptures;  as,  whether  there  may 
not  be  different  mansions  and  apartments  of  glory 
to  beings  of  different  natures;  whether,  as  they 
excel  one  another  in  perfection,  they  are  not  ad¬ 
mitted  nearer  to  the  throne  of  the  Almighty,  and 
enjoy  greater  manifestations  of  his  ^presence; 
whether  there  are  not  solemn  times  and  occasions, 
when  all  the  multitude  of  heaven  celebrate  the 


presence  of  their  Maker  in  more  extraordinary 
forms  of  praise  and  adoration;  as  Adam,  though 
he  had  continued  in  a  state  of  innocence,  would, 
in  the  opinion  of  our  divines,  have  kept  holy  the 
Sabbath-day  in  a  more  particular  manner  than  any 
other  of  the  seven.  These,  and  the  like  specula¬ 
tions,  we  may  very  innocently  indulge,  so  long  as 
we  make  use  of  them  to  inspire  us  with  a  desire 
of  becoming  inhabitants  of  this  delightful  place. 

“I  have  in  this,  and  in  two  foregoing  letters, 
treated  on  the  most  serious  subject  that  can  em¬ 
ploy  the  mind  of  man — the  omnipresence  of  the 
Deity;  a  subject  which,  if  possible,  should  never 
depart  from  our  meditations.  We  have  considered 
the  Divine  Being,  as  he  inhabits  infinitude,  as  he 
dwells  among  his  works,  as  he  is  present  to  the 
mind  of  man,  and  as  he  discovers  himself  in  a 
more  glorious  manner  among  the  regions  of  the 
blest.  Such  a  consideration  should  be  kept  awake 
in  us  at  all  times,  and  in  all  places,  and  possess 
our  minds  with  a  perpetual  awe  and  reverence. 
It  should  be  interwoven  with  all  our  thoughts  and 
perceptions,  and  become  one  with  the  conscious¬ 
ness  of  our  own  being.  It  is  not  to  be  reflected 
on  in  the  coldness  of  philosophy,  but  ought  to 
sink  us  into  the  lowest  prostration  before  Him 
who  is  so  astonishingly  wonderful  and  holy.” 


Ho.  581.]  MONDAY,  AUGUST  16,  1714. 

Sunt  bona,  sunt  quasdam  mediocria,  sunt  mala  plura, 

Quae  legis -  Mart.  Epig.  i.  17. 

Some  good,  more  bad,  some  neither  one  nor  t’other. 

I  am  at  present  sitting  with  a  heap  of  letters  be¬ 
fore  me,  which  I  have  received  under  the  charac¬ 
ter  of  Spectator.  I  have  complaints  from  lovers, 
schemes  from  projectors,  scandal  from  ladies,  con¬ 
gratulations,  compliments,  and  advice,  in  abun¬ 
dance. 

I  have  not  been  thus  long  an  author,  to  be  in¬ 
sensible  of  the  natural  fondness  every  person  must 
have  for  their  own  productions  ;  and  I  begin  to 
think  I  have  treated  my  correspondents  a  little  too 
uncivilly  in  stringing  them  all  together  on  a  file, 
and  letting  them  lie  so  long  unregarded.  I  shall 
therefore,  for  the  future,  think  myself  at  least 
obliged  to  take  some  notice  of  such  letters  as  I  re¬ 
ceive,  and  may  possibly  do  it  at  the  end  of  every 
month. 

In  the  meantime  I  intend  my  present  paper  as  a 
short  answer  to  most  of  those  which  have  been 
already  sent  me. 

The  public,  however,  are  not  to  expect  I  should 
let  them  into  all  my  secrets;  and,  though  I  appear 
abstruse  to  most  people,  it  is  sufficient  if  I  am 
understood  by  my  particular  correspondents. 

My  well-wisher.  Van  Nath,  is  very  arch,  but 
not  quite  enough  so  to  appear  in  print. 

Philadelphus  will,  in  a  little  time,  see  his  query 
fully  answered  by  a  treatise  which  is  now  in  the 
press. 

It  was  very  improper  at  that  time  to  comply 
with  Mr.  G.  V  J 

Miss  Kitty  must  excuse  me. 

The  gentleman  who  sent  me  a  copy  of  verses 
on  his  mistress’s  dancing,  is,  I  believe,  too 
thoroughly  in  love  to  compose  correctly. 

I  have  too  great  a  respect  for  both  the  universi¬ 
ties,  to  praise  one  at  the  expense  of  the  other. 

Tom  Nimble  is  a  very  honest  fellow,  and  I  de¬ 
sire  him  to  present  my  humble  service  to  his 
cousin  Fill  Bumper. 

I  am  obliged  for  the  letter  upon  prejudice. 

I  may  in  due  time^animadvert  on  the  case  of 
Grace  Grumble. 


THE  SPE 

The  petition  of  P.  S.  granted. 

That  of  Sarah  Loveit  refused. 

The  papers  of  A.  S.  are  returned. 

I  thank  Aristippus  for  his  kind  invitation. 

My  friend  at  Woodstock  is  a  bold  man  to  under¬ 
take  for  all  within  ten  miles  of  him. 

I  am  afraid  the  entertainment  of  Tom  Turnover 
will  hardly  be  relished  by  the  good  cities  of  Lon¬ 
don  and  Westminster. 

I  must  consider  further  of  it,  before  I  indulge 
W.  F.  in  those  freedoms  he  takes  with  the  ladies’ 
stockings. 

I  am  obliged  to  the  ingenious  gentleman  who 
sent  me  an  ode  on  the  subject  of  a  late  Spectator, 
and  shall  take  particular  notice  of  his  last  letter. 

When  the  lady  who  wrote  me  a  letter  dated  July 
the  20tli,  in  relation  to  some  passages  in  a  Lover, 
will  be  more  particular  in  her  directions,  I  shall  be 
so  in  my  answer. 

The  poor  gentleman  who  fancies  my  writings 
could  reclaim  a  husband,  who  can  abuse  such  a 
wife  as  he  describes,  has,  I  am  afraid,  too  great  an 
opinion  of  my  skill. 

Philanthropos  is,  I  dare  say,  a  very  well-mean¬ 
ing  man,  but  is  a  little  too  prolix  in  liis  composi¬ 
tions. 

Constantius  himself  must  be  the  best  judge  in 
the  affair  he  mentions. 

The  letter  dated  from  Lincoln  is  received. 

Arethusa  and  her  friend  may  hear  further  from  me. 

Celia  is  a  little  too  hasty. 

Harriet  is  a  good  girl,  but  must  not  courtesy  to 
folks  she  does  not  know. 

I  must  ingenuously  confess  my  friend  Samson 
Benstaff  has  quite  puzzled  me,  and  written  me  a 
long  letter  which  I  cannot  comprehend  one  word  of. 

Collidan  must  also  explain  what  he  means  by 
his  “drigelling.” 

I  think  it  beneath  my  spectatorial  dignity  to 
concern  myself  in  the  affair  of  the  boiled  dump- 
ling. 

I  shall  consult  some  literati  on  the  project  sent 
me  for  the  discovery  of  the  longitude. 

I  know  not  how  to  conclude  this  paper  better 
than  by  inserting  a  couple  of  letters  which  are 
really  genuine,  and  which  I  look  upon  to  be  two 
of  the  smartest  pieces  I  have  .received  from  my 
correspondents  of  either  sex: 

“Brother  Spec., 

“While  you  are  surveying  every  object  that  falls 
in  your  way,  I  am  wholly  taken  up  with  one. 
Had  that  sage  who  demanded  what  beauty  was, 
lived  to  see  the  dear  angel  I  love,  he  would  not 
have  asked  such  a  question.  Had  another  seen  her, 
he  would  himself  have  loved  the  person  in  whom 
Heaven  has  made  virtue  visible;  and,  were  you 
yourself  to  be  in  her  company,  you  could  never, 
with  all  your  loquacity,  say  enough  of  her  good- 
humor  and  sense.  I  send  you  the  outlines  of  a 
picture,  which  I  can  no  more  finish,  than  I  can 
sufficiently  admire  the  dear  original.  I  am,  your 
most  affectionate  Brother, 

“  Constantio  Spec.” 

“  Good  Mr.  Pert, 

“I  will  allow  you  nothing  until  you  resolve  me 
the  following  question.  Pray  what  is  the  reason 
that,  while  you  only  talk  now  upon  Wednesdays, 
Fridays,  and  Mondays,  you  pretend  to  be  a  greater 
tatler  than  when  you  spoke  every  day,  as  you  for¬ 
merly  used  to  do  ?  If  this  be  your  plunging  out 
of  your  taciturnity,  pray  let  the  length  of  your 
speeches  compensate  for  the  scarceness  of  them. 
I  am,  good  Mr.  Pert,  “Your  Admirer, 

“  If  you  will  be  long  enough  for  me, 

“Amanda  Lovelength.” 


CTATOR.  683 

No.  582.]  WEDNESDAY,  AUGUST  18,  1714. 

- Tenet  insanabile  multos 

Scribendi  cacoethes -  Juv.  Sat  vii.  51. 

The  curse  of  writing  is  an  endless  itch. — Ch.  Dryden. 

There  is  a  certain  distemper,  which  is  mentioned 
neither  by  Galen  nor  Hippocrates,  nor  to  be  met 
with  in  tne  London  Dispensary.  Juvenal,  in  the 
motto  of  my  paper,  terms  it  a  cacoethes;  which  is 
a  hard  word  for  a  disease  called  in  plain  English, 
“the  itch  of  writing.”  This  cacoethes  is  as  epi¬ 
demical  as  the  small-pox,  there  being  very  few  who 
are  not  seized  with  it  some  time  or  other  in  their 
lives.  There  is,  however,  this  difference  in  these 
two  distempers,  that  the  first,  after  having  indis¬ 
posed  you  for  a  time,  never  returns  again;  whereas 
this  I  am  speaking  of,  when  it  is  once  got  into'the 
blood,  seldom  comes  out  of  it.  The  British  nation 
is  very  much  afflicted  with  this  malady,  and  though 
very  many  remedies  have  been  applied  to  persons 
infected  with  it,  few  of  them  have  ever  proved 
successful.  Some  have  been  cauterized  with  sat¬ 
ires  and  lampoons,  but  have  received  little  or  no 
benefit  from  them;  others  have  had  their  heads 
fastened  for  an  hour  together  between  a  cleft  board, 
which  is  made  use  of  as  a  cure  for  the  disease 
when  it  appears  in  its  greatest  malignity*  There 
is,  jndeed,  one  kind  of  this  malady  which  has 
been  sometimes  removed,  like  the  biting  of  the 
tarantula,  with  the  sound  of  a  musical  instrument, 
which  is  commonly  known  by  the  name  of  a  cat¬ 
call.  But  if  you  have  a  patient  of  this  kind  under 
your  care,  you  may  assure  yourself  there  is  no 
other  way  of  recovering  him  effectually,  but  by 
forbidding  him  the  use  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper. 

But,  to  drop  the  allegory  before  I  have  tried  it 
out,  there  is  no  species  of  scribblers  more  offen¬ 
sive,  and  more  incurable,  than  your  periodical 
writers,  whose  words  return  upon  the  public  on 
certain  days,  and  at  stated  times.  We  have  not 
the  consolation  in  the  perusal  of  these  authors 
wfflich  we  find  at  the  reading  of  all  others,  namely: 
that  we  are  sure,  if  we  have  but  patience,  we  may 
come  to  the  end  of  their  labors.  I  have  often  ad¬ 
mired  a  humorous  saying  of  Diogenes,  who  read¬ 
ing  a  dull  author  to  several  of  his  friends,  when 
every  one  began  to  be  tired,  finding  that  he  was 
almost  come  to  a  blank  leaf  at  the  end  of  it,  he 
cried,  “  Courage,  lads,  I  see  land.”  On  the  con¬ 
trary,  our  progress  through  that  kind  of  writers  I 
am  now  speaking  of  is  never  at  an  end.  One  day 
makes  work  for  another — we  do  not  know  when  to 
promise  ourselves  rest. 

It  is  a  melancholy  thing  to  consider  that  the  art 
of  printing,  which  might  be  the  greatest  blessing 
to  mankind,  should  prove  detrimental  to  us,  ana 
that  it  should  be  made  use  of  to  scatter  prejudice 
and  ignorance,  through  a  people,  instead  of  con¬ 
veying  to  them  truth  and  knowledge. 

I  was  lately  reading  a  very  whimsical  treatise, 
entitled  William  Ramsey’s  Vindication  of  Astro¬ 
logy.  This  profound  author,  among  many  mysti¬ 
cal  passages,  has  the  following  one:  “  The  absence 
of  the  sun  is  not  the  cause  of  night,  forasmuch  as 
his  light  is  so  great  that  it  may  illuminate  the  earth 
all  over  at  once,  as  clear  as  broad  day;  but  there 
are  tenebrificous  and  dark  stars,  by  whose  influ¬ 
ence  night  is  brought  on,  and  which  do  ray  out 
darkness  and  obscurity  upon  the  earth  as  the  sun 
does  light.” 

I  consider  writers  in  the  same  view  this  sage 
astrologer  does  the  heavenly  bodies.  Some  of 
them  are  stars  that  scatter  light  as  others  do  dark¬ 
ness.  I  could  mention  several  authors  who  are 
tenebrificous  stars  of  the  first  magnitude,  and 


*  Put  in  the  pillory. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


684 

point  out  a  knot  of  gentlemen,  who  have  been  dull 
in  concert,  and  may  be  looked  upon  as  a  dark 
constellation.  The  nation  has  been  a  great  while 
benighted  with  several  of  these  antiluminaries.  I 
suffered  them  to  ray  out  their  darkness  as  long  as 
I  was  able  to  endure  it,  till  at  length  I  came  to  a 
resolution  of  rising  upon  them,  and  hope  in  a 
little  time  to  drive  them  quite  out  of  the  British 
hemisphere. 


No.  583.]  FRIDAY,  AUGUST  20,  1714. 

Ipse  thymum  pinosque  ferens  de  montibus  altis, 

Tecta  serat  late  circum,  cui  talia  curee ; 

Ipse  abore  manum  duro  terat ;  ipse  feraces 
Figat  humo  plantas,  et  amicos  irriget  imbres. 

Vxeg.  Georg,  iv.  112. 

With  his  own  hand  the  guardian  of  the  bees 
For  slips  of  pines  may  search  the  mountain  trees, 

And  with  wild  thyme  and  sav’ry  plant  the  plain, 

Till  his  hard  horny  fingers  ache  with  pain ; 

And  deck  with  fruitful  trees  the  fields  around, 

And  with  refreshing  waters  drench  the  ground. — Dryden. 

Every  station  of  life  has  duties  which  are  proper 
to  it.  Those  who  are  determined  by  choice  to  any 
particular  kind  of  business,  are  indeed  more  happy 
than  those  who  are  determined  by  necessity;  but 
both  are  under  an  equal  obligation  of  fixing  on 
employments,  which  may  be  either  useful  to  them¬ 
selves,  or  beneficial  to  others;  no  one  of  the  sons 
of  Adam  ought  to  think  himself  exempt  from  that 
labor  and  industry  which  were  denounced  to  our 
first  parent,  and  in  him  to  all  his  posterity.  Those 
to  whom  birth  or  fortune  may  seem  to  make  such 
an  application  unnecessary,  ought  to  find  out  some 
calling  or  profession  for  themselves,  that  they  may 
not  lie  as  a  burden  on  the  species,  and  be  the  only 
useless  parts  of  creation. 

Many  of  our  country  gentlemen  in  their  busy 
hours  apply  themselves  wholly  to  the  chase,  or  to 
some  other  diversion  which  they  find  in  the  fields 
and  woods.  This  gave  occasion  to  one  of  our 
most  eminent  English  writers  to  represent  every 
one  of  them  as  lying  under  a  kind  of  curse  pro¬ 
nounced  to  them  in  the  words  of  Goliah,  “  I  will 
give  thee  to  the  fowls  of  the  air  and  to  the  beasts 
of  the  field.” 

Though  exercises  of  this  kind,  when  indulged 
with  moderation,  may  have  a  good  influence  both 
on  the  mind  and  body,  the  country  affords  many 
other  amusements  of  a  more  noble  kind. 

Among  these  I  know  none  more  delightful  in 
itself,  and  beneficial  to  the  public,  than  that  of 
planting.  I  could  mention  a  nobleman  whose  for¬ 
tune  has  placed  him  in  several  parts  of  England, 
and  who  has  always  left  these  visible  marks  be¬ 
hind  him,  which  show  he  has  been  there;  he  never 
hired  a  house  in  his  life,  without  leaving  all  about 
it  the  seeds  of  wealth,  and  bestowing  legacies  on 
the  posterity  of  the  owner.  Had  all  the  gentlemen 
of  England  made  the  same  improvements  upon 
their  estates,  our  whole  country  would  have  been 
at  this  time  as  one  great  garden.  Nor  ought  such 
an  employment  to  be  looked  upon  as  too  inglorious 
for  men  of  the  highest  rank.  There  have  been 
heroes  in  this  art,  as  well  as  in  others.  We  are 
told  in  particular  of  Cyrus  the  Great,  that  he  planted 
all  the  Lesser  Asia.  There  is  indeed  something 
truly  magnificent  in  this  kind  of  amusement;  it 
gives  a  nobler  air  to  several  parts  of  nature;  it 
fills  the  earth  with  a  variety  of  beautiful  scenes, 
and  has  something  in  it  like  creation.  For  this 
reason,  the  pleasure  of  one  who  plants  is  something 
like  that  of  a  poet,  who,  as  Aristotle  observes,  is 
more  delighted  with  his  productions  than  any  other 
writer  or  artist  whatsoever. 


Plantations  have  one  advantage  in  them  which 
is  not  to  be  found  in  most  other  works,  as  they 
give  a  pleasure  of  a  more  lasting  date,  and  contin¬ 
ually  improve  in  the  eye  of  the  planter.  When 
you  have  finished  a  building,  or  any  other  under¬ 
taking  of  the  like  nature,  it  immediately  decays 
upon  your  hands;  you  see  it  brought  to  its  utmost 
point  of  perfection,  and  from  that  time  hastening 
to  its  ruin.  On  the  contrary,  when  you  have  fin¬ 
ished  your  plantations,  they  are  still  arriving  at 
greater  degrees  of  perfection  as  long  as  you  live, 
and  appear  more  delightful  in  eveiy  succeeding 
year  than  they  did  in  the  foregoing. 

But  I  do  not  only  recommend  this  art  to  men  of 
estates  as  a  pleasing  amusement,  but  as  it  is  a  kind 
of  virtuous  employment,  and  may  therefore  be  in¬ 
culcated  by  moral  motives;  particularly  from  the 
love  which  we  ought  to  have  for  our  country,  and 
the  regard  which  we  ought  to  bear  to  our  posterity. 
As  for  the  first,  I  need  only  mention  what  is  fre¬ 
quently  observed  by  others,  that  the ’increase  of 
forest  trees  does  by  no  means  bear  a  proportion  to 
the  destruction  of  them,  insomuch  that  in  a  few 
ages  the  nation  may  be  at  a  loss  to  supply  itself 
with  timber  sufficient  for  the  fleets  of  England.  I 
know  when  a  man  talks  of  posterity  in  matters  of 
this  nature,  he  is  looked  upon  with  an  eye  of  ridi¬ 
cule  by  the  cunning  and  selfish  part  of  mankind. 
Most  people  are  of  the  humor  of  an  old  fellow  of 
a  college,  who,  when  he  was  pressed  by  the  society 
to  come  into  something  that  might  redound  to  the 
good  of  their  successors,  grew  very  peevish:  “We 
are  always  doing,”  says  he,  “  something  for  pos¬ 
terity,  but  I  would  fain  see  posterity  do  something 
for  us.” 

But  I  think  men  are  inexcusable,  who  fail  in  a 
duty  of  this  nature,  since  it  is  so  easily  discharged. 
When  a  man  considers  that  the  putting  of  a  few 
twigs  into  the  ground  is  doing  good  to  one  who 
will  make  his  appearance  in  the  world  about  fifty 
years  hence,  or  that  he  is  perhaps  making  one  of 
his  own  descendants  easy  or  rich,  by  so  inconsid¬ 
erable  an  expense,  if  he  finds  himself  averse  to  it, 
he  must  conclude  that  he  has  a  poor  and  base 
heart,  void  of  all  generous  principles  and  love  to 
mankind. 

There  is  one  consideration  which  may  very  much 
enforce  what  I  have  here  said.  Many  honest 
minds,  that  are  naturally  disposed  to  do  good  in 
the  world,  and  become  beneficial  to  mankind, 
complain  within  themselves  that  they  have  not  tal¬ 
ents  for  it.  This,  therefore,  is  a  good  office,  which 
is  suited  to  the  meanest  capacities,  and  which  may 
be  performed  by  multitudes,  who  have  not  abilities 
sufficient  to  deserve  well  of  their  country,  and  to 
recommend  themselves  to  their  posterity,  by  any 
other  method.  It  is  the  phrase  of  a  friend  of  mine, 
when  any  useful  country  neighbor  dies,  that  “you 
may  trace  him;”  which  I  look  upon  as  a  good 
funeral  oration,  at  the  death  of  an  honest  husband¬ 
man,  who  hath  left  the  impressions  of  his  industry 
behind  him  in  the  place  where  he  has  lived. 

Upon  the  foregoing  considerations,  I  can  scarcely 
forbear  representing  the  subject  of  this  paper  as  a 
kind  of  moral  virtue;  which,  as  I  have  already 
shown,  recommends  itself  likewise  by  the  pleasure 
that  attends  it.  It  must  be  confessed  that  this  is 
none  of  those  turbulent  pleasures  which  are  apt  to 
gratify  a  man  in  the  heats  of  youth;  but,  if  it  be 
not  so  tumultuous,  it  is  more  lasting.  Nothing 
can  be  more  delightful  than  to  entertain  ourselves 
with  prospects  of  our  own  making,  and  to  walk 
under  those  shades  which  our  own  industry  has 
raised.  Amusements  of  this  nature  compose  the 
mind,  and  lay  at  rest  all  those  passions  which  are 
uneasy  to  the  soul  of  man,  beside  that  they  natu¬ 
rally  engender  good  thoughts,  and  dispose  us  to 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


laudable  contemplations.  Many  of  the  old  pliilo-  I 
sophers  passed  away  the  greatest  parts  of  their 
lives  among  their  gardens.  Epicurus  himself  could  J 
not  think  sensual  pleasure  attainable  in  any  other 
scene.  Every  reader,  who  is  acquainted  with  Ho¬ 
mer,  Virgil,  and  Horace,  the  greatest  geniuses  of 
all  antiquity,  knows  veiy  well  with  how  much 
rapture  tney  have  spoken  on  this  subject;  and  that 
Virgil  in  particular  has  written  a  whole  book  on 
the  art  of  planting. 

This  art  seems  to  have  been  more  especially 
adapted  to  the  nature  of  man  in  his  primeval 
state,  when  he  had  life  enough  to  see  his  produc¬ 
tions  flourish  in  their  utmost  beauty,  and  grad¬ 
ually  decay  with  him.  One  who  lived  before  the 
flood  might  have  seen  a  wood  of  the  tallest  oaks 
in  the  acorn.  But  I  only  mention  this  particular 
in  order  to  introduce,  in  my  next  paper,  a  history 
which  I  have  found  among  the  accounts  of  China, 
and  which  may  be  looked  upon  as  an  antediluvian 
novel. 


Ho.  584.]  MONDAY,  AUGUST  23,  1714. 

Hie  gelidi  foates,  liie  mollia  prata,  Lycori : 

Ilic  nemus,  hie  toto  tecum  consumerer  awo. 

Yirg.  Eel.  x.  42. 

Come  see  what  pleasures  in  our  plains  abound ; 

The  woods,  the  fountains,  and  the  fiow’ry  ground; 

Here  I  could  live,  and  love,  and  die  with  only  you. 

Dryden. 

Hilpa  was  one  of  the  hundred  and  fifty  daugh¬ 
ters  of  Zilpah,  of  the  race  of  Cohu,  by  whom 
some  of  the  learned  think  is  meant  Cain.  She 
was  exceedingly  beautiful,  and,  when  she  was  but 
a  girl  of  threescore  and  ten  years  of  age,  received 
the  addresses  of  several  who  made  love  to  her. 
Among  these  were  two  brothers,  Harpath  and 
Shalum.  Harpath,  being  the  first  born,  was  mas¬ 
ter  of  that  fruitful  region  which  lies  at  the  foot  of 
Mount  Tirzah,  in  the  southern  parts  of  China. 
Shalum  (which  is  to  say  the  planter,  in  the  Chi¬ 
nese  language)  possessed  all  the  neighboring  hills, 
and  that  great  range  of  mountains  which  goes 
under  the  name  of  Tirzah.  Harpath  was  of  a 
haughty,  contemptuous  spirit;  Shalum  was  of  a 
gentle  disposition,  beloved  both  by  God  and  man. 

It  is  said  that  among  the  antediluvian  women, 
the  daughters  of  Cohu  had  their  minds  wholly 
set  upon  riches;  for  which  reason  the  beautiful 
Hilpa  preferred  Harpath  to  Shalum,  because  of 
his  numerous  flocks  and  herds,  that  covered  all 
the  low  country  which  runs  along  the  foot  of 
Mount  Tirzah,  and  is  watered  by  several  fount¬ 
ains  and  streams  breaking  out  of  the  sides  of  that 
mountain. 

Harpath  made  so  quick  a  dispatch  of  his  court¬ 
ship,  that  he  married  Hilpa  in  the  hundredth  year 
of  her  age;  and,  being  of  an  insolent  temper, 
laughed  to  scorn  his  brother  Shalum  for  having 
pretended  to  the  beautiful  Hilpa,  when  he  was 
master  of  nothing  but  a  long  chain  of  rocks  and 
mountains.  This  so  much  provoked  Shalum,  that 
he  is  said  to  have  cursed  his  brother  in  the  bitter¬ 
ness  of  his  heart,  and  to  have  prayed  that  one  of 
his  mountains  might  fall  upon  his  head  if  ever  he 
came  within  the  shadow  of  it. 

From  this  time  forward  Harpath  would  never 
venture  out  of  the  valleys,  but  came  to  an  un¬ 
timely  end  in  the  two  hundred  and  fiftieth  year 
of  his  age,  being  drowned  in  a  river  as  he  at¬ 
tempted  to  cross  it.  This  river  is  called  to  this 
day,  from  his  name  who  perished  in  it,  the  river 
Harpath;  and,  what  is  very  remarkable,  issues  out 
of  one  of  those  mountains  which  Shalum  wished 
might  fall  upon  his  brother,  when  he  cursed  him 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart. 


685 

Hilpa  was  in  the  hundred  and  sixtieth  year  of 
her  age  at  the  death  of  her  husband,  having 
brought  him  but  fifty  children  before  he  was 
snatched  away,  as  has  been  already  related. 
Many  of  the  hntediluvians  made  love  to  the 
young  widow;  though  no  one  was  thought  so 
likely  to  succeed  in  her  affections  as  her  first 
lover  Shalum,  who  renewed  his  court  to  her  about 
ten  years  after  the  death  of  Harpath;  for  it  was 
not  thought  decent  in  those  days  that  a  widow 
should  be  seen  by  a  man  within  ten  years  after 
the  decease  of  her  husband. 

Shalum  falling  into  a  deep  melancholy,  and  re¬ 
solving  to  take  away  that  objection  which  had 
been  raised  against  him  when  he  made  his  first 
addresses  to  Hilpa,  began,  immediately  after  her 
marriage  with  Harpath,  to  plant  all  that  mount¬ 
ainous  region  which  fell  to  his  lot  in  the  division 
of  this  country.  He  knew  how  to  adapt  every 
plant  to  its  proper  soil,  and  is  thought  to  have  in¬ 
herited  many  traditional  secrets  of  that  art  from 
the  first  man.  This  employment  turned  at  length 
to  his  profit  as  well  as  to  his  amusement:  his 
mountains  were  in  a  few  years  shaded  with  young 
trees,  that  gradually  shot  up  into  groves,  woods, 
and  forests,  intermixed  with  walks  and  lawns, 
and  gardens;  insomuch  that  the  whole  region, 
from  a  naked  and  desolate  prospect,  began  now 
to  look  like  a  second  paradise.  The  pleasantness 
of  the  place,  and  the  agreeable  disposition  of 
Shalum,  who  was  reckoned  one  of  the  mildest 
and  wisest  of  all  who  lived  before  the  flood,  drew 
into  it  multitudes  of  people,  who  were  perpetually 
employed  in  the  sinking  of  wells,  the  digging  of 
trenches,  and  the  hollowing  of  trees,  for  the  better 
distribution  of  water  through  every  part  of  this 
spacious  plantation. 

The  habitations  of  Shalum  looked  every  year 
more  beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  Hilpa,  who,  after  the 
space  of  seventy  autumns,  was  wonderfully  pleased 
with  the  distant  prospect  of  Shalum’s  hills,  which 
wrere  then  covered  with  innumerable  tufts  of  trees, 
and  gloomy  scenes,  that  gave  a  magnificence  to 
the  place,  and  converted  it  into  one  of  the  finest 
landscapes  the  eye  of  man  could  behold. 

The  Chinese  record  a  letter  which  Shalum  is 
said  to  have  written  to  Hilpa  in  the  eleventh  year 
of  her  widowhood.  I  shall  here  translate  it,  with¬ 
out  departing  from  that  noble  simplicity  of  senti 
ments  and  plainness  of  manners  which  appear  in 
the  original. 

Shalum  was  at  this  time  one  hundred  and  eighty 
years  old,  and  Hilpa  one  hundred  and  seventy. 

“  Shalum,  Master  of  Mount  Tirzah,  to  Hilpa, 
Mistress  of  the  Valleys. 

“In  the  788th  year  of  the  creation. 

“What  have  I  not  suffered,  0  thou  daughter  of 
Zilpah,  since  thou  gavest  thyself  away  in  marriage 
to  my  rival  ?  I  grew  weary  of  the  light  of  the  sun, 
and  have  been  ever  since  covering  myself  with 
woods  and  forests.  These  threescore  and  ten 
years  have  I  bewailed  the  loss  of  thee  on  the 
top  of  Mount  Tirzah,  and  soothed  my  melan¬ 
choly  among  a  thousand  gloomy  shades  of  my 
own  raising.  My  dwellings  are  at  present  as  the 
garden  of  God:  every  part  of  them  is  filled  with 
fruits,  and  flowers,  and  fountains.  The  whole 
mountain  is  perfumed  for  thy  reception.  Come 
up  into  it,  0  my  beloved,  and  let  us  people  this 
spot  of  the  new  world  with  a  beautiful  race  of 
mortals;  let  us  multiply  exceedingly  among  these 
delightful  shades,  and  fill  every  quarter  of  them 
with  sons  and  daughters.  Remember,  0  thou 
daughter  of  Zilpah,  that  the  age  of  man  is  but  a 
thousand  years;  that  beauty  is  the  admiration  but 
of  a  few  centuries.  It  flourishes  as  a  mountain 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


686 


oak,  or  as  a  cedar  on  the  top  of  Tirzah,  which  in 
three  or  four  hundred  years  will  fade  away,  and 
never  be  thought  of  by  posterity,  unless  a  young 
wood  springs  from  its  roots.  Think. well  on  this, 
and  remember  thy  neighbor  in  the  mountains.” 

Having  here  inserted  this  letter,  which  I  look 
upon  as  the  only  antediluvian  billet-doux  now  ex¬ 
tant,  I  shall  in  my  next  paper  give  the  answer  to 
it,  and  the  sequel  of  this  story. 


Ho.  585.]  WEDNESDAY,  AUGUST  25,  1714. 

Ipsi  leetit.ia  voces  ad  sidera  j  actant 
Intonsi  montes :  ipsae  jam  carmina  rapes, 

Ipsa  sonant  arbusta - Virg.  Eel.  v.  68. 

The  mountain-tops  unshorn,  the  rocks  rejoice; 

The  lowly  shrubs  partake  of  human  voice. — Dryden. 

THE  SEQUEL  OF  THE  STORY  OF  SHALUM  AND  HILPA. 

The  letter  inserted  in  my  last  had  so  good  an 
effect  upon  Hilpa,  that  she  answered  it  in  less 
than  twelve  months  after  the  following  manner: 

“Hilpa,  Mistress  of  the  Valleys,  to  Shalum, 
Master  of  Mount  Tirzah. 

“In  the  7S9th  year  of  the  creation. 

“  What  have  I  to  do  with  thee,  0  Shalum  ? 
Thou  praisest  Hilpa’s  beauty,  but  art  thou  not 
secretly  enamored  with  the  verdure  of  her  mea¬ 
dows?  Art  thou  not  more  affected  with  the  pros¬ 
pect  of 'her  green  valleys  than  thou  wouldst  be 
with  the  sight  of  her  person?  The  lowings  of 
my  herds  and  the  bleating  of  my  flocks  make 
a  pleasant  echo  in  thy  mountains,  and  sound 
sweetly  in  thy  ears.  What  though  I  am  de¬ 
lighted  with  the  wavings  of  thy  forests,  and 
those  breezes  of  perfumes  which  flow  from  the 
top  of  Tirzah,  are  these  like  the  riches  of  the 
valley  ? 

“1  know  thee,  0  Shalum;  thou  art  more  wise 
and  happy  than  any  of  the  sons  of  men.  Thy 
dwellings  are  among  the  cedars:  thou  searchest 
out  the  diversity  of  soils:  thou  understandest  the 
influences  of  the  stars,  and  markest  the  change  of 
seasons.  Can  a  woman  appear  lovely  in  the  eyes 
of  such  a  one?  Disquiet  me  not,  O  Shalum;  let 
me  alone,  that  I  may  enjoy  those  goodly  posses¬ 
sions  which  are  fallen  to  my  lot.  Win  me  not  by 
thy  enticing  words.  May  thy  trees  increase  and 
multiply;  mayest  thou  add  wood  to  wood,  and 
shade  to  shade;  but  tempt  not  Hilpa  to  destroy 
thy  solitude,  and  make  thy  retirement  populous.” 

The  Chinese  say  that  a  little  time  afterward  she 
accepted  of  a  treat  in  one  of  the  neighboring  hills, 
to  which  Shalum  had  invited  her.  This  treat 
lasted  for  two  years,  and  is  said  to  have  cost 
Shalum  five  hundred  antelopes,  two  thousand  os¬ 
triches,  and  a  thousand  tuns  of  milk;  but  what 
most,  of  all  recommended  it,  was  that  variety  of 
delicious  fruits  and  potherbs,  in  which  no  person 
then  living  could  any  way  equal  Shalum. 

He  treated  her  in  the  bower  which  he  had 
planted  amidst  the  wood  of  nightingales.  The 
wood  was  made  up  of  such  fruit-trees  and  plants 
as  are  most  agreeable  to  the  several  kinds  of  sink¬ 
ing  birds;  so  that  it  had  drawn  into  it  all  the 
music  of  the  country,  and  was  filled  from  one  end 
of  the  year  to  the  other  with  the  most  agreeable 
concert  in  season. 

He  showed  her  every  day  some  beautiful  and 
surprising  scene  in  this  new  region  of  wood¬ 
lands;  and,  as  by  this  means  he  had  all  the  op¬ 
portunities  he  could  wish  for  of  opening  his  mind 
to  her,  he  succeeded  so  well,  that  upon  her  de¬ 
parture  she  made  him  a  kind  of  a  promise,  and 


gave  him  her  word  to  return  to  him  a  positive 
answer  in  less  than  fifty  years. 

She  had  not  been  long  among  her  own  people 
in  the  valleys,  when  she  received  new  overtures, 
and  at  the  same  time  a  most  splendid  visit  from 
Mislipach,  who  was  a  mighty  man  of  old,  and 
had  built  a  great  city,  which  he  called  after  his 
own  name.  Every  house  was  made  for  at  least 
a  thousand  years,  nay,  there  were  some  that  were 
leased  out  for  three  lives;  so  that  the  quantity  of 
stone  and  timber  consumed  in  this  building  is 
scarce  to  be  imagined  by  those  who  live  in  the 
present  age  of  the  world.  This  great  man  enter¬ 
tained  her  with  the  voice  of  musical  instruments 
which  had  been  lately  invented,  and  danced  be¬ 
fore  her  to  the  sound  of  the  timbrel.  He  also  pre¬ 
sented  her  with  several  domestic  utensils  wrought 
in  brass  and  iron,  which  had  been  newly  found 
out  for  the  conveniency  of  life.  In  the  mean¬ 
time  Shalum  grew  vesy  uneasy  with  himself,  and 
was  sorely  displeased  at  Hilpa  for  the  reception 
which  she  had  given  to  Mishpach,  insomuch  that 
he  never  wrote  to  her  or  spoke  of  her  during  a 
whole  revolution  of  Saturn;  but  finding  that  this 
intercourse  went  no  further  than  a  visit,  he  again 
renewed  his  addresses  to  her;  who,  during  his  long 
silence,  is  said  very  often  to  have  cast  a  wishing 
eye  upon  Mount  Tirzah. 

Her  mind  continued  wavering  about  twenty 
years  longer  between  Shalum  and  Mishpach;  for 
though  her  inclinations  favored  the  former,  her 
interest  pleaded  very  powerfully  for  the  other. 
While  her  heart  was  in  this  unsettled  condition, 
the  following  accident  happened,  which  deter¬ 
mined  her  choice.  A  high  tower  of  wood  that 
stood  in  the  city  of  Mishpach  having  caught  fire 
by  a  flash  of  lightning,  in  a  few  days  reduced  the 
whole  town  to  ashes.  Mishpach  resolved  to  re¬ 
build  the  place,  whatever  it  should  cost  him;  and, 
having  already  destroyed  all  the  timber  of  the 
country,  he  was  forced  to  have  recourse  to  Shalum, 
whose  forests  were  now  two  hundred  years  old. 
He  purchased  these  woods  with  so  many  herds  of 
cattle  and  flocks  of  sheep,  and  with  such  a  vast 
extent  of  fields  and  pastures,  that  Shalum  was 
now  grown  more  wealthy  than  Mishpach;  and 
therefore  appeared  so  charming  in  the  eyes  of 
Zilpah’s  daughter,  that  she  no  longer  refused  him 
in  marriage.  On  the  day  on  which  he  brought 
her  up  into  the  mountains  he  raised  a  most  pro¬ 
digious  pile  of  cedar,  and  of  every  sweet-smelling 
wood,  which  reached  about  three  hundred  cubits 
in  height:  he  also  cast  into  the  pile  bundles  of 
myrrh  and  sheaves  of  spikenard,  enriching  it 
with  every  spicy  shrub,  and  making  it  fat  with 
the  gums  of  his  plantations.  This  was  the  burnt- 
offering  which  Shalum  offered  in  the  day  of  his 
espousals;  the  smoke  of  it  ascended  up  to  heaven, 
and  filled  the  whole  country  with  incense  and 
perfume. 


No.  586.]  FRIDAY,  AUGUST  27,  1714. 

— Qum  in  vita  usurpant  homines,  cogitant,  curant,  vident, 
quaeque  agunt  vigilantes,  agitantque,  ea  cuique  in  somno 
accidunt. — Cic.  de  Div. 

The  things  which  employ  men’s  waking  thoughts  and  actions 
recur  to  their  imaginations  in  sleep. 

By  the  last  post  I  received  the  following  letter, 
which  is  built  upon  a  thought  that  is  new,  and 
very  well  carried  on;  for  which  reasons  I  shall 
give  it  to  the  public  without  alteration,  addition, 
or  amendment: 

“Sir, 

“It  was  a  good  piece  of  advice  which  Pythag¬ 
oras  gave  to  his  scholars — that  every  night  before 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


they  slept  they  should  examine  what  they  had 
been  doing  that  day,  and  so  discover  what  actions 
were  worthy  of  pursuit  to  morrow,  and  what  little 
vices  were  to  be  prevented  from  slipping  unawares 
into  a  habit.  If  I  might  second  the  philosopher’s 
advice,  it  should  be  mine,  that  in  a  morning  before 
my  scholar  rose  he  should  consider  what  he  had 
been  about  that  night,  and  with  the  same  strictness 
as  if  the  condition  he  has  believed  himself  to  be 
in  was  real.  Such  a  scrutiny  into  the  actions  of  his 
fancy  must  be  of  considerable  advantage  ;  for  this 
reason,  because  the  circumstances  which  a  man 
imagines  himself  in  during  sleep  are  generally 
such  as  entirely  favor  his  inclinations,  good  or 
bad,  and  give  him  imaginary  opportunities  of  pur¬ 
suing  them  to  the  utmost:  so  that  his  temper  will 
lie  fairly  open  to  his  view,  while  he  considers  how 
it  is  moved  when  free  from  those  constraints  which 
the  accidents  of  real  life  put  it  under.  Dreams  are 
certainly  the  result  of  our  waking  thoughts,  and 
our  daily  hopes  and  fears  are  what  give  the  mind 
such  nimble  relishes  of  pleasure,  and  such  severe 
touches  of  pain,  in  its  midnight  rambles.  A  man 
that  murders  his  enemy,  or  deserts  his  friend,  in  a 
dream,  had  need  to  guard  his  temper  against  re¬ 
venge  and  ingratitude,  and  take  heed  that  he  be 
not  tempted  to  do  a  vile  tiling  in  the  pursuit  of 
false,  or  the  neglect  of  true  honor.  For  my  part, 
I  seldom  receive  a  benefit,  but  in  a  night  or  two’s 
time  I  make  most  noble  returns  for  it;  which, 
though  my  benefactor  is  not  a  whit  the  better  for, 
yet  it  pleases  me  to  think  that  it  was  from  a  prin¬ 
ciple  of  gratitude  in  me  that  my  mind  was  suscep¬ 
tible  of  such  generous  transport  while  I  thought 
myself  repaying  the  kindness  of  my  friend :  and 
I  have  often  been  ready  to  beg  pardon,  instead  of 
returning  an  injury,  after  considering  that  when 
the  offender  was  in  my  power  I  had  carried  my 
resentments  much  too  far. 

“  I  think  it  has  been  observed,  in  the  course  of 
your  papers,  how  much  one’s  happiness  or  misery 
may  depend  upon  the  imagination:  of  which  truth 
those  strange  workings  of  fancy  in  sleep  are  no 
inconsiderable  instances ;  so  that  not  only  the  ad¬ 
vantage  a  man  has  of  making  discoveries  of  him¬ 
self,  but  a  regard  to  his  own 'ease  or  disquiet,  may 
induce  him  to  accept  of  my  advice.  Such  as  are 
willing  to  comply  with  it,  I  shall  put  into  a  way 
of  doing  it  with  pleasure,  by  observing  only  one 
maxim  which  I  shall  give  them,  viz:  ‘  To  go  to 
bed  with  a  mind  entirely  free  from  passion,  and  a 
body  clear  of  the  least  intemperance.’ 

“  They,  indeed,  who  can  sink  into  sleep  with 
their  thoughts  less  calm  or  innocent  than  they 
should  be,  do  but  plunge  themselves  into  scenes 
of  guilt  and  misery;  or  they  who  are  willing  to 
purchase  any  midnight  disquietudes  for  the  satis¬ 
faction  of  a  full  meal,  or  a  skin  full  of  wine;  these 
I  have  nothing  to  say  to,  as  not  knowing  how  to 
invite  them  to  reflections  full  of  shame  and  hor¬ 
ror;  but  those  that  will  observe  this  rule,  I  promise 
them  they  shall  awake  into  health  and  cheerful¬ 
ness,  and  be  capable  of  recounting  with  delight 
those  glorious  moments,  wherein  the  mind  has 
been  indulging  itself  in  such  luxury  of  thought, 
such  noble  hurry  of  imagination.  Suppose  a 
man’s  going  supperless  to  bed  should  introduce 
him  to  the  table  of  some  great  prince  or  other, 
where  he  shall  be  entertained  with  the  noblest 
marks  of  honor  and  plenty,  and  do  so  much  busi¬ 
ness  after,  that  he  shall  rise  with  as  good  a  stomach 
to  his  breakfast  as  if  he  had  fasted  all  night  long : 
or  suppose  he  should  see  his  dearest  friends  remain 
all  night  in  great  distresses,  which  he  should  in¬ 
stantly  have  disengaged  them  from,  could  he  have 
been  content  to  have  gone  to  bed  without  the  other 
bottle;  believe  me,  these  effects  of  fancy  are  no 


687 

contemptible  consequences  of  commanding  or  in¬ 
dulging  one’s  appetite. 

“  I  forbear  recommending  my  advice  upon  many 
other  accounts,  until  I  hear  how  you  and  your 
readers  relish  what  I  have  already  said ;  among 
whom,  if  there  be  any  that  may  pretend  it  is  use¬ 
less  to  them,  because  they  never  dream  at  all,  there 
may  be  others  perhaps  who  do  little  else  all  day 
long.  Were  every  one  as  sensible  as  I  am  what 
happens  to  him  in  his  sleep,  it  would  be  no  dis¬ 
pute  whether  we  pass  so  considerable  a  portion  of 
our  time  in  the  condition  of  stocks  and  stones,  or 
whether  the  soul  were  not  perpetually  at  work 
upon  the  principle  of  thought.  However,  it  is  an 
honest  endeavor  of  mine  to  persuade  my  country¬ 
men  to  reap  some  advantage  from  so  many  unre¬ 
garded  hours,  and  as  such  you  will  encourage  it. 

“  I  shall  conclude  with  giving  you  a  sketch  or 
two  of  my  way  of  proceeding. 

“  If  I  have  any  business  of  consequence  to  do  to¬ 
morrow,  I  am  scarce  dropped  asleep  to-night  but  I 
am  in  the  midst  of  it;  and  when  awake,  I  consider 
the  whole  procession  of  the  affair,  and  get  the  ad¬ 
vantage  of  the  next  day’s  experience  before  the  sun 
has  risen  upon  it. 

“  There  is  scarcely  a  great  post  but  what  I  have 
some  time  or  other  been  in;  but  my  behavior  while 
I  was  master  of  a  college  pleases  me  so  well,  that 
whenever  there  is  a  province  of  that  nature  vacant, 
I  intend  to  step  in  as  soon  as  I  can. 

“  I  have  done  many  things  that  would  not  pass 
examination,  when  I  have  had  the  art  of  flying  or 
being  invisible ;  for  which  reason  I  am  glad  I  am 
not  possessed  of  those  extraordinary  qualities. 

“  Lastly,  Mr.  Spectator,  I  have  been  a  great  cor¬ 
respondent  of  yours,  and  have  read  many  of  my 
letters  in  your  paper  which  I  never  wrote  to  you. 
If  you  have  a  mind  I  should  really  be  so,  I  have 
got  a  parcel  of  visions  and  other  miscellanies  in 
my  noctuary,  which  I  shall  send  you  to  enrich 
your  paper  with  on  proper  occasions'! 

“  I  am,  etc., 

“John  Shadow.” 


No.  587.]  MONDAY,  AUGUST  30,  1714. 

Intus  et  in  cute  novi — Pers.,  Sat.  iii,  BO. 

I  know  thee  to  thy  bottom :  from  within 

Thy  shallow  center  to  the  utmost  skin. — Dryden. 

Though  the  author  of  the  following  vision  is 
unknown  to  me,  I  am  apt  to  think  it  may  be  the 
work  of  that  ingenious  gentleman,  who  promised 
me,  in  the  last  paper,  some  extracts  out  of  his 
noctuary. 

“Sir, 

“  I  was  the  other  day  reading  the  life  of  Maho¬ 
met.  Among  many  other  extravagances,  I  find  it 
recorded  of  that  impostor,  that  in  the  fourth  year 
of  his  age,  the  angel  Gabriel  caught  him  up  while 
he  was  among  his  playfellows;  and,  carrying  him 
aside,  cut  open  his  breast,  plucked  out  his  heart, 
and  wrung  out  of  it  that  black  drop  of  blood,  in 
which,  say  the  Turkish  divines,  is  contained  the 
forties  peccati,  so  that  he  was  free  from  sin  ever 
after.  I  immediately  said  to  myself,  Though  this 
story  be  a  fiction,  a  very  good  moral  may  be  drawn 
|  from  it,  would  every  man  but  apply  it  to  himself, 
and  endeavor  to  squeeze  out  of  his  heart  whatever 
sins  or  ill  qualities  he  find  in  it. 

“  While  my  mind  was  wholly  taken  up  with 
this  contemplation,  I  insensibly  fell  into  a  most 
pleasing  slumber,  when  methought  two  porters 
entered  my  chamber,  carrying  a  large  chest  be¬ 
tween  them.  After  having  set  it  down  in  the 
I  middle  of  the  room  they  departed.  I  immediately 
endeavored  to  open  what  was  sent  me,  when  a 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


688 

shape,  like  that  in  which  we  paint  our  angels, 
appeared  before  me,  and  forbade  me.  ‘  Inclosed/ 
said  he,  ‘  are  the  hearts  of  several  of  your  friends 
and  acquaintance;  but,  before  you  can  be  qualified 
to  see  and  animadvert  on  the  failings  of  others, 
you  must  be  pure  yourself whereupon  he  drew 
out  his  incision  knife,  cut  me  open,  took  out  my 
heart,  and  began  to  squeeze  it.  I  was  in  a  great 
confusion  to  see  how  many  things,  which  I  had 
always  cherished  as  virtues,  issued  out  of  my 
heart  on  this  occasion.  In  short,  after  it  had  been 
thoroughly  squeezed,  it  looked  like  an  empty 
bladder;  when  the  phantom,  breathing  a  fresh 
particle  of  divine  air  into  it,  restored  it  safe  to  its 
former  repositoiy;  and,  having  sewed  me  up,  we 
began  to  examine  the  chest. 

“  The  hearts  were  all  inclosed  in  transparent 
vials,  and  preserved  in  a  liquor  which  looked  like 
spirits  of  wine.  The  first  which  I  cast  my  eye 
upon  I  was  afraid  would  have  broke  the  glass 
which  contained  it.  It  shot  up  and  down,  with 
incredible  swiftness,  through  the  liquor  in  which 
it  swam,  and  very  frequently  bounced  against  the 
side  of  the  vial.  The  fomes,  or  spot  in  the  middle 
of  it,  was  not  large,  but  of  a  red,  fiery  color,  and 
seemed  to  be  the  cause  of  these  violent  agitations. 
‘  That/  says  my  instructor,.  ‘  is  the  heart  of  Tom 
Dreadnaught,  who  behaved  himself  well  in  the 
late  wars,  but  has  for  these  ten  years  last  past  been 
aiming  at  some  post  of  honor  to  no  purpose.  He 
is  lately  retired. into  the  country,  where,  quite 
choked  up  with  spleen  and  choler,  he  rails  at  bet¬ 
ter  men  than  himself,  and  will  be  forever  uneasy, 
because  it  is  impossible  he  should  think  his  merits 
sufficiently  rewarded/  The  next  heart  that  I  ex¬ 
amined  was  remarkable  for  its  smallness ;  it  lay 
still  at  the  bottom  of  the  vial,  and  I  could  hardly 
erceive  that  it  beat  at  all.  The  fomes  was  quite 
lack,  and  had  almost  diffused  itself  over  the 
whole  heart.  ‘  This/  says  my  interpreter,  ‘  is  the 
heart  of  Dick  Gloomy,  who  never  thirsted  after 
anything  but  money.  Notwithstanding  all  his 
endeavors,  he  is  still  poor.  This  has  flung  him 
into  a  most  deplorable  state  of  melancholy  and 
despair.  He  is  a  composition  of  envy  and  idle¬ 
ness  :  hates  mankind,  but  gives  them  their  revenge 
by  being  more  uneasy  to  himself  than  to  any  one 
else/ 

“  The  vial  I  looked  upon  next  contained  a  large 
fair  heart  which  beat  very  strongly.  The  fomes  or 
spot  in  it  was  exceedingly  small ;  but  I  could  not 
help  observing,  that  which  way  soever  I  turned 
the  vial,  it  always  appeared  uppermost,  and  in  the 
strongest  point  of  light.  ‘  The  heart  you  are  ex¬ 
amining/  says  my  companion,  ‘belongs  to  Will 
Worthy.  He  has,  indeed,  a  most  noble  soul,  and 
is  possessed  of  a  thousand  good  qualities.  The 
speck  which  you  discover  is  vanity/ 

“ !  Here/  says  the  angel,  ‘  is  the  heart  of  Free- 
love,  your  intimate  friend/ — ‘  Freelove  and  1/  said 
I,  ‘  are  at  present  very  cold  to  one  another,  and 
I  do  not  care  for  looking  on  the  heart  of  a  man 
which  I  fear  is  overcast  with  rancor/  My  teacher 
commanded  me  to  look  upon  it:  I  did  so,  and  to 
my  unspeakable  surprise,  found  that  a  small  swell¬ 
ing  spot,  which  I  at  first  took  to  be  ill-will  toward 
me,  was  only  passion  ;  and  that  upon  my  nearer 
inspection  it  wholly  disappeared ;  upon  which  the 
phantom  told  me  Freelove  was  one  of  the  best 
natured  men  alive. 

“ 1  This,’  says  my  teacher,  is  a  female  heart  of 
your  acquaintance.’  I  found  the  fomes  in  it  of  the 
largest  size,  and  of  a  hundred  different  colors, 
which  were  still  varying  every  moment.  Upon 
my  asking  to  whom  it  belonged,  I  was  informed 
that  it  was  the  heart  of  Coquetilla. 

‘  I  set  it  down,  and  drew  out  another  in  which 


I  took  the  fomes  at  first  sight  to  be  veiy  small,  but 
was  amazed  to  find  that,  as  I  looked  steadfastly 
upon  it,  it  grew  still  larger.  It  was  the  heart  of 
Melissa,  a  noted  prude,  who  lives  the  next  door 
to  me. 

“  ‘  I  show  you  this/  says  the  phantom,  ‘because 
it  is  indeed  a  rarity,  and  you  have  the  happiness 
to  know  the  person  to  whom  it  belongs.’  He  then 
put  into  my  hands  a  large  ciystal  glass,  that  in¬ 
closed  a  heart,  in  which,  though  I  examined  it 
with  the  utmost  nicety,  I  could  not  perceive  any 
blemish.  I  made  no  scruple  to  affirm  that  it  must 
be  the  heart  of  Seraphina;  and  was  glad,  but 
not  surprised,  to  find  that  it  was  so.  ‘  She  is 
indeed,’  continued  my  guide,  ‘the  ornament  as 
well  as  the  envy  of  her  sex.’  At  these  last  words 
he  pointed  to  the  hearts  of  .several  of  her  female 
acquaintance  which  lay  in  different  vials,  and  had 
very  large  spots  in  them,  all  of  a  deep  blue.  ‘You 
are  not  to  wonder/  says  he,  ‘  that  you  see  no  spot 
in  a  heart,  whose  innocence  has  been  proof  against 
all  the  corruptions  of  a  depraved  age.  If  it  has 
any  blemish,  it  is  too  small  to  be  discovered  by 
human  eyes.’ 

“  I  laid  it  down,  and  took  up  the  hearts  of  other 
females,  in  all  of  which  the  fomes  ran  in  several 
veins,  which  were  twisted  together,  and  made  a 
very  perplexed  figure.  I  asked  the  meaning  of  it, 
and  was  told  it  represented  deceit. 

“  I  should  have  been  glad  to  have  examined  the 
hearts  of  several  of  my  acquaintance,  whom  I  knew 
to  be  particularly  addicted  to  drinking,  gaming, 
intriguing,  etc.,  but  my  interpreter  told  me  I  must 
let  that  alone  until  another  opportunity,  and  flung 
down  the  cover  of  the  chest  with  so  much  violence 
as  immediately  awoke  me.” 


No.  588. J  WEDNESDAY,  SEPT.  1,  1714. 

Dicitis,  omnis  in  imbecillitate  est  et  gratia,  et  caritas. 

Cicero. 

You  pretend  that  all  kindness  and  benevolence  is 
founded  in  weakness. 

Man  may  be  considered  in  two  views,  as  a  rea¬ 
sonable  and  as  a  sociable  being;  capable  of  be¬ 
coming  himself  either  happy  or  miserable,  and  of 
contributing  to  the  happiness  or  misery  of  his  fel¬ 
low-creatures.  Suitably  to  this  double  capacity, 
the  Contriver  of  human  nature  hath  wisely  fur¬ 
nished  it  with  two  principles  of  action,  self-love 
and  benevolence ;  designed,  one  of  them  to  render 
man  wakeful  to  his  own  personal  interest,  the 
other  to  dispose  him  for  giving  his  utmost  assist¬ 
ance  to  all  engaged  in  the  same  pursuit.  This  is 
such  an  account  of  our  frame,  so  agreeable  to  rea¬ 
son,  so  much  for  the  honor  of  our  Maker,  and  the 
credit  of  our  species,  that  it  may  appear  somewhat 
unaccountable  what  should  induce  men  to  repre¬ 
sent  human  nature  as  they  do  under  characters  of 
disadvantage;  or  having  drawn  it  with  a  little  and 
sordid  aspect,  what  pleasure  they  can  possibly 
take  in  such  a  picture.  Do  they  reflect  that  it  is 
their  own,  and,  if  we  will  believe  themselves,  is 
not  more  odious  than  the  original?  One  of  the 
first  that  talked  in  this  lofty  strain  of  our  nature 
was  Epicurus,  Beneficence,  would  his  followers 
say,  is  all  founded  in  weakness;  and,  whatever  be 
pretended,  the  kindness  that  passeth  between  men 
and  men  is  by  every  man  directed  to  himself. 
This,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  of  a  piece  with  the 
rest  of  that  hopeful  philosophy,  which,  having 
patched  man  up  out  of  the  four  elements,  attributes 
his  being  to  chance,  and  derives  all  his  actions 
from  an  unintelligible  declination  of  atoms.  And 
for  these  glorious  discoveries  the  poet  is  beyond 
measure  transported  in  the  praises  of  his  hero,  as 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


\f  bo  must  needs  be  something  more  than  man, 
only  for  an  endeavor  to  prove  "that  man  is  in  no¬ 
thing  superior  to  beasts.  In  this  school  was  Mr. 
Hobbes  instructed  to  speak  after  the  same  manner, 
it  he  did  not  rather  draw  his  knowledge  from  an 
observation  of  his  own  temper;  for  he  somewhere 
unluckily  lays  down  this  as  a  rule,  that  from  the 
similitudes  of  thoughts  and  passions  of  one  man 
to  the  thoughts  and  passions  of  another,  whoso¬ 
ever  looks  into  himselt  and  considers  what  he  doth 
when  he  thinks,  hopes,  fears,  etc.,  and  upon  what 
grounds,  he  shall  hereby  read  and  know  what  are 
the  thoughts  and  passions  of  all  other  men  upon  the 
like  occasion.  Now  we  will  allow  Mr.  Hoobes  to 
know  best  how  he  was  inclined  ;  but  in  earnest,  I 
should  be  heartily  out  of  conceit  with  myself  if  I 
thought  myself  of  this  unamiable  temper  as  he  af¬ 
firms,  and  should  have  as  little  kindness  for  myself 
as  for  anybody  in  the  world.  Hitherto  I  always 
imagined  that  kind  and  benevolent  propensions 
were  the  original  growth  of  the  heart  of  man;  and, 
however  checked  and  overtopped  by  counter-incli¬ 
nations  that  have  since  sprung  up  within  us,  have 
still  some  force  in  the  worst  of  tempers,  and  acon- 
'  siderable  influence  on  the  best.  And  methinks  it 
is  a  fair  step  toward  the  proof  of  this,  that  the 
most  beneficent  of  all  beings  is  he  who  hath  an 
absolute  fullness  of  perfection  in  himself,  who 
gave  existence  to  the  universe,  and  so  cannot  be 
supposed  to  want  that  which  he  communicated, 
without  diminishing  from  the  plenitude  of  his 
own  power  and  happiness.  The  philosophers  be¬ 
fore-mentioned  have  indeed  done  all  that  in  them 
lay  to  invalidate  this  argument;  for,  placing  the 
gods  in  a  state  of  the  most  elevated  blessedness, 
they  describe  them  as  selfish  as  we  poor  miserable 
mortals  can  be,  and  shut  them  out  from  all  concern 
for  mankind,  upon  the  score  of  their  having  no 
need  of  us.  But  if  He  that  sitteth  in  the  heavens 
wants  not  us,  we  stand  in  continual  need  of  him; 
and,  surely,  next  to  the  survey  of  the  immense 
treasures  of  his  own  mind,  the  most  exalted  plea¬ 
sure  he  receives  is  from  beholding  millions  of 
creatures,  lately  drawn  out  of  the  gulf  of  non¬ 
existence,  rejoicing  in  the  various  degrees  of  being 
and  happiness  imparted  to  them.  And  as  this  is 
the  true,  the  glorious  character  of  the  Deity,  so  in 
forming  a  reasonable  creature  he  would  not,  if 
possible,  suffer  his  image  tojDass  out  of  his  hands 
unadorned  with  a  resemblance  of  himself  in  this 
most  lovely  part  of  his  nature.  For  what  com¬ 
placency  could  a  mind,  whose  love  is  as  unbound¬ 
ed  as  his  knowledge,  have  in  a  work  so  unlike 
himself;  a  creature  that  should  be  capable  of 
knowing  and  conversing  with  a  vast  circle  of 
objects,  and  love  none  but  himself?  What  pro- 
ortion  would  there  be  between  the  head  and  the 
eart  of  such  a  creature,  its  affections,  and  its 
understanding?  Or  could  a  society  of  such  crea¬ 
tures,  with  no  other  bottom  but  self-love  on  which 
to  maintain  a  commerce,  ever  flourish?  Reason, 
it  is  certain,  would  oblige  every  man  to  pursue  the 
general  happiness  as  the  means  to  procure  and 
establish  his  own;  and  yet,  if  beside  this  conside¬ 
ration,  there  were  not  a  natural  instinct,  prompt¬ 
ing  men  to  desire  the  welfare  and  satisfaction  of 
others,  self-love,  in  defiance  of  the  admonitions  of 
reason,  would  quickly  run  all  things  into  a  state 
of  war  and  confusion.  As  nearly  interested  as  the 
soul  is  in  the  fate  of  the  body,  our  provident  Crea¬ 
tor  saw  it  necessary,  by  the  constant  returns  of 
hunger  and  thirst,  those  importunate  appetites, 
to  put  it  in  mind  of  its  charge :  kuowing  that  if 
we  should  eat  and  drink  no  oftener  than  cold  ab¬ 
stracted  speculation  should  put  us  upon  these  ex¬ 
ercises,  and  then  leave  it  to  reason  to  prescribe  the 
quantity,  we  should  soon  refine  ourselves  out  of 
44 


689 

this  bodily  life.  And,  indeed,  it  is  obvious  to  re¬ 
mark,  that  we  follow  nothing  heartily,  unless 
carried  to  it  by  inclinations  which  anticipate  our 
reason,  and,  like  a  bias,  draw  the  mind  strongly 
toward  it.  In  order,  therefore,  to  establish  a  per¬ 
petual  intercourse  of  benefits  among  mankind, 
their  Maker  would  not  fail  to  give  them  this 
generous  prepossession  of  benevolence,  if,  as  I 
have  said,  it  were  possible.  And  from  whence  can 
we  go  about  to  argue  its  impossibility?  Is  it  in¬ 
consistent  with  self-love?  Are  their  motions  con¬ 
trary?  No  more  than  the  diurnal  rotation  of  the 
earth  is  opposed  to  its  annual;  or  its  motion  round 
its  own  center,  which  might  be  improved  as  an 
illustration  of  self-love,  to  that  which  whirls  it 
about  the  common  center  of  the  world,  answering 
to  universal  benevolence.  Is  the  force  of  self-love 
abated,  or  its  interest  prejudiced,  by  benevolence? 
So  far  from  it,  that  benevolence,  though  a  distinct 
principle,  is  extremely  serviceable  to  self-love, 
and  then  doth  most  service  when  it  is  least  de¬ 
signed. 

But  to  descend  from  reason  to  matter  of  fact;  the 
pity  which  arises  on  sight  of  persons  in  dis¬ 
tress,  and  the  satisfaction  of  mind  which  is  the 
consequence  of  having  removed  them  into  a  hap¬ 
pier  state,  are  instead  of  a  thousand  arguments  to 
prove  such  a  thing  as  a  disinterested  benevolence. 
Did  pity  proceed  from  a  reflection  we  make  upon 
our  liableness  to  the  same  ill  accidents  we  see 
befall  others,  it  were  nothing  to  the  present  purpose; 
but  this  is  assigning  an  artificial  cause  of  a 
natural  passion,  and  can  by  no  means  be  admitted' 
as  a  tolerable  account  of  it,  because  children  and 
persons  most  thoughtless  about  their  own  condi¬ 
tion,  and  incapable  of  entering  into  the  prospects 
of  futurity,  feel  the  most  violent  touches  of  com-- 
passion.  And  then,  as  to  that  charming  delight 
which  immediately  follows  the  giving  joy  to  an¬ 
other,  or  relieving  his  sorrow,  and  is,  when  the 
objects  are  numerous,  and  the  kindness  of  import¬ 
ance  really  inexpressible,  what  can  this  be  owing 
to  but  a  consciousnes  of  a  man’s  having  done 
something  praiseworthy,  and  expressive  of  a  great 
soul  ?  Whereas,  if  in  all  this  he  only  sacrificed 
to  vanity  and  self-love,  as  there  would  be  nothing 
brave  in  actions  that  make  the  most  shining  ap¬ 
pearance,  so  nature  would  not  have  rewarded  them 
with  this  divine  pleasure;  nor  could  the  commen¬ 
dations,  which  a  person  receives  for  benefits  done 
upon  selfish  views,  be  at  all  more  satisfactory 
than  when  he  is  applauded  for  what  he  doth  with¬ 
out  design;  because  in  both  cases  the  ends  of  self- 
love  are  equally  answered.  The  conscience  of 
approving  one’s  self  a  benefactor  to  mankind  is 
the  noblest  recompense  for  being  so;  doubtless  it 
is,  and  the  most  interested  cannot  propose  any¬ 
thing  so  much  to  their  own  advantage;  notwith¬ 
standing  which,  the  inclination  is  nevertheless 
unselfish.  The  pleasure  which  attends  the  grati¬ 
fication  of  our  hunger  and  thirst  is  not  the  cause 
of  these  appetites;  they  are  previous  to  any  such 
prospect;  and  so  likewise  is  the  desire  of  doing 
good;  with  this  difference,  that,  being  seated  in 
the  intellectual  part,  this  last,  though  antecedent 
to  reason,  may  yet  be  improved  and  regulated  by 
it;  and,  I  will  add,  is  no  otherwise  a  virtue  than  as 
it  is  so.  Thus  have  I  contended  for  the  dignity 
of  that  nature  I  have  the  honor  to  partake  of :  and, 
after  all  the  evidence  produced,  think  I  have  a 
right  to  conclude,  against  the  motto  of  this  paper, 
that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  generosity  in  the 
world.  Though,  if  I  were  under  a  mistake  in 
this,  I  should  say  as  Cicero  in  relation  to  the  im¬ 
mortality  of  the  soul,  I  willingly  err,  and  should 
believe  it, very  much  for  the  interest  of  mankind 
to  lie  under  the  same  delusion.  For  the  contrary 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


690 

notion  naturally  tends  to  dispirit  the  mind,  and 
sinks  it  into  a  meanness  fatal  to  the  godlike  zeal 
of  doing  good  :  as,  on  the  other  hand,  it  teaches 
people  to  be  ungrateful,  by  possessing  them  with 
a  persuasion  concerning  their  benefactors,  that 
they  have  no  regard  to  them  in  the  benefits  they 
bestow.  Now  he  that  banishes  gratitude  from 
among  men,  by  so  doing,  stops  up  the  stream  of 
beneficence:  for  though  in  conferring  kindnesses  a 
truly  generous  man  doth  not  aim  at  a  return,  yet 
he  looks  to  the  qualities  of  the  person  obliged; 
ajnd  as  nothing  renders  a  person  more  unworthy 
of  a  benefit  than  his  being  without  all  resentment 
of  it,  he  will  not  be  extremely  forward  to  oblige 
such  a  man. 


No.  589.]  FRIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  3,1714. 

Persequitur  scelus  ille  suum :  labefactaque  tandem 
Ictibus  innumeris,  adductaque  funibus  arbor 
Corruit - Ovid,  Met.  viii.  774. 

The  impious  ax  he  plies,  loud  strokes  resound, 

Till  dragg’d  with  ropes,  and  fell’d  with  many  a  wound, 
The  loosen’d  tree  comes  rushing  to  the  ground. 

“  Sir, 

“  I  am  so  great  an  admirer  of  trees,  that  the  spot 
of  ground  I  have  chosen  to  build  a  small  seat 
upon  in  the  country  is  almost  in  the  midst  of  a 
large  wood.  I  was  obliged,  much  against  my  will, 
to  cut  down  several  trees,  that  I  might  have  any 
such  thing  as  a  walk  in  my  gardens;  but  then  I 
have  taken  care  to  leave  the  space  between  every 
walk  as  much  wood  as  I  found  it.  The  moment 
you  turn  either  to  the  right  or  left  you  are  in  a 
forest,  where  nature  presents  you  with  a  much 
more  beautiful  scene  than  could  have  been  raised 
by  art. 

“Instead  of  tulips  or  carnations  I  can  show 
you  oaks  in  my  gardens  of  four  hundred  years’ 
standing,  and  a  knot  of  elms  that  might  shelter  a 
troop  of  horse  from  the  rain. 

“  It  is  not  without  the  utmost  indignation,  that 
I  observe  several  prodigal  young  heirs  in  the 
neighborhood  felling  down  the  most  glorious 
monuments  of  their  ancestors’  industry,  and  ruin¬ 
ing,  in  a  day,  the  product  of  ages. 

“  I  am  mightily  pleased  with  your  discourse 
upon  planting,  which  put  me  upon  looking  into 
my  books,  to  give  you  some  account  of  the  vene¬ 
ration  the  ancients  had  for  trees.  There  is  an  old 
tradition  that  Abraham  planted  a  cypress,  a  pine, 
and  a  cedar;  and  that  these  three  incorporated  into 
one  tree,  which  was  cut  down  for  the  building  of 
the  temple  of  Solomon. 

“Isidorus,  who  lived  in  the  reign  of  Constan- 
tius,  assures  us,  that  he  saw,  even  in  his  time, 
that  famous  oak  in  the  plains  of  Mamre,  under 
which  Abraham  is  reported  to  have  dwelt;  and 
adds,  that  the  people  looked  upon  it  with  a  great 
veneration,  and  preserved  it  as  a  sacred  tree. 

“  The  heathens  still  went  further,  and  regarded 
it  as  the  highest  piece  of  sacrilege  to  injure  certain 
trees  which  they  took  to  be  protected  by  some 
deity.  The  story  of  Erisictlion,  the  grove  of 
Dodona,  and  that  at  Delphi,  are  all  instances  of 
this  kind. 

“If  we  consider  the  machine  in  Virgil,  so  much 
blamed  by  several  critics,  in  this  light,  we  shall 
hardly  think  it  too  violent. 

“./Eneas,  when  he  built  his  fleet  in  order  to  sail 
for  Italy,  was  obliged  to  cut  down  a  grove  on 
mount  Ida,  which  however  he  durst  not  do  until 
he  had  obtained  leave  from  Cybele,  to  whom  it  was 
dedicated.  The  goddess  could  not  but  think  her¬ 
self  obliged  to  protect  the  ships,  which  were  made 
of  consecrated  timber,  after  a  very  extraordinary 


manner,  and  therefore  desired  Jupiter,  that  they 
might  not  be  obnoxious  to  the  power  of  waves  or 
winds.  Jupiter  would  not  grant  this,  but  promis¬ 
ed  her  that  as  many  as  came  safe  to  Italy  should 
be  transformed  into  goddesses  of  the  sea;  which 
the  poet  tells  us  was  accordingly  executed. 

And  now  at  length  the  number’d  hours  were  come 
Prefix’d  by  Fate’s  irrevocable  doom, 

When  the  great  mother  of  the  gods  was  free 
To  save  her  ships,  and  finish  Jove’s  decree. 

First,  from  the  quarter  of  the  morn  there  sprung 
A  light  that  sing’d  the  heavens,  and  shot  along : 

Then  from  a  cloud,  fring’d  round  with  golden  fires, 
Were  timbrels  heard,  and  Berecynthian  choirs : 

And  last  a  voice,  with  more  than  mortal  sounds, 

Both  hosts  in  arms  opposed  with  equal  horror  wounds. 

‘  0  Trojan  race,  your  needless  aid  forbear : 

And  know  my  ships  are  my  peculiar  care. 

With  greater  ease  the  bold  Rutulian  may 
With  hissing  brands  attempt  to  burn  the  sea, 

Than  singe  my  sacred  pines.  But  you,  my  charge, 
Loos’d  from  your  crooked  anchors,  launched  at  large, 
Exalted  each  a  nymph;  forsake  the  sand, 

And  swim  the  seas,  at  Cybele’s  command.’ 

No  sooner  had  the  goddess  ceased  to  speak, 

When  lo,  th’  obedient  ships  their  hawsers  break! 

And  strange  to  tell,  like  dolphins  in  the  main, 

They  plunge  their  prows,  and  dive  and  spring  again: 
As  many  beauteous  maids  the  billows  sweep, 

As  rode  before  tall  vessels  on  the  deep. 

Dbyden’s  Tib. 

“  The  common  opinion  concerning  the  nymphs, 
whom  the  ancients  called  Hamadryads,  is  more  to 
the  honor  of  trees  than  anything  yet  mentioned. 
It  was  thought  the  fate  of  these  nymphs  had  so 
near  a  dependence  on  some  trees,  more  especially 
oaks,  that  they  lived  and  died  together.  For  this 
reason  they  were  extremely  grateful  to  such  per¬ 
sons  who  preserved  those  trees  with  which  their 
being  subsisted.  Apollonius  tells  us  a  very  re¬ 
markable  story  to  this  purpose,  with  which  I  shall 
conclude  my  letter. 

“  A  certain  man,  called  Rhaecus,  observing  an 
old  oak  ready  to  fall,  and  being  moved  with  a 
sort  of  compassion  toward  the  tree,  ordered  his 
servants  to  pour  in  fresh  earth  at  the  roots  of  it, 
and  set  it  upright.  The  Hamadryad,  or  nymph, 
who  must  necessarily  have  perished  with  the  tree, 
appeared  to  him  the  next  day,  and,  after  having 
returned  him  her  thanks,  told  him  she  was  ready 
to  grant  whatever  he  should  ask.  As  she  was 
extremely  beautiful,  Rhaecus  desired  he  might  be 
entertained  as  her  lover.  The  Hamadryad,  not 
much  displeased  with  the  request,  promised  to 
give  him  a  meeting,  but  commanded  him  for  some 
days  to  abstain  from  the  embraces  of  all  other 
women,  adding,  that  she  would  send  a  bee  to  him, 
to  let  him  know  when  he  was  to  be  happy.  Rhae¬ 
cus  was,  it  seems,  too  much  addicted  to  gaming, 
and  happened  to  be  in  a  run  of  ill-luck  when  the 
faithful  bee  came  buzzing  about  him;  so  that,  in¬ 
stead  of  minding  his  kind  invitation,  he  had  like 
to  have  killed  him  for  his  pains.  The  Hamadryad 
was  so  provoked  at  her  own  disappointment,  and 
the  ill  usage  of  her  messenger,  that  she  deprived 
Rhaecus  of  the  use  of  his  limbs.  However,  says 
the  story,  he  was  not  so  much  a  cripple,  but  he 
made  shift  to  cut  down  the  tree,  and  consequently 
to  fell  his  mistress.” 


No.  590.]  MONDAY,  SEPTEMBER  6,  1714. 

- Assiduo  labuntur  tempora  motu, 

Non  secus  ac  flumen.  Neque  enim  consistere  flumen, 
Nec  levis  hora  potest: sed  ut  unda  impellitur  unda, 
Urgeturque  prior  venienti,  urgetque  priorem ; 

Tempora  sic  fugiunt  pariter,  pariterque  sequuntur : 

Et  nova  sunt  semper.  Num  quod  fuit  ante,  relictum  est. 
Fitque,  quod  haud  fuerat:  momentaque  cuncta  novantur 

Ovid,  Met.  xv.  179. 

E’en  times  are  in  perpetual  flux,  and  run, 

Like  rivers  from  their  fountains,  rolling  on. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


For  time,  no  more  than  streams,  is  at  a  stay; 

The  flying  hour  is  ever  on  her  way: 

And  as  the  fountains  still  supply  their  store, 

The  wave  behind  impels  the  wave  before ; 

Thus  in  successive  course  the  minutes  run, 

And  urge  their  predecessor  minutes  on, 

Still  moving,  ever  new;  for  former  things 
Are  laid  aside,  like  abdicated  kings; 

And  every  moment  alters  what  is  done, 

And  innovates  some  act,  till  then  unknown. — Dryden. 

The  following  discourse  comes  from  the  same  hand 
with  the  Essays  on  Infinitude. 

“We  consider  infinite  space  as  an  expansion 
without  a  circumference  :  we  consider  eternity,  or 
infinite  duration,  as  a  line  that  has  neither  a  be¬ 
ginning  nor  an  end.  In  our  speculations  of  infi¬ 
nite  space,  we  consider  that  particular  place  in 
which  we  exist  as  a  kind  of  center  to  the  whole 
expansion.  In  our  speculations  of  eternity,  we 
consider  the  time  which  is  present  to  us  as  the 
middle,  which  divides  the  whole  line  into  two 
equal  parts.  For  this  reason  many  witty  authors 
compare  the.present  time  to  an  isthmus,  or  narrow 
neck  of  land,  that  rises  in  the  midst  of  an  ocean, 
immeasurably  diffused  on  either  side  of  it. 

“Philosophy,  and  indeed  common  sense,  natural¬ 
ly  throws  eternity  under  two  divisions,  which  we 
may  call  in  English  that  eternity  which  is  past, 
and  that  eternity  which  is  to  come.  The  learned 
terms  of  JEternitas  a  parte  ante,  and  JEternitas  a 
parte  post,  may  be  more  amusing  to  the  reader,  but 
can  have  no  other  idea  affixed  to  them  than  what 
is  conveyed  to  us  by  those  words,  an  eternity  that 
is  past  and  an  eternity  that  is  to  come.  Each  of 
these  eternities  is  bounded  at  the  one  extreme;  or, 
in  other  words,  the  former  has  an  end,  and  the 
latter  a  beginning. 

“  Let  us  first  of  all  consider  that  eternity  which 
is  past,  reserving  that  which  is  to  come  for  the 
subject  of  another  paper.  The  nature  of  this  eter¬ 
nity  is  utterly  inconceivable  by  the  mind  of  man  : 
our  reason  demonstrates  to  us  that  it  has  been,  but 
at  the  same  time  can  frame  no  idea  of  it,  but  what 
is  big  with  absurdity  and  contradiction.  We  can 
have  no  other  conception  of  any  duration  which  is 
past,  than  that  all  of  it  was  once  present;  and 
whatever  was  once  present  is  at  some  certain  dis¬ 
tance  from  us,  and  whatever  is  at  any  certain  dis¬ 
tance  from  us,  be  the  distance  never  so  remote,  can¬ 
not  be  eternity.  The  very  notion  of  any  duration 
being  past,  implies  that  it  was  once  present,  for  the 
idea  of  being  once  present  is  actually  included  in 
the  idea  of  its  being  past.  This,  therefore,  is  a  depth 
not  to  be  sounded  by  human  understanding.  We 
are  sure  that  there  has  been  an  eternity,  and  yet 
contradict  ourselves  when  we  measure  this  eternity 
by  any  notion  which  we  can  frame  of  it. 

“If  we  go  to  the  bottom  of  this  matter,  we  shall 
find  that  the  difficulties  we  meet  with  in  our  con¬ 
ceptions  of  eternity  proceed  from  this  single  reason, 
that  we  can  have  no  other  idea  of  any  kind  of  du¬ 
ration  than  that  by  which  we  ourselves,  and  all 
other  created  beings,  do  exist;  which  is,  a  succes¬ 
sive  duration  made  up  of  past,  present,  and  to 
come.  There  is  nothing  which  exists  after  this 
manner,  all  the  parts  of  whose  existence  were  not 
once  actually  present,  and  consequently  may  be 
reached  by  a  certain  number  of  years  applied  to  it. 
We  may  ascend  as  high  as  we  please,  and  employ 
our  being  to  that  eternity  which  is  to  come,  in 
adding  millions  of  years  to  millions  of  years,  and 
we  can  never  come  up  to  any  fountain-head  of 
duration,  to  any  beginning  into  eternity:  but  at 
the  same  time  we  are  sure  that  whatever  was  once 
present  does  lie  within  the  reach  of  numbers, 
though  perhaps  we  can  never  be  able  to  put 
enough*  of  them  together  for  that  purpose.  We 


691 

|  may  as  well  say,  that  anything  may  be  actually 
present  in  any  part  of  infinite  space,  which  does 
not  lie  at  a  certain  distance  from  us,  as  that  any 
part  of  infinite  duration  was  once  actually  present, 
and  does  not  also  lie  at  some  determined  distance 
from  us.  The  distance  in  both  cases  may  be  im¬ 
measurable  and  indefinite  as  to  our  faculties,  but 
our  reason  tells  us  that  it  cannot  be  so  in  itself. 
Here,  therefore,  is  that  difficulty  which  human 
understanding  is  not  capable  of  surmounting.  We 
are  sure  that  something  must  have  existed  from 
eternity,  and  are  at  the  same  time  unable  to  con¬ 
ceive,  that  anything  which  exists,  according  to 
our  notion  of  existence,  can  have  existed  from 
eternity. 

“  It  is  hard  for  a  reader,  who  has  not  rolled  this 
thought  in  his  own  mind,  to  follow  in  such  an 
abstracted  speculation;  but  I  have  been  the  longer 
on  it  because  I  think  it  is  a  demonstrative  argu¬ 
ment  of  the  being  and  eternity  of  God ;  and, 
though  there  are  many  other  demonstrations  which 
lead  us  to  this  great  truth,  I  do  not  think  we  ought 
to  lay  aside  any  proofs  in  this  matter,  which  the 
light  of  reason  has  suggested  to  us,  especially 
when  it  is  such  a  one  as  has  been  urged  by  men 
famous  for  their  penetration  and  force  of  under¬ 
standing,  and  which  appears  altogether  conclusive 
to  those  who  will  be  at  the  pains  to  examine  it. 

“Having  thus  considered  that  eternity  which  is 
past,  according  to  the  best  idea  we  can  frame  of  it, 
I  shall  now  draw  up  those  several  articles  on  this 
subject,  which  are  dictated  to  us  by  the  light  of 
reason,  and  which  may  be  looked  upon  as  the 
creed  of  a  philosopher  in  this  great  point. 

“First,  It  is  certain  that  no  being  could  have 
made  itself ;  for  if  so,  it  must  have  acted  before  it 
was,  which  is  a  contradiction. 

“Secondly,  That  therefore  some  being  must 
have  existed  from  all  eternity. 

“  Thirdly,  That  whatever  exists  after  the  man¬ 
ner  of  created  beings,  or  according  to  any  notions 
which  we  have  of  existence,  could  not  have  ex¬ 
isted  from  eternity. 

“Fourthly,  That  this  eternal  Being  must  there- 
fol'e  be  the  great  Author  of  nature,  ‘  the  Ancient 
of  Days,’  who,  being  at  infinite  distance  in  his 
perfections  from  all  finite  and  created  beings,  ex¬ 
ists  in  a  quite  different  manner  from  them,  and 
in  a  manner  of  which  they  can  have  no  idea. 

“I  know  that  several  of  the  schoolmen,  who 
would  not  be  thought  ignorant  of  anything,  have 
pretended  to  explain  the  manner  of  God’s  exist- 
tence,  by  telling  us  that  he  comprehends  infinite 
duration  in  every  moment :  that  eternity  is  with 
him  a  punctum  stans,  a  fixed  point;  or,  which  is  as 
good  sense,  an  infinite  instant;  that  nothing  with 
reference  to  his  existence  is  either  past  or  to  come : 
to  which  the  ingenious  Mr.  Cowley  alludes  in  his 
description  of  heaven  : 

Nothing  is  there  to  come,  and  nothing  past, 

But  an  eternal  now  does  always  last. 

“For  my  own  part,  I  look  upon  these  proposi¬ 
tions  as  words  that  have  no  ideas  annexed  to  them; 
and  think  men  had  better  own  their  ignorance 
than  advance  doctrines  by  which  they  mean  no¬ 
thing,  and  which,  indeed,  are  self-contradictory. 
We  cannot  be  too  modest  in  our  disquisitions 
when  we  meditate  on  Him,  who  is  environed  with 
so  much  glory  and  perfection,  who  is  the  source 
of  being,  the  fountain  of  all  that  existence  which 
we  and  his  whole  creation  derive  from  him.  Let 
us,  therefore,  with  the  utmost  humility  acknow¬ 
ledge,  that  as  some  being  must  necessarily  have 
existed  from  eternity,  so  this  being  does  exist 
after  an  incomprehensible  manner,  since  it  is  im¬ 
possible  for  a  being  to  have  existed  from  eternity 


*  Enow.  The  singular  number  is  here  used  for  the  plural. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


G92 

after  our  manner  or  notions  of  existence.  Reve¬ 
lation  confirms  these  natural  dictates  of  reason  in 
the  accounts  which  it  gives  us  of  the  divine  exist¬ 
ence,  where  it  tells  us,  that  he  is  the  same  yester¬ 
day,  to-day,  and  forever;  that  he  is  the  Alpha  and 
Omega,  the  beginning  and  the  ending;  that  a  thou¬ 
sand  years  are  with  him  as  one  day,  and  one  day 
as  a  thousand  years :  by  which,  and  the  like  ex¬ 
pressions,  we  are  taught  that  his  existence  with  re¬ 
lation  to  time  or  duration  is  infinitely  different  from 
the  existence  of  any  of  his  creatures,  and  conse¬ 
quently  that  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  frame  any 
adequate  conceptions  of  it. 

“  In  the  first  revelation  which  he  makes  of  his 
own  being,  he  entitles  himself,  “I  Am  that  I  Am;’ 
and  when  Moses  desires  to  know  what  name  he 
shall  give  him  in  his  embassy  to  Pharaoh,  he  bids 
him  say,  that  ‘I  Am  hath  sent  you.’  Our  great 
Creator,  by  this  revelation  of  himself,  does  'in  a 
manner  exclude  everything  else  from  a  real  exist¬ 
ence,  and  distinguishes  himself  from  his  creatures 
as  the  only  being  which  truly  and  really  exists. 
The  ancient  Platonic  notion,  which  was  drawn 
from  speculations  of  eternity,  wonderfully  agrees 
with  this  revelation  which  God  has  made  of  him¬ 
self.  There  is  nothing,  say  they,  which  in  reality 
exists,  whose  existence,  as  we  call  it,  is  pieced  up 
of  past,  present,  and  to  come.  Such  a  flitting  and 
successive  existence,  is  rather  a  shadow  of  exist¬ 
ence,  and  something  which  is  like  it,  than  exist¬ 
ence  itself.  He  only  properly  exists  whose  exist¬ 
ence  is  entirely  present;  that  is,  in  other  words, 
who  exists  in  the  most  perfect  manner,  and  in 
such  a  manner  as  we  have  no  idea  of. 

“I  shall  conclude  this  speculation  with  one  use¬ 
ful  inference.  How  can  we  sufficiently  prostrate 
ourselves  and  fall  down  before  our  Maker,  when 
we  consider  that  ineffable  goodness  and  wisdom 
which  contrived  this  existence  for  finite  natures  ? 
What  must  be  the  overflowings  of  that  good-will, 
which  prompted  our  Creator  to  adapt  existence  to 
beings  in  whom  it  is  not  necessary;  especially 
when  we  consider  that  he  himself  was  before  in 
the  complete  possession  of  existence  and  of  hap¬ 
piness,  and  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  eternity. 
What  man  can  think  of  himself  as  called  out  and 
separated  from  nothing,  of  his  being  made  a  con¬ 
scious,  a  reasonable,  and  a  happy  creature ;  in 
short,  of  being  taken  in  as  a  sharer  of  existence, 
and  a  kind  of  partner  in  eternity,  without  being 
swallowed  up  in  wonder,  in  praise,  in  adoration ! 
It  is  indeed  a  thought  too  big  for  the  mind  of  man, 
and  rather  to  be  entertained  in  the  secrecy  of  de¬ 
votion,  and  in  the  silence  of  the  soul,  than  to  be 
expressed  by  words.  The  supreme  Being  has  not 
given  us  powers  or  faculties  sufficient  to  extol  and 
magnify  such  unutterable  goodness. 

“It  is  however  some  comfort  to  us,  that  we 
shall  be  always  doing  what  we  shall  never  be  able 
to  do;  and  that  a  work  which  cannot  be  finished, 
will  however  be  the  work  of  eternity.” 


Ho.  591.]  WEDNESDAY,  SEPT.  8,  1714. 

- Tenerorum  lusor  amorum, 

Ovid,  Trist.  3  El.  li.  73. 

Love  the  soft  subject  of  his  sportive  Muse. 

I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  a  gentleman, 
who  tells  me  he  has  observed,  with  no  small  con¬ 
cern,  that  my  papers  have  of  late  been  very  barren 
in  relation  to  love  :  a  subject  which,  when  agreea¬ 
bly  handled,  can  scarcely  fail  of  being  well  re¬ 
ceived  by  both  sexes. 

If  my  invention,  therefore,  should  be  almost 
.exhausted  on  this  head,  he  offers  to  serve  under 


me  in  the  quality  of  a  love-casuist;  for  which 
place  he  conceives  himself  to  be  thoroughly  qual¬ 
ified,  having  made  this  passion  his  principal  study, 
and  observed  it  in  all  its  different  shapes  and  ap¬ 
pearances  from  the  fifteenth  to  the  forty-fifth  year 
of  his  age. 

He  assures  me  with  an  air  of  confidence,  which 
I  hope  proceeds  from  his  real  abilities,  that  he 
does  not  doubt  of  giving  judgment  to  the  satisfac¬ 
tion  of  the  parties  concerned  on  the  most  nice  and 
intricate  cases  W'hich  can  happen  in  an  amour :  as, 

How  great  the  contraction  of  the  fingers  must 
be  before  it  amounts  to  a  squeeze  by  the  hand. 

What  can  be  properly  termed  an  absolute  denial 
from  a  maid,  and  what  from  a  widow. 

What  advances  a  lover  may  presume  to  make, 
after  having  received  a  pat  upon  his  shoulder  from 
his  mistress’s  fan. 

Whether  a  lady,  at  the  first  interview,  may  allow 
a  humble  servant  to  kiss  her  hand. 

How  far  it  may  be  permitted  to  caress  the  maid, 
in  order  to  succeed  with  the  mistress. 

What  constructions  a  man  may  put  upon  a  smile, 
and  in  what  cases  a  frown  goes  for  nothing. 

On  what  occasion  a  sheepish  look  may  do  ser¬ 
vice,  etc. 

As  a  further  proof  of  his  skill,  he  also  sent  me 
several  maxims  in  love,  which  he  assures  me  are 
the  result  of  a  long  and  profound  reflection,  some 
of  which  I  think  myself  obliged  to  communicate 
to  the  public,  not  remembering  to  have  seen  them 
before  in  any  author  : 

“  There  are  more  calamities  in  the  world  arising 
from  love  than  from  hatred. 

“  Love  is  the  daughter  of  Idleness,  but  the  mo¬ 
ther  of  Disquietude. 

“  Men  of  grave  natures,  says  Sir  Francis  Bacon, 
are  the  most  constant;  for  the  same  reason  men 
should  be  more  constant  than  women. 

“  The  gay  part  of  mankind  is  most  amorous, 
the  serious  most  loving. 

“A  coquette  often  loses  her  reputation  while  she 
preserves  her  virtue. 

“  A  prude  often  preserves  her  reputation  when 
she  has  lost  her  virtue. 

“Love  refines  a  man’s  behavior,  but  makes  a 
woman’s  ridiculous. 

“  Love  is  generally  accompanied  with  good-will 
in  the  young,  interest  in  the  middle-aged,  and  a 
passion  too  gross  to  name  in  the  old. 

“  The  endeavors  to  revive  a  decaying  passion 
generally  extinguish  the  remains  of  it. 

“  A  woman  who  from  being  a  slattern  becomes 
overneat,  or  from  being  overneat  becomes  a  slat¬ 
tern,  is  most  certainly  in  love.” 

I  shall  make  use  of  this  gentleman’s  skill  as  I 
see  occasion;  and  since  I  am  got  upon  the  subject 
of  love,  shall  conclude  this  paper  with  a  copy  of 
verses  which  were  lately  sent  me  by  an  unknown 
hand,  as  I  look  upon  them  to  be  above  the  ordi¬ 
nary  run  of  sonneteers. 

The  author  tells  me  they  were  written  in  one  of 
his  despairing  fits;  and  I  find  entertains  some  hope 
that  his  mistress  may  pity  such  a  passion  as  he 
has  described,  before  she  knows  that  she  is  herself 
Corinna: 

Conceal,  fond  man,  conceal  the  mighty  smart, 

Nor  tell  Corinna  she  has  fir’d  thy  heart. 

In  rain  wouldst  thou  complain,  in  yain  pretend 
To  ask  a  pity  which  she  must  not  lend. 

She’s  too  much  thy  superior  to  comply, 

And  too,  too  fair  to  let  thy  passion  die. 

Languish  in  secret,  and  with  dumb  surprise 
Drink  the  resistless  glances  of  her  eyes. 

At  awful  distance  entertain  thy  grief, 

Be  still  in  pain  hut  never  ask  relief. 

Ne’er  tempt  her  scorn  of  thy  consuming  state 
Be  any  way  undone,  but  fly  her  hate. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Thou  must  submit  to  see  thy  charmer  bless 
Some  happier  youth  that  shall  admire  her  less; 
Who  in  that  lovely  form,  that  heavenly  mind, 

Shall  miss  ten  thousand  beauties  thou  couldst  find : 
Who  with  low  fancy  shall  approach  her  charms, 
While  half  enjoy’d  she  sinks  into  his  arms. 

She  knows  not,  must  not  know,  thy  noble  fire, 
Whom  she  and  whom  the  Muses  do  inspire; 

Her  image  only  shall  thy  breast  employ, 

And  fill  thy  captive  soul  with  shades  of  joy; 

Direct  thy  dreams  by  night,  thy  thoughts  by  day, 
And  never,  never  from  thy  bosom  stray.* 


No.  592.]  FRIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  10,  1714. 

- Studium  sine  divite  vena.— Hor.  Ars  Poet.  ver.  409 

Art  without  a  vein. — Roscommon. 

I  look  upon  tlie  playhouse  as  a  world  within 
itself.  They  have  lately  furnished  the  middle  re¬ 
gion  of  it  with  a  new  set  of  meteors,  in  order  to 
give  the  sublime  to  many  modern  tragedies.  I  was 
there  last  winter  at  the  first  rehearsal  of  the  new 
thunder,!  which  is  much  more  deep  and  sonorous 
than  any  hitherto  made  use  of.  They  have  a  Sal- 
moneus  behind  the  scenes  who  plays  it  off  with 
great  success.  Their  lightnings  are  made  to  flash 
more  briskly  than  heretofore;  their  clouds  are  also 
better  furbelowed,  and  more  voluminous;  not  to 
mention  a  violent  storm  locked  up  in  a  great  chest, 
that  is  designed  for  the  Tempest.  They  are  also 
provided  with  above  a  dozen  showers  of  snow, 
which,  as  I  am  informed,  are  the  plays  of  many 
unsuccessful  poets  artificially  cut  and  shredded 
for  that  use.  Mr.  Rymer’s  Edgar  is  to  fall  in  snow 
at  the  next  acting  of  King  Lear,  in  order  to  height¬ 
en,  or  rather  to  alleviate,  the  distress  of  that  un¬ 
fortunate  prince;  and  to  serve  by  way  of  decoration 
to  a  piece  which  that  great  critic  has  written 
against. 

I  do  not  indeed  wonder  that  the  actors  should 
be  such  professed  enemies  to  those  among  our  na¬ 
tion  who  are  commonly  known  by  the  name  of 
critics,  since  it  is  a  rule  among  these  gentlemen  to 
fall  upon  a  play,  not  because  it  is  ill  written,  but 
because  it  takes.  Several  of  them  lay  it  down  as 
a  maxim,  that  whatever  dramatic  performance  has 
a  long  run,  must  of  necessity  be  good  for  nothing; 
as  though  the  first  precept  in  poetry  were  “not  to 
please/'  Whether  this  rule  holds  good  or  not,  I 
shall  leave  to  the  determination  of  those  who  are 
better  judges  than  myself;  if  it  does,  I  am  sure  it 
tends  very  much  to  the  honor  of  those  gentlemen 
who  have  established  it;  few  of  their  pieces  having 
been  disgraced  by  a  run  of  three  days,  and  most 
of  them  being  so  exquisitely  written,  that  the 
town  would  never  give  them  more  than  one  night's 
hearing. 

I  have  a  great  esteem  for  a  true  critic,  such  as 
Aristotle  and  Longinus  among  the  Greeks;  Horace 
and  Quintilian  among  the  Romans;  Boileau  and 
Dacier  among  the  French.  But  it  is  our  misfortune 
that  some,  who  set  up  for  professed  critics  among 
us,  are  so  stupid,  that  they  do  not  know  how  to 
put  ten  words  together  with  elegance  or  commcfn 
propriety;  and  withal  so  illiterate,  that  they  have 
no  taste  of  the  learned  languages,  and  therefore 
criticise  upon  old  authors  only  at  second-hand. 
They  judge  of  them  by  what  others  have  written, 
and  not  by  any  notions  they  have  of  the  authors 
themselves.  The  words  unity,  action,  sentiment, 
and  diction,  pronounced  with  an  air  of  authority, 
give  them  a  figure  among  unlearned  readers,  who 


*The  author  of  these  verses  was  Gilbert,  the  second  brother 
of  Eustace  Budgell,  Esq. 

f  Apparently  an  allusion  to  Mr.  Dennis’  new  and  improved 
method  of  making  thunder;  at  whom  several  oblique  strokes 
in  this  paper  seemed  to  have  been  aimed. 


693 

are  apt  to  believe  they  are  very  deep  because  they  are 
unintelligible.  The  ancient  critics  are  full  of  the 
praises  of  their  cotemporaries;  they  discover  beau¬ 
ties  which  escaped  the  observation  of  the  vulgar, 
and  very  often  find  out  reasons  for  palliating  and 
excusing  such  little  slips  and  oversights  as  were 
committed  in  the  writings  of  eminent  authors.  On 
the  contrary,  most  of  the  smatterers  in  criticism, 
who  appear  among  us,  make  it  their  business  to 
vilify  and  depreciate  every  new  production  that 
gains  applause,  to  decry  imaginary  blemishes,  and 
to  prove,  by  far-fetched  arguments,  that  what  pass 
for  beauties  in  any  celebrated  piece  are  faults  and 
errors.  In  short,  the  writings  of  these  critics, 
compared  with  those  of  the  ancients,  are  like  the 
works  of  the  sophists  compared  with  those  of  the 
old  philosophers. 

Envy  and  cavil  are  the  natural  fruits  of  laziness 
and  ignorance;  which  was  probably  the  reason, 
that  in  the  heathen  mythology,  Momus  is  said  to 
be  the  son  of  Nox  and  Sonmus,  of  darkness  and 
sleep.  Idle  men,  who  have  not  been  at  the  pains 
to  accomplish  or  distinguish  themselves,  are  very 
apt  to  detract  from  others;  as  ignorant  men  are 
very  subject  to  decry  those  beauties  in  a  celebrated 
work  which  they  have  not  eyes  to  discover.  Many 
of  our  sons  of  Momus,  who  dignify  themselves  by 
the  name  of  critics,  are  the  genuine  descendants 
of  these  two  illustrious  ancestors.  They  are  often 
led  into  those  numerous  absurdities  in  which  they 
daily  instruct  the  people,  by  not  considering  that, 
first,  there  is  sometimes  a  greater  judgment  shown 
in  deviating  from  the  rules  of  art  than  in  adhering  to 
them;  and,  secondly,  that  there  is  more  beauty  in 
the  works  of  a  great  genius,  who  is  ignorant  of 
all  the  rules  of  art,  than  in  the  works  of  a  little 
genius,  who  not  only  knows  but  scrupulously  ob¬ 
serves  them. 

First,  We  may  often  take  notice  of  men  who  are 
perfectly  acquainted  with  all  the  rules  of  good 
writing,  and  notwithstanding  choose  to  depart 
from  them  on  extraordinary  occasions.  I  could 
give,  instances  out  of  all  the  tragic  writers  of  an¬ 
tiquity  who  have  shown  their  judgment  in  this 
particular;  and  purposedly  receded  from  an  estab¬ 
lished  rule  of  the  drama,  when  it  has  made  way 
for  a  much  higher  beauty  than  the  observation  of 
such  a  rule  would  have  been.  Those  who  have 
surveyed  the  noblest  pieces  of  architecture  and 
statuary,  both  ancient  and  modern,  know  very  well 
that  there  are  frequent  deviations  from  art  in  the 
works  of  the  greatest  masters,  which  have  pro¬ 
duced  a  much  nobler  effect  than  a  more  accurate 
and  exact  way  of  proceeding  could  have  done. 
This  often  arises  from  what  the  Italians  call  the 
gusto  grande  in  these  arts,  which  is  what  we  call 
the  sublime  in  writing. 

In  the  next  place,  our  critics  do  not  seem  sensi¬ 
ble  that  there  is  more  beauty  in  the  works  of  a 
great  genius,  who  is  ignorant  of  the  rules  of  art, 
than  in  those  of  a  little  genius,  who  knows  and 
observes  them.  It  is  of  these  men  of  genius  that 
Terence  speaks,  in  opposition  to  the  little  artificial 
cavilers  of  his  time: 

Quorum  asmulari  exoptat  negligentiam 

Potius,  quam  istorum  obscuram  diligentiam. 

"Whose  negligence  he  would  rather  imitate  than  these 
men’s  obscure  diligence. 

A  critic  may  have  the  same  consolation  in  the  ill 
success  of  his  play  as  Dr.  South  tells  us  a  physi¬ 
cian  has  at  the  death  of  a  patient,  that  he  was 
killed  secundum artem.  Our  inimitable  Shakspeare 
is  a  stumbling-block  to  the  whole  tribe  of  these 
rigid  critics.  Who  would  not  rather  read  one  of 
his  plays,  where  there  is  not  a  single  rule  of  the 
stage  observed,  than  any  production  of  a  modern 
critic,  where  there  is  not  one  of  them  violated! 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


694 


Shakspeare  was  indeed  born  with  all  the  seeds  of 
poetry,  and  may  be  compared  to  the  stone  in 
Pyrrhus’  ring,  which  as  Pliny  tells  us,  had  the 
figure  of  Apollo  and  the  nine  Muses  in  the  veins 
of  it,  produced  by  the  spontaneous  hand  of  nature, 
without  any  help  from  art. 


Ho.  593.]  MONDAY,  SEPTEMBER  13,  1714. 

Quale,  per  incertam  lunam,  sub  luce  maligna, 

Est  iter  iu  sylvis -  Virg.  iEn.  vi.  270. 

Thus  wander  travelers  in  woods  by  night, 

By  the  moon's  doubtful  and  malignant  light. — Dryden. 

My  dreaming  correspondent,  Mr.  Shadow,  has 
sent  me  a  second  letter,  with  several  curious  obser¬ 
vations  on  dreams  in  general,  and  the  method  to 
render  sleep  improving;  an  extract  of  his  letter  will 
not,  I  presume,  be  disagreeable  to  my  readers. 

“Since  we  have  so  little  time  to  spare,  that  none 
of  it  may  be  lost,  1  see  no  reason  why  we  should 
neglect  to  examine  those  imaginary  scenes  y?e  are 

f (resented  with  in  sleep,  only  because  they  have 
ess  reality  in  them  than  our  waking  meditations. 
A  traveler  would  bring  his  judgment  in  question, 
who  should  despise  the  directions  of  his  map  for 
want  of  real  roads  in  it,  because  here  stands  a  dot 
instead  of  a  town,  or  a  cipher  instead  of  a  city; 
and  it  must  be  a  long  day’s  journey  to  travel 
through  two  or  three  inches.  Fancy  in  dreams 
give  us  much  such  another  landscape  of  life  as  that 
does  of  countries;  and  though  its  appearances 
may  seem  strangely  jumbled  together,  we  may 
often  observe  such  traces  and  footsteps  of  noble 
thoughts,  as,  if  carefully  pursued,  might  lead  us 
into  a  proper  path  of  action.  There  is  so  much 
rapture  and  ecstasy  in  our  fancied  bliss,  and  some¬ 
thing  so  dismal  and  shocking  in  our  fancied  mis¬ 
ery,  that,  though  the  inactivity  of  the  body  has 
given  occasion  for  calling  sleep  the  image  of  dfeath, 
the  briskness  of  the  fancy  affords  us  a  strong  in¬ 
timation  of  something  within  us  that  can  never 
die. 

“I  have  wondered  that  Alexander  the  Great, 
who  came  into  the  world  sufficiently  dreamed  of 
by  his  parents,  and  had  himself  a  tolerable  knack 
at  dreaming,  should  often  say  that  sleep  was  one 
thing  which  made  him  sensible  he  was  mortal. 
I,  who  have  not  such  fields  of  action  in  the  day¬ 
time  to  divert  my  attention  from  this  matter,  plainly 
perceive  that  in  those  operations  of  the  mind, 
while  the  body  is  at  rest,  there  is  a  certain  vastness 
of  conception  very  suitable  to  the  capacity,  and 
demonstrative  of  the  force  of  that  divine  part  in 
our  composition  which  will  last  forever.  Neither 
do  I  much  doubt  but,  had  we  a  true  account  of  the 
wonders  the  hero  last  mentioned  performed  in  his 
sleep,  his  conquering  this  little  globe  would  hardly 
be  worth  mentioning.  I  may  affirm,  without  van¬ 
ity,  that,  when  I  compare  several  actions  in  Quin¬ 
tus  Curtius  with  some  others  in  my  own  noctuary, 
I  appear  the  greater  hero  of  the  two.” 

I  shall  close  this  subject  with  observing,  that 
while  we  are  awake  we  are  at  liberty  to  fix  our 
thoughts  on  what  we  please,  but  in  sleep  we  have 
not  the  command  of  them.  The  ideas  which  strike 
the  fancy  arise  in  us  without  our  choice,  either 
from  the  occurrences  of  the  day  past,  the  temper 
we  lie  down  in,  or  it  may  be  the  direction  of  some 
superior  being. 

It  is  certain  the  imagination  may  be  so  differ¬ 
ently  affected  in  sleep,  that  our  actions  of  the  day 
might  be  either  rewarded  or  punished  with  a  little 
age  of  happiness  or  misery.  St.  Austin  was  of 
opinion  that,  if  in  Paradise  there  was  the  same 


vicissitude  of  sleeping  and  waking  as  in  the  pres¬ 
ent  world,  the  dreams  of  its  inhabitants  would  be 
very  happy. 

And  so  far  at  present  our  dreams  are  in  power, 
that  they  are  generally  conformable  to  our  waking 
thoughts,  so  that  it  is  not  impossible  to  convey 
ourselves  to  a  concert  of  music,  the  conversation 
of  distant  friends,  or  any  other  entertainment 
which  has  been  before  lodged  in  the  mind. 

My  readers,  by  applying  these  hints,  will  find 
the  necessity  of  making  a  good  day  of  it,  if  they 
heartily  wish  themselves  a  good  night. 

I  have  considered  Marcia’s  prayer,  and  Lucius’s 
account  of  Cato,  in  this  light: 

Marc.  0  ye  immortal  powers  that  guard  the  just, 

Watch  round  his  couch,  and  soften  his  repose, 

Banish  his  sorrows,  and  becalm  his  soul 
With  easy  dreams;  remember  all  his  virtues, 

And  show  mankind  that  goodness  is  your  care. 

Luc.  Sweet  are  the  slumbers  of  the  virtuous  man! 

0  Marcia,  I  have  seen  thy  godlike  father ; 

Some  power  invisible  supports  his  soul, 

And  bears  it  up  in  all  its  wonted  greatness. 

A  kind  refreshing  sleep  is  fallen  upon  him ; 

I  saw  him  stretch’d  at  ease,  his  fancy  lost 

In  pleasing  dreams ;  as  I  drew  near  his  couch 

lie  smil’d,  and  cried,  Caesar,  thou  canst  not  hurt  me ! 

Mr.  Shadow  acquaints  me  in  a  postscript,  that 
he  has  no  manner  of  title  to  the  vision  which  suc¬ 
ceeded  his  first  letter;  but  adds,  that,  as  the  gen¬ 
tleman  who  wrote  it  dreams  very  sensibly,  he  shall 
be  glad  to  meet  him  some  night  or  other,  under  the 
great  elm-tree,  by  which  Yirgil  has  given  us  a  fine 
metaphorical  image  of  sleep,  in  order  to  turn  over 
a  few  of  the  leaves  together,  and  oblige  the  public 
with  an  account  of  the  dreams  that  lie  under  them. 


No.  594.]  WEDNESDAY,  SEPT.  15,  1714. 

- Absentem  qui  rodit  amicum, 

Qui  non  defendit,  alio  culpante ;  solutos 
Qui  captat  risus  hominum,  famamque  dicacis 
Fingere  qui  non  visa  potest;  commissa  tacere 
Qui  nequit ;  hie  niger  est;  hunc  tu,  Romane,  caveto. 

IIor.  1  Sat.  iv.  81. 

He  that  shall  rail  against  his  absent  friends, 

Or  hears  them  scandaliz’d,  and  not  defends ; 

Sports  with  their  fame,  and  speaks  whate’er  he  can, 

And  only  to  be  thought  a  witty  man; 

Tells  tales,  and  brings  his  friends  in  disesteem; 

That  man’s  a  knave ; — be  sure  beware  of  him. — Creech. 

Were  all  the  vexations  of  life  put  together,  we 
should  find  that  a  great  part  of  them  proceed  from 
those  calumnies  and  reproaches  which  we  spread 
abroad  concerning  one  another. 

There  is  scarce  a  man  living,  who  is  not,  in 
some  degree,  guilty  of  this  offense;  though  at  the 
same  time,  however  we  treat  one  another,  it  must 
be  confessed,  that  we  all  consent  in  speaking  ill 
of  the  persons  who  are  notorious  for  this  practice. 
It  generally  takes  its  rise  either  from  an  ill-will  to 
mankind,  a  private  inclination  to  make  ourselves 
esteemed,  an  ostentation  of  wit,  and  vanity  of  be¬ 
ing  thought  in  the  secrets  of  the  world;  or  from 
a  desire  of  gratifying  any  of  these  dispositions  of 
mind  in  those  persons  with  whom  we  converse. 

The  publisher  of  scandal  is  more  or  less  odious 
to  mankind,  and  criminal  in  himself,  as  he  is  in¬ 
fluenced  by  any  one  or  more  of  the  foregoing  mo¬ 
tives.  But,  whatever  may  be  the  occasion  of 
spreading  these  false  reports,  he  ought  to  consider 
that  the  effect  of  them  is  equally  prejudicial  and 
pernicious  to  the  person  at  whom  they  are  aimed. 
The  injury  is  the  same,  though  the  principle  from 
whence  it  proceeds  may  be  different. 

As  every  one  looks  upon  himself  with  too  much 
indulgence  when  he  passes  a  judgment  on  his  own 
thoughts  or  actions,  and  as  very  few  would  be 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


thought  guilty  of  this  abominable  proceeding, 
which  is  so  universally  practiced,  and  at  the  same 
time  so  universally  blamed,  I  shall  lay  down  three 
rules,  by  which  I  would  have  a  man  examine  and 
searcli  into  his  own  heart,  before  he  stands  acquit¬ 
ted  to  himself  of  that  evil  disposition  of  mind 
which  I  am  here  mentioning. 

First  of  all,  Let  him  consider  whether  he  does 
not  take  delight  in  hearing  the  faults  of  others. 

Secondly,  Whether  he  is  not  too  apt  to  believe 
such  little  blackening  accounts,  and  more  inclined 
to  be  credulous  on  the  uncharitable  than  on  the 
good-natured  side. 

Thirdly,  Whether  he  is  not  ready  to  spread  and 
propagate  such  reports  as  tend  to  tne  disreputation 
of  another. 

These  are  the  several  steps  by  which  this  vice 
proceeds  and  grows  up  into  slander  and  defama¬ 
tion. 

In  the  first  place,  a  man  who  takes  delight  in 
hearing  the  faults  of  others,  shows  sufficiently  that 
he  has  a  true  relish  of  scandal,  and  consequently 
the  seeds  of  this  vice,  within  him.  If  his  mind 
is  gratified  with  hearing  the  reproaches  which  are 
cast  on  others,  he  will  find  the  same  pleasure  in 
relating  them,  and  be  the  more  apt  to  ao  it,  as  he 
will  naturally  imagine  every  one  he  converses  with 
is  delighted  in  the  same  manner  with  himself.  A 
man  should  endeavor,  therefore,  to  wear  out  of  his 
mind  this  criminal  curiosity,  which  is  perpetually 
heightened  and  inflamed  by  listening  to  such 
stories  as  tend  to  the  disreputation  of  others. 

In  the  second  place,  a  man  should  consult  his 
own  heart  whether  he  be  not  apt  to  believe  such 
little  blackening  accounts,  and  more  inclined  to  be 
credulous  on  the  uncharitable  than  on  the  good- 
natured  side. 

Such  a  credulity  is  very  vicious  in  itself,  and 
generally  arises  from  a  man’s  consciousness  of  his 
own  secret  corruptions.  It  is  a  pretty  saying  of 
Thales,  “Falsehood  is  just  as  far  distant  from 
truth  as  the  ears  are  from  the  eyes.”*  By  which 
he  would  intimate,  that  a  wise  man  should  not 
easily  give  credit  to  the  reports  of  actions  which 
he  has  not  seen.  I  shall,  under  this  head,  men¬ 
tion  two  or  three  remarkable  rules  to  be  observed 
by  the  members  of  the  celebrated  Abby  de  la 
Trappe,  as  they  are  published  in  a  little  French 
book.f 

The  fathers  are  there  ordered  never  to  give  an 
ear  to  any  accounts  of  base  or  criminal  actions;  to 
turn  off  all  such  discourse  if  possible;  but,  in  case 
they  hear  anything  of  this  nature,  so  well  attested 
that  they  cannot  disbelieve  it,  they  are  then  to 
suppose  that  the  criminal  action  may  have  pro¬ 
ceeded  from  a  good  intention  in  him  who  is  guilty 
of  it.  This  is,  perhaps,  carrying  charity  to  an  ex¬ 
travagance;  but  it  is  certainly  much  more  laudable 
than  to  suppose,  as  the  ill-natured  part  of  the 
world  does,  that  indifferent  and  even  good  actions 
proceed  from  bad  principles  and  wrong  intentions. 

In  the  third  place,  a  man  should  examine 
his  heart,  wliether  he  does  not  find  in  it  a  secret 
inclination  to  propagate  such  reports  as  tend  to  the 
disreputation  of  another. 

When  the  disease  of  the  mind,  which  I  have 
hitherto  been  speaking  of,  arises  to  this  degree  of 
malignity,  it  discovers  itself  in  its  worst  symp¬ 
tom,  and  is  in  danger  of  becoming  incurable.  I 
need  not,  therefore,  insist  upon  the  guilt  in  this 
last  particular,  which  every  one  cannot  but  disap¬ 
prove,  who  is  not  void  of  humanity,  or  even  com¬ 


*  St  biei  Serm.  61. 

f  Felibien,  Description  del’Abbaye  de  la  Trappe,  Paris,  1671 : 
reprinted  in  1682.  It  is  a  letter  of  M.  Felibien  to  the  Duchess 
of  Liancourt. 


695 

mon  discretion.  I  shall  only  add,  that  whatever 
pleasure  any  man  may  take  in  spreading  whispers 
of  this  nature,  he  will  find  an  infinitely  greater 
satisfaction  in  conquering  the  temptation  he  is 
under,  by  letting  the  secret  die  within  his  own 
breast. 


No.  595.]  FRIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  17,  1714. 

- Non  ut  placidis  coeant  immitia,  non  ut 

Serpentes  avibus  geminentur,  tigribus  agni. 

Hoe.  Ars  Poet.  ver.  12. 

- Nature,  and  the  common  laws  of  sense, 

Forbid  to  reconcile  antipathies ; 

Or  make  a  snake  engender  with  a  dove, 

And  hungry  tigers  court  the  tender  lambs. — Roscommon. 

If  ordinary  authors  would  condescend  to  write 
as  they  think,  they  would  at  least  be  allowed  the 
praise  of  being  intelligible.  But  they  really  take 
pains  to  be  ridiculous;  and,  by  the  studied  orna¬ 
ments  of  style,  perfectly  disguise  the  little  sense 
they  aim  at.  There  is  a  grievance  of  this  sort  in 
the  commonwealth  of  letters,  which  I  have  for 
sometime  resolved  to  redress,  and  accordingly  I 
have  set  this  day  apart  for  justice.  What  I  mean 
is  the  mixture  of  inconsistent  metaphors,  which  is 
a  fault  but  too  often  found  in  learned  writers,  but 
in  all  the  unlearned  without  exception. 

In  order  to  set  this  matter  in  a  clear  light  to 
every  reader,  I  shall  in  the  first  place  observe,  that 
a  metaphor  is  a  simile  in  one  word,  wThich  serves 
to  convey  the  thoughts  of  the  mind  under  resem¬ 
blances  and  images  which  affect  the  senses.  There 
is  not  anything  in  the  world  which  may  not  be 
compared  to  several  things,  if  considered  in  sev¬ 
eral  distinct  lights;  or,  in  other  words,  the  same 
thing  may  be  expressed  by  different  metaphors. 
But  the  mischief  is,  that  an  unskillful  author  shall 
run  these  metaphors  so  absurdly  into  one  another, 
that  there  shall  be  no  simile,  no  agreeable  picture, 
no  apt  resemblance;  but  confusion,  obscurity,  and 
noise.  Thus  I  have  known  a  hero  compared  to  a 
thunderbolt,  a  lion,  and  the  sea;  all  and  each  of 
them  proper  metaphors  for  impetuosity,  courage, 
or  force.  But  by  bad  management  it  hath  so  hap- 
ened,  that  the  thunderbolt  hath  overflowed  its 
anks,  the  lion  hath  been  darted  through  the  skies, 
and  the  billows  have  rolled  out  of  the  Libyan 
desert. 

The  absurdity  in  this  instance  is  obvious.  And 
yet  every  time  that  clashing  metaphors  are  put 
together,  this  fault  is  committed  more  or  less.  It 
hath  already  been  said,  that  metaphors  are  images 
of  things  which  affect  the  senses.  An  image, 
therefore,  taken  from  what  acts  upon  the  sight, 
cannot,  without  violence,  be  applied  to  the  hear¬ 
ing;  and  so  of  the  rest.  It  is  no  less  an  impro¬ 
priety  to  make  any  being  in  nature  or  art  to  do 
things  in  its  metaphorical  state,  which  it  could  not 
do  in  its  original.  I  shall  illustrate  what  I  have 
said  by  an  instance  which  I  have  read  more  than 
once  in  controversial  writers.  “  The  heavy  lashes,” 
saith  a  celebrated  author,  “  that  have  dropped  from 
your  pen,”  etc.  I  suppose  this  gentleman  having 
frequently  heard  of  “gall  dropping  from  a  pen, 
and  being  lashed  in  a  satire,”  he  was  resolved  to 
have  them  both  at  any  rate,  and  so  uttered  this 
complete  piece  of  nonsense.  It  will  most  effectu¬ 
ally  discover  the  absurdity  of  these  monstrous 
unions,  if  we  will  suppose  these  metaphors  or  im¬ 
ages  actually  painted.  Imagine  then  a  hand  hold¬ 
ing  a  pen,  and  several  lashes  of  whipcord  falling 
from  it,  and  you  have  the  true  representation  ot 
this  sort  of  eloquence.  I  believe,  by  this  very 
rule,  a  reader  may  be  able  to  judge  of  the  union  of 
all  metaphors  watsoever,  and  determine  which  are 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


696 

homogeneous,  and  which  are  heterogeneous;  or  to 
speak  more  plainly,  which  are  consistent  and 
which  inconsistent. 

There  is  yet  one  evil  more  which  I  must  take, 
notice  of,  and  that  is  the  running  of  metaphors 
into  tedious  allegories;  which,  though  an  error  on 
the  better  hand,  causes  confusion  as  much  as  the 
other.  This  becomes  abominable,  when  the  luster 
of  one  word  leads  a  writer  out  of  his  road,  and 
makes  him  wander  from  his  subject  for  a  page  to¬ 
gether.  I  remember  a  young  fellow  of  this  turn, 
who,  having  said  by  chance  that  his  mistress  had 
a  world  of  charms,  thereupon  took  occasion  to 
consider  her  as  one  possessed  of  frigid  and  torrid 
zones,  and  pursued  her  from  the  one  pole  to  the 
other. 

I  shall  conclude  this  paper  with  a  letter  written 
in  that  enormous  style,  which  I  hope  my  reader 
hath  by  this  time  set  his  heart  against.  The  epistle 
hath  heretofore  received  great  applause;  but  after 
what  hath  been  said,  let  any  man  commend  it  if 
he  dare. 

“Sir, 

“  After  the  many  heavy  lashes  that  have  fallen 
from  your  pen,  you  may  justly  expect  in  return  all 
the  load  that  my  ink  can  lay  upon  your  shoulders. 
You  have  quartered  all  the  foul  language  upon  me 
that  could  have  raked  out  of  the  air  of  Billings¬ 
gate,  without  knowing  who  I  am,  or  whether  I  de¬ 
served  to  be  cupped  and  scarified  at  this  rate.  I 
tell  you  once  for  all,  turn  your  eyes  where  you 
please,  you  shall  never  smell  me  out.  Do  you 
think  that  the  panics,  which  you  sow  about  "the 
parish,  will  ever  build  a  monument  to  your  glory? 
Ho,  Sir,  you  may  fight  these  battles  as  long  as  you 
will;  but  when  yon  come  to  balance  the  account, 
you  will  find  that  you  have  been  fishing  in  troub¬ 
led  waters,  and  that  an  ignis  fatuus  hath  bewildered 
you,  and  that  indeed  you  have  built  upon  a  sandy 
foundation,  and  brought  your  hogs  to  a  fair  market. 

“  I  am,  Sir,  yours,”  etc. 


Ho.  596.]  MOHDAY,  SEPTEMBER  20,  1714. 

Molle  meurn  levibus  cor  est  violabile  telis. 

Ovid,  Ep.xv.  79. 

Cupid’s  light  darts  my  tender  bosom  move. — Pope. 

The  case  of  my  correspondent,  who  sends  me 
the  following  letter,  has  somewhat  in  it  so  very 
whimsical,  that  I  know  not  how  to  entertain  my 
readers  better  than  by  laying  it  before  them: 

“Sir,  Middle  Temple,  Sept.  18. 

“I  am  fully  convinced  that  there  is  not  upon 
earth  a  more  impertinent  creature  than  an  impor¬ 
tunate  lover.  We  are  daily  complaining  of  the 
severity  of  our  fate  to  people  who  are  wholly  un¬ 
concerned  in  it;  and  hourly  improving  a  passion, 
which  we  would  persuade  the  world  is  the  torment 
of  our  lives,  notwithstanding  this  reflection.  Sir, 
1  cannot  forbear  acquainting  you  with  my  own 
case.  You  must  know  then,  Sir,  that,  even  from 
my  childhood,  the  most  prevailing  inclination  I 
could  perceive  in  myself  was  a  strong  desire  to  be 
in  favor  with  the  fair  sex.  I  am  at  present  in  the 
one-and-twentieth  year  of  my  age;  and  should 
have  made  choice  of  a  she  bedfellow  many  years 
since,  had  not  my  father,  who  has  a  pretty  good 
estate  of  his  own  getting,  and  passes  in  the  world 
for  a  prudent  man,  been  pleased  to  lay  it  down  as 
a  maxim,  that  nothing  spoils  a  young  fellow’s  for¬ 
tune  so  soon  as  marrying  early;  and  that  no  man 
ought  to  think  of  wedlock  until  six-and-twenty. 
Knowing  his  sentiments  upon  this  head,  I  thought 


it  in  vain  to  apply  myself  to  women  of  condition 
who  expect  settlements;  so  that  all  my  amours 
have  hitherto  been  with  ladies  who  had  no  for¬ 
tunes;  but  I  know  not  how  to  give  you  so  good  an 
idea  of  me,  as  by  laying  before  you  the  history  of 
my  life. 

“  I  can  very  well  remember,  that  at  my  school¬ 
mistress’s,  whenever  we  broke  up,  I  was  always  for 
joining  myself  with  the  miss  who  lay-in,  and  was 
constantly  one  of  the  first  to  make  a  party  in  the 
play  of  Husband  and  Wife.  This  passion  for  be¬ 
ing  well  with  the  females  still  increased  as  I  ad¬ 
vanced  in  years.  At  the  dancing-school  I  con¬ 
tracted  so  many  quarrels  by  struggling  with  my 
fellow-scholars  for  the  partner  I  liked  best,  that 
upon  a  ball-night,  before  our  mothers  made  their 
appearance,  I  was  usually  up  to  the  nose  in  blood. 
My  father,  like  a  discreet  man,  soon  removed  me 
from  this  stage  of  softness  to  a  school  of  discipline, 
where  I  learnt  Latin  and  Greek.  I  underwent  sev¬ 
eral  severities  in  this  place,  until  it  was  thought 
convenient  to  send  me  to  the  university;  though, 
to  confess  the  truth,  I  should  not  have  arrived  so 
early  at  that  seat  of  learning,  but  from  the  discov¬ 
ery  of  an  intrigue  between  me  and  my  master’s 
housekeeper;  upon  whom  I  had  employed  my 
rhetoric  so  effectually,  that,  though  she  was  a  very 
elderly  lady,  I  had  almost  brought  her  to  consent 
to  marry  me.  Upon  my  arrival  at  Oxford,  I  found 
logic  so  dry,  that  instead  of  giving  attention  to  the 
dead,  I  soon  fell  to  addressing  the  living.  My  first 
amour  was  with  a  pretty  girl  whom  I  shall  call 
Parthenope;  her  mother  sold  ale  by  the  town -wall. 
Being  often  caught  there  by  the  proctor,  I  was 
forced  at  last,  that  my  mistress’s  reputation  might 
receive  no  blemish,  to  confess  my  addresses  were 
honorable.  Upon  this  I  was  immediately  sent 
home;  but  Parthenope  soon  after  marrying  a  shoe¬ 
maker,  I  was  again  suffered  to  return.  My  next 
affair  was  with  my  tailor’s  daughter,  who  deserted 
me  for  the  sake  of  a  young  barber.  Upon  my 
complaining  to  one  of  my  particular  friends  of 
this  misfortune,  the  cruel  wag  made  a  mere  jest 
of  my  calamity,  and  asked  me  with  a  smile,  where 
the  needle  should  turn  but  to  the  pole  ?*  After  this 
I  was  deeply  in  love  with  a  milliner,  and  at  last 
with  my  bed-maker;  upon  which  I  was  sent  away, 
or,  in  the  university  phrase,  rusticated  forever. 

“Upon  my  coming  home,  I  settled  to  my  studies 
so  heartily,  and  contracted  so  great  a  reservedness 
by  being  kept  from  the  company  I  most  affected, 
that  my  father  thought  he  might  venture  me  at 
the  Temple. 

“Within  a  week  after  my  arrival,  I  began  to 
shine  again,  and  became  enamored  with  a  mighty 
pretty  creature,  who  had  everything  but  money  to 
recommend  her.  Having  frequent  opportunities 
of  uttering  all  the  soft  things  which  a  heart  formed 
for  love  could  inspire  me  with,  I  soon  gained  her 
consent  to  treat  of  marriage;  but  unfortunately  for 
us  all,  in  the  absence  of  my  charmer  I  usually 
talked  the  same  language  to  her  eldest  sister,  who 
is  also  very  pretty.  How  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Spec¬ 
tator,  this  aid  not  proceed  from  any  real  affection  I 
had  conceived  for  her  ;  but,  being  a  perfect  stran¬ 
ger  to  the  conversation  of  men,  and  strongly  ad¬ 
dicted  to  associate  with  the  women,  I  knew  no 
other  language  but  that  of  love.  I  should,  how¬ 
ever  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  if  you  could  free 
me  from  the  perplexity  I  am  at  present  in.  I  have 
sent  word  to  my  old  gentleman  in  the  country  that 
I  am  desperately  in  love  with  the  younger  sister  ; 
and  her  father,  who  knew  no  better,  poor  man,  ac¬ 
quainted  him  by  the  same  post,  that  I  had  for 
some  time  made  my  addresses  to  the  elder.  Upon 


*  The  common  sign  of  a  barber’s  shop. 


\ 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


697 


this,  old  Testy  sends  me  up  word,  that  he  has 
heard  so  much  of  my  exploits,  that  he  intends  im¬ 
mediately  to  order  me  to  the  South-sea.  Sir,  I 
have  occasionally  talked  so  much  of  dying,  that  I 
beffin  to  think  there  is  not  much  in  it ;  and  if  the 
old  ’squire  persists  in  his  design,  I  do  hereby 
give  him  notice  that  I  am  providing  myself  with 
proper  instruments  for  the  destruction  of  despair¬ 
ing  lovers  :  let  him  therefore  look  to  it,  and  con¬ 
sider  that  by  his  obstinacy  he  may  himself  lose 
the  son  of  his  strength,  the  world  a  hopeful  lawyer, 
my  mistress  a  passionate  lover,  and  you,  Mr. 
Spectator, 

“Your  constant  Admirer, 

“Jeremy  Lovemore.” 


Ho.  597.]  WEDNESDAY,  SEPT.  22,  1714. 

- Mens  sine  pondere  ludit.— Petr. 

The  mind  uncumber’d  plays. 

Since  I  received  my  friend  Shadow’s  letter,  sev¬ 
eral  of  my  correspondents  have  been  pleased  to 
send  me  an  account  how  they  have  been  employed 
in  sleep,  and  v  hat  notable  adventures  they  have 
been  engaged  in  during  that  moonshine  in  the 
brain.  I  shall  lay  before  my  readers  an  abridg¬ 
ment  of  some  few  of  their  extravagances,  in  hopes 
that  they  will  in  time  accustom  themselves  to 
dream  a  little  more  to  the  purpose. 

One,  who  styles  himself  Gladio,  complains 
heavily  that  his  fair  oue  charges  him  with  incon¬ 
stancy,  and  does  not  use  him  with  half  the  kind¬ 
ness  which  the  sincerity  of  his  passion  may  de¬ 
mand;  the  said  Gladio  having  by  valor  and  strata¬ 
gem  put  to  death  tyrants,  enchanters,  monsters, 
knights,  etc.,  without  number,  and  exposed  him¬ 
self  to  all  manner  of  dangers  for  her  sake  and 
safety.  He  desires  in  his  postscript  to  know 
whether,  from  a  constant  success  in  them,  he  may 
not  promise  himself  to  succeed  in  her  esteem  at 
last. 

Another,  who  is  very  prolix  in  his  narrative, 
wiites  me  word,  that  having  sent  a  venture  beyond 
sea,  he  took  occasion  one  night  to  fancy  himself 
gone  along  with  it,  and  grown  on  a  sudden  the 
richest  man  in  all  the  Indies.  Having  been  there 
about  a  year  or  two,  a  gust  of  wind,  that  forced 
open  his  casement,  blew  him  over  to  his  native 
country  again,  where  awaking  at  six  o’clock,  and 
the  change  of  the  air  not  agreeing  with  him,  he 
turned  to  his  left  side  in  order  to  a  second  voyage; 
but  ere  he  could  get  on  shipboard,  was  unfortu¬ 
nately  apprehended  for  stealing  a  horse,  tried  and 
condemned  for  the  fact,  and  in  a  fair  way  of  beino- 
executed,  if  somebody  stepping  hastily  into  his 
chamber,  had  not  brought  him  a  reprieve.  This 
fellow,  too,  wants  Mr.  Shadow’s  advice;  who,  I 
dare  say,  would  bid  him  be  content  to  rise  after 
his  first  nap,  and  learn  to  be  satisfied  as  soon  as 
nature  is. 

I  he  next  is  a  public-spirited  gentleman,  who 
tells  me,  that  on  the  second  of  September,  at  night, 
the  whole  city  was  on  fire,  and  would  certainly 
have  been  reduced  to  ashes  again  by  this  time,  if 
he  had  not  flown  over  it  with  the  Hew  River  on 
his  back,  and  happily  extinguished  the  flames  be¬ 
fore  they  had  prevailed  too  far.  He  would  be  in¬ 
formed  whether  he  has  not  a  right  to  petition  the 
lord  mayor  and  aldermen  for  a  reward. 

A  letter,  dated  September  the  9th,  acquaints  me, 
that  the  writer,  being  resolved  to  try  his  fortune, 
had  fasted  all  that  day;  and,  that  he  might  be 
sure  of  dreaming  upon  something  at  night,  pro¬ 
cured  a  handsome  slice  of  bride-cake,  which  he 
placed  very  conveniently  under  his  pillow.  In 


the  morning  his  memory  happened  to  fail  him, 
and  he  could  recollect  nothing  but  an  odd  fancy 
that  he  had  eaten  his  cake  :  which  being  found 
upon  search  reduced  to  a  few  crumbs,  he  is  re¬ 
solved  to  remember  more  of  his  dreams  another 
time,  believing  from  this  that  there  may  possibly 
be  somewhat  of  truth  in  them. 

I  have  received  numerous  complaints  from  sev¬ 
eral  delicious  dreamers,  desiring  me  to  invent 
some  method  of  silencing  those  noisy  slaves  whose 
occupations  lead  them  to  take  their  early  rounds 
about  the  city  in  a  morning,  doing  a  deal  of  mis¬ 
chief,  and  working  a  strange  confusion  in  the 
affairs  of  its  inhabitants.  Several  monarchs  have 
done  me  the  the  honor  to  acquaint  me  how  often 
they  have  been  shook  from  their  respective  thrones 
by  the  rattling  of  a  coach  or  the  rumbling  of  a 
wheelbarrow.  And  many  private  gentlemen,  I 
find,  have  been  bawled  out  of  vast  estates  by  fel¬ 
lows  not  worth  three-pence.  A  fair  lady  was  just 
on  the  point  of  being  married  to  a  young,  hand¬ 
some,  rich,  ingenious  nobleman,  when  an  imper¬ 
tinent  tinker  passing  by  forbid  the  bans  ;  and  a 
hopeful  youth,  who  had  been  newly  advanced  to 
great  honor  and  preferment,  was  forced  by  a 
neighboring  cobbler  to  resign  all  for  an  old  song. 
It  has  been  represented  to  me  that  those  inconsid¬ 
erable  rascals  do  nothing  but  go  about  dissolving 
of  marriages,  and  spoiling  of  fortunes,  impover¬ 
ishing  rich,  and  ruining  great  people,  interrupting 
beauties  in  the  midst  of  their  conquests,  and  gen¬ 
erals  in  the  course  of  their  victories.  A  boister¬ 
ous  peripatetic  hardly  goes  through  a  street  with¬ 
out  waking  half  a  dozen  kings  and  princes,  to 
open  their  shops  or  clean  shoes,  frequently  trans¬ 
forming  scepters  into  paring-shovels,  and  pro¬ 
clamations  into  bills.  I  have  by  me  a  letter  from 
a  young  statesman,  who  in  five  or  six  hours  came 
to  be  emperor  of  Europe,  after  which  he  made  war 
upon  the  Great  Turk,  routed  him  horse  arid  foot, 
and  was  crowned  lord  of  the  universe  in  Constan¬ 
tinople:  the  conclusion  of  all  his  successes  is,  that 
on  the  12th  instant,  about  seven  in  the  morning, 
his  imperial  majesty  was  deposed  by  a  chimney¬ 
sweeper. 

.On  the  other  hand,  I  have  epistolary  testimo¬ 
nies  of  gratitude  from  many  miserable  people, 
who  owe  to  this  clamorous  tribe  frequent  deliver¬ 
ances  from  great  misfortunes.  A  small-coalman,* 
by  waking  one  of  these  distressed  gentlemen, 
saved  him  from  ten  years’  imprisonment.  An 
honest  watchman,  bidding  a  loud  good-morrow  to 
another,  freed  him  from  the  malice  of  many  potent 
enemies,  and  brought  all  their  designs  against 
him  to  nothing.  A  certain  valetudinarian  con¬ 
fesses  he  has  often  been  cured  of  a  sore  throat  by 
the  hoarseness  of  a  carman,  and  relieved  from  a  fit 
of  the  gout  by  the  sound  of  old  shoes.  A  noisy 
puppy,  that  plagued  a  sober  gentleman  all  night 
long  with  his  impertinence,  was  silenced  by  a  cin¬ 
der-wench  with  a  word  speaking. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  suppressing  this  order  of 
mortals,  I  would  propose  it  to  my  readers  to  make 
the  best  advantage  of  their  morning  salutations. 
A  famous  Macedonian  prince,  for  fear  of  forgetting 
himself  in  the  midst  of  his  good  fortune,  had  a 
youth  to  wait  on  him  every  morning,  and  bid  him 
remember  that  he  was  a  man.  A  citizen  who  is 
waked  by  one  of  these  criers,  may  regard  him  as  a 
kind  of  remembrancer,  come  to  admonish  him 
that  it  is  time  to  return  to  the  circumstances  he 
has  overlooked  all  the  night  time,  to  leave  off  fan¬ 
cying  himself  what  he  is  not,  and  prepare  to  act 
suitably  to  the  condition  he  is  really  placed  in. 


*  Sir  John  Hawkins’s  Hist,  of  Music,  vol.  v.  p.  70.  The 
name  of  this  famous  musical  man  was  Thomas  Britton. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


698 

People  may  dream  on  as  long  as  they  please,  but 
I  shall  take  no  notice  of  any  imaginary  adven¬ 
tures  that  do  not  happen  while  the  sun  is  on  this 
side  the  horizon.  For  which  reason  I  stifle  Fri- 
tilla’s  dream  at  church  last  Sunday,  who,  while 
the  rest  of  the  audience  were  enjoying  the  benefit 
of  an  excellent  discourse,  was  losing  her  money 
and  jewels  to  a  gentleman  at  play,  until  after  a 
strange  run  of  ill-luck  she  was  reduced  to  pawn 
three  lovely,  pretty  children  for  her  last  stake. 
When  she  had  thrown  them  away,  her  companion 
went  off,  discovering  himself  by  his  usual  tokens, 
a  cloven  foot  and  a  strong  smell  of  brimstone, 
which  last  proved  only  a  bottle  of  spirits,  which  a 
good  old  lady  applied  to  her  nose,  to  put  her  in  a 
condition  of  hearing  the  preacher’s  third  head  con¬ 
cerning  time. 

If  a  man  has  no  mind  to  pass  abruptly  from  his 
imagined  to  his  real  circumstances,  he  may  em¬ 
ploy  himself  awhile  in  that  new  kind  of  observa¬ 
tion  which  my  oneirocritical  correspondent  has 
directed  him  to  make  of  himself.  Pursuing  the  im¬ 
agination  through  all  its  extravagances,  whether 
in  sleeping  or  waking,  is  no  improper  method  of 
correcting  and  bringing  it  to  act  in  subordinacy 
to  reason,  so  as  to  be  delighted  only  with  such 
objects  as  will  affect  it  with  pleasure  when  it  is 
never  so  cold  and  sedate. 


Ho.  598.]  FRIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  24,  1714. 

Jamne  igitur  laudas,  quod  de  sapientibus  alter 
Ridebat,  quoties  a  limine  moverat  unum 
Protuleratque  pedem:  flebat  contrarius  alter? 

Juv,  Sat.  x.  28. 

Will  ye  not  now  the  pair  of  sages  praise, 

Who  the  same  end  pursu’d  by  several  ways  ? 

One  pitied’,  one  condemn’d,  the  woeful  times ; 

One  laugh’d  at  follies,  one  lamented  crimes. — Drtden. 

Mankind  may  be  divided  into  the  merry  and  the 
serious,  who  both  of  them  make  a  very  good  figure 
in  the  species,  so  long  as  they  keep  their  respec¬ 
tive  humors  from  degenerating  into  the  neighbor¬ 
ing  extreme  ;  there  being  a  natural  tendency  in 
the  one  to  a  melancholy  moroseness,  and  in  the 
other  to  a  fantastic  levity. 

The  merry  part  of  the  world  are  very  amiable, 
while  they  diffuse  a  cheerfulness  through  conver¬ 
sation  at  proper  seasons  and  on  proper  occasions; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  a  great  grievance  to  society 
when  they  infect  every  discourse  with  insipid 
mirth,  and  turn  into  ridicule  such  subjects  as  are 
not  suited  to  it.  For  though  laughter  is  looked 
upon  by  the  philosopher  as  the  property  of  reason, 
the  excess  of  it  has  been  always  considered  as  the 
mark  of  folly. 

On  the  other  side,  seriousness  has  its  beauty 
while  it  is  attended  with  cheerfulness  and  human¬ 
ity,  and  does  not  come  in  unseasonably  to  pall  the 
good-humor  of  those  with  whom  we  converse. 

These  two  sets  of  men,  notwithstanding  that 
each  of  them  shine  in  their  respective  characters, 
are  apt  to  bear  a  natural  aversion  and  antipathy 
to  one  another. 

What  is  more  usual  than  to  hear  men  of  serious 
tempers,  and  austere  morals,  enlarging  upon  the 
vanities  and  follies  of  the  young  and  gay  part  of 
the  species,  while  they  look  with  a  kind  of  horror 
upon  such  pomps  and  diversions  as  are  innocent 
in  themselves,  and  only  culpable  when  they  draw 
the  mind  too  much  ? 

I  could  not  but  smile  upon  reading  a  passage 
in  the  account  which  Mr.  Baxter  gives  of  his  own 
life,  wherein  he  represents  it  as  a  great  blessing 
that  in  his  youth  he  very  narrowly  escaped  getting 
a  place  at  court. 


It  must  indeed  be  confessed  that  levity  of  tem¬ 
per  takes  a  man  off  his  guard,  and  opens  a  pass 
to  his  soul  for  any  temptation  that  assaults  it.  It 
favors  all  the  approaches  of  vice,  and  weakens  all 
the  resistance  of  virtue;  for  which  reason  a  re¬ 
nowned  statesman  in  Queen  Elizabeth’s  days, 
after  having  retired  from  court  and  public  busi¬ 
ness,  in  order  to  give  himself  up  to  the  duties  of 
religion,  when  any  of  his  old  friends  used  to  visit 
him,  had  still  this  word  of  advice  in  his  mouth, 
“  Be  serious.” 

An  eminent  Italian  author  of  this  cast  of  mind, 
speaking  of  the  great  advantage  of  a  serious  and 
composed  temper,  wishes  very  gravely,  that  for 
the  benefit  of  mankind  he  had  Trophonius’s  cave 
in  his  possession;  wrhich,  says  he,  would  con¬ 
tribute  more  to  the  reformation  of  manners  than 
all  the  workhouses  and  bridewells  in  Europe. 

We  have  a  very  particular  description  of  this 
cave  in  Pausanias,  who  tells  us  that  it  was  made 
in  the  form  of  a  huge  oven,  and  had  many  particu¬ 
lar  circumstances,  which  disposed  the  person  who 
was  in  it  to  be  more  pensive  and  thoughtful  than 
ordinary;  insomuch,  that  no  man  was  ever  ob¬ 
served  to  laugh  all  his  life  after,  who  had  once 
made  his  entry  into  this  cave.  It  was  usual  in 
those  times,  when  any  one  carried  a  more  than  or¬ 
dinary  gloominess  in  his  features,  to  tell  him  that 
he  looked  like  one  just  come  out  of  Trophonius’s 
cave. 

On  the  other  hand,  writers  of  a  more  merry  com¬ 
plexion  have  been  no  less  severe  on  the  opposite 
party;  and  have  had  one  advantage  above  them, 
that  they  have  attacked  them  with  more  turns  of 
wit  and  humor. 

After  all,  if  a  man’s  temper  were  at  his  own  dis¬ 
posal,  I  think  he  would  not  choose  to  be  of  either 
of  these  parties;  since  the  most  perfect  character 
is  that  which  is  formed  out  of  both  of  them.  A 
man  would  neither  choose  to  be  a  hermit  or  a  buf¬ 
foon  ;  human  nature  is  not  so  miserable,  as  that  we 
should  be  always  melancholy;  nor  so  happy,  as 
that  we  should  be  always  merry.  In  a  word,  a 
man  should  not  live  as  if  there  was  no  God  in  the 
world,  nor,  at  the  same  time,  as  if  there  were  no 
men  in  it. 


No.  599.]  MONDAY,  SEPTEMBER  27,  1714. 

- TJbique 

Luctus,  ubique  paAror. — Virg.  xEn.  ii.  369. 

All  parts  resound  with  tumults,  plaints,  and  fears. 

Dryden. 

It  has  been  my  custom ,  as  I  grow  old,  to  allow 
myself  in  some  little  indulgences,  which  I  never 
took  in  my  youth.  Among  others  is  that  of  an 
afternoon’s  nap,  which  I  fell  into  in  the  fifty-fifth 
year  of  my  age,  and  have  continued  for  the  three 
last  years  past.  By  this  means,  I  enjoy  a  double 
morning,  and  rise  twice  a  day  fresh  to  my  specu¬ 
lations.  It  happens  very  luckily  for  me,  that  some 
of  my  dreams  have  proved  instructive  to  my  coun¬ 
trymen,  so  that  I  may  be  said  to  sleep,  as  well  as 
to  wake,  for  the  good  of  the  public.  I  was  yester¬ 
day  meditating  on  the  account  with  which  I  have 
already  entertained  my  readers  concerning  the  cave 
of  Trophonius.  I  was  no  sooner  fallen  into  my 
usual  slumber,  but  I  dreamed  that  this  cave  was 
put  into  my  possession,  and  that  I  gave  public 
notice  of  its  virtue,  inviting  every  one  to  it  who 
had  a  mind  to  be  a  serious  man  for  the  remaining 
part  of  his  life.  Great  multitudes  immediately 
resorted  to  me.  The  first  who  made  the  experiment 
was  a  merry-andrew,  who  was  put  into  my  hands 
by  a  neighboring  justice  of  the  peace,  in  order  to 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


reclaim  him  from  that  profligate  kind  of  life.  Poor 
pickle-herring  had  not  taken  above  one  turn  in  it, 
when  he  came  out  of  the  cave,  like  a  hermit  from 
his  cell,  with  a  penitential  look  and  a  most  rueful 
countenance.  1  then  put  in  a  young  laughing  fop, 
and  watching  for  his  return,  asked  him,  with  a 
smile, how  he  liked  the  place?  He  replied,  “Pri¬ 
thee,  friend,  be  not  impertinent;”  and  stalked  by 
me  as  grave  as  a  judge.  A  citizen  then  desired 
me  to  give  free  ingress  and  egress  to  his  wife,  who 
was  dressed  in  the  gayest-colored  ribbons  I  had 
ever  seen.  She  went  in  with  a  flirt  of  her  fan  and 
a  smirking  countenance,  but  came  out  with  the  se¬ 
verity  of  a  vestal;  and  throwing  from  her  several 
female  gewgaws,  told  me  with  a  sigh,  that  she  re¬ 
solved  to  go  into  deep  mourning,  and  to  wear  black 
all  the  rest  of  her  life.  As  I  had  many  coquettes 
recommended  to  me  by  their  parents,  their  hus¬ 
bands,  and  their  lovers,  I  let  them  in  all  at  once, 
desiring  them  to  divert  themselves  together  as  well 
as  they  could.  Upon  their  emerging  again  into 
day-light,  you  would  have  fancied  my  cave  to  have 
been  a  nunnery,  and  that  you  had  seen  a  solemn 
procession  of  the  religious  marching  out,  one  behind 
another,  in  the  most  profound  silence  and  the  most 
exemplary  decency.  As  I  was  very  much  delighted 
with  so  edifying  a  sight,  there  came  toward  me  a 
great  company  of  males  and  females,  laughing, 
singing,  and  dancing,  in  such  a  manner,  that  I 
could  hear  them  a  great  while  before  I  saw  them. 
Upon  my  asking  their  leader  what  brought  them 
thither?  they  told  me  all  at  once  that  they  were 
French  Protestants  lately  arrived  in  Great  Britain; 
and  that,  finding  themselves  of  too  gay  a  humor 
for  my  country,  they  applied  themselves  to  me  in 
order  to  compose  them  for  British  conversation.  I 
told  them  that,  to  oblige  them,  I  would  soon  spoil 
their  mirth;  upon  which,  I  admitted  a  whole  shoal 
of  them,  who,  after  having  taken  a  survey  of  the 
place,  came  out  in  very  good  order,  and  with  looks 
entirely  English.  I  afterward  put  in  a  Dutch¬ 
man,  who  had  a  great  fancy  to  see  the  kelder,  as  he 
called  it;  but  I  could  not  observe  that  it  had  made 
any  manner  of  alteration  in  him. 

A  comedian,  who  had  gained  great  reputation  in 
parts  of  humor,  told  me  that  he  had  a  mighty 
mind  to  act  Alexander  the  Great,  and  fancied  that 
he  should  succeed  very  well  in  it,  if  he  could 
strike  two  or  three  laughing  features  out  of  his 
face.  He  tried  the  experiment,  but  contracted  so 
very  solid  a  look  by  it,  that  I  am  afraid  he  will 
be  fit  for  no  part  hereafter  but  a  Timon  of  Athens, 
or  a  mute  in  The  Funeral. 

I  then  clapped  up  an  empty  fantastic  citizen,  in 
order  to  qualify  him  for  an  alderman.  He  was 
succeeded  by  a  young  rake  of  the  Middle  Temple, 
who  was  brought  to  me  by  his  grandmother;  but, 
to  her  great  sorrow  and  surprise,  he  came  out  a 
Quaker.  Seeing  myself  surrounded  with  a  body 
of  Freethinkers  and  scoffers  at  religion,  who  were 
making  themselves  merry  at  the  sober  looks  and 
thoughtful  brows  of  those  who  had  been  in  the 
cave,  I  thurst  them  all  in,  one  after  another,  and 
locked  the  door  upon  them.  Upon  my  opening  it, 
they  all  looked  as  if  they  had  been  frightened  out 
of  their  wits,  and  were  marching  away  with  ropes 
in  their  hands  to  a  wood  that  was  within  sight  of 
the  place.  I  found  they  were  not  able  to  bear 
themselves  in  their  first  serious  thoughts;  but, 
knowing  these  would  quickly  bring  them  to  a  bet¬ 
ter  frame  of  mind,  I  gave  them  into  theyiustody 
of  their  friends  until  that  happy  change  was 
wrought  in  them. 

The  last  that  was  brought  to  me  was  a  young 
woman,  who  at  the  first  sight  of  my  short  face  fell 
into  an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter,  and  was  forced 
to  hold  her  sides  all  the  while  her  mother  was 


699 

speaking  to  me.  Upon  this,  I  interrupted  the 
old  lady,  and  taking  the  daughter  by  the  hand, 
“Madam,”  said  I,  “be  pleased  to  retire  into  my 
closet,  while  your  mother  tells  me  your  case.”  I 
then  put  her  into  the  mouth  of  the  cave;  when  the 
mother,  after  having  begged  pardon  for  the  girl’s 
rudeness,  told  me  that  she  often  treated  her  father 
and  the  gravest  of  her  relations  in  the  same  man¬ 
ner;  that  she  would  sit  giggling  and  laughing  with 
her  companions  from  one  end  of  a  tragedy  to  the 
other;  nay,  that  she  would  sometimes  burst  out  in 
the  middle  of  a  sermon,  and  set  the  whole  congre¬ 
gation  a-staring  at  her.  The  mother  was  going 
on,  when  the  young  lady  came  out  of  the  cave  to 
us  with  a  composed  countenance  and  a  low  court- 
sey.  She  was  a  girl  of  such  exuberant  mirth,  that 
her  visit  to  Trophonius  only  reduced  her  to  a  more 
than  ordinary  decency  of  behavior,  and  made  a 
very  pretty  prude  of  her.  After  having  performed 
innumerable  cures,  I  looked  about  me  with  great 
satisfaction,  and  saw  all  my  patients  walking  by 
themselves  in  a  very  pensive  and  musing  posture, 
so  that  the  whole  place  seemed  covered  with  philo¬ 
sophers.  I  was  at  length  resolved  to  go  into  the 
cave  myself,  and  see  what  it  was  that  had  pro¬ 
duced  such  wonderful  effects  upon  the  company; 
but  as  I  was  stooping  at  the  entrance,  the  door 
being  something  low,  I  gave  such  a  nod  in  my 
chair  that  I  awoke.  After  having  recovered 
myself  from  my  first  startle,  I  was  very  well 
pleased  at  the  accident  which  had  befallen  me,  as 
not  knowing  but  a  little  stay  in  the  place  might 
have  spoiled  my  Spectators. 


Ho.  600.]  WEDNESDAY,  SEPT.  29,  1714. 

- Solemque  suum,  sua  sidera  norunt. 

Vma.  iEn.  vi.  641. 

Stars  of  their  own,  and  their  own  suns  they  know. 

Drxden. 

I  have  always  taken  a  particular  pleasure  in  ex¬ 
amining  the  opinions  which  men  of  different  re¬ 
ligions,  different  ages,  and  different  countries, 
have  entertained  concerning  the  immortality  of  the 
soul,  and  the  state  of  happiness  which  they  pro¬ 
mise  themselves  in  another  world.  For  whatever 
prejudices  and  errors  human  nature  lies  under,  we 
find  that  either  reason,  or  tradition  from  our  first 
parents,  has  discovered  to  all  people  something  in 
these  great  points  which  bears  analogy  to  truth, 
and  to  the  doctrines  opened  to  us  by  divine  reve¬ 
lation.  I  was  lately  discoursing  on  this  subject 
with  a  learned  person  who  has  been  very  much 
conversant  among  the  inhabitants  of  the  more 
western  parts  of  Africa.*  Upon  his  conversing 
with  several  in  that  country,  he  tells  me  that  their 
notion  of  heaven  or  of  a  future  state  of  happiness 
is  this,  that  everything  we  there  wish  for,  will  im¬ 
mediately  present  itself  to  us.  We  find,  say  they, 
our  souls  are  of  such  a  nature  that  they  require 
variety,  and  are  not  capable  of  being  always  de¬ 
lighted  with  the  same  objects.  The  Supreme  Be¬ 
ing,  therefore,  in  compliance  with  this  taste  of 
happiness  which  he  has  planted  in  the  soul  of  man, 
will  raise  up  from  time  to  time,  say  they,  every 
gratification  which  it  is  in  the  humor  to  be  pleased 
with.  If  we  wish  to  be  in  groves  or  bowers, 
among  running  streams  or  falls  of  water,  we  shall 
immediately  find  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  such  a 

*  The  person  alluded  to  here  was  probably  Dean  Lancelot 
Addison,  “diutinis  per  Europam  Africamque  peregrinationi- 
bus,  rerum  peritia  spectabilis.”  This  amiable  clergyman,  the 
father  of  the  author  of  this  paper,  published  An  Account  of 
West  Barbary,  etc. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


700 

scene  as  we  desire.  If  we  would  be  entertained 
with  music  and  the  melody  of  sounds,  the  concert 
rises  upon  our  wish,  and  the  whole  region  about 
us  is  filled  with  harmony.  In  short,  every  desire 
will  be  followed  by  fruition;  and  whatever  a  man’s 
inclination  directs  him  to  will  be  present  with 
him.  Nor  is  it  material  whether  the  Supreme 
Power  creates  in  conformity  to  our  wishes,  or 
whether  he  only  produces  such  a  change  in  our 
imagination  as  makes  us  believe  ourselves  conver¬ 
sant  among  those  scenes  which  delight  us.  Our 
happiness  will  be  the  same,  whether  it  proceed 
from  external  objects,  or  from  the  impressions  of 
the  Deity  upon  our  own  private  fancies.  This  is 
the  account  which  I  have  received  from  my  learned 
friend.  Notwithstanding  this  system  of  belief  be 
in  general  very  chimerical  and  visionary,  there  is 
something  sublime  in  its  manner  of  considering 
the  influence  of  a  Divine  Being  on  a  human  soul. 
It  has  also,  like  most  other  opinions  of  the  heathen 
world  upon  these  important  points;  it  has,  I  say, 
its  foundation  in  truth,  as  it  supposes  the  souls  of 
good  men  after  this  life  to  be  in  a  state  of  perfect 
happiness;  that  in  this  state  there  will  be  no  bar¬ 
ren  hopes  nor  fruitless  wishes,  and  that  we  shall 
enjoy  everything  we  can  desire.  But  the  particu¬ 
lar  circumstance  which  I  am  most  pleased  with  in 
this  scheme,  and  which  arises  from  a  just  reflection 
upon  human  nature,  is  that  variety  of  pleasures 
which  it  supposes  the  souls  of  good  men  will 
be  possessed  of  in  another  world.  This  I  think 
highly  probable,  from  the  dictates  both  of  reason 
and  revelation.  The  soul  consists  of  many  facul¬ 
ties,  as  the  understanding,  and  the  will,  with  all 
the  senses  both  outward  and  inward:  or,  to  speak 
more  philosophically,  the  soul  can  exert  herself  in 
many  different  ways  of  action.  She  can  under¬ 
stand,  will,  imagine,  see,  and  hear;  love,  and  dis¬ 
course,  and  apply  herself  to  many  other  the  like 
exercises  of  different  kinds  and  natures;  but  what 
is  more  to  be  considered,  the  soul  is  capable  of  re¬ 
ceiving  a  most  exquisite  pleasure  and  satisfaction 
from  the  exercise  of  any  of  these  its  powers,  when 
they  are  gratified  with  their  proper  •  objects;  she 
can  be  entirely  happy  by  the  satisfaction  of  the 
memory,  the  sight,  the  hearing,  or  any  other  mode 
of  perception.  Every  faculty  is  as  a  distinct  taste 
in  the  mind,  and  hath  objects  accommodated  to  its 
proper  relish.  Doctor  Tillotson  somewhere  says, 
that  he  will  not  presume  to  determine  in  what  con¬ 
sists  the  happiness  of  the  blessed,  because  God 
Almighty  is  capable  of  making  the  soul  happy  by 
ten  thousand  different  ways.  Beside  those  several 
avenues  to  pleasure  which  the  soul  is  endowed 
with  in  this  life,  it  is  not  impossible,  according  to 
the  opinions  of  many  eminent  divines,  but  there 
may  be  new  faculties  in  the  souls  of  good  men 
made  perfect,  as  well  as  new  senses  in  their  glori¬ 
fied  bodies.  This  we  are  sure  of,  that  there  will 
be  new  objects  offered  to  all  those  faculties  which 
are  essential  to  us. 

We  are  likewise  to  take  notice  that  every  par¬ 
ticular  faculty  is  capable  of  being  employed  on  a 
very  great  variety  of  objects.  The  understanding, 
for  example,  may  be  happy  in  the  contemplation 
of  moral,  natural,  mathematical,  and  other  kinds 
of  truth.  The  memory,  likewise,  may  turn  itself 
to  an  infinite  multitude  of  objects,  especially  when 
the  soul  shall  have  passed  through  the  space  of 
many  millions  of  years,  and  shall  reflect  with 
pleasure  on  the  days  of  eternity.  Every  other 
faculty  may  be  considered  in  the  same  extent. 

We  cannot  question  but  that  the  happiness  of  a 
soul  will  be  adequate  to  its  nature;  and  that  it  is 
not  endowed  with  any  faculties  which  are  to  lie 
useless  and  unemployed.  The  happiness  is  to  be 
the  happiness  of  the  whole  man;  and  we  may 


easily  conceive  to  ourselves  the  happiness  of  the 
soul  while  any  one  of  its  faculties  is  in  the  fruition 
of  its  chief  good.  The  happiness  may  be  of  a 
more  exalted  nature  in  proportion  as  the  faculty 
employed  is  so;  but,  as  the  whole  soul  acts  in  the 
exertion  of  any  of  its  particular  powers,  the  whole 
soul  is  happy  in  the  pleasure  which  arises  from 
any  of  its  particular  acts.  For,  notwithstanding, 
as  has  been  before  hinted,  and  as  it  has  been 
taken  notice  of  by  one  of  the  greatest  modern 
philosophers,*  we  divide  the  soul  into  several 
powers  and  faculties,  there  is  no  such  division 
in  the  soul  itself,  since  it  is  the  whole  soul  that 
remembers,  understands,  wills,  or  imagines.  Our 
manner  of  considering  the  memory,  understand¬ 
ing,  will,  imagination,  and  the  like  faculties,  is 
for  the  better  enabling  us  to  express  ourselves  in 
such  abstracted  subjects  of  speculation,  not  that 
there  is  any  such  division  in  the  soul  itself. 

Seeing,  then,  that  the  soul  has  many  different 
faculties;  or,  in  other  words,  many  different  ways 
of  acting ;  that  it  can  be  intensely  pleased  or 
made  happy  by  all  these  different  faculties,  or 
ways  of  acting;  that  it  may  be  endowed  with 
several  latent  faculties,  which  it  is  not  at  present 
in  a  condition  to  exert;  that  we  cannot  believe 
the  soul  is  endowed  with  any  faculty  which  is  of 
no  use  to  it;  that,  whenever  any  one  of  these  facul¬ 
ties  is  transcendently  pleased,  the  soul  is  in  a 
state  of  happiness;  and,  in  the  last  place,  consid¬ 
ering  that  the  happiness  of  another  world  is  to  be 
the  happiness  of  the  whole  man,  who  can  question 
but  that  there  is  an  infinite  variety  in  those  pleas¬ 
ures  we  are  speaking  of?  and  that  this  fullness  of 
joy  will  be  made  up  of  all  those  pleasures  which 
the  nature  of  the  soul  is  capable  of  receiving? 

We  shall  be  the  more  confirmed  in  this  doctrine, 
if  we  observe  the  nature  of  variety  with  regard  to 
the  mind  of  man.  The  soul  does  not  care  to  be 
always  in  the  same  bent.  The  faculties  relieve 
one  another  by  turns,  and  receive  an  additional 
pleasure  from  the  novelty  of  those  objects  about 
which  they  are  conversant. 

Revelation  likewise  very  much  confirms  this 
notion,  under  the  different  views  which  it  gives 
us  of  our  future  happiness.  In  the  description 
of  the  throne  of  God  it  represents  to  us  all  those 
objects  which  are  able  to  gratify  the  senses  and 
imagination:  in  very  many  places  it  intimates  to 
us  all  the  happiness  which  the  understanding  can 
possibly  receive  in  that  state,  where  all  things 
shall  be  revealed  to  us,  and  we  shall  know  even 
as  we  are  known;  the  raptures  of  devotion,  of 
divine  love,  the  pleasure  of  conversing  with  our 
blessed  Savior,  with  an  innumerable  host  of  an¬ 
gels,  and  with  the  spirits  of  just  men  made  per¬ 
fect,  are  likewise  revealed  to  us  in  several  parts 
of  the  holy  writings.  There  are  also  mentioned 
those  hierarchies  or  governments  in  which  the 
blessed  shall  be  ranged  one  above  another,  and  in 
which  we  may  be  sure  a  great  part  of  our  happi¬ 
ness  will  likewise  consist;  for  it  will  not  be  there 
as  in  this  world,  where  every  one  is  aiming  at 
power  and  superiority;  but,  on  the  contrary,  every 
one  will  find  that  station  the  most  proper  for  him 
in  which  he  is  placed,  and  will  probably  think 
that  he  could  not  have  been  so  happy  in  any  other 
station.  These,  and  many  other  particulars,  are 
marked  in  divine  revelation,  as  the  several  ingre¬ 
dients  of  our  happiness  in  heaven,  which  all  imply 
such  a  variety  of  joys,  and  such  a  gratification  of 
the  soul  in  all  its  different  faculties,  as  I  have 
been  here  mentioning. 

Some  of  the  Rabbins  tell  us,  that  the  cherubim 
are  a  set  of  angels  who  know  most,  and  the 


*  Locke. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


seraphim  a  set  of  angels  who  love  most.  Whether 
this  distinction  be  not  altogether  imaginary,  I 
shall  not  here  examine;  but  it  is  highly  probable 
that,  among  the  spirits  of  good  men,  there  may 
be  some  who  will  be  more  pleased  with  the  em¬ 
ployment  of  one  faculty  than  of  another;  and  this 
perhaps  according  to  those  innocent  and  virtuous 
habits  or  inclinations  which  have  here  taken  the 
deepest  root. 

I  might  here  apply  this  consideration  to  the 
spirits  of  wicked  men,  with  relation  to  the  pain 
which  they  shall  suffer  in  every  one  of  their  facul¬ 
ties,  and  the  respective  miseries  which  shall  be 
appropriated  to  each  faculty  in  particular.  But, 
leaving  this  to  the  reflection  of  my  readers,  I 
shall  conclude  with  observing  how  we  ought  to 
be  thankful  to  our  great  Creator,  and  rejoice  in 
the  being  which  he  has  bestowed  upon  us,  for 
having  made  the  soul  susceptible  of  pleasure  by 
so  many  different  ways.  We  see  by  what  a  va¬ 
riety  of  passages  joy  and  gladness  may  enter  into 
the  thoughts  of  man;  how  wonderfully  a  human 
spirit  is  framed,  to  imbibe  its  proper  satisfactions, 
and  taste  the  goodness  of  its  Creator.  We  may 
therefore  look  into  ourselves  with  rapture  and 
amazement,  and  cannot  sufficiently  express  our 
gratitude  to  Him  who  has  encompassed  us  with 
such  a  profusion  of  blessings,  and  opened  in  us 
so  many  capacities  of  enjoying  them. 

There  cannot  be  a  stronger  argument  that  God 
has  designed  us  for  a  state  of  future  happiness, 
and  for  that  heaven  which  he  has  revealed  to  us, 
than  that  he  has  thus  naturally  qualified  the  soul 
for  it,  and  made  it  a  being  capable  of  receiving  so 
much  bliss.  He  would  never  have  made  such 
faculties  in  vain,  and  have  endowed  us  with  pow¬ 
ers  that  were  not  to  be  exerted  on  such  objects  as 
are  suited  to  them.  It  is  very  manifest,  by  the 
inward  frame  and  constitution  of  our  minds,  that 
he  has  adapted  them  to  an  infinite  variety  of 
pleasures  and  gratifications  which  are  not  to  be 
met  with  in  this  life.  We  should,  therefore,  at  all 
times,  take  care  that  we  do  not  disappoint  this 
his  gracious  purpose  and  intention  toward  us,  and 
make  those  faculties,  which  he  formed  as  so  many 
qualifications  for  happiness  and  rewards,  to  be 
the  instruments  of  pain  and  punishment. 

_ 

No.  601.]  FRIDAY,  OCTOBER  1,  1714. 

Man  is  naturally  a  beneficent  creature. 

The  following  essay  comes  from  a  hand  which 
has  entertained  my  readers  once  before: 

“Notwithstanding  a  narrow  contracted  temper 
be  that  which  obtains  most  in  the  world,  we  must 
not  therefore  conclude  this  to  be  the  genuine 
characteristic  of  mankind;  because  there  are  some 
who  delight  in  nothing  so  much  as  in  doing  good, 
and  receive  more  of  their  happiness  at  second¬ 
hand,  or  by  rebound  from  others,  than  by  direct 
and  immediate  sensation.  Now,  though  these 
heroic  souls  are  but  few,  and  to  appearance  so 
far  advanced  above  the  groveling  multitude,  as 
if  they  were  of  another  order  of  beings,  yet  in 
reality  their  nature  is  the  same;  moved  by  the 
same  springs,  and  endowed  with  all  the  same 
essential  qualities,  only  cleared,  refined,  and  cul¬ 
tivated.  Water  is  the  same  fluid  body  in  winter 
and  in  summer;  when  it  stands  stiffened  in  ice  as 
when  it  flows  along  in  gentle  streams,  gladdening 
a  thousand  fields  in  its  progress.  It  is  a  property 
of  the  heart  of  man  to  be  diffusive:  its  kind  wishes 
spread  abroad  over  the  face  of  the  creation;  and 
if  there  be  those,  as  we  may  observe  too  many  of 


701 

them,  who  are  all  wrapped  up  in  their  own  dear 
selves,  without  any  visible  concern  for  their  spe¬ 
cies,  let  us  suppose  that  their  good-nature  is 
frozen,  and,  by  the  prevailing  force  of  some  con¬ 
trary  quality,  restrained  in  its  operations.  I  shall 
therefore  endeavor  to  assign  some  of  the  principal 
checks  upon  this  generous  propension  of  the  hu¬ 
man  soul,  which  wTill  enable  us  to  judge  whether, 
and  by  what  method,  this  most  useful  principle 
may  be  unfettered,  and  restored  to  its  native  free¬ 
dom  of  exercise. 

“The  first  and  leading  cause  is  an  unhappy 
complexion  of  body.  The  heathens,  ignorant  of 
the  true  source  of  moral  evil,  generally  charged  it 
on  the  obliquity  of  matter,  wdiich  being  eternal 
and  independent,  was  incapable  of  change  in  any 
of  its  properties,  even  by  the  Almighty  Mincl, 
who,  when  he  came  to  fashion  it  into  a  world  of 
beings,  must  take  it  as  he  found  it.  This  notion, 
as  most  others  of  theirs,  is  a  composition  of  truth 
and  error.  That  matter  is  eternal — that  from  the 
first  union  of  a  soul  to  it,  it  perverted  its  inclina¬ 
tions — and  that  the  ill  influence  it  hath  upon  the 
mind  is  not  to  be  corrected  by  God  himself,  are  all 
very  great  errors,  occasioned  by  a  truth  as  evident 
that  the  capacities  and  dispositions  of  the  soul 
depend,  to  a  great  degree,  on  the  bodily  temper. 
As  there  are  some  fools,  others  are  knaves,  by 
constitution;  and  particularly  it  may  be  said  of 
many,  that  they  are  born  with  an  illiberal  cast  of 
mind;  the  matter  that  composes  them  is  tenacious 
as  birdlime;  and  a  kind  of  cramp  draws  their  hands 
and  their  hearts  together,  that  they  never  care  to 
open  them,  unless  to  grasp  at  more.  It  is  a  melan¬ 
choly  lot  this;  but  attended  with  one  advantage 
above  theirs,  to  whom  it  would  be  as  painful  to 
forbear  good  offices  as  it  is  to  these  men  to  per¬ 
form  them:  that  whereas  persons  naturally  benefi¬ 
cent  often  mistake  instinct  for  virtue,  by  reason  of 
the  difficulty  of  distinguishing  when  one  rules 
them  and  when  the  other,  men  of  the  opposite 
character  may  be  more  certain  of  the  motive  that 
predominates  in  every  action.  If  they  cannot 
confer  a  benefit  with  that  ease  and  frankness 
which  are  necessary  to  give  it  a  grace  in  the  eye 
of  the  world,  in  requital,  .the  real  merit  of  what 
they  do  is  enhanced  by  the  opposition  they  sur¬ 
mount  in  doing  it.  The  strength  of  their  virtue 
is  seen  in  rising  against  the  weight  of  nature;  and 
every  time  they  have  the  resolution  to  discharge 
their  duty,  they  make  a  sacrifice  of  inclination  to 
conscience,  which  is  always  too  grateful  to  let  its 
followers  go  without  suitable  marks  of  its  appro¬ 
bation.  Perhaps  the  entire  cure  of  this  ill  quality 
is  no  more  possible  than  of  some  distempers  that 
descend  by  inheritance.  However,  a  great  deal 
may  be  done  by  a  course  of  beneficence  obsti¬ 
nately  persisted  in;  this,  if  anything,  being  a 
likely  way  of  establishing  a  moral  habit,  which 
shall  be  somewhat  of  a  counterpoise  to  the  force 
of  mechanism.  Only  it  must  be  remembered  that 
we  do  not  intermit,  upon  any  pretense  whatsoever, 
the  custom  of  doing  good,  in  regard,  if  there  be 
the  least  cessation,  nature  will  watch  the  oppor¬ 
tunity  to  return,  and  in  a  short  time  to  recover  the 
ground  it  was  so  long  in  quitting:  for  there  is  this 
difference  between  mental  habits  and  such  as  have 
their  foundation  in  the  body,  that  these  last  are  in 
their  nature  more  forcible  and  violent,  and,  to 
gain  upon  us,  need  only  not  to  be  opposed 
whereas  the  former  must  be  continually  rein¬ 
forced  with  fresh  supplies,  or  they  will  languish 
and  die  away.  And  this  suggests  the  reason 
why  good  habits  in  general  require  longer  time 
for  their  settlement  than  bad,  and  yet  are  sooner 
displaced:  the  reason  is,  that  vicious  habits,  as 
drunkenness  for  instance,  produce  a  change  in  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


702 


body,  which  the  others  not  doing,  must  be  main¬ 
tained  the  same  way  they  are  acquired,  by  the 
mere  dint  of  industiy,  resolution,  and  vigilance. 

“Another  thing  which  suspends  the  operations 
of  benevolence,  is  the  love  of  the  world;  proceed¬ 
ing  from  a  false  notion  men  have  taken  up,  that 
an  abundance  of  the  wrorld  is  an  essential  ingre¬ 
dient  in  the  happiness  of  life.  Worldly  things 
are  of  such  a  quality  as  to  lessen  upon  dividing, 
so  that  the  more  partners  there  are,  the  less  must 
fall  to  every  man’s  private  share.  The  conse¬ 
quence  of  this  is,  that  they  look  upon  one  another 
with  an  evil  eye,  each  imagining  all  the  rest  to  be 
embarked  in  an  interest  that  cannot  take  place 
but  to  his  prejudice.  Hence  are  those  eager  com¬ 
petitions  for  wealth  or  power;  hence  one  man’s 
success  becomes  another’s  disappointment;  and, 
like  pretenders  to  the  same  mistress,  they  can  sel¬ 
dom  have  common  charity  for  their  rivals.  Not 
that  they  are  naturally  disposed  to  quarrel  and 
fall  out;  but  it  is  natural  for  a  man  to  prefer  him¬ 
self  to  all  others,  and  to  secure  his  own  interest 
first.  If  that  which  men  esteem  their  happiness 
were,  like  the  light,  the  same  sufficient  and  un¬ 
confined  good,  whether  ten  thousand  enjoy  the 
benefit  of  it  or  but  one,  we  should  see  men’s 
good-will  and  kind  endeavors  would  be  as  uni¬ 
versal. 

Homo  qui  erranti  comiter  monstrat  viam 

Quasi  lumen  de  suo  lumine  accendat,  facit, 

Nihilominus  ipsi  luceat,  cum  illi  accenderit. 

To  direct  a  wanderer  in  the  right  way,  is  to  light  another 
man’s  candle  by  one’s  own,  which  loses  none  of  its  light  by 
what  the  other  gains. 

“But,  unluckily,  mankind  agree  in  making 
choice  of  objects  which  inevitably  engage  them 
in  perpetual  differences.  Learn,  therefore,  like  a 
wise  man,  the  true  estimate  of  things.  Desire 
not  more  of  the  wTorld  than  is  necessary  to  accom¬ 
modate  you  in  passing  through  it;  look  upon 
everything  beyond,  not  as  useless  only,  but  bur¬ 
densome.  Place  not  your  quiet  in  things  which 
you  cannot  have  wffthout  putting  others  beside 
them,  and  thereby  making  them  your  enemies; 
and  which,  when  attained,  will  give  you  more 
trouble  to  keep  than  satisfaction  in  the  enjoy¬ 
ment.  Virtue  is  a  good  of  a  nobler  kind :  it 
grows  by  communication;  and  so  little  resembles 
earthly  riches,  that  the  more  hands  it  is  lodged  in, 
the  greater  is  every  man’s  particular  stock.  So, 
by  propagating  and  mingling  their  fires,  not  only 
all  the  lights  of  a  branch  together  cast  a  more  ex¬ 
tensive  brightness,  but  each  single  light  burns 
with  a  stronger  flame.  And  lastly,  take  this 
along  with  you,  that  if  wealth  be  an  instrument 
of  pleasure,  the  greatest  pleasure  it  can  put  into 
your  power  is  that  of  doing  good.  It  is  worth 
considering  that  the  organs  of  sense  act  within  a 
narrow  compass,  and  the  appetites  will  soon  say 
they  have  enough.  Which  of  the  two  therefore 
is  the  happier  man — he  wTho,  confining  all  his  re¬ 
gard  to  the  gratification  of  his  own  appetites,  is 
capable  but  of  short  fits  of  pleasure — or  the  man 
who,  reckoning  himself  a  sharer  in  the  satisfac¬ 
tions  of  others,  especially  those  which  come  to 
them  by  his  means,  enlarges  the  sphere  of  his 
happiness? 

“  The  last  enemy  to  benevolence  I  shall  men¬ 
tion  is  uneasiness  of  any  kind.  A  guilty  or  a 
discontented  mind,  a  mind  ruffled  by  ill-fortune, 
disconcerted  by  its  own  passions,  soured  by  neg¬ 
lect,  or  fretting  at  disappointments,  hath  not  lei¬ 
sure  to  attend  to  the  necessity  or  reasonableness 
of  a  kindness  desired,  nor  a  taste  for  those  pleas¬ 
ures  which  wait  on  beneficence,  which  demand  a 
calm  and  unpolluted  heart  to  relish  them.  The 
most  miserable  of  all  beings  is  the  most  envious; 


as,  on  the  other  hand,  the  most  communicative  is 
the  happiest.  And  if  you  are  in  search  of  the 
seat  of  perfect  love  and  friendship,  you  will  not 
find  it  until  you  come  to  the  region  of  the  blessed, 
where  happiness,  like  a  refreshing  stream,  flows 
from  heart  to  heart  in  an  endless  circulation,  and 
is  preserved  sweet  and  untainted  by  the  motion. 
It  is  old  advice,  if  you  have  a  favor  to  request  of 
any  one,  to  observe  the  softest  times  of  address, 
when  the  soul,  in  a  flash  of  good-humor,  takes  a 
pleasure  to  show  itself  pleased.  Persons  conscious 
of  their  own  integrity,  satisfied  with  themselves 
and  their  condition,  and  full  of  confidence  in  a 
Supreme  Being,  and  the  hope  of  immortality,  sur¬ 
vey  all  about  them  with  a  flow  of  good-will:  as 
trees  which  like  their  soil,  they  shoot  out  in  ex¬ 
pressions  of  kindness,  and  bend  beneath  their 
own  precious  load,  to  the  hand  of  the  gatherer. 
Now  if  the  mind  be  not  thus  easy,  it  is  an  infal¬ 
lible  sign  that  it  is  not  in  its  natural  state:  place 
the  mind  in  its  right  posture,  it  will  immediately 
discover  its  innate  propensity  to  beneficence.” 


No.  602.]  MONDAY,  OCTOBER  4,  1714. 

Facit  hoc  illos  hyacinthos. — Jcv.  Sat.  vi.  110. 

This  makes  them  hyacinths. 

The  following  letter  comes  from  a  gentleman 
who,  I  find,  is  very  diligent  in  making  his  obser¬ 
vations,  which  I  think  too  material  not  to  be  com¬ 
municated  to  the  public : — 

“  Sir, 

“  In  order  to  execute  the  office  of  love-casuist  to 
Great  Britain,  with  which  I  take  myself  to  be  in¬ 
vested  by  your  paper  of  September  8, 1  shall  make 
some  further  observations  upon  the  two  sexes  in 
general,  beginning  with  that  which  always  ought 
to  have  the  upper  hand.  After  having  observed, 
with  much  curiosity,  the  accomplishments  which 
are  apt  to  captivate  female  hearts,  I  find  that  there 
is  no  person  so  irresistible  as  one  who  is  a  man  of 
importance,  provided  it  be  in  matters  of  no  con¬ 
sequence.  One  who  makes  himself  talked  of, 
though  it  be  for  the  particular  cock  of  his  hat,  or 
for  prating  aloud  in  the  boxes  at  a  play,  is  in  the 
fair  way  of  being  a  favorite.  I  have  known  a 
young  fellow  make  his  fortune  by  knocking  down 
a  constable ;  and  may  venture  to  say,  though  it 
may  seem  a  paradox,  that  many  a  fair  one  has 
died  by  a  duel  in  which  both  the  combatants  have 
survived. 

“About  three  winters  ago  I  took  notice  of  a 
young  lady  at  the  theater,  who  conceived  a  pas¬ 
sion  for  a  notorious  rake  that  headed  a  party  of  cat¬ 
calls  :  and  am  credibly  informed  that  the  emperor 
of  the  Mohocks  married  a  rich  widow  within  three 
weeks  after  having  rendered  himself  formidable  in 
the  cities  of  London  and  Westminster.  Scouring 
and  breaking  of  windows  have  done  frequent  exe¬ 
cution  upon  the  sex.  But  there  is  no  set  of  these 
male  charmers  who  make  their  way  more  success¬ 
fully  than  those  who  have  gained  themselves  a 
name  for  intrigue,  and  have  ruined  the  greatest 
number  of  reputations.  There  is  a  strange  curi¬ 
osity  in  the  female  wrorld  to  be  acquainted  with 
the  dear  man  who  has  been  loved  by  others,  and 
to  know  what  it  is  that  makes  him  so  agreeable. 
His  reputation  does  more  than  half  his  business. 
Every  one,  that  is  ambitious  of  being  a  woman  of 
fashion,  looks  out  for  opportunities  of  being  in  his 
company;  so  that,  to  use  the  old  proverb,  ‘When 
his  name  is  up  he  may  lie  a-bed.’ 

“  I  was  very  sensible  of  the  great  advantage  of 
being  a  man  of  importance  upon  these  occasions 


703 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


on  the  day  of  the  king’s  entry,  when  I  was  seated 
in  a  balcony  behind  a  cluster  of  very  pretty  coun¬ 
try  ladies,  who  had  one  of  these  showy  gentlemen 
in  the  midst  of  them.  The  first  trick  I  caught 
him  at  was  bowing  to  several  persons  of  quality 
whom  he  did  not  know;  nay,  he  had  the  impu¬ 
dence  to  hem  at  a  blue  garter  who  had  a  finer 
equipage  than  ordinary;  and  seemed  a  little  con¬ 
cerned  at  the  impertinent  huzzas  of  the  mob  that 
hindered  his  friend  from  taking  notice  of  him. 
There  was,  indeed,  one  who  pulled  off  his  hat  to 
him;  and,  upon  the  ladies  asking  who  it  was,  he 
told  them  it  was  a  foreign  minister  that  he  had 
been  very  merry  with  the  night  before;  whereas, 
in  truth,  it  was  the  city  common  hunt. 

“  He  was  never  at  a  loss  when  he  was  asked  any 
person’s  name,  though  he  seldom  knew  any  one 
under  a  peer.  He  found  dukes  and  earls  among 
the  aldermen,  very  good-natured  fellows  among 
the  privy-counselors,  with  two  or  three  agreeable 
old  rakes  among  the  bishops  and  judges. 

“  In  short,  I  collected  from  his  whole  discourse 
that  he  was  acquainted  with  everybody  and  knew 
nobody.  At  the  same  time,  I  am  mistaken  if  he 
did  not  that  day  make  more  advances  in  the  affec¬ 
tions  of  his  mistress,  who  sat  near  him,  than  he 
could  have  done  in  half-a-vear’s  courtship. 

“  Ovid  has  finely  touched  this  method  of  making 
love,  which  I  shall  here  give  my  reader  in  Mr. 
Dryden’s  translation : 

“  Page  the  eleventh. 

Thus  love  in  theaters  did  first  improve, 

And  theaters  are  still  the  scenes  of  love : 

Nor  shun  the  chariots,  and  the  courser’s  race; 

The  Circus  is  no  inconvenient  place, 

No  need  is  there  of  talking  on  the  hand, 

Nor  nods,  nor  signs,  which  lovers  understand; 

But  boldly  next  the  fair  your  seat  provide, 

Close  as  you  can  to  hers,  and  side  by  side : 

Pleas’d  or  unpleas’d,  no  matter,  crowding  sit, 

For  so  the  laws  of  public  shows  permit. 

Then  find  occasion  to  begin  discourse, 

Inquire  whose  chariot  this,  and  whose  that  horse 
To  whatsoever  side  she  is  inclin’d, 

Suit  all  your  inclinations  to  her  mind : 

Like  what  she  likes,  from  thence  your  court  begin, 
And  whom  she  favors  wish  that  he  may  win. 

“Again,  page  the  sixteenth. 

0  when  will  come  the  day,  by  heaven  design’d, 
When  thou,  the  best  and  fairest  of  mankind, 

Drawn  by  white  horses  shalt  in  triumph  ride, 

With  conquer’d  slaves  attending  on  thy  side, 

Slaves  that  no  longer  can  be  safe  in  flight  ? 

0  glorious  object !  0  surprising  sight ! 

0  day  of  public  joy  too  good  to  end  in  night. 

On  such  a  day,  if  thou  and  next  to  thee 
Some  beauty  sits,  the  spectacle  to  see ; 

If  she  inquire  the  names  of  conquer’d  kings, 

Of  mountains,  rivers,  and  their  hidden  springs : 
Answer  to  all  thou  know’st ;  and,  if  need  be, 

Of  things  unknown  seem  to  speak  knowingly : 

This  is  Euphrates,  crowned  with  reeds :  and  there 
Plows  the  swift  Tigris,  with  his  seargreen  hair. 
Invent  new  names  of  things  unknown  before ; 

Call  this  Armenia,  that  the  Caspian  shore ; 

Call  this  a  Mede,  and  that  a  Parthian  youth, 

Talk  probably :  no  matter  for  the  truth. 


Ho.  603.]  WEDNESDAY,  OCTOBER  6,  1714. 

Ducite  ab  urbe  domum,  mea  carmina,  ducite  Daphnim. 

Yirg.  Eel.  viii,  68. 

- Restore,  my  charms, 

My  lingering  Daphnis  to  my  longing  arms. — Dryden. 

The  following  copy  of  verses  comes  from  one  of 
my  correspondents,  and  has  something  in  it  so  ori¬ 
ginal,  that  I  do  not  much  doubt  but  it  will  divert 
my  readers  : — * 


*  The  Phoebe  of  this  admired  pastoral  was  Joanna,  the 
daughter  of  the  very  learned  Dr.  Richard  Bentley,  archdeacon 
and  prebendary  of  Ely,  regius  professor  and  master  of  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge,  who  died  in  1742.  She  was  afterward 


I. 

My  time,  0  ye  Muses,  was  happily  spent, 

When  Phoebe  went  with  me  wherever  I  went ; 

Ten  thousand  sweet  pleasures  I  felt  in  my  breast; 

Sure  never  fond  shepherd  like  Colin  was  blest ; 

But  now  she  is  gone,  and  has  left  me  behind; 

What  a  marvelous  change  on  a  sudden  I  find! 

When  things  were  as  fine  as  could  possibly  be, 

I  thought  ’twas  the  spring;  but,  alas!  it  was  she. 

n. 

With  such  a  companion,  to  tend  a  few  sheep, 

To  rise  up  and  play,  or  to  lie  down  and  sleep, 

I  was  so  good-humor’d,  so  cheerful  and  gay, 

My  heart  was  as  light  as  a  feather  all  day; 

But  now  I  so  cross  and  so  peevish  am  grown, 

So  strangely  uneasy,  as  never  was  known. 

My  fair-one  is  gone,  and  my  joys  are  all  drown’d, 

And  my  heart — I  am  sure,  it  weighs  more  than  a  pound. 

m. 

The  fountain  that  wont  to  run  sweetly  along, 

And  dance  to  soft  murmurs  the  pebbles  among; 

Thou  know’st,  little  Cupid,  if  Phoebe  was  there, 

’Twas  pleasure  to  look  at,  ’twas  music  to  hear: 

But  now  she  is  absent  I  walk  by  its  side, 

And  still  as  it  murmurs  do  nothing  but  chide. 

Must  you  be  so  cheerful  while  I  go  in  pain? 

Peace  there  with  your  bubbling,  and  hear  me  complain. 

IY. 

When  my  lambkins  around  me  would  oftentimes  play, 
And  when  Phoebe  and  I  were  as  joyful  as  they, 

How  pleasant  their  sporting,  how  happy  the  time, 
When  spring,  love,  and  beauty  were  all  in  their  prime. 
But  now  in  their  frolics  when  by  me  they  pass, 

I  fling  at  their  fleeces  a  handful  of  grass : 

Be  still,  then  I  cry;  for  it  makes  me  quite  mad, 

To  see  you  so  merry  while  I  am  so  sad. 

Y. 

My  dog  I  was  ever  well  pleased  to  see 
Come  wagging  his  tail  to  my  fair  one  and  me; 

And  Phoebe  was  pleased,  too,  and  to  my  dog  said, 

Come  hither,  poor  fellow;  and  patted  his  head. 

But  now,  when  he’s  fawning,  I  with  a  sour  look 
Cry,  Sirrah !  and  give  him  a  blow  with  my  crook : 

And  I’ll  give  him  another;  for  why  should  not  Tray 
Be  as  dull  as  his  master;  when  Phoebe’s  away  ? 

YI. 

When  walking  with  Phoebe,  what  sights  have  I  seen! 
How  fair  was  the  flower,  how  fresh  was  the  green ! 

What  a  lovely  appearance  the  trees  and  the  shade, 

The  corn-fields  and  hedges,  and  everything  made! 

But  now  she  has  left  me,  though  all  are  still  there, 
They  none  of  them  now  so  delightful  appear: 

’Twas  naught  but  the  magic,  I  find,  of  her  eyes, 

Made  so  many  beautiful  prospects  arise. 

VII. 

Sweet  music  went  with  us  both  all  the  wood  thro’, 

The  lark,  linnet,  throstle,  and  nightingale  too ; 

Winds  over  us  whisper’d,  flocks  by  us  did  bleat, 

And  chirp  went  the  grasshopper  under  our  feet, 

But  now  she  is  absent,  though  still  they  sing  on, 

The  woods  are  but  lonely,  the  melody’s  gone  : 

Her  voice  in  the  concert,  as  now  I  have  found, 

Gave  everything  else  its  agreeable  sound. 

Yin. 

Rose,  what  is  become  of  thy  delicate  hue 
And  where  is  the  violet’s  beautiful  blue? 

Does  aught  of  its  sweetness  the  blossom  beguile? 

That  meadow,  those  daisies,  why  do  they  not  smile? 

Ah!  rivals,  I  see  what  it  was  that  you  dress’d 
And  made  yourselves  fine  for;  a  place  on  her  breast; 
You  put  on  your  colors  to  pleasure  her  eye, 

To  be  pluck’d  by  her  hand,  on  her  bosom  to  die. 

IX. 

How  slowly  Time  creeps,  till  my  Phoebe  return! 

While  amidst  the  soft  zephyr’s  cool  breezes  I  burn! 
Methinks,  if  I  knew  whereabouts  he  would  tread, 

I  could  breathe  on  his  wings,  and  ’twould  melt  down  the  lead. 
Fly  swifter,  ye  minutes,  bring  hither  my  dear, 

And  rest  so  much  longer  for’t  when  she  is  here. 

Ah,  Colin!  old  Time  is  full  of  delay, 

Nor  will  budge  one  foot  faster  for  all  thou  canst  say. 

X. 

Will  no  pitying  power  that  hears  me  complain, 

Or  cure  my  disquiet,  or  soften  my  pain? 


married  to  Dr.  Dennison  Cumberland,  Bishop  of  Clonfert  in 
Killaloe  in  Ireland,  and  grandson  of  Dr.  Richard  Cumberland. 
Bishop  of  Peterborough. 


f  * 

704  \  THE  SPECTATOR. 


To  be  cur’d,  thou  must,  Colin,  thy  passion  remove, 
But  what  swain  is  so  silly  to  live  without  love? 

No,  deity,  bid  the  dear  nymph  to  return, 

For  ne’er  was  poor  shepherd  so  sadly  forlorn. 

Ah!  what  shall  I  do?  I  shall  die  with  despair! 
Take  heed,  all  ye  swains,  how  ye  love  one  so  fair. 


N o.  604.]  FRIDAY,  OCTOBER  8,  1714. 

Tu  ne  quaesieris  (scire  nefas)  quern  mihi,  quern  tibi, 
Finem  Dii  dederint,  Leuconoe ;  nec  Babylonios 
Tentaris  numeros -  Hor.  Od.  xi,  1. 

Ah,  do  not  strive  too  much  to  know, 

•  My  dear  Leuconoe, 

What  the  kind  Gods  design  to  do 
With  me  and  thee. — Creech. 

The  desire  of  knowing  future  events  is  one  of 
the  strongest  inclinations  in  the  mind  of  man. 
Indeed,  an  ability  of  foreseeing  probable  accidents 
is  what,  in  the  language  of  men,  is  called  wisdom 
and  prudence;  but,  not  satisfied  with  the  light  that 
reason  holds  out,  mankind  has  endeavored  to 
penetrate  more  compendiously  into  futurity.  Ma¬ 
gic,  oracles,  omens,  lucky  hours,  and  the  various 
arts  of  superstition,  owe  their  rise  to  this  powerful 
cause.  As  this  principle  is  founded  in  self-love, 
every  man  is  sure  to  be  solicitous  in  the  first  place 
about  his  own  fortune,  the  course  of  his  life,  and 
the  time  and  manner  of  his  death. 

If  we  consider  that  we  are  free-agents,  we  shall 
discover  the  absurdity  of  such  inquiries.  One  of 
our  actions,  which  we  might  have  performed  or 
neglected,  is  the  cause  of  another  that  succeeds  it, 
and  so  the  whole  chain  of  life  is  linked  together. 
Pain,  poverty,  or  infamy,  are  the  natural  product 
of  vicious  and  imprudent  acts,  as  the  contrary 
blessings  are  of  good  ones;  so  that  we  cannot  sup¬ 
pose  our  lot  to  be  determined  without  impiety.  A 
great  enhancement  of  pleasure  arises  from  its  being 
unexpected ;  and  pain  is  doubled  by  being  fore¬ 
seen.  Upon  all  these,  and  several  other  accounts, 
we  ought  to  rest  satisfied  in  this  portion  bestowed 
on  us ;  to  adore  the  hand  that  hath  fitted  every¬ 
thing  to  our  nature,  and  hath  not  more  displayed 
his  goodness  in  our  knowledge  than  in  our  igno¬ 
rance. 

It  is  not  unworthy  observation,  that  supersti¬ 
tious  inquiries  into  future  events  prevail  more  or 
less,  in  proportion  to  the  improvement  of  liberal 
arts  and  useful  knowledge  in  the  several  parts  of 
the  world.  Accordingly  we  find,  that  magical  in¬ 
cantations  remain  in  Lapland;  in  the  more  remote 
parts  of  Scotland  they  have  their  second  sight ; 
and  several  of  our  own  countrymen  see  abundance 
of  fairies.  In  Asia  this  credulity  is  strong;  and  the 
greatest  part  of  refined  learning  there  consists  in 
the  knowledge  of  amulets,  talismans,  occult  num¬ 
bers,  and  the  like. 

When  I  was  at  Grand  Cairo  I  fell  into  the  ac¬ 
quaintance  of  a  good-natured  mussulman,  who 
promised  me  many  good  offices  which  he  designed 
to  do  me  when  he  became  the  prime-minister,  which 
was  a  fortune  bestowed  on  his  imagination  by  a 
doctor  very  deep  in  the  curious  sciences.  At  his 
repeated  solicitations  I  went  to  learn  my  destiny 
of  this  wonderful  sage.  For  a  small  sum  I  had 
his  promise,  but  was  required  to  wait  in  a  dark 
apartment  until  he  had  run  through  the  prepara¬ 
tory  ceremonies.  Having  a  strong  propensity, 
even  then,  to  dreaming,  I  took  a  nap  upon  the 
sofa  where  I  was  placed,  and  had  the  following 
vision,  the  particulars  whereof  I  picked  up  the 
other  day  among  my  papers. 

I  found  myself  in  an  unbounded  plain,  where 
methought  the  whole  world,  in  several  habits  and 
with  different  tongues,  was  assembled.  The  mul¬ 
titude  glided  swiftly  along,  and  I  found  in  myself  a 


strong  inclination  to  mingle  in  the  train.  My  eyes 
quickly  singled  out  some  of  the  splendid  figures. 
Several  in  rich  caftans  and  glittering  turbans 
bustled  through  the  throng,  and  trampled  over  the 
bodies  of  those  they  threw  down;  until  to  my 
great  surprise,  I  found  that  the  great  pace  they 
went  only  hastened  them  to  a  scaffold  or  a  bow¬ 
string.  Many  beautiful  damsels  on  the  other  side 
moved  forward  with  great  gayety;  some  danced  until 
they  fell  all  along;  and  others  painted  their  faces 
until  they  lost  their  noses.  A  tribe  of  creatures 
with  busy  looks  falling  into  a  fit  of  laughter  at 
the  misfortunes  of  the  unhappy  ladies,  I  turned 
my  eyes  upon  them.  They  were  each  of  them 
filling  his  pockets  with  gold  and  jewels,  and  when 
there  was  no  room  left  for  more,  these  wretches, 
looking  round  with  fear  and  horror,  pined  away 
before  my  face  with  famine  and  discontent. 

This  prospect  of  human  misery  struck  me  dumb 
for  some  miles.  Then  it  was  that,  to  disburden 
my  mind,  I  took  pen  and  ink,  and  did  everything 
that  has  since  happened  under  my  office  of  Spec¬ 
tator.  While  I  was  employing  myself  for  the 
good  of  mankind,  I  was  surprised  to  meet  with 
very  unsuitable  returns  from  my  fellow -creatures. 
Never  was  poor  author  so  beset  with  pamphleteers, 
who  sometimes  marched  directly  against  me,  but 
oftener  shot  at  me  from  strong  bulwarks,  or  rose 
up  suddenly  in  ambush.  They  were  of  all  charac¬ 
ters  and  capacities;  some  with  ensigns  of  dignity, 
and  others  in  liveries;*  but  what  most  surprised 
me  was  to  see  two  or  three  in  black  gowns  among 
my  enemies.  It  was  no  small  trouble  to  me, 
sometimes  to  have  a  man  come  up  to  me  with  an 
angry  face,  and  reproach  me  for  having  lampooned 
him  when  I  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  him  in  my 
life.  With  the  ladies  it  was  otherwise;  many  be¬ 
came  my  enemies  for  not  being  particularly  pointed 
out :  as  there  were  others  who  resented  the  satire 
which  they  imagined  I  had  directed  against  them. 
My  great  comfort  was  in  the  company  of  half  a 
dozen  friends,  who  I  found  since  were  the  club 
which  I  have  so  often  mentioned  in  my  papers. 
I  laughed  often  at  Sir  Roger  in  my  sleep,  and  was 
the  more  diverted  with  Will  Honeycomb’s  gallant¬ 
ries  (when  we  afterward  became  acquainted), 
because  I  had  foreseen  his  marriage  with  a  farmer’s 
daughter.  The  regret  which  rose  in  my  mind 
upon  the  death  of  my  companions,  my  anxieties 
for  the  public,  and  the  many  calamities  still  fleet¬ 
ing  before  my  eyes,  made  me  repent  my  curiosity; 
when  the  magician  entered  the  room,  and  awaken¬ 
ed  me  by  telling  me  (when  it  was  too  late)  that 
he  was  just  going  to  begin. 

N.  B.  I  have  only  delivered  the  prophesy  of 
that  part  of  my  life  which  is  past,  it  being  incon¬ 
venient  to  divulge  the  second  part  until  a  more 
proper  opportunity. 


No.  605.]  MONDAY,  OCTOBER  11,  1714. 

Exuerint  sylvestrem  animum ;  cultuque  frequenti, 

In  quascunque  voces  artes,  haud  tarda  sequentur. 

Yirg.  Georg,  ii.  51. 

- They  change  their  savage  mind, 

Their  wildness  lose,  and,  quitting  nature’s  part, 

Obey  the  rules  and  discipline  of  art. — Drtden. 

Having  perused  the  following  letter,  and  find¬ 
ing  it  to  run  upon  the  subject  of  love,  I  referred  it 
to  the  learned  casuist,  whom  I  have  retained  in 
my  service  for  speculations  of  that  kind.  He  re¬ 
turned  it  to  me  the  next  morning  with  his  report 

*  The  hirelings  and  black  gowns  employed  by  the  admi¬ 
nistration  in  the  last  year  of  the  Queen’s  reign,  Dr.  Swift, 
Prior,  Atterbury,  Dr.  Friend,  Dr.  King,  Mr.  Oldsworth,  Mrs 
D.  Manley,  and  the  writers  of  the  Examiner,  etc. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


705 


annexed  to  it,  with  both  of  which  I  shall  here  pre¬ 
sent  my  reader: — 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“Finding  that  you  have  entertained  a  useful 

Ferson  in  your  service  in  quality  of  love-casuist, 
apply  mvself*  to  you,  under  a  very  great  diffi¬ 
culty,  that  hath  for  some  months  perplexed  me.  I 
have  a  couple  of  humble  servants,  one  of  which  I 
have  no  aversion  to  :  the  other  I  think  of  very 
kindly.  The  first  hath  the  reputation  of  a  man 
of  good  sense,  and  is  one  of  those  people  that 
your  sex  are  apt  to  value.  My  spark  is  reckoned 
a  coxcomb  among  the  men,  but  is  a  favorite  of  the 
ladies.  If  I  marry  the  man  of  worth  as  they  call 
him,  I  shall  oblige  my  parents,  and  improve  my 
fortune:  but  with  my  dear  beau  I  promise  myself 
happiness,  although  not  a  jointure.  Now  I  would 
ask  you,  whether  I  should  consent  to  lead  my  life 
with  a  man  that  I  have  only  no  objection  to,  or 
with  him  against  whom  all  objections  to  me 
appear  frivolous.  I  am  determined  to  follow  the 
casuist’s  advice,  and  I  dare  say  he  will  not  put 
me  upon  so  serious  a  thing  as  matrimony  contrary 
to  my  inclinations. 

“I  am,  etc.  ‘  “Fanny  Fickle. 

“P.  S.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  the  pretty  gen¬ 
tleman  is  the  most  complaisant  creature  in  the 
world,  and  is  always  of  my  mind;  but  the  other, 
forsooth,  fancies  he  hath  as  much  wit  as  myself, 
slights  my  lapdog,  and  hath  the  insolence  to  con¬ 
tradict  me  when  he  thinks  I  am  not  in  the  right. 
About  half  an  hour  ago  he  maintained  to  my  face 
that  a  patch  always  implies  a  pimple.” 

As  I  look  upon  it  to  be  my  duty  rather  to  side 
with  the  parents  than  the  daughter,  I  shall  pro¬ 
pose  some  considerations  to  my  gentle  querist, 
which  may  incline  her  to  comply  with  those  under 
whose  directions  she  is;  and  at  the  same  time  con¬ 
vince  her  that  it  is  not  impossible  but  she  may,  in 
time,  have  a  true  affection  for  him  who  is  at  pre¬ 
sent  indifferent  to  her;  or,  to  use  the  old  family 
maxim,  that,  “  if  she  marries  first,  love  will  come 
after.” 

The  only  objection  that  she  seems  to  insinuate 
against  the  gentleman  proposed  to  her,  is  his  want 
of  complaisance,  which  I  perceive,  she  is  very 
willing  to  return.  Now  I  can  discover  from  this 
very  circumstance,  that  she  and  her  lover,  what¬ 
ever  they  may  think  of  it,  are  very  good  friends 
in  their  hearts.  It  is  difficult  to  determine  whether 
love  delights  more  in  giving  pleasure  or  pain. 
Let  Miss  Fickle  ask  her  own  heart,  if  she  doth 
not  take  a  secret  pride  in  making  this  man  of  good 
sense  look  very  silly.  Hath  she  ever  been  better 
pleased  than  when  her  behavior  hath  made  her 
lover  ready  to  hang  himself;  or  doth  she  ever  re¬ 
joice  more  than  when  she  thinks  she  hath  driven 
him  to  the  very  brink  of  a  purling  stream  ?  Let 
her  consider,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  is  not  im¬ 
possible  but  her  lover  may  have  discovered  her 
tricks,  and  hath  a  mind  to  give  her  as  good  as  she 
brings.  I  remember  a  handsome  young  baggage 
that  treated  a  hopeful  Greek  of  my  acquaintance, 
just  come  from  Oxford,  as  if  he  had  been  a  barba¬ 
rian.  The  first  week  after  she  had  fixed  him  she 
took  a  pinch  of  snuff  out  of  his  rival’s  box,  and 
apparently  touched  the  enemy’s  little  finger.  She 
became  a  professed  enemy  to  the  arts  and  sciences, 
and  scarce  ever  wrote  a  letter  to  him  without  will¬ 
fully  misspelling  his  name.  The  young  scholar, 
to  be  even  with  her,  railed  at  coquettes  as  soon  as 
he  had  got  the  word;  and  did  not  want  parts  to 
turn  into  ridicule  her  men  of  wit  and  pleasure  of 
the  town.  After  having  irritated  one  another  for 
the  space  of  five  months,  she  made  an  assignation 
with  him  fourscore  miles  from  London.  But  as 
45 


he  was  very  well  acquainted  with  her  pranks,  he 
took  a  journey  the  quite  contrary  way.  Accord¬ 
ingly  they  met,  quarreled,  and  in  a  few  days 
were  married.  Their  former  hostilities  are  now 
the  subject  of  their  mirth,  being  content  at  pre¬ 
sent  with  that  part  of  love  only  which  bestows 
pleasure. 

Women  who  have  been  married  some  time,  not 
having  it  in  their  heads  to  draw  after  them  a 
numerous  train  of  followers,  find  their  satisfaction 
in  the  possession  of  one  man’s  heart.  I  know 
very  well  that  ladies  in  their  bloom  desire  to 
be  excused  in  this  particular.  But,  when  time 
hath  worn  out  their  natural  vanity  and  taught 
them  discretion,  their  fondness  settles  on  its 
proper  object.  And  it  is  probably  for  this  reason 
that  among  husbands,  you  will  find  more  that  are 
fond  of  women  beyond  their  prime  than  of  those 
who  are  actually  in  the  insolence  of  beauty.  My 
reader  will  apply  the  same  observation  to  the 
other  sex. 

I  need  not  insist  upon  the  necessity  of  their 
pursuing  one  common  interest,  and  their  united 
care  for  their  children;  but  shall  only  observe,  by 
the  way,  that  married  persons  are  both  more  warm 
in  their  love  and  more  hearty  in  their  hatred  than 
any  others  whatsoever.  Mutual  favors  and  obliga¬ 
tions,  which  may  be  supposed  to  be  greater  here 
than  in  any  other  state,  naturally  beget  an  intense 
affection  in  generous  minds.  As,  on  the  contrary, 
persons  who  have  bestowed  such  favors  have  a 
particular  bitterness  in  their  resentments,  when 
they  think  themselves  ill-treated  by  those  of  whom 
they  have  deserved  so  much. 

Beside,  Miss  Fickle  may  consider,  that  as  there 
are  often  many  faults  concealed  before  marriage, 
so  there  are  sometimes  many  virtues  unobserved. 

To  this  we  may  add,  the  great  efficacy  of  custom 
and  constant  conversation  to  produce  a  mutual 
friendship  and  benevolence  in  two  persons.  It  is 
a  nice  reflection  which  I  have  heard  a  friend  of 
mine  make,  that  you  may  be  sure  a  woman  loves 
a  man  when  she  uses  his  expressions,  tells  his 
stories,  or  imitates  his  manner.  This  gives  a  secret 
delight;  for  imitation  is  a  kind  of  artless  flattery, 
and  mightily  favors  the  powerful  principle  of 
self-love.  It  is  certain  that  married  persons  who 
are  possessed  with  a  mutual  esteem,  not  only 
catch  the  air  and  way  of  talk  from  one  another, 
but  fall  into  the  same  traces  of  thinking  and  liking. 
Nay,  some  have  carried  the  remark  so  far  as  to 
assert  that  the  features  of  man  and  wife  grow,  in 
time,  to  resemble  one  another.  Let  my  fair  cor¬ 
respondent  therefore  consider,  that  the  gentleman 
recommended  will  have  a  good  deal  of  her  own 
face  in  two  or  three  years;  which  she  must  not  ex¬ 
pect  from  the  beau,  who  is  too  full  of  his  dear  self 
to  copy  after  another.  And  I  dare  appeal  to  her 
own  judgment,  if  that  person  will  not  be  the  hand¬ 
somest  that  is  the  most  like  herself. 

We  have  a  remarkable  instance  to  our  present 
purpose  in  the  history  of  King  Edgar,  which  I 
shall  here  relate,  and  leave  it  with  my  fair  corres¬ 
pondent  to  be  applied  to  herself. 

This  great  monarch,  who  is  so  famous  in  Bri¬ 
tish  story,  fell  in  love,  as  he  made  his  progress 
through  his  kingdom,  with  a  certain  duke’s  daugh¬ 
ter,  who  lived  near  Winchester,  and  was  the  most 
celebrated  beauty  of  the  age.  His  importunities 
and  the  violence  of  his  passion  were  so  great,  that 
the  mother  of  the  young  lady  promised  him  to 
bring  her  daughter  to  his  bed  the  next  night, 
though  in  her  heart  she  abhorred  so  infamous  an 
office.  It  was  no  sooner  dark  than  she  conveyed 
into  his  room  a  young  maid  of  no  disagreeable 
figure,  who  was  one  of  her  attendants,  anu  did  not 
I  want  address  to  improve  the  opportunity  for  the 


706 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


advancement  of  her  fortune.  She  made  so  good 
use  of  her  time,  that  when  she  offered  to  rise  a 
little  before  day,  the  king  could  by  no  means  think 
of  parting  with  her;  so  that  finding  Wself  under 
a  necessity  of  discovering  who  she  was,  she  did 
it  in  so  handsome  a  manner,  that  his  majesty  was 
exceedingly  gracious  to  her,  and  took  her  ever 
after  under  his  protection :  insomuch,  that  our 
chronicles  tell  us  he  carried  her  along  with  him, 
made  her  his  first  minister  of  state,  and  continued 
true  to  her  alone,  until  his  marriage  with  the  beau¬ 
tiful  Elfrida. 


No.  606. J  WEDNESDAY,  OCTOBER  13,  1714. 

- Longum  cantu  solata  laborem 

Arguto  conjux  percurrit  pectine  telas. 

Vibg.  Georg,  i.  293. 

- Meantime  at  home 

The  good  wife  singing  plies  the  various  loom. 

tl  Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  have  a  couple  of  nieces  under  my  direction, 
who  so  often  run  gadding  abroad,  that  I  do  not 
know  where  to  have  them.  Their  dress,  their  tea, 
and  their  visits,  take  up  all  their  time,  and  they 
go  to  bed  as  tired  with  doing  nothing  as  I  am 
after  quilting  a  whole  under-petticoat.  The  only 
time  they  are  not  idle  is  while  they  read  your 
Spectators  :  which  being  dedicated  to  the  interests 
of  virtue,  I  desire  you  to  recommend  the  long-neg¬ 
lected  art  of  needlework.  Those  hours  which  in 
this  age  are  thrown  away  in  dress,  play,  visits, 
and  the  like,  were  employed,  in  my  time,  in  wri¬ 
ting  out  receipts,  or  working  beds,  chairs,  and 
hangings  for  the  family.  For  my  part,  I  have 
plied  my  needle  these  fifty  years,  and  by  my  good¬ 
will  would  never  have  it  out  of  my  hand.  It  grieves 
my  heart  to  see  a  couple  of  proud,  idle  flirts  sip¬ 
ping  their  tea,  for  a  whole  afternoon,  in  a  room 
hung  round  with  the  industry  of  their  great-grand¬ 
mother.  Pray,  Sir,  take  the  laudable  mystery  of 
embroidery  into  your  serious  consideration,  and, 
as  you  have  a  great  deal  of  the  virtue  of  the  last 
age  in  you,  continue  your  endeavors  to  reform  the 
present. 

“  I  am,”  etc. 

In  obedience  to  the  commands  of  my  venerable 
correspondent,  I  have  duly  weighed  this  important 
subject,  and  promise  myself  from  the  arguments 
here  laid  down,  that  all  the  fine  ladies  of  England 
will  be  ready,  as  soon  as  their  mourning  is  over,* 
to  appear  covered  with  the  work  of  their  own 
hands. 

What  a  delightful  entertainment  must  it  be  to 
the  fair  sex,  whom  their  native  modesty,  and  the 
tenderness  of  men  toward  them,  exempt  from  pub¬ 
lic  business,  to  pass  their  hours  in  imitating  fruits 
and  flowers,  and  transplanting  all  the  beauties  of 
nature  into  their  own  dress,  or  raising  a  new  crea¬ 
tion  in  their  closets  and  apartments  !  How  pleas¬ 
ing  is  the  amusement  of  walking  among  the  shades 
and  groves  planted  by  themselves,  in  surveying 
heroes  slain  by  their  needle,  or  little  Cupids  which 
^  qT  ^ave  brought  into  the  world  without  pain  ! 

This  is,  methinks,  the  most  proper  way  wherein 
a  lady  can  show  a  fine  genius;  and  I  cannot  for¬ 
bear  wishing  that  several  writers  of  that  sex  had 
chosen  to  apply  themselves  rather  to  tapestry  than 
rhyme.  our  pastoral  poetesses  may  vent  their 
fancy  in  rural  landscapes,  and  place  despairing 
shepherds  under  silken  willows,  or  drown  them 
in  a  stream  of  mohair.  The  heroic  writers  may 
work  up  battles  as  successfully,  and  inflame  them 
with  gold,  or  stain  them  with  crimson.  Even 

*  Public  mourning  on  the  death  of  Queen  Anne. 


those  who  have  only  a  turn  to  a  song,  or  an  epi¬ 
gram,  may  put  many  valuable  stitches  into  a 
purse,  and  crowd  a  thousand  graces  into  a  pair 
of  garters. 

If  I  may,  without  breach  of  good  manners,  im¬ 
agine  that  any  pretty  creature  is  void  of  genius, 
and  would  perform  her  part  herem  but  very  awk¬ 
wardly,  I  must  nevertheless  insist  upon  her  work- 
ing,  if  it  be  only  to  keep  her  out  of  harm’s  way. 

Another  argument  for  busying  good  women  in 
works  of  fancy  is,  because  it  takes  them  off  from 
scandal,  the  usual  attendant  of  tea-tables,  and  all 
other  inactive  scenes  of  life.  While  they  are  form¬ 
ing  their  birds  and  beasts,  their  neighbors  will  be 
allowed  to  be  the  fathers  of  their  own  children ; 
and  whig  and  tory  will  be  but  seldom  mentioned 
where  the  great  dispute  is,  whether  blue  or  red  is 
the  more  proper  color.  How  much  greater  glory 
would  Sophronia  do  the  general,  if  she  would 
choose  rather  to  work  the  battle  of  Blenheim  in 
tapestiy,  than  signalize  herself  with  so  much  ve¬ 
hemence  against  those  who  are  Frenchmen  in  their 
hearts. 

A  third  reason  that  I  shall  mention,  is  the  profit 
that  is  brought  to  the  family  where  these  pretty 
arts  are  encouraged.  It  is  manifest  that  this  way 
of  life  not  only  keeps  fair  ladies  from  running  out 
into  expenses,  but  is  at  the  same  time  an  actual 
improvement.  How  memorable  would  that  matron 
be,  who  shall  have  it  subscribed  upon  her  monu¬ 
ment,  “  that  she  wrought  out  the  whole  Bible  in 
tapestry,  and  died  in  a  good  old  age,  after  having 
covered  three  hundred  yards  of  wall  in  the  man¬ 
sion-house  !” 

The  premises  being  considered,  I  humbly  sub¬ 
mit  the  following  proposals  to  all  mothers  in 
Great  Britain  :• — 

I.  That  no  young  virgin  whatsoever  be  allowed 
to  receive  the  addresses  of  her  first  lover,  but  in  a 
suit  of  her  own  embroidering. 

II.  That  before  every  fresh  humble  servant,  she 
be  obliged  to  appear  with  a  new  stomacher  at  the 
least. 

III.  That  no  one  be  actually  married  until  she 
hath  the  child-bed  pillows,  etc.,  ready  stitched,  as 
likewise  the  mantle  for  the  boy  quite  finished. 

These  laws,  if  I  mistake  not,  would  effectually 
restore  the  decayed  art  of  needlework,  and  make 
the  virgins  of  Great  Britain  exceedingly  nimble¬ 
fingered  in  their  business. 

There  is  a  memorable  custom  of  the  Grecian 
ladies  in  this  particular  preserved  in  Homer, 
which  I  hope  will  have  a  very  good  effect  with 
my  countrywomen.  A  widow,  in  ancient  times, 
could  not,  without  indecency,  receive  a  second 
husband,  until  she  had  woven  a  shroud  for  her 
deceased  lord,  or  the  next  of  kin  to  him.  Accord- 
ingly,  the  chaste  Penelope,  having  as  she  thought, 
lost  Ulysses  at  sea,  she  employed  her  time  in  pre¬ 
paring  a  winding-sheet  for  Laertes,  the  father  of 
her  husband.  The  story  of  her  web  being  very 
famous,  and  yet  not  sufficiently  known  in  its  sev¬ 
eral  circumstances,  I  shall  give  it  to  my  reader,  as 
Homer  makes  one  of  her  wooers  relate  it : 

Sweet  hope  she  gave  to  every  youth  apart, 

With  well-taught  looks,  and  a  deceitful  heart : 

A  web  she  wove  of  many  a  slender  twine, 

Of  curious  texture,  and  perplex’d  design ; 

“  My  youths,”  she  cried,  “  my  lord  hut  newly  dead, 
Forbear  awhile  to  court  my  widow’d  bed, 

Till  I  have  woven,  as  solemn  yows  require, 

This  web,  a  shroud  for  poor  Ulysses’  sire, 

His  limbs,  when  fate  the  hero’s  soul  demands, 

Shall  claim  this  labor  of  his  daughter’s  hands, 

Lest  all  the  dames  of  Greece  my  name  despise, 

While  the  great  king  without  a  covering  lies.” 

Thus  she.  Nor  did  my  friends  mistrust  the  guile, 

All  day  she  sped  the  long,  laborious  toil : 

But  when  the  burning  lamps  supplied  the  sun, 


THE  SPE 

Each  night  unravel’d  what  the  day  begun. 

Three  livelong  summers  did  the  fraud  prevail; 

The  fourth  her  maidens  told  th’  amazing  tale. 

These  eyes  beheld,  as  close  I  took  my  stand, 

The  backward  labors  of  her  faithless  hand : 

Till,  watch’d  at  length,  and  press’d  on  every  side, 

Her  task  she  ended,  and  commenced  a  bride. 


Ho.  607.]  FRIDAY,  OCTOBER  15,  1714. 

Dicite  Io  Paean,  et  Io  bis  dicite  Pasan : 

Dccidit  in  casses  preeda  petita  meos. 

Ovid,  Ars  Amor.  i.  1. 

Now  Io  Paean  sing,  now  wreaths  prepare, 

And  with  repeated  Ios  fill  the  air; 

The  prey  is  fallen  in  my  successful  toils. — Anon. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  Having  in  your  paper  of  Monday  last  publish¬ 
ed  my  report  on  the  case  of  Mrs.  Fanny  Fickle, 
wherein  1  have  taken  notice  that  love  comes  after 
marriage ;  I  hope  your  readers  are  satisfied  of  this 
truth,  that  as  love  generally  produces  matrimony, 
so  it  often  happens  that  matrimony  produces  love. 

“  It  perhaps  requires  more  virtues  to  make  a 
good  husband  or  wife  than  what  go  to  the  finish¬ 
ing  any  the  most  shining  character  whatsoever. 

“  Discretion  seems  absolutely  necessary  ;  and 
accordingly  we  find  that  the  best  husbands  have 
been  most  famous  for  their  wisdom.  Homer,  who 
hath  drawn  a  perfect  pattern  of  a  prudent  man,  to 
make  it  the  more  complete,  hath  celebrated  him 
for  the  just  returns  of  fidelity  and  truth  to  his  Pen¬ 
elope;  insomuch  that  he  refused  the  caresses  of  a 
goddess  for  her  sake;  and,  to  use  the  expression  of 
the  best  of  Pagan  authors,  ‘  Vetulam  suarn  pratulit 
immortalitati,’  his  old  woman  was  dearer  to  him 
(jhan  immortality. 

“  Virtue  is  the  next  necessary  qualification  for 
this  domestic  character,  as  it  naturally  produces 
constancy  and  mutual  esteem.  Thus  Brutus  and 
Portia  were  more  remarkable  for  virtue  and  affec¬ 
tion  than  any  others  of  the  age  in  which  they 
lived. 

“  Good-nature  is  a  third  necessary  ingredient  in 
the  marriage  state,  without  which  it  would  inevita¬ 
bly  sour  upon  a  thousand  occasions.  When  great¬ 
ness  of  mind  is  joined  with  this  amiable  quality,  it 
attracts  the  admiration  and  esteem  of  all  who  behold 
it.  Thus  Caesar,  not  more  remarkable  for  his  for¬ 
tune  and  valor  than  for  his  humanity,  stole  into 
the  hearts  of  the  Roman  people,  when,  breaking 
through  the  custom,  he  pronounced  an  oration  at 
the  funeral  of  his  first  and  best-loved  wife. 

“  Good-nature  is  insufficient,  unless  it  be  steady 
and  uniform,  and  accompanied  with  an  evenness  of 
temper,  which  is  above  all  things  to  be  preserved 
in  this  friendship  contracted  for  life.  A  man  must 
be  easy  within  himself  before  he  can  be  so  to  his 
other  self.  Socrates  and  Marcus  Aurelius  are  in¬ 
stances  of  men,  who  by  the  strength  of  philoso¬ 
phy,  having  entirely  composed  their  minds,  and 
subdued  their  passions,  are  celebrated  for  good 
husbands ;  notwithstanding  the  first  was  yoked 
with  Xantippe,  and  the  other  with  Faustina.  If 
the  wedded  pair  would  but  habituate  themselves 
for  the  first  year  to  bear  with  one  another’s  faults, 
the  difficulty  would  be  pretty  well  conquered. 
This  mutual  sweetness  of  temper  and  complacency 
was  finely  recommended  in  the  nuptial  ceremo¬ 
nies  among  the  heathens,  who,  when  they  sacrificed 
to  Juno  at  that  solemnity,  always  tore  out  the 

fall  from  the  entrails  of  the  victim,  and  cast  it 
ehind  the  altar. 

“  I  shall  conclude  this  letter  with  a  passage  out 
of  Dr.  Plot’s  Natural  History  of  Staffordshire,  not 
only  as  it  will  serve  to  fill  up  your  present  paper, 
but,  if  I  find  myself  in  the  humor,  may  give  rise 


CTATOR.  707 

to  another;  I  having  by  me  an  old  register  be¬ 
longing  to  the  place  here  under-mentioned. 

“  Sir  Philip  de  Somervile  held  the  manors  of 
Whichenovre,  Scirescot,  Ridware,  Netherton,  and 
Cowlee,  all  in  the  county  of  Stafford,  of  the  earls 
of  Lancaster,  by  this  memorable  service  :  The  said 
Sir  Philip  shall  find,  maintain,  and  sustain,  one 
bacon-flitch,  hanging  in  his  hall  at  Whichenovre 
ready  arrayed  all  times  of  the  year  but  in  Lent,  to 
be  given  to  every  man,  or  woman  married,  after 
the  day  and  the  year  of  their  marriage  be  past,  in 
form  following  : — * 

“  Whensoever  that  any  oue  such  before  named 
will  come  to  inquire  for  the  bacon,  in  their  own 
person,  they  shall  come  to  the  bailiff,  or  to  the 
porter,  of  the  lordship  of  Whiehenovre,  and  shall 
say  to  them  in  the  manner  as  ensueth  : — 

“  1  Bailiff,  or  porter,  I  doo  you  to  know,  that  I 
am  come  for  myself  to  demand  one  bacon-flyke 
hanging  in  the  hall  of  the  lord  of  Whichenovre, 
after  the  form  thereunto  belonging.’ 

“  After  which  relation,  the  bailiff  or  porter  shall 
assign  a  day  to  him,  upon  promise  by  his  faith  to 
return,  and  with  him  to  bring  twain  of  his  neigh¬ 
bors.  And  in  the  meantime,  the  said  bailiff  shall 
take  with  him  twain  of  the  freeholders,  of  the 
lordship  of  Whichenovre,  and  they  three  shall  go 
to  the  manor  of  Rudlow,  belonging  to  Robert 
Knightleye,  and  there  shall  summon  the  aforesaid 
Knightleye,  or  his  bailiff,  commanding  him  to  be 
ready  at  Whichenovre  the  day  appointed,  at  prime 
of  day,  with  his  carriage,  that  is  to  say,  a  horse 
and  a  saddle,  a  sack  and  a  pryke,  for  to  convey 
the  said  bacon  and  corn  a  journey  out  of  the  county 
of  Stafford,  at  his  costages.  And  then  the  said 
bailiff  shall,  with  the  said  freeholders,  summon 
all  the  tenants  of  the  said  manor,  to  be  ready  at 
the  day  appointed  at  Whichenovre,  for  to  do  and 
perform  the  services  which  they  owe  to  the  bacon. 
And  at  the  day  assigned,  all  such  as  owe  services 
to  the  bacon  shall  be  ready  at  the  gate  of  the  manor 
of  Whichenovre,  from  the  sun-rising  to  noon,  at¬ 
tending  and  waiting  for  the  coming  of  him  who 
fetcheth  the  bacon.  And  when  he  is  come,  there 
shall  be  delivered  to  him  and  his  fellows,  chape- 
lets,  and  to  all  those  which  shall  be  there,  to  do 
their  services  due  to  the  bacon.  And  they  shall 
lead  the  said  demandant  with  trumps  and  tabors, 
and  other  manner  of  minstrelsy,  to  the  liall-door, 
where  he  shall  find  the  lord  of  Whichenovre,  or 
his  steward,  ready  to  deliver  the  bacon  in  this 
manner : — 

“  He  shall  inquire  of  him  which  demandeth  the 
bacon,  if  he  have  brought  twain  of  his  neighbors, 
with  him ;  which  must  answer  ‘  they  be  here- 
ready.’  And  then  the  steward  shall  cause  these 
two  neighbors  to  swear,  if  the  said  demandant  be 
a  wedded  man,  or  have  been  a  man  wedded,  and 
if  since  his  marriage  one  year  and  a  day  be  past;, 
and  if  he  be  a  freeman  or  a  villein. f  And  if  his 
said  neighbors  make  oath  that  he  hath  for  him  all 
these  three  points  rehearsed,  then  shall  the  bacon 
be  taken  down  and  brought  to  the  hall-door,  and 
shall  there  be  laid  upon  one  half-quarter  of  wheat, . 
and  upon  one  other  of  rye.  And  he  that  demand¬ 
eth  the  bacon  shall  kneel  upon  his  knee,  and  shall 
hold  his  right  hand  upon  a  book,  which  book  shall 
be  laid  upon  the  bacon  and  the  corn,  and  shall 
make  oath  in  this  manner  : — 

“‘Here  ye.  Sir  Philip  de  Somervile,  lord  of 
Whichenovre,  mayntener  and  gyver  of  this  ba- 
conne ;  that  I,  A.  sithe  I  wedded  B.  my  wife,  and 


*  There  was  an  institution  of  the  same  kind  at  Dunmow  in 
Essex. 

f  i.  e.  According  to  the  acceptation  of  the  word,  at  the  date 
of  this  institution,  “  a  freeman  or  a  servant.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


708 


sithe  I  had  hyr  in  my  kepying,  and  at  my  wylle 
by  a  year  and  a  day  after  our  marriage,  1  would 
not  have  cliaunged  for  none  other;  farer  ne  fowler; 
richer  ne  pourer;  ne  for  none  other  descended  of 
greater  lynage :  slepying  ne  waking,  at  noo  time. 
And  if  the  seyd  B.  were  sole,  and  1  sole,  I  would 
take  her  to  be  my  wyfe  before  all  the  wymen  of 
the  worlde,  of  what  condiciones  soever  they  be, 
good  or  evylle;  as  help  me  God  and  his  seyntes, 
aud  this  flesh  and  all  fleshes.’ 

“  And  his  neighbors  shall  make  oath,  that  they 
trust  verily  he  hath  said  truly.  And  if  it  be  found 
by  his  neighbors  before  named,  that  he  be  a  free¬ 
man,  there  shall  be  delivered  to  him  half-a-quarter 
of  wheat  and  a  cheese;  and  if  he  be  a  villein,  he 
shall  have  a  quarter  of  rye  without  cheese.  And 
then  shall  Knightleye,  the  lord  of  Rudlow,  be 
called  for  to  carry  all  these  things  tofore  rehearsed; 
and  the  said  corn  shall  be  laid  on  one  horse,  and 
the  bacon  above  it :  and  he  to  whom  the  bacon 
appertaineth  shall  ascend  upon  his  horse,  and 
shall  take  the  cheese  before  him  if  he  have  a  horse. 
And  if  he  have  none,  the  lord  of  Whichenovre 
shall  cause  him  to  have  one  horse  and  saddle,  to 
such  time  as  he  be  passed  his  lordship  ;  and  so 
shall  they  depart  the  manor  of  Whichenovre  with 
the  corn  and  the  bacon,  tofore  him  that  hath  won 
it,  with  trumpets,  taborets,  and  other  manner  of 
minstrelsy.  And  all  the  free  tenants  of  Which¬ 
enovre  shall  conduct  him  to  be  passed  the  lord- 
ship  of  Whichenovre.  And  then  shall  they  all 
return  except  him  to  whom  appertaineth  to  make 
the  carriage  and  journey  without  the  county  of 
Stafford,  at  the  costs  of  his  lord  of  Whichenovre.” 


No.  608.]  MONDAY,  OCTOBER  18,  1714. 

- Perjuria  ridet  amantum. — Ovid.  Ars  Amor.  i.  633. 

- Forgiving  with  a  smile 

The  perjuries  that  easy  maids  beguile. — Dryden. 

“Me.  Spectator, 

“  According  to  my  promise,  I  herewith  transmit 
to  you  a  list  of  several  persons,  who  from  time  to 
time  demanded  the  flitch  of  bacon  of  Sir  Philip  de 
Somerville,  and  his  descendants;  as  it  is  preserved 
in  an  ancient  manuscript,  under  the  title  of  ‘  The 
Register  of  Whichenovre-hall,  and  of  the  bacon - 
flitch  there  maintained.’ 

“  In  the  beginning  of  this  record,  is  recited  the 
law  or  institution  in  form,  as  it  is  already  printed 
in  your  last  paper  :  to  which  are  added  two  by¬ 
laws,  as  a  comment  upon  the  general  law,  the  sub¬ 
stance  whereof  is,  that  the  wife  shall  take  the 
same  oath  as  the  husband,  mutatis  mutandis;  and 
that  the  judges  shall,  as  they  think  meet,  interro¬ 
gate  or  cross-examine  the  witnesses.  After  this 
proceeds  the  register  in  manner  following  : — 

“  ‘  Aubry  de  Falstaff,  son  of  Sir  John  Falstaff, 
kt.  with  dame  Maude  his  wife,  were  the  first  that 
demanded  the  bacon,  he  having  bribed  twain  of 
his  father’s  companions  to  swear  falsely  in  his 
behoof,  whereby  he  gained  the  flitch;  but  he  and 
his  said  wife  falling  immediately  into  a  dispute 
how  the  said  bacon  should  be  dressed,  it  was  by 
order  of  the  judges,  taken  from  him  and  hung  up 
again  in  the  hall. 

“  ‘Alison,  the  wife  of  Stephen  Freckle,  brought 
her  said  husband  along  with  her,  and  set  forth 
the  good  conditions  and  behavior  of  her  consort, 
adding  withal,  that  she  doubted  not  but  he  was 
ready  to  attest  the  like  of  her,  his  wife;  where¬ 
upon  he,  the  said  Stephen,  shaking  his  head,  she 
turned  short  upon  him,  and  gave  him  a  box  on 
the  ear. 


“‘Philip  de  Waverland,  having  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  book,  when  the  clause,  “were  I  sole 
and  she  sole,”  was  rehearsed,  found  a  secret  com¬ 
punction  rising  in  his  mind,  and  stole  it  off  again. 

“Richard  de  Loveless,  who  was  a  courtier,  and 
a  very  well-bred  man,  being  observed  to  hesitate 
at  the  word  “after  our  marriage,”  was  thereupon 
required  to  explain  himself.  He  replied,  by  talk¬ 
ing  very  largely  of  his  exact  complaisance  while 
he  was  a  lover;  and  alleged  that  he  had  not  in 
the  least  disobliged  his  wife  for  a  year  and  a  day 
before  marriage,  which  he  hoped  was  the  same 
thing. 

“  ‘  Rejected. 

“‘Joceline  Jolly,  Esq.,  making  it  appear,  by 
unquestionable  testimony,  that  he  and  liis  wife 
had  preserved  full  and  entire  affection  for  the 
space  of  the  first  month,  commonly  called  the 
honeymoon,  he  had,  in  consideration  thereof,  one 
rasher  bestowed  upon  him.’ 

“After  this,  says  the  record,  many  years  passed 
over  before  any  demandant  appeared  at  Whiche¬ 
novre-hall;  insomuch  that  one  would  have  thought 
that  the  whole  country  were  turned  Jews,  so  little 
was  their  affection  to  the  flitch  of  bacon. 

“  The  next  couple  enrolled  had  liked  to  have 
carried  it,  if  one  of  the  witnesses  had  not  deposed, 
that  dining  on  a  Sunday  with  the  demandant, 
whose  wife  had  sat  below  the  Squire’s  lady  at 
church,  she  the  said  wife  dropped  some  expres¬ 
sions,  as  if  she  thought  her  husband  deserved  to 
be  knighted;  to  which  he  returned  a  passionate 
pish!  The  judges  taking  the  premises  into  con¬ 
sideration,  declared  the  aforesaid  behavior  to  im¬ 
ply  an  unwarrantable  ambition  in  the  wife,  and 
anger  in  the  husband. 

“It  is  recorded  as  a  sufficient  disqualification 
of  a  certain  wife  that,  speaking  of  her  husband, 
she  said  ‘  God  forgive  him.’ 

“  It  is  likewise  remarkable,  that  a  couple  were 
rejected  upon  the  deposition  of  one  of  their  neigh¬ 
bors,  that  the  lady  had  once  told  her  husband, 
that  ‘it  was  her  duty  to  obey;’  to  which  he  re¬ 
plied,  ‘0,  my  dear;  you  are  never  in  the  wrong!’ 

“  The  violent  passion  of  one  lady  for  her  lap- 
dog:  the  turning  away  of  the  old  housemaid  by 
another:  a  tavern  bill  torn  by  the  wife,  and  a 
tailor’s  by  the  husband ;  a  quarrel  about  the 
kissing  crust;  spoiling  of  dinners,  and  coming  in 
late  of  nights,  are  so  many  several  articles  which 
occasioned  the  reprobation  of  some  scores  of  de¬ 
mandants,  whose  names  are  recorded  in  the  afore¬ 
said  register. 

“Without  enumerating  other  particular  persons, 
I  shall  content  myself  with  observing  that  the 
sentence  pronounced  against  one  Gervase  Poacher 
is,  that  ‘he  might  have  had  bacon  to  his  eggs,  if 
he  had  not  heretofore  scolded  his  wife  when  they 
were  over-boiled.’  And  the  deposition  against 
Dorothy  Dolittle  runs  in  these  words,  ‘that  she 
had  so  far  usurped  the  dominion  of  the  coal  fire 
(the  stirring  whereof  her  husband  claimed  to 
himself)  that  by  her  good-will  she  never  would 
suffer  the  poker  out  of  her  hand.’ 

“I  find  but  two  couples  in  this  first  century 
that  were  successful:  the  first  was  a  sea-captain 
and  his  wife,  who  since  the  day  of  their  marriage 
had  not  seen  one  another  until  the  day  of  the 
claim.  The  second  was  an  honest  pair  in  the 
neighborhood;  the  husband  was  a  man  of  plain 
good  sense,  and  a  peaceable  temper;  the  woman 
was  dumb.” 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


709 


No.  609.]  WEDNESDAY,  OCTOBER  20,  1714. 

- Fcrrago  libelli. — Juv.  Sat.  i.  86. 

The  miscellaneous  subjects  of  my  book. 

‘Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  have  for  some  time  desired  to  appear  in 
your  paper,  and  have  therefore  chosen  a  day*  to 
steal  into  the  Spectator,  when  I  take  it  for  granted 
you  will  not  have  many  spare  minutes  for  specu¬ 
lations  of  your  own.  As  I  was  the  other  day 
walking  with  an  honest  country  gentleman,  he 
very  often  was  expressing  his  astonishment  to  see 
the  town  so  mightily  crowded  with  doctors  of 
divinity;  upon  which  I  told  him  he  was  very 
much  mistaken  if  he  took  all  those  gentlemen  he 
saw  in  scarfs  to  be  persons  of  that  dignity;  for 
that  a  young  divine,  after  his  first  degree  in  the 
university,  usually  comes  hither  only  to  show 
himself;  and  on  that  occasion,  is  apt  to  think  he 
is  but  half  equipped  with  a  gown  and  cassock  for 
his  public  appearance,  if  he  hath  not  the  addi¬ 
tional  ornament  of  a  scarf  of  the  first  magnitude 
to  entitle  him  to  the  appellation  of  Doctor  from 
his  landlady  and  the  boy  at  Child’s.  Now  since 
I  know'  that  this  piece  of  garniture  is  looked  upon 
as  a  mark  of  vanity  or  affectation,  as  it  is  made 
use  of  among  some  of  the  little  spruce  adven¬ 
turers  of  the  town,  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would 
ive  it  a  place  among  those  extravagances  you 
ave  justly  exposed  in  several  of  your  papers, 
being  very  well  assured  that  the  main  body  of  the 
clergy,  both  in  the  country  and  the  universities, 
who  are  almost  to  a  man  untainted  with  it,  would 
oe  very  well  pleased  to  see  this  venerable  foppery 
well  exposed.  When  my  patron  did  me  the  honor 
to  take  me  into  his  family  (for  I  must  own  myself 
of  this  order),  he  was  pleased  to  say  he  took  me 
as  a  friend  and  companion:  and  whether  he  looked 
upon  the  scarf  like  the  lace  and  shoulder-knot  of 
a  footman,  as  a  badge  of  servitude  and  depend¬ 
ence,  I  do  not  know,  but  he  was  so  kind  as  to 
leave  my  wearing  of  it  to  my  own  discretion;  and, 
not  having  any  just  title  to  it  from  my  degrees,  I 
am  content  to  be  without  the  ornament.  The 
privileges  of  our  nobility  to  keep  a  certain  num¬ 
ber  of  chaplains  are  undisputed,  though  perhaps 
not  one  in  ten  of  those  reverend  gentlemen  have  any 
relation  to  the  noble  families  their  scarfs  belong 
to:  the  right  generally  of  creating  all  chaplains, 
except  the  domestic  (where  there  is  one),  being 
nothing  more  than  the  perquisite  of  a  steward’s 
place,  who,  if  he  happens  to  outlive  any  consider¬ 
able  number  of  his  noble  masters,  shall  probably 
at  one  and  the  same  time  have  fifty  chaplains,  all 
in  their  proper  accouterments,  of  his  owrn  crea¬ 
tion;  though  perhaps  there  hath  been  neither 
grace  nor  prayer  said  in  the  family  since  the 
introduction  of  the  first  coronet. 

“  I  am,”  etc. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  wish  you  would  write  a  philosophical  paper 
about  natural  antipathies,  with  a  word  or  two  con-  i 
cerning  the  strength  of  the  imagination.  I  can 
give  you  a  list,  upon  the  first  notice,  of  a  rational 
china  cup,  of  an  egg  that  walks  upon  two  legs, 
and  a  quart-pot  that  sings  like  a  nightingale. 
There  is  in  my  neighborhood  a  very  pretty  prat¬ 
tling  shoulder  of  veal,  that  squalls  out  at  the 
sight  of  a  knife.  Then,  as  for  natural  antipa¬ 
thies,  I  know  a  general  officer  who  was  never 
conquered  but  by  a  smothered  rabbit;  and  a  wife 
that  domineers  over  her  husband  by  the  help  of  a 
breast  of  mutton.  A  story  that  relates  to  myself 


*  The  20th  of  October,  1714,  was  the  day  of  the  coronation 
of  King  George  I. 


on  this  subject  may  be  thought  not  unentertaining, 
especially  when  I  assure  you  that  it  is  literally 
true.  I  had  long  made  love  to  a  lady,  in  the  pos¬ 
session  of  whom  I  am  now  the  happiest  of  man¬ 
kind,  whose  hand  I  should  have  gained  with 
much  difficulty  without  the  assistance  of  a  cat. 
You  must  know  then  that  my  most  dangerous 
rival  had  so  strong  au  aversion  to  this  species, 
that  he  infallibly  swooned  away  at  the  sight  of 
that  harmless  creature.  My  friend  Mrs.  Lucy,  her 
maid,  having  a  greater  respect  for  me  and  my 
purse  than  she  had  for  my  rival,  always  took  care 
to  pin  the  tail  of  a  cat  under  the  gown  of  her  mis¬ 
tress,  whenever  she  knew  of  his  coming;  which 
had  such  an  effect,  that  every  time  he  entered  the 
room,  he  looked  more  like  one  of  the  figures  in 
Mrs.  Salmon’s  wax- work*  than  a  desirable  lover. 
In  short,  he  grew  sick  of  her  company:  which  the 
young  lady  taking  notice  of  (who  no  more  knew 
why  than  he  did),  she  sent  me  a  challenge  to  meet 
her  in  Lincoln’s-inn-chapel,  which  I  joyfully  ac¬ 
cepted  ;  and  have,  among  other  pleasures,  the 
satisfaction  of  being  praised  by  her  for  my  strata¬ 
gem.  “I  am,  etc. 

“From  the  Hoop.  “  Tom  Nimble.” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  virgins  of  Great  Britain  are  very  much 
obliged  to  you  for  putting  them  upon  such  tedious 
drudgeries  in  needlework  as  were  fit  only  for  the 
Hilpas  and  the  Nilpas  that  lived  before  the  Flood. 
Here  is  a  stir  indeed  with  your  histories  in  em¬ 
broidery,  your  groves  with  shades  of  silk  and 
streams  of  mohair!  I  would  have  you  to  know, 
that  I  hope  to  kill  a  hundred  lovers  before  the 
best  housewife  in  England  can  stitch  out  a  battle; 
and  do  not  fear  but  to  provide  boys  and  girls 
much  faster  than  your  disciples  can  embroider 
them.  I  love  birds  and  beasts  as  well  as  you, 
but  am  content  to  fancy  them  when  they  are 
really  made.  What  do  you  think  of  gilt  leather 
for  furniture  ?  There  is  your  pretty  hangings  for 
a  chamber  !f  and,  what  is  more,  our  own  country 
is  the  only  place  in  Europe  where  work  of  that 
kind  is  tolerably  done.  Without  minding  your 
musty  lessons,  I  am  this  minute  going  to  Paul’s 
church-yard  to  bespeak  a  screen  and  a  set  of  hang¬ 
ings;  and  am  resolved  to  encourage  the  manufac¬ 
ture  of  my  country.  *  “Yours, 

“  Cleora.” 


No.  610.]  FRIDAY,  OCTOBER  22,  1714. 

Sic  cum  transierint  mei 
Nullo  cum  strepitu  dies, 

Plebeius  moriar  senex : 

Illi  mors  gravis  incubat, 

Qui  notus  nimis  omnibus, 

Ignotus  moritur  sibi. — Seneca. 

Thus,  when  my  fleeting  days,  at  last, 

Unheeded,  silently,  are  past, 

Calmly  I  shall  resign  my  breath, 

In  life  unknown,  forgot  in  death : 

While  he,  o’ertaken  unprepar'd, 

Finds  death  an  evil  to  be  fear’d, 

Who  dies,  to  others  too  much  known, 

A  stranger  to  himself  alone. 

I  have  often  wondered  that  the  Jews  should 
contrive  such  a  worthless  greatness  for  the  Deliv- 
!  erer  whom  they  expected,  as  to  dress  him  up  in 
external  pomp  and  pageantry,  and  represent  him 
to  their  imagination  as  making  havoc  among  his 
creatures,  and  actuated  with  the  poor  ambition  of 


*  Opposite  the  same  place,  near  Temple-Bar,  there  was,  till 
very  lately,  an  exhibition  of  wax-work  by  a  person  of  the 
same  name. 

f  There  was  about  this  time  a  celebrated  manufactory  of 
tapestry  at  Chelsea. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


710 

a  Caesar  or  an  Alexander.  How  much  more  illus¬ 
trious  doth  he  appear  in  his  real  character,  when 
considered  as  the  author  of  universal  benevolence 
among  men,  as  refining  our  passions,  exalting  our 
nature,  giving  us  vast  ideas  of  immortality,  and 
teaching  us  a  contempt  of  that  little  showy  gran¬ 
deur  wherein  the  Jews  made  the  glory  of  their 
Messiah  to  consist! 

“Nothing,”  says  Longinus,  “can  be  great,  the 
contempt  of  which  is  great.”  The  possession  of 
wealth  and  riches  cannot  give  a  man  a  title  to 
greatness  because  it  is  looked  upon  as  a  greatness 
of  mind  to  contemn  these  gifts  of  fortune,  and  to 
be  above  the  desire  of  them.  I  have  therefore 
been  inclined  to  think  that  there  are  greater  men 
who  lie  concealed  among  the  species,  than  those 
who  come  out  and  draw  upon  themselves  the  eyes 
and  admiration  of  mankind.  Virgil  would  never 
have  been  heard  of,  had  not  his  domestic  misfor¬ 
tunes  driven  him  out  of  his  obscurity,  and  brought 
him  to  Rome. 

If  we  suppose  that  there  are  spirits,  or  angels, 
who  look  into  the  ways  of  men,  as  it  is  highly 
probable  there  are,  both  from  reason  and  revela¬ 
tion,  how  different  are  the  notions  which  they  en¬ 
tertain  of  us,  from  those  which  we  are  apt  to  form 
of  one  another!  Were  they  to  give  us  in  their 
catalogue  of  such  worthies  as  are  now  living, 
how  different  would  it  be  from  that  which  any 
of  our  own  species  would  draw  up ! 

We  are  dazzled  with  the  splendor  of  titles,  the 
ostentation  of  learning,  the  noise  of  victories; 
they,  on  the  contrary,  see  the  philosopher  in  the 
cottage,  who  possesses  his  soul  in  patience  and 
thankfulness,  under  the  pressure  of  what  little 
minds  call  poverty  and  distress.  They  do  not 
look  for  great  men  at  the  head  of  armies,  or 
among  the  pomps  of  a  court,  but  often  find  them 
out  in  shades  and  solitudes,  in  the  private  walks 
and  by-paths  of  life.  The  evening’s  walk  of  a 
wise  man  is  more  illustrious  in  their  sight  than 
the  march  of  a  general  at  the  head  of  a  hundred 
thousand  men.  A  contemplation  on  God’s  works; 
a  voluntary  act  of  justice  to  our  own  detriment;  a 
generous  concern  for  the  good  of  mankind;  tears 
that  are  shed  in  silence  for  the  misery  of  others; 
a  private  desire  or  resentment  broken  and  sub¬ 
dued;  in  short,  an  unfeigned  exercise  of  humility, 
or  any  other  virtue,  are  such  actions  as  are  glo¬ 
rious  in  their  sight,  and  denominate  men  great 
and  reputable.  The  most  famous  among  us  are 
often  looked  upon  with  pity,  with  contempt,  or 
with  indignation;  while  those  who  are  most  ob¬ 
scure  among  their  own  species  are  regarded  with 
love,  with  approbation,  and  esteem. 

The  moral  of  the  present  speculation  amounts 
to  this:  that  we  should  not  be  led  away  by  the 
censures  and  applauses  of  men,  but  consider  the 
figure  that  every  person  will  make  at  that  time 
when  “Wisdom  shall  be  justified  of  her  chil¬ 
dren,”  and  nothing  pass  for  great  or  illustrious 
which  is  not  an  ornament  and  perfection  to  hu¬ 
man  nature. 

The  story  of  Gyges,  the  rich  Lydian  monarch, 
is  a  memorable  instance  to  our  present  purpose. 
The  oracle,  being  asked  by  Gyges,  who  was  the 
happiest  man,  replied,  Aglaus.  Gyges,  who  ex¬ 
pected  to  have  heard  himself  named  on  this  occa¬ 
sion,  was  much  surprised,  and  very  curious  to 
know  who  this  Aglaus  should  be.  After  much 
inquiry,  he  was  found  to  be  an  obscure  country¬ 
man,  who  employed  all  his  time  in  cultivating  a 
garden,  and  a  few  acres  of  land  about  his  house. 

Cowley’s  agreeable  relation  of  this  story  shall 
close  this  day’s  speculation. 

Thus  Aglaus  (a  man  unknown  to  men, 

But  the  gods  knew,  and  therefore  lov'd  him  then), 


Thus  liv’d  obscurely  then  without  a  name, 

Aglaus,  now  consign’d  t’  eternal  fame. 

Bor  Gyges,  the  rich  king,  wicked  and  great, 
Presum’d  at  wise  Apollo’s  Delphic  seat, 

Presum’d  to  ask,  0  thou  the  whole  world’s  eye, 
Seest  thou  a  man  that  happier  is  than  I  ? 

The  god,  who  scorn’d  to  flatter  man,  replied, 
Aglaus  happier  is.  But  Gyges  cried, 

In  a  proud  rage,  Who  can  that  Aglaus  he  ? 

We’ve  heard  as  yet  of  no  such  king  as  he. 

And  true  it  was,  through  the  whole  earth  around, 
No  king  of  such  a  name  was  to  be  found. 

Is  some  old  hero  of  that  name  alive, 

Who  his  high  race  does  from  the  gods  derive  ? 

Is  it  some  mighty  gen’ral  that  has  done 
Wonders  in  fight,  and  godlike  honors  won? 

Is  it  some  man  of  endless  wealth?  said  he, 

None,  none  of  these.  Who  can  this  Aglaus  be? 
After  long  search,  and  vain  inquiries  past, 

In  an  obscure  Arcadian  vale  at  last 
(Th’  Arcadian  life  has  always  shady  been), 

Near  Sopho’s  town,  which  he  but  once  had  seen, 
This  Aglaus,  who  monarchs’  envy  drew, 

Whose  happiness  the  gods  stood  witness  to, 

This  mighty  Aglaus,  was  lab’ring  found, 

With  his  own  hands,  in  his  own  little  ground. 

So,  gracious  God,  if  it  may  lawful  be 
Among  those  foolish  gods  to  mention  thee, 

So  let  me  act,  on  such  a  private  stage, 

The  last  dull  scenes  of  my  declining  age ; 

After  long  toils  and  voyages  in  vain, 

This  quiet  port  let  my  tost  vessel  gain ; 

Of  heavenly  rest  this  earnest  to  me  lend, 

Let  my  life  sleep,  and  learn  to  love  her  end. 


No.  611.]  MONDAY,  OCTOBER  25, 1714. 

Perfide!  sed  duris  genuit  te  cautibus  horrens 
Caucasus,  Hyrcanaeque  admorunt  ubera  tigres. 

Yirg.  JEn.  iv.  366. 

Perfidious  man  1  thy  parent  was  a  rock, 

And  fierce  Hyrcanian  tigers  gave  thee  suck. 

I  am  -willing  to  postpone  everything,  to  do  any 
the  least  service  for  the  deserving  and  unfortunate. 
Accordingly  I  have  caused  the  following  letter  to 
be  inserted  in  my  paper  the  moment  that  it  came 
to  my  hands,  without  altering  one  tittle  in  an  ac¬ 
count  which  the  lady  relates  so  handsomely  her¬ 
self  : 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  flatter  myself  you  will  not  only  pity,  but,  if 
possible,  redress  a  misfortune  myself  and  several 
others  of  my  sex  lie  under.  I  hope  you  will  not 
be  offended,  nor  think  I  mean  by  this  to  justify 
my  own  imprudent  conduct,  or  expect  you  shoula. 
No:  I  am  sensible  how  severely,  in  some  of  your 
former  papers,  you  have  reproved  persons  guilty 
of  the  like  mismanagements.  I  was  scarce  six¬ 
teen,  and  I  may  say  without  vanity,  handsome, 
when  courted  by  a  false  perjured  man;  who,  upon 
romise  of  marriage,  rendered  me  the  most  un- 
appy  of  women.  After  he  had  deluded  me  from 
my  parents,  who  were  people  of  very  good  fashion, 
in  less  than  three  months  he  left  me.  My  parents 
would  not  see  nor  hear  from  me;  and,  had  it  not 
been  for  a  servant  who  had  lived  in  our  family,  I 
must  certainly  have  perished  for  want  of  bread. 
However,  it  pleased  Providence,  in  a  very  short 
time,  to  alter  my  miserable  condition.  A  gentle¬ 
man  saw  me,  liked  me,  and  married  me.  My  par¬ 
ents  were  reconciled;  and  I  might  be  as  happy  in 
the  change  of  my  condition,  as  I  was  before  mis¬ 
erable,  but  for  some  things,  that  you  shall  know, 
which  are  insupportable  to  me;  and  I  am  sure  you 
have  so  much  honor  and  compassion  as  to  let  those 
persons  know,  in  some  of  your  papers,  how  much 
they  are  in  the  wrong.  I  have  been  married  near 
five  years,  and  do  not  know  that  in  all  that  time  I 
ever  went  abroad  without  my  husband’s  leave  and 
approbation.  I  am  obliged,  through  the  importu¬ 
nities  of  several  of  my  relations,  to  go  abroad 
oftener  than  suits  my  temper.  Then  it  is  I  labor 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


under  insupportable  agonies.  That  man,  or  rather  i 
monster,  haunts  every  place  I  go  to.  Base  villain  ! 
by  reason  I  will  not  admit  his  nauseous  wicked  ; 
visits  and  appointments,  he  strives  all  the  ways 
he  can  to  ruin  ihe.  He  left  me  destitute  of  friend 
or  money,  nor  ever  thought  me  worth  inquiring 
after,  until  he  unfortunately  happened  to  see  me  in 
a  front  box  sparkling  with  jewels.  Then  his  pas¬ 
sion  returned.  Then  the  hypocrite  pretended  to  be 
a  penitent.  Then  he  practiced  all  those  arts  that 
helped  before  to  undo  me.  I  am  not  to  be  deceived 
a  second  time  by  him.  I  hate  and  abhor  his  odious 
passion;  and  as  he  plainly  perceives  it,  either  out  of 
spite  or  diversion  he  makes  it  his  business  to  expose 
me.  I  never  fail  seeing  him  in  all  public  company, 
where  he  is  always  most  industriously  spiteful. 
He  hath,  in  short,  told  all  his  acquaintance  of  our 
unhappy  affair;  they  tell  theirs;  so  that  it  is  no 
secret  among  his  companions,  which  are  numerous. 
They  to  whom  he  tells  it,  think  they  have  a  title 
to  be  very  familiar.  If  they  bow  to  me,  and  I  out 
of  good  manners  return  it,  then  I  am  pestered  with 
freedoms  that  are  no  ways  agreeable  to  myself  or 
company.  If  I  turn  my  eyes  from  them,  or  seem 
displeased,  they  sour  upon  it,  and  whisper  the 
next  person;  he  his  next;  until  I  have  at  last  the 
eyes  of  the  whole  company  upon  me.  Nay,  they 
report  abominable  falsehoods,  under  that  mistaken 
notion,  “  She  that  will  grant  favors  to  one  man  will 
to  a  hundred.”  I  beg  you  will  let  those  who  are 
guilty  know  how  ungenerous  this  way  of  proceed¬ 
ing  is.  I  am  sure  he  will  know  himself  the  person 
aimed  at,  and  perhaps  put  a  stop  to  the  insolence 
of  others.  Cursed  is  the  fate  of  unhappy  women ! 
that  men  may  boast  and  glory  in  those  things  that 
we1  must  think  of  with  shame  and  horror!  You 
have  the  art  of  making  such  odious  customs  ap¬ 
pear  detestable.  For  my  sake,  and,  I  am  sure,  for 
the  sake  of  several  others  who  dare  not  own  it, 
but,  like  me,  lie  under  the  same  misfortunes,  make 
it  as  infamous  for  a  man  to  boast  of  favors,  or  ex¬ 
pose  our  sex,  as  it  is  to  take  the  lie  or  a  box  on  the 
ear,  and  not  resent  it. 

“Your  constant  Reader  and  Admirer, 

“Lesbia. 

“  P.  S.  I  am  the  more  impatient  under  this  mis¬ 
fortune,  having  received  fresh  provocation,  last 
Wednesday,  in  the  Abbey.” 

I  entirely  agree  with  the  amiable  and  unfortu¬ 
nate  Lesbia,  that  an  insult  upon  a  woman  in  her 
circumstances  is  as  infamous  in  a  man,  as  a  tame 
behavior  when  the  lie  or  a  buffet  is  given;  which 
truth  I  shall  beg  leave  of  her  to  illustrate  by  the 
following  observation.  ' 

It  is  a  mark  of  cowardice  passively  to  forbear 
resenting  an  affront,  the  resenting  of  which  would 
lead  a  man  into  danger;  it  is  no  less  a  sign  of 
cowardice  to  affront  a  creature  that  hath  not  power 
to  avenge  itself.  Whatever  name,  therefore,  this 
ungenerous  man  may  bestow  on  the  helpless  lady 
he  hath  injured,  I  shall  not  scruple  to  give  him, 
in  return  for  it,  the  appellation  of  coward. 

A  man  that  can  so  far  descend  from  his  dignity 
as  to  strike  a  lady,  can  never  recover  his  reputation 
with  either  sex,  because  no  provocation  is  thought 
strong  enough  to  justify  such  treatment  from  the 
powerful  toward  the  weak.  In  the  circumstances 
m  which  poor  Lesbia  is  situated,  she  can  appeal 
to  no  man  whatsoever  to  avenge  an  insult  more 
grievous  than  a  blow.  If  she  could  open  her 
mouth,  the  base  man  knows  that  a  husband,  a 
brother,  a  generous  friend,  would  die  to  see  her 
righted. 

A  generous  mind,  however  enraged  against  an 
enemy,  feels  its  resentments  sink  and  vanish  away 
when  the  object  of  its  wrath  falls  into  its  power. 


711 

An  estranged  friend,  filled  with  jealousy  and  dis¬ 
content  toward  a  bosom  acquaintance,  is  apt  to 
overflow  with  tenderness  and  remorse,  when  a  crea¬ 
ture  that  was  once  dear  to  him  undergoes  any  mis¬ 
fortune.  What  name  then  shall  we  give  to  his  in¬ 
gratitude,  who  (forgetting  the  favors  he  solicited 
with  eagerness,  and  received  with  rapture)  can 
insult  the  miseries  that  he  himself  caused,  and 
make  sport  with  the  pain  to  which  he  owes  his 
greatest  pleasure  ?  There  is  but  one  being  in  the 
creation  whose  province  it  is  to  practice  upon  the 
imbecilities  of  frail  creatures,  and  triumph  in  the 
woes  which  his  own  artifices  brought  about;  and 
we  well  know  those  who  follow  his  example  will 
receive  his  reward. 

Leaving  my  fair  correspondent  to  the  direction 
of  her  own  wisdom  and  modesty;  and  her  enemy, 
and  his  mean  accomplices,  to  the  compunction  of 
their  own  hearts;  I  shall  conclude  this  paper  with 
a  memorable  instance  of  revenge,  taken  by  a  Span¬ 
ish  lady  upon  her  guilty  lover,  which  may  serve 
to  show  what  violent  effects  are  wrought  by  the 
most  tender  passion,  when  soured  into  hatred;  and 
may  deter  the  young  and  unwary  from  unlawful 
love.  The  story,  however  romantic  it  mayr  appear, 
I  have  heard  affirmed  for  a  truth. 

Not  many  years  ago  an  English  gentleman,  who, 
in  a  rencounter  by  night  in  the  streets  of  Madrid, 
had  the  misfortune  to  kill  his  man,  fled  into  a 
church-porch  for  sanctuary.  Leaning  against  the 
door,  he  was  surprised  to  find  it  open,  and  a  glim¬ 
mering  light  in  the  church.  He  had  the  courage 
to  advance  toward  the  light;  but  was  terribly 
startled  at  the  sight  of  a  woman  in  white,  who  as¬ 
cended  from  a  grave  with  a  bloody  knife  in  her 
hand.  The  phantom  marched  up  to  him,  and  asked 
him  what  he  did  there.  He  told  her  the  truth 
without  reserve,  believing  that  he  had  met  with  a 
ghost;  upon  which  she  spoke  to  him  in  the  fol¬ 
lowing  manner:  “Stranger,  thou  art  in  my  power; 
I  am  a  murderer  as  thou  art.  Know  then  that  I 
am  a  nun  of  a  noble  family.  A  base  perjured  man 
undid  me,  and  boasted  of  it.  I  soon  had  him  dis¬ 
patched;  but  not  content  with  the  murder,  I  have 
bribed  the  sexton  to  let  me  enter  his  grave,  and 
have  now  plucked  out  his  false  heart  from  his 
body;  and  thus  I  use  a  traitor’s  heart.”  At  these 
words  she  tore  it  in  pieces  and  trampled  it  under 
her  feet. 


No.  612.]  WEDNESDAY,  OCTOBER  27,  1714. 

Murranum  hie,  atavos  et  avorum  antiqua  sonantem 
Nomina,  per  regesque  actum  genus  omne  Latinos, 
Prascipitem  scopulo  atque  ingentis  turbine  saxi 

Excutit,  effunditque  solo -  VlRG.  ^En.  xii.  529. 

Murranus,  boasting  of  his  blood,  that  springs 
From  a  long  royal  race  of  Latian  kings, 

Is  by  the  Trojan  from  his  chariot  thrown, 

Crush’d  with  the  weight  of  an  unwieldy  stone. — Dryden. 

It  is  highly  laudable  to  pay  respect  to  men  who 
are  descended  from  worthy  ancestors,  not  only  out 
of  gratitude  to  those  who  have  done  good  to  man¬ 
kind,  but  as  it  is  an  encouragement  to  others  to 
follow  their  example.  But  this  is  an  honor  to  be 
received,  not  demanded,  by  the  descendants  ol 
great  men;  and  they  who  are  apt  to  remind  us  of 
their  ancestors  only  put  us  upon  making  compari¬ 
sons  to  their  own  disadvantage.  There  is  some 
pretense  for  boasting  of  wit,  beauty,  strength,  or 
wealth,  because  the  communication  of  them  may 
give  pleasure  or  profit  to  others;  but  we  can  have 
no  merit,  nor  ought  we  to  claim  any  respect,  be¬ 
cause  our  fathers  acted  well  whether  we  would 
or  no. 

The  following  letter  ridicules  the  folly  1  have 
mentioned,  in  a  new,  and  I  think,  not  disagreeable 
light: 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


712 


"Mr.  Spectator, 

“Were  the  genealogy  of  every  family  preserved, 
there  would  probably  be  no  man  valued  or  des- 
ised  on  account  of  his  birth.  There  is  scarce  a 
eggar  in  the  streets,  who  would  not  find  himself 
lineally  descended  from  some  great  man;  nor  anv 
one  ot  the  highest  title,  who  would  not  discover 
several  base  and  indigent  persons  among  his  an¬ 
cestors.  It  would  be  a  pleasant  entertainment  to 
see  one  pedigree  of  men  appear  together,  under  the 
same  characters  they  bore  when  they  acted  their 
lespective  parts  among  the  living.  Suppose,  there¬ 
fore,  a  gentleman,  full  of  his  illustrious  family, 
should,  in  the  same  manner  as  Virgil  makes  iEneas 
look  over  his  descendants,  see  the  whole  line  of 
his  progenitors  pass  in  review  before  his  eyes — 
with  how  many  varying  passions  would  he  be¬ 
hold  shepherds  and  soldiers,  statesmen  and  artifi¬ 
cers,  princes  and  beggars,  walk  in  the  procession 
of  five  thousand  years!  How  would  his  heart 
sink  or  flutter  at  the  several  sports  of  fortune,  in  a 
scene  so  diversified  with  rags  and  purple,  handi¬ 
craft  tools  and  scepters,  ensigns  of  dignity  and 
emblems  of  disgrace!  And  how  would  his  fears 
and  apprehensions,  his  transports  and  mortifica¬ 
tions,  succeed  one  another,  as  the  line  of  his  ge¬ 
nealogy  appeared  bright  or  obscure ! 

“In  most  of  the  pedigrees  hung  up  in  old  man¬ 
sion-houses,  you  are  sure  to  find  the  first  in  the 
catalogue  a  great  statesman,  or  a  soldier  with  an 
honorable  commission.  The  honest  artificer  that 
begot  him,  and  all  his  frugal  ancestors  before  him, 
are  torn  off  from  the  top  of  the  register;  and  you 
are  not  left  to  imagine  that  the  noble  founder  of 
the  family  ever  had  a  father.  Were  we  to  trace 
many  boasted  lines  further  backward,  we  should 
lose  them  in  a  mob  of  tradesmen,  or  a  crowd  of 
rustics,  without  hope  of  seeing  them  emerge  again; 
not  unlike  the  old  Appian  way,  which,  after  liav- 
mg  run  many  miles  in  length,  loses  itself  in  a  boo-. 

I  lately  made  a  visit  to  an  old  country  gen¬ 
tleman,  who  is  very  far  gone  in  this  sort  of  family- 
madness.  I  found  him  in  his  study  perusino-  an 
old  register  of  his  family,  which  he  had  just  then 
discovered  as  it  was  branched  out  in  the  form  of  a 
tree,  upon  a  skin  of  parchment.  Having  the  honor 
to  have  some  of  his  blood  in  my  veins,  he  permit¬ 
ted  me  to  cast  my  eye  over  the  boughs  of  this 
veneiable  plant;  and  asked  my  advice  in  the  re¬ 
forming  of  some  of  the  superfluous  branches. 

“We  passed  slightly  over  three  or  four  of  our 
immediate  forefathers,  whom  he  knew  by  tradition 
but  were  soon  stopped  by  an  alderman  of  London' 
who  I  perceived  made  my  kinsman’s  heart  go  pit- 
a-pat.  His  confusion  increased  when  he  found  the 
alderman’s  father  to  be  a  grazier;  but  he  recovered 
his Aright  upon  seeing  justice  of  the  quorum  at  the 
end  ot  his  titles.  Things  went  on  pretty  well 
as  we  threw  our  eyes  frequently  over  the  tree 
v  lien  unfortunately  he  perceived  a  merchant- tailor 
perched  on  a  bough,  who  was  said  greatly  to  have 
increased  the  estate;  he  was  just  going  to  cut  him 
oft  it  he  had  not  seen  gent,  after  the  name  of  his 
son;  who  was  recorded  to  have  mortgaged  one  of 
the  manors  his  honest  father  had  purchased.  A 
weaver,  who  was  burnt  for  his  religion  in  the 
reign  of  Queen  Mary,  was  pruned  away  without 
mercy;  as  was  likewise  a  yeoman  who  died  of  a 
•fall  from  his  own  cart.  But  great  was  our  triumph 
m  one  of  the  blood  who  was  beheaded  for  high- 
treason;  which,  nevertheless,  was  not  a  little  al¬ 
layed  by  another  of  our  ancestors  who  was  hanged 
for  stealing  sheep.  The  expectations  of  my  o-ood 
cousin  were  wonderfully  raised  by  a  match  into 
the  family  of  a  knight;  but  unfortunately  for  us 
this  branch  proved  barren;  on  the  other  hand 
Margery  the  milk-maid,  being  twined  round  a 


bough,  it  flourished  out,  into  so  many  shoots,  and 
bent  with  so  much  fruit,  that  the  old  gentleman 
was  quite  out  of  countenance.  To  comfort  me  un¬ 
der  this  disgrace,  he  singled  out  a  branch  ten 
times  more  fruitful  than  the  other,  which  he  told 
me  he  valued  more  than  any  in  the  tree,  and  bade 
me  be  of  good  comfort.  This  enormous  bough 
was  a  graft  out  of  a  Welsh  heiress,  with  so  many 
Aps  upon  it  that  it  might  have  made  a  little  grove 
by  itself.  From  the  trunk  of  the  pedigree,  which 
was  chiefly  composed  of  laborers  and  shepherds, 
arose  a  huge  sprout  of  farmers;  this  was  branched 
out  into  yeomen,  and  ended  in  a  sheriff  of  the 
county,  who  was  knighted  for  his  good  service  to 
the  crown  in  bringing  up  an  address.  Several  of 
the  names  that  seemed  to  disparage  the  family, 
being  looked  upon  as  mistakes,  were  lopped  off 
as  rotten  or  withered;  as,  on  the  contrary,  no  small 
number  appearing  without  any  titles,  my  cousin, 
to  supply  tiie  defects  of  the  manuscript,  added  esq. 
at  the  end  of  each  of  them. 

This  tree,  so  pruned,  dressed,  and  cultivated, 
was,  within  a  few  days,  transplanted  into  a  large 
sheet  of  vellum,  and  placed  in  the  great  hall, 
where  it  attracts  the  veneration  of  his  tenants 
every  Sunday  morning,  while  they  wait  until  his 
worship  is  ready  to  go  to  church;  wondering  that 
a  man  who  had  so  many  fathers  before  him  should 
not  be  made  a  knight;  or  at  least  a  justice  of  the 
peace.” 


Ho.  613. J  FRIDAY,  OCTOBER  29,  1714. 

- Studiis  florentem  ignobilis  oti. 

Virg.  Georg,  iv.  564. 

Affecting  studies  of  less  noisy  praise. — Dryden. 

It  is  leckoned  a  piece  of  ill-breeding  for  one 
man  to  engross  the  whole  talk  to  himself.  For 
this  leason;  since  1  keep  three  visiting-days  in  the 
week,  I  am  content  now  and  then  to  let  my  friends 
put  in  a  word.  There  are  several  advantages 
hereby  accruing  both  to  my  readers  and  myself. 
As  first,  young  and  modest  writers  have  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  getting  into  print;  again,  the  town  en¬ 
joys  the  pleasure  of  variety;  and  posterity  will  see 
the  humor  of  the  present  age,  by  the  help  of  these 
little  lights  into  private  and  domestic  life.  The 
benefits  I  receive  from  thence  are  such  as  these : 
I  gam  more  time  for  future  speculations;  pick  up 
hints  which  I  improve  for  the  public  good;  <nVe 
advice;  redress  grievances;  and  by  leaving  com¬ 
modious  spaces  between  the  several  letters  that  I 
print,  furnish  out  a  Spectator,  with  little  labor  and 
great  ostentation. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“I  was  mightily  pleased  with  your  speculation 
ol  Inday.  1  our  sentiments  are  noble,  and  the 
whole  worked  up  in  such  a  manner  as  cannot  but 
strike  upon  every  reader.  But  give  me  leave  to 
make  this  remark;  that  while  you  write  so  pa¬ 
thetically  on  contentment  and  a  retired  life,  you 
soothe  the  passion  of  melancholy,  and  depress  the 
mmd  from  actions  truly  glorious.  Titles  and  hon¬ 
ors  are  the  reward  of  virtue;  we  therefore  ought  to 
be  affected  with  them;  and  though  light  minds  are 
too  much  puffed  up  with  exterior  pomp,  yet  I  can¬ 
not  see  why  it  is  not  as  truly  philosophical  to  ad¬ 
mire  the  glowing  ruby,  or  the  sparkling  green  of 
an  emerald,  as  the  fainter  and  less  permanent 
beauties  of  a  rose  or  a  myrtle.  If  there  are  men 
ol  extraordinary  capacities  who  lie  concealed  from 
the  world,  I  should  impute  it  to  them  as  a  blot  in 
their  character,  did  I  not  believe  it  owing  to  the 
meanness  of  their  fortune  rather  than  their  spirit. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


713 


Cowley,  who  tells  the  story  of  Aglaus  with  so 
much  pleasure,  was  no  stranger  to  courts,  nor  in¬ 
sensible  of  praise. 


M  hat  shall  I  do  to  be  forever  known, 
And  make  the  age  to  come  my  own  ? 


was  the  result  of  a  laudable  ambition.  It  was 
not  until  after  frequent  disappointments  that  he 
termed  himself  the  melancholy  Cowley;  and  he 
praised  solitude  when  he  despaired  of  shining  in 
a  court.  I  he  soul  of  man  is  an  active  principle. 
He,  therefore,  who  withdraws  himself  from  the 
scene  before  he  has  played  his  part,  ought  to  be 
hissed  off  the  stage,  and  cannot  be  deemed  virtu¬ 
ous,  because  he  refuses  to  answer  his  end.  I  must 
own  I  am  fired  with  an  honest  ambition  to  imi¬ 
tate  every  illustrious  example.  The  battles  of 
Blenheim  and  Ramilies  have  more  than  once 
made  me  wish  myself  a  soldier.  And,  when  I 
have  seen  those  actions  so  nobly  celebrated  by 
oui  poets,  I  have  secretly  aspired  to  be  one  of 
that  distinguished  class.  But  in  vain  I  wish,  in 
vain  I  pant  with  the  desire  of  action.  I  am  chained 
down  in  obscurity,  and  the  only  pleasure  I  can 
take  is  in  seeing  so  many  brighter  geniuses  join 
their  friendly  lights  to  add  to  the  splendor  of  the 
throne.  Farewell,  then,  dear  Spec.,  and  believe 
me  to  be  with  great  emulation,  and  no  envy, 

“  Your  professed  Admirer, 

“Will  Hopeless.” 


“Middle  Temple,  Oct.  16,  1714 

“  Sir, 

.  “  Though  you  formerly  made  eloquence  the  sub¬ 
ject  of  one  or  more  of  your  papers,  I  do  not  re¬ 
member  that  you  ever  considered  it  as  possessed 
by  a  set  of  people,  who  are  so  far  from  making 
Quintilian’s  rules  their  practice,  that,  I  dare  say 
for  them,  they  never  heard  of  such  an  author,  and 
yet  are  no  less  masters  of  it  than  Tully  or  De¬ 
mosthenes  among  the  ancients,  or  whom  you 
please  among  the  moderns.  (  The  persons  I  am 
speaking  of  are  our  common  "  beggars  about  this 
town;  and,  that  what  I  say  is  true,  I  appeal  to 
any  man  who  has  a  heart  one  degree  softer  than  a 
stone  )  As  for  my  part,  who  do  not  pretend  to 
more  humanity  than  my  neighbors,  I  have  often¬ 
times  gone  from  my  chambers  with  money  in  my 
pocket,  and  returned  to  them  not  only  pennyless, 
but  destitute  of  a  farthing,  without  bestowing  of 
it  any  other  way  than  on  these  seeming  objects  of 
pity.  In  short,  I  have  seen  more  eloquence  in  a 
look  ftom  one  of  these  despicable  creatures  than 
in  the  eye  of  the  fairest  she  I  ever  saw,  yet  no  one 
is  a  greater  admirer  of  that  sex  than  myself. 
What  I  have  to  desire  of  you  is,  to  lay  down  "some 
directions  in  order  to  guard  against  these  powerful 
orators,  or  else  I  know  nothing  to  the  contrary  but 
I  must  myself  be  forced  to  leave  the  profession  of 
the  law,  and  endeavor  to  get  the  qualifications 
necessary  to  that  more  profitable  one  of  beggino-. 
But,  in  whichsoever  of  these  two  capacities  I  shine’ 
I  shall  always  desire  to  be  your  constant  reader, 
and  ever  will  be 

“  Your  most  humble  Servant, 

“J.  B.” 


“  Sir, 

“Upon  reading  a  Spectator  last  week,  where 
Mrs.  Fanny  Fickle  submitted,  the  choice  of  a  lover 
for  life  to  your  decisive  determination,  and  imag¬ 
ining  I. might  claim  the  favor  of  your  advice  in 
an  affair  of  the  like,  but  much  more  difficult  na¬ 
ture,  I  called  for  pen  and  ink,, in  order  to  draw  the 
characters  of  seven  humble  servants,  whom  I  have 
equally  encouraged  for  some  time.  But  alas! 
while  I  was  reflecting  on  the  agreeable  subject^ 


and  contriving  an  advantageous  description  of  the 
dear  person  1  was  most  inclined  to  favor,  I  hap¬ 
pened.  to  look  into  my  glass.  The  sight  of  the 
small-pox,  out  of  which  1  am  just  recovered,  tor¬ 
mented  me  at  once  with  the  loss  of  my  captivating 
arts  and  my  captives.  The  confusion  1  was  in, 
on  this  unhappy,  unseasonable  discovery,  is  in¬ 
expressible.  Believe  me.  Sir,  I  was  so  taken  up 
with  the  thoughts  of  your  fair  correspondent’s 
case,  and  so  intent  on  my  own  design,  that  I  fan¬ 
cied  myself  as  triumphant  in  my  conquests  as 
ever. 

“  Now,  Sir,  finding  I  was  incapacitated  to  amuse 
myself  on  that  pleasing  subject,  I  resolved  to  ap¬ 
ply  myself  to  you  or  your  casuistical  agent,  for 
advice  in  my  present  circumstances.  I  am  sen¬ 
sible  the  tincture  of  my  skin,  and  the  regularity 
of  my  features,  Which  the  malice  of  my  late  ill¬ 
ness  lias  altered,  are  irrecoverable;  yet  do  not  de¬ 
spair  but  that  loss,  by  your  assistance,  may  in 
some  measure  be  reparable,  if  you  will  please  to 
propose  a  way  for  the  recovery  of  one  only  of  my 
fugitives.  j  j 

One  of  them  is  in  a  more  particular  manner 
beholden  to  me  than  the  rest;  he,  for  some  private 
reasons,  being  desirous  to  be  a  lover  incognito, 
always  addressed  me  with  billet-doux,  which  I 
was  so  careful  of  in  my  sickness  that  I  secured 
the  key  of  my  love-magazine  under  my  head,  and, 
hearing  a  noise  of  opening  a  lock  in  my  chamber, 
endangered  my  life  by  getting  out  of  bed,  to  pre¬ 
vent,  if  it  had  been  attempted,  the  discovery  of 
that  amour. 

“  I  have  formerly  made  use  of  all  those  artifices 
which  our  sex  daily  practice  over  yours,  to  draw, 
as  it  were  undesignedly,  the  eyes  of  a  whole  con¬ 
gregation  to  my  pew  ;  I  have  taken  a  pride  in  the 
number  of  admirers  at  my  afternoon  levee;  but  am 
now  quite  another  creature.  I  think,  could  I  re¬ 
gain  the  attractive  influence  I  once  had,  if  I  had  a 
legion  of  suitors  I  should  never  be  ambitious  of 
entertaining  more  than  one.  I  have  almost  con-  ' 
ti  acted  an  antipathy  to  the  trifling  discourses  of 
impertinent  lovers;  though  I  must  needs  own  I 
have  thought  it  very  odd  of  late  to  hear  gentle¬ 
men,  instead  of  their  usual  complaisances  fall  into 
disputes  before  me  of  politics,  or  else  weary  me 
with  the  tedious  repetition  of  how  thankful  I 
ought  to  be,  and  satisfied  with  my  recovery  out 
of  so  dangerous  a  distemper;  this,  though  I  am 
sensible  of  the  blessing,  yet  I  cannot  but 
dislike,  because  such  advice  from  them  rather 
seems  to  insult  than  comfort  me,  and  reminds  me 
too  much  of  what  I  was :  which  melancholy  con¬ 
sideration  I  cannot  yet  perfectly  surmount,  but 
hope  your  sentiments  on  this  head  will  make  it 
supportable. 

“  To  show  you  what  a  value  I  have  for  your  dic¬ 
tates,  these  are  to  certify  the  persons  concerned, 
that  unless  one  of  them  returns  to  his  colors,  if  I 
may  so  call  them  now,  before  the  winter  is  over,  I 
w  ill  voluntarily  confine  myself  to  a  retirement, 
where  I  will  punish  them  all  with  my  needle.  I 
will  be  revenged  on  them,  by  deciphering  them  on 
a  carpet,  humbly  begging  admittance,  t myself 
scornfully  refusing  it.  If  you  disapprove  of  this, 
as  savoring  too  much  of  malice,  be  pleased  to  ac¬ 
quaint  me  with  a  draught  you  like  better,  and  it 
shall  be  faithfully  performed  by  the  unfortunate 

“  Monimia.” 


714  the  spectator. 

Ho.  614.]  MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  1,  1714. 


Si  mihi  non  animo  fixum  immotumque  sederet 
Ne  cui  me  vinclo  vellem  sociare  jugali, 

Postquam  primus  amor  deceptam  morte  fefellit; 

Si  non  pertaesum  thalami  taedaeque  fuisset, 

Huic  uni  forsan  potui  succumbere  culpae. 

Vibq.  iEn.  iv.  15. 

- Were  I  not  resolv’d  against  the  yoke 

Of  hapless  marriage;  never  to  be  curs’d 
With  second  love,  so  fatal  was  the  first, 

To  this  one  error  I  might  yield  again. — Dryden. 

The  following  account  hath  been  transmitted 
to  me  by  the  love-casuist : — 

“Me.  Spectator, 

“  Having  in  some  former  papers  taken  care  of 
the  two  states  of  virginity  and  marriage,  and  being 
willing  that  all  people  should  be  served  in  their 
turn,  I  this  day  drew  out  my  drawer  of  widows, 
where  I  met  with  several  cases,  to  each  whereof 
I  have  returned  satisfactory  answers  by  the  post. 
The  cases  are  as  follows  : 

“  Q.  Whether  Amoret  be  bound  by  a  promise  of 
marriage  to  Philander,  made  during  her  husband’s 
life  ? 

“  Q.  Whether  Sempronia,  having  faithfully 
given  a  promise  to  two  several  persons  during  the 
last  sickness  of  her  husband,  is  not  thereby  left  at 
liberty  to  choose  which  of  them  she  pleases,  or  to 
reject  them  both  for  the  sake  of  a  new  lover  ? 

“  Cleora  asks  me,  whether  she  be  obliged  to  con¬ 
tinue  single  according  to  a  vow  made  to  her  hus¬ 
band  at  the  time  of  his  presenting  her  with  a  dia¬ 
mond  necklace;  she  being  informed  by  a  very 
pretty  young  fellow  of  a  good  conscience,  that 
such  vows  are  in  their  nature  sinful  ? 

“  Another  inquires,  whether  she  hath  not  the 
right  of  widowhood,  to  dispose  of  herself  to  a 
gentleman  of  great  merit,  who  presses  very  hard; 
her  husband  being  irrecoverably  gone  in  a  con¬ 
sumption  ? 

“  An  unreasonable  creature  hath  the  confidence 
to  ask,  whether  it  be  proper  for  her  to  marry  a 
man  who  is  younger  than  her  eldest  son  ? 

“A  scrupulous  well-spoken  matron,  who  gives 
me  a  great  many  good  words,  only  doubts,  whether 
she  is  not  obliged  in  conscience  to  shut  up  her  two 
marriageable  daughters,  until  such  time  as  she 
hath  comfortably  disposed  of  herself? 

“  Sophronia,  who  seems  by  her  phrase  and  spell¬ 
ing  to  be  a  person  of  condition,  sets  forth,  that 
whereas  she  hath  a  great  estate,  and  is  but  a  wo¬ 
man,  she  desires  to  be  informed,  whether  she 
would  not  do  prudently  to  marry  Camillus,  a  very 
idle,  tall  young  fellow,  who  hath  no  fortune  of  his 
own,  and  consequently  hath  nothing  else  to  do 
but  to  manage  hers  ?” 

Before  I  speak  of  widows,  I  cannot  but  observe 
one  thing,  which  I  do  not  know  how  to  account 
for;  a  widow  is  always  more  sought  after  than  an 
old  maid  of  the  same  age.  It  is  common  enough 
among  ordinary  people,  for  a  stale  virgin  to  set  up 
a  shop  in  a  place  where  she  is  not  known;  where 
the  large  thumb-ring,  supposed  to  be  given  her  by 
her  husband,  quickly  recommends  her  to  some 
wealthy  neighbor,  who  takes  a  liking  to  the  jolly 
widow,  that  would  have  overlooked  the  venerable 
spinster. 

The  truth  of  it  is,  if  we  look  into  this  set  of  wo¬ 
men,  we  find,  according  to  the  different  characters 
or  circumstances  wherein  they  are  left,  that  wid¬ 
ows  may  be  divided  into  those  who  raise  love  and 
those  who  raise  compassion. 

But,  not  to  ramble  from  this  subject,  there  are 
two  things  in  which  consists  chiefly  the  glory  of 
the  widow — the  love  of  her  deceased  husband,  and 
the  care  of  her  children;  to  which  may  be  added 


a  third,  arising  out  of  the  former,  such  a  prudent 
conduct  as  may  do  honor  to  both. 

A  widow  possessed  of  all  these  three  qualities 
makes  not  only  a  virtuous  but  a  sublime  character. 

There  is  something  so  great  and  so  generous  in 
this  state  of  life,  when  it  is  accompanied  with  all 
its  virtues,  that  it  is  the  subject  of  one  of  the  finest 
among  our  modern  tragedies  in  the  person  of  An¬ 
dromache,  and  hath  met  with  a  universal  and  de¬ 
served  applause,  when  introduced  upon  our  Eng¬ 
lish  stage  by  Mr.  Phillips. 

The  most  memorable  widow  in  history  is  Queen 
Artemisia,  who  not  only  erected  the  famous  mau¬ 
soleum,  but  drank  up  the  ashes  of  her  dead  lord; 
thereby  inclosing  them  in  a  nobler  monument  than 
that  which  she  had  built,  though  deservedly  es¬ 
teemed  one  of  the  wonders  of  architecture. 

This  last  lady  seems  to  have  had  a  better  title 
to  a  second  husband  than  any  I  have  read  of,  since 
not  one  dust  of  her  first  was  remaining.  Our 
modern  heroines  might  think  a  husband  a  very 
bitter  draught,  and  would  have  good  reason  to 
complain,  if  they  might  not  accept  of  a  second 
partner  until  they  had  taken  such  a  troublesome 
method  of  losing  the  memory  of  the  first. 

I  shall  add  to  these  illustrious  examples  out  of 
ancient  story,  a  remarkable  instance  of  the  deli¬ 
cacy  of  our  ancestors  in  relation  to  the  state  of 
widowhood,  as  I  find  it  recorded  in  Cowell’s  In- 
tepreter.*  “At  East  and  West  Enborne,  in  the 
county  of  Burks,  if  a  customary  tenant  die,  the 
widow  shall  have  what  the  law  calls  her  free- 
bench  in  all  his  copyhold  lands,  dum  sola  et  casta 
fuerit,  that  is,  while  she  lives  single  and  chaste;  but 
if  she  commit  incontinency  she  forfeits  her  estate; 
yet  if  she  will  come  into  the  court  riding  backward 
upon  a  black  ram,  with  his  tail  in  her  hand,  and 
say  the  words  following,  the  steward  is  bound  by 
the  custom  to  readmit  her  to  her  freebench: 

“  ‘  Here  I  am, 

Riding  upon  a  black  ram, 

Like  a  whore  as  I  am ;  * 

And  for  my  crincum  crancum 
Have  lost  my  bincurn  bancum; 

And  for  my  tail’s  game 
Have  done  this  worldly  shame ; 

Therefore  I  pray  you,  Mr.  Steward,  let  me  have  my 
land  again.’  ” 

The  like  custom  there  is  in  the  manor  of  Torre 
in  Devonshire,  and  other  parts  of  the  West. 

It  is  not  impossible  but  I  may  in  a  little  time 
present  you  with  a  register  of  Berkshire  ladies, 
and  other  western  dames,  who  rode  publicly  upon 
this  occasion;  and  I  hope  the  town  will  be  enter¬ 
tained  with  a  cavalcade  of  widows. 


No.  615.]  WEDNESDAY,  NOVEMBER  3, 1714. 

- Qui  Deorum 

Muneribus  sapienter  uti, 

Duramque  callet  pauperiem  pati, 

Pejusque  letho  flagitium  timet; 

Non  ille  pro  caris  amicis 

Aut  patria  timidus  perire. — Hor.  4  Od.  ix.  47. 
Who  spend  their  treasure  freely,  as  ’twas  giv’n 
By  the  large  bounty  of  indulgent  Heav’n; 

Who  in  a  fix’d  unalterable  state 
Smile  at  the  doubtful  tide  of  fate, 

And  scorn  alike  her  friendship  and  her  hate ; 

Who  poison  less  than  falsehood  fear, 

Loath  to  purchase  life  so  dear ; 

But  kindly  for  their  friend  embrace  cold  death, 

And  seal  their  country’s  love  with  their  departing  breath. 

Stepney. 

It  must  be  owned  that  fear  is  a  very  powerful 
passion,  since  it  is  esteemed  one  of  the  greatest  of 


*  No  record  of  this  kind  is  to  be  found  in  the  edition  of 
Cowell’s  Interpreter  of  1637,  4to. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


715 


virtues  to  subdue  it.  It  being  implanted  in  us  for 
our  preservation,  it  is  no  wonder  that  it  sticks  close 
to  us  as  long  as  we  have  anything  we  are  willing 
to  preserve.  But  as  life,  and  all  its  enjoyments, 
would  be  scarce  worth  the  keeping  if  we  were  un¬ 
der  a  perpetual  dread  of  losing  them,  it  is  the 
business  of  religion  and  philosophy  to  free  us  from 
all  unnecessary  anxieties,  and  direct  our  fear  to  its 
proper  object. 

If  we  consider  the  painfulness  of  this  passion, 
and  the  violent  effects  it  produces,  we  shall  see 
how  dangerous  it  is  to  give  way  to  it  upon  slight 
occasions.  Some  have  frightened  themselves  into 
madness,  others  have  given  up  their  lives  to  these 
apprehensions.  The  story  of  a  man  who  grew 
gray  in  the  space  of  one  night’s  anxiety  is  very 
Famous. 

0 1  nox  quam  longa  es,  quae  facit  una  senem ! 

A  tedious  night  indeed,  that  makes  a  young  man  old. 

These  apprehensions,  if  they  proceed  from  a 
consciousness  of  guilt,  are  the  sad  warnings  of 
reason;  and  may  excite  our  pity,  but  admit  of  no 
remedy.  When  the  hand  of  the  Almighty  is  vis¬ 
ibly  lifted  against  the  impious,  the  heart  of  mortal 
man  cannot  withstand  him.  We  have  this  passion 
sublimely  represented  in  the  punishment  of  the 
Egyptians,  tormented  with  the  plague  of  darkness, 
in  the  apocryphal  book  of  Wisdom,  ascribed  to 
Solomon. 

“For  when  unrighteous  men  thought  to  oppress 
the  holy  nation;  they  being  shut  up  in  their 
houses,  the  prisoners  of  darkness,  and  fettered 
with  the  bonds  of  a  long  night,  lay  there  exiled 
from  the  eternal  Providence.  For  while  they  sup¬ 
posed  to  lie  hid  in  their  secret  sins,  they  were  scat¬ 
tered  under  a  dark  vail  of  forgetfulness,  being 
horribly  astonished  and  troubled  with  strange  ap¬ 
paritions.  For  wickedness,  condemned  by  her 
own  witness,  is  very  timorous,  and,  being  op¬ 
pressed  with  conscience,  always  forecasteth  griev¬ 
ous  things.  For  fear  is  nothing  else  but  a  betray¬ 
ing  of  the  succors  which  reason  offereth.  For  the 
whole  world  shined  with  clear  light,  and  none 
were  hindered  in  their  labor.  Over  them  only  was 
spread  a  heavy  night,  an  image  of  that  darkness 
which  should  afterward  receive  them;  but  yet  were 
they  unto  themselves  more  grievous  than  the  dark¬ 
ness.”* 

To  fear  so  justly  grounded  no  remedy  can  be 
proposed;  but  a  man  (who  hath  no  great  guilt 
Hanging  upon  his  mind,  who  walks  in  the  plain 
path  of  justice  and  integrity,  and  yet,  either  by 
natural  complexion,  or  confirmed  prejudices,  or 
neglect  of  serious  reflection,  suffers  himself  to  be 
moved  by  this  abject  and  unmanly  passion)  would 
do  well  to  consider  that  there  is  nothing  which 
deserves  his  fear,  but  that  beneficent  Being  who  is 
his  friend,  his  protector,  his  father.  Were  this 
one  thought  strongly  fixed  in  the  mind,  what  ca¬ 
lamity  would  be  dreadful  ?  What  load  can  infamy 
lay  upon  us  when  we  are  sure  of  the  approbation 
of  him  who  will  repay  the  disgrace  of  a  moment 
with  the  glory  of  eternity?  What  sharpness  is 
there  in  pain  and  diseases,  when  they  only  hasten 
us  on  to  the  pleasures  that  will  never  fade  ?  What 
sting  is  in  death,  when  we  are  assured  that  it  is 
only  the  beginning  of  life  ?  A  man  who  lives  so 
as  not  to  fear  to  die,  is  inconsistent  with  himself 
if  he  delivers  himself  up  to  any  incidental  anxiety. 

The  intrepidity  of  a  just  good  man  is  so  nobly 
set  forth  by  Horace,  that  it  cannot  be  too  often 
repeated: 

The  man  resolv’d  and  steady  to  his  trust, 

Inflexible  to  ill,  and  obstinately  just, 


May  the  rude  rabble’s  insolence  despise, 

Their  senseless  clamors  and  tumultuous  cries, 

The  tyrant’s  fierceness  he  beguiles, 

And  the  stern  brow  and  the  harsh  voice  defies, 

And  with  superior  greatness  smiles. 

Not  the  rough  whirlwind,  that  deforms 
Adria’s  black  gulf,  and  vexes  it  with  storms, 

The  stubborn  virtue  of  his  soul  can  move ; 

Not  the  red  arm  of  angry  Jove, 

That  flings  the  thunder  from  the  sky, 

And  gives  it  rage  to  roar,  and  strength  to  fly. 

Should  the  whole  frame  of  nature  round  him  break, 

In  ruin  and  confusion  hurl’d, 

He,  unconcem’d,  would  hear  the  mighty  crack, 

And  stand  secure  amid  a  falling  world. 

The  vanity  of  fear  may  be  yet  further  illustrated 
if  we  reflect. 

First,  What  we  fear  may  not  come  to  pass.  No 
human  scheme  can  be  so  accurately  projected  but 
some  little  circumstance  intervening  may  spoil  it. 
He  who  directs  the  heart  of  man  at  his  pleasure, 
and  understands  the  thoughts  long  before,  may, 
by  ten  thousand  accidents,  or  an  immediate  change 
in  the  inclinations  of  men,  disconcert  the  most 
subtile  project,  and  turn  it  to  the  benefit  of  his  own 
servants. 

In  the  next  place  we  should  consider,  though 
the  evil  we  imagine  should  come  to  pass,  it  may 
be  much  more  supportable  than  it  appeared  to 
be.  As  there  is  no  prosperous  state  of  life  with¬ 
out  its  calamities,  so  there  is  no  adversity  without 
its  benefits.  Ask  the  great  and  powerful,  if  they 
do  not  feel  the  pangs  of  envy  and  ambition.  In¬ 
quire  of  the  poor  and  needy,  if  they  have  not 
tasted  the  sweets  of  quiet  and  contentment.  Even 
under  the  pains  of  body,  the  infidelity  of  friends, 
or  the  misconstructions  put  upon  our  laudable  ac¬ 
tions;  our  minds,  when  for  some  time  accustomed 
to  these  pressures,  are  sensible  of  secret  flowings 
of  comfort,  the  present  reward  of  a  pious  resigna¬ 
tion.  The  evils  of  this  life  appear  like  rocks  and 
precipices,  rugged  and  barren  at  a  distance;  but  at 
our  nearer  approach  we  find  little  fruitful  spots, 
and  refreshing  springs,  mixed  with  the  harshness 
and  deformities  of  nature. 

In  the  last  place  we  may  comfort  ourselves  with 
this  consideration,  that,  as  the  thing  feared  may 
not  reach  us,  so  we  may  not  reach  what  we  fear. 
Our  lives  may  not  extend  to  that  dreadful  point 
which  we  have  in  view.  He  who  knows  all  our 
failings,  and  will  not  suffer  us  to  be  tempted  be¬ 
yond  our  strength,  is  often  pleased,  in  his  tender 
severity,  to  separate  the  soul  from  its  body  and 
miseries  together. 

If  we  look  forward  to  him  for  help,  we  shall 
never  be  in  danger  of  falling  down  those  precipices 
which  our  imagination  is  apt  to  create.  Like  those 
who  walk  upon  a  line,  if  we  keep  our  eye  fixed 
upon  one  point,  we  may  step  forward  securely; 
whereas  an  imprudent  or  cowardly  glance  on  either 
side  will  infallibly  destroy  us. 


No.  616.]  FRIDAY,  NOVEMBER  5,  1714. 

Qui  bellus  homo  est,  Cotta,  pusillus  homo  est. 

Mart.  Epig.  i.  10. 

A  pretty  fellow  is  but  half  a  man. 

Cicero  hath  observed  that  a  jest  is  never  uttered 
with  a  better  grace  than  when  it  is  accompanied 
with  a  serious  countenance.  When  a  pleasant 
thought  plays  in  the  features  before  it  discovers 
itself  in  words,  it  raises  too  great  an  expectation, 
and  loses  the  advantage  of  giving  surprise.  Wit 
and  humor  are  no  less  poorly  recommended  by  a 
levity  of  phrase,  and  that  kind  of  language  which 
may  be  distinguished  by  the  name  of  Cant.  Rid¬ 
icule  is  never  more  strong  than  when  it  is  con¬ 
cealed  in  gravity.  True  humor  lies  in  the  thought, 


*  Wisd.  xvii,  passim. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


716 

and  arises  from  the  representation  of  images  in  odd 
circumstances  and  uncommon  lights.  A  pleasant 
thought  strikes  us  by  the  force  of  its  natural 
beauty;  and  the  mirth  of  it  is  generally  rather 
palled  than  heightened  by  that  ridiculous  phrase¬ 
ology  which  is  so  much  in  fashion  among  the  pre¬ 
tenders  to  humor  and  pleasantry.  This  tribe  of 
men  are  like  our  mountebanks;  they  make  a  man 
a  wit  by  putting  him  in  a  fantastic  habit. 

Our  little  burlesque  authors,  who  are  the  delight 
of  ordinary  readers,  generally  abound  in  these 
pert  phrases,  which  have  in  them  more  vivacity 
than  wit. 

I  lately  saw  an  instance  of  this  kind  of  writing, 
which  gave  me  so  lively  an  idea  of  it,  that  I  could 
not  forbear  begging  a  copy  of  the  letter  from  the 
gentleman  who  showed  it  to  me.  It  is  written  by 
a  country  wit,  upon  the  occasion  of  the  rejoicings 
on  the  day  of  the  king’s  coronation. 

“Past  two  o’clock,  and  a  frosty  morning. 

“  Dear  Jack, 

“I  have  just  left  the  right  worshipful  and  his 
myrmidons  about  a  sneaker  of  five  gallons.  The 
whole  magistracy  was  pretty  well  disguised  before 
I  gave  them  the  slip.  Our  friend  the  alderman 
was  half-seas  over  before  the  bonfire  was  out.  We 
had  with  us  the  attorney,  and  two  or  three  other 
bright  fellows.  The  doctor  plays  least  in  sight. 

“  At  nine  o’clock  in  the  evening  we  set  fire  to 
the  whore  of  Babylon.  The  devil  acted  his  part 
to  a  miracle.  He  has  made  his  fortune  by  it.  We 
equipped  the  young  dog  with  a  tester  apiece. 
Honest  old  Brown  of  England  was  very  drunk, 
and  showed  his  loyalty  to  the  tune  of  a  hundred 
rockets.  The  mob  drank  the  king’s  health,  on 
their  marrow-bones,  in  mother  Day’s  double.  They 
whipped  us  half  a  dozen  hogsheads.  Poor  Tom 
Tyler  had  liked  to  have  been  demolished  with  the 
end  of  a  skyrocket,  that  fell  upon  the  bridge  of  his 
nose  as  he  was  drinking  the  king’s  health,  and 
spoiled  his  tip.  The  mob  were  very  loyal  till 
about  midnight,  when  they  grew  a  little  mutinous 
for  more  liquor.  They  had  like  to  have  dumb¬ 
founded  the  justice;  and  his  clerk  came  to  his 
assistance,  and  took  them  all  down  in  black  and 
white. 

“  When  I  had  been  huzzaed  out  of  my  seven 
senses,  I  made  a  visit  to  the  women,  who  were 
guzzling  very  comfortably.  Mrs.  Mayoress  clip¬ 
ped  the  king’s  English.  Clack  was  the  word. 

“I  forgot  to  tell  thee  that  every  one  of  the  posse 
had  his  hat  cocked  with  a  distich;  the  senators 
sent  us  down  a  cargo  of  ribbon  and  meter  for  the 
occasion. 

“  Sir  Richard,  to  show  his  zeal  for  the  Protest¬ 
ant  religion,  is  at  the  expense  of  a  tar-barrel  and 
a  ball.  I  peeped  into  the  knight’s  great  hall,  and 
saw  a  pretty  bevy  of  spinsters.  My  dear  relict 
was  among  them,  and  ambled  in  a  country  dance 
as  well  as  any  of  them. 

“  May  all  his  majesty’s  liege  subjects  love  him 
as  well  as  his  good  people  of  this  his  ancient 
borough !  Adieu !  ” 


Ho.  617.]  MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  8,  1714. 

Torva  Mimalloneis  implerunt  cornua  bombis, 

Et  raptum  vitulo  caput  ablatura  superbo 
Bassaris,  et  lyncem  Manas  flexura  corymbis, 

Evion  ingeminat :  reparabilis  adsonat  Echo. 

Per.  Sat.  i.  99. 

Their  crooked  horns  the  Mimallonian  crew 
With  blasts  inspir’d ;  and  Bassaris,  who  slew 
The  scornful  calf,  with  sword  advanced  on  high, 

Made  from  his  neck  his  haughty  head  to  fly. 


And  Maenas,  when,  with  ivy-bridles  bound, 

She  led  the  spotted  lynx,  then  Evion  rang  around, 

Evion  from  woods  and  floods  repeating  Echo’s  sound. 

Dryden. 

There  are  two  extremes  in  the  style  of  humor, 
one  of  which  consists  in  the  use  of  that  little  pert 
phraseology  which  I  took  notice  of  in  my  last 
paper;  the  other  in  the  affectation  of  strained  and 
pompous  expressions,  fetched  from  the  learned 
languages.  The  first  savors  too  much  of  the 
town;  the  other  of  the  college. 

As  nothing  illustrates  better  than  example,  I 
shall  here  present  my  reader  with  a  letter  of  pe¬ 
dantic  humor,  which  was  written  by  a  young  gen¬ 
tleman  of  the  university  to  his  friend,  on  the  same 
occasion,  and  from  the  same  place,  as  the  lively 
epistle  published  in  my  last  Spectator. 

“  Dear  Chum,* 

“  It  is  now  the  third  watch  of  the  night,  the 
greatest  part  of  which  I  have  spent  round  a  capa¬ 
cious  bowl  of  china,  filled  with  the  choicest  pro¬ 
ducts  of  both  the  Indies.  I  was  placed  at  a 
quadrangular  table,  diametrically  opposite  to  the 
mace-bearer.  The  visage  of  that  venerable  herald 
was,  according  to  custom,  most  gloriously  illu¬ 
minated  on  this  joyful  occasion.  The  mayor  and 
aldermen,  those  pillars  of  our  constitution,  began 
to  totter;  and  if  any  one  at  the  board  could  have 
so  far  articulated,  as  to  have  demanded  intelligi¬ 
bly  a  reinforcement  of  liquor,  the  whole  assembly 
had  been  by  this  time  extended  under  the  table. 

“  The  celebration  of  this  night’s  solemnity  was 
opened  by  the  obstreperous  joy  of  drummers,  who, 
with  their  parchment  thunder,  gave  a  signal  for 
the  appearance  of  the  mob  under  their  several 
classes  and  denominations.  They  were  quickly 
joined  by  the  melodious  clank  of  marrowbones 
and  cleavers,  while  a  chorus  of  bells  filled  up  the 
concert.  A  pyramid  of  stack-fagots  cheered  the 
hearts  of  the  populace  with  the  promise  of  a  blaze; 
the  guns  had  no  sooner  uttered  the  prologue,  but 
the  heavens  were  brightened  with  artificial  me¬ 
teors  and  stars  of  our  own  making;  and  all  the 
High-street  lighted  up  from  one  end  to  another 
with  a  galaxy  of  candles.  We  collected  a  largess 
for  the  multitude,  who  tippled  eleemosynary  until 
they  grew  exceeding  vociferous.  There  was  a 
pasteboard  pontiff,  with  a  little  swarthy  demon 
at  his  elbow,  who,  by  his  diabolical  whispers  and 
insinuations,  tempted  his  holiness  into  the  fire, 
and  then  left  him  to  shift  for  himself.  The  mo¬ 
bile  were  very  sarcastic  with  their  clubs,  and  gave 
the  old  gentleman  several  thumps  upon  his  triple 
head-piece. f  Tom  Tyler’s  phiz  is  something  dam¬ 
aged  by  the  fall  of  a  rocket,  which  hath  almost 
spoiled  the  gnomon  of  his  countenance.  The 
mirth  of  the  commons  grew  so  very  outrageous, 
that  it  found  work  for  our  friend  of  the  quorum, 
who,  by  the  help  of  his  amanuensis,  took  down 
all  their  names  and  their  crimes,  with  a  design  to 
produce  his  manuscript  at  the  next  quarter  ses¬ 
sions,”  etc.  etc. 

I  shall  subjoin  to  the  foregoing  piece  of  a  letter 
the  following  copy  of  verses  translated  from  an 
Italian  poet,  who  was  the  Cleveland  of  his  age, 
and  had  multitudes  of  admirers.  The  subject  is 
an  accident  that  happened  under  the  reign  of 
Pope  Leo,  when  a  firelock,  that  had  been  pre¬ 
pared  upon  the  castle  of  St.  Angelo,  began  to 
play  before  its  time,  being  kindled  by  a  flash 
of  lightning.  The  author  hath  written  his  poem 
in  the  same  kind  of  style  as  that  I  have  al¬ 
ready  exemplified  in  prose.  Every  line  in  it  is 


*  A  cant  word  for  a  chamber-companion  and  bed-fellow  at 
college. 

fThe  pope’s  tiara,  or  triple  miter. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


717 


a  riddle,  and  the  reader  must  he  forced  to  con¬ 
sider  it  twice  or  thrice,  before  he  will  know  that 
the  Cynic’s  tenement  is  a  tub,  and  Bacchus’s  cast- 
coat  a  hogshead,  etc. 

*’Twas  night,  and  heaven,  a  Cyclops  all  the  clay, 

An  Argus  now,  did  countless  eyes  display ; 

In  every  window  Rome  her  joy  declares, 

All  bright  and  studded  with  terrestrial  stars. 

A  blazing  chain  of  lights  her  roofs  entwines, 

And  round  her  neck  the  mingled  luster  shines : 

The  Cynic's  rolling  tenement  conspires 
With  Bacchus  his  cast-coat  to  feed  the  fires. 

The  pile,  still  big  with  undiscover’d  shows, 

The  Tuscan  pile,  did  last  its  freight  disclose ; 

Where  the  proud  tops  of  Rome’s  new  Etna  rise, 
Whence  giants  sally,  and  invade  the  skies. 

While  now  the  multitude  expect  the  time, 

Afid  their  tir’d  eyes  the  lofty  mountain  climb, 

A  thousand  iron  mouths  their  voices  try, 

And  thunder  out  a  dreadful  harmony : 

In  treble  notes  the  small  artillery  plays, 

The  deep-mouthed  cannon  bellows  in  the  bass, 

The  lab'ring  pile  now  heaves,  and,  having  given 
Proofs  of  its  travail,  sighs  in  flames  to  heaven. 

The  clouds  envelop’d  heav’n  from  human  sight, 
Quench’d  ev’ry  star,  and  put  out  ev’ry  light ; 

Now  real  thunder  grumbles  in  the  skies, 

And  in  disdainful  murmurs  Rome  defies : 

Nor  doth  its  answer’d  challenge  Rome  decline ; 

But,  while  both  parties  in  full  concert  join, 

While  heav’n  and  earth  in  rival  peals  resound, 

The  doubtful  cracks  the  hearer’s  sense  confound ; 
Whether  the  claps  of  thunderbolts  they  hear, 

Or  else  the  burst  of  cannon  wounds  their  ear ; 

Whether  clouds  rag’d  by  struggling  metals  rent, 

Or  struggling  clouds  in  Roman  metals  pent : 

But,  0  my  Muse,  the  whole  adventure  tell, 

As  ev’ry  accident  in  order  fell. 

Tall  groves  of  trees  the  Hadrian  tower  surround, 
Fictitious  trees  with  paper  garlands  crown’d. 

These  know  no  spring,  but  when  their  bodies  sprout 
In  fire,  and  shoot  their  gilded  blossoms  out; 

When  blazing  leaves  appear  above  their  head, 

And  into  branching  flames  their  bodies  spread. 

While  real  thunder  splits  the  firmament, 

And  heav’n’s  whole  roof  in  one  vast  cleft  is  rent, 

The  three-forked  tongue  amidst  the  rupture  lolls, 

Then  drops,  and  on  the  airy  turret  falls. 

The  trees  now  kindle,  and  the  garland  burns, 

And  thousand  thunderbolts  for  one  returns : 

Brigades  of  burning  arches  upward  fly, 

Bright  spears  and  shining  spearmen  mount  on  high, 
Flash  in  the  clouds,  and  glitter  in  the  sky. 

A  seven-fold  shield  of  spheres  doth  hcav’n  defend, 

And  back  again  the  blunted  weapons  send; 
Unwillingly  they  fall,  and  dropping  down. 

Pour  out  their  souls,  their  sulph’rous  souls,  and  groan. 

With  joy,  great  Sir,  we  view’d  this  pompous  show, 
While  Heav’n,  that  sat  spectator  still  till  now, 

Itself  turn’d  actor,  proud  to  pleasure  you : 

And  so  ’tis  fit,  when  Leo’s  fires  appear, 

That  Heav’n.  itself  should  turn  an  engineer, 

That  Heav’n  itself  should  all  its  wonders  show, 

And  orbs  above  consent  with  orbs  below. 


No.  618.]  WEDNESDAY,  NOV.  10,  1714. 

- Neque  enim  concludere  versum 

Dixeris  esse  satis ;  neque  si  quis  scribat,  uti  nos 
Sermoni  propiora,  putes  hunc  esse  poetam. 

Hor.  1  Sat.  iv.  40. 

’Tis  not  enough  the  measur’d  feet  to  close : 

Nor  will  you  give  a  poet’s  name  to  those 
Whose  humble  verse,  like  mine,  approaches  prose. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“You  having,  in  your  two  last  Spectators, 
given  the  town  a  couple  of  remarkable  letters 
in  very  different  styles,  I  take  this  opportunity  to 


*  This  copy  of  verses  is  a  translation  from  the  Latin  in 
Strada’s  Prolusiones  Academicse,  etc.,  and  an  imitation  origi¬ 
nally  of  the  style  and  manner  of  Camillo  Querno,  surnamed 
the  Arch-poet.  His  character  and  his  writings  were  equally 
singular ;  .he  was  poet  and  buffoon  to  Leo  X,  and  the  common 
butt  of  that  facetious  pontiff  and  his  courtiers.  See  Stradae 
Prolusiones,  Oxon  1745,  p.  244;  and  Bayle’s  Dictionary,  art. 
Leo  X. 


offer  to  you  some  remarks  upon  the  epistolary 
way  of  writing  in  verse.  This  is  a  species  of 
poetry  by  itself;  and  has  not  so  much  as  been 
hinted  at  in  any  of  the  Arts  of  Poetry  that  have 
ever  fallen  into  ray  hands,  neither  has  it  in  any 
age,  or  any  nation,  been  so  much  cultivated  as 
the  other  several  kinds  of  poesy.  A  man  of 
genius  may,  if  he  pleases,  write  letters  in  verse 
upon  all  manner  of  subjects  that  are  capable  of 
being  embellished  with  wit  and  language,  and 
may  render  them  new  and  agreeable  by  giving 
the  proper  turn  to  them.  But,  in  speaking  at 
present  of  epistolary  poetry,  I  would  be  under¬ 
stood  to  mean  only  such  writings  in  this  kind  as 
have  been  in  use  among  the  ancients,  and  have 
been  copied  from  them  by  some  moderns.  These 
may  be  reduced  into  two  classes:  in  the  one  I 
shall  range  love-letters,  letters  of  friendship,  and 
letters  upon  mournful  occasions:  in  the  other  I 
shall  place  such  epistles  in  verse  as  may  properly 
be  called  familiar,  critical,  and  moral;  to  which 
may  be  added  letters  of  mirth  and  humor.  Ovid 
for  the  first,  and  Horace  for  the  latter,  are  the  best 
originals  we  have  left. 

“He  that  is  ambitious  of  succeeding  in  the 
Ovidian  way,  should  first  examine  his  heart  well, 
and  feel  whether  his  passions  (especially  those  of 
the  gentler  kind)  play  easy;  since  it  is  not  his 
wit,  but  the  delicacy  and  tenderness  of  his  senti¬ 
ments,  that  will  affect  his  readers.  His  versifica¬ 
tion  likewise  should  be  soft,  and  all  his  numbers 
flowing  and  querulous. 

“  The  qualifications  requisite  for  writing  epis¬ 
tles,  after  the  model  given  us  by  Horace,  are  of  a 
quite  different  nature.  He  that  would  excel  in 
this  kind  must  have  a  good  fund  of  strong  mas¬ 
culine  sense:  to  this  there  must  be  joined  a  thor¬ 
ough  knowledge  of  mankind,  together  with  an 
insight  into  the  business  and  the  prevailing  hu¬ 
mors  of  the  age.  Our  author  must  have  his  mind 
well-seasoned  with  the  finest  precepts  of  morality, 
and  be  filled  with  nice  reflections  upon  the  bright 
and  the  dark  sides  of  human  life;  he  must  be  a 
master  of  refined  raillery,  and  understand  the 
delicacies  as  well  as  the  absurdities  of  conversa¬ 
tion.  He  must  have  a  lively  turn  of  wit,  with  an 
easy  and  concise  manner  of  expression;  every¬ 
thing  he  says  must  be  in  a  free  and  disengaged 
manner.  He  must  be  guilty  of  nothing  that  be¬ 
trays  the  air  of  a  recluse,  but  appear  a  man  of  the 
world  throughout.  His  illustrations,  his  compari¬ 
sons,  and  the  greatest  parts  of  his  images,  must 
be  drawn  from  common  life.  Strokes  of  satire 
and  criticism,  as  well  as  panegyric,  judiciously 
thrown  in  (and  as  it  were  by-the-bye),  give  a 
wonderful  life  and  ornament  to  compositions  of 
this  kind.  But  let  our  poet,  while  he  writes 
epistles,  though  never  so  familiar,  still  remember 
that  he  writes  in  verse,  and  must  for  that  reason 
have  a  more  than  ordinary  care  not  to  fall  into 
prose,  and  a  vulgar  diction,  excepting  where  the 
nature  and  humor  of  the  thing  do  necessarily  re¬ 
quire  it.  In  this  point  Horace  has  been  thought 
by  some  critics  to  be  sometimes  careless,  as  well 
as  too  negligent  of  his  versification;  of  which  he 
seems  to  have  been  sensible  himself. 

“  All  I  have  to  add  is,  that  both  these  manners 
of  writing  may  be  made  as  entertaining,  in  their 
way,  as  any  other  species  of  poetry,  if  undertaken 
by  persons  duly  qualified;  and  the  latter  sort  may 
be  managed  so  as  to  become  in  a  peculiar  manner 
instructive.  “  I  am,”  etc. 

I  shall  add  an  observation  or  two  to  the  remarks 
of  my  ingenious  correspondent;  and,  in  the  first 
place,  take  notice,  that  subjects  of  the  most  sub¬ 
lime  nature  are  often  treated  in  the  epistolary  way 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


718 

with  advantage,  as  in  the  famous  epistle  of  Horace  | 
to  Augustus.  The  poet  surprises  us  with  his  pomp, 
and  seems  rather  betrayed  into  his  subject  than  to 
have  aimed  at  it  by  design.  He  appears,  like  tlxe 
visit  of  a  king  incognito,  with  a  mixture  of  fa¬ 
miliarity  and  grandeur.  In  works  of  this  kind, 
when  the  dignity  of  the  subject  hurries  the  poet 
into  descriptions  and  sentiments  seemingly  un¬ 
premeditated,  by  a  sort  of  inspiration,  it  is  usual 
for  him  to  recollect  himself,  and  fall  back  grace¬ 
fully  into  the  natural  style  of  a  letter. 

I  might  here  mention  an  epistolary  poem,  just 
published  by  Mr.  Eusden,  on  the  king’s  accession 
to  the  throne;  wherein,  among  many  other  noble 
and  beautiful  strokes  of  poetry,  his  reader  may 
see  this  rule  very  happily  observed. 


Ho.  619.]  FRIDAY,  NOVEMBER  12,  1714. 

- dura 

Exerce  imperia,  et  ramos  compesce  fiuentes. 

Virg.  Georg,  ii.  369. 

- Exert  a  rigorous  sway. 

And  lop  the  too  luxuriant  boughs  away. 

I  have  often  thought  that  if  the  several  letters 
which  are  written  to  me  under  the  character  of 
the  Spectator,  and  which  I  have  not  made  use  of, 
were  published  in  a  volume,  they  would  not  be 
an  unentertaining  collection.  The  variety  of  the 
subjects,  styles,  sentiments,  and  informations, 
■which  are  transmitted  to  me,  would  lead  a  very 
curious,  or  very  idle,  reader,  insensibly  along 
through  a  great  many  pages.  I  know  some  au¬ 
thors  who  would  pick  up  a  secret  history  out  of 
such  materials,  and  make  a  bookseller  an  aider- 
man  by  the  copy.  I  shall  therefore  carefully  pre¬ 
serve  the  original  papers  in  a  room  set  apart  for 
that  purpose,  to  the  end  that  they  may  be  of 
service  to  posterity;  but  shall  at  present  content 
myself  with  owning  the  receipt  of  several  letters, 
lately  come  to  my  hands,  the  authors  whereof  are 
impatient  for  an  answer. 

Clarissa,  whose  letter  is  dated  from  Cornhill, 
desires  to  be  eased  in  some  scruples  relating  to  the 
skill  of  astrologers.  Referred  to  the  dumb  man 
for  an  answer. 

J.  C.  who  proposes  a  love  case,  as  he  calls  it,  to 
the  love  casuist,  is  hereby  desired  to  speak  of  it  to 
the  minister  of  the  parish;  it  being  a  case  of  con¬ 
science. 

The  poor  young  lady,  whose  letter  is  dated  Oc¬ 
tober  26,  who  complains  of  a  harsh  guardian  and 
an  unkind  brother,  can  only  have  my  good  wishes, 
unless  she  pleases  to  be  more  particular. 

The  petition  of  a  certain  gentleman,  whose  name 
I  have  forgot,  famous  for  renewing  the  curls  of 
decayed  periwigs,  is  referred  to  the  censor  of  small 
wares. 

The  remonstrance  of  T.  C.  against  the  profana¬ 
tion  of  the  Sabbath  by  barbers,  shoe-cleaners,  etc., 
had  better  be  offered  to  the  society  of  reformers. 

A  learned  and  laborious  treatise  upon  the  art  of 
fencing,  returned  to  the  author. 

To  the  gentleman  of  Oxford,  who  desires  me  to 
insert  a  copy  of  Latin  verses,  which  were  denied 
a  place  in  the  university  books.  Answer:  Non- 
umque  prematur  in  annum. 

To  my  learned  correspondent  who  writes  against 
Masters’  gowns,  and  poke  sleeves,  with  a  word  in 
defense  of  large  scarfs.  Answer:  I  resolve  not  to 
raise  animosities  among  the  clergy. 

To  the  lady  who  writes  with  rage  against  one 
of  her  own  sex,  upon  the  account  of  party  warmth. 
Answer:  Is  not  the  lady  she  writes  against  reck¬ 
oned  handsome  ? 


I  desire  Tom  Truelove  (who  sends  me  a  sonnet 
upon  his  mistress,  with  a  desire  to  print  it  imme¬ 
diately)  to  consider  that  it  is  long  since  I  was  in 
love. 

I  shall  answer  a  very  profound  letter  from  my 
old  friend  the  upholsterer,  who  is  still  inquisitive 
whether  the  king  of  Sweden  be  living  or  dead, 
by  whispering  him  in  the  ear,  that  I  believe  he  is 
alive. 

Let  Mr.  Dappenvit  consider,  What  is  that  long 
story  of  the  cuckoldom  to  me  ? 

At  the  earnest  desire  of  Monimia’s  lover,  who 
declares  himself  very  penitent,  he  i9  recorded  in 
my  paper  by  the  name  of  the  faithful  Castalio. 

The  petition  of  Charles  Cocksure,  which  the 
petitioner  styles  “very  reasonable,”  rejected. 

The  memorial  of  Philander,  which  he  desires 
may  be  dispatched  out  of  hand,  postponed. 

I  desire  S.  R.  not  to  repeat  the  expression  “un¬ 
der  the  sun,”  so  often  in  his  next  letter. 

The  letter  of  P.  S.,  who  desires  either  to  have 
it  printed  entire,  or  committed  to  the  flames;  not 
to  be  printed  entire. 


Ho.  620.]  MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  15,  1714. 

Hie  vir,  hie  est,  tibi  quem  promitti  saepius  audis. 

Verg.  ^n.  vi.  791. 

Behold  the  promis’d  chief! 

Having  lately  presented  my  reader  with  a  copy 
of  verses  full  of  the  false  sublime,  I  shall  here 
communicate  to  him  an  excellent  specimen  of  the 
true;  though  it  hath  not  been  yet  published,  the 
judicious  reader  will  readily  discern  it  to  be  the 
work  of  a  master;  and  if  he  hath  read  that  noble 
poem  on  the  prospect  of  peace,  he  will  not  be  at  a 
loss  to  guess  at  the  author: 

THE  ROYAL  PROGRESS. 

When  Brunswick  first  appeared,  each  honest  heart, 
Intent  on  verse,  disdained  the  rules  of  art ; 

Eor  him  the  songsters,  in  unmeasur’d  odes 
Debas’d  Alcides,  and  dethron’d  the  gods. 

In  golden  chains  the  kings  of  India  led, 

Or  rent  the  turban  from  the  sultan’s  head. 

One,  in  old  fables,  and  the  pagan’s  strain, 

With  nymphs  and  tritons,  wafts  him  o’er  the  main ; 
Another  draws  fierce  Lucifer  in  arms, 

And  fills  the  infernal  region  with  alarms ; 

A  third  awakes  some  druid  to  foretell 
Each  future  triumph  from  his  dreary  cell. 

Exploded  fancies !  that  in  vain  deceive, 

While  the  mind  nauseates  what  she  can’t  believe. 

My  Muse  th’  expected  hero  shall  pursue 
From  clime  to  clime,  and  keep  him  still  in  view ; 

His  shining  march  describe  in  faithful  lays, 

Content  to  paint  him,  nor  presume  to  praise ; 

Their  charms,  if  charms  they  have,  the  truth  supplies, 
And  from  the  theme  unlabor’d  beauties  rise. 

t 

By  longing  nations  fbr  the  throne  design’d, 

And  call’d  to  guard  the  rights  of  human  kind ; 

With  secret  grief  his  godlike  soul  repines, 

And  Britain’s  crown  with  joyless  luster  shines, 

While  pray’rs  and  tears  his  destin’d  progress  stay, 

And  crowds  of  mourners  choke  their  sovereign’s  way, 
Not  so  he  march’d  when  hostile  squadrons  stood 
In  scenes  of  death,  and  fir’d  his  generous  blood; 

When  his  hot  courser  paw’d  th’  Hungarian  plain, 

And  adverse  legions  stood  the  shock  in  vain. 

His  frontiers  pass’d,  the  Belgian  bounds  he  views, 

And  cross  the  level  fields  his  march  pursues; 

Here  pleas’d  the  land  of  freedom  to  survey, 

He  greatly  scorns  the  thirst  of  boundless  sway. 

O’er  the  thin  soil,  with  silent  joy,  he  spies 
Transplanted  woods  and  borrow’d  verdure  rise ; 

Where  ev’ry  meadow  won  with  toil  and  blood 
From  haughty  tyrants  and  the  raging  flood, 

With  fruits  and  flowers  the  careful  hind  supplies, 

And  clothes  the  marshes  in  a  rich  disguise. 

Such  wealth  for  frugal  hands  doth  Heav’n  decree, 

And  such  thy  gifts,  celestial  Liberty ! 

Through  stately  towns,  and  many  a  fertile  plain, 

The  pomp  advances  to  the  neighboring  main, 


719 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Whole  nations  crowd  around  with  joyful  cries, 

And  view  the  hero  with  insatiate  eyes. 

In  Haga’s  towers  he  waits  till  eastern  gales 
Propitious  rise  to  swell  the  British  sails. 

Hither  the  fame  of  England’s  monarch  brings 
The  vows  and  friendships  of  the  neighb’ring  kings ; 
Mature  in  wisdom,  his  extensive  mind 
Takes  in  the  blended  interest  of  mankind, 

The  world’s,  great  patriot.  Calm  thy  anxious  breast ; 
Secure  in  him,  0  Europe,  take  thy  rest ; 

Henceforth  thy  kingdom  shall  remain  confin’d 
By  rocks  or  streams,  the  mounds  which  Heav’n  design’d 
The  Alps  their  new-made  monarch  shall  restrain, 

Nor  shall  thy  hills,  Pyrene,  rise  in  vain. 

But  see,  to  Britain’s  isle  the  squadrons  stand, 

And  leave  the  sinking  towers  and  less’ning  land. 

The  royal  bark  bounds  o’er  the  floating  plain, 

Breaks  through  the  billows,  and  divides  the  main. 

0  er  the  vast  deep,  great  monarch,  dart  thine  eyes, 

A  wat’ry  prospect  bounded  by  the  skies  ; 

Ten  thousand  vessels,  from  ten  thousand  shores, 

Bring  gums  and  gold,  and  either  India’s  stores ; 

Behold  the  tributes  hast’ning  to  thy  throne, 

And  see  the  wide  horizon  all  thy  own. 

Still  is.it  thine;  tho’  now  the  cheerful  crew 
Hail  Albion’s  cliffs  jtist  whitening  to  the  view. 

Before  the  wind  with  swelling  sails  they  ride, 

Till  Thames  receives  them  in  his  opening  tide. 

The  monarch  hears  the  thund’ring  peals  around, 

From  trembling  woods  and  echoing  hills  rebound: 

Nor  misses  yet,  amid  the  deaf ’ning  train, 

The  roarings  of  the  hoarse  resounding  main. 

As  in  the  flood  he  sails,  from  either  side 
He  views  his  kingdom  in  its  rural  pride; 

A  various  scene  the  wide-spread  landscape  yields 
O’er  rich  inclosures  and  luxuriant  fields ; 

A  lowing  herd  each  fertile  pasture  fills, 

And  distant  flocks  stray  o’er  a  thousand  hills. 

Fair  Greenwich  hid  in  woods,  with  new  delight, 

(Shade  above  shade)  now  rises  to  the  sight: 

His  woods  ordain’d  to  visit  every  shore, 

And  guard  the  island  which  they  grac’d  before. 

The  sun  now  rolling  down  the  western  way, 

A  blaze  of  fires  renews  the  fading  day; 

Unnumber’d  barks  the  regal  barge  enfold, 

Bright’ning  the  twilight  with  its  beamy  gold; 

Less  thick  the  finny  shoals,  a  countless  fry, 

Before  the  whale  or  kingly  dolphin  fly; 

In  one  vast  shout  he  seeks  the  crowded  strand, 

And  in  a  peal  of  thunder  gains  the  land. 

Welcome,  great  stranger !  to  our  longing  eyes, 

Oh !  king  desired,  adopted  Albion  cries, 
lor  thee  the  East  breath’d  out  a  prosp’rous  breeze 
Bright  were  the  suns,  and  gently  swell’d  the  seas,’ 

Thy  presence  did  each  doubtfhl  heart  compose, 

And  factions  wondered  that  they  once  were  foes. 

That  joyful  day  they  lost  each  hostile  name, 

The  same  their  aspect,  and  their  voice  the  same. 

So  two  fair  twins,  whose  features  were  design’d 
At  one  soft  moment  in  the  mother’s  mind, 

Show  each  the  other  with  reflected  grace, 

And  the  same  beauties  bloom  in  either  face ! 

The  puzzled  strangers  which  is  which  inquire ; 

Delusion  grateful  to  the  smiling  sire. 

From  that*  fair  hill,  where  hoary  sages  boast 
To  name  the  stars,  and  count  the  heavenly  host. 

By  the  next  dawn  doth  great  Augusta  rise, 

Proud  town !  the  noblest  scene  beneath  the  skies. 

O’er  Thames  her  thousand  spires  their  luster  shed, 

And  a  vast  navy  hides  his  ample  bed - 

A  floating  forest !  From  the  distant  strand 
A  line  of  golden  cars  strikes  o’er  the  land ; 

Britannia’s  peers  in  pomp  and  rich  arry, 

Before  their  king,  triumphant  lead  the  way. 

Far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  the  gaudy  train, 

A  bright  procession,  shines  along  the  plain. 

So  haply  thro’  the  heav’n’s  wide  pathless  ways 
A  comet  draws  a  long-extended  blaze ; 

From  east  to  west  burns  through  th’  ethereal  frame 
And  half  heav’n’s  convex  glitters  with  the  flame.  ’ 

Now  to  the  regal  towers  securely  brought, 

He  plans  Britannia’s  glories  in  his  thought, 

Resumes  the  delegated  power  he  gave, 

Rewards  the  faithful,  and  restores  the  brave. 

Whom  shall  the  muse  from  out  the  shining  throng 


Select,  to  heighten  and  adorn  her  song  ? 

Tlieo,  Halifax.  To  thy  capacious  mind, 

0  man  approv’d,  is  Britain’s  wealth  consign’d. 

Her  coin  (while  Nassau  fought)  debas’d  and  rude, 
By  thee  in  beauty  and  in  truth  renew’d, 

An  arduous  work !  again  thy  charge  we  see, 

And  thy  own  care  once  more  returns  to  thee. 

0!  forni’d.in  every  scene  to  awe  and  please, 

Mix  wit  with  pomp,  and  dignity  with  ease, 

Tho’  called  to  shine  aloft,  thou  wilt  not  scorn 
To  smile  on  arts  thyself  did  once  adorn ; 

For  this  thy  name  succeeding  time  shall  praise, 
And  envy  less  thy  garter  than  thy  bays. 

The  muse,  if  fir’d  with  thy  enliv’ning  beams, 
Perhaps  shall  aim  at  more  exalted  themes, 

Record  our  monarch  in  a  nobler  strain, 

And  sing  the  op’ning  wonders  of  his  reign; 

Bright  Carolina’s  heavenly  beauties  trace, 

Her  valiant  consort,  and  his  blooming  race. 

A  train  of  kings  their  fruitful  love  supplies, 

A  glorious  scene  to  Albion’s  ravish’d  eyes ; 

Who  sees  by  Brunswick’s  hand  her  scepter  sway’d, 
And  through  his  line  from  age  to  age  convey’d. 


No.  621.]  WEDNESDAY,  NOV.  17,  1714. 

- — Postquam  se  lumine  puro 

Implevit,  stellasque  vagas  miratur,  et  astra 
Fixa  polis,  vidit  quanta  sub  nocte  jaceret 
Nostra  dies,  risitque  sui  ludibria—  Lucan,  ix.  11. 

Now  to  the  blest  abode,  with  wonder  fill’d, 

The  sun  and  moving  planets  he  beheld ; 

Then,  looking  down  on  the  sun’s  feeble  ray, 

Survey’d  our  dusky,  faint,  imperfect  day, 

And  under  what  a  cloud  of  night  we  lay. — Rowe. 

.  The  following  letter  having  in  it  some  observa¬ 
tions  out  of  the  common  road,  I  shall  make  it  the 
entertainment  of  this  day; 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  common  topics  against  the  pride  of  man, 
which  are  labored  by  florid  and  declamatory  wri¬ 
ters,  are  taken  from  the  baseness  of  his  original, 
the  imperfections  of  his  nature,  or  the  short  dura¬ 
tion  of  those  goods  in  which  he  makes  his  boast. 
Though  it  be  true  that  we  can  have  nothing  in  us 
that  ought  to  raise  our  vanity,  yet  a  consciousness 
of  our  own  merit  may  be  sometimes  laudable.  The 
folly  therefore  lies  here:  we  are  apt  to  pride 
ourselves  in  worthless,  or,  perhaps,  shameful 
things;  and  on  the  other  hand  count  that  disgrace¬ 
ful  which  is  our  truest  glory. 

“Hence  it  is,  that  the  lovers  of  praise  take 
wrong  measures  to  attain  it.  Would  a  vain  man 
consult  his  own  heart,  he  would  find  that  if  others 
knew  his  weaknesses  as  well  as  he  himself  doth, 
he  could  not  have  the  impudence  to  expect  the 
public  esteem.  Pride  therefore  flows  from  want 
of  reflection  and  ignorance  of  ourselves.  Know¬ 
ledge  and  humility  come  upon  us  together. 

“  The  proper  way  to  make  an  estimate  of  our¬ 
selves,  is  to  consider  seriously  what  it  is  we  value 
or  despise  in  others.  A  man  who  boasts  of  the 
goods  of  fortune,  a  gay  dress,  or  a  new  title,  is 
generally  the  mark  of  ridicule.  We  ought  there¬ 
fore  not  to  admire  in  ourselves  what  we  are  so 
ready  to  laugh  at  in  other  men. 

“Much  less  can  we  with  reason  pride  ourselves 
in  those  things,  which  at  some  time  of  our  life  we 
;  shall  certainly  despise.  And  yet,  if  we  will  give 
j  ourselves  the  trouble  of  looking  backward  and 
I  forward  on  the  several  changes  which  we  have 
!  already  undergone,  and  hereafter  must  try,  we 
!  shall  find  that  the  greater  degrees  of  our  know- 
j  ledge  and  wisdom  serve  only  to  show  us  our  own 
,  imperfections. 

|  “  As  we  rise  from  childhood  to  youth,  we  look 

i  with  contempt  on  the  toys  and  trifles  which  our 
hearts  have  hitherto  been  set  upon.  When  we  ad¬ 
vance  to  manhood,  we  are  held  wise,  in  propor- 
;  tion  to  our  shame  and  regret  for  the  rashness  and 


*  Flamstead-kouse. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


720 

extravagance  of  youth.  Old  age  fills  us  with  mor¬ 
tifying  reflections  upon  a  life  misspent  in  the  pur¬ 
suit  of  anxious  wealth,  or  uncertain  honor.  Agree¬ 
able  to  this  gradation  of  thought  in  this  life,  it 
may  be  reasonably  supposed  that,  in  a  future  state, 
the  wisdom,  the  experience,  and  the  maxims  of  old 
age,  will  be  looked  upon  by  a  separate  spirit  in 
much  the  same  light  as  an  ancient  man  now  sees 
the  little  follies  and  toyings  of  infants.  The 
pomps,  the  honors,  the  policies,  and  arts  of  mortal 
men,  will  be  thought  as  trifling  as  hobby-horses, 
mock  battles,  or  any  other  sports  that  now  em¬ 
ploy  all  the  cunning,  and  strength,  and  ambition 
of  rational  beings,  from  four  years  old  to  nine  or 
ten. 

“  If  the  notion  of  a  gradual  rise  in  beings  from 
the  meanest  to  the  Most  High  be  not  a  vain  imag¬ 
ination,  it  is  not  improbable  that  an  angel  looks 
down  upon  a  man  as  a  man  doth  upon  a  creature 
which  approaches  the  nearest  to  the  rational  na¬ 
ture.  By  the  same  rule,  if  I  may  indulge  my 
fancy  in  this  particular,  a  superior  brute  looks 
with  a  kind  of  pride  on  one  of  an  inferior  species. 
If  they  could  reflect,  we  might  imagine,  from  the 
gestures  of  some  of  them,  that  they  think  them¬ 
selves  the  sovereigns  of  the  world,  and  that  all 
things  were  made  for  them.  Such  a  thought  would 
not  be  more  absurd  in  brute  creatures  than  one 
which  men  are  apt  to  entertain,  namely,  that  all 
the  stars  in  the  firmament  were  created  only  to 
please  their  eyes  and  amuse  their  imaginations. 
Mr.  Dryden,  in  his  fable  of  the  Cock  and  the  Fox, 
makes  a  speech  for  his  hero,  the  cock,  which  is  a 
pretty  instance  for  this  purpose. 

Then  turning,  said  to  Partlet,  ‘  See,  my  dear, 

How  lavish  nature  hath  adorn’d  the  year ; 

How  the  pale  primrose  and  the  violet  spring, 

And  birds  essay  their  throats,  disus’d  to  sing ; 

All  these  are  ours,  and  I  with  pleasure  see 
Man  strutting  on  two  legs,  and  aping  me.’ 

“What 'I  would  observe  from  the  whole  is  this, 
that  we  ought  to  value  ourselves  upon  those  things 
only  which  superior  beings  think  valuable,  since 
that  is  the  only  way  for  us  not  to  sink  in  our  own 
esteem  hereafter.” 


No.  622.]  FRIDAY,  NOVEMBER  19,  1714. 

- Fallentis  semita  vitae. — IIor.  1.  Ep.  xviii.  103. 

• - A  safe  private  quiet,  which  betrays 

Itself  to  ease,  and  cheats  away  the  days. — Pooley. 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“In  a  former  speculation  you  have  observed, 
that  true  greatness  does  not  consist  in  that  pomp 
and  noise  wherein  the  generality  of  mankind  are 
apt  to  place  it.  You  have  there  taken  notice  that 
virtue  in  obscurity  often  appears  more  illustrious 
in  the  eye  of  superior  beings,  than  all  that  passes 
for  grandeur  and  magnificence  among  men. 

“  When  we  look  back  upon  the  history  of  those 
who  have  borne  the  part  of  kings,  statesmen,  or 
commanders,  they  appear  to  us  stripped  of  those 
outside  ornaments  that  dazzle  their  cotemporaries; 
and  we  regard  their  persons  as  great  or  little  in 
proportion  to  the  eminence  of  their  virtues  or 
vices.  The  wise  sayings,  generous  sentiments,  or 
disinterested  conduct  of  a  philosopher  under  mean 
circumstances  of  life,  set  him  higher  in  our  esteem 
than  the  mighty  potentates  of  the  earth,  when  we 
view  them  both  through  the  long  prospect  of  many 
ages.  Were  the  memoirs  of  an  obscure  man,  who 
lived  up  to  the  dignity  of  his  nature,  and  accord¬ 
ing  to  the  rules  of  virtue,  to  be  laid  before  us,  we 
should  find  nothing  in  such  a  character  which 
might  not  set  him  on  a  level  with  men  of  the  high¬ 


est  stations.  The  following  extract  out  of  the  pri  ¬ 
vate  papers  of  an  honest  country  gentleman  will 
set  this  matter  in  a  clear  light.  Your  reader  will, 
perhaps,  conceive  a  greater  idea  of  him  from  these 
actions  done  in  secret,  and  without  a  witness,  than 
of  those  which  have  drawn  upon  them  the  admira¬ 
tion  of  multitudes. 

MEMOIRS. 

“  In  my  twenty-second  year  I  found  a  violent 
affection  for  my  cousin  Charles’s  wife  growing 
upon  me,  wherein  I  was  in  danger  of  succeeding, 
if  I  had  not  upon  that  account  begun  my  travels 
into  foreign  countries. 

“  A  little  after  my  return  into  England,  at  a  pri¬ 
vate  meeting  with  my  uncle  Francis,  I  refused  the 
offer  of  his  estate,  and  prevailed  upon  him  not  to 
disinherit  his  son  Ned. 

“  Mem.  Never  to  tell  this  to  Ned,  lest  he  should 
think  hardly  of  his  deceased  father :  though  he 
continues  to  speak  ill  of  me  for  that  very  reason. 

“  Prevented  a  scandalous  lawsuit  betwixt  my 
nephew  Harry  and  his  mother,  by  allowing  her 
underhand,  out  of  my  own  pocket,  so  much  money 
yearly  as  the  dispute  was  about. 

“  Procured  a  benefice  for  a  young  divine,  who 
is  sister’s  son  to  the  good  man  who  was  my  tutor, 
and  hath  been  dead  twenty  years. 

“Gave  ten  pounds  to  poor  Mrs. - ,  my  friend 

H - ’s  widow. 

“  Mem.  To  retrench  one  dish  at  my  table,  until 
I  have  fetched  it  up  again. 

“  Mem.  To  repair  my  house  and  finish  my  gar¬ 
dens,  in  order  to  employ  poor  people  after  harvest¬ 
time. 

“  Ordered  John  to  let  out  goodman  D - ’s 

sheep  that  were  pounded,  by  night ;  but  not  to  let 
his  fellow-servants  know  it. 

“  Prevailed  upon  M.  T.  Esq.,  not  to  take  the 
law  of  the  farmer’s  son  for  shooting  a  partridge, 
and  to  give  him  his  gun  again. 

“  Paid  the  apothecary  for  curing  an  old  woman 
that  confessed  herself  a  witch. 

“  Gave  away  my  favorite  dog,  for  biting  a  beg- 
gar. 

“  Made  the  minister  of  the  parish  and  a  whig 
justice  of  one  mind,  by  putting  them  upon  ex¬ 
plaining  their  notions  to  one  another. 

“Mem.  To  turn  off  Peter  for  shooting  a  doe 
while  she  was  eating  acorns  out  of  his  hand. 

“  When  my  neighbor  John,  who  hath  often  in¬ 
jured  me,  comes  to  make  his  request  to-morrow  : 

“Mem.  I  have  forgiven  him. 

“Laid  up  my  chariot,  and  sold  my  horses,  to 
relieve  the  poor  in  a  scarcity  of  corn. 

“  In  the  same  year  remitted  to  my  tenants  a  fifth 
part  of  their  rents. 

“  As  I  was  airing  to-day,  I  fell  into  a  thought 
that  warmed  my  heart,  and  shall,  I  hope,  be  the 
better  for  it  as  long  as  I  live. 

“  Mem.  To  charge  my  son  in  private  to  erect  no 
monument  for  me ;  but  not  to  put  this  in  my  last 
will.” 


No.  623.]  MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  22,  1714. 

Sod  mihi  Yel  tellus  optem  prius  ima  dehiscat ; 

Yel  pater  omnipotens  adigat  me  fulmine  ad  umbras, 
Pallentes  umbras  Erebi,  noctemque  profundam, 

Ante,  pudor,  quam  te  violem,  aut  tua  jura  resolvam. 
Ille  meos,  primus  qui  me  sibi  junxit,  amores 
Abstulit ;  Die  habeat  secum,  servetque  sepulcro. 

Yirg.  iEn.  iv.  24. 

But  first  let  yawning  earth  a  passage  rend, 

And  let  me  thro’  the  dark  abyss  descend : 

First  let  avenging  Jove,  with  flames  from  high, 

Drive  down  this  body  to  the  nether  sky, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


Condemn’d  with  ghosts  in  endless  night  to  lie ; 

Before  1  break  the  plighted  faith  I  gave ; 

No :  he  who  had  my  vows  shall  ever  have ; 

For  whom  I  lov’d  on  earth,  I  worship  in  the  grave. 

Drtdkn. 

I  am  obliged  to  my  friend,  the  love-casuist,  for 
the  following  curious  piece  of  antiquity,  which  I 
shall  communicate  to  the  public  in  his  own  words  : 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  You  may  remember  that  I  lately  transmitted 
to  you  an  account  of  an  ancient  custom  in  the 
manors  of  East  and  West  Enborne,  in  the  county 
of  Berks,  and  elsewhere.  ‘  If  a  customary  tenant 
die,  the  widow  shall  have  what  the  law  calls  her 
free  bench,  in  all  his  copyhold  lands,  dum  sola  et 
casta  fuerit,  that  is,  while  she  lives  single  and 
chaste;  but  if  she  commit  incontinency  she  forfeits 
her  estate;  yet  if  she  will  come  into  the  court  riding 
backward  upon  a  black  ram,  with  his  tail  in  her 
hand,  and  say  the  words  following,  the  steward 
is  bound  by  the  custom  to  readmit  her  to  her  free- 
bench : — 

“  ‘  Here  I  am, 

Riding  upon  a  black  ram, 

Like  a  whore  as  I  am ; 

And  for  my  crincum,  crancum 
Have  lost  my  bincum  bancum ; 

And  for  my  tail’s  game 
Have  done  this  worldly  shame ; 

Therefore  I  pray  you,  Mr.  Steward,  let  me  have  my 
land  again.’ 

“  After  having  informed  you  that  my  Lord  Coke 
observes,  that  this  is  the  most  frail  and  slippery 
tenure  of  any  in  England,  I  shall  tell  you,  since 
the  writing  that  letter,  I  have,  according  to  my 
promise,  been  of  great  pains  in  searching  out  the 
records  of  the  black  ram;  and  have  at  last  met 
with  the  proceedings  of  the  court-baron,  held  in 
that  behalf,  for  the  space  of  a  whole  day.  The 
record  saith,  that  a  strict  inquisition  having  been 
made  into  the  right  of  the  tenants  to  their  several 
estates,  by  a  crafty  old  steward,  he  found  that 
many  of  the  lands  of  the  manor  were,  by  default 
of  the  several  widows,  forfeited  to  the  lord,  and 
accordingly  would  have  entered  on  the  premises; 
upon  whicn  the  good  women  demanded  the  ‘bene¬ 
fit  of  the  ram.5  The  steward,  after  having  pe¬ 
rused  their  several  pleas,  adjourned  the  court  to 
Barnaby  bright,*  that  they  might  have  day  enough 
before  them. 

“  The  court  being  set,  and  filled  with  a  great 
concourse  of  people,  who  came  from  all  parts  to 
see  the  solemnity  :  the  first  who  entered  was  the 
widow  Frontly,  who  had  made  her  appearance  in 
the  last  year’s  cavalcade.  The  register  observes 
that  finding  it  an  easy  pad-ram,  and  foreseeing  she 
might  have  further  occasion  for  it,  she  purchased 
it  of  the  steward. 

“  Mrs.  Sarah  Dainty,  relict  of  Mr.  John  Dainty, 
who  was  the  greatest  prude  of  the  parish,  came 
next  in  the  procession.  She  at  first  made  some 
difficulty  of  taking  the  tail  in  her  hand;  and  was 
observed,  in  pronouncing  the  form  of  penance,  to 
soften  the  two  most  emphatical  words  into  clincum 
clancum;  but  the  steward  took  care  to  make  her 
speak  plain  English  before  he  would  let  her  have 
her  land  again. 

“  The  third  widow  that  was  brought  to  this 
'worldly  shame,  being  mounted  upon  a  vicious 
ram,  had  the  misfortune  to  be  thrown  by  him  : 
upon  which  she  hoped  to  be  excused  from  going 
through  the  rest  of  the  ceremony ;  but  the  steward 
being  well  versed  in  the  law,  observed  very  wisely 
upon  this  occasion,  that  the  breaking  of  a  rope 
does  not  hinder  the  execution  of  the  criminal. 


*  Then  the  eleventh,  now  the  twenty-second  of  June,  being 
one  of  the  longest  days  in  the  year. 

46 


721 


“  The  fourth  lady  upon  record,  was  the  widow 
Ogle,  a  famous  coquette,  who  had  kept  half-a-score 
young  fellows  off  and  on  for  the  space  of  two 
years  :  but  having  been  more  kind  to  her  carter 
John,  she  was  introduced  with  the  huzzas  of  all 
her  lovers  about  her. 

“  Mrs.  Sable  appearing  in  her  weeds,  which  were 
very  new  and  fresh,  and  of  the  same  color  with 
her  whimsical  palfrey,  made  a  very  decent  figure 
in  the  solemnity. 

“  Another,  who  had  been  summoned  to  make 
her  appearance,  was  excused  by  the  steward,  as 
well  knowing  in  his  heart  that  the  good  ’squire 
himself  had  qualified  her  for  the  ram. 

“Mrs.  Quick,  having  nothing  to  object  against 
the  indictment,  pleaded  her  belly.  But  it  was  re¬ 
membered  that  she  made  the  same  excuse  the  year 
before.  Upon  which  the  steward  observed,  that 
she  might  so  contrive  it,  as  never  to  do  the  service 
of  the  manor. 

“  The  widow  Fidget  being  cited  into  court,  in¬ 
sisted  that  she  had  done  no  more  since  the  death 
of  her  husband  than  what  she  used  to  do  in  his 
lifetime;  and  withal  desired  Mr.  Steward  to  con¬ 
sider  his  own  wife’s  case  if  he  should  chance  to 
die  before  her. 

“  The  next  in  order,  was  a  dowager  of  a  very 
corpulent  make,  who  would  have  been  excused  as 
not  finding  any  ram  that  was  able  to  carry  her; 
upon  which  the  steward  commuted  her  punish¬ 
ment,  and  ordered  her  to  make  her  entry  upon  a 
black  ox. 

“  The  widow  Maskwell,  a  woman  who  had  long 
lived  with  a  most  unblemished  character,  having 
turned  off  her  old  chambermaid  in  a  pet,  was  by 
that  revengeful  creature  brought  in  upon  the  black 
ram  nine  times  the  same  day. 

“  Several  widows  of  the  neighborhood,  being 
brought  upon  their  trial,  they  showed  that  they 
did  not  hold  of  the  manor,  and  were  discharged 
accordingly. 

“  A  pretty  young  creature  who  closed  the  pro¬ 
cession,  came  ambling  in,  with  so  bewitching  an 
air,  that  the  steward  was  observed  to  cast  a  sheep’s 
eye  upon  her,  and  married  her  within  a  month 
after  the  death  of  his  wife. 

“  N.  B.  Mrs.  Touchwood  appeared  according  to 
summons,  but  had  nothing  laid  to  her  charge  ; 
having  lived  irreproachably  since  the  decease  of 
her  husband,  who  left  her  a  widow  in  the  sixty- 
ninth  year  of  her  age. 

“  I  am,  Sir,”  etc. 


No.  624.]  WEDNESDAY,  NOY.  24,  1714. 

Audire,  atque  togam  jubeo  componere,  quisquis 
Ambitione  mala,  aut  argenti  pallet  amove ; 

Quisquis  luxuria - Hon.  2  Sat.  iii.  77. 

Sit  still,  and  hear,  these  whom  proud  thoughts  do  swell, 
Those  that  look  pale  by  loving  coin  too  well ; 

Whom  luxury  corrupts. —  Creech. 


Mankind  is  divided  into  two  parts,  the  busy  and 
the  idle.  The  busy  world  may  be  divided  into 
the  virtuous  and  the  vicious.  The  vicious  again 
into  the  covetous,  the  ambitious,  and  the  sensual. 
The  idle  part  of  mankind  are  in  a  state  inferior  to 
any  one  of  these.  All  the  other  are  engaged  in 
the  pursuit  of  happiness,  though  often  misplaced, 
and  are  therefore  more  likely  to  be  attentive  to 
such  means  as  shall  be  proposed  to  them  for  that 
end.  The  idle,  who  are  neither  wise  for  this 
world  nor  the  next  are  emphatically  called  by 
Doctor  Tillotson,  “fools  at  large.”  They  propose 
to  themselves  no  end,  but  run  adrift  with  every 
wind.  Advice,  therefore,  would  be  but  thrown 
away  upon  them,  since  they  would  scarce  take  the 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


722 


pains  to  read  it.  I  shall  not  fatigue  any  of  this 
worthless  tribe  with  a  long  harangue  ;  but  will 
leave  them  with  this  short  saying  of  Plato,  that 
“  labor  is  preferable  to  idleness,  as  brightness  to 
rust.” 

The  pursuits  of  the  active  part  of  mankind  are 
either  in  the  paths  of  religion  and  virtue;  or,  on 
the  other  hand,  in  the  roads  to  wealth,  honors,  or 
pleasure.  I  shall,  therefore,  compare  the  pursuits 
of  avarice,  ambition,  and  sensual  delight,  with 
their  opposite  virtues;  and  shall  consider  which 
of  these  principles  engages  men  in  a  course  of  the 
greatest  labor,  suffering,  and  assiduity.  Most  men 
in  their  cool  reasonings  are  willing  to  allow  that 
a  course  of  virtue  will  in  the  end  be  rewarded  the 
most  amply;  but  represent  the  way  to  it  as  rugged 
and  narrow.  If,  therefore,  it  can  be  made  appear, 
that  men  struggle  through  as  many  troubles  to  be 
miserable,  as  they  do  to  be  happy,  my  readers 
may,  perhaps,  be  persuaded  to  be  good  when  they 
find  they  shall  lose  nothing  by  it. 

First,  for  avarice.  The  miser  is  more  indus¬ 
trious  than  the  saint:  the  pains  of  getting,  the 
fears  of  losing,  and  the  inability  of  enjoying  his 
wealth,  have  been  the  mark  of  satire  in  all  ages. 
Were  his  repentance  upon  his  neglect  of  a  good 
bargain,  his  sorrow  for  being  overreached,  his 
hope  of  improving  a  sum,  and  his  fear  of  falling 
into  want,  directed  to  their  proper  objects,  they 
would  make  so  many  different  Christian  graces 
and  virtues.  He  may  apply  to  himself  a  great 
part  of  St.  Paul’s  catalogue  of  sufferings.  “In 
journeyings  often;  in  perils  of  waters,  in  perils 
of  robbers,  in  perils  among  false  brethren.  In 
weariness  and  painfulness,  in  watchings  often,  in 
hunger  and  thirst,  in  fastings  often.”  At  how 
much  less  expense  might  he  “  lay  up  to  himself 
treasures  in  heaven  !”  Or,  if  I  may  in  this  place 
be  allowed  to  add  the  saying  of  a  great  philoso¬ 
pher,  he  may  “provide  such  possessions  as  fear 
neither  arms,  nor  men,  nor  Jove  himself.” 

In  the  second  place,  if  we  look  upon  the  toils  of 
ambition  in  the  same  light  as  we  have  considered 
those  of  avarice,  we  shall  readily  own  that  far  less 
trouble  is  requisite  to  gain  lasting  glory  than  the 
power  and  reputation  of  a  few  years;  or,  in  other 
words,  we  may  with  more  ease  deserve  honor  than 
obtain  it.  The  ambitious  man  should  remember 
Cardinal  Wolsey’s  complaint,  “Had  I  served  God 
with  the  same  application  wherewith  I  served  my 
king,  he  would  not  have  forsaken  me  in  my  old 
age.”  The  cardinal  here  softens  his  ambition  by 
the  specious  pretense  of  “serving  his  king;” 
whereas  his  words,  in  the  proper  construction, 
imply,  that,  if  instead  of  being  acted*  by  ambi¬ 
tion,  he  had  been  acted*  by  religion,  he  should 
have  now  felt  the  comforts  of  it,  when  the  whole 
world  turned  its  back  upon  him. 

Thirdly,  let  us  compare  the  pains  of  the  sensual 
with  those  of  the  virtuous,  and  see  which  are 
heavier  in  the  balance.  It  may  seem  strange,  at 
the  first  view,  that  the  men  of  pleasure  should  be 
advised  to  change  their  course,  because  they  lead 
a  painful  life.  Yet  when  we  see  them  so  active 
and  vigilant  in  quest  of  delight;  under  so  many 
disquiets,  and  the  sport  of  such  various  passions; 
let  them  answer,  as  they  can,  if  the  pains  they  un¬ 
dergo  do  not  outweigh  their  enjoyments.  The  in¬ 
fidelities  on  the  one  part  between  the  two  sexes, 
and  the  caprices  on  the  other,  the  debasement  of 
reason,  the  pangs  of  expectation,  the  disappoint¬ 
ments  in  possession,  the  stings  of  remorse,  the 
vanities  and  vexations  attending  even  the  most 
refined  delights  that  make  up  this  business  of 
life,  render  it  so  silly  and  uncomfortable,  that  no 


man  is  thought  wise  until  he  hath  got  over  it,  oi 
happy,  but  in  proportion  as  he  hath  cleared  him¬ 
self  from  it. 

The  sum  of  all  is  this.  Man  is  made  an  active 
being.  Whether  he  walks  in  the  paths  of  virtue 
or  vice,  he  is  sure  to  meet  with  many  difficulties 
to  prove  his  patience  and  excite  his  industiy. 
The  same  if  not  greater  labor  is  required  in  the 
service  of  vice  and  folly  as  of  virtue  and  wisdom; 
and  he  hath  this  easy  choice  left  him,  whether, 
with  the  strength  he  is  master  of,  he  will  purchase 
happiness  or  repentance. 


No.  625.]  FRIDAY,  NOVEMBER  26, 1714. 

- Amores 

De  tenero  meditatur  ungui. — Hor.  3  Od.  vi.  23. 

Love,  from  her  tender  years,  her  thoughts  employ’d. 

The  love-casuist  hath  referred  to  me  the  follow¬ 
ing  letter  of  queries,  with  his  answers  to  each 
question,  for  my  approbation.  I  have  accord¬ 
ingly  considered  the  several  matters  therein  con¬ 
tained,  and  hereby  confirm  and  ratify  his  answers, 
and  require  the  gentle  querist  to  conform  herself 
thereunto. 

“Sir, 

“I  was  thirteen  the  9th  of  November  last,  and 
must  now  begin  to  think  of  settling  myself  in  the 
world:  and  so  I  would  humbly  beg  your  advice, 
what  must  I  do  with  Mr.  Fondle,  who  makes  his 
addresses  to  me.  He  is  a  very  pretty  man,  and 
hath  the  blackest  eyes  and  whitest  teeth  you  ever 
saw.  Though  he  is  but  a  younger  brother,  he 
dresses  like  a  man  of  quality,  and  nobody  comes 
into  a  room  like  him.  I  know  he  hath  refused 
great  offers,  and  if  he  cannot  marry  me  he  will 
never  have  anybody  else.  But  my  father  hath 
forbid  him  the  house,  because  he  sent  me  a  copy 
of  verses;  for  he  is  one  of  the  greatest  wits  in 
town.  My  eldest  sister,  who  with  her  good-will 
would  call  me  miss  as  long  as  I  live,  must  be 
married  before  me,  they  say.  She  tells  them  that 
Mr.  Fondle  makes  a  fool  of  me,  and  will  spoil  the 
child,  as  she  calls  me,  like  a  confident  thing  as 
she  is.  In  short,  I  am  resolved  to  marry  Mr 
Fondle,  if  it  be  but  to  spite  her.  But  because  I 
would  do  nothing  that  is  imprudent,  I  beg  of  you 
to  give  me  your  answers  to  some  questions  I  will 
write  down,  and  desire  you  to  get  them  printed 
in  the  Spectator,  and  I  do  not  doubt  but  you  will 
give  such  advice  as,  I  am  sure,  I  shall  follow: 

“  When  Mr.  Fondle  looks  upon  me  for  half  an 
hour  together,  and  calls  me  angel,  is  he  not  in 
love?” 

Answer.  No. 

“  May  not  I  be  certain  he  will  be  a  kind  hus¬ 
band,  that  has  promised  me  half  my  portion  in 
pin-money,  and  to  keep  me  a  coach  and  six  in  the 
bargain  ?” — No. 

“  Whether  I,  who  have  been  acquainted  with 
him  this  whole  year  almost,  am  not  a  better  judge 
of  his  merit,  than  my  father  and  mother,  who 
never  heard  him  talk  but  at  table  ?” — No. 

“Whether  I  am  not  old  enough  to  choose  for 
myself?” — No. 

“  Whether  it  would  not  have  been  rude  in  me 
to  refuse  a  lock  of  his  hair?” — No. 

“  Should  not  I  be  a  very  barbarous  creature,  if  I 
did  not  pity  a  man  that  is  always  sighing  for  my 
sake?”— No. 

“Whether  you  would  not  advise  me  to  run 
away  with  the  poor  man?” — No. 

“  Whether  you  do  not  think,  that  if  I  will  not 
have  him,  he  will  not  drown  himself?” — No. 


*  Actuated. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


“  What  shall  I  say  to  him  the  next  time  he  asks 
me  if  I  will  marry  him?” — No. 

The  following  letter  requires  neither  introduc¬ 
tion  nor  answer: 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  I  wonder  that,  in  the  present  situation  of 
affairs,  you  can  take  pleasure  in  writing  anything 
but  news;  for,  in  a  word,  who  minds  anything 
else  ?  The  pleasure  of  increasing  in  knowledge, 
and  learning  something  new  every  hour  of  life,  is 
the  noblest  entertainment  of  a  rational  creature. 
I  have  a  very  good  ear  for  a  secret,  and  am 
naturally  of  a  communicative  temper;  by  which 
paeans  1  am  capable  of  doing  you  great  services 
in  this  way.  In  order  to  make  myself  useful,  I 
am  early  in  the  antechamber,  where  I  thrust  my 
head  into  the  thick  of  the  press,  and  catch  the 
news  at  the  opening  of  the  door,  while  it  is  warm. 
Sometimes  I  stand  by  the  beef-eaters,  and  take 
the  buzz  as  it  passes  by  me.  At  other  times  I  lay 
my  ear  close  to  the  wall,  and  suck  in  many  a  val¬ 
uable  whisper,  as  it  runs  in  a  straight  line  from 
corner  to  corner.  When  I  am  weary  with  stand- 
ing,  I  repair  to  one  of  the  neighboring  coffee¬ 
houses,  where  I  sit  sometimes  for  a  whole  day, 
and  have  the  news  as  it  comes  from  court  fresh 
and  fresh.  In  short.  Sir,  I  spare  no  pains  to  know 
how  the  world  goes.  A  piece  of  news  loses  its 
flavor  when  it  hath  been  an  hour  in  the  air.  I 
love,  if  I  may  so  speak,  to  have  it  fresh  from  the 
tree;  and  to  convey  it  to  my  friends  before  it  is 
faded.  Accordingly  my  expenses  in  coach-hire 
make  no  small  article:  which  you  may  believe, 
when  I  assure  you,  that  I  post  away  from  coffee¬ 
house  to  coffee-house,  and  forestall  the  Evening- 
post  by  two  hours.  There  is  a  certain  gentleman, 
who  hath  given  me  the  slip  twice  or  thrice,  and 
hath  been  beforehand  with  me  at  Child’s.  But  I 
have  played  him  a  trick.  I  have  purchased  a  pair 
of  the  best  coach-horses  I  could  buy  for  money,  and 
now  let  him  outstrip  me  if  he  can.  Once  more, 
Mr.  Spectator,  let  me  advise  you  to  deal  in  news. 
You  may  depend  upon  my  assistance.  But  I 
must  break  off  abruptly,  for  I  have  twenty  letters 
to  write.  “  Yours,  in  haste, 

“  Thos.  Quidnunc.” 


No.  626.]  MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  29,  1714. 

Dulcique  animos  novitate  tenebo. — Ovid,  Met.  1. 1. 

- With  sweet  novelty  your  taste  I’ll  please. — Eusden. 

<  I  have  seen  a  little  work  of  a  learned  man,  con¬ 
sisting  of  extemporary  speculations,  which  owed 
their  birth  to  the  most  trifling  occurrences  of  life. 
His  usual  method  was  to  write  down  any  sudden 
start  of  thought  which  arose  in  his  mind  upon 
the  sight  of  an  odd  gesticulation  in  a  man,  any 
whimsical  mimicry  of  reason  in  a  beast,  or  what¬ 
ever  appeared  remarkable  in  any  object  of  the 
visible  creation.  He  was  able  to  moralize  upon 
a  snuff-box,  would  flourish  eloquently  upon  a 
tucker  or  a  pair  of  ruffles,  and  draw  practical 
inferences  from  a  full-bottomed  periwig.  This  I 
thought  fit  to  mention,  by  way  of  excuse  for  my 
ingenious  correspondent,  who  hath  introduced  the 
following  letter  by  an  image  which  I  beg  leave  to 
tell  him  is  too  ridiculous  in  so  serious  and  noble 
a  speculation. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“When  I  have  seen  young  puss  playing  her 
wanton  gambols,  and  with  a  thousand  antic 
shapes  express  her  own  gayety  at  the  same  time 


723 

that  she  moved  mine,  'while  the  old  grannum 
hath  sat  by  with  a  most  exemplary  gravity,  un¬ 
moved  at  all  that  passed,  it  hath  made  me  reflect 
what  should  be  the  occasion  of  humors  so  oppo¬ 
site  in  two  creatures,  between  whom  there  was  no 
visible  difference  but  that  of  age;  and  I  have  been 
able  to  resolve  it  into  nothing  else  but  the  force 
of  novelty. 

“In  every  species  of  creatures,  those  who  have 
been  least  time  in  the  world  appear  best  pleased 
with  their  condition:  for,  beside  that,  to  a  new 
comer,  the  world  hath  a  freshness  on  it  that  strikes 
the  sense  after  a  most  agreeable  manner.  Being 
itself,  unattended  with  any  great  variety  of  enjoy¬ 
ments,  excites  a  sensation  of  pleasure;  but,  as  age 
advances,  everything  seems  to  wither,  the  senses 
are  disgusted  with  their  old  entertainments,  and 
existence  turns  flat  and  insipid.  We  may  see 
this  exemplified  in  mankind.  The  child,  let  him 
be  free  from  pain,  and  gratified  in  his  change  of 
toys,  is  diverted  with  the  smallest  trifle.  Nothing 
disturbs  the  mirth  of  the  boy  but  a  little  punish¬ 
ment  or  confinement.  The  youth  must  have  more 
violent  pleasures  to  employ  his  time.  The  man 
loves  the  hurry  of  an  active  life,  devoted  to  the 
pursuits  of  wealth  or  ambition.  And  lastly,  old 
age,  having  lost  its  capacity  for  these  avocations, 
becomes  its  own  insupportable  burden.  This  va¬ 
riety  may  in  part  be  accounted  for  by  the  vivacity 
and  decay  of  the  faculties;  but  I  believe  is  chiefly 
owing  to  this,  that  the  longer  we  have  been  in 
possession  of  being,  the  less  sensible  is  the  gust 
we  have  of  it;  and  the  more  it  requires  of  adven¬ 
titious  amusements  to  relieve  us  from  the  satiety 
and  weariness  it  brings  along  wTith  it. 

“  And  as  novelty  is  of  a  very  powerful,  so  is  it 
of  a  most  extensive  influence.  Moralists  have 
long  since  observed  it  to  be  the  source  of  admira¬ 
tion,  which  lessens  in  proportion  to  our  familiarity 
with  objects,  and  upon  a  thorough  acquaintance 
is  utterly  extinguished.  But  I  think  it  hath  not 
been  so  commonly  remarked,  that  all  the  other 
passions  depend  considerably  on  the  same  cir¬ 
cumstance.  What  is  it  but  novelty  that  awakens 
desire,  enhances  delight,  kindles  anger,  provokes 
envy,  inspires  horror  ?  To  this  cause  we  must 
ascribe  it,  that  love  languishes  with  fruition,  and 
friendship  itself  is  recommended  by  intervals  of 
absence:  hence  monsters,  by  use,  are  beheld  with¬ 
out  loathing,  and  the  most  enchanting  beauty 
without  rapture.  That  emotion  of  the  spirits,  in 
which  passion  consists,  is  usually  the  effect  of 
surprise,  and,  as  long  as  it  continues,  heightens 
the  agreeable  or  disagreeable  qualities  of  its  ob¬ 
ject;  but  as  this  emotion  ceases  (and  it  ceases 
with  the  novelty)  things  appear  in  another  light, 
and  affect  us  even  less  than  might  be  expected 
from  their  proper  energy,  for  having  moved  us 
too  much  before. 

“It  may  not  be  a  useless  inquiry  how  far  the 
love  of  novelty  is  the  unavoidable  growth  of  na¬ 
ture,  and  in  what  respects  it  is  peculiarly  adapted 
to  the  present  state.  To  me  it  seems  impossible 
that  a  reasonable  creature  should  rest  absolutely 
satisfied  in  any  acquisitions  whatever,  without  en¬ 
deavoring  farther;  for,  after  its  highest  improve¬ 
ments,  the  mind  hath  an  idea  of  an  infinity  of 
things  still  behind  worth  knowing,  to  the  know¬ 
ledge  of  which  therefore  it  cannot  be  indifferent; 
as  by  climbing  up  a  hill  in  the  midst  of  a  wild 
plain  a  man  hath  his  prospect  enlarged,  and,  to¬ 
gether  with  that,  the  bounds  of  his  desires.  Upon 
this  account,  I  cannot  think  he  detracts  from  the 
state  of  the  blessed  who  conceives  them  to  be  per¬ 
petually  employed  in  fresh  searches  into  nature, 
and  to  eternity  advancing  into  the  fathomless 
depths  of  the  divine  perfections.  In  this  thought, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


724 

there  is  nothing  but  what  does  honor  to  these  glo¬ 
rified  spirits;  provided  still  it  be  remembered  that 
their  desire  of  more  proceeds  not  from  their  dis¬ 
relishing  what  they  possess;  and  the  pleasure  of  a 
new  enjoyment  is  not  with  them  measured  by  its 
novelty  (which  is  a  thing  merely  foreign  and.  ac¬ 
cidental),  but  by  its  real  intrinsic  value.  After 
an  acquaintance  of  many  thousand  years  with  the 
works  of  God,  the  beauty  and  magnificence  of  the 
creation  fills  them  with  the  same  pleasing  wonder 
and  profound  awe  which  Adam  felt  himself  seized 
with  as  he  first  opened  his  eyes  upon  this  glorious 
scene.  Truth  captivates  with  unborrowed  charms, 
and  whatever  hath  once  given  satisfaction  will 
always  do  it.  In  all  which  they  have  manifestly 
the  advantage  of  us,  who  are  so  much  governed 
by  sickly  and  changeable  appetites,  that  we  can 
with  the  greatest  coldness  behold  the  stupendous 
displays  of  Omnipotence,  and  be  in  transports  at 
the  puny  essays  of  human  skill;  throw  aside 
speculations  of  the  sublimest  nature  and  vastest 
importance  into  some  obscure  corner  of  the  mind, 
to  make  room  for  new  notions  of  no  consequence 
at  all:  are  even  tired  of  health,  because  not  en¬ 
livened  with  alternate  pain;  and  prefer  the  first 
reading  of  an  indifferent  author  to  the  second  or 
third  perusal  of  one  whose  merit  and  reputation 
are  established. 

“Our  being  thus  formed  serves  many  useful  pur- 

{ >oses  in  the  present  state.  It  contributes  not  a 
ittle  to  the  advancement  of  learning;  for,  as  Cicero 
takes  notice,  that  which  makes  men  willing  to  un¬ 
dergo  the  fatigues  of  philosophical  disquisitions, 
is  not  so  much  the  greatness  of  objects  as  their  nov¬ 
elty.  It  is  not  enough  that  there  is  field  and  game 
for  the  chase,  and  that  the  understanding  is  prompt¬ 
ed  with  a  restless  thirst  of  knowledge,  effectually 
to  rouse  the  soul  sunk  into  a  state  of  sloth  and  in¬ 
dolence;  it  is  also 'necessary  that  there  be  an  uncom¬ 
mon  pleasure  annexed  to  the  first  appearance  of 
truth  in  the  mind.  This  pleasure  being  exquisite 
for  the  time  it  lasts,  but  transient,  it  hereby  comes 
to  pass  that  the  mind  grows  into  an  indifference  to 
its  former  notions,  and  passes  on  after  new  dis¬ 
coveries,  in  hope  of  repeating  the  delight.  It  is 
with  knowledge  as  with  wealth,  the  pleasure  of 
which  lies  more  in  making  endless  additions  than 
in  taking  a  review  of  our  old  store.  There  are 
some  inconveniences  that  follow  this  temper,  if 
not  guarded  against,  particularly  this,  that,  through 
a  too  great  eagerness  of  something  new,  we  are 
many  times  impatient  of  staying  long  enough  upon 
a  question  that  requires  some  time  to  resolve  it;  or, 
which  is  worse,  persuade  ourselves  that  we  are 
masters  of  the  subject  before  we  are  so,  only  to  be 
at  the  liberty  of  going  upon  a  fresh  scent;  in  Mr. 
Locke’s  words,  ‘  We  see  a  little,  presume  a  great 
deal,  and  so  jump  to  the  conclusion.’ 

“A  further  advantage  of  our  inclination  for  nov¬ 
elty,  as  at  present  circumstantiated,  is,  that  it  an¬ 
nihilates  all  the  boasted  distinctions  among  man¬ 
kind.  Look  not  up  with  envy  to  those  above  thee ! 
Sounding  titles,  stately  buildings,  fine  gardens, 
gilded  chariots,  rich  equipages,  what  are  they? 
They  dazzle  every  one  but  the  possessor;  to  him 
that  is  accustomed  to  them  they  are  cheap  and 
regardless  things;  they  supply  him  not  with 
brighter  images  or  more  sublime  satisfactions, 
than  the  plain  man  may  have  whose  small  estate 
will  just  enable  him  to  support  the  charge  of  a 
simple  unincumbered  life.  He  enters  heedless  into 
his  rooms  of  state,  as  you  or  I  do  under  our  poor 
sheds.  The  poor  paintings  and  costly  furniture 
are  lost  on  him;  he  sees  them  not;  as  how  can  it 
be  otherwise,  when  by  custom  a  fabric  infinitely 
more  grand  and  finished,  that  of  the  universe, 
stands  unobserved  by  the  inhabitants,  and  the 


everlasting  lamps  of  heaven  are  lighted  up  in  vain, 
for  any  notice  that  mortals  take  of  them !  Thanks 
to  indulgent  nature,  which  not  only  placed  her 
children  originally  upon  a  level,  but  still,  by  the 
strength  of  this  principle,  in  a  great  measure,  pre¬ 
serves  it,  in  spite  of  all  the  care  of  man  to  intro¬ 
duce  artificial  distinctions. 

“  To  add  no  more — is  not  this  fondness  for  nov¬ 
elty,  which  makes  us  out  of  conceit  with  all  we 
already  have,  a  convincing  proof  of  a  future  state ! 
Either  man  was  made  in  vain,  or  this  is  not  the 
only  world  he  was  made  for;  for  there  cannot  be  a 
greater  instance  of  vanity  than  that  to  which  man 
is  liable,  to  be  deluded  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave 
with  fleeting  shadows  of  happiness.  His  pleas¬ 
ures,  and  those  not  considerable  neither,  die  in 
the  possession,  and  fresh  enjoyments  do  not  rise 
fast  enough  to  fill  up  half  his  life  with  satisfac¬ 
tion.  When  I  see  persons  sick  of  themselves  any 
longer  than  they  are  called  away  by  something 
that  is  of  force  to  chain  down  the  present  thought; 
when  I  see  them  hurry  from  country  to  town, 
and  then  from  the  town  back  again  into  the  coun¬ 
try,  continually  shifting  postures,  and  placing 
life  in  all  the  different  lights  they  can  think  of : 
‘Surely,’  say  I  to  myself,  ‘life  is  vain,  and  the 
man  beyond  expression  stupid  or  prejudiced,  who 
from  the  vanity  of  life  cannot  gather  that  he  is 
designed  for  immortality.’  ” 


No.  627.]  WEDNESDAY,  DECEMBER  1,  1714. 

Tantum  inter  densas  umbrosa  cacumina,  fagos 

Assidue  veniebat ;  ibi  hasc  incondita  solus 

Montibus  et  sylvis  studio  jactabat  inani. — Virg.  Ecl.ii.3. 

He  underneath  the  beechen  shade,  alone, 

Thus  to  the  woods  and  mountains  made  his  moan. 

Dryden. 

The  following  account  which  came  to  my  hands 
some  time  ago,  may  be  no  disagreeable  entertain¬ 
ment  to  such  of  my  readers  as  have  tender  hearts 
and  nothing  to  do: 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“A  friend  of  mine  died  of  a  fever  last  week, 
which  he  caught  by  walking  too  late  in  a  dewy 
evening  among  his  reapers.  I  must  inform  you  that 
his  greatest  pleasure  was  in  husbandry  and  garden¬ 
ing.  He  had  some  humors  which  seemed  incon¬ 
sistent  with  that  good  sense  he  was  otherwise  mas¬ 
ter  of.  His  uneasiness  in  the  company  of  women 
was  very  remarkable  in  a  man  of  such  perfect  good¬ 
breeding;  and  his  avoiding  one  particular  walk  in 
his  garden,  where  he  had  used  to  pass  the  greatest 
part  of  his  time,  raised  abundance  of  idle  conject¬ 
ures  in  the  village  where  he  lived.  Upon  looking 
over  his  papers  we  found  out  the  reason,  which  he 
never  intimated  to  his  nearest  friends.  He  was, 
it  seems,  a  passionate  lover  in  his  youth,  of  which 
a  large  parcel  of  letters  he  left  behind  him  are  a 
witness.  I  send  you  a  copy  of  the  last  he  ever 
wrote  upon  that  subject,  by  which  you  find  that  he 
concealed  the  true  name  of  his  mistress  under  that 
of  Zelinda:  ■ 

“  ‘  A  long  month’s  absence  would  be  insupport¬ 
able  to  me,  if  the  business  I  am  employed  in  were 
not  for  the  service  of  my  Zelinda,  and  of  such  a 
nature  as  to  place  her  every  moment  in  my  mind.  I 
have  furnished  the  house  exactly  according  to  your 
fancy,  or,  if  you  please,  my  own;  for  I  have  long 
since  learned  to  like  nothing  but  what  you  do. 
The  apartment  designed  for  your  use  is  so  exact  a 
copy  of  that  which  you  live  in,  that  I  often  think 
myself  in  your  house  when  I  step  into  it,  but  sigh 
when  I  find  it  without  its  proper  inhabitant.  You 
will  have  the  most  delicious  prospect  from  your 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


closet  window  that  England  affords;  I  am  sure  I 
should  think  it  so,  if  the  landscape  that  shows 
such  variety  did  not  at  the  same  time  suggest  to 
me  the  greatness  of  the  space  that  lies  between  us. 

“  ‘  The  gardens  are  laid  out  very  beautifully;  I 
have  dressed  up  every  hedge  in  woodbines,  sprink¬ 
led  bowers  and  arbors  in  every  corner  and  made  a 
little  paradise  round  me;  yet  I  am  still  like  the  first 
man  in  his  solitude,  but  half  blessed  without  a 
partner  in  my  happiness.  I  have  directed  one  walk 
to  be  made  for  two  persons,  where  I  promise  ten 
thousand  satisfactions  to  myself  in  your  conversa¬ 
tion.  I  already  take  my  evening’s  turn  in  it,  and 
have  worn  a  path  upon  the  edge  of  this  little  alley, 
while  I  soothed  myself  with  the  thought  of  your 
walking  by  my  side.  I  have  held  many  imaginary 
discourses  with  you  in  this  retirement;  and  when 
I  have  been  weary  have  sat  down  with  you  in  the 
midst  of  a  row  of  jessamines.  The  many  expres¬ 
sions  of  joy  and  rapture  I  use  in  these  silent  con¬ 
versations  have  made  me  for  some  time  the  talk 
of  the  parish;  but  a  neighboring  young  fellow, 
who  makes  love  to  the  farmer’s  daughter,  hath 
found  me  out,  and  made  my  cas^  known  to  the 
whole  neighborhood. 

“  ‘In  planting  of  the  fruit-trees  I  have  not  for¬ 
got  the  peach  you  are  so  fond  of.  I  have  made  a 
walk  of  elms  along  the  river  side,  and  intend  to 
sow  all  the  place  about  it  with  cowslips,  which  I 
hope  you  will  like  as  well  as  that  I  have  heard 
you  talk  of  by  your  father’s  house  in  the  country. 

“ ‘  Oh !  Zelinda,  what  a  scheme  of  delight  have  I 
drawn  up  in  my  imagination !  What  day  dreams 
do  I  indulge  myself  in!  When  will  the  six  weeks 
be  at  an  end,  that  lie  between  me  and  my  promised 
happiness  ! 

“‘How  could  you  break  olf  so  abruptly  in  your 
last,  and  tell  me  you  must  go  and  dress  for  the 
play  ?  If  you  loved  as  I  do,  you  would  find  no 
more  company  in  a  crowd  than  I  have  in  my  soli¬ 
tude.  I  am,’  etc. 

“Oil  the  back  of  the  letter  is  written,  in  the 
hand  of  the  deceased,  the  following  piece  of  his¬ 
tory: 

‘“Mem.  Having  waited  a  whole  week  for  an 
answer  to  this  letter,  I  hurried  to  town,  where  I 
found  the  perfidious  creature  married  to  my  rival. 
I  will  bear  it  as  becomes  a  man,  and  endeavor  to 
find  out  happiness  for  myself  in  that  retirement 
which  I  had  prepared  in  vain  for  a  false,  ungrate¬ 
ful  woman.’  “  I  am,”  etc. 


Ho.  628.]  FRIDAY,  DECEMBER  3,  1714. 

Labitur  et  labetur  in  omne  volubilis  sevum. 

Hor.  1  Ep.  ii.  43. 

It  rolls,  and  rolls,  and  will  forever  roll. 

“  Mr.  Spectator, 

“  There  are  none  of  your  speculations  which 
please  me  more  than  those  upon  infinitude  and 
eternity.  You  have  already  considered  that  part 
of  eternity  which  is  past,  and  I  wish  you  would 
give  us  your  thoughts  upon  that  which  is  to  come. 

“Your  readers  will  perhaps  receive  greater  plea¬ 
sure  from  this  view  of  eternity  than  the  former, 
since  we  have  every  one  of  us  a  concern  in  that 
which  is  to  come;  whereas  a  speculation  on  that 
which  is  past  is  rather  curious  than  useful. 

“  Beside,  we  can  easily  conceive  it  possible  for 
successive  duration  never  to  have  an  end;  though, 
as  you  have  justly  observed,  that  eternity  which 
never  had  a  beginning  is  altogether  incomprehen¬ 
sible;  that  is,  we  can  conceive  an  eternal  duration 
which  may  be,  though  we  cannot  an  eternal  dura¬ 
tion  which  hath  been;  or,  if  I  may  use  the  philo- 


725 

sophical  terms,  we  may  apprehend  a  potential 
though  not  an  actual  eternity. 

“This  notion  of  a  future  eternity,  which  is  na¬ 
tural  to  the  mind  of  man,  is  an  unanswerable  ar¬ 
gument  that  he  is  a  being  designed  for  it;  espe¬ 
cially  if  we  consider  that  he  is  capable  of  being 
virtuous  or  vicious  here;  that  he  hath  faculties 
improvable  to  all  eternity;  and,  by  a  proper  or 
wrong  employment  of  them  may  be  happy  or  mis- 
ef&ble  throughout  that  infinite  duration.  Our  idea 
indeed  of  this  eternity  is  not  of  an  adequate  or 
fixed  nature,  but  is  perpetually  growing  and  en¬ 
larging  itself  toward  the  object,  which  is  too  big 
for  human  comprehension.  As  we  are  now  in  the 
beginnings  of  existence,  so  shall  we  always  appear 
to  ourselves  as  if  we  were  forever  entering  upon  it. 
After  a  million  or  two  of  centuries,  some  consid¬ 
erable  things  already  past,  may  slip  out  of  our 
memory,  which,  if  it  be  not  strengthened  in  a 
wonderful  manner,  may  possibly  forget  that  ever 
there  was  a  sun  or  planets;  and  yet,  notwithstand¬ 
ing  the  long  race  that  we  shall  then  have  run,  we 
shall  still  imagine  ourselves  just  starting  from  the 
goal,  and  find  no  proportion  between  that  space 
which  we  know  had  a  beginning,  and  what  we  are 
sure  will  never  have  an  end. 

“  But  I  shall  leave  this  subject  to  your  manage¬ 
ment,  and  question  not  but  you  will  throw  it  into 
such  lights  as  shall  at  once  improve  and  entertain 
your  reader. 

“I  have,  inclosed,  sent  you  a  translation*  of  the 
speech  of  Cato  on  this  occasion,  which  hath  acci¬ 
dentally  fallen  into  my  hands,  and  which,  for  con¬ 
ciseness,  purity,  and  elegance  of  phrase,  cannot  be 
sufficiently  admired. 

ACT  V.— SCENE  I. 

Cato  solus,  etc. 

Sic,  sic  se  habere  rem  necesse  prorsus  est, 

Ratione  vincis,  do  lubens  manus,  Plato. 

Quid  enim  dedisset,  quae  dedit  frustra  nihil, 

iEternitatis  insitam  cupidinem 

Natura  ?  Quorsum  hsec  dulcis  expectatio : 

Viteeque  non  explenda  melioris  sitis? 

Quid  vult  sibi  aliud  iste  redeundi  in  nihil 
Horror,  sub  imis  quemque  agens  praecordiis? 

Cur  territa  in  se  refugit  anima,  cur  tremit 
Attonita,  quoties,  morte  ne  pereat,  timet? 

Particula  nempe  est  cuique  nascenti  indita 
Divinior ;  quae  corpus  incolens  agit ; 

Hominique  succinit,  tua  est  seternitas, 
iEternitas !  0  lubricum  nimis  aspici, 

Mixtumque  dulci  gaudium  formidine ! 

Quae  demigrabitur  aliahinc  in  corpora? 

Quae  terra  mox  incognita?  Quis  orbis  novus 
Manet  incolendus  ?  Quanta  erit  mutatio  ? 

Haec  intuenti  spatia  mihi  quaqua  patent 
Immensa ;  sed  caliginosa  nox  premit ; 

Nec  luce  clara  vult  videri  singula. 

Figendus  hie  pes ;  certa  sunt  haec  hactenus ; 

Si  quod  gubernet  numen  humanum  genus, 

(At,  quod  gubernet,  esse  clamant  omnia) 

Virtu te  non  gaudere  certe  non  potest: 

Nec  esse  non  beata,  qua  gaudet,  potest. 

Sed  qua  beata  sede  ?  Quove  in  tempore  ? 

Hsec  quanta  quanta  terra,  tota  est  Csesaris. 

Quid  dubius  hseret  animus  usque  adeo  ?  Brevi 
Hie  nodum  his  omnem  expediet.  Arma  en  induor. 

[Ensi  manum  admovens 

In  utramque  partem  facta ;  quaeque  vim  inferant, 

Et  quse  propulsent !  Dextera  intentat  necem ; 

Vitam  sinistra :  vulnus  hsec  dabit  manus ; 

Altera  medelam  vulneris :  hie  ad  exitum 
Deducet,  ictu  simplici ;  hsec  vetant  mori. 

Secura  ridet  anima  mucronis  minas, 

Ensesque  strictos,  interire  nescia. 

Extinguet  set  as  sidera  diuturnior : 
iEtate  languens  ipse  sol  obscurus 
Emittet  orbi  consenescenti  jubar : 

Natura  et  ipsa  sentient  quondam  vices 
iEtatis;  annis  ipsa  defleiat  gravis : 

At  tibi  juventus,  at  tibi  immortalitas : 

Tibi  parta  divum  est  vita.  Periment  mutuis 
Elementa  sese  et  interibunt  ictibus. 


*This  translation  was  by  Mr.,  afterward  Dr.  Bland,  once 
schoolmaster,  then  provost  of  Eaton,  and  dean  of  Durham. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


726 

Tu  permanebis  sola  semper  Integra, 

Tu  cuncta  rerum  quassa,  cuncta  naufraga, 

Jam  portu  in  ipso  tuta,  contemplabere, 

Compage  rupta,  corruent  in  se  invicem, 

Orbesque  fractis  ingerentur  orbibus ; 

Illassa  tu  sedebis  extra  fragmina. 

ACT  V.— SCENE  I. 

Cato  alone,  etc. 

It  must  be  so - Plato,  thou  reason’st  well - 

Else  -w  hence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 

This  longing  after  immortality ; 

Or  whence  this  secret  dread,  and  inward  horror, 

Of  falling  into  naught?  Why  shrinks  the  soul 
Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction  ? 

'Tis  the  Divinity  that  stirs  within  us ; 

'Tis  Heaven  itself  that  points  out  an  hereafter, 

And  intimates  eternity  to  man. 

Eternity !  thou  pleasing,  dreadful  thought ! 

Through  what  variety  of  untried  being, 

Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we  pass  ? 

The  wide,  th’  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  me, 

But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness  rest  upon  it. 

Here  will  I  hold.  If  there’s  a  Power  above  us, 

(And  that  there  is  all  nature  cries  aloud 
Through  all  her  works,)  he  must  delight  in  virtue ; 

And  that  which  he  delights  in  must  be  happy. 

But  when,  or  where  ? - This  world  was  made  for  Caesar 

I’m  weary  of  conjectures— This  must  end  them. 

Laying  his  hand  on  his  sword. 
Thus  am  I  doubly  arm'd ;  my  death  and  life, 

My  bane  and  antidote  are  both  before  me. 

This  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  an  end ; 

But  this  informs  me  I  shall  never  die. 

The  soul,  secur'd  in  her  existence,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point, 

The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  nature  sink  in  years ; 

But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth, 

Unhurt  amid  the  war  of  elements, 

The  wreck  of  matter,  and  th#  crush  of  worlds. 


Ho.  629.]  MONDAY,  DECEMBER  6,  1714. 

- Experiar  quid  concedatur  in  illos, 

Quorum  Flaminia  tegitur  cinis,  atque  Latina. 

Juv.  Sat.  i.  170. 

- Since  none  the  living  dare  implead, 

Arraign  them  in  the  persons  of  the  dead. — Dryden. 

Next  to  the  people  who  want  a  place,  there  are 
none  to  be  pitied  more  than  those  who  are  solicited 
for  one.  A  plain  answer  with  a  denial  in  it  is 
looked  upon  as  pride,  and  a  civil  answer  as  a 
promise. 

Nothing  is  more  ridiculous  than  the  pretensions 
of  people  upon  these  occasions.  Everything  a 
man  hath  suffered,  while  his  enemies  were  in 
play,  was  certainly  brought  about  by  the  malice 
of  the  opposite  party.  A  bad  cause  would  not 
have  been  lost,  if  such  a  one  had  not  been  upon 
the  bench  ;  nor  a  profligate  youth  disinherited, 
if  he  had  not  got  drunk  every  night  by  toasting  an 
ousted  ministry.  I  remember  a  tory,  who  having 
been  fined  in  a  court  of  justice  for  a  prank  that  de¬ 
served  the  pillory,  desired  upon  the  merit  of  it  to 
be  made  a  justice  of  the  peace  when  his  friends 
came  into  power  ;  and  never  shall  forget  a  whig 
criminal,  who,  upon  being  indicted  for  a  rape, 
told  his  friends,  “  You  see  what  a  man  suffers  for 
sticking  to  his  principles.” 

The  truth  of  it  is,  the  sufferings  of  a  man  in  a 
party  are  of  a  very  doubtful  nature.  When  they 
are  such  as  have  promoted  a  good  cause,  and  fallen 
upon  a  man  undeservedly,  they  have  a  right  to 
be  heard  and  recompensed  beyond  any  other  pre¬ 
tensions..  But  when  they  rise  out  of  rashness  or 
indiscretion,  and  the  pursuit  of  such  measures  as 
have  lather  ruined  than  promoted  the  interest  they 
aim  at,  which  hath  always  been  the  case  of  many 
great  sufferers,  they  only  serve  to  recommend  them 
to  the  children  of  violence  or  folly. 

I  have  by  me  a  bundle  of  memorials  presented 
by  several  cavaliers  upon  the  restoration  of  King 


Charles  II,  which  may  serve  as  so  many  instan¬ 
ces  to  our  present  purpose. 

Among  several  persons  and  pretensions  recorded 
by  my  author,  he  mentions  one  of  a  very  great 
estate,  who,  for  having  roasted  an  ox  whole,  and 
distributed  a  hogshead  upon  King  Charles’s  birth¬ 
day,  desired  to  be  provided  for  as  his  majesty  in 
his  great  wisdom  snail  think  fit. 

Another  put  in  to  be  Prince  Henry’s  governor, 
for  having  dared  to  drink  his  health  in  the  worst 
of  times. 

A  third  petitioned  for  a  colonel’s  commission, 
for  having  cursed  Oliver  Cromwell,  the  day  before 
his  death,  on  a  public  bowling-green. 

But  the  most  whimsical  petition  I  have  met 
with,  is  that  of  B.  B.,  Esq.,  who  desired  the  honor 
of  knighthood  for  having  cuckolded  Sir  T.  W.,  a 
notorious  roundhead. 

There  is  likewise  the  petition  of  one  who,  hav¬ 
ing  let  his  beard  grow  from  the  martyrdom  of 
King  Charles  I,  until  the  restoration  of  King 
Charles  II,  desired  in  consideration  thereof  to  be 
made  a  privy-counselor. 

I  must  not  omit  a  memorial  setting  forth  that 
the  memorialist  had,  with  great  dispatch,  carried 
a  letter  from  a  certain  lord  to  a  certain  lord,  where¬ 
in,  as  it  afterward  appeared,  measures  were  con¬ 
certed  for  the  restoration,  and  without  which  he 
verily  believes  that  happy  revolution  had  never 
been  effected;  who  thereupon  humbly  prays  to  be 
made  postmaster-general. 

A  certain  gentleman,  who  seems  to  write  with 
a  great  deal  of  spirit,  and  uses  the  words,  “  gal¬ 
lantry,”  and  “  gentleman-like”  very  often  in  his 
petition,  begs  that  (in  consideration  of  his  having 
worn  his  hat  for  ten  years  past  in  the  loyal  cava¬ 
lier-cock,  to  his  great  danger  and  detriment)  he 
may  be  made  a  captain  of  the  guards. 

I  shall  close  my  account  of  this  collection  of 
memorials  with  the  copy  of  one  petition  at  length, 
which  I  recommend  to  my  reader  as  a  very  valua¬ 
ble  piece. 

“  The  Petition  of  E.  H.,  Esq. 

“Humbly  showeth, 

“  That  your  petitioner’s  father’s  brother’s  uncle. 
Colonel  W.  H.,  lost  the  third  finger  of  his  left 
hand  at  Edgehill  fight. 

“  That  your  petitioner,  notwithstanding  the 
smallness  of  his  fortune  (he  being  the  younger 
brother),  always  kept  hospitality,  and  drank  con¬ 
fusion  to  the  roundheads  in  half  a  score  bumpers 
every  Sunday  in  the  year,  as  several  honest  gen¬ 
tlemen  (whose  names  are  underwritten)  are  ready 
to  testify. 

“  That  your  petitioner  is  remarkable  in  his 
country,  for  having  dared  to  treat  Sir  P.  P.  a 
cursed  sequestrator,  and  three  members  of  the  as¬ 
sembly  of  divines,  with  brawn  and  minced  pies 
upon  New-year’s-day. 

__  “  That  your  said  humble  petitioner  hath  been 
five  times  imprisoned  in  five  several  county -jails, 
for  having  been  a  ring-leader  in  five  different  riots 
into  which  his  zeal  for  the  royal  cause  hurried 
him,  when  men  of  greater  estates  had  not  the 
courage  to  rise. 

“That  he  the  said  E.  H.,  hath  had  six  duels 
and  four-ana-twenty  boxing  matches  in  defense 
of  his  majesty’s  title;  and  that  he  received  such  a 
blow  upon  the  head  at  a  bonfire  in  Stratford-upon- 
Avon,  as  he  hath  been  never  the  better  for  tv om 
that  day  to  this. 

“  That  your  petitioner  hath  been  so  far  from  im¬ 
proving  his.  fortune,  in  the  late  damnable  times, 
that  he  verily  believes,  and  hath  good  reason  to 
imagine,  that  if  he  had  been  master  of  an  estate 
he  had  infallibly  been  plundered  and  sequestered. 


THE  SPE 

“  Your  petitioner,  in  considefation  of  his  said 
merits  and  sufferings,  humbly  requests  that  he 
may  have  the  place  of  receiver  of  the  taxes,  collec¬ 
tor  of  the  customs,  clerk  of  the  peace,  deputy  lieu¬ 
tenant,  or  whatsoever  else  he  shall  be  thought 
qualified  for.  And  your  petitioner  shall  ever 
pray,”  etc. 


No.  630.]  WEDNESDAY,  DECEMBER  8,  1714. 

Favete  linguis -  IIor.  3  Od,  i.  2. 

With  mute  attention  wait. 

Having  no  spare  time  to  write  anything  of  my 
own,  or  to  correct  what  is  sent  me  by  others,  I 
have  thought  fit  to  publish  the  following  letters  : 

“Oxford,  Nov.  22. 

“  Sir, 

“If  you  would  be  so  kind  to  me,  as  to  suspend 
that  satisfaction  which  the  learned  world  must  re¬ 
ceive  in  reading  one  of  your  speculatious,  by  pub¬ 
lishing  this  endeavor,  you  will  very  much  oblige 
and  improve  one,  who  has  the  boldness  to  hope 
that  he  may  be  admitted  into  the  number  of  your 
correspondents. 

“  I  nave  often  wondered  to  hear  men  of  good 
sense  and  good-nature  profess  a  dislike  to  music, 
when  at  the  same  time  they  do  not  scruple  to  own 
that  it  has  the  most  agreeable  and  improving  in¬ 
fluences  over  their  minds;  it  seems  to  me  an  un¬ 
happy  contradiction,  that  those  persons  should 
have  an  indifference  for  an  art  which  raises  in 
them  such  a  variety  of  sublime  pleasures. 

“  However,  though  some  few,  by  their  own  or 
the  unreasonable  prejudices  of  others,  may  be  led 
into  a  distaste  of  those  musical  societies  which 
are  erected  merely  for  entertainment,  yet  sure  I 
may  venture  to  say,  that  no  one  can  have  the  least 
reason  for  disaffection  to  that  solemn  kind  of  mel¬ 
ody  which  consists  of  the  praises  of  our  Creator. 

“You  have,  I  presume,  already  prevented  me 
in  an  argument  upon  this  occasion,  which  some 
divines  have  successfully  advanced  upon  a  much 
greater,  that  musical  sacrifice  and  adoration  has 
claimed  a  place  in  the  laws  and  customs  of  the 
most  different  nations,  as  the  Grecians  and  Ro¬ 
mans  of  the  profane,  the  Jews  and  Christians  of 
the  sacred  world,  did  as  unanimously  agree  in 
this  as  they  disagreed  in  all  other  parts  of  their 
economy. 

“  I  know  there  are  not  wanting  some  who  are 
of  opinion  that  the  pompous  kind  of  music  which 
is  in  use  in  foreign  churches  is  the  most  excellent, 
as  it  most  affects  our  senses.  But  I  am  swayed 
by  my  judgment  to  the  modesty  which  is  observed 
in  the  musical  part  of  our  devotions..  Methinks 
there  is  something  very  laudable  in  the  custom  of 
a  voluntary  before  the  first  lesson  :  by  this  we  are 
supposed  to  be  prepared  for  the  admission  of  those 
divine  truths  which  we  are  shortly  to  receive. 
We  are  then  to  cast  all  worldly  regards  from  off 
our  hearts,  all  tumults  within  are  then  becalmed, 
and  there  should  be  nothing  near  the  soul  but 
peace  and  tranquillity.  So  that  in  this  short  office 
of  praise  the  man  is  raised  above  himself,  and  is 
almost  lost  already  amid  the  joys  of  futurity. 

“  I  have  heard  some  nice  observers  frequently 
commend  the  policy  of  our  church  in  this  partic¬ 
ular,  that  it  leads  us  on  by  such  easy  and  regular 
methods  that  we  are  perfectly  deceived  into  piety. 
When  the  spirits  begin  to  languish  (as  they  too 
often  do  with  a  constant  series  of  petitions)  she 
takes  care  to  allow  them  a  pious  respite,  and  re¬ 
lieves  them  with  the  raptures  of  an  anthem.  Nor 
can  we  doubt  that  the  sublimest  poetry,  softened 
in  the  most  moving  strains  of  music,  can  never 


CTATOR.  727 

I  fail  of  humbling  or  exalting  the  soul  to  any  pitch 
|  of  devotion.  Who  can  hear  the  terrors  of  the 
Lord  of  Hosts  described  in  the  most  expressive 
melody  without  being  awed  into  a  veneration  ? 
Or  who  can  hear  the  kind  and  endearing  attributes 
of  a  merciful  Father,  and  not  be  softened  into  love 
toward  him  ? 

“  As  the  rising  and  sinking  of  the  passions,  the 
casting  soft  or  noble  hints  into  the  soul,  is  the  nat¬ 
ural  privilege  of  music  in  general,  so  more  par¬ 
ticularly  of  that  kind  which  is  employed  at  the 
altar.  Those  impressions  which  it  leaves  upon 
the  spirits  are  more  deep  and  lasting,  as  the 
grounds  from  which  it  receives  its  authority  are 
founded  more  upon  reason.  It  diffuses  a  calm¬ 
ness  all  around  us,  it  makes  us  drop  all  those  vain 
or  immodest  thoughts  which  would  be  a  hin- 
derance  to  us  in  the  performance  of  that  great  duty 
of  thanksgiving*  which,  as  we  are  informed  by 
our  Almighty  Benefactor,  is  the  most  acceptable 
return  which  can  be  made  for  those  infinite  stores 
of  blessings  which  he  daily  condescends  to  pour 
down  upon  his  creatures.  When  we  make  use  of 
this  pathetical  method  of  addressing  ourselves  to 
him,  we  can  scarce  contain  from  raptures  !  The 
heart  is  warmed  with  a  sublimity  of  goodness  ! 
We  are  all  piety  and  all  love  ! 

“  How  do  the  blessed  spirits  rejoice  and  wonder 
to  behold  unthinking  man  prostrating  his  soul  to 
his  dread  Sovereign  in  such  a  warmth  of  piety  as 
they  themselves  might  not  be  ashamed  of! 

“I  shall  close  these  reflections  with  a  passage 
taken  out  of  the  third  book  of  Milton’s  Paradise 
Lost,  where  those  harmonious  beings  are  thus 
nobly  described : — 

“  Then  crown’d  again,  their  golden  harps  they  took, 
Harps  ever  tun’d,  that,  glitt’ring  by  their  side, 

Like  quivers  hung,  and  with  preamble  sweet 
Of  charming  symphony  they  introduce 
The  sacred  song,  and  waken  raptures  high: 

No  one  exempt,  no  voice  hut  well  could  join 
Melodious  part— such  concord  is  in  heaven!” 

“Mr.  Spectator, 

“  The  town  cannot  be  unacquainted  that  in 
divers  parts  of  it  there  are  vociferous  sets  of  men 
who  are  called  rattling  clubs  :  but  what  shocks 
me  most  is,  they  have  now  the  front  to  invade  the 
church,  and  institute  these  societies  there,  as  a  clan 
of  them  have  in  late  times  done,  to  such  a  degree 
of  insolence,  as  has  given  the  partition  where  they 
reside,  in  a  church  near  one  of  the  city  gates,  the 
denomination  of  the  rattling  pew.  These  gay  fel¬ 
lows,  from  humble  lay  professions,  set  up  for  crit¬ 
ics,  without  any  tincture  of  letters  or  reading,  and 
have  the  vanity  to  think  they  can  lay  hold  of  some¬ 
thing  from  the  parson  which  may  be  formed  into 
ridicule. 

“It  is  needless  to  observe  that  the  gentlemen, 
who  every  Sunday  have  the  hard  province  of  in¬ 
structing  these  wretches  in  a  way  they  are  in  no 
present  disposition  to  take,  have  a  fixed  charac¬ 
ter  for  learning  and  eloquence,  not  to  be  tainted 
by  the  weak  efforts  of  this  contemptible  part  of 
their  audiences.  Whether  the  pulpit  is  taken  by 
these  gentlemen,  or  any  strangers,  their  friends, 
the  way  of  the  club  is  this ;  if  any  sentiments  are 
delivered  too  sublime  for  their  conception;  if  any 
uncommon  topic  is  entered  on,  or  one  in  use,  new 
modified  with  the  finest  judgment  and  dexteri¬ 
ty  ;  or  any  controverted  point  be  never  so  ele¬ 
gantly  handled;  in  short,  whatever  surpasses  the 
narrow  limits  of  their  theology,  or  is  not  suited  to 


*  A  proclamation  issued  the  day  before  this  paper  was  pub¬ 
lished  for  a  thanksgiving  for  King  George’s  accession,  to  be  ob¬ 
served  January  20. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


728 

their  taste,  they  are  all  immediately  upon  the 
watch,  fixing  their  eyes  upon  each  other  with  as 
much  warmth  as  our  gladiators  of  Hockley-in-the- 
Hole,  and  waiting,  like  them,  for  a  hit ;  if  one 
touches,  all  take  fire,  and  their  noddles  instant¬ 
ly  meet  in  the  center  of  the  pew :  then,  as  by 
beat  of  drum,  with  exact  discipline,  they  rear  up 
into  a  full  length  of  stature,  and,  with  odd  looks 
and  gesticulations,  confer  together  in  so  loud  and 
clamorous  a  manner,  continued  to  the  close  of  the 
discourse,  and  during  the  after-psalm,  as  is  not  to 
be  silenced  but  by  the  bells.  Nor  does  this  suffice 
them  without  aiming  to  propagate  their  noise 
through  all  the  church,  by  signals  given  to  the  ad¬ 
joining  seats,  where  others  designed  for  this  fra¬ 
ternity  a  o  sometimes  placed  upon  trial  to  receive 
them. 

“  The  foi^  ^ell  as  rudeness  of  this  practice 
is  in  nothing  ^  :  conspicuous  than  this,  that  all 

that  follows  in  tm  sermon  is  lost;  for,  whenever 
our  sparks  take  alarm,  they  blaze  out  and  grow 
so  tumultuous  that  no  after  explanation  can  avail, 
it  being  impossible  for  themselves  or  any  near 
them  to  give  an  account  thereof.  If  anything 
really  novel  is  advanced,  how  averse  soever  it  may 
be  to  their  way  of  thinking,  to  say  nothing  of 
duty,  men  of  less  levity  than  these  would  be  led 
by  a  natural  curiosity  to  hear  the  whole. 

“  Laughter,  where  things  sacred  are  transacted, 
is  far  less  pardonable  than  whining  at  a  conven¬ 
ticle;  the  last  has  at  least  a  semblance  of  grace, 
and  where  an  affection  is  unseen  may  possibly  im¬ 
print  wholesome  lessons  on  the  sincere;  but  the 
first  has  no  excuse,  breaking  through  all  the  rules 
of  order  and  decency,  and  manifesting  a  remiss¬ 
ness  of  mind  in  those  important  matters  which  re¬ 
quire  the  strictest  composure  and  steadiness  of 
thought;  a  proof  of  the  greatest  folly  in  the  world. 

“I  shall  not  here  enter  upon  the  veneration  due 
to  the  sanctity  of  the  place,  the  reverence  owing 
to  the  minister,  or  the  respect  that  so  great  an  as¬ 
sembly  as  a  whole  parish  may  justly  claim.  I  shall 
only  tell  them,  that,  as  the  Spanish  cobbler,  to 
reclaim  a  profligate  son,  bid  him  have  some  regard 
to  the  dignity  of  his  family,  so  they  as  gentlemen 
(for  we  citizens  assume  to  be  such  one  day  in  a 
week)  are  bound  for  the  future  to  repent  of,  and 
abstain  from,  the  gross  abuses  here  mentioned, 
whereof  they  have  been  guilty  in  contempt  of 
heaven  and  earth,  and  contrary  to  the  laws  in  this 
case  made  and  provided. 

“I  am,  Sir,  your  very  humble  Servant, 

“R.  M.” 


No.  631.]  FRIDAY,  DECEMBER  10,  1714. 

Simplex  munditiis - Hor.  1  Od.  v.  5. 

Elegant  by  cleanliness - 

I  had  occasion  to  go  a  few  miles  out  of  town, 
some  days  since,  in  a  stage  coach,  where  I  had  for 
my  fellow  travelers  a  dirty  beau,  and  a  pretty 
young  quaker  woman.  Having  no  inclination  to 
talk  much  at  that  time,  I  placed  myself  backward, 
with  a  design  to  survey  them,  and  pick  a  specula¬ 
tion  out  of  my  two  companions.  Their  different 
figures  were  sufficient  of  themselves  to  draw  my 
attention.  The  gentleman  was  dressed  in  a  suit, 
the  ground  whereof  had  been  black,  as  I  perceived 
from  some  few  spaces  that  had  escaped  the  powder, 
which  was  incorporated  with  the  greatest  part  of 
his  coat;  his  periwig,  which  cost  no  small  sum, 
was  after  so  slovenly  a  manner  cast  over  his  shoul¬ 
ders,  that  it  seemed  not  to  have  been  combed  since 
the  year  1712;  his  linen,  which  was  not  much  con¬ 
cealed,  was  daubed  with  plain  Spanish  from  the 


chin  to  the  lowest  button;  and  the  diamond  upon 
his  finger  (which  naturally  dreaded  the  water)  put 
me  in  mind  how  it  sparkled  among  the  rubbish  of 
the  mine  where  it  was  first  discovered.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  pretty  quaker  appeared  in  all  the 
elegance  of  cleanliness.  Not  a  speck  was  to  be 
found  upon  her.  A  clear,  clean,  oval  face,  just 
edged  about  with  little  thin  plaits  of  the  purest 
cambric,  received  great  advantages  from  the  shade 
of  her  black  hood;  as  did  the  whiteness  of  her 
arms  from  that  sober-colored  stuff  in  which  she 
had  clothed  herself.  The  plainness  of  her  dress 
was  very  well  suited  to  the  simplicity  of  her 
phrases;  all  which,  put  together,  though  they 
could  not  give  me  a  great  opinion  of  her  religion, 
they  did  of  her  innocence. 

This  adventure  occasioned  my  throwing  together 
a  few  hints  upon  cleanliness,  which  I  shall  con¬ 
sider  as  one  of  the  half  virtues,  as  Aristotle  calls 
them,  and  shall  recommend  it  under  the  three  fol¬ 
lowing  heads:  as  it  is  a  mark  of  politeness;  as  it 
produces  love;  and  as  it  bears  analogy  to  purity 
of  mind. 

First,  It  is  a  mark  of  politeness.  It  is  univer¬ 
sally  agreed  upon,  that  no  one  unadorned  with 
this  virtue  can  go  into  company  without  giving  a 
manifest  offense.  The  easier  or  higher  any  one’s 
fortune  is  this  duty  rises  proportionably.  The 
different  nations  of  the  world  are  as  much  distin¬ 
guished  by  their  cleanliness  as  by  their  arts  and 
sciences.  The  more  any  country  is  civilized,  the 
more  they  consult  this  part  of  politeness.  We  need 
but  compare  our  ideas  of  a  female  Hottentot  and 
an  English  beauty  to  be  satisfied  of  the  truth  of 
what  hath  been  advanced. 

In  the  next  place,  cleanliness  may  be  said  to  be 
the  foster-mother  of  love.  Beauty  indeed  most 
commonly  produces  that  passion  in  the  mind)  but 
cleanliness  preserves  it.  An  indifferent  face  and 
person,  kept  in  perpetual  neatness,  hath  won  many 
a  heart  from  a  pretty  slattern.  Age  itself  is  not 
unamiable,  while  it  is  preserved  clean  and  unsul¬ 
lied;  like  a  piece  of  metal  constantly  kept  smooth 
and  bright,  we  look  upon  it  with  more  pleasure 
than  on  a  vessel  that  is  cankered  with  rust. 

I  might  observe  further,  that  as  cleanliness  ren¬ 
ders  us  agreeable  to  others,  so  it  makes  us  easy  to 
ourselves;  that  it  is  an  excellent  preservative  of 
health;  and  that  several  vices,  destructive  both  to 
mind  and  body,  are  inconsistent  with  the  habit  of 
it.  But  these  reflections  I  shall  leave  to  the  leisure 
of  my  readers,  and  shall  observe,  in  the  tjiird 
place,  that  it  bears  a  great  analogy  with  purity  of 
mind,  and  naturally  inspires  refined  sentiments 
and  passions. 

We  find  from  experience  that  through  the  prev¬ 
alence  of  custom,  the  most  vicious  actions  lose 
their  horror  by  being  made  familiar  to  us.  On  the 
contrary,  those  who  live  in  the  neighborhood  of 
good  examples,  fly  from  the  first  appearances  of 
what  is  shocking.  It  fares  with  us  much  after  the 
same  manner  as  to  our  ideas.  Our  senses,  which 
are  the  inlets  to  all  the  images  conveyed  to  the 
mind,  can  only  transmit  the  impression  of  such 
things  as  usually  surround  them.  So  that  pure 
and  unsullied  thoughts  are  naturally  suggested  to 
the  mind,  by  those  objects  that  perpetually  encom¬ 
pass  us  when  fhey  are  beautiful  and  elegant  in 
their  kind. 

“In  the  East,  where  the  warmth  of  the  climate 
makes  cleanliness  more  immediately  necessary 
than  in  colder  countries,  it  is  made  one  part  of 
their  religion;  the  Jewish  law,  and  the  Mahometan 
which  in  some  things  copies  after  it,  is  filled  with 
bathings,  purifications,  and  other  rites  of  the  like 
nature.  Though  there  is  the  above-named  con¬ 
venient  reason  to  be  assigned  for  these  ceremonies, 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


the  chief  intention  undoubtedly  was  to  typify  in¬ 
ward  purity  and  cleanliness  of  heart  by  those  out¬ 
ward  washings.  We  read  several  injunctions  of 
this  kind  in  the  Book  of  Deuteronomy,  which  con¬ 
firm  this  truth;  and  which  are  but  ill  accounted 
for  by  saying,  as  some  do,  that  they  were  only  insti¬ 
tuted  for  convenience  in  the  desert,  which  other¬ 
wise  could  not  have  been  habitable  for  so  many 
years. 

I  shall  conclude  this  essay  with  a  story  which  I 
have  somewhere  read  in  an  account  of  Mahometan 
superstitions. 

A  dervise  of  great  sanctity  one  morning  had  the 
misfortune  as  he  took  up  a  crystal  cup,  which  was 
consecrated  to  the  prophet,  to  let  it  mil  upon  the 
ground,  and  dash  it  in  pieces.  His  son  coming  in 
some  time  after,  he  stretched  out  his  hands  to  bless 
him,  as  his  manner  was  every  morning ;  but  the 
outh  going  out  stumbled  over  the  threshold  and 
roke  his  arm.  As  the  old  man  wondered  at  these 
events,  a  caravan  passed  by  in  its  way  from  Mecca; 
the  dervise  approached  it  to  beg  a  blessing;  but  as 
he  stroked  one  of  the  holy  camels,  he  received  a 
kick  from  the  beast  that  sorely  bruised  him.  His 
sorrow  and  amazement  increased  upon  him  until 
he  recollected  that,  through  hurry  and  inadvert¬ 
ency,  he  had  that  morning  come  abroad  without 
washing  his  hands. 


No.  632.]  MONDAY,  DECEMBER  13,  1714. 

- Explebo  numerum,  reddarque  tenebris. 

Virg.  iEn.  vi.  545. 

- the  number  I’ll  complete, 

Then  to  obscurity,  well  pleas’d,  retreat. 

The  love  of  symmetry  and  order,  which  is 
natural  to  the  mind  of  man,  betrays  him  some¬ 
times  into  very  whimsical  fancies.  “  This  noble 
principle,”  says  a  French  author,  “loves to  amuse 
itself  on  the  most  trifling  occasions.  You  may 
see  a  profound  philosopher,”  says  he,  “walk  for 
an  hour  together  in  his  chamber,  and  industriously 
treading,  at  eveiy  step,  upon  every  other  board  in 
the  flooring.”  Every  reader  will  recollect  several 
instances  of  this  nature  without  my  assistance.  I 
think  it  was  Gregorio  Leti,  who  had  published  as 
many  books  as  he  was  years  old;*  which  was  a 
rule  he  had 'laid  down  and  punctually  observed 
to  the  year  of  his  death.  It  was,  perhaps,  a  thought 
of  the  like  nature  which  determined  Homer  him¬ 
self  to  divide  each  of  his  poems  into  as  many 
books  as  there  are  letters  in  the  Greek  alphabet. 
Herodotus  has  in  the  same  manner  adapted  his 
books  to  the  number  of  the  Muses,  for  which  rea¬ 
son  many  a  learned  man  hath  wished  that  there 
had  boen  more  than  nine  of  that  sisterhood. 

Several  epic  poets  have  religiously  followed 
Virgil  as  to  the  number  of  his  books;  and  even 
Milton  is  thought  by  many  to  have  changed  the 
number  of  his  books  from  ten  to  twelve  for  no 
other  reason;  as  Cowley  tells  us  it  was  his  design, 
had  he  finished  his  Davideis,  to  have  also  imitated 
the  iEneid  in  this  particular.  I  believe  every 
one  will  agree  with  me  that  a  perfection  of  this 
nature  hath  no  foundation  in  reason;  and,  with  due 
respect  to  these  great  names,  may  be  looked  upon 
as  something  whimsical. 

I  mention  these  great  examples  in  defense  of  my 
bookseller,  who  occasioned  this  eighth  volume  of 


*  This  voluminous  writer  boasted  that  he  had  been  the  au¬ 
thor  of  a  book  and  the  father  of  a  child  for  twenty  years  suc¬ 
cessively.  Swift  counted  the  number  of  steps  he  had  made 
from  London  to  Chelsea.  And  it  is  said  and  demonstrated  in 
the  Parentalia,  that  Bishop  Wren  walked  round  the  earth 
while  a  prisoner  in  the  Tower  of  London. 


729 

Spectators,  because,  as  he  said,  he  thought  seven 
a  very  odd  number.  On  the  other  side  several 
grave  reasons  were  urged  on  this  important  sub¬ 
ject;  as,  in  particular,  that  seven  was  the  precise 
number  of  the  wise  men,  and  that  the  most  beau¬ 
tiful  constellation  in  the  heavens  was  composed 
of  seven  stars.  This  he  allowed  to  be  true,  but 
still  insisted  that  seven  was  an  odd  number;  sug¬ 
gesting  at  the  same  time  that,  if  he  were  provided 
with  a  sufficient  stock  of  leading  papers,  he  should 
find  friends  ready  enough  to  carry  on  the  work. 
Having  by  this  means  got  his  vessel  launched  and 
set  afloat,  he  hath  committed  the  steerage  of  it,  from 
time  to  time,  to  such  as  he  thought  capable  of  con¬ 
ducting  it. 

The  close  of  this  volume,  which  the  town  may 
now  expect  in  a  little  time,  may  possibly  ascribe 
each  sheet  to  its  proper  author. 

It  were  no  hard  task  to  continue  this  paper  a 
considerable  time  longer  by  the  help  of  large  con¬ 
tributions  sent  from  unknown  hands. 

I  cannot  give  the  town  a  better  opinion  of  the 
Spectator’s  correspondents  than  by  publishing  the 
following  letter,  with'  a  very  fine  copy  of  verses 
upon  a  subject  perfectly  new: 

“Mr.  Spectator,  Dublin,  Nov.  30,  1714. 

“  You  lately  recommended  to  your  female  readers 
the  good  old  custom  of  their  grandmothers,  who 
used  to  lay  out  a  great  part  of  their  time  in  nee¬ 
dlework.  I  entirely  agree  with  you  in  your  senti¬ 
ments,  and  think  it  would  not  be  of  less  advantage 
to  themselves  and  their  posterity,  than  to  the  rep¬ 
utation  of  many  of  their  good  neighbors,  if  they 
passed  many  of  those  hours  in  this  innocent  enter¬ 
tainment  which  are  lost  at  the  tea-table.  I  would, 
however,  humbly  offer  to  your  consideration  the 
case  of  the  poetical  ladies;  who,  though  they  may 
be  willing  to  take  any  advice  given  them  by  the 
Spectator,  yet  cannot  so  easily  quit  their  pen  and 
ink  as  you  may  imagine.  Pray  allow  them,  at 
least  now  and  then,  to  indulge  themselves  in  other 
amusements  of  fancy  when  they  are  tired  with 
stooping  to  their  tapestry.  There  is  a  very  par¬ 
ticular  kind  of  work,  which  of  late  several  ladies 
here  in  our  kingdom  are  very  fond  of,  which  seems 
very  well  adapted  to  a  poetical  genius;  it  is  the 
making  of  grottoes.  I  know  a  lady  who  has  a  very 
beautiful  one,  composed  by  herself;  nor  is  there 
one  shell  in  it  not  stuck  up  by  her  own  hands. 
I  here  send  you  a  poem  to  the  fair  architect,  which 
I  would  not  offer  to  herself,  until  I  knew  whether 
this  method  of  a  lady’s  passing  her  time  were 
approved  of  by  the  British  Spectator;  which,  with 
the  poem,  I  submit  to  your  censure,  who  am, 

“  Your  constant  Reader 

“  and  humble  Servant, 

“A.  B.” 

TO  MRS. - ,  ON  HER  GROTTO. 

A  grotto  so  complete,  with  such  design, 

What  hands,  Calypso,  could  have  form’d  but  thine  ? 

Each  chequer’d  pebble,  and  each  shining  shell, 

So  well  proportion’d  and  dispos’d  so  well, 

Surprising  luster  from  thy  thought  receive, 

Assuming  beauties  more  than  nature  gave. 

To  her  their  various  shapes  and  glossy  hue, 

Their  glorious  symmetry  they  owe  to  you. 

Not  fam’d  Amphion’s  lute,  whose  powerful  call 
Made  willing  stones  dance  to  the  Theban  wall, 

In  more  harmonious  ranks  could  make  them  fall. 

Not  evening  cloud  a  brighter  arch  can  show, 

Nor  richer  colors  paint  the  heavenly  bow. 

Where  can  unpolish’d  nature  boast  a  place 
In  all  her  mossy  cells  exact  as  this  ? 

At  the  gay  parti-color’d  scene  we  start, 

For  chance  too  regular,  too  rude  for  art. 

Charm’d  with  the  sight,  my  ravish’d  breast  is  fir’d 
With  hints  like  those  which  ancient  bards  inspir’d; 

All  the  feign’d  tales  by  superstition  told, 

All  the  bright  train  of  fabled  nymphs  of  old. 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


730 


Th’  enthusiastic  Muse  believes  are  true, 

Thinks  the  spot  sacred,  and  its  genius  you ; 

Lost  in  wild  raptures  would  she  fain  disclose 
How  by  degrees  the  pleasing  wonder  rose; 
Industrious  in  a  faithful  verse  to  trace 
The  various  beauties  of  the  lovely  place, 

And,  while  she  keeps  the  glowing  work  in  view, 
Through  every  maze  thy  artful  hand  pursue. 

0,  were  I  equal  to  the  bold  design, 

Or  could  I  boast  such  happy  art  as  thine, 

That  could  rude  shells  in  such  sweet  order  place, 
Give  common  objects  such  uncommon  grace; 
Like  them,  my  well  chose  words  in  every  line 
As  sweetly  temper’d  should  as  sweetly  shine. 

So  just  a  fancy  should  my  numbers  warm, 

Like  the  gay  piece  should  the  description  charm. 
Then  with  superior  strength  my  voice  I’d  raise, 
The  echoing  grotto  should  approve  my  lays, 
Pleas’d  to  reflect  the  well-sung  founder’s  praise. 


No.  633.]  WEDNESDAY,  DEC.  15,  1714. 

Omnia  profecto,  cum  se  a  coelestibus  rebus  referet  ad  hu- 
manas  excelsius  magnificentiusque  et  dicet  et  sentiet. 

Cicero. 

The  contemplation  of  celestial  things  will  make  a  man  both 
speak  and  think  more  sublimely  and  magnificently  when 
he  descends  to  human  affairs. 

The  following  discourse  is  printed  as  it  came  to 
my  hands,  without  variation: 

“  Cambridge,  Dec.  12. 

.  “  was  a  very  common  inquiry  among  the  an¬ 
cients  why  the  number  of  excellent  orators,  under 
all  the  encouragements  the  most  flourishing  states 
could  give  them,  fell  so  far  short  of  the  number 
of  those  who  excelled  in  all  other  sciences.  A 
friend  of  mine  used  merrily  to  apply  to  this  case 
an  observation  of  Herodotus,  who  says  that  the 
most  useful  animals  are  the  most  fruitful  in  their 
generation;  whereas  the  species  of  those  beasts 
that  are  fierce  and  mischievous  to  mankind  are 
but  scarcely  continued.  The  historian  instances 
a  hare,  which  always  either  breeds  or  brings  forth; 
and  a  lioness  which  brings  forth  but  once,  and 
then  loses  all  power  of  conception.  But  leaving 
my  friend  to  his  mirth,  I  am  of  opinion  that  in 
these  latter  agds  we  have  greater  cause  of  com¬ 
plaint  than  the  ancients  had.  And  since  that 
solemn  festival  is  approaching,*  which  calls  for 
all  the  power  of  oratory,  and  which  affords  as 
noble  a  subject  for  the  pulpit  as  any  revelation 
has  taught  us,  the  design  of  this  paper  shall  be  to 
show,  that  our  moderns  have  greater  advantages 
toward  true  and  solid  eloquence,  than  any  which 
the  celebrated  speakers  of  antiquity  enjoyed. 

“  The  first  great  and  substantial  difference  is, 
that  their  common-places,  in  which  almost  the 
whole  force  of  amplification  consists,  were  drawn 
from  the  profit  or  honesty  of  the  action,  as  they 
regarded  only  this  present  state  of  duration.  But 
Christianity,  as  it  exalts  morality  to  a  greater  per¬ 
fection,  as  it  brings  the  consideration  of  another 
life  into  the  question,  as  it  proposes  rewards  and 
punishments  of  a  higher  nature  and  a  longer  con¬ 
tinuance,  is  more  adapted  to  affect  the  minds  of 
the  audience,  naturally  inclined  to  pursue  what  it 
imagines  its  greatest  interest  and  concern.  If 
Pericles,  as  historians  report,  could  shake  the 
firmest  resolutions  of  his  hearers,  and  set  the 
passions  of  all  Greece  in  a  ferment,  when  the 
present  welfare  of  his  country,  or  the  fear  of  hos¬ 
tile  invasions,  was  the  subject;  what  may  be  ex¬ 
pected  irom  that  orator  who  warns  his  audience 
against  those  evils  which  have  no  remedy,  when 
once  undergone,  either  from  prudence  or’ time? 
As  much  greater  as  the  evils  in  a  future  state  are 


*  Christmas. 


than  these  at  present,  so  much  are  the  motives  to 
persuasion  under  Christianity  greater  than  those 
which  mere  moral  considerations  could  supply  us 
with.  But  what  I  now  mention  relates  only  to 
the  power  of  moving  the  affections.  There  is  an¬ 
other  part  of  eloquence  which  is  indeed  its  mas¬ 
terpiece  :  I  mean  the  marvelous,  or  sublime.  In 
this  the  Christian  orator  has  the  advantage  beyond 
contradiction.  Our  ideas  are  so  infinitely  enlarged  . 
by  revelation,  the  eye  of  reason  has  so  ^ide  a 
prospect  into  eternity,  the  notions  of  a  Deity  are 
so  worthy  and  refined,  and  the  accounts  we  have  y 
of  a  state  of  happiness  or  misery  so  clear  and  evi¬ 
dent,  that  the  contemplation  of  such  objects  will 
give  our  discourse  a  noble  vigor,  an  invincible 
force,  beyond  the  power  of  any  human  considera- 
tion.  Tully  requires  in  his  perfect  orator  some 
skill  in  the  nature  of  heavenly  bodies;  because, 
says  he,  his  mind  will  become  more  extensive  and 
unconfined ;  and  when  he  descends  to  treat  of 
human  affairs  he  will  both  think  and  write  in  a 
more  exalted  and  magnificent  manner.  For  the 
same  reason  that  excellent  master  would  have 
recommended  the  study  of  those  great  and  glo¬ 
rious  mysteries  which  revelation  has  discovered 
to  us;  to  which  the  noblest  parts  of  this  system 
of  the  world  are  as  much  inferior  as  the  creature 
is  less  excellent  than  its  Creator.  The  wisest  and 
most  knowing  among  the  heathens  had  very  poor 
and  imperfect  notions  of  a  future  state.  They 
had  indeed  some  uncertain  hopes,  either  received 
by  tradition,  or  gathered  by  reason,  that  the  exist¬ 
ence  of  virtuous  men  would  not  be  determined  by 
the  separation  of  soul  and  body;  but  they  either 
disbelieved  a  future  state  of  punishment  and 
misery;  or,  upon  the  same  account  that  Apelles 
painted  Antigonus  with  one  side  only  toward  the 
spectator,  that  the  loss  of  his  eye  might  not  cast  a 
blemish  upon  the  whole  piece ;  so  these  repre¬ 
sented  the  condition  of  man  in  its  fairest  view, 
and  endeavored  to  conceal  what  they  thought  Was 
a  deformity  to  human  nature.  I  have  often  ob¬ 
served,  that  whenever  the  above-mentioned  orator 
in  his  philosophical  discourses  is  led  by  his  argu¬ 
ment  to  the  mention  of  immortality,  he  seems  like 
one  awaked  out  of  sleep  ;  roused  and  alarmed 
with  the  dignity  of  the  subject,  he  stretches  his 
imagination  to  conceive  something  uncommon, 
and,  with  the  greatness  of  his  thoughts,  casts,  as 
it  were,  a  glory  round  the  sentence.  Uncertain 
and  unsettled  as  he  was,  he  seems  fired  with  the 
contemplation  of  it.  And  nothing  but  such  a  glo¬ 
rious  prospect  could  have  forced  so  great  a  lover 
of  truth  as  he  was  to  declare  his  resolution  never 
to  part  with  his  persuasion  of  immortality,  though 
it  should  be  proved  to  be  an  erroneous  one.  But 
had  he  lived  to  see  all  that  Christianity  has 
brought  to  light,  how  would  he  have  lavished 
out  all  the  force  of  eloquence  in  those  noblest 
contemplations  which  human  nature  is  capable 
of,  the  resurrection,  and  the  judgment  that  fol¬ 
lows  it!  How  had  his  breast  glowed  with  pleas¬ 
ure,  when  the  whole  compass  of  futurity  lay  open 
and  exposed  to  his  view !  How  would  his  imagin¬ 
ation  have  hurried  him  on  in  the  pursuit  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  incarnation  !  How  would  he  have 
entered,  with  the  force  of  lightning,  into  the  affec¬ 
tions  of  his  hearers,  and  fixed  their  attention  in 
spite  of  all  the  opposition  of  corrupt  nature,  upon 
those  glorious  themes  which  his  eloquence  hath 
painted  in  such  lively  and  lasting  colors  ! 

“  This  advantage  Christians  have;  and  it  was 
with  no  small  pleasure  I  lately  met  with  a  frag¬ 
ment  of  Longinus,  which  is  preserved,  as  a  testi¬ 
mony  of  that  critic’s  judgment,  at  the  beginning 
of  a  manuscript  of  the  New  Testament  in  the 
Vatican  library.  After  that  author  has  numbered 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


731 


up  the  most  celebrated  orators  amone;  the  Gre¬ 
cians,  he  says,  ‘add  to  these  Paul  of  Tarsus,  the 

fjatron  of  an  opinion  not  yet  fully  proved.’  As  a 
leathen  he  condemns  the  Christian  religion;  and, 
as  an  impartial  critic,  he  judges  in  favor  of  the 
promoter  and  preacher  of  it.  To  me  it  seems  that 
the  latter  part  of  his  judgment  adds  great  weight 
to  his  opinion  of  St.  Paul’s  abilities,  since,  under 
all  the  prejudice  of  opinions  directly  opposite,  he 
is  constrained  to  acknowledge  the  merit  of  that 
apostle.  And,  no  doubt,  such  as  Longinus  de¬ 
scribes  St.  Paul,  such  he  appeared  to  the  inhabit¬ 
ants  of  those  countries  which  he  visited  and 
blessed  with  those  doctrines  he  was  divinely 
commissioned  to  preach.  Sacred  story  gives  us, 
in  one  circumstance,  a  convincing  proof  of  his 
eloquence,  when  the  men  of  Lystra  called  him 
Mercury,  ‘  because  he  was  the  chief  speaker,’  and 
would  have  paid  divine  worship  to  him,  as  to  the 
god  wTho  invented  and  presided  over  eloquence. 
This  one  account  of  our  apostle  sets  his  character, 
considered  as  an  orator  only,  above  all  the  cele¬ 
brated  relations  of  the  skill  and  influence  of  De¬ 
mosthenes  and  his  cotemporaries.  Their  power 
in  speaking  was  admired,  but  still  it  was  thought 
human;  their  eloquence  warmed  and  ravished  the 
hearers,  but  still  it  was  thought  the  voice  of  man, ! 
not  the  voice  of  God.  What  advantage  then  had 
St.  Paul  above  those  of  Greece  or  Rome  ?  I  con¬ 
fess  I  can  ascribe  this  excellence  to  nothing  but 
the  power  of  the  doctrines  he  delivered,  which 
may  have  still  the  same  influence  on  the  hearers, 
which  have  still  the  power,  when  preached  by  a 
skillful  orator,  to  make  us  break  out  in  the  same 
expressions  as  the  disciples  who  met  our  Savior 
in  their  way  to  Emmaus  made  use  of:  ‘Did  not 
our  hearts  burn  within  us  when  he  talked  to  us 
by  the  way,  and  while  he  opened  to  us  the  Scrip¬ 
tures?’  I  may  be  thought  bold  in  my  judgment 
by  some,  but  I  must  affirm  that  no  one  orator  has 
left  us  so  visible  marks  and  footsteps  of  his  elo- 
uence  as  our  apostle.  It  may  perhaps  be  won- 
ered  at,  that,  in  his  reasonings  upon  idolatry  at 
Athens,  where  eloquence  was  born  and  flourished, 
he  confines  himself  to  strict  argument  only;  but 
my  reader  may  remember,  what  many  authors  of 
the  best  credit  have  assured  us,  that  all  attempts 
upon  the  affections,  and  strokes  of  oratory,  were 
expressly  forbidden  by  the  laws  of  that  country 
in  courts  of  judicature.  His  want  of  eloquence 
therefore  here  was  the  effect  of  his  exact  conform¬ 
ity  to  the  laws;  but  his  discourse  on  the  resur¬ 
rection  to  the  Corinthians,  his  harangue  before 
Agrippa  upon  his  own  conversion,  and  the  neces¬ 
sity  of  that  of  others,  are  truly  great,  and  may 
serve  as  full  examples  to  those  excellent  rules  for 
the  sublime,  which  the  best  of  critics  has  left  us. 
The  sum  of  all  this  discourse  is,  that  our  clergy 
have  no  further  to  look  for  an  example  of  the  per¬ 
fection  they  may  arrive  at,  than  to  St.  Paul’s 
harangues;  that  when  he,  under  the  want  of  sev¬ 
eral  advantages  of  nature,  as  he  himself  tells  us, 
was  heard,  admired,  and  made  a  standard  to  suc¬ 
ceeding  ages,  by  the  best  judges  of  a  different 
persuasion  in  religion;  I  say,  our  clergy  may 
learn,  that  however  instructive  their  sermons  are, 
they  are  capable  of  receiving  a  great  addition: 
which  St.  Paul  has  given  them  a  noble  example 
of,  and  the  Christian  religion  has  furnished  them 
with  certain  means  of  attaining  to.” 


No.  634.]  FRIDAY,  DECEMBER  17,  1714. 

The  fewer  our  wants,  the  nearer  we  resemble  the  gods. 

It  was  the  common  boast  of  the  heathen  philoso¬ 
phers,  that  by  the  efficacy  of  their  several  doctrines, 


they  made  human  nature  resemble  the  divine. 
How  much  mistaken  soever  they  might  be  in  the 
several  means  they  proposed  for  this  end,  it  must 
be  owned  that  the  design  was  great  and  glorious. 
The  finest  works  of  invention  and  imagination 
are  of  very  little  weight  when  put  in  the  balance 
with  what  refines  and  exalts  the  rational  mind. 
Longinus  excuses  Homer  very  handsomely,  when 
he  says  the  poet  made  his  gods  like  men,  that  he 
might  make  his  men  appear  like  the  gods.  But 
it  must  be  allowed  that  several  of  the  ancient 
philosophers  acted  as  Cicero  wishes  Homer  had 
done:  they  endeavored  rather  to  make  men  like 
gods  than  gods  like  men. 

According  to  this  general  maxim  in  philosophy, 
some  of  them  have  endeavored  to  place  men  in 
such  a  state  of  pleasure,  or  indolence  at  least,  as 
they  vainly  imagined  the  happiness  of  the  Su¬ 
preme  Being  to  consist  in.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  most  virtuous  sect  of  philosophers  have  created 
a  chimerical  wise  man  whom  they  made  exempt 
from  passion  and  pain,  and  thought  it  enough  to 
pronounce  him  all-sufficient. 

This  last  character,  when  divested  of  the  glare 
of  human  philosophy  that  surrounds  it,  signifies 
no  more  than  that  a  good  and  wise  man  should  so 
arm  himself  with  patience  as  not  to  yield  tamely 
to  the  violence  of  passion  and  pain;  that  he  should 
learn  so  to  suppress  and  contract  his  desires  as  to 
have  few  wants;  and  that  he  should  cherish  so 
many  virtues  in  his  soul  as  to  have  a  perpetual 
•  source  of  pleasure  in  himself. 

The  Christian  religion  requires  that,  after  having 
framed  the  best  idea  we  are  able  of  the  divine  na¬ 
ture,  it  should  be  our  next  care  to  conform  our¬ 
selves  to  it  as  far  as  our  imperfections  will  permit. 
I  might  mention  several  passages  in  the  sacred 
writings  on  this  head,  to  which  I  might  add 
many  maxims  and  wise  sayings  of  moral  authors 
among  the  Greeks  and  Romans. 

I  shall  only  instance  a  remarkable  passage,  to 
this  purpose,  out  of  Julian’s  Caesars.  The  em¬ 
peror  having  represented  all  the  Roman  emperors, 
with  Alexander  the  Great,  as  passing  in  review 
before  the  gods,  and  striving  for  the  superiority, 
lets  them  all  drop,  excepting  Alexander,  Julius 
Caesar,  Augustus  Caesar,  Trajan,  Marcus  Aurelius, 
and  Constantine.  Each  of  these  great  heroes  of 
antiquity  lays  in  his  claim  for  the  upper  place; 
and,  in  order  to  it,  sets  forth  his  actions  after  the 
most  advantageous  manner.  But  the  gods,  in¬ 
stead  of  being  dazzled  with  the  luster  of  their 
actions,  inquire  by  Mercury  into  the  proper  mo¬ 
tive  and  governing  principle  that  influenced  them 
throughout  the  whole  series  of  their  lives  and  ex¬ 
ploits.  Alexander  tells  them  that  his  aim  was  to 
conquer;  Julius  Caesar,  that  his  was  to  gain  the 
highest  post  in  his  country;  Augustus,  to  govern 
well;  Trajan,  that  his  was  the  same  as  that  of 
Alexander,  namely,  to  conquer.  The  question,  at 
length,  was  put  to  Marcus  Aurelius,  who  replied, 
with  great  modesty  that  it  had  always  been  his 
care  to  imitate  the  gods.  This  conduct  seems  to 
have  gained  him  the  most  votes  and  best  place 
in  the  assembly.  Marcus  Aurelius  being  after¬ 
ward  asked  to  explain  himself,  declares  that,  by 
imitating  the  gods,  he  endeavored  to  imitate  them 
in  the  use  of  his  understanding,  and  of  all  other 
faculties;  and  in  particular,  that  it  was  always  his 
study  to  have  as  few  wants  as  possible  in  himself, 
and  to  do  all  the  good  he  could  to  others. 

Among  the  many  methods  by  which  revealed 
religion  has  advanced  morality,  this  is  one,  that 
it  has  given  us  a  more  just  and  perfect  idea  of 
that  Being  whom  every  reasonable  creature  ought 
to  imitate.  The  young  man,  in  a  heathen  com¬ 
edy,  might  justify  his  lewdness  by  the  example 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


732 

of  Jupiter;  as,  indeed,  there  was  scarce  any  crime 
that  might  not  be  countenanced  by  those  notions 
of  the  deity,  which  prevailed  among  the  common 
people  in  the  heathen  world.  Revealed  religion 
sets  forth  a  proper  object  for  imitation  in  that  Be¬ 
ing  who  is  the  pattern,  as  well  as  the  source,  of  all 
spiritual  perfection. 

While  we  remain  in  this  life  we  are  subject  to 
innumerable  temptations,  which,  if  listened  to, 
will  make  us  deviate  from  reason  and  goodness, 
the  only  things  wherein  we  can  imitate  the  Supreme 
Being.  In  the  next  life  we  meet  with  nothing  to 
excite  our  inclinations  that  doth  not  deserve  them. 
I  shall  therefore  dismiss  my  reader  with  this 
maxim,  viz:  “Our  happiness  in  this  world  pro¬ 
ceeds  from  the  suppression  of  our  desires,  but  in 
the  next  world  from  the  gratification  of  them.” 


Ho.  635.]  MONDAY,  DECEMBER  20,  1714. 

Sentio  te  sedem  hominum  ac  domum  contemplari ;  quae  si  tibi 
parva  (ut  est)  ita  videtur,  haee  coelestia  semper  spectato; 
ilia  humana  contemnito. — Cicero  Somn.  Scip. 

I  perceive  you  contemplate  the  seat  and  habitation  of  men ; 
which  if  it  appears  as  little  to  you  as  it  really  is,  fix  your 
eyes  perpetually  upon  heavenly  objects,  and  despise  earthly. 

The  following  essay  comes  from  the  ingenious 
author  of  the  letter  upon  novelty,  printed  in  a  late 
Spectator;  the  notions  are  drawn  from  the  Platonic 
way  of  thinking;  but  as  they  contribute  to  raise 
the  mind,  and  may  inspire  noble  sentiments  of 
our  own  future  grandeur  and  happiness,  I  think  it 
well  deserves  to  be  presented  to  the  public: 

“If  the  universe  be  the  creature  of  an  intelligent 
mind,  this  mind  could  have  no  immediate  regard 
to  himself  in  producing  it.  He  needed  not  to  make 
trial  of  his  omnipotence  to  be  informed  what  effects 
were  within  its  reach;  the  world,  as  existing  in  his 
eternal  idea,  was  then  as  beautiful  as  now  it  is 
drawn  forth  into  being;  and  in  the  immense  abyss 
of  his  essence  are  contained  far  brighter  scenes  than 
will  be  ever  set  forth  to  view;  it  being  impossible 
that  the  great  author  of  nature  should  bound  his 
own  power  by  giving  existence  to  a  system  of 
creatures  so  perfect  that  he  cannot  improve  upon 
it  by  any  other  exertions  of  his  almighty  will. 
Between  finite  and  infinite  there  is  an  unmeasur¬ 
able  interval  not  to  be  filled  up  in  endless  ages;  for 
which  reason  the  most  excellent  of  all  God’s  works 
must  be  equally  short  of  what  his  power  is  able 
to  produce  as  the  most  imperfect,  and  may  be  ex¬ 
ceeded  with  the  same  ease. 

“  This  thought  hath  made  some  imagine  (what 
it  must  be  confessed  is  not  impossible),  that  the 
unfathomed  space  is  ever  teeming  with  new  births, 
the  younger  still  inheriting  a  greater  perfection 
than  the  elder.  But,  as  this  doth  not  fall  within 
my  present  view,  I  shall  content  myself  with  tak¬ 
ing  notice  that  the  consideration  now  mentioned 
proves  undeniably,  that  the  ideal  worlds  in  the 
divine  understanding  yield  a  prospect  incompara¬ 
bly  more  ample,  various,  and  delightful,  than  any 
created  world  can  do;  and  that  therefore,  as  it  is 
not  to  be  supposed  that  God  should  make  a  world 
merely  of  inanimate  matter,  however  diversified, 
or  inhabited  only  by  creatures  of  no  higher  an 
order  than  brutes,  so  the  end  for  which  he  designed 
his  reasonable  offspring  is  the  contemplation  of 
his  works,  the  enjoyment  of  himself,  and  in  both 
to  be  happy;  having,  to  this  purpose,  endowed 
them  with  corresponding  faculties  and  desires. 
He  can  have  no  greater  pleasure  from  a  bare  re¬ 
view  of  his  works  than  from  the  survey  of  his  own 
ideas;  but  we  may  be  assured  that  he  is  well 
pleased  in  the  satisfaction  derived  to  beings  capa- . 
ble  of  it,  and  for  whose  entertainment  he  hath 


erected  this  immense  theater.  Is  not  this  more 
than  an  intimation  of  our  immortality?  Man,  who, 
when  considered  as  on  his  probation  for  a  happy 
existence  hereafter,  is  the  most  remarkable  instance 
of  divine  wisdom;  if  we  cut  him  off  from  all  rela¬ 
tion  to  eternity,  is  the  most  wonderful  and  unac¬ 
countable  composition  in  the  whole  creation.  He 
hath  capacities  to  lodge  a  much  greater  variety 
of  knowledge  than  he  will  be  ever  master  of,  and 
an  unsatisfied  curiosity  to  tread  the  secret  paths 
of  nature  and  providence;  but  with  this,  his  or¬ 
gans,  in  their  present  structure,  are  rather  fitted  to 
serve  the  necessities  of  a  vile  body,  than  to  minis¬ 
ter  to  his  understanding;  and  from  the  little  spot 
to  which  he  is  chained,  he  can  frame  but  wander¬ 
ing  guesses  concerning  the  innumerable  worlds 
of  light  that  encompass  him;  which,  though  in 
themselves  of  a  prodigious  bigness,  do  but  just 
glimmer  in  the  remote  spaces  of  the  heavens;  and 
when,  with  a  great  deal  of  time  and  pains,  he  hath 
labored  a  little  way  up  the  steep  ascent  of  truth, 
and  beholds  with  pity  the  groveling  multitude 
beneath,  in  a  moment  his  foot  slides,  and  he  tum¬ 
bles  down  headlong  into  the  grave. 

“Thinking  on  this,  I  am  obliged  to  believe,  in 
justice  to  the  Creator  of  the  world,  that  there  is 
another  state  when  man  shall  be  better  situated  for 
contemplation,  or  rather  have  it  in  his  power  to 
remove  from  object  to  object,  and  from  world  to 
world;  and  be  accommodated  with  senses  and  other 
helps,  for  making  the  quickest  and  most  amazing 
discoveries.  How  doth  such  a  genius  as  Sir  Isaac 
Newton,  from  amid  the  darkness  that  involves  hu¬ 
man  understanding,  break  forth  and  appear  like 
one  of  another  species !  The  vast  machine  we  in¬ 
habit  lies  open  to  him;  he  seems  not  unacquainted 
with  the  general  laws  that  govern  it;  and  while 
with  the  transport  of  a  philosopher  he  beholds 
and  admires  the  glorious  work,  he  is  capable  of 
paying  at  once  a  more  devout  and  more  rational 
homage  to  his  Maker.  But,  alas !  how  narrow  is 
the  prospect  even  of  such  a  mind !  And  how  ob¬ 
scure  to  the  compass  that  is  taken  in  by  the  ken 
of  an  angel,  or  of  a  soul  but  newly  escaped  from 
its  imprisonment  in  the  body!  For  my  part,  I 
freely  indulge  my  soul  in  the  confidence  of  its 
future  grandeur;  it  pleases  me  to  think  that  I,  who 
know  so  small  a  portion  of  the  works  of  the  Crea¬ 
tor,  and  with  slow  and  painful  steps  creep  up  and 
down  on  the  surface  of  this  globe,  shall  ere  long 
shoot  away  with  the  swiftness  of  imagination, 
trace  out  the  hidden  springs  of  nature’s  opera¬ 
tions,  be  able  to  keep  pace  with  the  heavenly  bod¬ 
ies  in  the  rapidity  of  their  career,  be  a  spectator 
of  the  long  chain  of  events  in  the  natural  and 
moral  worlds,  visit  the  several  apartments  of  crea¬ 
tion,  know  how  they  are  furnished  and  how  in¬ 
habited,  comprehend  the  order,  and  measure  the 
magnitudes  and  distance  of  those  orbs,  which  to 
us  seem  disposed  without  any  regular  design,  and 
set  all  in  the  same  circle;  observe  the  dependence 
of  the  parts  of  each  system,  and  (if  our  minds  are 
big  enough  to  grasp  tne  theory)  of  the  several  sys¬ 
tems  upon  one  another,  from  whence  results  the 
harmony  of  the  universe.  In  eternity  a  great  deal 
may  be  done  of  this  kind.  I  find  it  of  use  to 
cherish  this  generous  ambition;  for  beside  the  se¬ 
cret  refreshment  it  diffuses  through  my  soul,  it 
engages  me  in  an  endeavor  to  improve  my  facul¬ 
ties,  as  well  as  to  exercise  them  conformably  to  the 
rank  I  now  hold  among  reasonable  beings,  and  the 
hope  I  have  of  being  once  advanced  to  a  more  ex¬ 
alted  station. 

“  The  other,  and  that  the  ultimate  end  of  man, 
is  the  enjoyment  of  God,  beyond  which  he  cannot 
form  a  wish.  Dim  at  best  are  the  conceptions  we 
have  of  the  Supreme  Being,  who,  as  it  were,  keeps 


THE  SPECTATOR. 


his  creatures  in  suspense,  neither  discovering  nor 
hiding  himself;  by  which  means,  the  libertine  hath 
a  handle  to  dispute  his  existence,  while  the  most 
are  content  to  speak  him  fair,  but  in  their  hearts 
prefer  every  trifling  satisfaction  to  the  favor  of 
their  Maker,  and  ridicule  the  good  man  for  the 
singularity  of  his  choice.  Will  there  not  a  time 
come  when  the  Freethinker  shall  see  his  impious 
schemes  overturned,  and  be  made  a  convert  to  the 
truths  he  hates?  when  deluded  mortals  shall  be 
convinced  of  the  folly  of  their  pursuits;  and  the 
few  wise  who  followed  the  guidance  of  Heaven, 
and,  scorning  the  blandishments  of  sense,  and  the 
sordid  bribery  of  the  world,  aspired  to  a  celestial 
abode,  shall  stand  possessed  of  their  utmost  wish  in 
the  vision  of  the  Creator?  Here  the  mind  heaves 
a  thought  now  and  then  toward  him,  and  hath 
some  transient  glances  of  his  presence;  when,  in 
the  instant  it  thinks  itself  to  have  the  fastest  hold, 
the  object  eludes  its  expectations,  and  it  falls  back 
tired  and  baffled  to  the  ground.  Doubtless,  there 
is  some  more  perfect  way  of  conversing  with  heav¬ 
enly  beings.  Are  not  spirits  capable  of  mutual 
intelligence,  unless  immersed  in  bodies,  or  by 
their  intervention?  Must  superior  natures  depend 
on  inferior  for  the  main  privileges  of  sociable  beings, 
that  of  conversing  with  and  knowing  each  other  ? 
What  would  they  have  done  had  matter  never  been 
created  ?  I  suppose,  not  have  lived  in  eternal  sol¬ 


733 

itude.  As  incorporeal  substances  are  of  a  nobler 
order,  so  be  sure  their  manner  of  intercourse  is 
answerably  more  expedite  and  intimate.  This 
method  of  communication  we  call  intellectual  vis¬ 
ion,  as  somewhat  analogous  to  the  sense  of  seeing, 
which  is  the  medium  of  our  acquaintance  with 
this  visible  world.  And  in  some  such  way  can 
God  make  himself  the  object  of  immediate  intui¬ 
tion  to  the  blessed;  and  as  he  can,  it  is  not  in£ 
probable  that  he  will,  always  condescending,  in 
the  circumstances  of  doing  it,  to  the  weakness  and 
proportion  of  finite  minds.  His  works  but  faintly 
reflect  the  image  of  his  perfections;  it  is  a  second¬ 
hand  knowledge;  to  have  a  just  idea  of  him  it 
may  be  necessaiy  that  we  see  him  as  he  is.  But 
what  is  that  ?  It  is  something  that  never  entered 
into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive;  yet,  what  we 
can  easily  conceive,  will  be  a  fountain  of  unspeak¬ 
able,  of  everlasting  rapture.  All  created  glories 
will  fade  and  die  away  in  his  presence.  Perhaps 
it  will  be  my  happiness  to  compare  the  world  with 
the  fair  exemplar  of  it  in  the  Divine  mind;  per¬ 
haps,  to  view  the  original  plan  of  those  wise  de¬ 
signs  that  have  been  executing  in  a  long  succession 
of  ages.  Thus  employed  in  finding  out  his  works, 
and  contemplating  their  Author,  how  shall  I  fall 
prostrate  and  adoring,  my  body  swallowed  up  in 
the  immensity  of  matter,  my  mind  in  the  infini¬ 
tude  of  his  perfections  1” 


I  , 


1 


INDEX 


NO. 

Absence  of  mind .  77 

Absent  Lovers .  245 

Absurd  Claims  of  Reward .  629 

Absurdities  of  the  Opera-dresses .  29 

exemplified  in  Letters 

from  the  Performers  of  Beasts .  22 

Account  of  a  Free-thinker .  234 

a  great  Man’s  Levee .  193 

a  Grinning-match .  173 

an  Atheistical  Book . 389 

a  Remarkable  Sleeper .  184 

a  Trunkmaker  in  the  Theater . 235 

a  Whistling-match .  179 

Sappho .  223 

the  Custom  of  Enborne .  623 

the  Death  of  Madame  de  Villacerfe  368 

the  Everlasting  Club .  72 

the  Hebdomadal  Club .  43 

v  \  the  Marriage  of  Will  Honeycomb.  530 

'  the  Mohock  Club .  324 

the  new  Sect  of  Loungers .  54 

the  Spectator  opening  his  Mouth..  .556 

the  Sweaters .  332 

the  various  Clubs .  9 

the  Ugly  Club .  17 

the  Widow’s  Club .  561 

A  cheerful  Temper .  143 

Address  to  those  who  have  jealous  Husbands.  171 
Admission  of  the  Spectator  into  the  Ugly  Club  32 

Adrian’s  Verses . 532 

Advantages  from  Christianity .  633 

of  an  air  of  Importance  in  making 

Love .  602 

of  being  so  easily  pleased . 454 

of  Content . ’ . 574 

of  Levity  over  grave  Behavior  in 

Young  Ladies .  492 

of  seeking  the  Protection  of  the 

Supreme  Being . 571 

of  the  Sexes  associating . 433 

of  the  Spectator’s  Taciturnity. . .  4 

Adventure  of  M.  Pontignan .  90 

Adventures  of  a  Servant .  96 

of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  with  a 

Woman  of  the  Town . 410 

Advice  on  disputes . 197 

to  Gloriana  respecting  the  studied  Ad¬ 
dresses  of  Strephon  and  Damon ....  423 

to  Ladies  on  Marriage . 522 

to  the  Trading-world .  443 

Affectation  of  Business .  284 

of  Negligence . 284 

of  Slovenliness .  150 

Affected  method  of  Psalm-singing . 205 

Allegory  of  several  Schemes  of  Wit .  63 

Ambition  hurtful  to  the  Hopes  of  Futurity. . .  257 

Amours  of  Cynthia  and  Flavia . 398 

of  Escalus,  an  old  beau . 318 


Anecdote  of  an  Atheistical  Author .  166 

of  a  Portuguese  Minister  of  Pope 

Leo  X . .  ..497 

Ann  Boleyn’s  Letter . 397 

Answers  to  various  Correspondents .  619 

Applause  of  Men  not  to  be  regarded .  610 

April-day  Jest . 432 

Art  of  being  agreeable  in  Company . 386 

of  improving  Beauty .  33 

Arts  of  Courtship'. . 400 

of  Procuresses . 266 

Ballad  of  the  Children  in  the  Wood .  85 

Beauties  of  the  Evening . 425 

Behavior  of  a  Beau  at  a  Theater . 240 

Benefit  of  extensive  Commerce .  69 

Benevolent  Disposition . 230 

Bill  of  Mortality  of  Lovers .  377 

Bishop  of  St.  Asaph’s  Preface  to  his  Ser¬ 
mons . 384 

Blessing  of  Being  born  an  Englishman .  135 

Books  for  a  Lady’s  Library .  92 

Bruyere’s  Character  of  an  Absent  Man .  77 

Care  of  the  Female  Sex .  4 

Case  of  Love . 254 

Castle-building . 167 

Catalogue  of  a  Lady’s  Library .  37 

Causes  of  Longing  in  Women .  326 

of  unhappiness  in  the  Married-state. .  479 

which  obstruct  Benevolence .  601 

Caution  to  the  Fair  Sex . 400 

in  Writing . 262 

Celinda’s  Letter  on  Female  Jealousy . 178 

Censure  of  a  Passage  in  the  Funeral .  51 

Character  of  Acasto . 386 

of  Arietta .  11 

of  the  Coffee-houses. .  49 

of  a  Devotee . 354 

of  Emilia . 302 

of  English  Oratory .  407 

of  the  Idols .  73 

oflrus . 264 

of  Jezebel .  175 

of  Leonora .  37 

of  a  Man  of  Wit  and  Pleasure . 151 

of  Manilius . 467 

of  Peter  the  Great .  139 

of  Polycarpus . 280 

of  Prince  Eugene . 340 

of  the  Salamanders .  198 

of  Sempronia,  a  Match-maker . 437 

of  a  Shoeing-horn .  536 

of  a  Templar  in  Love . 485 

of  William  the  Third .  516 

of  Will  Wimple . 108 

of  Women’s  Men . 156 

Characteristics  of  Taste .  409  / 


(  735  ) 


736 


INDEX. 


NO. 

Characters  of  Callisthenes,  Acetus,  and  Minu- 

tius .  422 

of  Erastus,  Laetitia,  Tawdry,  and 

Flavilla .  506 

of  Harry  Jersett  and  Yarilas . 100 

of  Laertes  and  Irus .  114 

of  Laetitia  and  Daphne .  33 

of  Sir  Fopling  Flutter,  Dorimant 

and  Harriet .  65 

of  Tom  Puzzle  and  Will  Dry . 476 

of  various  Beauties .  144 

of  Vocifer  and  Ignotus .  75 

Charity  schools .  294 

Cheerfulness  preferable  to  Mirth .  381 

Childish  Impertinence .  45 

Church  Music  recommended . 630 

Cibber’s  Heroic  Daughter .  546 

Claim  of  Cambridge  to  the  Origin  of  the  Ugly 

Club . 78 

Clarinda’s  Journal  of  a  Week . 323 

Club  of  Lovers  established  at  Oxford .  30 

of  the  Parish  Clerks .  372 

of  She-romps .  217 

Coffee-house  Conversation . 568 

Coming  late  to  Dinner . - . 448 

Commendations  of  the  Spectator . 553 

Commission  to  Mr.  John  Sly .  526 

Comparative  Advantages  of  Public  and  Private 

Education .  313 

Complaint  against  a  Coxcomb . 508 

of  Starers . . . . . . 250 

of  Thomas  Kimbow .  24 

Complaints  of  Rachel  Welladay  against  the 

Young  Men  of  the  Age . 528 

of  Sickness . 100.  143 

Complexions .  286 

Complimentary  Letter  to  the  Spectator . 461 

Compliments .  103 

Condition  of  Servants .  137 

Conduct  of  the  Lions  at  the  Opera .  13 

Connection  between  Prudence  and  Good  For¬ 
tune .  293 

Consolation .  163 

on  the  Death  of  a  parent . 192 

and  Intrepidity  in  Death . 349 

offered  to  a  Beauty  destroyed  by 

the  Small-pox . 306 

Contemplation  of  the  Character  of  our  Saviour  356 
Contentious  Conversations  of  Gentlemen  of 

the  Long  Robe . 197 

Conversation  with  the  Fair  Sex . 300 

Coquettish  Milk-maid . ! . 380 

Correspondence  between  Amoret,  a  Jilt,  and 

Philander .  401 

of  Gabriel  Bullock  and  Mrs. 

M.  Clark . 328 

Country  Breeding . 240 

Dances . 67 

Court  of  Inquisition  on  Maids  and  Bachelors.  203 

Credit .  218 

Criticism . 300,  470 

on  Paradise  Lost,  267,  273, 279,  285,  291, 
297,  303,  309,  315,  321,  327,  333,  339, 
345,  354,  357,  363,  369. 

Criticisms . 592 

on  the  Spectator. . 542 

Critique  on  the  Ballad  of  Chevy  Chase . 70,  74 

Cruelty  of  a  French  Captain . 350 

of  Parents . 189 

of  Parents  in  the  Affair  of  Marriage. .  181 

Cure  for  a  bad  Husband . 252 

Cures  performed  by  the  Spectator . 547 

Custom  of  telling  Stories  of  Ghosts  to  Children  12 

D.  to  his  Coquette  Mistress .  204 


NO. 

Dancing .  67,  296 

recommended . 307 

Dangerous  influence  of  the  Month  of  May. ...  365 

Dangers  of  Dancing .  67 

of  the  Month  of  May  escaped . 395 

Dapperwit’s  Question .  534 

Death  and  Character  of  Dick  Estcourt .  468 A  v 

of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley . 517  ^ 

Decency  of  Behavior . 104 

Decorating  Churches  with  Evergreens . 282 

Defense  and  Happiness  of  a  Married  Life. . . .  500 
of  the  Spectator’s  Censure  of  Public 

Vices . 286 

Degeneracy  of  the  Stage .  446 

Demurrage .  89 

Depraved  Taste  on  the  Theater .  208 

Description  of  Male  Jilts . 288 

of  a  Tavern  Tyrant .  508 

Devotion . 201 

Difference  between  True  and  false  Wit .  62' 

of  Temper  in  the  Sexes .  128 

Different  Characters  in  a  Tour  through  the 

Metropolis .  454 

Classes  of  Female  Orators . 247 

Difficult  Case  in  Love  resolved . 605 

Diffidence .  206 

Disadvantages  of  Ambition. . . .  256 

Disappointment  in  Love .  163 

Disci'etion  and  Cunning . 225 

Dispute  on  the  Landed  and  Trading  Interest.  174 

Dissection  of  a  Beau’s  Head .  275 

of  a  Coquette’s  Heart . 281 

Dissertation  on  Beards . 331 

Distresses  of  a  very  Amorous  Gentleman. ....  596 
Divinity,  Law,  and  Physic,  overburdened  with 

Practitioners .  21 

Division  of  Mankind  into  Classes . 624 

Dramatic  Improvements .  592 

Murders . 44 

Dream  of  a  Picture-gallery .  83 

Dreams  of  various  Correspondents .  597 

Dueling .  99 

Dumb  Conjurer .  474 

Durability  of  Writing .  166 

Duty  of  being  Usefully  Employed . 583 

of  communicating  Knowledge  :  Objec¬ 
tions  answered .  379 

to  Parents . 189 


Education  compared  to  Sculpture . 215 

of  Country  ’Squires . 123 

Effects  of  Avarice  and  Luxury  upon  Employ¬ 
ments .  55 

Eloquence  of  Beggars . 613 

Embroidery  recommended  to  the  Ladies .  606 

Encoring  in  the  Theaters .  314 

Endeavors  of  Mankind  to  get  rid  of  their  Bur¬ 
dens,  (a  Dream) . 558,  559 

English  Tongue,  The . 135 

Tragedy . 39,  42 

Enlargement  of  the  mind  in  a  Future  State. ..  635 

Enthusiasm .  201 

Ephesian  Matron,  The .  11 

Epicure  Mammon’s  Letter  on  Eating . 344 

Epigram  on  the  Spectator. . . . . 488 

Epitaph  in  Pancras-churchyard . 538 

Equestrian  Lady . 485 

Erratum  in  the  Paper  on  Drinking .  205 

Errors  in  the  Common  Modes .  66 

Essay  on  Dreams .  487 

on  Friendship .  385 

on  Wit .  58  -  ' 

Essays  on  the  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination  411-421 

Eubulus .  49 

Excess  of  Anxiety  about  Health .  25 


INDEX. 


737 


Exercise  of  the  Fan .  102 

of  the  Snuff-box .  138 

Exhibition  of  Pictures .  67 

Extract  from  Tillotson’s  Sermons .  352 

Extracts  on  Sincerity .  103 

Fable  of  a  Drop  in  the  Ocean . 293 

of  Pleasure  and  pain .  183 

False  Delicacy . 286 

Hopes . 282 

Wit  and  Humor .  35 

Wit  and  Mechanic  Poetry .  220 

Fame.. . 218 

difficult  to  be  obtained . *  255 

Farewell  Paper  and  Acknowledgments  of  As¬ 
sistance . 555 

Fashions  in  Dress,  how  imitated  in  the  Country  129 

Fate  of  Writings .  85 

Female  Beauty .  144 

Dress . 435 

Education .  314 

Equestrians . 435 

Head-dress . 265 

Levity .  128 

Oratory.. . . .  252 

Pander  described . 205 

Party-spirit  discovered  by  Patches ...  81 

Reaaing .  95 

Fickle  Friend .  194 

Filial  Piety  of  Fidelia . 449 

Flitch  of  Bacon,  The .  607 

Folly  of  Demurrage .  89 

of  destroying  Wood .  589 

of  the  Pride  of  Birth  or  Fortune .  202 

of  Wishing  to  be  Young .  153 

Fragment  of  Sappho .  229 

Fragments  from  Caesar .  374 

French  Fashions .  45 

Frivolous  Disputants. . . .  138 

Genealogy  of  Humor .  35 

Good  Breeding .  158 

Manners . 296 

Nature,  as  a  Moral  Virtue .  177 

Natured  Lies . 234 

Gospel-gossip .  46 

Grateful  Letter  on  Heroic  Virtue .  240 

Grotto  Work. .  .  . .  632 

Happiness  of  Dependence  upon  the  Supreme 

Being . 441 

Heathen  Fables  on  Prayers .  391 

Hints  to  a  Lover .  326 

History  of  Amanda .  375 

of  Cat-calls .  361 

of  False  Wit .  58,59 

of  a  Female  Republic .  434 

of  the  Italian  Opera .  18 

of  the  Lover’s  Leap . 233 

of  a  Male  Republic . 433 

of  Phillis  and  Brunetta .  80 

of  Will  Honeycomb’s  Amours .  359 

Hobbe’s  Theory  of  Laughter. . . .  52 

Hood’s . 272 

Humorous  Way  of  sorting  Companies — for 

Mirth — for  Useful  Purposes .  371 

{ Hunting  Scene  with  Sir  Roger .  116 

Hypocrisy,  Various  Kinds  of . 399 

Idea  of  a  Fine  Gentleman .  75 

Ill  Consequence  of  the  Peace .  45 

Ill-naturea  Satire .  23 

Immateriality  of  the  Soul .  Ill 

Immortality  of  the  Soul . 210 

Impertinence  of  Shopping . 336 

47 


Impertinent  Acquaintance .  24 

Impertinent  Conversation  to  Women  in  Busi¬ 
ness .  155 

Importers .  430 

Improper  Behavior  in  Church . ! .  630 

Freedoms  of  Married  People .  430 

Method  of  Educating  Youth .  157 

Improprieties  on  the  Stage . 141 

Impudence — The  Starers .  20 

Impudent  Behavior  of  People  in  the  Streets..  354 

Inconsistencies  in  Love- thoughts .  366 

of  Men  of  Talent  with  respect 

to  Economy .  222 

Inconstancy  of  Friendship .  300 

Inconveniences  of  Poverty .  150 

Increase  of  Beggars .  430 

Indelicacies  in  Plays .  51 

Indelicate  Conversation .  300 

Infirmary  for  Ill-humored  People — Memorials 

presented .  429 

Influence  of  Custom — Moral  deducted  from  it  447 

Inkle  and  Yarico .  n 

Inquisitive  Disposition. . . .  228 


Interview  of  the  Spectator  and  Sir  Roger 

with  a  Gang  of  Gipsies. .  130 

Introduction  of  French  Phrases  in  the  History 

of  the  War — Specimen  in  a  Letter . 165 

Journal  of  a  Citizen . 317 

Italian  Recitative .  29 

King  Latinus . 53 

Labor  and  Exercise .  115 

Ladies’ Head-dress .  98 

Lady-love .  304 

Lampoons .  16 

Lancashire  Witches .  141 

Laughter  and  Ridicule .  249 

Lawyer’s  Club .  372 

Lee .  32 

Letter  on  the  Absence  of  Lovers — Remedies 

proposed .  241 

from  the  Academy  of  Painting .  555 

by  the  Ambassador  of  Bantam .  557 

of  Apology  for  a  Man  of  Wit  and  Plea¬ 
sure .  154 

from  an  Author  turned  Dealer . 288 

from  a  Bankrupt,  and  Answer . 456 

on  Bashfulness .  231 

from  a  Beauty .  87 

from  a  Beauty  destroyed  by  the  Small -pox  306 

from  Belinda  to  the  Shades . 204 

on  Bowing  and  Courtseying  at  Church  460 

on  Butts — on  Fashions .  175 

from  Captain  Sentry  on  the  Character 
of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  and  on  his 

own  Situation .  544 

from  a  Castle-builder .  167 

on  Cat-calls .  361 

Censuring  the  Spectator .  158 

on  the  Character  of  Jilts .  187 

from  Charles  Lillie .  16 

to  Chloe  from  her  Lover,  with  an  Ac¬ 
count  of  his  Dreams .  301 

to  a  Clergyman .  27 

in  Commendation  of  Powell,  the  Pup¬ 
pet-showman.  .  1 . 372 

Complaining  of  Country  Manners  and 

Conversation .  474 

Complaining  of  a  Merry  Prologue  to  a 

Deep  Tragedy .  338 

from  a  Coquette — from  B.  D.  on  Formal 

Devotion .  79 

from  a  Coquette  to  a  New-married  Lady, 
and  Answer .  254 


738 


INDEX. 


NO 

Letter  from  a  Countryman  to  his  Mistress ....  324 

on  the  Cries  of  London . 251 

on  Cruel  Husbands . 236 

on  Dancing .  334 

on  the  Decay  of  the  Club . 542 

in  Defense  of  Merry  Epilogues . 341 

on  Demonstrations  of  Grief .  95 

on  Detraction .  348 

on  the  Effects  of  the  Love  of  Money. .  450 
from  the  Emperor  of  China  to  the  Pope  545 

on  the  Eye .  252 

on  Fashionable  Education .  66 

from  a  Father  to  his  Son .  189 

on  Female  Equestrians .  104 

on  Fortune  Hunters . . 326 

on  Fortune  Stealers .  311 

on  Gardening .  477 

on  the  General  Notion  we  have  of  the 
Fair  Sex .  298 


from  a  Hen-pecked  Husband,  deter¬ 


mined  to  be  Free . 212 

on  Hen-pecked  Keepers .  486 

on  the  Hoop  Petticoat .  127 

from  Horace  to  Claudius  Nero . 493 

to  a  Husband . 204 

from  a  Husband  likely  to  be  ruined  by 

his  Wife’s  Accomplishments . 328 

from  an  Idler .  320 

on  Idols .  87 

on  a  Jealous  Husband .  527 

on  Impertinents . . . . » » .  168 

on  improper  Behavior  at  Church . 236 

from  a  Lady  insulted  by  her  Seducer — 

Reflections  on  the  Subject. .  611 

from  a  Languishing  Lover .  527 

on  Law  Phrases .  551 

from  Leonora . . 163 

from  a  Lion . . . 136 

from  a  Lover . 208 

on  the  Lover’s  Leap . 227 

from  Mary  Tuesday .  24 

on  the  Mercenary  Practice  of  Men  in 

the  Choice  of  Wives .  199 

on  the  Merits  of  Spenser .  540 

from  a  monkey . 343 

on  Naked  Shoulders . . . 437 

from  a  natural  Son .  203 

from  a  New-married  Couple .  364 

from  Octavia,  complaining  of  the  ingra¬ 
titude  of  her  Husband .  322 

from  Oxford  Correspondents .  553 

from  the  Parish-clerk  on  Evergreens . . .  284 

from  Parthenia .  140 

from  a  Person  supposed  to  be  Crazed. .  577 
and  Petition  on  the  Exercise  of  the  Fan  134 

of  Pliny  to  Hispulla .  525 

on  Poachers .  168 

on  Poetical  Justice .  548 

from  a  Poor  and  Proud  Jezebel . 392 

on  the  Prayers  of  Clergymen  before 

Sermon . 312 

from  the  President  of  the  Club  of 

Widows . 573 

from  a  Prude .  364 

on  Punning . 396 

and  Reflections  on  Modesty .  484 

and  Reflections  on  Rustic  Amusements  161 

on  Seduction .  208 

on  the  Severity  of  Schoolmasters . 168 

from  a  Silent  Lover .  .  304 

from  Sir  Andrew  Freeport — His  Re¬ 
tiring . 549 

from  Sir  J ohn  Envil,  married  to  a  Wo¬ 
man  of  Quality . 299 

from  Mr.  Sly  on  Hats .  532 


NO. 

Letter  from  Sophia  in  Love  with  a  Short  Face  290 

from  a  Splenetic  cured .  134 

from  one  Steele .  274 

on  the  Theater — On  a  Musical  Scheme  258 

from  Three  Thrifty  Ladies . 332 

on  Traveling .  364 

from  a  "Valetudinarian .  25 

from  the  Ugly  Club .  52 

on  Visiting .  208 

on  the  Unhappy  Condition  of  Women 

of  the  Town .  190 

on  an  Untoward  Wife .  194 

from  a  Widow  with  two  Lovers,  and 

Answer .  149 

from  Will  Honeycomb . i . . .  131 

on  Women’s  Men .  158 

on  Women  taking  Snuff .  344 

on  young  Templars  turning  Hackney- 

coachmen  . . 498 

to  Zelinda  from  her  Lover— his  Death!  627 
on  Affectation  of  Ignorance  from  a 

Poetical  Lover . 473 

on  Ambition — from  a  lady  marked  by 

the  Small-pox . 613 

from  a  Blank — complaining  of  a  Cho¬ 
leric  Gentleman .  563 

from  Cleanthes  on  a  Mischief-making 
Old  Maid — from  E.  G.  on  Kissing. . .  272 
in  Commendation  of  Brooke  and  Hel- 
lier’s  Wine— from  a  Scholar  in  Love  362 
on  the  Conduct  of  gay  and  foppish  Fa¬ 
thers — on  Swinging .  496 

from  a  Country  Gentleman  to  Phara- 

mond— from  a  Lawyer’s  Clerk . 480 

on  Delicacy  in  the  Censure  of  Vices — 
from  an  affected  Lady — a  Kept-mis¬ 
tress — a  Quaker . 276 

from  Dorinda,  complaining  of  the 
Spectator’s  partiality — from  a  man 

of  Fashion .  319 

from  the  Dumb  Doctor — from  a  Pert 
Baggage — on  the  Author’s  recovering 

his  Speech . . .  560 

on  Education .  337,353 

on  Education — from  the  Husband  of  a 

Scold — on  Money .  455 

on  the  Education  of  Youth .  330 

from  an  English  Singer  at  Venice — on 

Rudeness .  443 

on  Epitaphs . 518 

v  y  from  Estcourt — from  Sir  Roger . 264 

on  Female  Education . 52 

on  a  Generous  Benefactor . 546 

on  Greek  Mottoes — the  use  of  the  "Win¬ 
dow — soliciting  Advice — Lampoons.  296 
from  Hecatissa — from  an  old  Beau. . . .  48 

from  Henpecked  Husbands  —  from  a 

Woman  married  to  a  Cot-quean . 482 

on  Idleness — from  a  Lover . 316 

to  Impertinents  and  Whisperers . 148 

on  improper  Behavior  m  a  Stage¬ 
coach —  Story  of  a  Lottery-ticket — 
from  the  Guardian  of  Two  Nieces. . .  242 
on  the  improper  Dress  of  young  Cler¬ 
gymen  —  on  Antipathies  —  against 

Embroidery .  609 

on  indelicacy — from  an  Old  Maid — 

from  A.  B . 217 

on  innocent  Diversions — from  a  Tro¬ 
jan .  245 

on  the  Joys  and  Satisfactions  of  Pri- 

vateLife. .  406 

from  the  Lion — from  an  Under-sexton 
on  the  Masquerade .  14 


on  Love,  Wit,  Drinking,  Gaming,  etc. .  140 


INDEX. 


Letter  from  a  Lover,  and  Answer — from  John 

Trott  on  his  Courtship . 314 

from  a  Lover  and  Young- Lady . 381 

on  Masquerades .  8 

on  Military  Life  by  various  Soldiers..  566 
from  an  Old  Bachelor — from  Lovers..  260 
on  Parents  forcing  the  Inclinations  of 
their  Children — on  Rudeness  and 

Impudence .  533 

on  a  Partnership  between  a  Goose  and 
a  W atcliman — from  a  Schoolmistress 


on  Dancing . 376 

from  the  Playhouse,  on  the  Dismission 
of  Inanimate  Performers .  36 


on  Pulling  the  Nose — on  Choice  in 
Marriage — from  a  Heedless  Gazer — 
on  Floods — an  Oxford  Toast — on 

Patching .  268 

from  Ralph  Valet  and  Patience  Giddy  137 
on  the  relative  Duties  of  Parents  and 
Children — between  a  mother  and 

Son.. . 263 

requesting  Advice  in  a  Case  of  Love — 
on  improper  Behavior  at  Church. ..  380 

Richard  and  Sabina  Rentfree . 431 

on  Seduction,  from  the  Seducer . 182 

from  Servants . 202 

from  a  Shopkeeper  on  his  Wife’s  Greek  278 

on  Simonides’  Satire  on  Women . 211 

from  a  Spoiled  rich  Beauty — from  a 

Grocer  in  Love — from  an  Idol . 534 

from  Sylvia,  complaining  of  an  Unnat¬ 
ural  Mother — from  a  Married  Man 
in  Love  with  his  Ward — concern¬ 
ing  a  Profligate  Lover . 402 


From  Tom  Trippet — complaining  of  a 
Greek  Quotation — soliciting  a  Peep 
at  Sir  Roger — from  a  Showman. . . .  271 
from  a  Town  Coquette  to  her  friend, 


and  Answer .  515 

from  various  Lovers — on  Tale-bearers  310 
on  Wagerers,  Whistlers,  rude  Old  Ba¬ 
chelor . . 

Life  preparatory  to  the  Happiness  of  Eternity  575 
List  of  Persons  who  demanded  the  Flitch  of 

Bacon . 608 

Love . . . 

Love-letter  of  James  to  Betty . . .  [  71 

Love  Letters  to  Andromache .  142 

Love  of  Applause,  The. . . .  188 

of  Defamation,  The . 427 

of  Glory,  The . . 

of  Latin  among  the  Common  People. ...  221 

and  Marriage .  261 

Scene . . 

Lovers . 89 

Loves  of  Honoria  and  Flavia .  91 


Male  Dress . 

Manners  of  Servants . !!!!.*!” 

Maxims  of  Thrift . ..... 

Means  of  strengthening  Faith . 

Mediocrity  of  Fortune,  to  be  preferred. ...... 

Meditation  on  Animal  Life . 

on  Death,  a  Hymn . 

on  the  Frame  of  the  Human  Body, 
on  the  Wonders  of  the  Deep,  with 

a  Hymn . 

Memoirs  of  an  Honest  Country  Gentleman. ... 

of  the  Private  Life  of  Pharamond. . . 

Messiah,  The,  a  Sacred  Eclogue . 

Method  of  Political  Writers  affecting  Secrecy 

— Specimen . 

Methods  to  aggrandize  the  persons  in  Tragedy 


145 

88 

509 

465 

464 

519 

513 

543 

489 

622 

76 

378 

567 


739 


Military  Courage . 152 

Minute  from  Mr.  Sly . 534 

Misapplication  of  Nature’s  Gifts .  404 

Mischief  of  Board  Wages .  88 

of  Mothers  not  Nursing  their  Chil¬ 
dren . 246 

,  of  PartT  SPirit . 125, 126 

Mischiefs  of  Party-rage  in  the  Female  Sex. . .  57 

Misery  of  being  in  Debt .  82 

Miseries  of  Debt  and  Bankruptcy . .'  456 

of  Prostitution . 266 

Mixed  Wit . j  62 

Mixture  of  the  Sexes  in  one  Person . 435 

Modesty . 206 

Monkey  recommended  for  the  Opera . 28 

Motives  to  Cheerfulness . 387 

Musical  Plan .  278 

Negligence  of  Parents . 431 

News-writers  and  Readers — Specimen  of  a 

,  Newspaper . 452 

Note  from  Mr.  Sly . . 545 

Notions  of  the  Heathens  on  Devotion . 207 

Ogling .  46 

On  the  Abuse  of  Metaphors . 595 

Abuses  at  the  Royal  Exchange .  509 

the  Absurdities  of  the  Modern  Opera .  5 

the  Advantages  of  Dancing . 466 

Adultery — Dogs  which  guarded  the  Tem¬ 
ple  of  Yulcan . 579 

Affectation — Yanity .  38 

Aiming  at  perfection .  634 

the  Art  of  bestowing  Favors . 292 

the  Art  of  growing  Rich .  283 

asking  Advice  in  Affairs  of  Love . 1 ..  475 

Atheists  in  general .  389 

attributing  our  Neighbor’s  Misfortunes  to 

Judgment .  483 

Beauties .  87 

the  Beauty  and  Loveliness  of  Virtue . 243 

Beneficence,  with  Examples . 248 

Benevolence .  601 

Benevolence  in  official  Situations . 469 

Bestowing  Favors  on  the  Deserving . 497 

the  better  Regulating  of  Matches . 308 

Bills  of  Mortality. . . .  289 

the  Breach  of  Promises .  448 

Calumny . 594 

a  Chambermaid’s  perquisites . 366 

the  Characters  in  the  Scornful  Lady . 270 

the  Civil  Constitution  of  Great  Britain. ...  287 

Cleanliness . 631 

a  Clergyman  Spoiling  one  of  Tillotson’s 

Sermons . 539 

the  Collusion  of  Gladiators .  449 

Compassion .  397 

Conjurers  and  Revealers  of  Dreams .  505 

Conversation .  557 

Dancing . 334 

Death . 133 

the  Death  of  a  Beloved  Wife . 520 

Defamatory  Publications . 451 

Delay  in  Marriage . 539 

a  Desire  of  knowing  Future  Events . 604 

the  Desire  of  Pleasing .  280 

Detraction  among  Bad  Poets . 253 

the  Dignity  of  Human  Nature . 537 

Dishonest  Dealing . 546 

Dreams — how  to  be  improved . 593 

Drunkenness  . . .  569 

Early  Wickedness . 352 

Easiness — a  Love  Case .  196 

the  Education  of  Children . 307 

Egotism . 562 


740 


INDEX. 


NO. 

On  Envy .  19 

Epistolary  Poetry . 618 

Eternity . 590,  628 

Extravagance  in  Story-telling .  538 

the  Eyes .  250 

Fable .  183 

Fear .  615 

Female  Apes . 244 

the  frank  Acknowledgment  of  Faults .  382 

Friendship.... .  68 

Ghosts  and  Apparitions . 110 

giving  Advice .  512 

giving  False  Characters  of  Servants . 493 

the  Glories  of  Heaven . 580 

Good-humor — the  Country  Infirmary . 424 

Good-nature,  as  the  Effect  of  Constitution.  169 

Great  Natural  Geniuses .  160 

Habitual  Good  Intentions .  213 

Henpecked  Husbands . 176 

the  Historians .  308 

the  Idea  of  the  Supreme  Being . 531 

Jealousy . 170,  171 

Impertinents — Whisperers .  148 

Improper  Pride . * .  621 

y  the  Improvement  of  Genius . 554 

the  Improvement  of  Sacred  Music . 405 

Inconstancy  and  irresolution .  132 

Infidelity .  186 

the  Irresistible  Power  of  Beauty . 510 

the  Itch  of  Writing . 582 

the  little  Art  of  making  Interest  with  Men 

in  Power .  394 

Living  in  a  Particular  Way .  264 

Looking-glasses . 325 

the  Love  of  Flattery — Translation  from 

Aristoenetus .  238 

the  Love  of  Praise . 467 

making  a  just  Estimate  of  the  Characters 

of  Mankind . 564 

Marriage . 525 

Marriage — Excessive  Fondness .  490 

a  Merry  and  Serious  Cast  of  Temper . 598 

Method  in  Writing  and  Conversation . 476 

Modesty  and  Assurance . 373 

the  Mohocks — Manifesto  of  the  Emperor. .  347 
the  Nature  of  Man — of  the  Supreme  being  565 

the  New  Stamp . 445 

Novelty . 626 

the  Number,  Dispersion,  and  Religion  of 

the  Jews . 495 

an  Obsequious  Behavior .  386 

Oratory .  633 

Outward  Civilities .  259 

Party  Lies . 507 

a  Passionate  Temper — the  Angry  Booksel¬ 
ler  and  Calm  Customer .  438 

Patrons  and  their  Clients .  214 

Persecution . 516 

Personal  Identity .  578 

Petty  Ambition . 570 

Physiognomy .  86 

Pin-money,  Reflections  on  that  Custom. ..  295 

Pious  Gratitude . 453 

Planting . 583,  589 

Pleasant  Fellows . 462 

the  Power  of  insignificant  Objects .  485  r 

Prejudice  and  Emulation — a  Sulky  Wife..  432 
the  Price  and  Success  of  the  Spectator. ...  488 

the  Pride  of  Genealogy .  612 

Pronunciation  and  Action . 541 

the  Proper  Method  of  Repelling  Calumny  390 

the  Proper  Use  of  Time . 374 

Propriety  in  Genteel  Dress . 360 

Public  Mournings .  64 

Quack  Advertisements . 444 


NO. 

On  Quacks . 572 

Raillery . 422 

Raphael’s  Cartoons . 226,  244 

Reading  the  Church-service .  147 

Religious  Faith  and  Practice . 459 

Religious  Hope .  471 

Religious  Melancholy .  494 

Reluctance  to  leave  the  World . 549 

Seducers .  274 

Seducers  and  their  Illicit  Progeny . 203 

Self-love  and  Benevolence .  588 

the  Shame  and  Fear  of  Poverty . 114 

Singularity  —  the  Dread  and  Affectation 

of  it .  576 

Sorrow . 312 

the  Spectator  opening  his  Mouth . 553 

the  Stage . 370 

Strained  and  Pompous  Phrases — Specimen  617 
the  Study  of  Human  Nature — the  Passions  408 
the  Taste  of  a  Roman  and  English  Theat¬ 
rical  Audience .  502 

Temperance .  195 

Templars  turning  Hackney-coachmen. . . .  526 

True  and  False  Modesty .  358 

True  Liberality .  346 

Vain  Hopes .  535 

Visions .  524 

the  Unaccommodating  Disposition  of  Old 

Men .  336 

the  Uncertainty  and  Absurdity  of  Public 

Reports .  521 

Vulgar  Phrases — Specimen .  616 

Want  of  Charity  in  the  Wealthy . 294 

Waste  of  Time .  317 

the  Ways  of  Providence . 237 

the  Whims  of  Lottery  Adventurers . 191 

Witchcraft . 117 

Opinions  on  the  Dispute  between  Count  Rech- 

teren  and  M.  Mesnager . 481 

Opinions  entertained  of  the  Spectator  in  the 

Country . 131 

Otway .  39 

Paradise  of  Fools,  a  Vision . 460 

Parental  Fondness  and  Expectation .  192 

Passage  from  Milton . 325 

Passages  from  Cicero  and  Burnet .  146 

Passion  for  Fame  and  Praise .  73 

Patience,  an  Allegory . 501 

Peeper,  A . . .  53 

Petition  of  Anthony  Title-page— of  Barth. . . .  304 
of  John  a  Nokes  and  Tom  a  Styles. .  577 
from  the  Readers  of  the  Spectator.. . .  310 

of  Who  and  Which .  78 

Pharamond  and  Eucrate  on  Duels .  97 

Phoebe,  a  Poem . 603 

Plan  of  an  Academy . 230 

Pleasant  Character  of  Charles  the  Second ....  462 

Poem  on  Pious  Gratitude . 453 

Poetical  Version  of  Solomon’s  Song,  Chapter 

Second . 388 

Poetry  too  often  mixed  with  Mythology — 

Edict  on  that  Subject . 523 

Political  Arithmetic .  200 

Politics .  16 

Pope’s  Essay  on  Criticism .  253v' 

Popular  Superstitions .  7 

Power  of  Bearing  Calamities .  312 

of  Numbers . .■»... .  632 

Preference  of  Wit  and  Sense  to  Honesty  and 

Virtue .  6 

Private  Life  of  Pharamond .  84 

Marriage .  278 


Proceedings  "of  the  Infirmary  for  Ill-humored 
People .  440 


INDEX. 


Procuresses .  274 

Project  of  the  New  French  Political  Academy  305 

of  a  New  Opera .  31 

of  an  Office  for  the  Regulation  of  Signs  28 
Proper  Ingredients  of  Festivity  and  Mirth. . .  358 

Methods  of  employing  Time . 93,  94 

Proposal  for  a  New  Club .  550 

for  a  Newspaper  of  Whispers . 457 

for  a  Repository  of  Fashions . 478 

that  the  Rich  Sick  should  assist  the 

Poor  in  the  Loss  of  Sight .  472 

Public  Credit,  a  Vision .  3 

Punishment  of  a  Voluptuous  Man  after  Death  9( 

Pursuit  of  Knowledge . 94 

Pursuits  of  Avarice,  Ambition,  etc .  624 


Qualification  of  a  Poet .  314 

Qualities  necessary  to  make  Marriage  Happy  607 

Quality .  219 

*7  Quarrel  between  Will  Trap  and  Stint . 448 

Questions  and  Cases  of  Love . 591 

in  Love  solved  by  the  Love  Casuist  625 

on  Widows  answered  by  the  Love 
Casuist . .  614 


O 


Ralph  Wondee’s  Account  of  the  Phantom  at 


Church .  503 

Recommendations  of  Industrious  Trades¬ 
men  — Matteux — Harris  — Rowley — Propo¬ 
sals  for  New  Globes .  552 

Reflections  on  Courage  without  Humanity. . .  350 

on  the  Death  of  a  Friend . 133 

on  the  Delights  of  Spring .  393 

on  Errors  in  Marriage .  506 

on  Modesty .  231 

in  Westminster-abbey . .  26 

Rejection  of  an  Aged  Lover .  220 

Remarks  on  Dullness .  43 

on  the  English  by  the  Indian  kings  50 
on  Fortune- stealers — on  Widows. . .  311 
and  Letters  on  French  Fashions... .  277 

Remedy  for  Loud  Talkers .  228 

Remonstrance  of  That,  The .  80 

Reputation . . . 218 

Resolutions  to  quit  the  World .  27 

Retailers  of  Old  Jokes . . .  ’  562 

Rosicrucius’s  Sepulcher .  379 

Rules  for  Population .  200 

of  Precedency  among  Authors  and 

Actors . 529 

Rural  Manners — Politeness .  119 


Sale  of  Unmarried  Women .  511 

Salutation  at  Church . 259 

Salutations . 220 

Sappho’s  Hymn  to  Venus . .*  223 

Scandal . *  16 

Scene  in  a  Stage-coach  between  a  Quaker  and 

an  Officer .  132 

Self-denial .  206 

Signature  Letters .  221 

Simonides’  Satire  on  Women .  209 

Simplicity  of  Character . *  245 

Sir  Andrew  Freeport’s  Opinion  of  Beggars. .  232 

\  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  at  the  Theater . 335 

. .  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley’s  Visit  to  Spring  Gar- 

dens . 383 

Sir  Roger’s  Account  of  his  Disappointment  in 

L°ve .  113 

Ancestors . 109 

Behavior  at  Church .  112 

,  Conduct  to  his  Servants .  107 

\  Principles .  126 

Reflections  on  the  Widow .  118 

Specimen  of  the  Familiar . 473 


741 


NO 

Specimen  of  a  History  of  the  Reign  of  Anne  I  101 

Various  Readings .  470 

Spectator’s  Account  of  Himself,  The .  1 

Club,  The — Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley— the  Tem¬ 
plar— Sir  Andrew  Free¬ 
port — Captain  Sentry 
— Will  Honeycomb — 

the  Clergyman .  2lV* 

Letter  to  the  Ugly  Club,  The .  48 

Paper  of  Hints  dropped,  The .  46 

Success,  The;  announces  his  Criti- 

4  cism  on  Milton . 262 

Visit  to  Sir  R.  de  Coverley’s  Coun¬ 
try-seat,  The— the  Knight’s  Do¬ 
mestic  Establishment .  106  V 

Speculations  of  Coffee-house  Politicians  on 

the  Death  of  the  King  of  France .  403 

Spleen,  The . ’  53 

St.  Bride’s  Charity-school . * .  '  *  380 

Stage  Tricks  to  excite  Pity .  44 

Story  of  Alnaschar .  535 

of  Basilius  Valentine  and  his  Son.! ! ! !  426 

of  a  Castilian  and  his  Wife . .  198 

of  Cleanthe — On  Happiness,  exempli¬ 
fied  in  Aurelia — Fulvia .  15 

of  a  Dervise .  289 

of  Eudoxus  and  Leontine . ! . . !  123 

of  Fadlallah . . 

of  Gyges . .  .  610 

.  584,  585 

of  Hortensius  and  Sylvana .  342 

of  Moll  White .  117  \,X 

of  Rhynsault  and  Sapphira . ! !  481 

of  Spinamont .  84 

Strolling  Players .  48 

Substitutes  for  Conversation . !!*.!!!!  504 

Success  of  the  Hen-pecked  Husband .  216 

of  the  Spectator . 445 

of  the  Spectators . 525 

of  the  Spectators  with  various  Classes 
of  Readers,  represented  by  the  Club  34  V 
Sunday  in  the  Country,  A .  fi2 


Talents  Honorable  only  as  they  are  Used. . . 
The  Author’s  Address  to  his  Correspondents — 

Thesis  proposed . 

Answer  to  his  Correspondents. . 
Interview  with  a  Lady — her  Let¬ 
ter  on  Proper  Employment  for 

Beaux  . 

Success  in  producing  Merito¬ 
rious  Writings . 

The  Best  Bred  Men . . . . . 

Cave  of  Trophonius,  a  Dream . 

Chief  Point  of  Honor  in  Men  and  Women 
Intentions  of  a  Widow  respecting  her 

Suitors . 

Manner  of  Courts— The  Spy  and  the  Car¬ 
dinal  . 

Royal  Progress,  a  Poem . 

Whole  Duty  of  Man  turned  into  a  Libel . . 

Theory  of  the  Passion  of  Laughter . 

Tradesman  Married  to  a  Woman  of  Quality. . 

Tragedy  of  the  Distressed  Mother . 

and  Tragi-comedy . 

Transformation  of  Fidelia  into  a  Looking- 

glass  . 

Translation  of  Cato’s  Soliloquy . 

of  a  Chapter  in  Canticles . 

of  Greek  Epigrams . 

of  a  Lapland  Love-song . 

of  a  Lapland  Song . 

Transmigration  of  Souls .  211, 

Trick  of  Biting . 


172 

442 

581 


536 

532 

53 

599 

99 

539 

439 

620 

568 

47 

308 

290 

40 

392 

628 

410 

551 

366 

406 

343 

504 


742 


INDEX. 


NO. 

Vanity  of  Honors  and  Titles .  291 

of  Human  Wishes .  391 

of  Lewis  the  Fourteenth’s  Conquests  180 
Various  Advantages  of  the  Spectator — Paper — 

Printing .  367 

Articles  of  Dress .  16 

Dispositions  of  Readers .  179 

Opinions  of  Future  Happiness . 600 

Subjects  proposed  for  Speculation. . . .  428 

ways  of  Managing  a  Debate .  239 

Verses  on  a  Grotto .  632 

to  the  Spectator . 532 

Version  of  the  114th  Psalm. . . 461 

Vicissitudes  of  Night  and  Day,  a  Drama. . . .  425 

Virtue  of  an  Orange  Girl .  380 

Vision  of  Hearts . 587 

of  Marraton . 56 

of  Mirza .  159 

of  Mount  Parnassus . 514 

Visions  of  Worldly  and  Heavenly  Wisdom. .  524 

Visit  to  the  Bear-garden . 436 

v  to  the  Royal  Exchange .  69 

\A  from  Sir  Roger — his  Opinions . 269 

\  >\  with  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  to  Westmin- 

ster-abbey .  329 

with  Sir  Roger  to  the  Country  Assizes. .  122 

Uncertainty  of  Fame . 101 

Undutifulness  of  Nephews .  402 


NO. 

Universality  of  Ambition — its  Wrong  Direc¬ 
tions .  224 

University  Physiognomy .  518 

Use  and  Difficulties  of  Periodical  Papers. ...  124 

of  Dreams .  586 

to  be  Made  of  Enemies .  355 

of  Mottoes . 221 

of  Proper  Gestures . 407 

of  Similes . 455 

Uses  of  Ambition . 255 

of  the  Spectator .  10 

Weight  of  Wisdom,  and  Riches — a  Vision. . .  463 
Will  Honeycomb’s  Account  of  the  Siege  of 

Hersberg,  and  his  Dream  499 
Knowledge  of  the  World — 

Various  kinds  of  Pedants  105 
Notions  of  Female  Head-  / 

dress . 265 

Proposal  of  a  Fair  for  Mar-  .  / 

riage .  511  v 

Wisdom  of  Providence .  121 

Wit  of  the  Monkish  Ages — in  Modern  Times  60,  61 
W omen  called  Piets — no  Faith  to  be  kept  with 
them .  41 

Yawning . . . 179 

Zeal — Various  Kinds  of  Zealots . 185 


A  TABLE  OF  THE  CONTRIBUTORS  TO  “THE  SPECTATOR.”— 635  PAPERS. 


Contributors.  Entire  Papers. 

Addison .  274 

Steele . . . 240 

Budgell . .  37 

Hughes .  11  ...., 

Grove .  4 

Pope .  2  ..... 

Parnell . . .  2 

Pearce .  2 

Mart  yn .  2 

Byrom .  2 


Letters  and  J^arts  of  Papers. 


13 


Swift., 

Brome . 

Francham . 
Dunlop  . . . . 
Hardwicke 
Fleetwood . 
Tickell.... 
Philips . 


1 

1 

1 

1 

1 

1 


582  carried  forward. 


2 

2 

19 


Contributors.  Entire  Papers. 
Brought  forward  582 
Eusden  ..... 

Henley,  John .  . 

Shepheard,  Miss...  . 

Perry,  Mrs . .  . 

Heywood .  . 

Watts . .  . . 

Weaver.... ......  . 

Parker .  . 

Golding .  . 

Harper .  . 

Motteux .  . 

Budgell,  Gilbert . . '  ...... 

Bland . .  . 

Ince 

Carey 

Anonymous .  53 


Letters  and  Parts  of  Papers. 

19 

.  2 

. .  2 

. .  2 

.  1 

.  1 

.  1 

.  1 

.  1 

.  1 

.  1 

.  1 

.  1 

. .  1 


Total  83 


635 


35 


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one  who  wishes  to  possess  a  reputation  for  ordinary  intelligence,  to  be  in  a  degree  familiar  with  Old 
England  s  tumultuous,  and  we  may  say,  glorious  history!  The  distinguished  reputation  of  Macaulay 
in  the  world  of  letters  renders  any  commendation  of  his  works  unnecessary.  There  are  many 
reasons  that  render  the  present  work  one  of  peculiar  interest  to  the  American  reader;  not  the  least 

of  which  is  the  manner  in  which  Penn,  Washington,  and  others  associated  with  the  early  history  of 
our  Continent,  are  spoken  of. 

CHRISTIANITY,  as  exemplified  in  the  Conduct  of  its  Sincere  Professors. 

By  Rev.  Wm.  Secker.  1  vol.,  12  mo. 

We  would  recommend  this  book  to  the  attention  of  Christians  generally,  as  one  replete  with  sterling 
thought,  and  an  admirable  help  to  self-examination,  being  full  of  illustrations,  and  well  calculated  to 
assist  Christians  in  “  Redeeming  the  time,”  and  maturing  their  graces. 

THE  YOUNG  LADIES’  COMPANION.  1  vol.,  12mo. 

“  This  work  is  designed  to  occupy  an  important  place  in  the  Christian  education  of  young  ladies, 
is  a  ompanion,  alike  for  the  study,  the  boudoir ,  and  the  closet.  The  refinement  and  delicacy  with 
w  ich  it  touches  on  those  minute  details  of  female  manners,  so  essential  to  the  character  of 
woman;  its  judicious  suggestions  upon  the  intellectual  and  practical  parts  of  education;  and, 
altogether,  its  healthy  religious  tone,  commend  it  to  those  who  desire  to  see  in  the  hands  of  the 
young  temales  of  our  country  a  work  at  once  attractive  and  instructive.” 


LYONS’S  ENGLISH  GRAMMAR. 

This  is  a  neat  School  Grammar,  tastefully  arranged,  and  admirably  adapted  to  the  convenience  of 
both  teacher  and  pupil  The  science  is  forcibly  illustrated  by  a  great  variety  of  examples  and 
exercises,  and  the  style  is  easy,  flowing,  and  perspicuous. 


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